2

Ruth sat in a hard wooden chair in front of a hard wooden desk atop hard wooden floors. The warning could not be clearer. Don’t expect anything soft from the man who belongs to this room. The very walls made her feel like prey with their hunter green paint and oak wainscoting surrounding her on every side, pressing in. Even the mountain landscapes hanging around the room seemed to taunt her about reaching above her station.

Ruth frowned. Since when had she become a melodramatic ninny? The chair was just a chair. No harder than any other.

Get a hold of yourself. Mr. Palmer will be here soon, and you need your wits about you.

Deciding to distract herself, Ruth opened her reticule and extracted the only item of value she had left. Her mother’s heirloom brooch. Housed in a cloth bag Ruth had sewn as a lavender sachet for her trousseau when she was fourteen, the small luckenbooth brooch felt heavy in her hand. She turned the sachet pouch over, hiding the embroidered lavender blooms on the front, and ran her finger along the initials and dates she’d stitched into the backing after she’d married Stephen.

LD 1768

SGE 1827

REH 1859

RHF 1882

Such a legacy of love handed down from mother to daughter. A legacy that now belonged to Naomi. Ruth recalled the stories her mother had shared of how a great English noblewoman, Lady Densbury, had gifted the amethyst brooch to Ruth’s grandmother, Sarah Gooding, a mere servant, when Sarah married the lady’s grandson. Sarah and her beloved Randall left England to start a new life in America, and the brooch was handed down to their daughter, Rosemary. Ruth’s mother had met and married a cotton plantation owner in Tennessee, and even through the horrors of civil war and the loss of their land, their love remained true. When Ruth inherited the brooch, she already knew who she’d be marrying. Stephen Fulbright had owned her heart since childhood, and at sixteen, she’d married her true love and followed him to Texas to make a life of their own farming cotton.

Only their love story had ended with harsh abruptness. A fever. A failed crop. A bank foreclosure. Yet she harbored no regrets. Stephen had been her best friend and her greatest joy. Ruth’s chance at lifelong love might be gone, but Naomi had an entire future ahead of her. A future that deserved a love story and a family brooch to hand down to her own daughter someday.

Ruth loosened the ribbon that held the sachet bag closed and tipped out the brooch. Two interlocking silver hearts supported a large amethyst topped with a silver crown. The Scottish symbol of loyalty and love, connected hearts that could endure all manner of hardship without being torn apart. The deep purple jewel symbolized the rarity and preciousness of such love, a reminder not to join oneself to a man lightly but only to one of noble character and devoted heart.

Please don’t force me to give this up, she prayed as her fingers traced the outline of the jeweled pin. Soften Mr. Palmer’s heart. Help him have pity.

Sharp, efficient footsteps clicked outside the office door. Ruth scrambled to get the brooch back in the bag and the bag back in her reticule before the door opened. She was still fiddling with the drawstring when a polite voice sounded behind her.

“Mrs. Fulbright. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

She turned in her seat to smile at the short man with round spectacles and a tidy mustache who closed the door and crossed to the desk.

“I understand you’re here to make rental arrangements for one of Mr. Azlin’s properties.” He took a seat behind the desk and pulled a thin stack of papers and a small brass key from the top drawer. “Mrs. Lancaster made the initial arrangements on your behalf, so I have the rental agreement drawn up. All I need from you is your signature and the first month’s rent.”

He smiled as though he hadn’t just requested a feat as impossible as walking upon the ceiling. With brisk professionalism, he turned the papers to face her and slid them across the desktop. Then he handed her a pen and moved his inkwell to within easy reach.

Heart racing, Ruth bit her lip and considered the paper before her. She scanned the agreement, finding nothing objectionable in the wording. Fair price. Fair terms. The owner even included a caretaker’s name to contact if she should have any issues with the structure or any of the workings therein. More generous than she would have expected. Or perhaps an indication that the owner didn’t want to be bothered with any petty problems regarding his property.

Ruth had walked past the cottage on her way to the hotel, knowing it would be irresponsible to sign an agreement on the word of a stranger, even one as kind as Myrtle Lancaster. The two-room cabin sat on the far side of town, past the courthouse, well out of the way of the resort and the majority of town traffic. When she’d peered through the windows, she’d been thankful to spy a bed and a bureau in the bedroom, as well as a small cookstove in the main chamber along with a table, two chairs, and a small cabinet. No rugs or curtains or even paint on the walls, but it was serviceable and sturdy, just as Myrtle had promised.

Yet Ruth couldn’t sign. Not yet. She set the pen on the desk with a soft tap.

Mr. Palmer’s smile slipped. “Is there something amiss?”

With her tongue maddeningly dry and insides trembling, Ruth met the solicitor’s gaze. “I’m sure you’re aware that I’ll be working as Mrs. Lancaster’s cook. I’m not here for a short medicinal stay. I’m to be a permanent resident of the community.”

His brow crinkled. “I fail to see how that impacts the rental agreement.”

Ruth sighed. Dancing around the issue wasn’t helping. She needed to spit out the facts. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m a good investment. One that perhaps warrants a bit of leeway in the manner of payment. I don’t have the money you require now, but as soon as I draw my first week’s wages, I’ll put half of my earnings toward the rental cost. I’ll do so each week, so that by the end of the month, the rent will be paid in full.”

Mr. Palmer’s frown deepened, and he tugged the papers back toward him, pulling her hope of a home out of reach. “Actually, you’ll always be a week behind.” He shook his head and put the key back into the desk drawer. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fulbright, but our policy is firm. Rent must be paid at the beginning of the month. It’s a standard agreement. Without it, there’s nothing to stop an unscrupulous person, or a person who falls on hard times,” he allowed, showing at least some sympathy for her plight, “from living rent-free for a month and then skipping out without payment. As much as I would like to help you, I don’t actually know your character, do I? What kind of manager would I be if I let every young woman who batted her lashes at me twist the arrangement to her liking? Mr. Azlin would be taken advantage of, and I’d soon be out of a job.”

Batted her lashes? The condescending toad! She’d done no such thing.

“Why don’t we let Mr. Azlin decide for himself?” Ruth jutted out her chin. “Keep you out of the precarious middle?” Her daughter needed a roof over her head, and Ruth wasn’t about to let this man refuse her without a fight. If he didn’t have the authority to change the policy, then she would just have to address the man who did.

Mr. Palmer sniffed. “I assure you, Mr. Azlin is no more likely to accept your terms than I am. He designed the agreement, after all.”

“Even so, I wish to discuss it with him.” She lengthened her neck and stiffened her spine. She’d not be dissuaded or intimidated. Not when her daughter was counting on her. “If you’d be so kind as to let him know that I await his convenience?”

“Mr. Azlin is a very busy man.” He let the insinuation hang in the air.

Ruth didn’t falter. She met Mr. Palmer’s gaze without blinking. “I’ll wait.”

Beauregard Azlin massaged the muscles of his right forearm in an attempt to dull the jabbing pinpricks radiating along his nerve endings. A particularly sharp jolt shot to his wrist, causing Bo to wince. He supposed he’d better arrange for a mineral bath in his personal chamber tonight.

The waters hadn’t cured what ailed him during the last five years that he’d resided in Hope Springs, but regular doses did seem to minimize his symptoms. Well, minimized the pain, anyway. The paralysis of his wrist and forearm had seen no improvement. His arm still hung useless past his elbow, just as it had since he broke it when he’d been a lad of ten. It didn’t even hang straight. He had a permanent crook that announced his crippled state to all and sundry.

Which was why he secluded himself on the top floor of the hotel. Those used to the finest things in life were easily unsettled by the less than perfect. A crippled host didn’t inspire confidence at a resort promoting health benefits. Rather the opposite. So Bo sequestered himself and relied on his staff to keep him well-informed. He oversaw every detail of the resort, from the food served in the dining room to the temperature of the baths to the décor in the guest rooms, ensuring every aspect met his demanding standards. Whether the guest was a wealthy industrialist from New York or a humble farmer from three counties over, they were all to be treated with the greatest courtesy and respect.

No one came to Hope Springs without some kind of ailment weighing on their body and mind. Rich or poor didn’t matter when sickness hit. And if the mineral water from his wells could bring relief and hope to the people who visited, he’d thank God for the provision.

It was harder to thank God for the paperwork that accompanied said provision. Bo smirked as he released his arm and reclaimed the pen he’d set aside. The pastry chef he’d hired required the finest blackberries for his tarts, and apparently the fruit that arrived in this morning’s delivery had been less than adequate. A telegraph had already been sent to the supplier, but Bo had discovered that personal correspondence, allowing for greater explanation of the problem along with appreciation for past efforts, went a long way toward establishing healthy relationships with vendors that led to more fruitful results in the future.

A tiny snort of air escaped his nose at the bad mental pun. He really needed to get out more. Unfortunately, that would leave his correspondence uncorresponded, so abandoning his duty was not an option.

He clasped the pen in his left hand and dipped it in the ink. After more than two decades of practice, he’d become proficient at writing with his non-dominant hand, yet it still required more concentration than he would prefer. There was no such thing as scribbling for him. Every word had to be meticulously crafted.

A knock sounded on his door.

“Enter,” he called without looking away from his penmanship. Once he completed the sentence he was working on, he glanced up at his business manager and best friend.

Cornelius Palmer strode forward, his eyes full of mischief.

That didn’t bode well. Bo set down his pen and straightened. Cornelius was a genius at managing employees, but he had a rather strong meddling streak.

The manager rocked up on his toes, a touch of glee oozing around the corners of his professional stoicism. “It seems a situation has arisen that demands your personal attention.”

Bo leaned back in his chair and gave Cornelius his most quelling stare. “Oh?”

“A Mrs. Fulbright has requested to see you regarding the rental property on Third Street. She would like to arrange weekly payments once she starts earning wages, since she does not have the capital to pay the monthly rate in advance.”

Bo hardened his jaw. Mrs. Fulbright. The new cook at the Homespun Café. A widow with a young daughter. And most likely the self-sufficient lady he’d spied from his balcony this morning, collecting her luggage from the stage driver. Bo hated turning people down, especially those in need, but his innate sense of fairness demanded that he treat everyone the same. He’d turned down others who wished to rent his property when they couldn’t make the payment. Therefore, he couldn’t bend his rule now just because the person asking was a woman with a certain pluckiness he admired.

“I’m sure you explained my policy on the matter.” Bo waved his left hand, shooing Cornelius from the room. “If she cannot pay, I cannot rent her the house.”

“I told her precisely that, but she insisted on appealing to the owner himself.” Cornelius’s lips twitched, clearly fighting down a grin, causing instant dread to well in Bo’s gut. “Said she’d wait.” He paused for effect. “For as long as necessary.”

Bo scowled.

“So unless you want to have her bodily removed from the premises—which, as your business manager, I must recommend against; not good for the resort’s image, I’m afraid—I suggest you meet with her.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Bo grumbled as he gained his feet.

Cornelius bounced on the balls of his feet and gave his grin full reign. “Immensely.”

The little traitor. Little being quite literal. Bo stood a full head taller than his manager. Not that it mattered one whit when it came to changing Cornelius’s mind about anything. Cornelius wasn’t intimidated in the slightest by Bo’s size or bearing. Not even Bo’s wealth could cow him.

Which was why the two of them got along so famously.

“Fine.” Bo strode for the door, reaching for the latch with his left hand. “In your office, I suppose?”

“That, she is.” Cornelius followed him to the door. “Oh, and Bo?”

Knob in hand, he paused to glance over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“Better take some armor for that soft heart of yours. She’s got a fire in her that will turn you into a puddle if you get too close.”

Bo eyed his friend. “Don’t you know by now? I never get too close.”