The Flyer (22 page)

“I wish you the best of luck with that.” She shook her head gently, a rueful smile on her lips.

“You don’t think a woman can be independent of a man?”

“Not at all. It’s just that you’re not in California anymore. Women are like gold in the bush. We don’t stay unclaimed for long. There was a time I thought as you did.”

“But you see, Dale loves you, and you love him. I don’t love anyone, and no one loves me.”

“Posh. You can’t possibly mean no one. What about your parents?”

Helen sighed. “They were rather happy to see their wayward daughter leave the country, I think.”

“Wayward is a matter of opinion, for the most part, isn’t it?”

Emily had a point. But in Helen’s case, events had proven her parents correct, and as much as it galled her to admit it, she’d had no other choice but to leave. Leave, or continue her banishment in embarrassed silence.

“We got a bit carried away. Sorry.”

Dale and Paul sauntered into the parlor, both wearing sheepish grins that would have been more at home on one of Dale’s children than two grown men.

Paul’s cheeks were reddened from too much time in the sun, his ruddy complexion practically glowing. The seriousness of their conversation in the barn was gone, replaced with the happy-go-lucky, vagabondesque quality she’d been attracted to from their first meeting.

Of course, none of that mattered, considering the last of the sunlight had faded more than an hour ago and it was now quite impossible to fly anywhere.

Helen leaned back on the settee beneath the front window, her arms crossed and her eyes trained on Paul. When he finally turned that amazing smile on her, she tried to ignore the persistent flutter somewhere in the region of her heart.

Tried to. And failed.

“Don’t be angry with me, Helen. You work too hard, anyway. Think of this as a forced respite.”

“What if something happens?” she huffed. “What if I’m needed in Port Hedland and I’m not there, hmmm?” She tapped her foot. “What about little Marla?”

“Believe it or not, we got on quite fine before you came to town, and I’m sure that everyone will survive without you for just one night.”

“Paul, don’t scold her. She’s only concerned about her duties.” Emily patted Helen’s knee gently. “Everything will be fine. You’ll spend the night here, and go home first thing in the morning.”

It wasn’t spending the night away from her office that worried her. Her concern had a great deal more to do with spending the night under the same roof as Paul Campbell.

That’s how she’d fallen so ungraciously last year, wasn’t it? A simple, innocent convenience. Spend the night in a strange place, and wake up…

She couldn’t bear to think of it.

She had been a fool, but that was a long time ago. She had grown much since then, and as a grown woman she could certainly protect herself. She would face temptation and be stronger for the winning.

“Thank you, Emily,” she answered with a smile. “I’m feeling a little tired already. Would you mind terribly if I skipped dinner and went to bed early?”

Emily frowned. “Do you feel well?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Only tired.”

“Let me have Candice prepare a room for you, and I’ll be back presently.”

Emily lumbered out of the parlor, catching Dale’s hand and leading him along behind her.

Paul leaned against the wall, crossing his arms casually while he cast a gaze that seemed to see right through her. At least through her outer defenses and directly into her heart. Why did he have to do that? Why did she have to respond?

Why was she so incredibly weak, no matter how had she tried to convince herself otherwise?

“I wonder, what would you do right now if I kissed you?” he asked.

“You promised you would stop this nonsense,” she commented dryly.

“I said I would stop trying to kiss you. I never said I’d stop talking about it.”

“You’ve been drinking,” she mused. “I should have known.”

“A taste or two perhaps, but that has nothing to do with my wanting to kiss you.”

“Then what?”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion, to tell the truth. Perhaps I’m a glutton for punishment,” he quipped, leaning forward slightly to emphasize his point.

“You’re a masochist, I think.” She couldn’t help but smile. No matter how badly she wished she didn’t feel this way, sitting here with him was … nice.

Pleasant.

Was that so horrible?

And he was a man of his word. So long as he kept his promise, remained safely ensconced in his position on the far side of the room, a little simple flirting wouldn’t harm anyone.

“Are you homesick?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Anyone would be. But I have something I think might cheer you up. Doc gave them to me before we left Port Hedland to give to you, but it… slipped my mind before we left.”

He was being polite. Before they’d left, she hadn’t been willing to even speak with him. She’d barely looked at him.

Paul vanished around the corner for a moment, and returned with a small package wrapped in muslin cloth and tied with twine. “I think they might be letters from home.”

She took the package from him and set it on her lap. Just the thought of another letter from Reginald turned her stomach into ashes. She couldn’t even bring herself to meet Paul’s steady, friendly gaze. “Did you look at them?”

“Of course not. What kind of whanker do you take me for?”

“No, I don’t mean that you read the letters.” She forced herself to face him. “I mean, do you know who they’re from?”

“No. I didn’t open the wrapping a bit, of course. They’re yours.”

She nodded. “Thank you. For delivering them.”

Emily appeared on the staircase and waved at Helen. “Your room is ready, Helen.”

“I have to go,” she explained, though she wasn’t certain why.

“Sleep well, love.”

By the time Helen disrobed and climbed between the soft sheets of a high, four-poster bed, she thought her entire body might fail her. Weak joints teamed with a wretched stomach to make her want nothing more than to fall into blissful slumber.

But the letters called to her. What if one of them was from Reginald? There hadn’t been time for a letter to him to travel to San Francisco, not that she had any intention of writing him. Perhaps it was cruel of her, but after their last meeting, when he’d refused to marry her, she owed him nothing—least of all a letter. Even if she had replied to his letter last week, given him a piece of her mind in the form of a verbal kick to his backside, he still would have already posted another letter to her.

If he had.

What if he hadn’t?

She didn’t know which was worse … that he pursue her when she no longer wanted him to, or that he not pursue her at all.

She lifted the letter bundle from the bedside table and pulled on the twine. Anyone watching might have thought she was opening a box with a venomous snake inside.

The first letter was from her schoolmate, Maria Martinez. The next came from another mate of hers from medical school, Brian Parsons. The next four letters all bore the same lethal strokes in the return address, the same name she’d hoped never to see again. Four letters from Reginald, each one posted a day apart.

When Paul opened his eyes, moonlight shifted through the sheer curtains of his borrowed bedroom. The room had once been Joel Winters’ bedroom, but had been given to one of the children. Toys lined one wall, neatly arranged from the tallest to the smallest. Tiny clothing hung on pegs above them. Little strides. Little shirts. Little boots tucked neatly by the door.

The first time he’d ever been in this room, it had looked similar, only the items had belonged Joel. Joel had been a rambunctious boy, always finding something dangerous to do. Dale had saved him more times than either of them could remember.

None of that was important now. Joel had died a hero’s death at the Battle of Beersheba during the Great War. Until the moment when a German bomb had destroyed the medical tent where Joel recovered from his battle wounds, he had lived every moment of his life as fully and frantically as possible. He hadn’t waited for anything. If he wanted something, he earned it. He had been fair and forever looking out for those he loved.

What would he have done if he’d met Helen and determined she suffered the way she did? Would he allow it for even a second? Not Joel. Joel would have had her falling in love with him by now, wooing her into a new life full of laughter and kindness.

That’s what Paul wanted to do. He wanted to see Helen happy, full of the life that simmered just below the surface of her calculating exterior.

Of course, he’d promised to leave off, hadn’t he? At least for a while. If only he could keep that promise. He’d try, of course. He wasn’t a lech. But it wouldn’t be easy.

The front door closed, bringing his attention away from his tired, scattered thoughts. A moment later, another sound drifted through his open window. It sounded like someone was crying.

A woman’s tears. Familiar tears.

He crawled silently from the bed linens and peered out of the window. A few feet away, Helen leaned against a fencepost. Inside the pen, three of Emily’s prized Whalers watched Helen, their expressions confused, as though they weren’t certain what to do with an hysterical female.

He could certainly understand that. He was at a fair loss himself, but he couldn’t let her stand there alone. A voice argued that that was exactly what he should do. He dismissed it, pulling on his strides before heading to the front garden.

She didn’t hear him approach. When he reached her side, he pulled her against his bare chest and stroked her hair. She didn’t resist, thankfully. Maybe she was too weak, or maybe she was only sleepwalking and didn’t even realize it was him. Perhaps she thought he was someone else altogether. Either way, he didn’t argue. He stroked her hair and let her cry.

“Cry away, love. Nobody is going to hurt you here.”

“I don’t believe you,” she replied, her voice caught between sobs. “Don’t you see? That’s the whole problem. I just don’t believe you.”

“I promise. And I am a man of my word. Ask anyone.”

“You won’t mean to, but you will. You won’t be able to help it.” Despite her convictions, she held him tighter, the pain of her sobs ripping through his chest as though they were his own.

“Never, dearest.”

She lifted her face, the moonlight shining on her damp cheeks and swollen eyes while her wet eyelashes spiked. Charming. Slowly, her brow furrowed. “How can you be so sure?”

“I’m a nice guy, or so I’ve been told. I can’t help it.”

Swallowing, she continued to study him. What did she see? Had she been hurt so badly that she couldn’t see past the pain?

“I’m sorry, Paul. I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t care about you. I just … can’t.”

She turned quickly, pulling herself out of his embrace, and ran to the house. Halfway there, she dropped something in the garden. Either she didn’t notice, or she didn’t care. Back inside, she closed the door, taking care not to wake anyone else.

Paul picked up the fallen envelopes. He read the back. Who was Reginald Spalding? Other than a doctor, of course, as his title described. Obviously this was the man she was running from. She cared deeply for him. Or she had, at some point. This was the man who had harmed her.

Fury raged in his gut. He wanted to pound the bastard into the earth for hurting someone as pure and delightful as Helen Stanwood. Of course, could a man be held responsible for idiocy? He must be an idiot, to let something as wonderful as Helen get away.

Hell, she hadn’t even opened the envelopes.