Hooked (14 page)

Quite softly, with barely a conscious thought, she sat taller and leaned toward his cheek, giving him a comforting kiss. Bold. She knew it. But she couldn't help herself. She felt his sadness deep in her heart.

“Mr. Wilberforce,” she whispered, but she was unable to speak further. Every sense within her was new, untried. She wasn't experienced at this, at deep emotions that gave her warmth, longing.

He didn't say anything either. He caught her chin with his fingers and tilted her head to his. And kissed her. Quite unlike the kiss they had shared before, this one was filled with tenderness and words that didn't need to be spoken. Compassion and the blend of heartbeats.

Meg wanted the kiss to never end.

Gage shouldn't have kissed her. He knew it would lead nowhere. And yet, he was so drawn to her . . . so compelled by her, he couldn't help himself. She was pretty. More than pretty. Innocent. Not that he went for innocent women. But Meg was different. Something about her. A freshness, vitality and eagerness that he had once known long ago in himself.

As he slanted his mouth over hers, taking simple pleasure in the taste and texture of her lips, he damned himself. Damned for getting involved. Damned for telling her about his sister. His parents. Those were memories he never shared. Too painful. Reflection on them was rare. He had moved on with his life.

Yet the life he had now was not his own. Too much deception.

Even so, he allowed the quiet but potent kiss to hang between them. Grazing the tender skin of her mouth, he closed his eyes and resisted the urge to feel
something more than the physical moment. Too many cities, too many names. They kept Gage apart from the rest of the world. He'd closed himself off years ago.

But this moment in time . . . it hovered, it took hold in the deepest part of his heart. Touching him. Almost making him feel worthy.

Somebody laughed inside the hotel, their voice tumbling outside onto the porch. Gage was brought back to reality with a thud. He broke their kiss and looked into Meg's eyes. They glimmered with emotions he didn't dare define.

He didn't want her to say anything about what had just happened. So he got to his knees and then stood, helping Meg to rise. “I think this should be enough ice, Miss Brooks.”

“Oh . . . yes, it should be.” Her voice was low and barely composed.

He knew she was disappointed. He hadn't meant to make her feel that.
He
hadn't meant to feel anything.

She acted as if she wasn't affected. She was able to revert back to her hostess of the party demeanor. Dignified and on her best behavior. In that moment, he wondered just who she was. There were too many facets to her personality that didn't fit together. Gazing at him, she must have sensed his speculation and was uncertain what to do about it.

They began to walk toward the front doors when he noticed that Meg stopped and gazed with a meditative eye at the bellman's cart.

“Is there something wrong, Miss Brooks?”

She mutely shook her head, still staring at that cart as if she longed to jump right on top of its platform. Gage pondered her actions, sizing up the rickety base
with its cast iron wheels and the velvet flatbed—the nap of the burgundy fabric having been crushed and worn out long ago. There were two side poles that made an upside-down U-shape on which to hang bags and valises.

Giving him a questioning raise of her brows, she opened her mouth as if to ask him something, then snapped it closed.

“What is it, Miss Brooks?” he inquired, unable to contain his curiosity.

“I don't suppose you could have feelings for a woman who makes a spectacle of herself.”

The question threw him and he couldn't readily answer.

“I figured as much.” Meg gave the tired luggage cart one last glance.

Her disheartened expression got Gage right in the gut. “Do you have some kind of attachment to this bellman's cart?”

She sighed. “I used to ride it. All the way down to the train depot. But my mother said I made a spectacle of myself.”

It was hard to keep a straight face as he replied to Meg, who was eyeing that cart like a kid who just lost her favorite piece of candy. Yet even so, she maintained an air of superiority—as if it were beneath her. She was a heady mix of propriety and suppressed wildness.

“Why, Miss Brooks, is this what you were talking about?” Gage remarked. “I wouldn't object to a little girl who liked to ride the bellman's cart. I'll bet your pigtails got to flying pretty high past your ears.”

“Yes . . . well.” But that's all she'd say on the subject,
giving Gage the distinct impression there was more to it than she let on.

In his mind's eye, Gage could see Meg Brooks riding the bellman's cart, eyes dancing and laughter lighting her mouth. In that moment, he had a glimpse of the Meg that had been eluding him. The Meg he would have liked to know.

“We should go in now,” she said, putting on her reserved face.

Gage followed her, thinking.

It would appear they were both playing roles.

He knew his part.

What was hers?

7

M
eg sat at the kitchen table with her grandmother while Mr. Finch did the dinner dishes. Grandma Nettie worked on her latest batch of flyers and Meg read the April issue of
Women's Journal.

She'd taken the advice on petticoats, but after stepping on hers twice, she concluded that she obviously wasn't cut out for longer petticoats. She would have shortened them back to their original length if she thought she could without doing more harm than good.

Turning the magazine pages, Meg looked for fashionable words of wisdom that would set her apart from other women . . . and gain the undying attentions of Mr. Wilberforce.

She was so smitten by him, she could barely eat, sleep, or breathe without her thoughts continuously wandering to him. To his kisses.

She hadn't seen Mr. Wilberforce since the night of the April Fool's party three days ago. Each morning he'd left the hotel early and returned late, fishing gear
in tow. That was why he'd come to Harmony, after all, and she couldn't expect him to while away his time courting her. He had prize money to win.

And she did have her pride. She wouldn't throw herself at him.

Although yesterday she'd been waiting hours for him in the lobby, pretending she needed to fix things up. When he finally returned, he tipped his hat to her, said he was tired, and went upstairs to his room.

A bold-titled article in the magazine caught Meg's attention and made her brows shoot upward.

Gentle readers, it used to be a woman with a bust size of 34 was considered lilliputian. As fashion dictates our changing society, corset covers are now being sold in sizes as high as 48 inch. To this modern creature with her generous endowments and wasp waist, we address the following: Men turn naturally to robust women, so beware! The man who calls on a woman of this figure may not have the best of intentions. He could be without scruples. He could be after a kiss! Remember, real beauty depends upon good health, good manners, and a pure mind. Not one's bust size.

Meg gazed at her bosom with a grimace. Not much there. And at her age, she wasn't going to get any more either.

Maybe this was the something she lacked for a man to be head over heels about her. Then again, in the dimmed shadows on the hotel porch, Mr. Wilberforce
had kissed her. Passionately. And he'd told her personal things about himself. He
had
to have
some
feelings for her.

Mr. Finch pulled one of the dish bars from the wall and hung his damp cloth over the wooden dowel. Then he pulled out a chair and sat. Meg stared at him a moment, taking in his well-groomed features.

He was an attractive man who appeared to be in his mid-sixties. She'd never seen him without his bowler and suspected he was bald. But it surely was a cruelty of nature if he was—because he sported the thickest, finest beard and mustache she had ever seen. Black as pitch and not a whisker out of place. He didn't use wax on the wiry hair; it looked smooth and soft.

“Would you like some help, Mrs. Rothman?”

Meg wouldn't have picked up on the admiring gleam in Mr. Finch's smoke-colored eyes if she hadn't been studying him. But it was there, plain as day.

Mr. Finch was sweet on Grandma Nettie.

Did Grandma Nettie know? Did she want to be alone with him? The potential for a grand romance made Meg smile. Imagine, a woman grandmother's age—at least five years older than Mr. Finch—being the object of an infatuation. It was too wonderful for words.

“Yes, Mr. Finch, you can sort through these pamphlets and make sure I haven't forgotten anything. They should all look like this one.” She slid an original toward him and their fingers kissed like a pair of butterfly wings; a gentle whisper of skin to skin.

“If this town had a newspaper,” her grandmother decreed, “we could spread the word in half the time.”

“Speaking of word, have you had any from Mrs. Gundy?” Mr. Finch asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I got a letter from her this very morning. She was arrested in a tambourine campaign last week. She wouldn't leave peacefully with the others and hit a copper on the back of his head with her pocketbook.” Grandma Nettie's hands stilled and she gazed at Mr. Finch. “You don't suppose honey is more effective than vinegar as a medium for catching flies?”

“I prefer vinegar myself,” Mr. Finch replied. “It gets more notice when no notice has been given in the strongest of efforts.”

Her grandmother nodded. “I quite agree. We must take drastic measures. It reminds me of Sarah Edmonds.” She smacked a rubber stamp wet with red ink in the middle of the flyer she was working on. “She was a nurse and spy in the Union Army. She used the name Frank Thompson to enlist. In 1884, she fought Congress and got her pension.”

Meg asked, “How could a woman get Congress to give her a pension for impersonating a man?”

“Because it was the right thing to do,” Grandma Nettie said with conviction. “Her nickname was the Beardless Boy and she double-disguised as a rheumy-eyed crone to get secrets from the Confederates.”

“Really?” Meg murmured. “A woman dressing like a man only to pose as a woman to get information.”

“Sarah Edmonds was forced into serving her country the only way it would let her,” Mr. Finch answered, licking his forefinger to examine another pamphlet. “By dressing in man's attire.”

Meg stood, taking her magazine with her. She poked a finger into her high bun, trying to wiggle the
pins loose. The weight of her hair gave her a headache. “Margaret would disagree with me,” Meg said, “but I think it would be fun to dress like a man to help my country.”

“I agree,” Grandma Nettie seconded. “So tell Margaret she's being too delicate.” Her grandmother gave her a smile.

Meg returned it. “Yes, I'll do that.”

She left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to her room. When all was said and done, playfully discussing Margaret as if she weren't Meg was not all that humorous. Meg had to decide who she wanted to be. Herself or a likeness of herself bound by rules and conformity. Men noticed Margaret . . . not Meg.

Heaving a sigh, she resolved to give Margaret every opportunity to prove herself.

Meg went into her bedroom and sat on the coverlet of her bed, flipping through the magazine once more and stopping at the article on bosoms. She then gazed down at hers while biting her lower lip. Could she go through with it?

Actually, if she borrowed some nerve from Meg, she could.

*  *  *

Gage opened the door to Wolcott's Sporting Goods store and entered.

The place was a man's man place, with a few exceptions. Gage noted the giant stuffed grizzly bear in the corner held a bouquet of wildflowers in its paw. Blue ribbons tied back the old window curtains. The light hint of a woman's floral perfume and the lunch box on the counter.