Stella plucked at the white sheet. The hospital bed felt like heaven after three long weeks at Wilderness Heights, but a weight had settled on her chest and no amount of counting her blessings or thinking of others would lift it. She’d told Henry she loved him, and he hadn’t said anything. Her throat prickled.
Of course, she’d grown up with her every whim fulfilled. But Henry was an independent man with a mind and wishes of his own. She couldn’t expect him to fall at her feet just because she’d spilled her heart. She squared her shoulders. He didn’t feel the same, and she ought to respect it. Still, the sting of rejection jabbed between her ribs with every breath.
How would she face him again, knowing she’d shared a part of herself with him, and he’d tossed it aside like yesterday’s garbage? But she had to face him eventually. How else would she get home? She could buy a train ticket to be sure, but that would take twice as long. And in the state she was in, she needed Jane’s arms around her and her soothing voice to assure her that all would be well in the end. Even though Jane would disapprove of Stella’s feelings for Henry, she’d understand and help her through the heartache.
If only it would have worked out. Her plans to grow the business after her birthday would keep the company running, hopefully with even more profit. Her employees would have no complaints. In fact, they would thrive once her ideas were enacted. Then she could have married Henry without fear of failing the men and women who counted on her to make wise financial decisions. But Henry didn’t want to marry her. He didn’t love her at all. If she hadn’t convinced him to bring her here under false pretenses, maybe he could have found a way to care for her. But as the matter stood, not even her fortune could entice him to pretend he cared.
Most men would pledge their lives to her inheritance. Not Henry. Grief squeezed Stella’s heart. He was a good man. The best. Not even the promise of wealth could tempt him to be anything less than honorable.
Rustling in the doorway summoned her away from the gloom in her mind. A man in a tweed suit strode in, and Margaret Conway followed. The Australian woman rushed to her bedside and took her hand. “When your young man alerted the police about Wilderness Heights, I came straightaway. This is Detective Martin. You can tell him everything. Dr. Hazzard must pay for all the harm she’s done.”
Stella nodded and glanced at Detective Martin. His jaw was rigid as he sank into a chair beside her bed. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back as if he had all the time on earth to discuss Starvation Heights and the woman who had wanted her dead.
When Stella glanced up, Henry leaned against the doorframe. Bandages bound his wrists. She turned her eyes on the detective, avoiding Henry’s gaze. She would’ve liked to ask Henry to wait in the hallway or the visitors’ lounge, but after he had risked his life to save her, that wouldn’t be fair.
“Now, Miss Burke.” The detective pulled a notepad from his pocket. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
As he drove toward San Francisco, Henry replayed Stella’s interview with Detective Martin, and his gut twisted. Poor Stella had seen unspeakable things. And she’d insisted on staying in Seattle until her friend Tilda was safely away from Starvation Heights. How Stella could harbor so much concern for the woman who had shared her plan of escape with Sam Hazzard eluded him. Though he’d seen sparks of empathy and selflessness in Stella before the ordeal, he’d never dreamed the depth of character she possessed.
He swallowed, but it did nothing to alleviate the lump in his throat. She loved him. Or at least, she loved the person she thought him to be, honest and brave. He had to tell her about the letters, but the right moment hadn’t presented itself. After all she had suffered, admitting his falsehood would only add to her burden. Her soft snores from the back seat tore at him. She’d been through so much, and he couldn’t withhold his secret forever. How he detested the thought of making matters worse.
He passed a mile marker. In half an hour they’d be home. His grip tightened on the wheel. To be more accurate, Stella would be home. He’d be sent to jail for stealing Weston’s automobile. His conscience smote him. He’d done what he had to do for Stella, but what would happen to Robby, Rose, and Daisy if he went to prison for auto theft?
They would be sent back to the children’s home, even though they hated it. Would they find another chance to run? Go back to stealing bread? Perhaps Jane would see to their welfare. But with Stella home, her job would return to its normal demands.
“I need to apologize.” Stella’s voice from the back seat jarred his nerves. She’d slept most of the trip, and the silence had been both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, he’d longed to tell her that he hoped she meant what she had said at the gravesite. On the other, the silence had offered him time to think about the wounds his deceit would inflict. Okay, so maybe the quiet had only been a curse.
He glanced at her reflection in the windscreen. Was she crying? “Why would you possibly need my forgiveness?” He was the one owing her an apology.
“I told you that I would respect your feelings about Dr. Hazzard’s treatments. And if you felt uncomfortable, I wouldn’t stay.” Her voice cracked. “But I had no intention of following through with my promise. I wanted to be healed so badly that I treated you with contempt. I’m sorry.”
The road along the seaside gave way to the familiar shops and storefronts of San Francisco. Henry let the words of her apology sink in. Her treatment of him had left a sting, but he had never lived with the pain that was Stella’s constant companion. He turned onto a street lined with lavish estates. “You’re forgiven. I would never hold anything against you.”
Stella sighed, a sound that rattled Henry to the depths of his soul. “I’ve caused so much trouble. If I had listened to you, things could be as they always were. But even though I’ll be home, I have this premonition that nothing will be the same again.” She sniffed. “That we—That you won’t want anything to do with me now.”
“Stella, no matter what happens, and despite the hurtful truth I must tell you, please know that I have no regrets in coming for you when you needed me.” Confessions seemed to be the order of the day, and he must share his own. He pulled into the drive at the Burke estate, killed the motor, and turned to face her. Her tears strangled the air from his lungs. “I have to confess …” He reached for her bandaged hand, ignoring the impropriety of his actions. “I beg your forgiveness. I have deceived you for—”
“I’ve called the police. They’re looking for you.” Weston stomped toward the parked automobile. “How dare you steal my motorcar? I intend to press charges for your crime, you—” His gaze cut to Stella, and his jaw slacked. The fire in his eyes sputtered to a faint flicker. “My dear, you look dreadful. I had believed you were getting treatments for your headaches. What did they do to you?” He opened the door and held out his hand. “I’ll have Jane make you comfortable.”
Stella slipped her hand from Henry’s grasp then stepped out of the automobile into her uncle’s embrace. “Uncle Weston, please don’t punish Henry. I don’t know what happened, but I know that everything he did was for me.”
Weston wrapped his arms around her and met Henry’s gaze over her head. A mix of emotions warred behind his dark eyes. “I’ll drop the charges.” He rubbed her back. “For you, my dear.” His voice was soft and tender.
Maybe Henry had read their relationship all wrong. While Weston cared for money and position more than he ought, how could Henry have believed the man cared nothing for his niece? The compassion he showed her told Henry a different story than the one he’d convinced himself was true.
Henry climbed out of the motorcar. “I should go.” He thrust his hands into his pockets. His fingers brushed the cloth bag of herbs, and he pulled it out. In his haste to get her home, he’d forgotten them. “This is for you.” He extended the offering to Stella.
She took it from him, brow puckered. “What is this?” She held it to her nose and breathed in. “It smells awful.”
“I ran across an herbalist a week ago. Asked her if there was a cure for your migraines.” He met Stella’s dark eyes, teeming with emotion. “There’s no cure. But she said this herb—it’s called feverfew—might help if you steeped it in hot water like tea every morning.”
Tears glittered in Stella’s eyes. “Thank you.” The words were so faint he barely heard them.
Weston nodded his thanks, his own eyes glistening.
Henry kicked a rock on the ground, turned, and walked away. For the last time.