Spirit of the Wolf (20 page)

Why, Bess even went so far as to pull her latest knitting project from her sewing bag. But nothing, it seemed, not chanting
knit one, pearl two
or
the quiet
click
of her knitting needles, or the whisper of yarn sliding past the wooden handles of her creweled cloth bag could distract her from thoughts of that kiss
.

"Penny for your thoughts," said a deep voice.

When had she closed her eyes? Bess wondered, snapping them open. Casting a quick glance at her seat mate, she blinked and licked her lips. What if her thoughts had been visible on her unguarded face!

"And how far will this rattling machine take you today, lovely lady?" the dapper gent asked, standing.

She didn't trust her voice, and cleared her throat before answering. "Philadelphia."

He moved to the seat directly across from her, then deposited his black Derby in the space he'd vacated. "Do you have family there?"

Bess stuffed her knitting back into the bag, reluctantly wrenching her mind from thoughts of
Chance
. "Everyone who's important to me is in Maryland," she admitted as
Chance
's face appeared in her mind's eye.

Nodding, her new companion leaned into the space that separated them. "Name's Steele," he said, extending his hand. "Billy Steele."

Gracefully, she placed her hand in his open palm. Under other circumstances, she might have said 'Pleased to make your acquaintance, I'm sure. My name is Bess.' But she was a woman traveling alone.... "
B
ess,"
she said, and that was
all she intended to volunteer.

"Just plain Bess?'" His left brow rose, and when he smiled, his
thin black
mustache
stretched wider above
his upper lip.

At the man's unintended reminder of
Chance
, Bess sighed.
Already
she missed him! But thoughts of him hadn't distracted her enough to throw
all
caution to the wind. Though handsome and well-mannered, Billy Steele was a complete stranger. Etiquette required nothing more of her than a courteous nod.

"Smart girl," Billy said, winking one green eye. "Keep your cards close to your vest. Never offer anybody anything they don't need
, and you’ll stay safe
." With that, he released her hand and nodded at the book beside her. "What's that you're reading?"

Bess glanced at her copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. She'd bought the Jane Austen novel to read during this trip, and followed the characters
—Mr.
Collins and Lady Catherine, Elizabeth and Jane, Cassandra, and that fearful cad, Darcy
—and
found herself eagerly turning
each page t
o find out what might happen on the next. When nothing did, she wasn't disappointed. At least, not at first. Rather, she hurried to the bottom of the next page, in the hopes that something extraordinary might happen
there.

"What's it about?"

She could have told Billy that mostly, it was about the ugly arrogance that goes hand-in-hand when rank gives its possessors a sense of superiority over the less fortunate. It's a romance, she might have said. But the important part of the book, in essence, she believed, was the destructive tendencies of self-importance. 'Station', life had taught her, was nothing more than an accident of birth; to think oneself better than others simply because of the whims of the gods, as some of the story's characters believed, was absolutely ludicrous. She preferred, instead, to remember the book's satisfying ending, and wondered again, as she had wh
ile reading,
if she and
Chance
might someday end up happily married.

She answered Billy Steele's question in as straightforward a manner as possible. "I suppose I'd have to say the book is about life."

Grinning mischievously, Billy chuckled. "Deep subject."

"Very," she agreed, grinning right back.

He reached for his watch and palmed the timepiece, popped open its gleaming gold lid
and glanced at its pearlescent face before quickly snapping it shut and repocket
ed
it. Billy nodded toward her now-closed sewing bag. "I realize you've packed plenty to eat during your trip, but I hate to eat alone." Standing again, Billy offered Bess his arm. "Won't you join me for lunch? It's half past noon, and I'm famished!" With his free hand, he patted his slightly
rounded tummy
.

Bess gave the sewing bag, where she'd stored cookies and apples and sandwiches and water, a cursory glance, marveling that he'd seen so much, despite the fact that he'd had but a moment, at best, to view its contents. Smiling up at him, she said, "I'll join you if, while we eat, you'll tell me all about your exciting life as a detective."

Billy's brow crinkled. "Ah," he said around a smirk
of comprehension,
"I apologize, Miss Bess."

Smiling, Bess stood, too. "Whatever for?"

"For underestimating your intuitive powers." Again he offered his arm.

Bess linked hers through it. "Intuition had nothing to do with it. Deductive reasoning is far more dependable than intuition will ever be."

"What gave me away?" he asked, leading her down the narrow aisle. "Give me a hint, at least...."

Giggling, she emphasizing the last word: "The cat, as they say, Mr. Steele, is out of the
bag.
"

His merry laughter echoed in the tiny hallway that connected the cars. "I suppose it is, Just Plain Bess." He held open the door of the dining car. As she passed through the opening, he asked, "Now, how do I get you to call me Just Plain Billy?"

Lunch would be many things, but boring would not be one of them.

Bess wondered halfway through the meal whether, if she'd known in advance that she'd spend the entire hour talking about
Chance
, would she still have agreed to dine with her dapper seatmate?

Yes,
she thought, smiling,
I would.

***

The farm consisted of nearly five hundred acres. Oaks, maples, and pines, Micah's ever-ready lumber supply, flanked Foggy Bottom on the north and the south. In the valley between its densely forested borders, on grassy hills that rippled and crested like a verdant sea, Black Angus and Herefords grazed contentedly.

The grand plantation, split down the middle by Beckleysville Road, stretched in all directions as far and as wide as the eye could see. It was a big spread to manage, and not an hour of daylight passed without something--a stray animal, a sagging fencepost, a fallen tree--demanding
Chance
's attention. With all that to occupy his mind and body, he wondered why couldn't he get involved enough in any project to distract him from memories of Bess.

He'd deliberately put himself as far from the stone house as possible on the morning she'd left for her trip to Philadelphia. What would the men have said if they'd seen him 'aw shucks-ing' like some addle-brained schoolboy at the prospect of being apart from her for a few days? They'd have badgered him relentlessly, that's what! The moment
Chance
learned when she would depart, he devised a plan to be absent, because he knew full well he couldn't have stood there and watched her ride away from him.

Not after that kiss....

He'd been chomping at the bit to get that close to her since
, well,
since the first moment he'd set eyes on her. He didn't count the night of Matt's operation,
because that
kiss
had been more relief at the success of
her brother's operation. Didn't count the afternoon of her birthday party, either.
He
’d felt protective of her on th
e night of Matt's accident
, and almost brotherly on
her birthday
. But that kiss
in the parlor....

It had been like nothing he'd ever experienced. Bess's sweet lips
woke
a gentle warmth in his heart
as he
r hands,
combing
tenderly through his hair, reminded him how good a simple
, caring
touch could feel
. S
he'd reached a part of him that no woman before her had reached.

He thought
of his
boss
in Kansas,
whose
wife was a renowned and gifted harpist. Several times, when no one was about, he'd pulled at the massive instrument's taut strings, each time wincing, amazed that anything so beautiful could produce a sound so offensive.
It was o
nly when Mrs. Scott strummed and plucked at the oversized lyre did
Chance
understand what Heaven might sound like.

Until Bess, m
an-woman love began and ended with lies:

If he told a woman she was beautiful,
he could have her,
at least for a moment in time. And while she was his, she'd tell him
that
she'd never met a more virile man, because saying so might earn h
er
,
at the very least, dinner in town. It was a hard-edged, no-rules game that boasted no winners.

And yet, without schoolbooks or slate or chalk, Bess taught him that the exact opposite was true. Love was not frightening or threatening. It did not shout its presence
, nor was it
a stalking beast, ready to pounce and steal a man's property...or his freedom. He'd gone through his life believing he neither needed nor wanted love, that he couldn't afford to want it.

But that day in the parlor, when Bess stood in his arms and looked up at him adoringly, and touched him soothingly, and kissed him tenderly, he realized
that
love was a lot like Mrs. Scott and the music she made with her harp: It had simply taken the right woman to make his heart sing.

A crow cawed above, waking him from his daydream
, and
Chance
looked around
him
. He'd started riding north at sunup to check on the men's progress. Somehow, he'd ended up far east of the cornfields.
Doesn't matter if Bess is within arm's reach or hundreds of miles away,
s
he can distract you like no woman ever could.

Chuckling under his breath, he reined in his horse and turned her in the right direction. "I'm trustin
g
you to keep me on the straight and narrow, Mamie," he said, patting the filly's withers.
Chance
stared hard at the horizon.
Concentrate, and maybe you'll get where you want to go, straight-away this time.

Concentrate? How could he concentrate on anything but that kiss!

She'd surprised him that day by slipping into the parlor, quiet as a cat. Either he'd disguised it well, or she'd chosen to overlook the way he lurched at the sudden sight of her. Grinning at the memory, he shook his head.
More'n likely the latter
, he admitted.

She'd looked so elegant, standing between the deep red curtains that festooned the doorway, despite the fact that she'd worn a plain brown dress beneath her ruffled white work apron. Her dark hair, curling around her delicate face like a softly-furred frame, shimmered with gold and red highlights in the sunlight that slanted through the French doors, and her chocolate brown eyes sparkled with girlish innocence.
W
hen he'd backed off to allow himself a glimpse of her beauty, she'd stared up at him, and blinked, willed him near again with nothing more than the silent draw of those long-lashed, inky eyes.

And t
he moment he'd slipped his arms around her, he knew.

Knew that if he
could
settle down, it would be with this petite yet powerful woman.

Life was mean, and so he
’d
lived it that way. Tenderness, compassion...a lot of romantic nonsense, in his opinion.
H
e'd guarded his heart
, b
uilt a sturdy wall to protect himself. If he couldn't accept love, why bother to give it?
Like a puppy to the root, she burrowed under that wall
. H
e laughed softly, shaking his head ruefully.

Yes, life
had been
mean
, but being in this place
changed
his mind
. Changed his belief that
all church-goers were phonies,
that friendship
s were
phonier still. Changed
his notion that he could walk through life untouched by love. Oh, he'd built a wall around his heart, all right, but
clearly
he hadn't built it nearly tall enough or strong enough.

But then, he hadn't counted on meeting Bess....