From Boss to Bridegroom (19 page)

She stepped into the clearing, and he faltered, head whipping in her direction as he lowered the foil to his side.

“Nicole.” Dark brows crashing together, he didn't look particularly pleased to see her. “What are you doing here?”

Fascinated by this sweaty, messy version of her boss, she came nearer. He was winded. That broad chest heaved as he sucked in air.

She dared to touch the thick, white glove covering his hand. “Will you teach me to do that?”

His throat convulsed as he visibly swallowed. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

Spinning on his heel, he crossed to a fallen log where he'd left his things and seized a towel, mopping his face with it. His hair stuck up at odd angles.

She really, really liked this version of Quinn. She frowned, not moving from her spot. Problem was, she liked the cleaned-up version of him, too. Her news pulsed in the back of her throat, begging to be shared. Once she told him what she'd learned, everything would change. She wasn't sure she was ready.

Watching him remove his gloves and place the foil in its box, she said, “Why won't you teach me? Because I'm a female?”

“No.”

Irritation bubbled to the surface. Ever since their exchange in the library, when Lucian had forestalled their embrace, Quinn had treated her differently. Oh, he wasn't harsh or unkind. Yet there was a distance in his honey-colored eyes that hadn't been there before. A reserve in his conversation that cut her to the quick.

The hurt wouldn't be so deep if he acted that way with everyone. But no. It was just her he'd chosen to freeze out.

Stalking over to him, she poked his unyielding back. “I want to know why you're acting this way. Lately, you've hardly spoken a word to me. You act as if you can't stand to be in the same room with me.”

Oh, no. Those weren't tears clogging her throat, were they? She couldn't cry in front of him again.

Twisting sideways, his expression was cool. He said tightly, “I've spoken to you. Of course I have.”

“About business. That's it.” Fists on her hips, she continued, “With everyone else but me, you smile that charming smile of yours and chat about the weather. You're the suave, too-slick Northerner you've always been. So tell me Quinn,
darling
, what exactly have I done to deserve your disdain this time?”

He matched her stare, posture stiff and hands fisted at his sides, clearly unhappy at being questioned. For long, tense moments, he didn't speak. Nicole struggled to maintain eye contact. Bewilderment, hurt and forbidden longing swirled inside her.

Then, in a move so fast she gasped, he grabbed her hand and placed it over his heart.

“Feel that?” he ground out.

Beneath her flattened palm, his heart thundered against muscle-cloaked ribs. “Y-you've been exercising.”

“Your presence is the culprit.”

Moving away from her touch, he stepped behind her and, close but not touching, brought his arm around and took hold of her hand. His hot breath stirred her short curls, sending shivers of delight along her skin. She never wanted to move from this spot. Shameful, but true.

“In order to teach you, I'd have to hold you like this.” His voice was low. “Do you see the problem?”

Problem? There was a problem?

His jaw skimmed her ear. With a sigh, he released her. Nicole's heart fell. She hugged her middle against the yawning loneliness creeping in.

“I'm sorry,” he said behind her. “The reason I've been distant is because I'm having an extraordinarily difficult time honoring my promise to you.”

She whirled. “What promise?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I gave you my word I'd provide a professional environment for you. You shouldn't have to worry whether or not you're safe from my advances.”

Before she could form a coherent reply—and honestly, was begging him to break his word and take her in his arms the right thing to do?—he continued on.

“I'm drawn to you, Nicole. That's no surprise. It would be very wrong of me to kiss you again when we both know we're not meant for each other. My world is here. I'm convinced this is where God wants me.” A glimmer of indefinable emotion shimmered in the brown depths. “And you're meant to follow your dream.”

His words arrowed through her, sharp and honest and poignant.

He was a good, good man. Ever her protector, even from this invisible force pulling them together.

“I have to sit down.”

He followed her to the log, where she sat and stared at his black boot tips amidst a smattering of blue, purple and orange wildflowers. The July air was sweltering, and yet her bones were brittle with cold.

“You won't have to endure my presence very much longer.”

He waited, unspeaking, until she lifted her gaze. He'd gone very still.

“Shane dropped by Megan and Lucian's after lunch with some news. It appears the siblings' maternal grandfather has been searching for them. He'd lost contact with their mother in recent years and, when he learned of her passing, hired a detective to find them. The detective paid a visit to Carl's and let slip that they were due a substantial inheritance.”

Brows rising, he dropped onto the knobby log next to her. “Their mother had money?”

“She kept it a secret. Patrick and Lillian were dumbfounded when they heard the news.”

“That's why Carl was desperate to get them back. He planned to get his hands on the money.”

“The grandfather also hired a lawyer, who contacted Carl and demanded to see the siblings before granting him access to it.”

Quinn shook his head in disbelief. “Where is he now?”

“The sheriff there has him in custody while he investigates the murder. The grandfather is planning to travel to Gatlinburg. I'm not sure if he'll try and take them east with him or not.”

She frowned, recalling Megan's troubled features. Her sister had grown close to the siblings in a short amount of time, as had Lucian. They would be devastated if they left.

“I hope he lets them decide their future. They've been through a lot.” He studied her profile. “So what has this to do with your leaving?”

“Patrick and Lillian insisted they repay me for the supplies. They wouldn't be dissuaded, no matter how much I argued.” She tilted her head to return his regard. “With that money, I'll have enough to go ahead with my plans.”

He shoved his fingers through his unkempt hair, messing it further. “When?”

“Caleb offered to take me next week to scout out potential shop locations. Once I've decided on one, we'll return to pack up my things. I suppose the timing depends on when the shop becomes available.”

Quinn's expression growing earnest, he said, “You've worked hard for this, Nicole. You deserve to get what you want. I'm happy for you.”

She drummed up a smile. He was encouraging her to go. What did she expect? That he'd beg her to stay? She didn't want that...did she?

No, of course not. This was her much-thought-about future. The future she'd plotted and planned and coordinated in her mind for years. The one she'd slaved to be able to afford.

“I'm sorry I can't give you an exact date. If you need for me to go ahead and quit so that you can hire someone else, I will.”

“That's not necessary.” He casually brushed off her suggestion, standing to his feet and gathering his things. “I'll put the word out that I'll need a new assistant soon, but that the start date hasn't been determined. I've already promised Patrick he could come in on the days he feels up to it. He'll be my part-time help.”

His nonchalant attitude stung. Her leaving didn't come as a shock to him. Still, expressing a bit of regret couldn't hurt, could it? Something like,
I'll miss you, Duchess.
Or,
I'm not sure how I'll ever find anyone to replace you.

Don't be absurd. He's clearly fine with my imminent departure.

She'd promised herself she'd leave town with her whole heart intact. She had a sinking suspicion she'd failed to keep that promise.

Chapter Twenty

T
hunder rumbled in the distance, and Alice frowned at the darkening sky outside the kitchen window. “Maybe you should stay home.”

Nicole laid the sandwich in her lunch pail and covered it with a cloth. “I can't. Quinn needs me. If I hurry, I'm sure I can reach the mercantile before it starts raining.”

“You're going to miss that young man, aren't you?”

“I'm going to miss a lot of people,” she said over a lump in her throat, impulsively going and hugging her mother.

Last night, her mother had invited Nicole into her room, where she'd taken out a small wooden box containing tintypes of various family members. Nicole had lingered over the portraits of her father, especially, and his mother. Alice had smiled fondly. “You're the exact likeness of Grandmother O'Malley,” she'd said.

The resemblance was undeniable. She'd died when Nicole was very young, so she didn't remember her. Alice had offered to let Nicole keep the tintype.

She eased out of the embrace, but not before she glimpsed her mother's concern.

“You don't seem as excited about this move as I thought you'd be. Is something bothering you?”

“Everything is happening really fast, that's all.”

In a few short days, she'd be in Knoxville searching for the perfect spot to open her boutique, as well as a place to live. Once her choices had been made, she'd have to say goodbye to her family and friends. She wouldn't be around to see Patrick's progress or visit with Lillian. No more snuggling with Victoria.

“If you're going, you should scoot along,” her mother said, interrupting her musings.

A strong gust buffeted the cabin. “I'll see you tonight.”

“Be careful.”

With the warning lingering in her ears, Nicole hooked an umbrella over her wrist and hurried to the lane. The air was damp and heavy with impending rain, the forest unnaturally devoid of animal life, birds and squirrels likely in hiding. She walked as quickly as she could and reached the short wooden bridge leading into town just as fat raindrops splattered on the ground.

Opening the umbrella, she picked up her pace. Bad weather meant not many customers would venture out. She wasn't looking forward to being cocooned in an empty mercantile with Quinn all day, not after his utter complacency regarding her news. She'd clearly overestimated her importance to him, both professionally and personally. The revelation stung far more than it should.

* * *

A crack of thunder rattled the living room windowpanes, and the ground vibrated with its intensity.

Quinn reluctantly tore his focus from the unfinished house plans spread across the kitchen table. Through the window overlooking the river, he could see entire trees swaying in the wind. That didn't bode well.

Tossing his pencil down, he strode into the hallway and threw open the rear door. The store was due to open in half an hour. The low, churning gray clouds made it appear more like dusk than early morning. As the first smattering of raindrops hit the stair landing, he glimpsed a bobbing pink-and-white umbrella in the vicinity of the bridge.

Nicole.

He almost wished she'd stayed home today. Yesterday's scene in the woods still had the power to make his ears burn. He'd been too blunt with her. While he'd spoken the truth, declaring his inner struggles—
showing
her how she affected him—it wasn't conduct becoming of a gentleman.

The wind whipped his hair in his eyes, flattened his pants against his legs.

Quinn wasn't sure if it was this place or the woman bringing about these changes in behavior. He certainly wouldn't enjoy his current pristine reputation if he'd treated the socialites in his circle in a similar manner.

Rain pinged against the landing and bounced up, splattering his boots.

Caught by the wind, Nicole's rose-colored skirts tangled with her legs. Her bonnet strings whipped about her neck. “Hurry up, Duchess,” he murmured as the rain intensified.

She was going to be soaked from head to toe if she didn't.

Directly across from where he stood, the limbs of a massive maple tree bowed beneath the onslaught. The river pulsed and swirled between its banks. A wall-shaking rumble sounded directly overhead, and he flinched as a jagged lightning bolt split the purple sky.

Nicole stopped in the middle of the lane, tipped her umbrella and lifted her gaze to the tree.

“No.” Quinn didn't attempt to raise his voice. She couldn't hear him above the rain and wind and rushing water. “Don't stop. Get inside.” He stared hard at her as if he could will her to obey.

Light flickered in the gloom. Another thunderclap reverberated overhead, followed by an earsplitting crack.

Everything happened in slow motion after that.

The trunk groaned. Snapped. Branches twisted.

The centuries-old tree toppled straight for the mercantile. For him.

The last thing he saw was Nicole's face, frozen in abject terror.

* * *

It took several seconds to register what had happened.

One minute she was looking up at Quinn, framed in the doorway at the top of the landing, the next she was watching the tree smashing into the mercantile. The roof had given way. Walls buckled.

A large limb with numerous branches filled the hallway where Quinn had been standing. The section housing his quarters had been crushed. She couldn't even make out where the window had been.

The umbrella slipped from her fingers. Horror locked her muscles into place even as the rain pelted her like sharp stones, dripping off her bonnet's brim.

He hadn't had time to get out of the way.

Please, God, no.

Adrenaline dumped into her system. Screaming at the top of her lungs for help, she scrambled down the grassy bank leading to the river, circumventing the damaged tree base and slipping and falling up the incline to reach level ground. The stairs were no more, flattened beneath the barrel-like trunk. No matter. She would get to him, one way or the other.

He can't be dead. He can't be dead.
The refrain poked and tore at her, inciting bone-numbing fear.
Stop it, Nicole. That's not helping.

“Help! Someone help!”

Edging along the narrow ledge of earth along the building's rear wall, she batted away branches and stepped over thinner limbs to reach what had been the doorway. Glass crunched beneath her boots. Several times, her skirts snagged on jutting log fragments, hampering her progress.

“Quinn!” Unmindful of her hands, Nicole snapped off leafy branches one by one and tossed them aside. “Can you hear me? Quinn?”

Half climbing onto the tree, she squinted into the darkness, steeling herself for what she might find. Heart in her throat, she considered going in there.

“Miss Nicole?”

A small cry slipped through her lips. Startled, she twisted and, through the downpour, saw the bent outline of Mr. Walton from the barbershop. He stood near the building's corner, rivulets of water streaming from his hat. Successive lightning strikes lit up the sky.

“Quinn's trapped,” she called. “I need help getting to him.”

He nodded. “I'll fetch the sheriff!”

Turning back, she pulled herself entirely onto the trunk. Bark bit into her knees as she inched forward. Juts of wood scraped her palms. Frantic prayers tumbled from her trembling lips.

She eyed the remaining beams overhead. Rainwater leaked through the holes. Would they hold? And for how long?

“Quinn?” she tried again.

When there was no response, she pressed a fist to her mouth and blinked away useless tears. He was probably unconscious. Or unable to hear her over the storm.

The long interior walls looked to be intact, for the most part. There were gaps here and there. Through one she could make out his kitchen stove. Through another she glimpsed a flash of red and white. The checkered curtains.

When she had passed under the doorway, she gulped in air and, gathering her courage, scoured what parts of the floor were visible on either side of the tree trunk.

There was no sign of him.

He hadn't been crushed, then. He'd somehow managed to move out of the way.

Why then wasn't he answering her?

Suddenly, a powerful arm twined about her waist and lifted her clear. A muffled scream lodged in her throat as the unidentified male swung her around and set her on her feet.

“Quinn?”

But the hard blue eyes didn't belong to him.

“Shane.” Fingers fisting in his shirt, she brought her face close, her bonnet brim slamming into his Stetson. “You have to find him. He's in there. Maybe hurt. Bleeding.”
Dying.
Panic ratcheted up her pulse. “Please.”

His hands on her shoulders steadied her. “Breathe, Nicole,” he ordered. “Tell me what happened.”

In the recesses of her mind, she acknowledged the fact she'd never dared come this close to the intimidating lawman.

“He was standing right here in the doorway when the tree fell. I—I don't see how he could've gotten to a safe spot.” Her gaze bounced off the broken logs where his living room had been. “But I didn't see him in the hallway.”

No articles of clothing. Nothing.

Shane surveyed the debris. “We need tools, mostly saws and axes. As many as you can get. You'll find what we need at the livery. Walton's already combing the streets for able-bodied men to assist in the search.”

“I'm not sure—” She bit her lip. What if she left and they found him? What if they wouldn't let her see him? What if—

Squeezing her eyes tight, shudders racked her as her imagination called forth disturbing images of Quinn's broken body.

Shane's fingers bit into her flesh, not bruising but enough to ground her thoughts. “Listen to me.”

She forced her lids open. The lawman's eyes blazed, but his features held unanticipated gentleness.

“I need you to do this for me, Nicole. Without those tools, we can't get to him.”

“I understand.”
Help me, Father. I'm drowning in possibilities. Horrible, gut-wrenching possibilities.

“Good.” With a firm nod, he assisted her to the corner of the building before turning back.

Her boots squelched in the mud as she made her way through the driving rain to the livery. The clouds had stalled over Main Street. Thunder rolled through the town, sounding like boulders crashing into one another. Beyond the sound, she heard the faint calls of men sprinting to the mercantile.

The balding, built-like-an-ox blacksmith must've heard the news, for he was dumping tools into a wheelbarrow when she stumbled inside. Smells of horse and damp hay washed over her.

“Mr. Latham.”

He didn't spare her a glance. “Give me five minutes.”

Five minutes didn't sound like much in the grand scheme of things. But for Quinn, who was somewhere in that broken-down wreck of a store, five minutes could mean the difference between life and death.