Secret Hearts (42 page)

      
Dabbing
at her eyes and sniffling, Claire said, “I know it was wrong of me
to keep my authorship a secret, but I feared losing my job and—and
his esteem. For he did esteem me, Mrs. Finchley. I know he did.”

      
Claire’s
companion nodded soulfully and patted Claire on the knee. “Of course
he did.”

      
“But
he was so angry. He said such—such awful things to me.”

      
“If
that isn’t just like a man! Men are such absurd creatures. As much
as I adored my darling Eddie, he used to get such odd quirks. He made
me very angry many, many times.”

      
“Did
he really?”

      
“Of
course, he did. They’re all alike, men are. Why, I think it’s criminal,
the way that man treated you! Oh, I know, I know,” she said when Claire
began to protest, “I know you kept something from him. And I know
you love the fellow, my dear. But that makes it all the worse, don’t
you see? If he had a shred of compassion in his heart, he’d have known
you only wrote these wonderful books because you value him the way he’s
always wanted to be valued. Why, I’ll warrant he was secretly pleased
to have been made the hero of your novels. Men!” she repeated in conclusion.

      
After
a moment’s thought, Claire decided she might just agree. It felt so
good to unburden herself, and she was so grateful to the motherly Mrs.
Finchley, that the two ladies spoke far into the night as the coach
rolled and bounced them along the road to Marysville.

      
As
they chatted, Claire began to contemplate the completion of her last
Tuscaloosa Tom
novel. She’d pondered the idea of writing Mr. Oliphant
and begging out of the one remaining book in her contract, but now she
believed she shouldn’t do so.

      
“A
contract is a contract, after all.”

      
Mrs.
Finchley agreed wholeheartedly.

      
“So
I will finish
Tuscaloosa Tom and the Wool War
. Then I shall begin
a whole new series.” She nodded firmly.

      
“Bravo,
my dear!”

      
“Why,
I’ve already created one national icon. What’s to stop me from creating
another? I’ll marry Tuscaloosa Tom off to Miss Abigail Faithgood,
and go on to bigger and better things. It will serve the bounder right
to be shackled to that idiotic, screaming female.”

      
“Exactly,
my girl! You show him what he’s giving up!”

      
Claire
had never had a cheering section before, and she discovered she liked
it. “Imagine, Tom Partington yelling at me. Why, I made him into a
famous hero, and he actually had the nerve to condemn me for it!”

      
“The
monster!”

      
By
the time Claire became aware of a disturbance in the road, she was no
longer near tears. In fact, she was fighting mad.

      
Mrs.
Finchley seemed to be in a similar condition when Claire suddenly exclaimed,
“Oh, my! Do you hear that commotion outside?”

      
“Mercy!
It’s probably some awful man holding up the stage or something.”

      
“I
wish I had a gun!”

      
The
two ladies were prepared for anything when the door was wrenched open.
Claire was ready to impale any would-be criminal with her parasol, and
Mrs. Finchley had
Tuscaloosa Tom and the Outlaws of Oak Ridge Wallow
poised and ready to strike.

      
When
Tom Partington appeared in the faint yellow lamplight, Claire gasped
and dropped her parasol. Mrs. Finchley looked at her in surprise.

      
“Claire!”
Tom cried. “Oh, my God, Claire! I thought I’d lost you!”

      
In
her shock at seeing Tom here, Claire found herself sucking in huge gasps
of air. He stared at her wild-eyed, his gorgeous hair disarranged under
his hat, his eyes sparkling. Then, in a rush, her boundless grievances
against the men in her life and Tom in particular exploded over her.
She jerked away from his extended hand as if it were a poisonous snake.

      
She
shrieked, “Don’t you dare touch me!”

      
“Is
this the cad who swore at you, Claire, dear?” Mrs. Finchley cried,
appalled.

      
Unable
to speak again, Claire nodded, and Mrs. Finchley brought
Tuscaloosa
Tom and the Outlaws of Oak Ridge Wallow
crashing down, hard, on
Tom’s head. Fortunately for him, it was covered by his hat.

      
In
a flash, Claire picked up her parasol and began stabbing at him. He
staggered back, shocked to his very core.

      
The
other passengers in the coach had to varying degrees awakened during
this ruckus. One of them muttered, “Here, here! What’s going on?”

      
A
bearded gentleman said, “Don’t hurt that fellow, madam,” and tried
to grab Claire’s parasol. Quarters inside the coach were tight, but
Claire managed to elbow him in his stomach before she jumped down from
the coach to confront Tom Partington. Mrs. Finchley finished the bearded
gent off with her book, and clambered down to support Claire.

      
Her
parasol at the alert, Claire frowned at Tom, who was bent over almost
double and staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. She realized
she’d got him pretty solidly in the stomach with her weapon and felt
a surge of primitive, and wholly improper, glee.

      
“What
do you want with me, Mr. Partington?” Her voice was as frosty as the
weather, and hung in the air in a foggy clump between them.

      
“Mr.
Partington?” Tom looked at her, disbelief sharing space with pain
and helplessness on his countenance.

      
If
she hadn’t been so irate by that time, Claire might have felt guilty
about Tom’s present breathless state. As it was, she didn’t care.
Chest heaving, she only scowled at him, parasol poised for another attack
should he try to touch her again.

      
He
straightened with difficulty. “Claire? Please, Claire, don’t be
mad at me.”

      
“And
why not, pray?”

      
“Because
I’m sorry.”

      
“You’re
sorry
? You disparage my heart, my mind, my essence, the work of
my soul, my very
meaning
in life, and all you can say is you’re
sorry
?” She realized her voice had gone shrill, and she made an
effort to control it. “And am I expected to fall down in a swoon because
you’re sorry, Mr. Thomas, the Boy General, Partington? Am I supposed
to beg you to take me back and serve as your mi—mmi—” Claire took
a deep breath. “—housekeeper at Partington Place because you realize
you were hasty and overbearing and—and horrid to me?”

      
“Please,
Claire.” Tom ran a hand through his hair and reached out to her.

      
Mrs.
Finchley, bosom heaving in agitation, swung her pocketbook at his arm.
“Don’t you dare touch that dear child, you despicable fiend!”

      
Tom
snatched his hand back and looked at Claire’s champion in astonishment.
Claire lifted her chin and announced defiantly, “You see, Mr. Partington?
You
might have forsaken me, but I still have friends!”

      
“But,
Claire,” Tom pleaded, being careful to keep his hands to himself,
“I haven’t forsaken you. I’ve come to beg you to come back and
marry me. I can’t live without you. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings,
Claire. I—I—damn it, I love you.”

      
Claire’s
mouth dropped open, but nothing emerged. She wanted to stick a finger
in her ear and clean it out. Of course, she did no such thing. Nevertheless,
she stood as if struck from stone. She couldn’t believe what she thought
she’d just heard, but she was afraid to ask him to repeat it for fear
he’d tell her she was mistaken.

      
“Please,
Claire? I love you so much. If you leave me, I don’t know how I’ll
survive.”

      
Tom
sounded absolutely pathetic. Claire finally managed to shut her mouth,
but she still couldn’t think of anything to say. Frantically, she
looked at Mrs. Finchley, hoping to find inspiration in her staunch,
albeit new, ally, only to discover Mrs. Finchley, too, gaping at Tom
slack-jawed.

      
When
nobody spoke, Tom looked nervous. He cleared his throat and tried again.
“Claire, please come back to me. My conduct was unforgivable. If you
can’t find it in your heart to forgive me yet, at least give me another
chance.” He paused for a second and went on recklessly. “Your father
came to the house tonight, Claire.”

      
Mrs.
Finchley, whom Claire had regaled with the full ignominy of her vagrant
childhood, gasped, “Saints preserve us!”

      
Claire
finally found her tongue, but she only used it to cry, horrified, “My
father! Oh, no!”

      
“Yes.
You see, I understand everything now, Claire. Truly, I do. I don’t
blame you for making a hero out of Tuscaloosa Tom, or for keeping the
truth from me. You must have had a terrible childhood. You must have
hated and mistrusted men until you met Uncle Gordon. I don’t blame
you for trying to forget your past and for wanting to make your present
better. Or for writing those books. I understand why you needed a hero,
Claire. I was wrong to take you to task. Please, please, Claire, come
back to me.”

      
Still
wavering, Claire glanced once more at Mrs. Finchley and found her peering
thoughtfully at Tom. The older woman no longer looked as if she’d
try to slay him if he made a move to touch Claire. Then Claire glanced
at the stagecoach, and discovered every passenger leaning out the windows
and watching eagerly. One of them winked at her. She took umbrage and
sniffed haughtily.

      
Still,
Tom’s words meant a lot to her. “Well . . .”

      
“Please,
Claire?”

      
She’d
never heard Tom sound this humble. She hadn’t believed he had it in
him to abase himself so thoroughly.

      
“Come
on, young lady, tell the poor feller you’ll marry him. It ain’t
right to leave them horses all standin’ out here in the cold. Nor
us, neither.”

      
She
glared at the gentleman who had made the suggestion, but he only winked
again.

      
“Perhaps,”
offered Mrs. Finchley cautiously, “you and your young man should continue
on to Marysville and discuss the matter over a cup of tea, Claire dear.”

      
“Good
idea,” another fellow inside the stagecoach grumbled. He said a few
more things about waking a body up in the middle of the night for no
better reason than to carry on a lovers’ quarrel in the middle of
the road in the dead of winter, but Claire’s ferocious glare quelled
his mutters.

      
“Children,”
a roundish, cherub-faced man said, “As a minister of the Lord, may
I offer my seat to the gentleman so that he and the young lady might
speak to each other in the coach on the way to Marysville?”

      
He
smiled sweetly at Claire, who had to swallow a sudden swell of sentiment.
She shook her head, though, unwilling to share so intimate and confined
a space with Tom Partington at the moment. She wasn’t sure she should
forgive him yet. After all, she didn’t wish to appear easy.

      
Striving
for poise, she said, “No, thank you, sir. Perhaps if he follows the
coach to Marysville, I shall speak to him if he so wishes. You, sir,
certainly have no reason to relinquish your seat inside the coach. After
all, you paid full fare for a coach seat to Marysville.”

      
“I’ll
pay his fare, Claire!” Tom said, obviously nettled.

      
“It’s
a chilly night, Mr. Partington,” Claire shot back. “You may find
it advisable to ride your poor horse to death in the freezing cold,
but that gentleman—” Forgetting the manners she’d taught herself
over the past ten years, Claire pointed at the cherry-cheeked fellow.
“—is not as young as you, nor is he as used to rough accommodations
as you are. I feel sure of it.”

      
“All
right.” Unhappy, Tom acquiesced. “But you must speak to me when
we arrive in Marysville.”

      
“Must
I?” she asked, bridling.

      
“Please,
Claire?”

      
He
sounded desperate, and Claire relented. “All right. I will speak to
you in Marysville.” She didn’t like making the concession, and stalked
back to the coach and climbed aboard without so much as a backward glance.

      
Mrs.
Finchley sniffed meaningfully at Tom before following in Claire’s
huffy wake.

      
The
two ladies conferred the rest of the way to Marysville. One of their
fellow passengers tried to offer a suggestion once, but was glowered
at so savagely by Claire that he subsided. The minister smiled sweetly
at them and wisely held his counsel. The rest of the men went back to
sleep as soon as they could.

# # #

      
Tom
was almost frozen solid by the time the Wells Fargo coach finally rattled
to a stop in front of the staging office in Marysville. He’d never
been so happy to see civilization in his life. If he’d known he’d
have to chase Claire all the way to Marysville, he’d have worn his
buffalo robe, his knitted head scarf, fur-lined gloves, and a second
pair of woolen stockings before he set out. He hadn’t felt this cold
since he’d spent the winter of seventy-three in the Montana Territory
chasing Indians away from the railroad tracks.