Tomorrow's Garden (22 page)

“Good afternoon, Harriet,” Lawrence said as he walked through the cloakroom. The best approach, he had decided, was to pretend this was a normal visit, that their last encounter had not occurred.

She rose. Though her lips pursed in disapproval, it was her eyes that caught his attention. Even the glint of light on her spectacles could not disguise the fear. Was this why she had shunned him? But why would she be afraid of him?

“I didn’t expect to see you. I thought I made myself clear that night.”

So much for pretense. It appeared that Harriet had not changed her mind or even softened her attitude. The only good thing Lawrence could say was that she was talking to him. Gentleness wasn’t working; he’d have to take a different approach.

“I beg to differ,” Lawrence said, his voice as firm as if he were dealing with a hardened criminal. “You might have thought you were clear, but I’m confused.”

She stopped a foot away from him, her gray eyes cold as she said, “How could you misunderstand something as simple as ‘never’?”

This was definitely not going the way he had hoped. Perhaps he should have started by offering her the candy. It was too late for that now. Harriet would see the gift for what it was, a ploy to sweeten her disposition.

“I understood the word,” he admitted, “but I hoped you didn’t mean it.”

“I did.” Her expression changed, fear once again replacing anger. What was it she feared? But when she spoke, Harriet’s words were defiant. “I choose not to associate with drunkards.”

Not for the first time, Lawrence wished he’d asked Jake about his sister. He had considered doing exactly that but had hesitated because Jake was his employee, albeit not of his own volition. Somehow, it seemed wrong to presume on that relationship and pump him about Harriet. “That seems reasonable enough,” he said, keeping his voice lower than normal. Who would have thought that his years with the Rangers would help him today? One of the things he’d learned was that a calm, almost soft voice could defuse an angry situation. “I would prefer not to associate with drunkards, either. However, I am not a drunkard.”

Harriet drew herself up to her full height and glared at him. “How can you deny it? I smelled the whiskey on you.”

He nodded. There was no point in disputing something she knew to be the truth. Still, he wanted to be certain she understood the situation. “One drink does not make a man a drunkard.”

“But one drink leads to another.”

“Not always.” He watched her closely. It hadn’t been his imagination. Harriet was fearful. Though she tried to hide it, the very subject of whiskey made her tremble. Lawrence felt a sense of kinship, for he was no stranger to fear. The way his heart raced each time he crossed a river was proof of that. He softened his voice again as he asked, “Why are you so angry with me?”

Harriet turned and walked toward the window. The tilt of her head and the slight slump of her shoulders told him she was debating whether or not to answer him. He wouldn’t push. With a woman like Harriet, that would accomplish nothing. Nothing positive, that is.

At last, she turned to face him, though she remained at the window. “I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“I can keep secrets,” he said firmly. “Whatever it is, I want to understand. I want to be your friend.” The truth was, there were times when he thought he wanted more than that. Friendship was a way to start, and if it led to courtship . . . well, that wasn’t bad, was it?

Harriet nodded slowly. “All right, but you must promise never to tell anyone—not even Sterling.”

When he agreed, she made her way to her desk and sank onto the chair, gesturing to Lawrence to take a seat. It was only when he was settled on the dunce stool that she spoke again.

“My father was a drunkard.” Though the words were shocking, she pronounced them as if she were reciting nothing more important than a multiplication table. “I don’t know when it started, but I can’t ever remember him not drinking, and it got worse once Ruth was born. After that, it seemed to me whiskey was all he cared about. Mother couldn’t stop him, so she spent her days either sleeping or staring into the distance.” Harriet’s eyes darkened, giving Lawrence an idea of the effort it took to reveal her past to anyone. “I learned early on to take care of myself. I remember going to church one Sunday. I was so proud that I had dressed myself that I didn’t visit my grandparents that morning, and so I hadn’t realized that my shoes didn’t match. The other children laughed at me. Even the parents gave me pitying looks.” She gazed toward the window, obviously composing herself. “I didn’t go back until my grandmother taught me to match shoes and comb my hair.”

Lawrence’s heart went out to the little girl who’d had such a difficult childhood. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and assure her that no one would ever again hurt her, but he couldn’t make that assurance. No one could. Instead, he sat quietly, watching as this brave woman opened the deepest recesses of her heart.

“Things worsened when Ruth was born. If it hadn’t been for my grandparents, I don’t know what we would have done. They watched over us at first, but Grandma died when I was eleven. After that, there wasn’t much Grandpa could do. By the time Sam arrived, I was used to being in charge.”

So much was becoming clear. That was what Jake had meant when he’d said Harriet had acted like his mother even before their parents died. Though she had not borne the children, it appeared that she had had almost total responsibility for them. Poor Harriet!

“I’m sorry.” The words were inadequate. How could mere words express the feelings that surged through him? This wonderful, prickly woman’s story threatened to bring tears to his eyes. But Lawrence did not cry. Not ever. Not since the day Lizbeth had drowned.

“It can’t have been easy,” he said. Harriet had been a child raising children. When had she had a chance to be a youngster herself? The answer, Lawrence suspected, was never.

“It wasn’t easy for anyone,” she said quietly, “but it was worse when our parents died. Whiskey killed them.” Again, her words were matter-of-fact, giving no hint of the emotions that must have accompanied the events she was describing. Was this how she dealt with the past, by insulating herself from it?

“What happened?”

“You know they died in a fire. What I didn’t tell you is that Father caused it. We’ll never know how it started, but it seems he was so drunk he didn’t notice the house was on fire, and Mother must have been asleep. When I brought the others home from school, there was nothing left but charred ruins and . . .”

The way her voice trailed off told Lawrence she had found not just charred wood but her parents’ bodies.

“Oh, Harriet.” It was no wonder that she feared both fire and drunkenness. She had a good reason. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say.” She removed her spectacles and began to polish them.

Without the spectacles, Harriet looked younger, more vulnerable, reminding Lawrence of the child she had once been. It was then that he remembered the candy. Lawrence pulled the bag from his pocket and handed it to her. “I brought this for you.”

For a moment the only sound was the loud ticking of the clock on the back wall. Harriet stared at the bag, as if trying to decide whether or not to accept it. When she did, Lawrence exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Her lips quirked into a wry smile as she opened the bag and recognized its contents. “Were you hoping to sweeten my disposition?”

Though that was the intent, he wouldn’t have phrased it that way. “It was meant to be a peace offering.”

“Thank you.” Harriet waved the bag under her nose, sniffing deeply. “Lemon drops are my favorite.” Holding out the bag, she offered him one. When he refused, she popped one into her mouth. “Delicious,” she murmured.

“I’m glad you like them.” It had been a lucky choice. Lawrence watched her enjoying the tart candy. “What would happen if you ate them all this afternoon?” he asked as casually as he could.

Harriet gave him a wry smile. “I’d have one very sore stomach.”

He nodded. “Would you blame the candy?”

“Of course not!” Her tone left no doubt that she considered the question preposterous. “It would be my fault. I should know better than to eat a whole bag of sweets.”

For the first time since he’d arrived, the conversation was going the way Lawrence had hoped. “I agree. You should know not to eat too much candy, and a man should know not to drink a whole bottle of whiskey.”

Harriet’s face paled and she jumped to her feet, her eyes once again flashing with anger. “You’re wrong, Lawrence. It’s different. Eating too much candy would hurt only me, but whiskey harms others. Look what it did to my family. Father’s drinking killed him and Mother, and . . .”

Though she didn’t complete the sentence, Lawrence knew she was thinking of the terrible toll it had taken on her and her siblings. Because her father had been unable to control himself, Harriet’s childhood had been almost unbearably difficult, forcing her to adopt an adult’s role when she was still a youngster.

“I learned the lesson very early,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion, “and it’s one I’ll never forget. That’s why I cannot trust anyone who drinks.”

Lawrence thought of the men who spent each evening in the saloon. Though few left as inebriated as Harriet’s father apparently had been, more than one lurched as he made his way out the door. Who knew what happened when the men reached their homes or what effect their time away and the money they spent at the saloon had on their families? Lawrence had enjoyed the taste of whiskey, and he’d only once lost control and drunk too much. Until today he had seen no wrong in what he’d done. But now . . .

“You’re right.” He stood at Harriet’s side, not daring to touch her but wanting her to know he understood. “I cannot promise that I won’t go into the saloon again. That’s part of my responsibilities as sheriff. But I can promise you that I won’t take another drink.”

She was lying. Thomas had played poker long enough to know when someone was lying, and Harriet was most definitely a liar. She had money. Of course she did. It had to be stashed somewhere in her house, that funny-looking building only a block or so away from the school. Sure as frost in December, that’s where it was. The only problem was, he’d have to wait another day. By the time Miss High and Mighty Harriet threw him out of the school, the other children were back home. Thomas grinned at the thought of the Kirk fortune. Harriet was right. He didn’t need her. Once he had the money, he’d be on easy street. No debts, no wife to tie him down, nothing but piles of silver and gold. He’d have the life he had always wanted, compliments of Harriet.

Harriet stared out the window. Though there was only a light breeze at ground level, the clouds were scudding across the sky as if propelled by a fierce wind, playing peekaboo with the stars and the tiny sliver of a moon. It was a night meant for a stroll, but even the brisk walk she’d taken had not corralled her thoughts. They continued to whirl, a maelstrom of images that chased away any hope of sleep. Thomas and Lawrence. Lawrence and Thomas. Anger and hope. Fear and friendship. It had been the most tumultuous afternoon she could recall.

Seeing Thomas had disturbed her more than she wanted to admit, leaving her shaky and fearful. When he’d courted her in Fortune, he’d been charming, the perfect gentleman until the day she’d confronted him with the words she’d overheard. Even then, though angry and belligerent, he hadn’t frightened her. Today Thomas’s eyes reflected desperation, and desperate men were dangerous. Harriet knew that from the tales Lawrence had told of his life as a Ranger. She could only hope that Thomas finally realized that she was not an heiress and that she had no intention of returning to Fortune and marrying him.

Lawrence was different. Harriet smiled, thinking of the lemon drops he’d given her. They were as sour as her mood had been when he’d arrived. She hadn’t wanted to see him, hadn’t wanted to talk to him, and she certainly hadn’t intended to tell him about Mother and Father. Harriet didn’t want anyone in Ladreville to know what had happened. Ruth knew better than to speak of their father’s drinking, and Jake had only the faintest memories, while the others had been too young to recall their father’s drunken state. Harriet gripped the windowsill, reflecting that, thanks to her, the secret was a secret no more. And yet she could not regret telling Lawrence. There had been something truly cathartic about sharing the worst part of her life with someone who cared. For he did care. She had read that in his eyes. He cared enough about her feelings that he had agreed not to drink again.