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Carla swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Fire burned through her chest, and the room swirled into a mass of green and white. Not that it mattered. Standing wasn’t her goal.
She knelt and pressed her forehead to the mattress. God, You are my Rock, my Refuge. Please ... help me.
Because what else could she pray? And where else could she turn?
The floor in the hall creaked, and she pushed to her feet. Frank rolled into the room. “You shouldn’t be up.”
She sank onto the mattress and breathed.
A muscle jumped in his jaw, and his fingers stretched white around the chair’s wheels. Apparently no one escaped family troubles.
He stared at her. “Did you need something?”
She smoothed a wrinkle from her dressing gown and tightened the belt around her waist. “No, nothing like that. I was praying. I needed to kneel.”
His features softened. “I didn’t realize how important that was to me until I lost it.”
How true of human nature. She hadn’t appreciated Mamma and Papà the way she should’ve, hadn’t embraced them often enough, hadn’t let Mamma teach her to play the piano though Mamma had offered multiple times, hadn’t paid the attention she should’ve to Papà’s comments about the restaurant menu.
Now, she’d never get the chance.
He straightened in his chair. “I suppose you heard all that.”
“Some.” Frank accusing Mr. Moretti of cowardice. Mr. Ashton cursing.
“Then you might as well know the whole dirty truth of it.” He eased the chair forward and stopped a yard from the bed.
No, she’d had quite enough truth in her life these past few weeks.
He rested his hands on his legs. “My sister Hazel ran off with and married a criminal. She let us think she was dead. And now she’s come back and expects us to welcome her with open arms. Along with her new husband.”
“Did she ask for your forgiveness?”
He snorted. “Of course she did. She came in this room, held my hand, and begged me to forgive her. I did. I did only because God commands it.” He gripped his legs. “But that doesn’t mean I want to be around her. She isn’t my sister. She’s nothing more than a stranger.”
“But she’s alive.” Alive when Mamma and Papà were dead. “How can you want nothing to do with her?”
His shoulders stiffened. “She ruined our family. She made Pa start drinking. She made Ma cry every night. She made Mae risk her life to go searching for her. She made me—she made everything I was going through because of the war and my legs worse.” He shook his head. “Your parents lied to you your entire life. Could you forget that? Could you act as if they’d never done you wrong?”
She’d never be able to tell them she forgave them, never have the opportunity to see what life was like beyond their lies.
His face reddened. “That was wrong of me to bring up. Forget I said it.”
She eased her legs onto the bed and leaned against the pillows. “I don’t want to forget them. I love them. Of course I’m angry with them. I don’t understand why they lied to me. I don’t understand why they ... did what they did. But I’d give anything for them to be alive. I’d give anything to have another chance with them. They’d—they’d still be my mamma and papà.”
Yet never again would she see them on this earth. Maybe she’d never see them again.
She tangled her fingers in the quilt to anchor herself to something solid.
“I’m nothing but a selfish wretch.” Wildness glazed his eyes, and his fingers whitened around his knees. “And I hate what I’ve become. I hate it.”
She’d gone too far. She’d pushed an already hurting man closer to the brink of despair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He stared at her, eyes hollow and underscored by deep shadows. “Is that pity?” Roughness broke through his words, and he lowered his head.
“No. You’re my friend, and I don’t think you’re wretched or selfish. You wore yourself out sitting up with me. You stayed with me when I was afraid. You’ve always been patient with me even when I’ve been foolish.”
He lifted his head. “So you’re kind to me out of obligation?”
“No. I’m your friend.”
His shoulders slumped. “I don’t deserve a friend.”
“What good does any of us deserve?” Not the free gift of salvation. Not the world God had provided them to live in. Not even another breath. Nothing good. Nothing but eternity in hell.
“I guess I don’t look at it much that way. All I can see is what He’s taken from me.” His gaze caught hers. “Now you’ll think me even more of a wretch.”
“Can’t you see what He’s given you? It’s hard. I know it’s hard, especially when—when you’ve lost something.” Mamma and Papà. Her home. Her safety. Her health. “You have so much to be thankful for.”
As did she. God had brought her to the Ashtons. He’d sent Mr. Moretti to comfort her with that verse.
And even if He’d done none of those things, He’d given her eternal life. He’d take her to be with Him in heaven when her days were over.
“I used to be like that.” He rested his hands on the wheels. “I’m not much company for you today. I’d better go. Mae’s coming over later. I’ll tell her to come in and visit with you.”
Comfort him, Lord. And if there’s any way You can use me to help him, show me.
**
HIS LEGS IMPRISONED him in bed. The walls closed in, pressed the air from his lungs.
All those things he’d said to Carla ...
Had he no control, no pride? How had she even stood to look at him? How had she managed to respond with such kindness?
He dragged the quilt to his chest. And how would he face her tomorrow?
His door swept open, and Mae waltzed in, clad in her Sunday best, her hair wound into a bun.
“Why’re you dressed up?” Words that shouldn’t come out so rough.
She lowered herself to the edge of his bed. “Davis took me out for supper before we came here.” She eyed him with a look only an older sister could perfect. “And you thought you could escape me.”
Now Moretti and Mae both thought he was trying to escape or hide from something. “Didn’t Hazel tell you how badly I treated her? How I yelled at her? How I ordered her from the house?” He let a smile twist his lips. “You can tell her I don’t regret a word of it.”
Mae frowned. “She told me. I wasn’t surprised. Something like that’s been building up for a long time.”
“You’re not going to rail at me?”
She rested her hands on the bed. “Why would I do that? You wouldn’t hear a thing I said.” She leaned back on her hands. “Enough about that. I just visited with Carla. She’s a sweet girl. Don’t you think so?”
One trap he wouldn’t walk into. “Don’t start that. She’s had a hard time, and she’s not looking for a paralyzed man who doesn’t leave his parents’ house.”
He couldn’t burden another as he did his family.
“That was a flattering description if I ever heard one. You’ll have all the ladies lined up.”
Sure, all the girls had looked at him with admiration before he’d gone off to war. Some of the bold ones had even told him he was strong and handsome. Right, scarcely strong enough to power his chair from room to room. And the face they’d called handsome they’d now describe as gaunt.
“Oh, Frank.” She leaned toward him and gripped his arm. “I was only trying to make you laugh.”
Then she’d set herself up for an impossible task tonight.
She released his arm. “There are plenty of ladies who’d consider themselves blessed to have you as a husband.”
If the lady in question wanted to be a nurse for her husband for the rest of her life. If she wanted to slave away to earn enough money to support them and take care of the house. If she never wanted children of her own.
“I’m glad you’re married. But no need to start working on me.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “If you really want to be an annoying little brother, you could imitate Ma and start asking me every time you see me if I’m expecting a baby.”
“Are you?” Words that should’ve been filled with humor came out lifeless.
“Not that I know of.” She smoothed her hand over her flat midsection. “Though I’ll be happy whenever the time comes.” She straightened his quilt and tucked it around him. “On a different topic, do you think Carla’s in any danger?”
He shook his head. “Unless Moretti’s in league with her family and tells them she’s here.”
“Frank.”
“He’s a coward. A murdering coward.” A man who’d hurt Mae and Davis. A man who’d had every intention of killing them.
“He saved me and Davis. He protected Hazel and Matteo. He’s no coward.”
She believed every word she said, every sickening word. “You’re saying he’s a better man than I am?”
She glared at him. “You can fight with Hazel. You might even be able to fight with Alberto. But you can’t fight with me.” A flush rose to her cheeks. “You’ve no cause to put words in my mouth.”
“He wouldn’t have had to save your life if he hadn’t handed you over to Rossi in the first place.”
She stiffened. “What’s wrong with you? What are you trying to prove? Do you think I’d ever consider you a coward because you can’t walk? Because you were injured trying to save a man’s life? You have nothing to prove. You’re one of the bravest men I know.”
Right up there with the likes of Moretti. Yet his attempt to save the colonel had been nothing but pure reflex, not some display of great courage.
She tapped his lifeless knee. “Stop arguing with me in your head. I know that look all too well.”
He ducked his head to hide from her searching gaze. “Look at me. I’m a coward just like Pa always says. I’m dependent on his and Ma’s care. I have no job. I can’t run a farm like this.”
She moved her hand to his arm. “If you’re unhappy here, move in with Davis and me for a while. We’ll help you look for a job. Maybe Davis can even get you on with the railroad. I know you don’t like numbers, but you could learn. And a desk job wouldn’t require you to move around much.”
Of course Mae would try to fix his whole life in a single conversation. Too much of Davis’s logic had worn off on her.
“Thanks, but it wouldn’t work.” He didn’t even get out of bed without Ma’s help.
“It’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s more than Hazel leaving. It’s more than your legs.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m always here if you need me. But I don’t think it’s my help you need. You need God’s help.” She pulled away, her gaze distant. “He is your Help. He is our Help.”
She leaned in and hugged him. “Night, Frank. I’ll be out tomorrow to help Ma with the cleaning.”
Then she walked from the room and left him alone with too much silence.
Help for him wasn’t to be found.
**
COLD FROM THE QUARTER panel of the Rolls cut through Alberto’s trousers and turned the side of his leg to ice. To his right lay the Belardis’ Atlanta mansion, a three-story structure styled as a Southern plantation house. As if Belardi hadn’t had it built less than two years ago.
Thomas Ruggiero—one of Belardi’s men—strode out the front door. “Donati, Mr. Belardi wants to talk to you.”
As if the man would want anything good.
He pushed away from the Rolls and covered the distance to the front door. Ruggiero stepped to the side to allow him inside.
Belardi had spared no expense. Marble tiles made up the floor, and brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling.
Ruggiero closed the door. “He’s in his study.”
Alberto’s steps echoed against the marble in a cold, hard rhythm. The marble gave way to the polished wood of a wide hallway. Antique swords glimmered from the walls, crossed as if in mid-fight.
He pushed open the study door and strode into the room.
Belardi glanced up from a stack of papers on his desk and scowled. “You don’t bother to knock, I see.”
“You wanted to see me.” He crossed to the desk and rested his hand on the edge.
Belardi’s scowl faded to an expressionless stare. “Sometimes I believe you’re trying to see how far you can push me.”
Never hurt to see what a man’s character revealed.
Belardi straightened the papers. “I hired a manager for one of my speakeasies here several years ago. Earlier today, I discovered he’s been embezzling money from me for close to a year.”
As if it had to come to this. “You want him taken care of.”
Belardi pounded the desk with his fist. “I want him dead. I want his body disposed of where it will never be found. And I want every cent of my money back. Every cent of twenty thousand dollars.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.” Another lie to add to his growing deceit. “What’s his name? Where can I find him?”
Belardi handed him the top piece of paper. “Sam Harding. I’ve written down his home address and the address of the speakeasy.” Belardi’s gaze turned hard. “If you fail, don’t bother coming back unless you’re looking for a bullet in your chest.”
Alberto folded the paper and slid it into his coat pocket. “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.”
“Good.” Belardi stood from his desk and paced to the window. “That’s all.”
And that was more than enough. Alberto strode from the room, down the hallway, and back to the Rolls. Evening darkened the sky, and the lights from the house reflected in the motorcar’s flawless black paint.
“You wreck that automobile, you pay with your life.” Ruggiero stepped away from the rear of the Rolls, his arms folded over his chest.
“Don’t worry about that.” Within a minute, Alberto steered the automobile down the long drive and turned onto the street. The Rolls made the finest Ford look and handle like a broken-down farm wagon.
Yet not even a fine motorcar could erase the truth of where he was headed. Straight back into the life that God had delivered him from, the life he’d been stepping closer and closer to since Guthrie assigned him to this Belardi mess.
He guided the Rolls through the heart of Atlanta. However this turned out, he wouldn’t kill Harding. Somehow, he had to fake Harding’s death and force the man to hand over the funds he’d stolen from Belardi.
He turned right on the street leading to the speakeasy. He had to finish gathering the information for Guthrie and get away from Belardi before the man put him in a position that would blow his cover and leave him full of lead.
Better that, though, than the alternative of murdering another person created in God’s image.
Guide me through this.
Maybe the time had come for him to part ways with Guthrie—transfer or no transfer. All this job had done was point him toward his old life.
Yet he couldn’t turn back now. No, he’d dug himself in too deep. He had to finish collecting the information needed to put Belardi and his men behind bars. After that, he’d run as fast as he could from this mess.
If he could still run by then.
The department store housing the speakeasy loomed before him. He parked the Rolls by the back of the building, away from the other motorcars. Then, as he’d done many times before, he drew the .45 from his holster, cocked it, and thumbed on the safety.
He climbed from the automobile and slipped the gun into his holster.
A guard stepped around the corner of the building, and his gaze settled on the Rolls. “You’re with Mr. Belardi?”
Alberto strode toward him. “Yes. I’ve got business with Harding.”
“Come on, then. I’ll take you to him.”
A short walk to the side of the building, through a door another guard opened, and down a narrow staircase led him into a cavernous room heavy with the scents of smoke, booze, and perfume. The guard motioned him on.
He followed the man around dancing couples and packed tables to a door behind the bar. The guard rapped on the door. “Mr. Harding, one of Belardi’s men is here to speak with you.”
The door swung open to reveal a short, fat man. Strands of hair clung to the sides of his balding head, and sweat beaded on his forehead. “Come in. I haven’t seen you with Mr. Belardi before.” Harding backed away from the door.
Alberto stepped inside and closed the door. He surged forward, grabbed the front of Harding’s shirt, and drove him against the far wall. Nausea pitched his stomach. Forgive me.
With his other hand, he reached into the man’s coat and tossed his revolver to the ground.
Harding clawed at his forearm. “Let me go. I’ve done nothing. You’ve got to believe me. I’d never do anything against Mr. Belardi. You’ve got to believe me.”
He twisted the man’s shirt, the motion coming all too easily. “Seems you’ve taken a good amount of money from him.”
The color washed from Harding’s face. “No—no. I didn’t. I give you my word.”
“He sent me to kill you. You can make that fast or slow depending on your answer.” Too many times, he’d spoken similar words. Too many times, he’d backed them up.
“Mercy. Have mercy.”
Mercy. Of all the pleas for Harding to choose. Mercy. What God had shown him.
He jerked Harding from the wall, then slammed him against it. “Get it for me. Now. All of it. Twenty thousand dollars.”
The man shook against his hold, sweat pouring from his face. “All right. All right. Let—let me go, and I’ll get it from the safe. Just let me live. I’ve got a wife. Kids.”
Harding might as well have punched him in the gut.
He wrenched his hand from the man’s shirt, took a step back, and drew the .45. “Get it. And don’t reach for a gun.”
Thumbing off the safety, Alberto turned as Harding darted toward the safe in the wall. The man had stolen from Belardi and kept the funds in a safe at Belardi’s club?
“Look, I’ll give you the money. I’ll give you all of it.” Harding fumbled with the safe, his face gray. “Just let me live. I’ve—I’ve got a family to take care of.”
Why had he gotten involved in this investigation? He tightened his grip on the .45. “Get the money.” He grabbed a briefcase from beside Harding’s desk and tossed it at the man’s feet. “Put it in there.”
Harding’s shoulders shook, and he opened the safe door. “Please.” A pathetic sob rattled the word. “Please don’t kill me. I can disappear. Belardi won’t ever know. Just let me live.”
“I haven’t got all night.” And he had even less time to stand here while the man blubbered. “Get the money in that case.”
Harding dropped a canvas-wrapped bundle to the floor and fell to his knees beside it. With shaking hands, he unbuckled the briefcase and shoved the money inside. He lifted his head, tears pouring down his cheeks. “Get it over with. If you’ve got to do it, get it over with.”
Alberto closed the distance to the man and jerked him to his feet. “Pick up the briefcase. Wipe your face. You’re going to walk out of here like you haven’t got a single worry.” Bile scorched his throat. If Guthrie were standing beside him, he’d drive his fist into the man’s face.
A curse slipped from him, followed by another.
Harding trembled. “Let—let me go, and I’ll pick it up.”
Alberto released the man and stepped back.
Harding bent and grasped the briefcase so hard his fingers whitened around its handle.
Alberto motioned to the door with his gun. “You walk through that club and go outside. I’ll be right behind you, and if you try anything, you’ll get a bullet in the back.”
“Please ...”
“Walk.” Before he lost whatever remains of control he possessed.
Harding scrubbed his sleeve over his face and stumbled to the door.
“Walk steady.” As if he needed one of the guards noticing something was wrong.
Harding straightened his shoulders and opened the door.
Alberto shoved the .45 into his coat pocket, keeping his grip on the weapon. He followed a foot behind Harding as the man wove through the dancers and tables and climbed the staircase. Of course, a guard stood at the top.
Harding nodded to the man. “I’ll—I’ll be out for an hour or two.”
As if the man had to stumble over his words.
Yet the guard opened the door. “Sure thing, sir. Everything’s running smooth.”
Harding stepped through the door and staggered to a halt.
Alberto gripped his arm and guided him to the back of the building. The door clanged shut, and a cold breeze cut through his suit.
“Listen. I’ll give you everything. You don’t have to give it to Belardi. Tell him I spent it. Tell him you killed me. Tell him anything. Let me go.”
The man couldn’t keep his mouth shut, couldn’t make this easy. Not that it should be easy. Not that it should even be happening.
The department store cloaked the Rolls in deep shadows. “You got any more guards besides that one at the door?”
“N-no. You’re not going to shoot me here. You can’t. They’ll hear. Someone will hear.”
He released Harding’s arm and pulled the .45 from his pocket. He glanced over his shoulder. The alley behind the store lay desolate.
He raised the gun. Forgive me.
He brought the barrel down hard on the man’s balding head. Harding’s knees buckled, and Alberto gripped the back of his coat to keep him from sinking to the ground.
He shoved the unconscious man in the back seat. After throwing the briefcase to the floorboard, he holstered his gun and started the Rolls.
Once he’d taken Harding to the train depot, loaded him in an empty freight car bound for some distant city, he’d deliver the briefcase of cash to Belardi.
One step closer to getting away from Belardi and Guthrie.
**
TWO WEEKS LATER
**
THE WORDS BLURRED BEFORE Frank, and he closed the book. What need did he have to study Revolutionary War battles? He’d chosen the book for nothing but distraction, and it didn’t even serve that purpose well.
He dropped it to the parlor floor and closed his eyes. A headache throbbed at his right temple in rhythm with his pulse.
“I thought I might find you in here.”
He opened his eyes. Carla walked toward the sofa, each step burdened by deliberate slowness. Cradling her right arm against her body, she sank onto the sofa. Though her dark hair stood stark against the pallor of her face, she managed a small smile.
She’d changed from her normal attire of nightwear into a light gray wool dress. What would have been a bland color on other girls brought out the deep brown of her eyes and hair.
“You look nice.” He fought for a smile of his own. She’d had a hard enough time without him bogging her down with his own woes. Something he did all too often.
Red tinged her cheeks, and her gaze tracked to the ground. “I hope this is all right. I—I didn’t bring any mourning clothes with me.”
“It’s fine.” More than fine.
She lifted her head. “Thank you. I thought I’d feel better if I tried to move around a little more today.” She brushed a strand of hair behind her shoulder. Her wound must not have healed enough to allow her to reach both arms over her head and pull up her hair. “I get tired so quickly, though.”
As did he. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”
She gave a gentle laugh. “I don’t believe walking to the parlor could be considered pushing myself hard at all.” She looked toward the window and furrowed her brow.
“You’re thinking.”
She glanced at him. “How do you know I’m thinking anything? Or maybe it’s something about needlework or—or battles of the Revolutionary War.”
She deserved more than his poor company. Besides her, he hadn’t talked to a girl close to his age other than Mae and Hazel in five years. “As long as it’s not the battles, I think I can manage.”
She pressed her lips together. “I know I asked you this before, and you refused me then ...”
Not a good way to start off a discussion.
“Mrs. Ashton says it’s a nice day. Very warm for this time of year. Will you go out on the porch with me?”
“You’re my friend, and I don’t think you’re wretched or selfish. You wore yourself out sitting up with me. You stayed with me when I was afraid. You’ve always been patient with me even when I’ve been foolish.”
Her words from weeks ago shouldn’t haunt him. Yet to refuse her again would be the height of selfishness. For her, he could force himself from the shelter of the house that too often served as his prison.
She needed him, needed the assurance of his protection, feeble as it was. Maybe she’d smile, a true smile that flooded her eyes with happiness. Maybe she’d be able to forget for a few minutes all the horrors that had been hers.
“You don’t have to. I shouldn’t have asked.”
She thought him selfish. A selfish excuse for a man who’d deny an injured girl some happiness.
“No.” The word clung to his throat and proved him a coward. “We can go out. Fresh air never hurt anyone.”
“Are you sure?”
“Let’s go.” Before he changed his mind.
He rolled to the sofa, set the brakes, and extended his hand. “I’ll help you up.”
She set her hand in his and eased to her feet. She squeezed his hand, and warmth attacked his face.
He released her. “Take it easy and tell me if you need to rest.”
“It’s only a few steps.”
A few steps when only weeks ago she’d hovered near death. A few steps he’d never again take.
He clenched his teeth, released the brakes, and moved to the front door. He turned everything back to himself. Today, he’d do something for her. He’d make her happy. Because one of them should be.
He opened the front door and rolled back to allow her access. She walked through the door, her steps a little unsteady.
A warm breeze brushed his face, carrying with it the scents of pine and river water. Nothing that his open window hadn’t let in time and time again.
He eased onto the porch and positioned his chair beside the rocking chair Carla had taken. She hugged her arms to her middle.
“You’re safe.”
“I remember you telling me that many times.” Her lips formed a wavering smile. “And you were right all those times, so I suppose I’ll trust you now.” She tilted her head. “Is that water I hear?”
“There’s a river behind the house. It must be pretty high right now.” Cool water running over his skin. The sun beating down on his head. His legs, healthy and strong, kicking at the current.
Never again.
He ran his hand through his hair. The dirt road to Lawrence City stretched on in the distance. Never again would he push the rusty farm truck to its limits on that rutted surface. Never again would he and Mae race the plow mules across the front yard. Never again would he walk to the river in the early morning, the grass wet against his bare feet, the breeze cool and damp on his face.
Never again.
Yet he was alive when he should’ve died. He had to be thankful.
And he had more to be thankful for. He sat next to a pretty girl who seemed blind to his useless legs and miserable disposition.
She rested her hand on his arm, and her warmth seeped through his shirt and into his skin. “I don’t believe you’ve heard a thing I’ve said.”
She’d been talking to him? His face heated. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
She moved her hand to the rocking chair’s armrest. “I was thanking you for coming out here with me.”
“I should’ve done it the first time you asked. Staying inside doesn’t change the truth.” He tapped the chair. “This is my life. As Pa says, I might as well get used to it.” One of the milder things Pa said.
Yet if she weren’t with him, he wouldn’t spend his time sitting here. No, he’d spend it fighting through the pages of a book on battles. As if he’d not lived through battles of his own.
He drew a slow breath. “You never talk much about yourself.”
She curled a strand of hair around her index finger. “Neither do you.”
She had him there. Yet what was there to talk about? That he’d once been athletic, strong, and handsome? Then she’d think him vain.
“All right. I’ll ask you a question. Then you can ask me one. Sound fair?”
A smile teased her lips. “Ask your question, and I’ll see.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Do you think in Italian?”
Her smile broadened. “I think in English the same as you do. Both my parents were born in New York. I do speak Italian, though.” She let the strand of hair fall from her finger. “That would make it my turn. When were you saved?”
“I was seven. I’d gotten in trouble with Ma, and she switched me good. I was blubbering worse than a baby and asked her why I was such a bad kid. She took that opportunity to tell me about how God created everything but man fell into sin. Then she told me about how Jesus died for our sins, was buried, and rose again on the third day.”
He shrugged. “And I put my faith in Him alone. It’s not a powerful testimony. Nothing like the Apostle Paul’s.”
“It’s both beautiful and powerful. And don’t say it’s not dramatic. Anyone’s salvation is dramatic. We’re helpless to do anything to save ourselves, and He saves us.”
True.
She folded her hands in her lap. “Mine was much the same except both my parents were there.” Moisture glazed her eyes, but she blinked it away. “We’d gone to church that morning, and the pastor had presented the Gospel. I was upset all day and couldn’t sleep that night. Of course, I woke up Mamma and Papà. They explained the Gospel to me, and He saved me.”
“You stole my question.”
She shook her head, and her hair brushed her cheek. Years ago, he’d have tucked it behind her ear. Years ago, he’d been a forward, impetuous boy. She trusted him, and he wouldn’t do a thing to break that trust.
She slipped her hair behind her ear. “Ask another one.”
“Did you leave behind several suitors in New York?” So much for no longer being impetuous and forward.
Red colored her pale skin, but she met his eyes. “None I could see myself spending a lifetime with. If you think you’re selfish and wretched, you should’ve seen them.” She shuddered. “They’d drive up in their fathers’ fancy motorcars and parade around in their tailored suits speaking only of themselves and how much wealth they would inherit in the future.”
“Maybe you’ll find a tolerable one around here. Then we’ll make a Southerner out of you.”
Her gaze met his, holding more warmth than he could ever deserve. “I’d like that.”
He glanced away. She wouldn’t want a man like him. She’d want a man who could protect her and provide for her.
And he wasn’t that man.