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Phoebe studied the blonde she had seen behind the perfume counter. Her husband was the chief accountant for the store. She only knew that because he had stopped to listen to her play once and introduced himself. Although he was friendly, Phoebe had found his manner too smooth for her taste.
Roslyn’s jaw tightened a moment before she responded to her employer. “Gil and I argued. That’s all.”
Mr. Newland’s stance softened. “I don’t know what is going on with the two of you, but this can’t continue, not in the store.”
A spark of defiance darkened the woman’s watery blue eyes. “Perhaps you should tell that to your friend.”
“I’ll talk to him.” He stood aside, his eyes sympathetic. “In the meantime, I’m sure they’re waiting for you on the floor.”
Roslyn wiped the tears away and held up the handkerchief. “I’ll return this later, Mrs. Crain.”
“Take your time.”
She flashed a quick smile of appreciation at Phoebe and walked past her employer.
Mr. Newland ran a hand down his face, then inhaled and released a harsh breath. “What does one do about two people—friends—who seem unsuitable?”
Assuming he asked a rhetorical question, Phoebe packed the crate with the scarves she’d made, then lowered the lid. She turned with the box and bumped into him.
“What’s in there?”
She stepped back. “Handmade scarves and mittens for the children at the orphanage.”
“Do you mind if I see them?”
Though she silently asked why, she said, “If you’d like.”
He set the crate back on the table, opened it, and peered at the contents. He felt around and accomplished a thorough inspection with understated movement. It was strange behavior for a man who only wanted a look.
He closed the box. “I’m sure each child will appreciate the gift. Let me carry this for you.”
“It’s not heavy, and I don’t want to keep you from your work.”
He lifted the container from the table and started for the door. She seized the envelope she’d set alongside the crate and followed.
“I’ll have my carriage brought around and drive you.”
Her chest might well have been encased in concrete for the difficulty she had in breathing. What made wealthy young men think she could be maneuvered into whatever deeds fit their whims? “Mr. Newland, I have money for a hack and am perfectly capable of making the trip alone.”
“Phoebe, the weather is awful, and I have the time to see you there and back safely.”
She hated hearing him use her given name, because it roused an impatience in her to hear it again.
“That’s all you want?” The words rumbling through her mind snapped from her mouth, but it was too late to tone them down.
“What else?” His eyebrows formed a deep V shape. They jumped the moment he understood. He shook his head. “I’ve conducted myself as a gentleman around you, treating you with the respect I would show any woman. Why must you strike out at me like a hissing cat slapping at the nose of a friendly dog?”
His eyes flashed, and she expected him to drop the box into her hands and walk away. Instead he said, “I’m not sure what about me has gotten your goat, but whatever it is, I find your attitude uncalled for and unfair.”
A ripple of doubt cracked the concrete in Phoebe’s chest. Dare she believe he wanted nothing but friendship from her? Had she become so cynical in the past five years that she couldn’t accept a man’s help without believing he had an ulterior motive?
Relentless rain beat the roof like drumsticks on the surface of a kettledrum. To accept a ride from him was a terrible idea. Terrible.
Then again, she’d need to search for a hack. In the rain. In the cold rain.
When Spence Newland walked down the hallway with the crate, Phoebe trailed behind. She would let him drive her. But she would keep up her guard.
***
SPENCE PLACED THE CRATE on the floor under the carriage seat while Phoebe waited in a dry location under the store’s awning.
Why had he volunteered for this trip when he had a desktop covered with work, a thief to find, and a stubborn investor he’d decided not to give up on?
Thankfully, the box contained only knitted winter clothing accessories and not store merchandise. He’d already accused Phoebe of extortion, which he regretted. A few minutes ago, he’d worried about needing to accuse her of theft.
He could accurately accuse her of distrusting him. It only made him more determined to find out why.
Spence accompanied Phoebe to the carriage and helped her inside. Seated next to her, he prodded the gelding into a brisk walk along the sloppy rain-soaked street.
They headed south and crossed the bridge spanning the river. Rain struck the canopy and dripped down the sides, spattering onto his left sleeve. It darkened portions of the gelding’s copper coat and left the road a rutted and puddled mess.
They had traveled a mile from town without saying a word. To fill the discomforting quiet, he asked, “Did you make all those scarves and mittens?”
“Only a few. The rest come from the other members of Widow’s Might.”
There was that name again. “I’m not familiar with the organization. What do you do?”
“We’re not an organization, just a group of friends who meet socially once a week. Occasionally, we take on charitable projects.”
“Everyone is widowed?”
She straightened a skirt that didn’t need straightening, and they advanced a good thirty yards on their journey while Spence waited for an answer. “Yes.”
Pithy and to the point. He’d anticipated a bit more explanation but let it go. They fell back into silence.
Minutes later, Spence turned off a country lane and onto the drive that led to the Bethel Children’s Home. Fallow fields lined each side. Here the boys were taught to plant and harvest. Outbuildings housed machinery that they learned to use and repair. The girls learned to can, cook, and care for a home. At the same time, they all attended school. The home provided everything the children needed to become competent adults. Everything but a family.
He halted the horse and stared through a light drizzle at the large two-story building. The whitewash on the plain wood-frame exterior had faded to a dull gray, adding a greater somberness to the structure’s purpose.
“My family has supported this orphanage for years, but this is the first time I’ve visited. I should have made it a point to come here before now. I imagined the place as a clean, pleasant home for children who are happy and healthy. I wasn’t expecting it to look this...dismal.”
“The small staff does their best with the needs of the children who live here. It’s relatively clean, but I’m afraid it isn’t any less gloomy inside.”
A rusty-haired boy of about twelve years opened the door. His clothing hung on him like Maura’s coat had hung on her. The sight was like a punch to Spence’s ribs. “Do you know him?”
“No. I’ve only been here a couple of times.”
Someone must have said something, because the boy looked behind him and moved away from the door.
They were greeted by the administrator, Mr. Jernigan, a balding, lean-framed man, haggard looking, yet with a twinkle in his blue eyes. In the background, children talked and laughed, though not in a raucous manner. The floor above them creaked with several pairs of footsteps.
Spence handed Mr. Jernigan the crate.
“Thank you, Mr. Newland. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He turned to Phoebe. “Please thank your friends, Mrs. Crain. God has provided you ladies with charitable hearts. The children will be delighted.”
Even with a less-than-stellar financial state these days, Spence had the ability to outgive Phoebe Crain and the Widow’s Might ladies every day of the week. But these children needed something the Newland’s money couldn’t buy them and the widows couldn’t provide—mothers and fathers to raise and love them.
With nothing to do while Jernigan discussed the contents of the crate with Phoebe, Spence explored his surroundings.
Phoebe was right. The house was neat but dark. They could use more lamps, newer and brighter wallpaper, and window curtains of a lighter shade and material. He shivered in the chilly dampness. They could use more heat.
The boy he had seen at the door peered around the corner of a wall. Spence stepped closer. “My name is Mr. Newland. What’s yours?”
Nothing.
“Jamie don’t talk to strangers.” A towheaded girl about nine years old reached for the boy’s hand. “He talks to me though.”
It was good to learn the boy was capable of speech. “I hope you won’t consider me a stranger next time, Jamie.” Next time? He made it sound as if he planned to return soon. He scanned the room again. Maybe he would.
“We’re finished with our business, Mr. Newland.”
He looked around the drawing room one more time. “I am, too, Mrs. Crain.”
He had been too forward in using her given name earlier. Try as he might, he couldn’t drum up any remorse. He liked the name Phoebe. Unless she grew testy, he planned to keep using it.
***
WHILE THEY WERE INSIDE the orphanage, the rain had turned to snow, which added another layer of treachery to the road’s surface.
Spence huddled deeper in his coat, glad for the top over the carriage. He kept the gelding at a gentle pace. Flakes landed on the animal’s back like invading soldiers. They promptly disappeared, defeated by the weapon of a warmer body.
They reached the main road, and Phoebe asked, “Why did you inspect the contents of the crate?”
He thought he’d been subtle in his search. “Promise you won’t get upset?”
“Yes.”
She was a lovely liar. “I was looking for missing inventory.”
Phoebe stared at him—glared, really. “You thought I was a thief sneaking something out of the store?”
“Ah, ah.” He waggled a finger at her. “You promised.”
She freed a dainty huff. “Is it a lot of merchandise?”
“It has added up.”
“This has happened more than once?”
“Three times that we know of.” He frowned. “Apparently I’m no Sherlock Holmes, because I’m stymied as to how it’s being done. No one has provided any useful information.”
“You suspect an employee.”
His eyebrows arched. “How did you know?”
“Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve read a couple of the detective’s cases.” Her lips twitched, as if cracking a full smile meant betraying whatever vow she’d taken to remain aloof toward him. “Now that I know, I’ll keep watch during my hours at the store.”
Spence’s grip tightened on the reins. “That’s a nice offer, Phoebe, but I’d prefer you not get involved. We don’t know what kind of person we’re dealing with.”
“Have you contacted the police?”
He should. He’d failed in his own investigation. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated and could have an adverse effect on our future plans.”
The snow changed to a light rain again.
“Are you closing the store?”
“What made you jump to that conclusion?”
“I may know little about what it takes to run a company, but I do know it’s been a hard few years for businesses.”
“We’re not closing.” Spence sighed. He probably shouldn’t speak of it, but he couldn’t afford a rumor of the store’s demise spreading. “Can you keep a confidence?”
“Of course.” Her tone said she considered his question unnecessary.
“We’re planning to expand by opening five-and-ten-cent stores.”
“You set aside the area in Newland’s to test the feasibility of your plan?”
He grinned. “You know more about business than you’ve admitted. You’re right. Things have been difficult these past years. There was a time when we could expand with the help of a bank loan. Unfortunately, bankers are still stingy with their money, so we need an investor—a silent partner. We thought we’d chosen the perfect man, but he declined.”
“He was the one to receive the cigar box?”
“Yes.” Talented and intuitive. Why couldn’t that intuition tell her to trust him as he was trusting her by revealing the information about Lark?
“I’m sorry. I tried to return it the night you came for it. You’d already ridden off.”
He jerked on the reins, caught by surprise. Once he’d settled the prancing gelding, he said, “It doesn’t matter. His wife had left town before I learned of the mix-up. I shipped it to him and received a polite letter of appreciation.”
“But you won’t give up on him?”
“No. If he hears news of our thefts, I’m afraid all hope will be lost.”
“Is it possible he isn’t the right man to invest in your idea?”
Spence shrugged. “Clifton Lark has a reputation for integrity, which is important to us.”
“In that case, you should take you own advice.”
“What advice?”
She winced. “I overheard your conversation with Maura last Saturday.”
He chuckled. “Why didn’t you make yourself known? I could have used your support.”
“You were doing fine, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Your daughter asks hard questions.”
His comment won a tiny smile from her. “She’s relentless with them. I wish I had thought to tell her about God in the form of a father to the fatherless.”
“What advice did I give her that I should heed?”
“You told her God would help me find her a father if it was His will. You also said I’d need to listen to Him. Doesn’t that apply to you and your investor? If it’s God’s will that you partner with someone, do you believe He’ll help you find the right person? Or were those only pretty words to ease a little girl’s disappointment?”
Spence couldn’t remember the last time he had relied on God for direction. What he’d said to Maura had come naturally. He believed it...and often failed to heed his own counsel.
“I also remember telling Maura she had a wonderful mother.”
Phoebe turned away, seemingly uncomfortable with the praise, but he refused to take it back.
Something flashed in his peripheral vision.
“Spence, look out!”
