“I want you here. More than you know. But I don’t want it to be because I forced you or because we made a bargain you’re unhappy with.”
Diana tossed aside the light bed coverings. After slipping into a dressing gown, she ran a brush through her hair, although it did little to tame its morning unruliness. But she cared not a whit what her reflection said and left her room, hurrying down the hallway to her husband’s bedchamber.
She rapped softly on the door. “Tyson? I know it’s early, but I wish to speak with you?”
No answer.
“Tyson? May I come in?” Another rap.
Still no answer.
Holding her breath, she opened the door a few inches and peered in. The bed was empty, still made.
Abandoned. Again. That’s what it felt like.
The sound of a throat being cleared behind her caused her to turn, hope leaping in her chest. But it was Tyson’s valet who stood at the top of the servants’ staircase. Hope died a quick death.
“May I help you, Mrs. Applegate?” Robert asked.
“I … I was looking for my husband.” She felt heat rise in her cheeks, embarrassed because of her disheveled appearance and because the staff knew her marriage to Tyson was a sham—and the fault was hers.
“He left for his office before daylight, madam.”
But his bed was never slept in. “Thank you, Robert.” She hugged herself as she returned to her room. Tears threatened, but she refused to let them fall. Crying wouldn’t help. It never had. What was needed instead was action. Tyson was a different man than he’d been when he left her. He’d told her so, but more important, he’d shown her so. Now it was her turn to show the same thing. She was different too. She wasn’t going to let circumstances sweep her along and then settle for whatever happened.
He’s never said he loves you. He might not truly want you.
“Go away,” she told that ancient voice of doubt and insecurity. “I won’t listen to you anymore.”
Weariness tugged at Tyson’s eyelids, and he set aside the newspaper he’d been looking at without comprehension for the past hour. He hadn’t slept a wink last night. Hadn’t even gone to bed. He’d sat in the library with the doors closed, reading his Bible, praying, worrying, wondering, debating until he’d thought his head might explode. That’s when he’d left the house and walked into town, hoping work would give him relief from his own thoughts.
It didn’t.
He looked at the framed photograph on his desk. It had appeared in the newspaper the day after he announced his candidacy. He’d sent an assistant to buy a copy for his office because he’d liked the way he and Diana looked together. Like a married couple. A happy couple. In the photograph, his arm was around Diana, and both of them were smiling. She’d looked lovely in a hat of straw wrapped in chiffon. Of course, the photograph was black and white, but he remembered the exact bluish-green color of her dress, the way the gown had complemented the color of her eyes and the pale tone of her skin.
From the doorway, Herbert Eastman cleared his throat. “A letter came for you, Mr. Applegate. It’s marked important.” He stepped forward and placed the envelope on Tyson’s desk.
“Thank you.”
His assistant withdrew from the room.
Tyson picked up the envelope. The handwriting looked like a woman’s. Diana’s, perhaps? Hopeful, he opened the envelope. His eyes scanned the note inside. It wasn’t from Diana. It was from Pauline. She asked to see him again. He shouldn’t be surprised. Pauline never had been sensitive to the feelings of others. She could be very single-minded when she wanted something. He would write to her at once. He would tell her it would be best for all concerned if they didn’t see each other again. He would—
“Excuse me, sir,” Herbert interrupted once again. “There is a man here to see you. A Mr. Crawley.”
Lawrence Crawley was the investigator Tyson had hired to search for Ned’s and Diana’s families. He must have news of some kind. Would it be about Ned or about Diana’s brother and sister? Pauline’s note was forgotten.
“Show him in, Mr. Eastman.” He stood, suddenly anxious, afraid the news would not be good.
Lawrence Crawley—a smallish man who sported a large mustache—stepped into Tyson’s office, hat in hand. But he wasn’t alone. Another man followed him into the room. The second fellow wore a white shirt with a frayed collar and wool trousers that had seen better days. A laborer, judging by the calluses on his hands. He seemed nervous, and there was something about his eyes—
“Mr. Applegate,” Lawrence Crawley said, “this here is Dillon Macartan.”
“Macartan?” Tyson only knew one person with that last name. Ned.
“Yes, sir. The boy’s uncle.”
“Aileen was me sister,” Dillon said, voice thick with an Irish accent.
But Tyson had already surmised that. He’d seen the photograph in Ned’s room, and there was no doubt in his mind this fellow was related to the boy. The family likeness was uncanny.
“Please.” He motioned to the chairs opposite him. “Be seated.”
Diana would grieve if Ned was taken from their home. She loved that boy with all her heart. Loved him like her own flesh and blood.
Dillon leaned forward on the chair. “Mr. Applegate, sir. I’d given up thinkin’ I might find the lad. I feared he might even be dead like his poor mum. So you can imagine me surprise when Mr. Crawley found me.”
“Tell me how this all came about. There was no mention of family in this country when your sister died and Ned went to the orphanage.”
“Me sister came to America to better her lot in life. I was being against her coming alone, but I couldn’t go meself, needed as I was on our da’s farm in Ireland. When she got herself in the family way, she wrote to me. Ashamed, she was, but she said she was all right. She was still believin’ the gentleman might marry her after all. Foolish girl.”
Tyson nodded to show he listened.
“When Aileen knew she was ill and could be dyin’, she wrote to me again. This time she begged me to come for Ned, but I—” Dillon Macartan glanced toward the window, and when he continued his voice was lower. “I’d got meself in a bit of trouble.” He cleared his throat. “Soon as I was out of prison, I worked and sold what I could to raise the passage to America. Our da had passed on by then, and the farm was belonging to another family.”
“The orphanage made no mention of Ned’s uncle looking for him.”
“I’m not easy about givin’ out me name. No point draggin’ the past here with me, if you know my meanin’. And I had nothing to prove I was the lad’s relation. I’d lost Aileen’s letters, and without them I didn’t know where she’d been livin’ when she passed. Then me money run out. I got work where I could, and I looked about for the lad, hopin’ I’d one day see him walkin’ down the street.”
“Do you mind telling me why you were in prison, Mr. Macartan?”
“I got into a fight in a pub.” Dillon shrugged. “Another man got hurt and it was by way of bein’ me own fault.”
“I see.”
“Mr. Applegate, I’ve never raised me hand to a woman or child. I’m not a violent man. I give you me word. I loved Aileen. I was good to her and I’d be good to her son. I’m the only blood kin he has left.”
This man was undoubtedly related to Ned, but Tyson had personal wealth and powerful political connections. He could keep this immigrant from taking Ned. He could keep the boy for Diana. He could—
He cut the thoughts short. As much as he might want to do those things, he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right. Not even for Diana’s sake.
“Now may I be askin’ you a question, Mr. Applegate?”
“Yes.”
“How is it the boy is livin’ with you? Your Mr. Crawley didn’t tell me that.”
“A while back, he tried to steal a pie but stole my wife’s heart instead.” Tyson smiled as he said it, picturing Diana and Ned together. “He’s been with us ever since.”
The boy’s uncle cocked an eyebrow, a silent request for more details.
Tyson told him the story, ending with, “My wife has come to hope, Mr. Macartan, that Ned would remain with us until he’s grown and off to a university.”
“University,” Dillon echoed.
“Yes. He’s a bright boy and learns quickly. He’s behind in his schooling but catching up fast. My wife has been giving him instruction.”
Silence fell and grew thicker with each tick of the clock on the fireplace mantle in Tyson’s office.
At long last, Dillon Macartan spoke again. “I’m a poor man, Mr. Applegate. I’m a good farmer and a hard worker, though I’ve no employment at present. I’m thinkin’ I’ll never have much money. Not even here in this good country. I could never be sending Ned to university.” He sighed. “But I promised me sister I’d come for him.”
“Thank you, Gibson.” Diana held the coachman’s hand as she stepped to the ground.
At nine o’clock on a Friday morning, the sidewalks on this street in downtown Boise City were mostly empty, save for a few men in suits, hurrying to and from offices.
“Shall I wait for you, ma’am?”
“Yes, please do.” She had no idea how long she would be inside. A couple of minutes? A couple of hours? It all depended upon Tyson.
She lifted the hem of her skirt and stepped from the street onto the sidewalk. A deep breath for courage, then she gave her chin a stubborn tilt and moved with a confidence she didn’t feel toward the door of the “Tyson Applegate for Senate” campaign office. Before she could give her name to the young woman at the first desk, Owen Hanson, the campaign manager, recognized her.
“Mrs. Applegate, what a pleasure to see you.”
“And you, Mr. Hanson. I need a moment with my husband. May I go back to his office?”
It was Tyson’s young assistant, Herbert Eastman, who answered her question from several desks away. “He’s with someone, Mrs. Applegate, but I don’t think he’d mind being interrupted.” He motioned her forward.
“If you’re certain.”
“I am.”
Herbert led the way through the desks in the front office, then slowed to walk beside her as they traversed the hall. Through the open doorway to Tyson’s office, Diana heard her husband’s voice. Nerves jangled in her stomach. She should have waited until whoever was with him had finished their business.
But it was too late to change her mind.
Arriving at the doorway, Tyson’s assistant said, “Pardon me, Mr. Applegate. Your wife is here.”
“Diana?”
Drawing a quick breath, she stepped into view. Tyson’s expression was difficult to read as he rose from the chair behind his desk. Then he glanced at the two men seated opposite him and back to her again.
“Come in, Diana. And Mr. Eastman, if you would close the door please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tyson rounded his desk and went to stand beside her. Nerves were replaced by dread. Something was amiss. She’d come to tell her husband she loved him and wanted to make amends, but her reasons were forgotten as the two strangers stood and faced her.
“Mr. Crawley. Mr. Macartan. May I introduce my wife, Diana Applegate.”
Macartan? She felt the blood drain from her head.
Tyson took hold of her arm, as if knowing she needed steadying. “Mr. Macartan is Ned’s uncle. Ned’s mother’s brother.”
The explanation wasn’t necessary, of course. She saw the resemblance.
“‘Tis good to meet you, Mrs. Applegate. Sure, and it is.”
Try as she might, she couldn’t say the same.
“Diana, is Gibson waiting with the carriage?” Tyson asked.
“Yes. Yes, he is. I didn’t know how long I’d … we’d be.”
“Then perhaps we should take Mr. Macartan to the house with us and introduce him to his nephew.”
Don’t let him take Ned. Ned belongs with us. I love him too much to lose him.
Her husband looked at her with a mixture of sadness and compassion in his eyes, and she realized this was hard for him too. But he’d become an honest man, a man of integrity. He couldn’t keep Ned from his uncle, no matter how difficult it would be for either of them.
Was it possible to admire and despise him at the same time for those qualities?
Tyson glanced at Dillon. “Mr. Macartan, you’ll understand that after several years of fending for himself, Ned doesn’t give his trust or affections easily. It took time for us to earn both. I should imagine it will take time for you to do the same.”
“Aye. I should imagine.”
“Then I have a proposition for you. You say you’re a hard worker and a good farmer. We don’t have a farm, but we do have an extensive garden. Since you aren’t employed elsewhere at present, come to work for me as one of the gardeners. Give Ned a chance to get to know you before you decide what to do. You can stay in a room over the stables and take your meals with the rest of our staff.”
Diana wanted to kiss him. He’d given her a little more time with Ned. Not forever, but a little more time.
Brook’s office was stifling hot. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face, but he resisted wiping the moisture away with a handkerchief. Not while that burly thug stood opposite him, threatening him with ruin—financial for certain, physical if required.
“You’re out of time, Calhoun. Your creditors want their money, and they sent me to collect.”
“I’ll have it soon. I only need another two weeks. I’ll have payment for you in full. With interest.” That was a lie. He had no way of repaying those loans. He would have been able to pay them if Tyson Applegate hadn’t shown up in May. If Brook could have married Diana and got his hands on—
“One week,” the man said. “That’s all you’ll get. One week and then I’ll be back. Have that money or pay the price.” He left, closing the door behind him.
Fear gelled in Brook’s gut. Fear and rage. He grabbed a ledger off his desk and threw it at the wall. It missed its mark, hitting the window in the door instead. Shards of shattered glass flew everywhere.
His secretary ran into the room, but before he could say anything, Brook told him to get out. The fellow wisely did as he was told.
Brook cursed as he paced the length of his office. He had to get his hands on that money. A large sum of money. Without it he would be ruined.
This was Diana’s fault too. As much as it was her husband’s fault for being alive. She’d led Brook on. She’d made him think she would marry him. She owed him, and he needed to collect.
May 1899
Diana stood near the window and watched Brook Calhoun get into his buggy and drive away.
“Did you have a pleasant evening, dear?” her mother asked from a chair in the parlor.
Diana turned. “Yes, we did.”
“Will you accept if he asks for your hand in marriage?”
“Good heavens, Mother. I have no expectation he will ask me to marry him.” She sat on the sofa. “Besides, I’m not free to marry, and Mr. Calhoun knows that.”
“Tyson isn’t coming home, Diana. He’s dead.”
“Presumed dead is not legally dead.”
Her mother sighed as she set aside her yarn and knitting needles. “Could you be happy with Mr. Calhoun?”
Diana pondered the question. She had no strong emotions for Brook, good or bad. He was pleasant enough company. He was a merchant with a growing business in a growing city. He would be able to provide for a wife and family. They could have a comfortable life together.
I would never love him.
Perhaps that was what attracted her the most to Brook Calhoun. She didn’t love him and didn’t believe she ever would. Which meant he wouldn’t be able to hurt her.
At last she answered her mother, “I would be happy enough.”