A Lasting Impression (52 page)

“Try it on!” She jumped up and held it for him as he slipped his arms inside. “Now turn around.” He did, and she backed up a step. Her gaze moved over him. “Oh, Sutton . . .” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “I knew it would look good on you, but . . .” Her expression turned decidedly more intimate, in a most approving way.

With his left arm hanging loose at his side, he edged the duster back on his right, acting as if he wore a gun belt slung low around his hips, the way he and Mark used to make believe.

He rested his hand on his imaginary Colt revolver, narrowed his eyes, and reached for his deepest western drawl. “Howdy, ma’am.” He tugged the rim of an imaginary Stetson. “I’m sheriff of these parts, and I can see you’re new in town.”

They laughed together, and he sank back down on the settee beside her, grateful for once that the furniture in the room was so compact.

He smoothed a hand over the fine leather, not wanting to think about how much this coat had cost her. Much more than his gift to her. With the future of his job and earnings so unknown, he’d gone a more conservative route on her gift. Now he wished he hadn’t. “This is the best Christmas present I’ve had in twenty years . . . since my buddy and I both got wooden rifles.” He remembered as if it were yesterday.

Of all the material possessions he’d lost when the Federals burned his family home, that toy rifle was at the top of the list of things he wished he still had.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You used to play cowboys and Indians.”

“Sometimes. Mostly Mark and I took turns being either the sheriff or the outlaw. It was more fun to be the outlaw, though.”

“But the sheriff was always a better shot.”

He peered over at her. “You’ve played before?”

“No, but I’ve read enough dime novels to know what happens.”

He leaned his head back on the settee. “Mark and I used to read those over and over again, then we’d grab our rifles and head outside. We had a friend, Danny Ranslett, who used to play with us. Except Danny got a
real
rifle when he was about seven or so, and”—he whistled low—“could that boy ever shoot.”

“Do you all still see each other?”

“Daniel moved out west shortly after the war. And Mark . . .” Sutton let his eyes drift shut. “He died not far from here, at the battle in Franklin. Daniel lost his youngest brother that night too. Not far from where Mark fell.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Is that when you were wounded?”

He nodded. “I took a minié ball in the shoulder.” He reached up instinctively. “I didn’t even feel it at first. I was holding Mark . . . trying to stop the blood, trying to hear what he was telling me. But . . .” He took a shaky breath. “I couldn’t. It felt like the whole world was coming apart.” Emotion cinched a knot in his throat. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not on Christmas night.

She wove her arm through his and scooted closer. He wiped his eyes, glad she couldn’t see his face. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting a mesmerizing cadence of shadows on the walls.

She traced a forefinger over his open palm. It tickled, but he didn’t want her to stop.

He waited until he was sure his voice would hold. “You met Mark’s mother the other night at the reception. Mrs. Holbrook. Did you ever meet her husband?”

Her finger stilled on his hand. “Yes, I did. Briefly.”

“You’ll like Bartholomew Holbrook. He’s been like a father to me since my own father died.”

“Really? You’re that close?”

He nodded. “He and I are working on a case together right now. I’m learning so much from him. Don’t let that grandfatherly exterior fool you. He’s a fine attorney. And relentless when it comes to getting at the truth.”

She said nothing. After a moment, she leaned forward. “Sutton . . . there’s something I need to tell you. Something . . . I overheard. About you.”

She looked over at him, and he saw it in her face. The disappointment he felt in himself was magnified. “How long have you known?”

She bowed her head. “I heard some people talking—the night of the reception. And Sutton, I’ve come close to telling you so many times, but then I put myself in your place and I feel—”

“Sorry for me?” He stood and shrugged off the duster. “You should have told me you knew, Claire.”

She rose. “I know I should have. But I knew it would hurt you for me to know.” She stepped closer. “It doesn’t matter to me, Sutton . . . what the review board decided. It makes no difference whether you have land or don’t.”

“It does to me.”

Her sigh held understanding. She reached for his hand and brought it to her face. Closing her eyes, she pressed her cheek into his palm, then pressed a kiss where her cheek had been. Fire raced through his veins and only gained momentum when she looked up at him. He struggled to hold his desires in check.

She was radiant. Captivating. Intelligent. Witty. And
good,
in every way that mattered. No wonder she’d captured the attention of Adelicia’s wealthy male counterparts. All of whom were rich beyond what he could ever hope to be—even if his land had been returned. Claire deserved all the grand things that a man of means could give her.

Everything he . . . could not. He’d been given the chance to make his choice between marrying for wealth or marrying from the heart. He’d made his decision and had no regrets, and Claire deserved the opportunity to do the same.

Now to have the strength to let her.

“I made more notes in your portfolio last night, Miss Laurent.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Claire opened the front door. “I’ve already read them, and everything is clear.” Claire followed her down the front steps, carrying Mrs. Acklen’s satchel to the carriage where the children and Miss Cenas sat waiting. She glanced behind her, wondering where Sutton was.

She’d hugged him good-bye a moment earlier when she bid the family a formal farewell, but it hadn’t been the good-bye she’d wanted to give him.

“Why aren’t you going with us, Miss Claire?” young Claude asked, his brow furrowing.

Claire rubbed her arms. She should have slipped her coat on. “Because I need to stay here and do some work for your mother. But I want you to be sure and eat two beignets for me at Café du Monde. And Pauline, practice your sketching while you’re gone. Understood?” When Claire met William’s gaze, she merely winked, and the I’m-not-a-child-anymore young man grinned in return.

With Eli’s assistance, Mrs. Acklen climbed into the carriage, then looked down at Claire. “Do be careful, Miss Laurent, in your goings about. If you need anything, look to Eli or Cordina. They’ll instruct you well.”

“We’ll keep her in line, Mrs. Acklen.” Eli gave a mock salute. “Don’t you worry, ma’am. And please give our best to everyone at Angola.”

“Miss Laurent?”

Claire turned to see Sutton standing on the portico.

“I need to go over one more thing with you, please.” He disappeared back inside.

Mrs. Acklen exhaled. “We need to be on our way, Miss Laurent. Please tell him to hurry!”

Claire raced up the steps, having seen the flash of impatience in her employer’s eyes. “Sutton?” He wasn’t in the entrance hall.

“I’m in the study.”

She rounded the corner and saw him standing by the window. She was pleased to see that he was wearing the coat she’d given him for Christmas. “If you’re worried that I won’t record the art properly, I promise, Sutton, I’ll do it just like you showed—”

He strode past her, closed the door, and pulled her to him. He dug his hands into her hair, angled her face to meet his mouth fully, and kissed her, long and slow, taking his time. Time they didn’t have, but at the moment, Claire didn’t care. Oh, how she’d wanted to kiss him at the reception, and then when they’d exchanged presents, and then when . . .

She slipped her arms around his neck, loving the feel of him against her, and in his sheriff’s duster, no less.

All too soon, his mouth relinquished hers. He held her tight, tighter than she could remember. “You take care of yourself while I’m gone,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“I’ll be fine. You’re the one traveling.
You
be careful.”

He drew back slightly, and tenderly traced his thumb along her lower lip. “That wasn’t fair, I know. Surprising you like that.”

“That’s all right. I cheat at checkers.”

He laughed. “Yes, you do. Among other things.”

She walked with him into the entrance hall. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“About that . . .” He paused by the front door, looking down. “I might be gone a little longer than I first thought.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got work to do for Adelicia, plus some business to conduct for the firm.” His gaze met hers but fleetingly. “And you need time to catalog the art and to do everything on the forty-seven lists Mrs. Acklen has left you.”

Claire smiled, but only because she told herself to.

“I want you to have time to paint too, Claire. Time for yourself.” He looked at her then. “You haven’t had much of that lately. Time to think, to do what
you’d
like to do.”

“That’s very generous of you, Sutton, but quite frankly . . . I’d rather have time with you.”

His smile gained longing, but his eyes . . . His eyes spoke of something different. With a brief smile, he reached for his satchel, and Claire instinctively reached for him. He dropped the satchel and his arms came around her. She held him as tight as she could, pressing herself into him, wanting him to remember what she felt like—what they felt like together.

The front door opened. Eli quickly lowered his eyes. “Excuse me, Mr. Monroe, but the Lady’s asking for you, sir.” He closed the door, not waiting for a response.

Claire let go first, pleased that Sutton seemed reluctant to. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

“I’m not sure.” He picked up his satchel again.

“Can we write?”

Opening the door, he smiled a little. “Yes, we can write.”

“Every day?”

His smile deepened, but in a sad way. “I’m going to miss you,” he whispered, then tucked a curl behind her ear and pressed a hard, quick kiss to her forehead. “I’ll see you soon.”

And he was gone.

45

F
eeling a little awkward, Claire stood outside Sutton’s room in the art gallery, hand on the doorknob. Two weeks had passed since he’d left, yet it felt like much longer. He’d written, requesting she retrieve a file from his desk, and informing that a courier would come by for it. But even with his permission, she felt a sense of trespass.

The knob turned easily in her grip. Sutton had said it wouldn’t be locked. Not with the main doors to the gallery kept locked at all times, something he’d stressed when he’d entrusted her with the key.

The door creaked as she opened it.

His room was cast in shadows, but she quickly remedied that by pulling the curtains back from the windows. Afternoon light poured in. The first thing that struck her was how sparsely decorated the quarters felt. Then she realized it wasn’t the absence of furniture or necessities she was noticing. She was simply comparing it to the mansion’s decor where crystal vases, miniature statuary, and bric-a-brac decorated every tabletop and mantel.

The simplicity and organization of Sutton’s bedroom suited him.

The file was atop the desk, exactly as he’d said. She turned to leave, then caught the faintest scent and paused. She breathed in again, but it was gone. On a whim, needing a tangible reminder of him, she crossed to the wardrobe, opened it, and held one of his shirts to her face. She inhaled the hint of bayberry and spice, of sunshine and meadow, and something else decidedly male—and closed her eyes, memorizing it.

He’d written her twice since he’d left. She’d written him nearly every day. At night before she went to bed. He’d written her once from Café du Monde in New Orleans, and she’d found it more than a little unnerving to think of him being so close to where her family’s gallery had been. But his next letter had reported them departing for Angola Plantation, some one hundred thirty miles from New Orleans, and she’d rested easier.

She smiled thinking of the postscript he’d included in his last letter. “
Try not to nod off during Pastor Bunting’s sermons. Though, from what I hear, the pews are quite comfortable
.”

Reading his letters was like sitting next to him, conversing. And more than once she’d found herself laughing or responding aloud to something he’d written. Between managing Mrs. Acklen’s business interests and working on the lawsuit with Mr. Holbrook—whatever that entailed—his days sounded overfull.

But her favorite part of the letter was his closing, where he told her he was praying for her, which had prompted her to do the same for him even more faithfully.

Two miniature framed portraits of a man and woman graced his bedside table. His parents, she presumed. The drawing of the man could well have been an artist’s rendering of Sutton in future years. The resemblance was striking.
Delicate
best described the woman’s likeness, the features of her face all softness and curves, no sharpness whatsoever. Beautiful . . .