A Time for Everything (38 page)

“
No one’s gonna take my
son from me. Not over my dead body.”

“
That’s all I need to
hear.”

He was quiet for a while before he
said, “You should take that job in Nashville. No one would be
better suited for it, and… you’ll be safer there.”

“
What do you
mean?”

Staring into the darkened distance,
his eyes flashed and jaw clenched with anger. “I didn’t want to
worry you, but Oliver threatened to hurt everyone I love if I don’t
uphold my end of the contract.”

“
I’m not afraid of that
snake.”

He turned his head, locking his
worried eyes on hers. “You should be. And I’m sorry I’m not man
enough to do anything about it.” With a heavy sigh, he slumped onto
his knees, head hanging low.

His anguish squeezed her
chest and brought tears to her eyes. She longed to touch him but
didn’t know if it would make things better or worse, so she hugged
her knees even tighter. “You
are
a good man, Beau Stanford. It’s Oliver and the
war we have to blame for all this. We’re forced to make choices we
never had to before. Sam and I will go to Nashville. We’ll find
work and make a home there. You’ll marry Lydia and be happy again.
She’ll give you more children, and Jonny will grow up to be a fine
man. We will survive, Beau.”

“
You really believe
that?”

“
I have to.”

He reached over and picked up a lock
of her hair, running his fingers gently along its length. “I
wish…”

Her heart raced — he was so close,
just a breath away. “You wish what?”

“
That I could have kissed
you just once.” He slowly let go of her hair and watched it fall
over her shoulder.

Her cheeks flamed, hidden only by the
dimness of night. She knew kissing Beau Stanford was beyond a bad
idea. It could only tear her heart into a million more pieces, but
he was everything she admired in a man. Kind, honest… vulnerable.
He had no reason to love her. She could bring nothing to their
marriage. Yet there he was, confessing his love in the most tender,
innocent way he could. For once in her life, she didn’t want to
weigh and measure every decision in her path. She wanted to follow
her heart.

“
If no one’s watching,
then no one can care,” she whispered, letting go of her knees until
her feet rested on the next step.

Beau drew closer and lifted his hand
to her chin, gently tilting it upward. Portia held her breath and
closed her eyes as his lips gently met hers. She reached up and
caressed his face, needing to feel his skin, his stubble, the
strong jaw and square chin she’d come to love so much. The kiss was
time-stopping and heartbreaking at the same time, like those she
had once read about in fairy tales, like those she had once shared
with Jake.

He pulled away, but they held to one
another, resting their foreheads together. It was a goodbye kiss,
though neither of them had the heart to name it as such. Tears
found their familiar paths down Portia’s cheeks, and Beau wiped
them away with his thumbs.

Finally, he let her go and stood. He
held out his hand to help her up, when Harry came bursting out the
door.

“
Oh God,” he cried. “It’s
Sam. He’s… he’s not breathing.”

They ran after
Harry and to his room beneath the stairs. Samuel
lay prone on the floor beside the bed. Portia rushed to him and
fell to her knees. His eyes were open, but vacant. Foamy liquid ran
from his mouth. His lips were blue.

“
What happened to him?”
Beau looked at Harry, who stood there shaking all over and biting
down on his fist. He didn’t answer.

“
Sam, Sam, wake up!”
Portia shook him. Leaning close to his face, she was still for a
moment before moving her ear to his chest. She sat up again,
shaking him harder, slapping his cheeks. “No, no, please wake up,
please!”

Beau dropped to his knees beside her
and checked for a pulse on Sam’s neck. Nothing. He confirmed
Portia’s fears with a shake of his head. She broke down with
wracking sobs, and he gathered her in his arms.

Wild-eyed Harry fisted his hair and
frantically looked from Beau to Samuel. Then Beau spotted it — the
green velvet box, lying open on Harry’s bed, and the syringe lying
beside it. On Samuel’s arm was an innocent-looking red dot and a
raised vein trailing from it.

Holding Portia tight as she cried for
her dead brother, he looked up at Harry and said, “Get
out.”

“
Beau, I
didn’t—”

“
I said get out!” Beau
roared, scaring Portia into silence. “And don’t you ever show your
face here again.”

Harry grabbed the syringe, the box,
and a bottle on the dresser and threw them in a bag along with some
clothes. He gave Beau one last look over his shoulder — in his eyes
a war raged between hatred, betrayal, and shame. Pa and Jonny stood
in the doorway. They must have come to see what all the fuss was
about. Harry shoved past them, almost knocking Pa over.

The old man clutched the door frame to
right himself and finally saw Samuel. “God help us.”

~~~~

The clock struck
half past midnight. Pa had taken Jonny to bed not
long after it happened and had stayed with Portia until Beau could
fetch the undertaker, who was down there now, preparing the body.
Beau went to his bedroom and pulled one of Claire’s mourning
dresses from his chest. He’d rather see Po in anything but this.
The dress was well-made, of course, complete with matching veil,
gloves, and feathered fan, but all the lace in the world couldn’t
hide its purpose.

Portia’s door was open, so he entered
her room. She sat limply at her table. “You’re
trembling.”

He hung the mourning dress on the
wardrobe. Then he came to her, knelt on one knee, and took her cold
hands in his. He brought them to his mouth and blew warm air across
her skin then rubbed vigorously.

“
Thank you,” she
whispered.

“
The undertaker is here.
He brought a nice coffin and will have everything ready
soon.”

“
But how can
we…”

“
He owes me. Claire took
care of his sick wife before she became ill herself.” He composed
his breaking voice. “I brought you one of her mourning
outfits.”

She nodded and drew a shaky breath.
Seeing her like this, so broken and sad, wounded him more than any
bullet ever could.

“
I should have kicked
Harry out a long time ago,” he said. “I knew he had a problem. I
knew it would lead to something like this. I thought it would be
him, though, not…”

“
Shh, it’s not your
fault.” She pulled her hands from his and wrapped her arms around
his neck, holding to him in a cheek to cheek embrace.

Beau held her gently, feeling her warm
body trembling beneath her nightgown. He kissed her cheek, tasted
her salty tears. She pulled her head back slightly, searching his
eyes then pressed her lips to his. He froze for a moment then
surrendered, pulling her tightly to him, kissing her as deeply as
he could. She sighed and clung to him. He hoped with all his might
that she took comfort from his touch. With his arms around her, he
stood, bringing them both to their feet. Tangling his fingers in
her hair, he cradled the nape of her neck in his palm and closed
his eyes. God, he wanted her — all of her, and he needed her more
every day. He needed her to be part of his life.

But he couldn’t bring her brother
back…

Reluctantly withdrawing from their
kiss, he kept her in his arms and held her against him. She laid
her head against his chest. He rubbed her back, feeling the
delicate curve of her spine, the hard angles of her shoulder
blades. His eyes flitted around her room, and he knew he couldn’t
keep holding her like that or they might do something they would
both regret.

Then his gaze landed on a picture.
He’d never really been in Portia’s room long enough to notice
anything specific. Those eyes… it must have been her late husband,
but those eyes of his — stern, yet innocent — he knew those eyes.
The memory had been locked away in his smoke-filled nightmares,
hidden under grief.

He had once looked into Jake
McAllister’s eyes.

He had watched him die.

“
Oh God, oh God…” Beau
pushed himself away from Portia and stumbled out into the hall. He
hit the opposite wall, gasping for breath.

“
Beau?” She followed him
out and held his arms, trying to steady him. “What’s
wrong?”

She tried to look him in the eyes, but
he couldn’t bear to see her questioning face. He couldn’t bear to
tell her now… her brother’s body wasn’t even cold yet.

“
I-I’m fine. Just a dizzy
spell, that’s all. I’m sorry I scared you.” He righted himself and
hugged her gently.

“
You need something to
eat,” she said, and her voice had grown stronger. She was a woman
who drew strength from taking care of others. And he loved her even
more for that.

He let her take his hand and lead him
downstairs to the kitchen. But he didn’t know if he could ever look
her in the eye again, or if he could ever forgive
himself.

~~~~

Numb. Too numb
to cry. Too numb to think. By early morning,
Portia looked upon her brother’s casket through the patterned
strangeness of a black veil. Death had followed her, leaving its
calling cards of covered mirrors and frozen clock hands. She
awaited the undertaker, who would be returning soon with the hearse
to take her and Sam back to Brentwood.

She had penned a letter to Ellen as
soon as Sam’s body was prepared, though her hand had shaken so much
she didn’t know if it would be legible.

Sam is dead. I am bringing
him home.

It would be delivered by the fastest
mail runner Beau could find, he said. Not that it mattered. Her
ongoing duty in life was writing news of death. Whether the news
reached its destination sooner than later didn’t change
anything.

She had to take Sam back home. She
should have never stayed this long. She should have never come
there at all. Sam would still be alive if he hadn’t come to find
her.

“
Can I get you anything,
Po?” Ezra sat beside her in the parlor. He wore a black suit and
had no pipe in hand, which seemed very out of place, just like she
and Sam had been.

“
I’m fine. Thank
you.”

She had sat up the rest of the night
with Sam’s body. Beau didn’t leave her side until the morning’s
funeral business had to be dealt with. He had held her close
on the ottoman and let her cry on his shoulder. His smell — a
mixture of leather, horses, and man — had coaxed her to sleep for a
few brief naps between her crying episodes.

Bessie kept them fed, persuading
Portia to eat even though grief’s lead ball had returned to her
stomach. The Stanfords had taken good care of her, and for that she
would be forever grateful. But her life there had turned into a
strange, tangled-up thing that she didn’t have the strength to
separate and mend.

Jonny sat on her other
side, solemn and quiet. Beau’s voice could be heard from the foyer,
diverting visitors so she could grieve in private. It sounded as if
they were leaving tokens of condolences, however, for Beau would
end their visits with,
“Thank you for the
flowers. Mrs. McAllister will appreciate them. She will be very
touched to know you thought of her in her time of
sorrow.”

It was probably bad
manners to turn people away, but she didn’t care. No one there knew
Sam, and they barely knew
her
. She didn’t feel like playing
hostess to gawkers, even though she couldn’t rid herself of Lydia
and her father. Oliver sat apart from them, talking to a few of the
visitors who did manage to get in.

Lydia, of course, had staked her claim
on Beau and clung to his arm in the foyer, dabbing her eyes with a
lacy black handkerchief. Soon as the latest visitor left, she made
her way into the parlor and, to Portia’s surprise, knelt in front
of her seat.

“
I’m so sorry, Portia,”
Lydia said, and her eyes were surprisingly red, her cheeks moist,
as though she really felt sympathy for her rival. “I can’t imagine…
look, I know it’s not much, but I’ve convinced Daddy to lend you
our best coach so you can have a more comfortable ride back to
Brentwood.”

“
Thank you,” Portia
whispered, though it felt more like Lydia was trying to get rid of
her in style rather than offering a gesture of sympathy.

Jonny stood and gestured for Lydia to
take his seat, so she did. “Thank you, Jonny,” she said, patting
his cheek. Turning back to Portia, she took her hand and squeezed
it warmly. Portia raised a grief-swollen eyebrow and stared at the
blonde beauty in black. Who was this woman who looked as sincere as
a true friend? Surely not Lydia Clemons.

But it
was
Lydia’s voice that emerged, soft
and heartfelt as though they’d been fond of each other for years.
“I know that you and I haven’t gotten along as well as I intended,
and that’s my fault, not yours. But you’ve been good to Jonny, and
he admires you so. Would you consider coming back to continue
tutoring him? You will be well compensated, I assure you. We could
even purchase you your own property and have a nice home built for
you.”