It’d been almost seven weeks since Ben’s departure. Felt more like a year. She stuffed the letter in her skirt pocket and slowed her step as she passed the clothiers. Arthur LeBeau strolled toward her, his face covered in a thin beard instead of his usual goatee. Maybe he was trying to look more rugged.
Her chest tightened. Their gazes met, no smile. She dropped hers to her feet and walked on. If only he would pass without a word. But two shiny boot toes crossed into her path. With a slow inhale, she halted and looked up into ice blue.
“Good day, Miss Scott.” He tipped his top hat. “I hear Mr. McKenzie headed back east.”
“His father fell seriously ill. Mr. McKenzie had to leave immediately.”
The corners of his lips tugged upward. “Is that so?”
She squeezed the knuckles of her clasped hands and waited for a farmer’s wife to pass. “Thatisso. Do you need to see a copy of the telegram?” My goodness. To her shame, she almost sounded like him. “Not that it’s any of your concern.” She gritted out her response barely above a whisper.
There might as well be a limelight shining on them given the way heads turned from even across the street. She had no intention of providing the town with entertainment.
“I take it that you didn’t appreciate my note from the druggist.” Arthur’s voice sharpened. “If I have to suffer the loss of your friendship and affection, or even the temporary loss of some of my patients for saving you from a terrible mistake, so be it.”
“If you’ve suffered the loss of clients, it’s probably due to you disrespecting one of yours and announcing his diagnosis in the street.” She bristled. “Good day, sir.” She moved to the side and quickstepped toward Charlie, who hurried toward them with a scowl.
Arthur called out behind her. “If you need me to take the cast off?—”
“I already cut it off myself.” She lifted her chin and marched on.
In the privacy of her bedroom that evening, she opened Ben’s letter dated August twenty-third. She scanned the paragraph about his family. His father’s recovery was slow, but the doctor believed him to be out of danger.Thank God. However, it might take months for him to regain his full strength.Months that Ben would have to be there. He would send her funds from his first month’s wages.
Of course, due to his generous nature and determination to keep his word to Jeb, he’d send her more than necessary. Cut himself short. Of that she was certain.. He’d be faithful to his commitment to her and Charlie, despite her obstinacy.
He wrote two paragraphs about his work, polishing others’ writings, deciding what was news and what wasn’t, shaping the finished product that would roll off the presses. A role of influence. Excitement rang in his words.
His love for his work echoed between the lines. Realization twinged through her. She’d almost kept him from that. Her belly felt like lead. How could she have ever thought he’d be satisfied with ranching?
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the final words of his inquiries about her and Charlie and how he missed them. He sent his love to Charlie. What about her? Or did he reserve those words for people who trusted him?
Her eyes halted on the final lines.I continue to abstain from the medicine, as I have done since last March. And by God’s grace and strength, I pray that I may continue to do so.
“Yes, Lord, yes. Let it be so,” she spoke aloud as she closed her eyes and clasped her hands.
Her gaze lingered on the salutation.Yours, Ben.Her foolish heart hitched.Yours.A grain of hope, despite everything.P.S. Did you read my journal?
She slipped her hand under the pillow and pulled out the yellow-paged notebook…
CHAPTER 37
Ben stomped his boots on the foyer rug and handed his dripping overcoat and hat to the Edmondson butler. This was his third visit to Olivia’s house, and the first time he’d been allowed in the door. Just when he’d been ready to convey his message in writing, the butler had stepped out of the way and invited him in.
He hesitated at the parlor threshold. Blue-and-green images of peacocks decorated the papered walls, complementing the forest-green chairs and matching horsehair sofa. A sofa on which he’d spent too many hours sitting with Olivia in his arms. His cheeks heated. She had every right to be angry with him. She’d been a very willing participant in their kissing and cuddling, and she’d hinted time and time again for a proposal, but he’d been the one to ask.
He ran his hand over his combed-back hair and stepped across the scarlet carpet to the mantel. Too many promises to too many people. He could not keep them all, nor did he want to.
Heels clicked across the marble-floored hall. He braced himself.Lord, give me wisdom. The parlor doors closed. He waited a beat, then turned.
Olivia stood there in violet silk, trimmed in black lace. A black snood loosely held her honey-blond hair. Very much a woman who would turn men’s heads, and with enough family money to keep their gaze.
She looked down her slender nose at him and lifted her chin. “I thought it appropriate to dress in half mourning.” She brushed her gloved hand against her skirt and sashayed to the piano.
Dare he ask? “Did someone pass away?”
“Not a physical death.” She seated herself on the stool. “The death of a man’s word.” She glared at him.
He should have known. “I’m here to apologize?—”
