Borrowing Death (16 page)

“Is that all you wanted to tell me?” she asked.

James stopped, staring across the yard. Charlotte waited for him to collect his thoughts. She flipped up her collar and watched as well, not at all interested in the goings-on of the CR&NW railway. She doubted he was either.

Finally, he turned to her, half his face lit by the lights, the other half in shadow. “About the other night. With Stella.”

“You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, James.” She was giving him an out, mostly so she wouldn't feel obligated to reciprocate. Ever.

“No, I want to tell you what happened.” He stared down at his boots, took a breath, and blew it out in a slow, silvery stream. He looked up again, holding her gaze. “Stella and I met in Dawson City when we were barely more than kids. Her parents ran a hotel. Not too many kids our age around, so we were naturally drawn together.”

Charlotte could imagine younger James being smitten by younger Stella. And vice versa. “Outgrew the fun of snowball fights, did you?”

He grinned. “Not completely. We lost track of each other when my family moved to Nome, following the gold. Then one day she showed up at an assayer's office, working as a secretary. We started keeping company.”

Charlotte realized she was shivering and ran her hands over her arms. Her toes were getting numb.

“Come on,” he said, “let's keep walking. This won't take long.” James took her arm and gestured to a side road along the back of the rail yard. “Anyway, we got married.”

“And?” She wanted to keep him talking, to get it over with. No need to draw out the discomfort for either of their sakes.

“And things were good for a while, though Stella enjoyed going out with friends more than I did. About three years in, I thought she was cheating on me. I confronted the guy.”

Years later, in the semidarkness of a winter dawn, Charlotte saw he knew he'd been wrong. “What happened?”

“I beat the hell out of him. Put him in the hospital.”

Charlotte's breath caught. She had seen James react violently only once, and that was in self-defense. The thought of him purposely hurting someone didn't fit with the man she knew. But jealousy, anger, and suspicion were powerful emotions. People didn't think clearly under those influences, they just reacted. All that mattered was protecting what was yours.

He continued, his tone almost matter-of-fact, but quiet. Like he didn't want to be saying what he had to tell her, yet knew it had to come out. “Friends spoke up for me, told the police the guy started it. That wasn't quite true, but he never pushed to have me arrested. That makes me think he was guilty, but still.”

James paused for a moment, shaking his head slightly, a look of disgust on his face. For the other man? Himself? Both? “Anyway, Stella and I left Nome as soon as we could. Settled in Juneau. It was never the same between us. I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd done, and she couldn't convince me of her innocence, or that I was more than the angry, foolish man I was, deep down.”

Charlotte winced. “James, you know that isn't true. You're one of the most decent men I've ever met.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “I was a jealous, short-fused son-of-a-bitch. And that man is still lurking inside me somewhere. I wanted to make sure you had the opportunity to decide if you still wanted to be . . . to stay friends or not.”

She stopped, drawing him to a halt as well. Face-to-face, she saw who he was, and it wasn't the man he feared.

“You didn't have to tell me any of this. All you had to say was you'd been married and it was over,” she said. He remained perfectly still. “That tells me the man you
think
is in here,” she laid her hand flat on his chest, right over his heart, “isn't. The man in there is the good person I've come to know, and I want to stay friends with him.”

He nodded slowly, allowing her words to sink in. Did he believe her?

After a few moments, a slight smile curved his mouth. “Thank you, because I want to stay friends with you too. I like you, Charlotte.” He cupped her cold cheeks in his warm hands. “I like you a lot.”

James held her still and bent to kiss her. Their breath mingled, creating a silvery cloud. Charlotte closed her eyes as their lips met. An electric pulse shot through her, and she clutched the front of his coat where her hand lingered over his heart.

She should have told him they needed to stop, but instead she flicked her tongue against the seam of his mouth. He responded as she'd hoped and feared, reciprocating and deepening the kiss. Need and desire welled inside her. Images flashed in her head of limbs and bodies lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp, of searing kisses along bare skin.

Exactly what she wanted. Exactly what she couldn't handle. Not yet.

“Wait,” she said, gently pushing him away while her heart pounded. Charlotte gulped a breath. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't. I can't.”

His palms still on her cheeks and her hand still on his chest, James gazed down at her. Not angry, as Richard might have been, just trying to collect himself. “I understand.”

No, he didn't. He probably thought she had never been with a man, let alone done what she'd done. He probably didn't realize the thoughts in her head were not those a “good girl” imagined when she kissed him. Not even close. But she wasn't ready for a confession. Someday, maybe, but not today.

He touched his lips to hers and lowered his hands. Charlotte stepped back and clasped her hands together.

“I don't want to push you into anything you aren't ready for, Charlotte.”

She almost laughed. Let him assume she was protecting her virtue. She'd enjoyed being intimate with Richard, but most men weren't keen on the idea of learning they weren't first in line.

“Whenever you're ready to tell me what that bastard, whoever he is, did to you, I'm here. And if you decide to never to say a damn thing, that's okay too.”

Charlotte blinked at him. How had he known? She'd never mentioned anything about having a relationship, failed or otherwise. Michael wouldn't have said anything either.

“There's nothing to tell.”
Liar liar liar
.

“You've had an air about you since you arrived. Like you're trying to forget something or pretend it never happened. I've seen it a lot on people who come here. Hell, myself included.” He gave her a fleeting, crooked grin, then the earnestness was back in his eyes. “But every time we get close, there's a tension that goes through you. You're like a taut wire about to snap.”

“It's not you,” she said, glancing away.

He tilted her chin up so their eyes met again. “Glad to hear that. I just want you to realize I'm not perfect—far from it—but I'm not him.”

Her voice was low and rough when she said, “I know.”

James smiled again. “Good. Let's get you to your office so you can warm up.”

He looped her arm through his and they headed back to town.

Now what was she supposed to do?

* * *

The rest of the day was one distraction after another, from the ringing telephone to people dropping in. But the worst came from within Charlotte's own head, causing her to have to reset four different articles in the Linotype. She also burned her finger when she returned used slugs to the crucible to melt down, and smeared ink on the skirt of her favorite dress despite wearing an apron.

By the time she was headed home, all Charlotte wanted was a hot meal and a hotter bath. She trudged up the snowy road to the little green house, flashlight in hand, making a mental list of things she had to do over the next several days. Writing was always at the top of that one, though for the life of her she couldn't understand how sitting at her typewriter suddenly made her brain go blank. She also needed to get Christmas gifts out to Mother and Father. They'd likely be late, given the mail service from Alaska and her procrastination. Mother and Father wouldn't mind, though.

She smiled thinking of them, missing them, but at the same time glad to be out from under their scrutiny. Overall, they were good about letting her be who she was, yet there was always the need to get their approval. Or at least avoid stirring things up by blatantly misbehaving in their eyes. Charlotte had pushed the confines of propriety on numerous occasions, all without her parents' knowledge. At least she assumed they didn't know what she'd done. It was silly, really. She was a grown woman and shouldn't have to sneak behind her parents' backs. Yet she had.

“Miss Brody?”

The voice came from her porch. Charlotte shined the flashlight beam in that direction, catching poor Henry right in the eyes. “Sorry,” she said, lowering the light. “You startled me. How long have you been waiting?”

“Not too long,” he said as she climbed the rickety stairs. “You asked me to come see you, so I figured I'd come over tonight, if that's okay.”

“Of course it is, Henry.”

Told him to come see her was more like it, and she wasn't surprised he'd obeyed. Henry was a good kid who liked to please people. It made him a popular server at the café, and he garnered generous tips there as well as when he delivered newspapers.

His uneasiness over the last several days wasn't like him. As a friend and fellow employee at the
Times,
Charlotte wanted to see if she could help.

“Let's get inside and have some tea. Have you had supper yet?”

Henry shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he entered the house and pulled off his cap. Charlotte hung up her coat and unlaced her boots, watching him as he did the same. Good Lord, he was just a boy, wasn't he, all smooth-cheeked and wide-eyed as he looked around the parlor. His heavy sweater and trousers weren't new, but they were clean and neat. The result of someone taking care of him or a talent of his own?

“Let's go into the kitchen,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile. “I'll get the stove started and it'll warm right up in there.”

Henry followed her obediently and sat at the kitchen table. Charlotte set out the plate of cookies she kept on hand to have with her tea in the evenings. He hesitated, glancing up at her as if to ask permission.

“Have some. There are days when you have to eat dessert first.” She winked at him and he smiled, more relaxed.

While he nibbled, Charlotte set about firing up the stove and taking ingredients out of the icebox. “I hope you like fish cakes.”

“Love them,” he said around a mouthful of cookie.

Henry being Henry, Charlotte was pretty sure he'd say he loved anything she offered, just to be nice.

“Do you know how to cook?” she asked. “I hear the top chefs are all men.”

They discussed food while Charlotte puttered about in domesticity. She reined in her inclination to jump right on him about what was going on. Henry had readily come over when she'd asked, but he was nervous. Chatting about food and other neutral topics put him at ease.

Charlotte set two plates of fish cakes, green beans, and buttered bread on the table. She poured them each a cup of tea, then sat.

Henry bowed his head, murmuring grace before looking up at her, red-faced. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” she said, laying her napkin in her lap. “My family was never terribly religious.”

He picked up his fork and dug in like the still-growing young man he was. “Mine was. Grace at each meal. Prayers before bed. Church every Sunday.”

“Was?” Charlotte asked gently.

Henry hesitated, a forkful of fish cake halfway to his mouth. He took the bite and nodded slowly while he chewed. Charlotte kept eating, encouraging him to go on with her silence.

“We lived in a small town in Kansas, me, my folks, my brothers and sisters. Loaded up the wagon every Sunday to go to church. Even if we could've afforded one, Pa didn't believe in automobiles. Said they were for people too worried about getting places without experiencing the journey.”

Charlotte smiled. It sounded like something her own father would say. “Your pa sounds like a wise man.”

“He was.” Henry looked up from his plate, meeting her gaze for a moment before finding his green beans unusually interesting. “He and ma died when I was ten.”

“Oh, Henry, I'm so sorry.” Charlotte knew too many children who had lost their parents. She reminded herself how lucky she was to still have hers, even when they gave her a hard time.

He shrugged. “My brothers and sisters and I got sent to different families. I hated it. Ran away and came up here when I was thirteen.”

Kids who'd lost parents often grew up too fast, requiring them to figure what was what in the world. It took a certain motivation—and a great deal of luck—for a thirteen-year-old boy to travel from Kansas to Alaska.

“How did you manage that?”

“Stowed away on a steamer.” Henry raised his head, his dark eyes filled with sorrow, and something Charlotte couldn't quite place. “I had to get away from there, Miss Brody. Too many memories.”

She laid her hand on his arm. “That's understandable, given the circumstances.”

He shook his head, wincing. “No, you
don't
understand. My parents dying was my fault. And I couldn't stop doing it.”

What could a ten-year-old have done that made him think he was responsible for his parents' death?

“Doing what?”

He started to speak, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Tears trickled down his face. He trembled beneath Charlotte's hand. “It was an accident, I swear. I just liked to watch the flames.”