Love in the Balance (8 page)

She approached the two-story hotel and found it unmarred by the revel-makers’ antics of the night before. A sigh of relief escaped, for there were no drunkards to step around, no broken bottles to avoid.

Maybe this was why her father didn’t trust her to live on her own. She’d made her share of mistakes in the past, and visiting a hotel early in the morning might qualify as another. Molly didn’t want to scandalize her parents. She didn’t want to embarrass them or make them unhappy, but neither was she willing to give up her independence for their whims. Had they truly been needy she might consider a marriage of convenience, but she wouldn’t walk the aisle with a stranger so her mother could preside over the wedding of the decade. She wouldn’t marry a man so her father could invest in a new millstone. They weren’t desperate.

The foyer of the hotel was as quiet as the outside. Good thing. Maybe she could go on her way without being recognized. She craned her neck to peer into the office, reluctant to ring the bell on the countertop.

Clearing her throat produced the result she sought. Feet swung off a desk and a corpulent man appeared.

“Yes, sir. I believe this wallet belongs to a boarder here.”

The man took the offered wallet and flipped it open.

“Who does it belong to?”

“If you’ll give it to Mr. Pierrepont, I’d be much obliged.”

“What? Did I hear my name?” The voice from the balcony fell pleasantly on her ears, even though it meant she wouldn’t be sneaking away undetected.

“Mr. Pierrepont, I didn’t want to disturb you. It’s not quite visiting hours.”

He descended and took her hand. Wearing gloves indoors? An eccentric was he? Only the wealthy were allowed such indulgences.

“Far be it for me to set limits on our acquaintance,” he said. “I’m ‘at home’ for visits at your convenience. Please allow me to escort you to my parlor.”

He took Molly’s arm, but as they approached the staircase, she gripped the banister.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pierrepont. I have no intention of going upstairs.” Molly looked over her shoulder, relieved to see the manager had returned to his office. “You must be mistaken.”

His reassuring smile instantly set her at ease. “My suite includes a drawing room, but I acquiesce to your superior knowledge of local propriety.” He gestured to the front door. “Perhaps you would accompany me on my morning stroll?”

He’d taken her reprimand so graciously she couldn’t refuse.

“I apologize for not returning your property sooner. I—” Molly halted. What was her excuse?
I’ve been mooning over my beau and forgot all about you?

“Please don’t. I didn’t expect you to bother. Besides, I returned from a cattle drive only yesterday.”

“Cattle drive? In November? No one in their right mind—” She covered her mouth.

“Perfect description of me, I fear. Not in my right mind. That’s what the cattleman said, too, but when I adequately expressed my desire to experience this Western phenomenon, he arranged a short adventure. Even had his hands set up a camp so we could retire outside under the stars—for an extra sum, of course.”

Molly lifted an eyebrow. “You paid a cowboy extra to sleep outside? I’m afraid someone’s pulling the wool over your eyes.”

“I disagree. I see well enough to appreciate the exquisite pointed Basque cut of your gown. I didn’t expect the latest fashion in bodices down here. The Chantilly lace is a nice touch, as well.”

Molly stopped in her tracks. No man she’d ever met noticed anything about her clothing beyond color (Bailey) and price (her father). She wasn’t sure if this was a pleasing development or not.

“How did you come to know so much about women’s clothing?”

His answer was cut off by the appearance of a wagon brimming with lumber, her father, and her brother.

“Molly Parmelia Lovelace, what are you doing out this early?” her father said.

She panicked. Too late to hide. Too late to disassociate from her escort. “Father, Nicholas, may I present Mr. Edward Pierrepont?”

But her father ignored the introduction. “What’s this I hear about Mr. Fenton? Have you refused to see him?”

“Of course not, Father. I’ve been occupied this week.”

“We’ll have plenty of time to talk on the way home,” her father said. “You pack your trunk while we make this delivery, and we’ll meet you at the boardinghouse in an hour. If you’re going to let Mr. Fenton slip through your fingers, you have no reason to live in town.”

Molly was speechless. Just like that? Her job, her friends, her room—it was all to be taken away that quickly? Nicholas, looking much too dapper to deliver lumber, shot her a look of sympathy but didn’t intervene.

If only there were some way of mollifying her father. Her mouth went dry.
Mollify
. What a word! Had her parents named her with a view toward their expectations?

She wouldn’t go down without a fight.

Molly gripped Mr. Pierrepont’s arm tightly and prayed he would understand. “Father, I thought perhaps you might rather stay in town and dine with Mr. Pierrepont. He’s a friend of mine, a businessman all the way from New York.”

Nicholas leaned forward, his eyes merry. “New York, you say? What type of business?”

Quick as a wink she turned to Mr. Pierrepont. Truthfully, she had no idea what his answer would be, but she needn’t have worried.

“I have trusts I manage personally. Funds, investments—that sort of thing. My family has been very successful in land speculation, large tracts in particular.”

“Molly’s in the land business herself.” Nicholas gave Molly a lopsided grin. “It says so right on her door at the courthouse—Land Office.”

Her father’s eyes glinted. He was obviously intrigued. She hoped Mr. Pierrepont didn’t mind being dangled as bait.

“Dinner.” Thomas Lovelace yanked his watch out of a too-tight pocket. “Maybe we could make it a second breakfast. I don’t want to wait around until noon.”

Molly turned to catch Mr. Pierrepont’s response, fearful he would balk at her insinuation, but his eyes met hers in a gaze that was surprisingly familiar considering their brief acquaintance.

“That would be delightful. Haven’t I been telling you, lovey, how much I wanted to meet your parents? And you were worried that we might not get an opportunity with them living all the way out in . . .”

She swallowed. “Prairie Lea.”

“Ah, yes. Good old Prairie Lea.” If he didn’t wipe that syrupy smile off his face, he would draw flies. He turned to Molly’s father. “But I do hope you aren’t going to deprive me of Miss Lovelace’s company by taking her home. I fear I’m growing attached to having her here in town.”

Oh, my stars. Molly feared he was overshooting, but judging from the look on her father’s face, he’d hit the bull’s-eye.

“Naw, she’s got an important job to do here. I wouldn’t cart her off. Just a little playacting on my part. Molly knows I’m funning her.” He forced the watch into his pocket. “Be at the diner in an hour? Good day.”

Molly’s feet were nailed to the ground. As the wagon creaked away, Nicholas looked over his shoulder and wagged his eyebrows at her. Now her brother had a whole hour to think of ways to crack her story. And they had an hour to prepare.

But first things first.

“Lovey?” She removed her hand from his grasp and crossed her arms.

Unabashed, Mr. Pierrepont smiled. “Perhaps the endearment was bad taste. In my eagerness to replace the unfortunate Mr. Fenton, I might have overstepped my bounds, but come. We have an hour in which to concoct a fascinating account of our relationship, and I can think of nowhere better to plot and plan than at the millinery.”

“You’re going to buy a hat?” He was insane. She’d thrown her lot in with a moonstruck fool.

“Yes, because that monstrosity on your head should’ve been put in the missionary barrel with the rest of last season’s clothes. Never commission a new gown without a matching hat. Didn’t you know that?”

Molly covered her hat with one hand, her mouth a perfect O.

“When I’m in a good mood, I spend money,” he continued, “and I find that while I generally have a cheerful temperament, today’s performance has put me in . . . What was it the cowboy said this week? In clover?”

“But you can’t buy me anything. We’ve barely met,” Molly protested, even as she directed him to the preferred milliner.

“Money is completely impersonal. What difference does it make if I buy a hat for you or a harness for a horse? There’s a need and I have the funds. Not complicated in the least.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Complicated would be an intelligent, competent woman allowing someone else to make her decisions for her. That would be incomprehensible.”

He waited for her reply. The door to the milliner’s wasn’t going to open itself. Molly reached for the handle, but Mr. Pierrepont stopped her.

“Tell me, Molly, and I must call you Molly if we are going to successfully mislead your father, are you satisfied with your lot? Do you want to go through life being nothing more than a cunningly painted marionette?”

She jerked on the handle. “You,
Mr. Pierrepont
, are insulting.”

“If I thought you incapable of setting your own course, that would be insulting. But why would you replace your dreams for his? Is it possible you have no ambitions of your own?”

It was a fair question. Did she have no ambition beyond outmaneuvering her parents? Was her goal of financial independence any loftier than her father’s? Still, it rankled to have a stranger identify the heart of her problem so effortlessly. Maybe there was more to Mr. Pierrepont—Edward—than she’d expected.

Bailey didn’t mind spending the long winter evenings helping Reverend Stoker with repairs, but going on home visits was even more interesting than patching the parsonage roof. Between Prairie Lea and Lockhart there were many who relied on Reverend Stoker when they needed more than a weekly sermon.

“Thanks for coming with me.” Reverend Stoker hopped across a small gulley that had washed out the path. “My wife was right. You have a heart for ministry.”

Bailey chewed the straw in his mouth into submission before answering. “If this is what you call ministry, then maybe I do have a knack for it. I always thought parsons just preached. Never been keen on that.”

“What are you keen on, if you don’t mind my asking? I heard you’re quitting the blacksmith.”

Bailey grunted. “Not sure what’s next. I really thought it’d be easier than this. That God would be clearer in His directions.”

Their path took a sharp incline before they reached the Schmidt home. Reverend Stoker huffed with the effort.

“Remember the Hebrews,” the pastor said. “They wandered forty years before they reached the Promised Land.”

“I don’t think Molly’s going to wait forty years.”

Mrs. Schmidt watched their approach through checkered curtains and met them at the door before Reverend Stoker could knock.

“Come in. He’s in the bedroom.”

For a woman with a husband on death’s door, she seemed remarkably composed. Bracing himself for what he might see, Bailey followed Stoker inside. As promised, there lay Mr. Schmidt in his nightcap, reading comfortably before the window.

“What are you doing here? Oh no.” His eyes flashed as he slammed the book down on the nightstand. “Is this Gretchen’s doing?”

“Mr. Schmidt, we’re here to visit and pray with you if you’ll allow us.”

The reverend didn’t need to go any further, because Mr. Schmidt was on his feet, barreling out of the room.

“Where’s that wife of mine? Gretchen!”

Bailey backed into the parlor, unsure if they were witnessing a miracle or a crime.

“I told you I would send for the preacher. You wouldn’t listen.” She poured a glass of milk and took a sip, indifferent to his ire.

“This is preposterous!”

“Any man who stays in bed and makes his wife chop firewood must be on death’s door,” she said. “Two days with a fever, not so much as a cough since then. You tell me what’s wrong.”

The man flung himself into the rocker and pulled on his boots. Bailey looked away to spare himself more flashes of the hairy legs beneath the nightshirt.

“Mr. Schmidt, while I’m glad you’re feeling better—”

“You want firewood, then I’ll get firewood, but if I catch another cold, my blood will be on your hands. The parson’s my witness. My blood on your hands.” And he stomped out to the woodshed, nightshirt billowing in the breeze.

Bailey chewed the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. Mrs. Schmidt set her glass down and stood with hands folded.

“Thank you for stopping by. Seems like he’s on the road to recovery.”

“I don’t approve, Mrs. Schmidt.” Stoker’s white eyebrows lowered over reproving eyes.

“I apologize, but very few avenues were available to me.”

“Besides patience?”

She raised her chin but didn’t possess the nerve to meet his gaze. “Once again, I’m sorry to disturb your evening.”

Clearly unrepentant, but what was the good reverend to do? “Excuse me, ma’am. I think I’ll give your husband a hand with the firewood,” Stoker said.

Bailey was on his heels to follow when Mrs. Schmidt stopped him.

“I haven’t had a chance to tell you, young man, but I was impressed by the stand you took at church.”