“I know your father owns the distillery, but I’ve never heard anything about your mother.”
Starla fidgeted with the papers on his desk, compulsively straightening them into a flawlessly even stack. “I wouldn’t know what to tell you. She’s been gone since I was five and Tyler was nine.”
That surprised him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know your mother had died.”
She looked up, meeting his regretful stare without a blink. “I don’t know if she has or hasn’t. When I said gone, I meant left. I have no idea what happened to her or where she is.”
He never expected to hear anything like that. He didn’t know what to say to her, but he at least retained the presence of mind to shut his sagging jaw. Five years old. A baby. How could a woman—a mother!—abandon her children at such a tender age? He didn’t ask, but she must have seen the question in his expression. He wasn’t very good at hiding his thoughts.
Starla went on with a casual shrug. “My daddy was too busy building his business to pay us much mind, and we were pretty much left to our own devices with our maid, Tilly, to keep us from running wild. So you see, Lieutenant, what I know of family, I learned peeking through other folks’ doors.”
The want to express his shock and outrage nearly blocked out reason, but somehow he kept from doing the unforgivable and embarrassing her further. Instead, he waved a negligent hand. “I have
enough family for both of us. I believe I mentioned my six older sisters, all but one married, supplying me with a crop of nieces and nephews. When we get together, you can’t take a step without tripping over someone.”
He might have imagined her delicate shudder.
“Is your father a banker, too?” She almost sounded interested. That was a start.
“No. He builds furniture. He was disappointed that I didn’t choose to carry on the family business, and they’d about given up hope of me ever carrying on the family name.”
His words came out with a tang of bitterness as unplanned as it was unwise. He scrambled to recover from the blunder of pressing her to provide.
“They’ll be thrilled to learn a new Dodge is on the way.”
Starla went alarmingly still. The hand that wore his ring pressed unbidden to her still flat middle. She spoke in a colorless monotone. “But my child won’t be a Dodge except in name.”
It was his turn to react with a defensive agitation. “Well, that may be the best they’re ever going to get.”
Starla wasn’t sure how to interpret his sudden flash of temper. Was he angry because they were trying to foist an illegitimate baby off as his own? That hurt. She winced for both herself and her unborn child.
Then she considered his words more carefully, and the extent of his annoyance. He attacked his meal with the fierceness of one devouring an enemy.
She knew little of his injury beyond the fact that it had lamed him. Was the damage more severe than she’d been told? Did he fear or did he know for sure that he couldn’t father any offspring of his own?
Was he too ashamed to admit to what most would consider a tragedy, but which to her would be seen as a blessed relief?
Was that why he’d been so eager to wed her by making such bold promises?
Like a brother
… was that all he could be?
She had no idea how to ask, and then no opportunity as a care-worn woman peered into the bank. Dodge immediately became all charming and businesslike.
“Afternoon, ma’am. Can I help you with something?”
The woman looked behind her furtively, then stepped inside. “My name is Wheeler.”
Dodge cleared his desk of his remaining dinner, making no complaint about not finishing. “Mrs. Cameron Wheeler? You own that plot out by the river.”
Encouraged that he knew who she was, Ella Wheeler came closer. Her anxiety rolled off her in palpable waves. “My Cam, he don’t know I come here. But I gots to talk to you, Mr.—?”
“Dodge. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wheeler. This is my wife, Starla—”
“Fairfax?” Ella’s eyes widened. But her troubles were obviously too great to take second place to speculation. “Mr. Dodge, I gots five little ‘uns at home and the bank’s about to take everything
we own. I don’t know what else we can do.”
A handkerchief was passed from banker to weeping woman.
“Mrs. Wheeler, please sit down.” Dodge glanced at the file on his desk, then up at Starla. “Mrs. Wheeler and I need to have a talk. Would you mind leaving us alone for a minute?”
Starla felt an instant of rebuff, then swooped down to gather the remnants of the meal she’d provided. Dodge continued as if she’d already gone.
“Mrs. Wheeler, you grow vegetables, am I right? Well, ma’am, I’m not much of a vegetable fancier. They’re all right in stews and such, but I don’t know what I’d do with acres of them. I’d have to pay someone to pick and sell them or take the time to plow the crops under and turn them to something I’d use. Ma’am, I just don’t have time for such things right now. You’d be doing me a big favor by keeping your farm and working it so I don’t have to deal with it.”
Ella Wheeler blinked swollen eyes at him, the first vestiges of hope beginning to glow there. “But we can’t pay the note and the taxes are coming due—”
Dodge smiled, the gesture radiating enough warmth to nurture the Wheelers’ crops and the wan woman’s dreams. “What if the bank was to extend your note and cover the taxes for now, just for now, until you can sell your produce and take care of your family’s needs?”
Ella drew a shaky breath, but her optimism dampened. “My Cam, he be a proud man. He
won’t take no charity. Not from no Yan—” She broke off, flushing slightly.
“Good. Then I know he’ll work hard to pay me back. How old are your children, Mrs. Wheeler?”
Taken off guard by his interest, Ella brightened. “They run seven to seven months, Mr. Dodge.”
“Quite a spread. I’ve got a passel of nieces and nephews that age. Hell to keep up with, begging your pardon for being blunt, ma’am.”
But Ella beamed. And Starla marveled at the connection her husband had made so smoothly to the worried farm wife. He’d managed to anchor the poor woman’s spinning world with a tether of trust. He looked up, catching her puzzled scrutiny.
“Starla, is there any lemonade left?”
At his gentle prompting, she slipped into the role of gracious hostess. “Why, I do believe so. Mrs. Wheeler, might you like a glass on this positively steamy day before you get down to dry ol’ business talk with my husband?”
The woman looked startled by the offer of hospitality from someone of Starla Fairfax’s status, then pleased.
“Why, yes, thank you, Mrs. Dodge.”
Starla poured, aware of her husband’s gaze lingering on her face with a distracting intensity. When she spared him a quick glance, he winked, causing her to come close to spilling the drink on his customer.
“Here you go, Mrs. Wheeler. I’ll let you two get on with your business. Perhaps we can chat later, Ella.”
Starla’s use of her first name flustered the weary
farm wife to speechlessness. Her charm seemed to have a similar effect on Dodge, at least until Starla left the room.
“Your wife is very kind, Mr. Dodge,” Starla heard the woman say. Then came his soft, gratifying claim.
“Yes, ma’am, that she is. I am a fortunate man.”
Starla found herself frowning, wondering what else Hamilton Dodge was … the soul of sincerity, or a clever businessman bending emotion to his advantage?
Though she thought it would be easy to be unaffected by her new husband, Starla found herself reluctantly intrigued by Dodge. Quite a feat for a woman used to being charmed by the most wealthy planters in the land. Annoying to a woman set on keeping her distance from the man she’d married.
As the days passed, Dodge and Starla fell into a comfortable routine, living under the same roof more like brother and sister than husband and wife. Dodge was gone by the time she awoke, leaving her to the private indignities of morning sickness. By noon, when she could finally move about without groaning, Starla would stop at Sadie’s, then deliver the meal to the bank, where Dodge, always appreciative, never let on that he knew where the food had come from.
She learned about him by watching him work. She admired his directness and his intelligence. But what truly amazed her was the kindness that seemed to motivate him to help the people of Pride, especially those families like the Wheelers from
whom he had nothing to gain. She didn’t understand, and her curiosity drew her closer. Was it to be believed?
Banker and Yankee—two of the most hated words in her father’s lexicon. Put together, they should have spelled out a notorious evil, but she saw nothing but goodness in Hamilton Dodge. His wasn’t the ingratiating charity meant to earn a greater reward at a later date. There were no strings on his generosity. Having known only the ruthless side of business, she was at a loss watching her husband struggle to win over the citizens of Pride.
Another mystery was his patience with her and her secrets. Though scrupulously open about his own family, he asked no questions about hers. Nor did he pry into that part of her past that sent her home in disgrace, unwed and with child. She wondered over the man she’d married. Was it consideration or disinterest on his part?
He kept his word about not pressuring her into the intimacy he was entitled to by virtue of their marriage. She continued to be wary, but he gave her no reason. Since his attempt to kiss her before the judge, he hadn’t touched her. Because of his restraint of will, or due to the difficulties of his recovery?
Of all the things he was candid about, his injury wasn’t one of them. How badly had he been hurt? How badly was he hurting still? He refused help, no matter how much more difficult it made his tasks. No limitations stopped him, even if it meant a discomfort he never disclosed. She couldn’t feel sorry for someone so determined to be independent,
not that he would accept her sympathy any better than he would welcome her aid.
Helplessness and ignorance nettled him. She couldn’t make him angry by scorching his shirts or shying away from his proximity, but his inability to do something or to make another understand his intentions provoked him into dark humors better left undisturbed. As Patrice had said, he was a good man but not a saint.
Her husband
. A title as empty as it was uninvolving. After two weeks, Starla was chomping with boredom. Patrice was wrapped up in her new role as wife, and the still recovering economy of the town allowed for no frivolous entertainments. True to his word, Tyler stayed away, refusing her his company.
As her brother had warned, it wasn’t long before Starla noticed a shift in her social standing, now that she was the wife of the town’s Northern banker. Neighbors who’d always shown her an exaggerated deference before the war now snubbed her on the street. Refusing to look ashamed or to be ignored, she made a point of strolling with the same nose-in-the-air pride, speaking to those she encountered in a loud voice until they acknowledged her. Having to push herself in the face of their rudeness wounded, then angered her.
Time to change things.
She was up early, for once untroubled by the nagging nausea. The thought of spending the morning cooped up in the little house provoked her as she listened to Dodge readying to go to work, abandoning her to the monotony of her days. What did
he do when he was not maintaining the charade of married life with her? Impulsively she dressed and raced down the stairs, slowing as he turned from the front door to regard her in surprise.
“Well, good morning. Come to see me off?”
His pleasant expression rubbed her the wrong way, making her tone clipped. “I thought I’d go in and have breakfast, if you don’t mind the company.”
“Fine by me.”
An overwhelming lack of enthusiasm.
Most men would have been reduced to humble gratitude just by the granting of her presence. But Dodge wasn’t most men. How that rankled her on this particular morning.
Unperturbed by her peevishness, he held the door open wide, letting her sweep through it ahead of him. Just as she did into Sadie’s, when they arrived there. Only to be jerked up to a stop at the sound of Delyce Dermont’s voice.
“Good morning, Mr. Dodge. Your table is ready for you. Did you want your usual?”
Starla turned in surprise. Although Delyce was the sister of the terrorizing Dermont brothers, she was a girl who wouldn’t normally say boo to a ghost. But for Starla’s husband she had a sweet smile and rosy cheeks. And Starla was beside herself with a flutter of foreign emotion as Dodge grinned back, all sunny, warm, and teasing.
“Thank you, Delyce. You spoil me shamelessly. My mouth’s been watering for a taste of your biscuits. Set an extra place this morning. My wife is joining me.”
Delyce shot a startled look at Starla, and her meek manner returned. “I’m sorry, Miz Fairfax—Mrs. Dodge. I didn’t see you there.”
No wonder, Starla thought crossly. The twit was too busy fawning over a married man.
Her
man, in name, if not by any other claim. Starla bared her teeth in a smile no woman could fail to mistake as territorial.
“Why, that’s all right, Delyce. It’s just good to know that my husband’s been in such solicitous hands. I’ll have a cup of tea and some biscuits, lightly buttered.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the young woman muttered, before scurrying off to the kitchen.
Starla glared at a clueless Dodge, then swept to the delegated table. She didn’t see her husband’s bemused smile, for he was quite sober of expression when he joined her. She met his innocent stare with one sharp enough to cleave stone.
“My mouth’s been watering for a taste of your biscuits,”
she mocked with a fairly good imitation of his clipped Northern syllables. “Think you ought to slather on a little more butter, there, honey? One might get the idea that you’re eager for more than a taste.”
Unwisely, Dodge grinned at her. “Why, darlin’,” he drawled in a thick Kentucky accent, “are you accusin’ me o’ somethin’? If you are, speak it plain.”
Starla’s glare shot sparks. “Why are you being so
nice
to her?”