4 
4 At 6:45, Meg looked out the window for the last time; then she swore to herself that she wouldn’t go toward it again. She found it very discouraging to pace away her Friday and Saturday evenings in front of the window waiting for Mr. Wilberforce to come calling.
Perhaps he hadn’t taken the hint. Perhaps she shouldn’t have given him a hint. Margaret wouldn’t have. Meg had.
Regardless, how could Mr. Wilberforce have taken her seriously with Harold Adams talking to her as if she were an infant? Meg had told Harold she wasn’t receiving visitors on Friday and Saturday night because she would be “indisposed”—another word learned from her mother when Mother didn’t want her lady friends to come over unexpectedly.
Resigned to the fact that Mr. Wilberforce wasn’t coming, Meg went upstairs to put on her nightgown and robe.
She paused by Grandma Nettie’s door, which was cracked open, light spilling into the hallway.
“Come in, Margaret, I want to talk to you about the saloon.”
Meg wasn’t upset about that. What had bothered her more was Harold insisting he show her the damage done to the Blue Flame. Meg had seen for herself the flyers pasted on the front of the building. If Harold thought that was a big deal—Grandma Nettie chaining herself to the White House would be a capital offense.
Chief Officer Algie Conlin of the Harmony Police Department had come over this morning to write Grandma a citation. Mr. Pickering of the Blue Flame wasn’t pressing charges. He simply wanted the mess cleaned up and since her grandmother had refused, she had to pay a fine and the cost of hiring somebody to take the papers down.
Grandma Nettie sat on the sateen bed quilt, and she patted a spot beside her. “Sit down, dear.”
Meg walked into the bedroom that belonged to her parents and lowered herself on the edge of the bed.
Grandma still wore the oyster-colored blouse waist and crow-black silk skirt she’d had on at the hotel. “You’re upset with me because of the saloon.”
“I told you, it’s not that, Grandma. I don’t like how Harold thought it so awful he had to broadcast the news right in front of Mr. Wilberforce.”
Grandma pulled several of the pins from her gray hair and unwound her thick bun. “If Harold feels it necessary to call you out in public because of something I did, then he needs a dosing of sulphur and molasses.”
“I’d be happy to give it to him.”
“Margaret,” Grandma Nettie said, taking Meg’s hand. “I’m likely to have considerably more notoriety in the future.”
“What are you planning?”
“More flyers. Only this time I won’t paste them up. I’ll pass them out on the streets to my sisters.” Grandma Nettie’s expressive face changed; a bright spark of purpose held her features captive. “As long as women accept the position assigned to them, their emancipation is impossible. I have to make them understand that having the vote is the best way to be heard.”
She took Meg’s other hand into hers. “You could be quite an asset to the sisters, Margaret. Let me know if you’re interested.”
“I can’t . . . ladies don’t do such things.”
Meg liked the feel of Grandma Nettie’s silky thin skin next to her own. She laid her head on her shoulder and snuggled against the woman beside her. Meg loved her Grandma Nettie dearly. She did things Meg used to do on a smaller scale. Oh, not fighting for the suffragette cause; but hoydenish things. Trifling behavior that Mrs. Wolcott told her was above her now that she had converted to true refinement.
Whispering into the crook of her grandmother’s neck, her Colgate’s cashmere perfume smelling comforting to Meg, she whispered, “Grandma, I think that you’re the bravest person I know.”
“Oh, Margaret.” Her arm came around Meg and the two women embraced.
In that shared moment, Meg was so proud of her grandma, she wished that she had the courage to defy decorum again, too. Because the real Meg Brooks was suffocating under a self-imposed exile.
* * *
An hour later, Meg went downstairs. She should have taken up needle and thread and repaired her petticoat but she didn’t relish the thought of sewing. She simply had no patience for it. So she’d stuffed the damaged underwear beneath her bedstead. After all, she did have four more.
At eight, the clock chimed.
Meg sat sideways in one of the velvet drawing room chairs, teasing the silk fringe on the padded arm with her fingertip as she kept her nose in a book. She wore her house gown—a threadbare old thing whose pale blue crepe de chine had lost its luster long ago.
She’d put Mr. Wilberforce from her mind and she was actually enjoying herself with a good book and a box of caramels that was just shy of heaven. Of course the curl papers in her hair and liberal application of Secret de Ninon on the bridge of her nose for freckles weren’t all that great. But a woman had to do what a woman had to do.
The tips of her felt slippers dangled off her stockinged toes. As she turned the page, she plucked another candy and popped it into her mouth.
In the kitchen, Mr. Finch was finishing for the evening. Dishes rattled every now and then as he stacked them. Grandma Nettie had retired to a bath.
Letting the caramel slide over her tongue, Meg absorbed the words that were leaping out at her from the novel. This was an especially juicy story, one where the heroine had been swept away by a band of thieves in the Arabian desert. She was just about to be saved by the hero, a dashing sheik astride a black charger. His tan face scowling down at the rogues . . . he raised his sword—
“Miss Margaret!”
Mr. Finch’s stern British voice bellowed from the kitchen once more. “Miss Margaret, somebody is ringing the bell. Aren’t you going to answer it?”
Brrrrinnnggggg!
The door chime cranked, jolting Meg from the chair. The book plopped onto the floor. She shoved the caramel into her cheek, keeping it from her tongue with her teeth so that she could say in a mumble, “I’m coming.”
Then a distasteful thought wrinkled her nose: Harold Adam’s Apple.
But he wouldn’t come this late. Nobody would unless there was something wrong at the hotel.
Meg opened the door with the expectation of finding the night manager, Mr. Beasley, on the stoop.
Instead, she instantly froze.
“M-Mr. W-Wilberforce!” she squeaked, nearly choking on the candy.
He took a step backward, his gaze wide as it traveled across her in a very brief examination, but she hardly noticed as she took in his towering presence.
The cigar clenched in his teeth was so masculine. His block-crowned derby rested atop his head in a debonair manner. The arm cuts of his coat were filled out perfectly with his broad shoulders, and his vest was red—a dashing contrast to the white of his shirt. His shoes were the latest fashion—black calfskin stitched with celluloid eyelet. He’d really spruced himself up to come calling.
He’d come to call!
Automatically, both hands rose to her hair—all those horrid curl papers. She patted her head as if that would make everything disappear. Then she remembered her freckle cream.
With a mortified gasp, Meg slammed the door in his face.
Think!
The vestibule grew deadly quiet; then the bell rang. She jumped. There was no help for it. She simply had to answer the door and pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary. A lesson that Mrs. Wolcott taught her popped into her mind.
A lady never lets a man know he has caught her at a disadvantage.
Very well.
The door rang a third time. Meg swallowed her caramel.
With a regal grace, she swept the door inward.
“Mr. Wilberforce,” she greeted.
He stared at her face.
The cream!
Before she realized what was happening, he’d reached into his pocket, produced a handkerchief, and began to wipe off the white lotion. Gently. With small strokes. Very slowly. Very deliberately. So much so, that Meg shivered.
“I like a woman with freckles,” he said close to her ear, evoking a gasp from her.
Meg didn’t move when he came closer to rub the last traces of Secret de Ninon from her nose. She could smell his cologne, quite subtle. So subtle, she could still detect his coconut bath soap. “You do . . .? Really like a woman with freckles?”
Leaning toward her, he replied in a low voice, “I really do.”
That did it. She was going to throw away that jar of expensive cosmetic.
When he’d removed the freckle cream, he took a step backward and looked at her. “Much better.”
Much better? Even with her hair curlers? But she wasn’t going to remind him of that. He might want to take them out . . . and she just couldn’t stand here while he did. She’d faint. Yes, faint This was the “a lot” she’d told Grandma Nettie it took to make her faint.
“Why, this is such a surprise.” That was all she could manage until he said something else.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No. Of course not.”
“I would have come at a more appropriate hour, but I was detained,” he said, then added, “Business.”
The unlit cigar clamped in Mr. Wilberforce’s teeth caused him to talk from the corner of his mouth, drawing further attention to his lips. His voice came across in a bourbon-smooth drawl. “I was wondering if you’d be able to accompany me tomorrow for a row on the lake.”
Meg’s stomach flip-flopped. “I’d be delighted.”
“Splendid,” he replied. “I’ll be by at one. Is that all right?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Good.” He put his fingers to his hat. “I’ll see you then.”
With a smooth turn, he left the verandah and disappeared into the night, leaving Meg breathless with anticipation.
* * *
Sunshine filtered through the network of treetops, while songbirds called from the branches of cottonwoods knobby with swollen buds. A brilliant blue sky stretched high and cloudless. The temperature was slightly cool, but was made comfortable by the warming rays of sun.
A woodsy scent floated on the air, a smell unfamiliar to Gage. In his world, life stunk—almost to an overwhelming literal sense. It was his job to reveal the garbage to his readers. Few of his assignments took him out into nature. He was used to the cloying density of population, choking automobile exhaust, the corrupt odor of ink amid volumes of court documents, and the tarnished taste of political brass.
As a detective journalist, his state of mind usually bordered on being cynical, suspicious, and nongullible. But right now, with a light wind skipping over Fish Lake and stirring the fragrance of wildflowers he couldn’t name, he found his basic distrust of life less heightened. There was a certain tranquility here that seeped through his citified clothing and relaxed him.
His motives had been to bring Meg to the scene of the supposed crime her brother had committed.
As Gage dug the paddle into the water, the lake’s surface rippled. He glanced at the woman across from him. Her face was partially shaded by a flounced white sun parasol—the kind with an orange duck bill for the handle and a dangling gold tassel. She wore one of those long-waisted dresses in pale pink. The front panel, which stretched from throat to hem, had a lot of tucks and the entire dress was lace-trimmed.
Her hat of choice today was what Minnie Abbott, who wrote the fashion column in The Chronicle, called a turban. This one was braided straw with a rosette and two wings—both flying toward the left, leaving the right side appearing cockeyed. Appearing . . . more alluring than it should to him.
Gage forced himself to disregard the fact that he’d asked Meg to join him under false pretexts. There was no room in a journalist’s life for guilt. Nerve. He had a lot of it. He produced stories that disturbed the accepted view of things. Many people were angry at him at any given day.
Someone had to expose the seamier side of life, and he did the job well. Reporters weren’t necessarily objective truth-seekers. Gage certainly wasn’t. He had definite opinions as to what was right and what was wrong. Without that ability to make sharp judgments, he would never be able to suspect that the official story was inaccurate.
In this case: Wayne Brooks winning a thousand dollar purse away from Ollie Stratton of Alder when Stratton had clearly been better qualified at fly-fishing.
This story had all the necessary elements. From L. Farley, Gage had found out where the young man lived. Worse yet, Stratton cared for an aged mother. A heart-tugger. Before Gage went to Alder, he had to learn all he could about Wayne. And Meg was his best source.
“Miss Brooks, you must tell me all about yourself,” Gage suggested, steering them toward a small dock.
“I’m completing a term at Mrs. Wolcott’s Finishing School,” she said. “I’ve learned a lot of things, mostly how to be a lady.” With an arch of her brows, she hastily added, “Not that I wasn’t one before.”
“I can’t imagine you not being a genteel lady, Miss Brooks.”
“Thank you.”
She straightened and rested the parasol against her shoulder. “Tell me about you, Mr. Wilberforce. Where are you from?”
Without thought he said, “Battlefield, North Dakota.” A far cry from San Francisco. “Do you like small towns, Miss Brooks?”
“Do you?” she returned.
“It all depends on the town.” Gage couldn’t let up. “Have you lived here all your life?”
“Uh-huh.” She cringed. “I mean,” then in a refined voice, “yes.”
“Your family?”
“Since my parents married. They used to live in Des Moines. That’s where my Grandma Nettie’s from.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“One. A brother. Wayne. I mentioned him before. He’s at the university. Cornell,” she said with a fair amount of pride.
“Attending Cornell is ambitious.”
“Yes, well, Wayne can have his good points and ambition is one of them.”
Ambition enough to rig a contest? Gage wondered. It took brains and a lot of dough to be admitted to the prestigious New York State campus. One thousand dollars in prize money could see a person go far.
“What kind of ambition does he have, Miss Brooks?”
She frowned. “He doesn’t write to me very much. He’s very busy on campus. You know how it is. There’s so much going on at any given day.”
Gage sensed she didn’t really know what her brother wanted out of Cornell.
“Do you have plans to go to college, Miss Brooks?”
“Me? Why, nobody’s ever asked me that before.”
“Is it something you’ve thought about?” This didn’t mean squat to his line of questioning. Gage was purely curious. More than he ought to be.
“Not really. The requirements for a hotel proprietress don’t include a college education. I had a mind to manage a small establishment, much like my father’s, but things didn’t work out.”
“How so?”
“My father wouldn’t hire me.”
“Why not?”
“He said I lacked experience.”
“How could you get experience unless he hired you?”
“Exactly.” She smiled at him, quite becoming. “I tried to get a position at another hotel, but I wasn’t successful. I found out nobody takes a ‘Miss’ seriously. If you’re a woman, you have to have ‘Mrs.’ in front of your name and your husband be dead in order for you to gain any respect.”
Gage cracked a smile at her unintended humor. “So now what?”
Her brown eyes grew soft as she gazed at him. “So now my plans have changed.”
“How so?”
“I’ll do what ladies my age are doing. Follow my mother’s footsteps and get married.” She said the words with certainty. “What about you? Do you have designs to marry?”
Gage abruptly cut the motion of the oars and rested the handles in his lap atop the black and brown suit coat he’d shrugged out of earlier. The boat coasted on its own, but he didn’t readily notice the course.
Marriage? He never thought about getting married. Frankly, because he’d make a wretched husband. What woman would want him?
He kept abominable hours. He had a passion to exploit crime, scandal, and shocking circumstances with the spirit of a crusade. Then he delivered his clever words in a way that some called sensationalist.
“I haven’t devoted much thought to the subject.”
Without further ado, Gage prodded himself into action and rowed the boat toward the shady side of the lake where a covered mooring was located.
The dockage’s roof had been recently repaired. Last year’s fall leaves dusted the older section, but the new gave off the pungency of fresh wood with its caramel-colored lumber. Lattice made up the sides, while the lower part of the housing was boarded with a platform that ran in a half square.
Gage bumped the edge of the boat on the dock ramp. Clutching his suit coat, he stood and got out. With a careless toss, he discarded the expensive coat onto one of the boathouse benches.
“Hand me that rope, would you, Miss Brooks?”
Meg plucked the damp hemp between two fingers as if she were picking up a dead cat’s tail. Holding just enough to remain “delicate” as she stretched her arm out to him. He took the rope and secured the rowboat to the docks, then extended his hand to help her up.
She kept her decorous manner as she rose, and he could have sworn he heard her murmur, “Mrs. Wolcott would be proud.”
Then she moved in a fluid way filled with deliberateness—as if she weren’t used to such a maneuver. Lifting her foot to the boat’s bench seat so that she could step up, her modest air lasted just long enough for her to snag the bottom of her petticoat with the tip of her shoe. Her eyes widened as she swiftly looked down, then yanked her hand out of his with such a jerk, she went reeling backward before he could prevent her from falling overboard.
The last thing he saw were two drawer-covered legs sailing upward amid a festoon of white petticoat ruffles.
Then the bob of hat feathers—minus the head that the hat should have been on. In that instant, Gage dove into the cold lake.
* * *
At least she hadn’t lost her petticoat.
As soon as she’d stepped on her hem by accident, she’d pulled away from Mr. Wilberforce so she could feel her waistband and make sure the elastic was still in place. Everything had been as it should, but in her attempt to keep appearances she’d fallen overboard in the most unbecoming fashion.
She probably should have let the darn thing fall off. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her without it before. Clearly, she wasn’t cut out to be the wearer of the latest fashion rage.
Her hat . . . the lovely satin straw braided number with wire frame and shirrings of taffeta silk, wings, and dashing rosettes, was drowned. Just as drowned as Meg herself. With each step she took, her shoes squeaked and sloshed.
But as Meg walked the narrow trail that wound around the lake, she thought perhaps it had been fate. Because even though the water hadn’t been but four feet deep, he’d rescued her. His strong arms around her had felt wonderful as he’d pulled her out of the chilly water and brought her to shore.
She didn’t want to go back to the rental dock. And in spite of their wet clothing, neither did Mr. Wilberforce. In fact, he kept staring at her. To the point where she felt like she should have insisted they return to town even though she didn’t want to go.
A true lady would have been mortified by the wet fabric clinging to her legs and outlining the shape of her bodice. But her self-consciousness wasn’t enough to make her leave.
With teeth chattering and soggy hat in hand, Meg declared, “I know of a nice sunny spot where we can dry out.”
“Put my coat on,” Mr. Wilberforce insisted as he draped the wool coat over her shivering shoulders. His hot gaze swept across the column of her neck and to the delicate edge of her neckline; her skin burned in spite of the cool water running down her collarbone.
“Thank you.” The Allard-Lee & Co. coat smelled faintly of Mr. Wilberforce’s cologne. Meg never realized just how comforting something like that could be. She’d never worn a man’s coat before.
As Meg trudged along using her closed parasol as a walking stick, she wished Mr. Wilberforce would say something. He had been inexplicably quiet since her . . . accident.
With each step she took, she felt his gaze skimming over her. As if he were pondering just what kind of woman she was. Or, if she dared consider a shocking thought, wondering if he were looking at her in a way that no gentleman would consider.
The very idea pulled at her composure. She didn’t want to dwell on such a thought because she didn’t know how to cope with it. Instead, she kept her thoughts on a safer subject.
He must think her a feminine disaster. To her credit, she’d only had these little accidents since forcing herself to remember ladylike maneuvers. The old Meg could run in a skirt without so much as a falter. Margaret had too many trappings: gloves, parasol, hat, silk-vested shoes with dainty heels that did more to trip than aid in walking.
“It’s not much farther, Mr. Wilberforce,” Meg called over her shoulder, looking into his face.
A mistake. Her step faltered a little when she observed what he was doing.
His slow gaze traveled over the tender skin above her mouth. Then her mouth. Beneath his searing examination, a gasp parted her lips.
She really should have said they should go back . . .
But the very idea of spending the afternoon with him was too dazzling to forgo.
“I’m with you, Miss Brooks,” he replied in a soft drawl—as if he weren’t doing anything at all other than walking.
“Yes . . . I see that.”
Meg faced forward and forced her thoughts to quit racing. She had to stop being so foolish. Remember who she was, wanted to be. The three Cs: cultured, civilized, charming.
Never mind about hot gazes and glances at her mouth as if he wanted to . . . well, enough of that She had to remain steadfast in her efforts to win a man over with her new and improved self.
Since she’d failed in the etiquette department, she decided to charm him with her knowledge of the local flora. Flowers she knew. She’d studied that particular chapter in her deportment book thinking it was one of the more interesting ones. Bouquets made up of ivy, snowdrops, and maiden’s blush roses had their own language. The ivy signified friendliness, the snowdrops hope, and the roses secret love.
Ladies waited to be sent flowers with such sentimental messages. But, frankly, Meg preferred yellow daisies, which meant shared feelings. She longed to find a man who shared her same ideals without her having to change her appearance or thoughts.
Regardless, she’d received neither type of bouquet from a gentleman caller.
Meg spied a particularly vibrant patch of blue.
With the intent to point out her knowledge of local plant life, she abruptly ceased her steps—only to have Mr. Wilberforce slam into her and knock her off kilter.
He braced his hands on her shoulders to keep her from toppling into the wild sorrel that grew alongside the trail.
Beneath his breath he said, “Miss Brooks, you sorely tempt me.”
Turning her head, she whispered, “I do?” Her heart beat so fast, she could barely put a coherent sentence together—short as it might have been.
This close, his eyes were defining shades of summer green and the gold hues of fall sunsets. Breathing became an effort, collected thoughts became a struggle.
The weight of his hands on her shoulders felt deliciously strong and protective. “You’re a very enchanting woman and any man fortunate enough to hold you in his arms would be hard-pressed not to take advantage of the situation.” Mr. Wilberforce lowered his face over hers. “Did you stop because you want me to kiss you?”
Meg sucked in her breath. No man had ever asked her that. Not even Harold. Not that she had ever been kissed by him. Not that she wanted to be. “It hadn’t been my intention . . . but if you want—”
She got no further. His lips came softly over hers and he kissed her startled mouth. Catching her up in his arms, he brought her close to his chest and deepened the kiss. He kept her snugly against him, and she began to relax. Until he traced the seam of her mouth. Such an intimacy . . . it left her reeling.
“Miss Brooks,” he spoke against her lips, “have you ever been kissed before?”
She shivered; he held her tighter. “Yes, of course.” The lie came easily enough.
“Then you don’t mind if we kiss some more,” he said after a spell.
And kiss her he did. Slow. Thoughtful. Kisses that left desire racing through her. His touch was a delicious sensation she had never imagined possible. Her fingers came to rest lightly on his shoulders—her hat nearly dropping from her grasp; she needed the support or else she would have . . . swooned. Like a real lady in a fit of the vapors. Completely unlike her. She’d thought such a thing ridiculous. And yet . . .
“I need to sit down,” she said in a rush. “I find I’m feeling quite . . . quite unlike myself.”
“You feel quite nice to me.” His words melted her senses. She might have fainted dead away but she stubbornly refused to miss a second of this bewitching moment.
Pulling her thoughts together, she willed herself to gain a clear head. In order to do so, she had to talk. Talk about anything. The weather. The sky and lake. The flowers.
“I was going to show you that meadow of blue camas when I stopped,” she blurted. “Doesn’t that look like a puddle of water? But it’s not. That bit of yellow beside it, that’s marsh buttercup; it has yellow petals. And over there is false Solomon’s-seal, and . . . and right here is trout lily. In spite of its name, it doesn’t smell like a dead fish. Although I wouldn’t be sending a person whom I harbored a token of affection for a bouquet of trout lily. The more suitable choice would be . . . would be . . .” She lost her train of thought when he stared at her like that. His mouth offering a little comma of a smile as if he thought she were a true beauty. “Oh, never mind.”
At that, he half-laughed—as if he didn’t want to but couldn’t help it. A rich and warm sound that provoked shivers up her arms and across the nape of her neck where his delicious coat caressed her bare skin.
“You were going to show me a place where we could sit in the sun.” He released her—she missed him immediately—and she instantly chilled as air circulated around her wet clothing.
Meg gripped the edges of her hat so tightly she nearly broke the braiding. “Yes. It’s where the tributary of Evergreen Creek runs right into the lake. Beside it is a quaint meadow, where all around, the timber has fallen to keep the spot nice and bright with sun.”
Meg moved forward, rather automatically. She heard Mr. Wilberforce follow behind her.
The meadow came into view and Meg stepped over a decaying tree. Off to the right, came the sound of water as it trickled from the creek, flowing over rocks and sun-bleached boulders. A blue jay sat atop one of the tree stumps with a nut in its mouth, then flapped its wings and flew away.
Finding the perfect fallen pine amid the ground blanket of grape ferns and leafy maidenhair, Meg selected a tree and sat down. Her skirts clung to her legs. She laid her hat on the rough trunk of the lodgepole. Then she folded her fingers together and rested them in her lap. She would have done something with her hair if she could have managed without being dreadfully obvious. Instead the dark copper length dripped down her back.
Mr. Wilberforce took a seat beside her, the cuffs of his trousers hiking a good five inches above his ankles. My goodness . . . he was shrinking. That was to say, his wool pants were from the dousing they’d received. Meg bit her lower lip. She was the Queen of Wool Shrinkage. Even when she used that guaranteed no shrink wool soap from Sears & Roebuck.
She hoped he wouldn’t notice. Things were going so well.
“Is this what you’d call high?” Mr. Wilberforce asked.
Meg swallowed and glanced at his shortened trousers. “They’re not all that high. Why, I’ll bet you could let the hem down and nobody would ever be able to tell what happened. I’d offer to do that for you, but I think you’d be much better off with a professional.”
He gave her a sideways stare. “I was referring to the stream,” he clarified. With a flicker of a frown, he took a glimpse of his worsted trousers. “I know that my pants have become abbreviated. And I thought about tossing you back into the lake because of it.”
If he hadn’t grinned when he said it, she would have feared he’d been serious. She smiled along with him.
“Do you fly-fish, Miss Brooks?” he asked.
“I did when I was younger.”
“Not anymore?”
“Well . . . nothing I would admit to.”
He lifted a brow. “You’re good at it?”
She didn’t want to admit she was an excellent fly caster. Better than her brother, Wayne. In fact, better than most men in Harmony. Surely Mr. Wilberforce wouldn’t find a woman interested in fishing very appealing. She should play down that part of her past. After all, she hadn’t taken up her rod and reel for weeks now.
“Not all that good,” she replied at length. “How about you? Do you think you have a chance at winning?”
“It depends on the competition. Do you know any of this year’s contestants? Are they worth my worrying over?”
She watched his lips move as he spoke and it took her a moment to digest what he asked. With a half shake of her head, she thought about his question.
She knew a few of them. Sloppy casters. And that Ham Beauregarde. He was a real show off. Meg’s shoulders slightly slumped as she thought over Mr. Wilberforce’s question. She almost forgot herself and plopped her elbows on both knees and rested her chin in her palms. She did her best thinking that way.
The words of Mrs. Wolcott’s deportment book came flooding back to Meg. She should use due discretion when on a topic that could wound a man’s ego. “Well, I’m sure you’ll see them practicing and you can form your own opinions.” She plunged ahead with, “Yes, Mr. Wilberforce, the stream is high.”
“Is the Evergreen the only creek to run into Fish Lake?”
“There are a few smaller tributaries, but they mostly trickle. They don’t run in the way the Evergreen does.”
“So this is the main waterway that feeds the lake fish.”
“Yes.”
“Any hatcheries around here?”
Mr. Wilberforce nodded, as if he were happy about that. How could he go from kissing her to talking about fish? She could hardly keep her mind on what he was saying. She kept reliving that kiss . . .
“What kind of fish do they raise?”
Fish? What was so fascinating about them?
With an inward shrug, Meg replied, “Brown trout. That’s the second commonest trout in the state. It’s the same fish you’ll find in Fish Lake or anyplace else around here. Although rainbows are more prominent.”
“Go on.”
Imagine that . . . he was actually listening to her as if he were hinged on her every word. “Well, rainbows are smaller than steelhead, brighter in color, and they have larger scales. They take a strike with hardly any coaxing.”
“So it’s the most rainbows caught in the contest that makes a winner?”
“The judges count any fish.”
“Tell me all about how a contestant chooses a spot from which to fish.”
“Well, it’s by lottery. Everyone puts their name in a hat and they’re pulled one by one. The first picked, picks the first spot and so on.”
“So you can pick which spot you’re going to fish—in advance?”
“Yes. Two days in advance. So you can get to know the water.”
Mr. Wilberforce said in his deep voice, “This subject is so fascinating, Miss Brooks. You have me enchanted.”
“I do?” So much for another stolen kiss.
“Of course. Your knowledge of fish is remarkable.”
Remarkable? She didn’t think knowing the difference between rainbow and steelhead was all that remarkable. But if he wanted to think she was fascinating and enchanting and remarkable, she would let him. “You’re too kind.”
“And you’re too modest. You haven’t once bragged about your brother winning the contest last year. Mr. Farley told me.”
She should have known.
Meg grew dismayed. She wondered if Mr. Farley had also told him about the ensuing outrage surrounding the Brooks name. Oh, what had she expected? Her brother’s name was bound to resurface this year, but she would never say anything sordid against him or about his winning all that money.
“Yes . . . Wayne won.”
“You must have been proud of him.”
“Very.” She wouldn’t cower if Mr. Wilberforce pursued the matter in a less than flattering way to her brother.
But Mr. Wilberforce remained quiet.
A long moment later, he was kind enough to let the subject go. “Go on about the fish, Miss Brooks.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “You’re a true pillar of knowledge on this subject.”
Relieved, Meg settled against the tree trunk for a long chat, unmindful to the fact that she was wet, her hair in a mess, and her hat waterlogged. And in spite of all that, she had Mr. Wilberforce rapt. Imagine that.
All this time she had been honing her feminine qualities and playing the modest lady to hook a man, when all it took was to talk about fish.