His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) (10 page)

She rose and took his hand, led him to one side of the double doors. “You stand here until I see if everything is all right.” She lifted the latch, opened one of the doors a crack, peered inside then pushed the door wide. Sunlight streaked across a plank floor littered with what she fervently hoped was dirt and bits of hay. Her heart sank. Jonathan had only one outfit to wear. The rest of his clothes Mr. Thornberg had taken to the laundry. She would have to keep his exploration short.

“Come along.” He ran to her. She took his small hand in hers and stepped inside. Though it bore the stale odor of horse and hay, the stall was empty, as she suspected. “Oh, look, Jonathan! A carriage.”

“Me drive it!” He tugged free of her grasp, ran to the open two-seat buggy standing with the shafts resting on upended chunks of log and pulled at the iron step.

“Wait, Jonathan! Don’t pull on it.” She rushed over and scooped him into her arms. “Let me help you.” She scanned the front seat for telltale droppings or rips and tears that could provide a home for a mouse. It looked safe enough—only dusty. She balanced Jonathan on her hip, grabbed a rag hanging over the stall wall and wiped the leather clean. “Now you may drive the buggy.” She smiled and lifted him to the seat. “Where are you going, sir?”

He scowled down at her. “Me not sir. Me Jonathan.”

She looked at his serious little face and her throat tightened. “So you are. Where are you going,
Jonathan
?”

A smile curved his mouth, deepened the dimple at its edge. “Me go get brover.”

The words struck straight at her heart. She watched the toddler, his black curls bobbing as he bounced on the seat laughing and calling to a pretend horse, and fear for him rose in a choking wave. He was all alone. He had no mother to protect him as she’d had.
Don’t let Mr. Thornberg hurt him, Lord. He’s only a baby and men are cruel. Please don’t let Mr. Thornberg hurt him.

Her face tightened. Begging God had never stopped her father from striking her. It had not protected her mother from her father’s cruelty. But even though she didn’t believe it would do any good, she couldn’t stop the prayer.

* * *

Charles finished the sentence, tapped the period key and rolled the cylinder to free the paper. A quick glance showed abundant mistakes. More than before. He wadded the paper, threw it in his wastebasket with the others and shoved to his feet. Using the typewriter was harder than it ought to be. Especially when he couldn’t concentrate.

He could
feel
her absence. Odd how quickly Clarice Gordon had become a part of the editorial room. Though why that should be, he couldn’t say. She just read and sorted the CLSC letters until it was time for her to go home and eat her dinner with her mother—then she returned and did the same. She’d even demanded he bring those letters to his house for her to work on. A real
career
woman. How did she expect to care for Jonathan and do the work required to answer those letters, too? At least he’d been able to take the care of her crippled mother off her for the week.

That
had been a surprise. When Miss Gordon had told him her mother was bedridden, he’d assumed it was a temporary condition due to illness. It had brought him up short to see the frail-looking woman propped up in bed with Miss Gordon’s writing case resting on the quilt spread over her outstretched legs. And they’d never moved a bit...not even a twitch while he’d talked to her. It was sad. Yet she was a charming, intelligent woman. Caring, too. It had shown in her eyes when he’d explained about Jonathan. And she’d been quick to say she would be fine, that her daughter should care for his brother. A pity Clarice didn’t share her compassion.

He shoved the fingers of his free hand through his hair and walked toward the back of the room. He’d put her desk there where she wouldn’t disturb him or Boyd. He gave a disgusted snort. That had worked well—he couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was probably because she was at his home caring for his brother. Yes, that was it. Her absence was disturbing because he knew she was with Jonathan.

He checked the clock on the wall. It was almost time for dinner. Now he’d be able to see how Jonathan was doing under the cool and prickly Miss “Career Woman” Gordon’s care. Though to be fair, the woman seemed to know what to do to care for a young child. It was her help that had gotten him through last night. And she knew how to cook. An image of her standing at the stove wearing pink cheeks and Mrs. Hotchkiss’s too-large apron over her brown dress flashed into his head. She’d looked—

No, looks could be deceiving. Miss Gordon was a career woman through and through.

Dictionary...thesaurus...lexicon... He put the reference books she might need in the bottom of the bag then carefully placed the first stack of letters on top. A Bible? No. He had two of them at the house, and Mrs. Gordon had one. He’d seen it on the table by her bed. A concordance? She might not have one of those. He laid the heavy book atop the letters, twisted the bag down snug to hold everything in place and headed for the stairs.

Chapter Seven

A
faint smell teased his nose. Charles closed the door and walked to the staircase, set the bag down and headed for the murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. The smell grew stronger. He sniffed. Beef...and something else... He sniffed again. Biscuits?
His stomach welcomed the idea with a quiet rumble.

“Him am green.”

Jonathan’s voice stopped him in his tracks. He sounded different...contented.

“That’s right. And do you remember what color this one is?”

And the prickly Miss Gordon sounded different, too. He could hear a smile, a softness in her voice.

“Him am red.”

“Yes!
Very
good, Jonathan. Be careful...”

Be careful?
What was he doing? He hurried down the short hallway and edged up to the door, halted at the sight before him. Jonathan, his little brow furrowed in concentration, was kneeling on the braided rug in front of the step-back cupboard placing a toy building block atop a short, unsteady tower of them. Clarice Gordon was kneeling in front of him in a puff of her long skirts with one hand poised to help and a soft smile curving her lips. The tension that had been building all morning eased. The emergency plan for Jonathan’s care he’d put in place was working out, even if Miss Gordon
was
a reluctant participant. He rolled his shoulders and exhaled a long breath. He could stop worrying.

“And this one?”

Jonathan reached over his shaky tower for the one Miss Gordon held. “Him am yellow.”

“That’s
right
.”

Pride surged. Charles grinned and stepped into the room. “It looks like someone is learning his colors. Good work, Skipper.”

“Brover!” Jonathan beamed up at him. “Me gots blocks.”

“I see that. Why don’t I show you how to build them up high?” He moved to stand beside him.

“Excuse me. I think the biscuits are done.” Clarice Gordon gathered her skirts to rise.

A perceptive woman.
He smiled his gratitude to her for removing herself so he could spend time with Jonathan and offered her his hand. She froze, stared at it. Had he gotten ink from the typewriter ribbon on it? He looked down to check.

She drew an audible breath, placed her hand in his and rose. “Thank you.” She slipped her hand from his and hurried to the stove.

He curled his fingers over his palm then opened them again.

“Him fall down!”

He shoved away thoughts of the warm softness of Miss Gordon’s hand and glanced down. Jonathan was staring at his toppled tower, his little lower lip quivering. The sight of it wrenched his heart. He squatted and touched his small shoulder. “Don’t cry, Skipper. I’ll show you how to stack the bricks so they won’t wobble and fall.” His brother’s brow furrowed.

“What wobble?”

“This.” He jumped to rigid attention, then rolled his feet, bent his knees and shook his legs, swaying from side to side.

Jonathan giggled and scrambled to his feet. “Me do it!” He bent his dimpled knees and wiggled his chunky little legs, lost his balance and plopped down on the rug, giggling. “Me fall like blocks.”

“Just so.” He dropped to his knees and tickled him. Jonathan squealed and curled into a giggling ball. “Oh, no you don’t!” He laughed and continued the gentle assault, his chest swelling at Jonathan’s giggle.

A spoon clicked against china. He glanced up. Clarice Gordon stood watching them, her expression guarded. But the warmth in her smile took his breath. His gaze met hers and he sank back on his heels, his hands stilled.

“Dinner is ready.” She looked down at the tureen she held and hurried to the table.

Jonathan’s little hand grabbed his and tugged. “You do more.”

Pleasure spurted through him. He grinned and shook his head. “Not now, Skipper. It’s time to eat. We’ll play later.” He grabbed Jonathan beneath his arms, straightened and tossed him into the air, laughed at his squeal, caught him as he fell and did it again then held him close against his chest.

“Me want more! Me want more!”

“Whoa, stop bouncing, Skipper, or we’ll both fall.” He tightened his hold and turned toward the table. There were three place settings, as he’d requested. He eyed a narrow chair with sides and long legs. “I see Jonathan’s chair is here.” He sought Clarice Gordon’s gaze with his, wanting to recapture that earlier moment, to explore what had been in her eyes, but she was moving about.

“Yes. Things have been arriving all morning.” She set a towel-covered bowl on the table, stepped back and glanced his way. “Everything is ready, if you want to settle Jonathan, Mr. Thornberg.”

“Who Fornberg?”

The question sobered him. He glanced at Jonathan, then laughed, settled him in his high chair and slid it up to the table. “Does he miss anything?”

“Not that I’ve found.”

She stepped close, and a hint of lavender rose from her hair. He made a manly effort not to lower his head and breathe in the fragrance.

“Hold still, Jonathan. I’m going to fasten this around your neck to keep your sailor suit clean.” She shook out a towel, tucked it beneath his chin and fastened it at the back with a clothespin.

“Ah!” He snapped his fingers. “That reminds me. I arranged for his laundry to be delivered this afternoon.” He grinned at Jonathan’s efforts to snap his pudgy little fingers, moved over and pulled out her chair. “Given his question, I think it will be less confusing for Jonathan if we use our given names, Miss Gordon. Call me Charles.”

“If you wish.” She looked at his hands on the chair rail, smoothed her skirt and sank onto the chair.

He frowned, made another quick check of his hands, then took his seat at the other end of the table. “Bow your head and fold your hands while I say grace, Skipper.” He demonstrated. Jonathan imitated his movements. “That’s a good boy.” He cleared his throat and closed his eyes. “Heavenly Father, I thank You for this food. Bless it to our use, I pray. Amen.” He glanced over at Clarice and grinned. “I thought it best to keep it simple, or we’d be answering questions instead of eating.”

“I think you’re right.”

Her soft laughter made his gut clench. He removed the lid from the tureen, watched her place before Jonathan a small bowl of stew she had set aside to cool earlier. Clarice Gordon was as efficient here as she was in her work at the newspaper. She seemed to think of everything. “This stew smells delicious. If you will hand me your plate—” He stopped and looked at her. “You didn’t answer me before. Have I your permission to call you Clarice?”

“If it is best for Jonathan.”

Her voice had cooled. A subtle but effective reminder that he was her employer, and she had no choice? He nodded, ladled out the stew, returned her plate and filled his own. The first bite drew his thoughts to his meal.

“Me gots steps.”

“You do?” He stabbed another bite of beef and watched Clarice butter a biscuit, add a bit of apple butter and hand half to Jonathan. The boy took a bite. Apple butter rimmed his little mouth. He glanced at his own heavily endowed biscuit with the missing bite, picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth—just in case.

“Me climbed ’em.”

“Several times.” The smile was back in Clarice’s voice. “And you will climb them again when you are through eating.”

He forked up some turnip and carrot and glanced across the table at her.

“Small children nap after dinner.”

“Ah.” He nodded understanding, took another bite of his biscuit, then speared a piece of potato and dipped it in the gravy pooled on his plate. He followed it with another bite of the tender meat.

“I intend to work on the CLSC letters while he sleeps.” She fastened her gaze on him. “You did bring them home with you?”

So the situation was not as good as he’d hoped. Clarice was caring for Jonathan, but she was still focused on her career. Not that that was surprising. He really hadn’t any right to expect otherwise. “Yes, one pile of them. And some reference books that you might need.”

“That was thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

Now, why had that made her all prickly again? He took the last bite of carrot, stuck a bit of onion on his fork with the last bite of beef and swiped them through his remaining gravy. “The meal was as delicious as it smelled, Clarice. Your mother must be an excellent cook.” He put the last bite in his mouth, then crossed his knife and fork on his plate.

“My mother is crippled.”

Bitterness colored the words. He looked at her taut face, hurried to cover his insensitive blunder. “I didn’t mean now. I meant she must have taught you to cook when you were young.”

She gave a curt nod. “Until I was eleven.”

“Is that when she became disabled?” She looked down, but not before he saw the flash of anger in her eyes.

“No. That is when I...left...home. I learned my skills cooking for my room and board.”

The shock held him mute.

She jerked to her feet. “Jonathan has fallen asleep. If you will excuse me, I will put him down for his nap and then return to serve your dessert.” She untied the towel, slipped it from under Jonathan’s small chin, dipped a corner of it in his water and gently wiped the apple butter from his face. A smile touched her lips, warmed her eyes. The tenderness of it made his heart hurt. She eased the spoon from Jonathan’s pudgy hand then looked over at him. “I’ll be right back. The coffee is hot.”

He shook his head and pushed a whisper from his constricted throat. “I’ll carry him. He’s heavy for you.” He rose and lifted Jonathan into his arms, looked down at the silky black curls, the little arms hanging limp and swallowed hard.
I don’t know how to be a family. What if I fail him? Dear Jesus, please don’t let me fail him.

“I’ll go and turn down his bed.”

Her whisper added to the sweet agony of the moment. He nodded and followed her from the kitchen, holding Jonathan close, listening to the soft puffs of breath that feathered against his neck as they walked to the stairs. “Leave the bag. I’ll get it after I put him in bed.” His whisper carried a command.

She glanced his way then lifted her hems and climbed the stairs.

He followed her neat, trim figure, garbed in the same brown gown she’d been wearing the day he met her, down the hallway and into Jonathan’s room. The new toy chest he’d ordered was a splash of red under the window. The new steps were in place against the bed.

Me climbed ’em.

He looked down at Jonathan and smiled.
Not this time, Skipper. You are sound asleep.

He watched Clarice move, lithe and graceful, to the bed and fold back the coverlet then lift the blankets. The sunlight filtering in through the slatted shutters gleamed on the thick coil of black hair on the back of her head, shadowed her gray eyes and dusted her high cheekbones with gold when she straightened and glanced at him. He blinked, stared. How had he ever thought her plain?

He laid his brother on the bed, stood back and watched her tuck him in. The sight brought a stab of loneliness he hadn’t known was in him.

She looked up, turned and walked from the room. “Where do you wish me to do my work?”

Her factual, businesslike tone brought him back to reality. “In this bedroom.” He stepped across the hallway, pushed open the door and stepped back. “There is a table, small but, I believe, adequate, straight in from the door against the outside wall. You will be able to hear Jonathan from there.”

“I’m certain it will do fine.” She headed for the stairs.

“I’ll get the bag for you.” His long strides overtook her.

“Yes, I know. I’m going down to serve your dessert. I have pudding in the refrigerator.” She gripped the railing and started down the stairs.

“There’s no need. I’ll forego the pudding.” He trotted by her, stopped on the step below and turned to look at her. “I’ve already lingered longer over dinner than I normally do. I wasn’t prepared for—” He stopped, looked into her eyes, now almost on a level with his, and mentally deleted what he’d been about to say. “That is, I haven’t had any family since I was five years old. And Jonathan’s a charmer.” Her eyes widened—an expression he couldn’t identify flickered in their gray depths. He lost his train of thought.

“Yes, he is.”

He dragged his thoughts back from the path they’d started down and cleared his throat. “Well, let me get that bag for you. I have to be getting back to the newspaper. I still have my editorial to write and the final page to compose before tonight’s printing.” He trotted down two steps then turned back. “I meant to tell you I saw the composing work you did on the second page yesterday.”

Oh, no! She had forgotten about that. She stiffened, moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I assure you, I didn’t mean to overstep my place, Mr. Thornberg. I picked up Mr. Boyd’s report that you had dropped and carried it back into the composing room. And I
know
I should have just left it there on the table, but when I saw the space on the paper—” She lifted her hand and smoothed back hair that was already perfectly in place. “It... Well, it tempted me and I gave in. And then the report was too small, and the fillers didn’t work, so I changed the articles around. I meant to put it back as you had it, but then Mr. Warren called me to come to the office and Jonathan was there and—” she gave a tense little shrug “—the rest you know.”

“Well, it was fortuitous for me that you were interrupted.” He smiled to put her at ease. “Not only are you taking excellent care of Jonathan—but your rearrangement of the page worked perfectly. You have an eye for spacing and layout.”

She stared at him, her face a picture of disbelief. And then she smiled.

He almost toppled backward down the stairs.

* * *

“Did you have a nice dinner, Mama?” Clarice pulled the pins from the bun at the back of her mother’s head, tossed them onto the night table and ran her fingers through the dark, gray-streaked strands to loosen them.

“I did. Dora brought her meal and ate with me. She’s really a very nice lady. We’re becoming friends.”

“I’m glad you enjoy her company, Mama. You deserve to have friends. Father chased away any woman you liked because friendship interfered with the farm work he demanded of you!” She snatched up a spoon and whipped baking soda into the pint jar she’d filled with warm water.