Always and Forever (7 page)

Grace finally made a decision and slipped the choice on. She then studied herself in the large standing mirror. The dress, made of grosgrain silk, was charcoal gray and had a line of tiny jet buttons up the front of the close-fitting high-collared bodice. It had long sleeves edged delicately with lace and an upswept skirt. The dress was one of her best, and as she adjusted the fall of the skirt, she approved of her reflection. The black Fedora slippers on her feet were made of the finest Curaçao leather and sported a hand-beaded coxcomb bow across the slightly pointed toe. The little Louis XV heel raised her height by an inch or two. For tonight, she’d abandoned her pulled-back no-nonsense hairstyle in favor of a more femininely curled upsweep, and she let trail two soft curls down her temples. She looked fashionable and self-assured, and vowed that the handsome Jackson Blake would hold no power over her tonight. They’d eat, they’d talk, and that would be that.

Grace leaned closer to the mirror to apply a touch of rouge to her brown cheeks and a dab of paint to her lips. What was it about him that made her feel so at odds with herself? She reasoned that it might be because most of the men in her circle were docile, mannerly gentlemen who didn’t dare step on a woman’s tender sensibilities, but Blake didn’t seem to be cut from that cloth. She still
couldn’t believe how he’d marched into the church last night and declared himself the wagon master without saying a word to her about it beforehand. He was going to be trouble—handsome trouble, but trouble just the same.

Grace took one last look at herself and headed toward her bedroom door. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her aunts were playing matchmaker, but she was certain they knew she’d sworn off men. The liaison with Garth had proven to be a terrible mistake, and Grace never made the same mistake twice. Blake’s visit was nothing more than a business meeting. There would be no murmuring kisses, no tumbles on the bed, and no broad, distracting ebony shoulders. She didn’t want or need a man in her life. Not now—not ever.

While the aunts saw to the final food preparations, Grace set the table. The aunts had insisted upon using the best china and silver. Grace thought they were going a bit overboard for such a simple affair, but she knew better than to say anything, and so set the table according to their wishes.

When Grace finished, she stepped back and viewed her handiwork. Overboard or not, it was a beautifully set table. A crystal vase of multicolored spring flowers centered the white cloth and the sparkling place settings, adding an elegant touch.

She turned as her aunts entered the dining room. Tulip held a tray of sliced ham and Dahlia followed, carrying a bowl of her famous potato salad.

“Beautiful table, Grace,” a smiling Tulip said, then set the tray down.

“The flowers are lovely, too,” Dahlia echoed. “Vanessa taught you well, my dear.”

Vanessa had been Grace’s mother, and flowers had been one of Vanessa Atwood’s passions. From spring to
late fall, Vanessa deemed no table setting complete unless it contained a vase of blooms from her gardens. After Vanessa’s death, Grace continued the practice because it seemed to keep her mother’s spirit close by.

Grace turned her thoughts away from the melancholy memories the flowers evoked and directed her attention to her aunts. They were dressed for entertaining. Tulip had on blue silk and her sister had chosen a dark green. They’d both had glorious heads of lush red hair in their youth, a legacy passed down from an Irish slaveowner, but now, in the twilight of their years, silver had replaced the vivid coloring. Grace asked a question that she’d been wanting an answer to since Blake’s visit to her office. “May I ask why you’ve taken such a shine to Blake?”

“It isn’t often such a handsome man graces our table,” Tulip replied.

“And if he’s a bounder, we need to know from the outset so you can hire someone else,” Dahlia added practically.

Grace thought that made sense, but still had a feeling the aunts were up to something else entirely. “So you’re not matchmaking?”

Dahlia laughed. “Of course not. This is strictly a get-acquainted dinner. Isn’t it, Tulip?”

“Dahl’s right. Strictly business.”

They both looked quite innocent, but the sound of the door chime prevented Grace from interrogating them further.

Tulip exclaimed, “Oh, he’s here. Grace, dear,
you
go to the door. Dahl and I will finish bringing out the food.”

They headed back to the kitchen.

When Grace opened the door, the sight of him standing there so tall and handsome with his wide-brimmed hat in his hand made her heart skip a beat. Once again,
he was dressed like a man of the West. Beneath his long black coat she could see a gray shirt, a pair of black trousers, and a beautiful black leather vest detailed with silver. His dark face looked freshly shaven, and the devilish beard and mustache had been trimmed. His handsomeness exuded a manly power that commanded a woman’s attention. “Good evening, Mr. Blake.”

He nodded, saying, “Evening, Miss Atwood.”

Forcing herself to look away lest she drown in his eyes, she stepped aside so he could enter the house. “Were the directions helpful?”

“Very. I had no problems.”

“Good. Hand me your coat and hat.”

She hung them on the peg near the door. “My aunts are waiting. This way, please.”

Jackson followed her, feasting his eyes on the soft sway of her walk. She looked fine in the gray dress, mighty fine, he thought to himself. The curled upswept hair made her seem more like a woman and less like the bossy banker he’d been treated to so far. He cast an eye around the surroundings. The modest house with its paintings and good furniture seemed like a natural setting for Grace. She’d impressed him as a cultured, well-to-do woman, and her home reflected that.

After welcoming pleasantries were shared with the aunts, everyone went into the dining room. Blake helped the aunts with their chairs and his gentlemanly manners earned him a smile from them both.

A seated Tulip looked over at Grace and directed, “Grace, dear, why don’t you sit there, and Mr. Blake can sit beside you.”

Grace would’ve preferred to sit on the far end of the table, but moved to the chair Tulip indicated.

As she pulled out her chair, Blake came up behind her, enveloping her in his body’s heat and the faint spicy
scent of his cologne. “Let me help you with that.”

Once again finding herself lost in the eddy of his gaze, Grace shook herself free and replied, “Thank you.”

As he sat down beside her, Grace swore she’d cut off both of her hands if they didn’t stop shaking.

Dahlia took her linen napkin from the table and spread it across her lap, saying “Now, isn’t this nice?”

Grace smiled politely.

Tulip said grace, and afterward, everyone helped themselves to the aunts’ fare. Tonight’s menu consisted of succulent slices of spiced ham, potato salad, and steaming fragrant mustards. Dahlia’s dinner rolls were light as clouds and as always seemed to melt in Grace’s mouth. Savoring that first bite, Grace sighed pleasurably, but didn’t realize she’d made the sound aloud until Blake looked her way.

Jackson wondered if she remembered giving that same throaty sigh the night he’d kissed her. Probably not, he answered himself, and if she did, she certainly wouldn’t want to be reminded.

Thinking the look he’d given her was one of censure because of the sounds of pleasure she’d just made, Grace apologized. “I know ladies aren’t supposed to make noises at the table, but Dahlia makes the best rolls I’ve ever tasted.”

His eyes were lit with humor. “I understand. They
are
good.”

Dahlia buttered a roll and said, “When Grace was ten, she could eat a dozen of my rolls in one sitting.”

“Never gained a pound,” Tulip added, as she forked up a portion of her sister’s potato salad.

Before any more of her history could be revealed, Grace turned the conversation to safer realms. “How long ago did you leave Texas, Mr. Blake?”

“Almost ten years ago. Came east after my father’s death.”

“Any other family?”

“An adopted brother. Mother died of cholera when I was still young.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Tulip put in genuinely, adding, “Grace grew up without her mother too.”

Grace could see the question in his eyes, but rather than elaborate, she focused on cutting into a slice of ham.

Jackson sensed Grace’s withdrawal and wondered how old she’d been at her mother’s passing. Jackson had been so young when his own mother died that he had no memories of her. Judging by Grace’s silence, she’d been older.

“How long do you think the wagon train will take to get to Kansas City?” Tulip asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“I’d like to try and do it in thirty to thirty-five days,” he replied, before taking a sip of the water in the glass by his plate.

They spent the remainder of the dinner talking about the wagon train’s journey, but as the dinner concluded and the apple pie and ice cream were placed on the table for dessert, Grace’s thoughts on the journey were set aside. Her awareness of Blake took its place. All evening she’d been trying to pretend that tonight’s meal was no different from any other meal she’d shared with the aunts, but it was a lie, and she knew it. Her vow not to be moved by Blake’s presence had proven to be as worthless as Confederate money. She was as aware of him as she was of her own heartbeat. She found herself covertly watching the long, dark fingers of his hands, the cut of his ebony jaw, the way he smiled at the aunts. She listened to the varying intonations of his voice, in-
haled the faint scent of his cologne, and hastily looked elsewhere whenever his eyes strayed her way. At one point during the meal, they’d both reached at the same time to pass Tulip the plate of rolls and their shoulders had brushed inadvertently. Now, nearly twenty minutes later, Grace could still feel the heat of his arm against her own. Jackson Blake was dizzying, powerful, and more man than she’d ever met in her life.

At the conclusion of dessert, the aunts refused to let Grace help them clear the table.

Dahlia told her, “You and Mr. Blake have business to discuss.”

“Yes, but I can certainly help with this first.”

“Go on, Grace,” Tulip said, as she began picking up the dessert plates. “We’re fine here. I’ll bring you in some coffee in a bit or two.”

Grace surrendered and gestured to Blake to follow her from the dining room.

Grace ushered him into the study that had once been her father’s. After his death late last fall, the space had become hers. It had taken her weeks to get up the courage to change the room’s physical appearance. She’d wanted his spirit to remain beside her and feared that boxing up his things and storing them away would somehow remove his memory, too. She’d loved her father deeply and he’d loved her. He’d been her only parent for over fifteen years, and her grief had eased only a tiny bit.

In the end, she stored most of his personal belongings in the attic, but other articles remained: his spectacle case still lay atop the desk where he’d placed it, and the finely etched globes he liked to collect were still positioned tastefully around the room. His imported Cuban humidor lay in its customary spot atop a small Queen
Anne table, and beside it sat the large white cup he drank his morning coffee from each day.

Jackson took a seat on one of the finely upholstered chairs and glanced around the room. All the dark polished wood gave off a man’s feel. This didn’t feel like a woman’s space.

“This was my father’s study,” she explained, as she took a seat behind the big cherrywood desk. “He died last November.”

Jackson’s keen instincts had served him well during his lawman days, and although he no longer wore a star, he was glad to know that his sense of people and situations continued to be strong. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said genuinely.

“I loved him very much,” she offered, then gathering herself, said, “Let’s get down to business, Mr. Blake. Here’s the list of supplies Mr. Emerson compiled before his untimely death. See if there’s anything you might want to add.”

He wondered if she were really as strong as she appeared, but he took the ledger from her and began to look at the items listed. “Who’s Mr. Emerson?”

“The man I originally hired as wagon master. He was killed a few days ago in a knife fight.”

“Sorry to hear it,” he voiced without looking up. “How much of this stuff do you already have?” Listed were items such as barrels, ropes, tack, cookware, canvas, and many other various items both big and small.

“I’ve purchased most of what’s on the list. Everything’s being stored in my godfather’s warehouse over in Evanston.”

“Looks like Emerson knew what he was doing. Can’t think of anything else I’d add, at least, not off the top of my head.”

When he handed the ledger back to her, she put it
back on her desk and said, “Tomorrow, I’ve an appointment to look at horses and mules.”

“Do you know anything about horses and mules?”

“Not as much as I need to know, I’m sure, but I’ll manage.”

“Why do you want to travel by wagon?”

“Jim Crow.”

He understood now. “How many ladies did you say were making the trip?”

“Thirty to thirty-five.”

She was as poised and as elegant as any woman he’d ever met. With Grace dressed as she was, and with her hair rising softly from her face, he found it hard to imagine her covered with the dirt and grime they would encounter once the journey got under way. “Are you sure you’re cut out for this?”

“What do you mean?”

“You just don’t look the adventurous type, that’s all. There’s going to be flies and mud and snakes—”

“You think I’m better suited for what, a drawing room?”

“Frankly, yes. A woman like you should be gracing some wealthy man’s table, not traveling across country behind a train of mules.”

“Women are doing many things these days, Mr. Blake. Gracing a man’s table is not my life’s dream.”
At least not anymore,
she reminded herself. Aloud, she continued, “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine. I’ve your contract here somewhere.”

A modern woman, he thought sarcastically, but admittedly she was a beautiful one. The copper brown eyes went perfectly with her sandy-colored skin and rich auburn hair. He wondered what she looked like with her hair down. Stunning, he’d be willing to bet. He could almost imagine her standing before him dressed in her
nightclothes, her hair free and tousled from lovemaking. The high-collared gray dress with its long sleeves fit snugly over her lovely bosom, emphasizing her feminine curves very attractively.