Caught in the Middle (9 page)

“Can you read?” He strode into the busy street.

“Of course.”

“Write? Do sums?”

“I was a decent student.” Especially when the handsome schoolmaster kept her after class for tutoring. “I went to school only a couple of years, but I have a clear hand, know basic sums, and can make sense of most writing.”

“Nicely played, Joel Puckett, nicely played,” he muttered. “Well, as soon as Harold is able, he can sit at his desk and dictate to you what needs to be written. He can figure the wording and the accounts—you just write. Until then, we’ll muck along as well as we’re able.”

They turned the corner of the collateral broker’s shop to the back, where Nicholas’s office was located, and nearly ran into a lumber wagon. Tools and planks lay scattered around. The only thing missing was the staircase.

Nicholas pushed back his hat. “For the love of Pete, how am I supposed to get to my office?”

Clad in a pair of dungarees, a stained shirt, and a straw hat, a man dropped boards from off his shoulder. “The building owner ordered a new staircase. Can’t build it with the old one standing.”

“But I have to work. I must get in there.”

The man chuckled. “I’ll have a frame up by the end of the day. Tomorrow I’ll start filling in the steps. Unless you got wings . . .”

Nicholas stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the door that posed like a victim at the edge of a pirate’s gangplank. Anne half expected him to start flapping his arms, but instead he turned and rummaged through the pile of lumber the man was unloading from his wagon. Locating his prize, Nicholas grasped the ends of two long planks and walked backwards until they fell free of the wagon.

“I didn’t grow up at a lumber mill for nothing. I suppose you have a saw?” He slid out of his coat and handed it to Anne while the man went to fetch one. Anne laid the coat across her arm, surprised by the supple cloth. It looked so firm stretched across his shoulders, but really it was—

“Good grief, woman. Are you rubbing my coat?” He paused with a vest button halfway through the buttonhole.

“It . . . it feels soft.”

“Compared to canvas, I suppose it is.”

He was insulting her ugly duster. Let him. No one would daydream about running their hands over that ugly material. Or the woman beneath.

He tossed her the vest. “It’s satin. Do try to control yourself.”

She let her lip rise in a near snarl but then wished she hadn’t when a whiff of his cologne reached her nose. Woodsy and warm. Knowledge about her employer’s clothing that did her no good.

By the time the carpenter returned, Nicholas had his sleeves rolled up and the long boards lying parallel to each other. He laid a third board across the top of a barrel and sawed off a three-foot piece. The sound of it falling to the ground echoed off the building on the other side of the alley.

Nicholas tossed it to the carpenter. “Get busy and I’ll let you keep the ladder when we’re through.”

Anne stepped into the shade and leaned against the building, surprised at this unexpected side of the dandy. The blond hair on his forearms seemed out of place. It was almost . . . well, masculine. She hadn’t thought he’d get his hands dirty, but here he was plying a saw, forcing it through the honey-colored wood. She threaded her pinky through the buttonhole on his vest, thinking again how he’d risked his life to protect the woman on the train—a woman with whom, as far as Anne could tell, he had no serious ties.

He was a complicated man, she’d give him that.

Had he relinquished his life before he rushed the man,
or had he assumed that he would live? Four years ago Anne had hidden in the bushes on the riverbank, fleeing her abusive husband, when he’d attacked another woman. She and Mr. Lovelace might not have anything else in common, but that one moment was an experience that few others shared. The rare decision to give up your safety for a near stranger could’ve bound them together, but Nick gave no sign of being changed by his dangerous act.

Then again, what had changed Anne? The danger she’d faced or the fact that she’d been victorious? Challenge the evil and die, or challenge the evil and live with the consequences of killing a man who’d once owned your heart?

Before she was ready, a dubious ladder was propped against the wall. Nicholas sprang up the first board and bounced.

“It’ll do.” He hopped down. “Ladies first.”

Anne handed him his coat and vest and planted her foot on the first step. Her hands were too small to get a strong grip on the cross boards, but she’d take what she could. The ladder shuddered. What was he doing?

“Can’t you wait until I’m off?”

“No, ma’am. I’m behind you in case you slip.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll cushion your fall.”

What a view he must have. Another good reason to wear her ugly clothes.

She reached the top, but the ladder only touched the floor of the second story. Summoning her courage, she had to release her hold on the ladder and lunge for the floor, but she made it.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Nick’s eyes sparkled as if he’d enjoyed climbing like a possum to his office. He leaned
out the door, and with a call down, his portfolio was tossed up into his arms.

“Now, let’s get to work.”

He couldn’t concentrate. Nick tapped his pen on the blotter and watched the wet ink absorb into the green felt. Of the thousands of tasks to be accomplished today, he couldn’t stop gloating over the one already completed—he’d surprised her. She probably thought he didn’t know the business end of a hammer from the hand grip. She probably thought he’d pull out a wallet and hire the carpenter to build the ladder. Well, what Anne Tillerton didn’t know about him was that he had poked around a sawmill since he was a little turnip. He’d watched his father’s business grow from axes and saws to a waterwheel, pulleys, millstones, and outbuildings. And with each building that went up, little Nick was there watching and learning. Manual labor wasn’t the fastest path to accumulated wealth, so he favored the managing side, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t jump in and lend a hand when his crew needed it.

And for a moment he’d thought he’d seen admiration in her eyes.

Dropping his pen on the desk, Nicholas leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. Too bad she couldn’t see him out at the railhead, directing the lumberjacks or at the sawmill, testing the machinery. There was more to him than this office. In fact, he’d much rather take her on a survey of his work at the railhead than have her inappropriate self gracing his front room.

At least it wouldn’t be for long.

She might be able to copy the contracts as she had claimed,
but Nicholas’s productivity had grounded to a halt. He couldn’t stop thinking about her in there. Who would’ve thought her hair would be so curly? Every time she removed her hat, he was shocked by the caramel ringlets that sprang out. She kept it cut, so it didn’t hang long, but even then, if stretched out it’d probably touch her shoulders—if they weren’t covered by that hideous coat. The image of white shoulders in a sapphire evening gown teased him.

Women. They had no business in his office.

“Excuse me.” Anne stepped into the doorway.

Nicholas dropped his feet off the desk and fumbled with his pen in a vain attempt to look busy.

“That woman is coming up the alley.”

“Mrs. Stanford?” He bounded to his feet. “What did she say?”

Anne blinked. “She didn’t see me.”

“Yoo-hoo, Nicholas. Are you up there?”

He strode across the room and grasped Anne’s shoulders, unable to avoid the thought of an evening gown to replace the duster. “Don’t go near the door.”

Her forehead wrinkled, but she nodded as he made his way to the entrance in Harold’s office.

He pulled open the door, startled by the sheer drop below. “Hello, Mrs. Stanford. Fine day we’re having, is it not?”

Ophelia’s head tilted until she was in danger of toppling over from the weight of her enormous hat. “Yes, of course, but what on earth happened to your stairs?”

“The rail collapsed under Harold. Terribly dangerous. We’re fortunate it didn’t fall while you were on it.”

“Impossible. I wouldn’t be so . . .” She frowned at the carpenter, who didn’t have the grace to hide his appreciation of
her charms. “Please, come down. I wanted to discuss our plans for your expansion.”

But Nick recognized an advantage when he saw one. “Why don’t you come up here?”

“You jest. Ladies don’t ascend ladders.”

“Quite so. Well, I’m afraid I’m unable to make the trip down. With Harold’s injury, I have no time to spare if I want to keep my most important client satisfied.”

Ophelia grasped a rung and leaned into the ladder, frightening him with the threat that she might ascend after all. But instead she only smiled. “Keeping your client satisfied is very important. I suppose our plans can wait until tomorrow.”

“Marvelous.”

With a smile, she sped away like a warship with full sails. When the last fluttering ribbon disappeared behind the corner of the building, Nick flagged down the carpenter.

“Hey, Charlie, do you have another job you could work on tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir, but Mr. Butler told me that if I finished the staircase in two days, he’d give me a bonus.”

“Leave it off for four days, and I’ll double that bonus.”

He could hear Anne’s soft breath behind him as he tried to get the carpenter’s understanding without being explicit. He couldn’t ban Ophelia, but he couldn’t have her waltzing into his office at will. Not with Anne there. She’d already been quite clear on her opinion of Mrs. Tillerton. Four days. Surely Anne would have her business settled and be headed back to Indian Territory by then.

“You got it, Boss.”

As the carpenter began gathering his tools, Nick turned to Anne.

“I hope you’re willing to climb for a few more days. She won’t approve of my new assistant, so the longer I can keep her out of here, the better.”

“So instead of telling her it’s not her concern, you’re hiding from her?” Anne’s gray eyes pierced through him.

Nicholas shut the door with more force than he’d planned. “I don’t like your insinuation. What right do you have to judge me when you shun society altogether?”

“Why do you think I’m no fan of the public? I don’t need soirees to learn herd behavior. I’ve watched the buffalo.”

“You learned your manners from buffalo? That explains a lot.” Imagine! Anne Tillerton criticizing his methods. Didn’t his success speak for itself?

“Does Mrs. Stanford tell you who you can hire? Befriend? Court? I saw you at the robbery. You’re capable of courage. How has this woman gained mastery over you?”

Nick’s jaw grew taut. “It’s not that simple, Mrs. Tillerton. I’d rather risk my life at the end of a pistol than risk my financial success. And what do you suggest? Should I break contract with my sole customer in hopes of getting smaller, less reliable contracts? I know to be cautious, but I face my fears. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll finish this loan paper work, and you can take it to the bank on your way to the Pucketts’. That is, if you’re not afraid to walk that far by yourself.”

Irritating. That’s what he got for getting involved with a pariah. He cut a straight path to his desk and shuffled through papers to find the form—the one he’d been working on when daydreams of the unsuitable woman before him got him distracted.

His pen made sure scratches across the page, listing his
assets and debts for the loan officer. The sooner he could finish it, the sooner she would leave him to his work.

“Here you go.” He dipped his pen for the last final scratches, pleased that she stood waiting on him. “The bank will be closed already, but you can drop it in the slot on the main door.”

He folded the application into thirds and extended it toward her without looking up.

She didn’t take the paper. “Look, I shouldn’t have said all that. I only meant it to warn you.” She nibbled on her bottom lip, waiting for his response. Well, she wasn’t the only one who could deliver a warning.

“Your honesty is refreshing—as long as you can accept the same from me.” Her eyes lowered and Nicholas felt vindication was near. “Why don’t we always tell each other the truth? It’ll be a fun experiment.”

“Well, then . . . truthfully, I’d like to leave now. Who knows what kind of trouble Sammy’s been for Mrs. Puckett.”

She reached for the paper, but Nicholas swung it to his chest. “But first it’s my turn. Truthfully . . . I think you and Ophelia have more in common than you might think.”

Anne frowned. “Impossible.”

“While I haven’t studied buffalo, I have studied women, and I agree with your assessment of Ophelia. She enjoys her power, and her expensive wardrobe announces to all society that she isn’t to be trifled with.”

“I want nothing to do with society.”

“Precisely. For you to participate in society would mean giving up control. Your power comes from your rejection of the customs and niceties that everyone else is forced to play. You can be a hermit on the prairie and feel superior
to everyone here who has to cooperate and compromise to build relationships. And by your dress you announce that you aren’t to be trifled with, either. Instead of intimidating them with your riches, you keep them at arm’s length by looking untamed and frightening. Unfortunately, where you are concerned, I feel no fear.”