Always (27 page)

“Don’t worry,” she said, apparently misinterpreting his quizzical expression to mean that he was sorry she had come. “I know we have problems, but I’m not here about that. I’m here on business. May I come in?”

Business.
Well, naturally
, Ross thought. Why else would the mother of his illegitimate child come by? Business. It was absurd, but he knew better than anyone that Emily had a streak of pride a mile wide. She would get around to the real reason for her visit in her own time. He opened the door wider. “Of course you can come in.”

“Thank you.” She brushed by him, leaving a head-swimming scent of rosewater in her wake.

Ross led her into the parlor, indicating with a nod that she should take a seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”

She perused the small room, taking in the modest but cozy furnishings the Hockstetter family had left behind, including a writing desk, a patchwork haircloth sofa, and a colorful hooked rug that covered most of the hardwood floor. The only items missing to make this a real home were knitted tidies and family portraits.

“No, thank you,” she said, facing him. “I won’t be long.”

Ross took this to mean that she was primed for battle. If so, she was to be disappointed. He wasn’t in the mood to fight with her. “What is it you want, Em?”

“I read your piece on Arnold Gibson.”

When she didn’t continue, he prompted, “And?”

“How could you?” It was an accusation, an accusation that left him at a loss to respond.

“How could I what?”

“How could you write such a thing when you know very well that a woman was injured?”

Ross couldn’t understand her indignation. All he’d done was write up the facts in the police log, then he’d called for a more thorough investigation of the incident. What could she find wrong with that?

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“This!” She shoved the folded newspaper at him. “I always thought I knew you, Ross, but after reading this and talking to Lionell Smith, I don’t know what to think anymore.”

When Ross unfolded the paper, he saw that it was a Sunday edition. The column he’d written should have appeared in Saturday’s paper. Then his eye fell on Gibson’s surname, and he read aloud:

Another Side to that Questionable Affair
. In yesterday’s first edition, we gave what was furnished by police officials as a factual account of an assault committed upon a woman. Since then, City Councilman Floyd Gibson, the father of the man said to have perpetrated the assault, has requested that his son’s side of the story be told. He acknowledges that his son drove a young lady of questionable reputation two miles into the country but denies that he stabbed her. He states that his son put her out of the buggy and left her behind in punishment for insulting him. How are we to decide which statement is truthful? The woman was rescued near the woods with a flesh wound in her side and bruises on her person. Councilman Gibson admits that his son was intoxicated and might have scuffled with her, but it was the lady who became hostile and initiated the unruly proceedings. Any harm that may have been inflicted was done in the name of self-defense. We would not knowingly misrepresent any citizen of this city and thus cheerfully give the councilman and his son the benefit of their version of the matter.

Ross concluded the lengthy account and looked at Emily. “I didn’t write this.”

“What?”

“I did
not
write this.”

“But I spoke with Lionell Smith after church and he said—”

“I did speak with Lionell, but that was on Friday. My article was the original account in Saturday’s edition. I was out of town yesterday, Em. I only got back this afternoon.”

“Well, then, that means—”

“This is someone else’s doing.” Ross folded the paper and set it down on the lamp table. “I’ll find out what happened tomorrow, but I think it’s obvious.”

“What’s obvious?”

“Arnold Gibson’s father has pull in this town.”

 Reading the flare of rebellion in her eyes, he held up a hand before she could voice it. “Those are Lionell’s words, not mine, and it only follows that Floyd Gibson is using his political and financial influence to get this thing buried.”

“That’s not fair! What about the woman’s family? You could go to them, and—”

“No. The woman doesn’t have any family. At least none that will acknowledge her.”

“What do you mean?”

“The woman who was attacked is Stacy Bliss.”

 “Stacy... Bliss?” She appeared to search her memory for the name.

“Maybe you remember her from school,” Ross supplied. “Farm girl? Blond hair? She was in my class.”

Emily nodded then. “Oh, yes. I do remember her. She quit school in the eighth grade.”

“That’s her. Stacy is now a waitress at one of the south side taverns,” he said, wondering if Emily would grasp what that occupation entailed. “Her family disowned her a long time ago.”

Emily’s cheeks suddenly turned pink, which told Ross that she did understand his intimation, but her chin rose a notch out of pure stubbornness. “I see.”

“So, that puts a different light on the subject.”

“It most certainly does not.”

“It does not?”

“That’s right. It doesn’t matter who the victim is. The point here is that a woman was attacked, and it appears that no one is willing to do anything about it.”

He raised a finger. “That’s not necessarily true. With some prodding, we might be able to—”

“That’s my point!” she interrupted, gesturing angrily. “It shouldn’t take any prodding! Women weren’t put on this earth to be well treated or shabbily treated at the discretion of whatever man she happens to be shackled to at the moment. How many women do you know in this community who have to face the backside of their husband’s hand if they dare speak against him? It’s high time judges and juries stopped winking and looking the other way. You can be sure things would be different if women had the vote. In fact—”

“Hold it,” Ross stopped her. “We just jumped from Arnold Gibson and Stacy Bliss to women’s suffrage. One issue at a time, would you, please?”

By now, she’d lost her breath as well as her composure. “It’s all connected, Ross, and you know it! Sometimes I get so mad, I could—”

“But you don’t,” he counseled. “Instead, as a clear-thinking, mature woman, you remain calm and address each case as it comes in as practical a fashion as possible.”

“Practical.” She picked up on his choice of words in a disparaging tone. “One of your favorite words, I’ll bet.”

“You’d win that bet. Now, let me check into this when I get to the office tomorrow. I’ll tell you what I find out. No matter what you might think of me, Em, I’m on your side in this case. I intend to do whatever I can to make sure it gets prosecuted.”

His statement seemed to mollify her. “All right. Uh, fine. That should do for now, but don’t think I won’t see this through. Stacy Bliss may not be a prominent citizen in this town, but that doesn’t mean she deserves to be manhandled by the likes of Arnold Gibson. He’s clearly a menace to women. He should be put behind bars as an example to others like him.”

“I agree.”

“Fine, then, we, um... agree.”

They stood for an awkward moment before Emily reached into a side pocket of her skirt. “I have something for you.”

Before he could ask what it was, he saw greenbacks and frowned. “What’s that?”

“Your money. Well, part of it, anyway. I’ve worked out a payment schedule that should—”

“I don’t want the money.”

“It was a loan.”

“Consider it a gift,” he said impatiently.

“But this is business.”

“Fine, then. If it’s business, then put on your business hat. You can’t afford it right now, can you?”

She hedged. “No, I suppose not, but as I was trying to say, I’ve worked out a payment schedule that I should be able to keep now that I’m working at Karl Becker’s office.”

Ross’s complaisant mood fled. “Karl?” His voice rose to accompany his temper. “You’re working for Karl?”

“Technically I'm working for Mr. Stauffer,” she corrected, not seeming to notice his discontent, “but only until the print shop gets up and going, then—”

“Ah, jeez, Emily!” Ross started pacing the room in frustration. “Karl! Of all people!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Emily planted her hands on her hips. “Why are you still so angry with him? That stupid fight you two had was years ago. I just know that if you made the first move, Karl would swallow his overblown pride and follow suit.”

“I can’t stand him!”

“That’s ridiculous. You used to be the best of friends.”

“But he always annoyed the hell out of me!”

“Only some of the time,” Emily pointed out, “and, besides, he can’t help but be annoying. It’s part of his personality.”

“Personality?” Ross echoed incredulously. He stopped and faced her. “He’s a conceited toad!”

“Yes,” Emily agreed again, “but he means well.”

“He’s self-centered.”

“Yes.”

“And wise-mouthed,” Ross added.

Emily nodded, but her eyes shined with amusement. “Yes.”

“And unconscionable when it comes to pursuing women.”

“Yes. And loyal and intelligent and ambitious and hardworking and charming and witty.”

Ross glared at her, wondering at what point he’d turned into the illogical, mule-headed party in this conversation. “I always hated that the most.”

“Of course you did.” Her lips curved in a knowing smile. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t be friends again.”

Seeing Emily’s heartwarming expression nearly undid him. She looked so pretty when she smiled all for him, but he’d done very little lately to deserve that pleasure. It took a moment for him to tamp down his zigzagging emotions. He had to take a deep, logic-gathering breath before replying. “I’ll think about it.”

Her smile widened, lighting up her face. “I knew you would.”

“Maybe,” he added to keep hold of some remnants of his pride. Pretty? Had he thought pretty? She was beautiful when she smiled. His palms were sweating and his heart was pounding. One little smile and— what was wrong with him?

After a moment, though, her smile faded and she looked down at her hands, one of which still clutched a fistful of greenbacks. “Um, as I was saying . . .”

“I told you, I don’t want it.”

She looked up with a frown. “I don’t care if you don’t want it.” She thrust the money at him. “It’s yours.”

Ross raised his hands. “This is silly.”

“Why? Because you don’t think I can make a go of this business?”

“No,” Ross said, gritting his teeth at her single-mindedness. “This doesn’t have anything to do with business. This is about you and me. Money shouldn’t matter between friends.” He paused at seeing the uncertainty on her face. “Or lovers,” he finished and waited to see what would happen.

The color seemed to drain from her cheeks. It was almost as bad as the first day she’d come back, the day he’d happened upon her peering through the print shop window. But she thankfully remained on her feet this time.

Very slowly, Ross lowered his hands. “We need to talk about what happened that night.”

She shook her head. “It was a mistake.”

At hearing her use the same words he’d used himself, Ross realized how empty they sounded. He reached out to take her by the shoulders. “Maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I never should have thought it, much less said it.”

“But that’s how you felt,” she said. “You can’t change how you felt.”

“I didn’t know what I felt. I was confused that night. I was afraid that we’d ruined our friendship by—” He cut off and closed his eyes. “I never should have written that stupid letter. I just wanted things to go back to the way they used to be between us, but maybe that’s where I made the biggest mistake.”

“You’re not making sense,” she said softly.

When he opened his eyes, he knew from her pained, puzzled expression that she was trying to understand, but how could she understand if he wasn’t even sure of what he was trying to say himself? For five days he’d had time to sort through his tangled feelings about what had happened that night and afterward, but it was only now that he was with her that a resolution seemed within grasp.

He could remember as clearly as if it were yesterday those balmy summer afternoons spent by the creek, writing and sketching, then lying on their backs in the grass to make up stories to go with the cloud pictures that formed overhead. Those memories were precious and close to his heart, the lingering pieces of childhood when the future seemed boundless. Their relationship had begun to change after that, slowly and subtly, until finally, instead of the assumed trust and easy understanding that had always existed between them, there was only conflict and awkwardness and confusion.

It had culminated when he left the
Gazette
. They had come very close to losing everything then, but they hadn’t. Even after months of estrangement, he and Emily had found a way back to the perfect, unspoken, eloquent understanding which had bound them together as children.

But only once. One night. Looking back, perhaps the odds were not so stacked against conceiving a new child on that particular night.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Ross said again.

“How can you say that after all that’s happened?”

She had such beautiful, long-lashed, sea blue eyes. When had he noticed how breathtaking they were? Was it that first day he’d confronted her by the creek? Ross was remembering more than their childhood at this moment, he was remembering making love to her. He’d never been able to forget it, not one second of it, even when he’d wished he could bury it along with all the guilt it caused, but the truth was, it had been only after the fact that the guilt had set in.

The act of making love to Emily had been sweet, almost painful in its perfection. He recalled the purely female, satin softness of her thighs, her belly, her breasts. He remembered the rosewater fragrance of her hair, the succulent taste of her mouth and her skin, and the warm, wet welcome of her body when he entered her. He could remember the instinctive raising of her hips with each of his thrusts, the soft, quickened sounds of her breathing, and the explosive, joyous release that had seemed, just for those fleeting seconds, to set his troubled spirit free. There had been no fear of dying in battle, no guilt, no second thoughts, no agony of regret or self-recrimination. Nothing but the two of them, kindred spirits, bound and joined as they were meant to be.