“I love him,” she whispered.
“I know,” Stuart replied. “I believe he feels the same about you.”
A lump grew in Ruthann’s throat, and she turned, fighting back the tears that stung her eyes. Thankfully, Stuart said nothing as she fought to regain control of herself. The urge to cry finally subsided, and with it came a fierce desire todosomething.
Nate might be bent, but he was not broken. He was much too strong for that, even if he didn’t believe it himself.
“We have to help him,” she said, clasping her hands together.
Stuart smiled. “I agree.”
“And we ought to start with Sissy Flagler.”
“She’s the most likely suspect. If we can eliminate the immediate threats against him, perhaps things will begin to right themselves.”
Ruthann nodded. It would take more than making Sissy cease her campaign against him, but it was a start. Nate would never feel at ease if Sissy kept opening his old wounds.
“Let me get ready, and we’ll go immediately to pay Sissy a visit.” Ruthann moved to her wardrobe.
“I’ll meet you downstairs.” Stuart grabbed his hat and left.
Ruthann removed a shawl, and then, perusing her small collection of hats, she chose the one she’d been wearing the day she’d met Nate, when he’d walked with her to help Mr. McGregor get home safely. Perhaps it would bring her luck again today.
She went to the mirror over her dressing table and sat to tie her hat. She would do the very best she could to get Sissy to confess and then extract a promise to call off the men she’d paid to make Nate’s life miserable.
And then, Ruthann would fight for Nate himself. He deserved it, even if he didn’t think he did. She would tell him how much she loved him. She would be there for him.
Hopefully that would be enough. But even if it wasn’t, she would never give up—not on herself, and never on him.
Chapter Twenty-eight
THE STUDIO WAS BACKin order by late afternoon, just in time for a couple to come inquiring about a photograph. The man walked holding on to the arm of the woman Nate presumed was his wife. They were older than Nate, closer to his mother’s age, if she’d still been living.
“Good afternoon,” the man said when Nate greeted them. “We were hoping to have our photo taken. My wife and I are newly wed.”
“Congratulations,” Nate replied. “And certainly. You’ve come to the right place.” He gestured to the settee. “I have chairs too, if that would be more comfortable.”
