21 

Caitlyn sat in her wicker love seat in the conservatory, head resting on its muted floral pillows while her arms hung limp at her sides, eyes as glazed as the steamy panes of glass overhead. Hadley had obviously misted the jungle of plants this morning and now the late-afternoon sun coaxed earthy smells of mulch and loam and flora that usually brought a sense of calm to Caitlyn, not unlike an herbal tonic.

Except for today.

She closed her eyes, and two languid tears trickled down her cheeks like the humidity on the glass, allowing the room and the woman to weep together. But the tears from the glass walls nurtured and fed the bounty of palms and ferns that thrived all around her while her own only served to bleed her soul dry. Of peace and joy and certainly hope, and for one reason alone.

Logan.

Her eyes opened as if doing so might banish his image, but all she saw was the love in his face when he’d handed her the ring, a love and gesture so potent it had weakened her at the knees. She’d seen glimmers of regret and fear and finally resignation until she’d done the unthinkable and rushed to embrace him . . . her gratitude so strong, she’d felt compelled to give him a kiss on the cheek.

The kiss of death. For her and certainly for him, given the desire that had flamed in his eyes, the warmth she’d felt from shallow breaths as his mouth hovered so close to hers. A proximity that had paralyzed her, unable to move or breathe or think of anything but the hypnotic skim of his thumb as it grazed at her waist, the scent of lime and wood spice that disarmed like an opiate as it had so many years ago. Her heart had pulsed like that of a doe caught in the crosshairs of the hunter, powerless to escape and stricken with fear. And something even more deadly . . .

Desire.

For the first time since she’d taken Logan’s engagement ring off almost twenty-six years ago, she’d wanted him to kiss her, to feel the throb of blood in her veins once again, the hot rush of adrenaline coursing her body—coaxing, caressing like his touch seemed to do. She should have bolted at the danger she’d seen in his eyes, fled at the leaning of her traitorous limbs, but she had not. Oh, no—she had closed her eyes and willed him to taste her lips, and he had.

Oh my … how he had, awakening longings she’d tried so hard to ignore the last eight months, shoving them deep as if they didn’t exist. But they did. Oh, Lord help me, they did . . . each and every one now entangled with shame.

A violent heave crumpled her body as she sagged over the arm of the love seat to weep, trembling at the thought that one safety barrier had fallen—Logan now knew she was attracted to him—but another had been erected. She had rejected him outright and wounded his pride immeasurably, to the point of unleashing his rage. “You’re attracted to me and love me, yet you turn me away because my faith isn’t up to snuff?”

“Oh, Lord, what have I done?” she whispered. Not only had she damaged their friendship and family in the process, but the hopes of the Vigilance Committee as well. And all because of a single moment of lust—the very thing of which she accused him, further proof that Logan McClare was poison in the realm of love. She could not trust him and now, to her dishonor, she could no longer trust herself. The magnitude of what she’d done overwhelmed her, and a broken sob wrenched from her throat.

The gentle touch of a hand startled her and she jerked up to see Rosie studying her with misty eyes, concern deepening the soft age lines etched in her face. The nanny who was more like a mother sat beside her, and instantly Cait fell into her arms, swallowed up in the cocoon of her youth when Rosie had stepped in after Mama passed away. “Oh, Rosie,” she whispered, voice nasal and hoarse, “I miss Liam so very much.”

“Aw, darlin’, sure you do.” Rosie stroked her hair while her soft brogue lulled Cait’s eyes closed. She paused. “But I’m thinkin’ that’s not what brought you home from Napa so early, now is it?”

Cait’s lashes lifted over Rosie’s shoulder, her pulse slowing. Rosie’s vendetta against Logan was already bone deep, and Cait didn’t want to add to it. She hesitated, her words shaky. “I didn’t sleep well,” she confessed, “and today I feel like I may be coming down with something . . .” Her eyelids lowered.

Terminal heartburn . . .

Rosie’s pause was longer this time. “That skunk upset you, didn’t he, Miss Cait?”

Her gravelly hiss actually prompted a near-smile to Cait’s lips, proving conclusively that she’d never been able to hide her true feelings from her beloved nanny. “Yes, Rosie, the skunk did. But I provoked it.” She pulled away to caress Rosie’s hair, her smile breaking free at the scowl on the housekeeper’s face. “Now, Rosie, you know good and well you’re going to have to forgive that skunk someday, don’t you?”

Rosie’s face bore no humor. “Not likely when he’s poised to break your heart again.”

Cait’s smile dissolved. “What do you mean?” she whispered, her hands falling away.

Grief welled in Rosie’s eyes. “I mean he’s getting to you again, isn’t he?” she said softly. “Charming the socks off you just like the first time.”

“No, of course not . . .” But it was no use. Cait could see in Rosie’s face what she felt in her own—a numb awareness of the truth: she was falling in love with Logan McClare. Unwillingly, perhaps, but effectively all the same, and the fear she saw in Rosie’s gaze mirrored that which thickened her throat, stifling her air. Hand to her eyes, she sagged into a sob while Rosie gathered her up in thin but sturdy arms, soothing her with a low croon.

“Shh . . . it’s all right, Miss Cait. God won’t let us down, now will he?” The tiny woman rocked her like when Cait was a child, whispering with the barest roll of a brogue while she rubbed Cait’s back.

Cait nodded against Rosie’s shoulders, reflecting on words she knew to be true. Her eyes drifted closed while she considered the God who held her in the palm of his hand every day of her life and every dark night as well. Peace suddenly welled like a river of grace, meandering through her life with its clarity and calm. Yes, Logan abandoned her for other women once and even Liam, unwittingly, had done the same through his death, but God never would, and the very thought infused her with the strength she needed to go on. The strength to know she need never fear betrayal or abandonment again—God would always be near. Drawing in a cleansing breath, she released all her fears in a whisper of a sigh.

Rosie held her at arm’s length, the semblance of a smile curling on weathered lips. “Now that’s a good girl,” she said with a gentle pat of Cait’s cheek. “Even a scalawag like Logan Beware can’t get past the defenses of prayer, now can he?” She fished a hankie from the pocket of her apron and tenderly wiped the tears from Cait’s eyes. “Because first that no-good scoundrel has to get past the Almighty, don’t you know.” She lifted her chin, giving Caitlyn a sassy smile that quickly slid into a battle mode. “And then, God have mercy on his sorry soul—past me.”

Cassie’s eyes flitted to the clock for the umpteenth time, her stomach a scurry of nerves.

“Uh . . . it’s your turn, Cass. Again.” Alli leaned in, a touch of the imp in her eyes. “Mmm . . . a little preoccupied, are we?”

Heat broiled Cassie’s cheeks, making her grateful it was almost eight—the time Jamie arrived for book study. “Not at all,” she said with a jut of her chin, her faint smile belying the truth. She feigned a yawn. “Just bored silly beating you at dominoes. Again.”

Alli chuckled. “Not as interesting as Pilgrim’s Progress, I suppose,” she said with a wink, “or a handsome ‘pilgrim’ who’s undoubtedly made great ‘progress.’ ”

Face blazing like a furnace, Cassie shot a nervous glance at Aunt Cait who read a book instead of playing cribbage with Uncle Logan while he played Go Fish with Maddie and Meg. Maddie won for the third time, and her uncle swooped her up in a mock threat, spinning her till giggles bounced off the walls. Cassie’s gaze flicked back to Alli, her words sharp with warning. “Will you hush, please? No one’s supposed to know.”

“Ha!” Alli said with a wicked grin. “Everybody knows how he feels about you—the man couldn’t be more obvious.” She jiggled her brows. “Nor you, dear Cuz, with that pretty blush in your face, a sure-fire indicator you prefer games of midnight to dominoes.”

That did it. Cassie lunged across the table to threaten Alli with a tickle—something she knew her cousin deplored. “So help me, Allison McClare, I am going to tickle you senseless, which shouldn’t be too hard since you’re already ninety percent there—”

“Ahem.” Hadley interrupted Alli’s wild shriek, his stoic figure impeccable as always in black tails and tie, and his manner and tone as starched as his crisp white shirt. “Mr. James MacKenna to see Miss Cassidy. May I show him in, miss?”

Cassie shot up as if coil-sprung from her chair. “Yes, Hadley, please,” she said, near breathless, “but in the conservatory, if you will—for our book study.”

“Very good, miss—in the study. Would you care for refreshments?”

Chewing the edge of her lip, Cassie pushed in her chair and raised her voice several levels. “Lemonade would be lovely, Hadley, thank you, but in the conservatory, if you will.”

“Ah, very good, miss.”

The butler disappeared, and Cassie nervously patted her hair, avoiding all eyes as she hurried to retrieve a Hershey bar—Jamie’s favorite—from a small chest Rosie kept filled on the coffee table. Striving for nonchalance that didn’t exist, she straightened her shoulders and slowed to a leisurely stroll in a sad attempt at exiting with decorum.

Aunt Cait’s voice followed. “Cass, will you ask Jamie how his sister is doing, please? I’ve been quite worried since Blake said she took a fall.”

“Certainly, Aunt Cait,” Cassie said over her shoulder. Once across the threshold, she bolted for the powder room, locking the door to assess herself in the gilded mirror, stomach twirling more than Maddie in Uncle Logan’s arms. Her pale-green eyes blinked back, registering a heady mix of excitement and anticipation that made her woozy and just a wee bit scared at what lay ahead in a courtship with Jamie MacKenna. Pinching her cheeks to heighten her color, she smoothed her loose updo one more time and adjusted the lavender gossamer dress Jamie complimented once before. “Lord, help me not to faint,” she muttered before making her way to the conservatory at the back of the house. She paused at the door to catch her breath, her nerves doing cartwheels at the sight of his broad back and narrow hips in a charcoal business suit while he stared out the open French doors. The pink and purple hues of dusk filtered through the glass panes overhead to bathe the room in an ethereal glow, while a briny breeze fluttered a stray curl of his ebony hair. She attempted to calm herself with a deep draw of air, infusing her senses with the tang of the harbor, the earthy scent of moss . . . and Jamie.

“How is your sister?” she whispered, suddenly shy with this man with whom she’d shared the most intimate of kisses.

He spun around, eyes caressing head to toe in a single glance that warmed both her cheeks and her belly. “S-she’s . . . fine,” he stuttered, oddly ill at ease for a man so prone to confidence. He closed his mouth, its compression almost imperceptible.

Almost.

Cassie took a step forward. “Are you . . . sure?” she asked, prickles of concern nettling.

His mouth twisted into a tight smile. “Sure, Cass, if one can be considered ‘all right’ writhing in pain day in and day out.” His clipped tone stung before he turned away to knead the bridge of his nose, shoulders rising with a heavy inhale. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t mean to take it out on you, truly. It’s just that . . . ,” he turned to face her, his trademark sparkle painfully absent, “I can’t stand to see her suffer any longer,” he said with a bitterness she’d not heard before. “And I need to do everything in my power to stop it.”

Her heart squeezed, his pain becoming her own. “Jamie, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her approach hesitant. “Would you like to pray—”

“No!” Shock fused her to the spot at the violence of his tone. Ruddy color mottled his face as a tic pulsed in his neck, muscles taut as if to contain a temper. “No, thank you,” he said in a strained voice that came off curt. “I don’t need charity from anyone, especially a God with a deaf ear.”

“Oh, Jamie, no—” She started toward him.

He paralyzed her with a look. “No, Cass, I don’t want to hear any defense of your God.”

His words snatched the air from her lungs. “He’s your God too, Jamie,” she whispered, voice hoarse as she moved in close, stopping mere feet away. “If only you’d give him a chance.”

She flinched when he stabbed a finger in the air. “I gave him a chance,” he hissed, “and guess what? My sister is still in agony.” His jaw flickered as he stared, hands taut on his hips. He shook his head, gaze shifting to the carpet. “It’s not going to work,” he whispered.

The blood iced in her veins. “What’s not?” she breathed.

He avoided her eyes while a nerve pulsed in his temple. “God . . . this . . .” His Adam’s apple jerked in his throat. “Us.”

The blood seeped from her brain, making her more lightheaded than the summer she’d passed out in that Texas heat wave when people and cattle were dropping like flies. “What?” Her voice was a shallow whisper, her next words barely audible. “But, why?”

Seconds passed before he looked up, and when he did grief glazed his eyes. “Because it’s really quite simple, Cass,” he said quietly. “I can’t meet term number four.”

The memory of her courtship conditions swirled in her brain, making her dizzy, and her eyelids fluttered closed as she swayed on her feet. Not the euphoric “dizzy” of Jamie’s kisses. Oh no, this was a white-blinding dizzy that forced cold sweat to bead on her brow. “Because I need to know, Jamie, . . . that if we become one as man and wife, we’ll also be one in our faith.”

“I’m sorry, Cass—I know this is a shock . . .”

Shock? No, this is a total broadside. Bile crawled in her throat while fear sank to the pit of her stomach, cramping into nausea, spinning the room. Oh, God, no, please—not again . . .

He caught her the moment her knees buckled, sweeping her up in his arms to lay her on a white wicker couch amid myriad palms. “Cass, forgive me, please . . . ,” he whispered, his voice as far away as the feel of his fingers as they tenderly buffed her arms, stroked her face. Her mind and her body seemed to be whirling, an eddy of stun and stupor and pain that threatened to dispel the contents of her stomach as thoroughly as his words had disgorged the joy in her heart.

He had befriended and bewitched her, then pursued and pleaded until he had won her heart. “I’ve never wanted any woman like I want you,” he’d said, and now that he had her, he was throwing it all away. Throwing her away.

Just like Mark.

Her breathing was raspy and shallow as she struggled to sit up, eyelids flickering open to face a man she never wanted to love, a man who’d badgered and broken her defenses until she was wholly his. An icy cold slithered through her body. Only she wasn’t, and never would be . . .

He squatted before her, voice urgent as he massaged her hand, the same pain etched in his face that she felt in her gut. “Cassie, I wish there was some way I could tell you how sorry I am.”

Sorry. He was sorry. Fury rose within like a sleeping giant, sloughing off the hurt and betrayal and sick feeling inside. She would not let a man do this to her again, she would not! He may have stolen her heart, but he would never, ever rob her of her pride.

Tears pricked, but she refused to let them fall, rising up on the couch with battle in her bones. Meeting his gaze with a steady one of her own, she slowly slipped her hand from his and rose, legs wavering, but resolve firm. “Oh, but there is, Jamie,” she said quietly, her voice as cool as the relationship they now shared. “You can leave me alone and never come back.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Jamie could feel the sweat at the back of his neck as he knocked on Logan’s office door, dreading the need to ask his boss for a favor. Logan McClare was a self-made man at a relatively young age, parlaying a good-size inheritance into a massive fortune that wielded power on every front, be it politically, socially, or financially. The last thing Jamie wanted was to appear weak or needy in front of the one man he admired more than any other, and yet he had no choice. His sister’s life was wasting away, and whatever it took, he was bent on securing a surgery that would end her pain. Whether it was asking Logan McClare to use his clout with Cooper Medical or courting Patricia Hamilton to curry the influence of her senator father, either way, Jamie would find a way. And when he did, one thing was for dead sure—it would not be charity. The muscles in his throat tightened as he adjusted his tie, thinking how Jess had paid for his mistake with years of pain and ridicule. Well, now it was his turn. He had no choice. His mistake, his debt. And he would pay for it. At any cost . . .

“Come in.” The voice was all business—brusque, no-nonsense with almost an edge.

Jamie opened the door and popped his head in, grateful Logan offered a semblance of a smile despite the piles of legal briefs on his desk. “Excuse me, sir—do you have a minute?”

Logan tossed his fountain pen on the desk and leaned back, peering at Jamie over wire-rim reading glasses that made him look more like a meek scholar than one of the city’s most intimidating legal and political figures. “Sure, Mac, what can I do for you?”

Venting a slow exhale, Jamie closed the door and took a seat in one of two leather arm chairs, easing back as Logan had done to convey an air of confidence he didn’t quite feel.

“The appellate brief on the Dunn case was stellar work,” Logan said, approval warm in his eyes. “You’re a quick study, counselor.”

Heat ringed Jamie’s collar, both from the outright compliment and the warm glow it provided, coming from a man whose respect he desperately wanted. He nodded. “Thanks, Mr. McClare—it means all the more coming from a legal mind of your caliber, sir.”

“How long have I known you, Mac?”

Jamie paused, the question taking him by surprise. “Eight years, sir, since that first day I waited on you at the Oly Club.”

Logan nodded slowly, his eyes reflective. “That’s right. I remember being impressed with any kid from the streets who would work three jobs to put himself through college. You were a rare kid then, Mac, and you’re a rare man now, still impressing me with your drive and hard work.” A half-smile flitted on his lips. “That said, don’t you think it’s time you call me Logan?”

Jamie blinked, his words stumbling. “Y-yes sir . . . if that’s your preference.”

“It is, at least after business hours, which . . . ,” he squinted at an exquisite antique grandfather clock that graced his far wall, “it’s well beyond. You’re Blake’s and Bram’s good friend and mine too. And unless my eyes have deceived me,” he said, smile shrewd, “I believe you’re chummy with my Texas niece as well, at least until the last few weeks when we haven’t seen hide nor hair of you at family dinners.”

The heat from his collar fired all the way up his neck. “Yes, sir, Cassie and I are very good friends.” He swallowed hard. “But regrettably, the Dunn case has kept me quite busy.”

“Well, don’t be a stranger, Mr. MacKenna,” Logan said with a formality that indicated he’d made his point and was ready to move on. “You had something on your mind?”

“Yes, sir,” Jamie said, spine stiff. “I think you may be aware my sister sustained a hip injury at the age of two that has hindered her life.”

He nodded, concern shading eyes that studied him keenly.

“I’ve been saving for a surgery down the road, of course, but after a recent . . . ,” Jamie faltered, a sudden flash of fury in his throat, “ fall . . . her pain has escalated considerably, so it’s more critical than ever before that I . . . escalate the process of obtaining a surgery. I’m not sure if you’re aware or not, sir, but I’ve spent countless hours over the last six months petitioning Cooper Medical School on her behalf.”

“To what end, Mr. MacKenna?”

Jamie fortified himself with a deep inhale. “To procure a medical procedure on a pro bono basis, which as you know, the college will periodically provide.” So intent on stating his case, he shifted to the edge of his seat, forging on before Logan could utter a word. “You see, I’ve done a fair amount of research on a fairly new procedure called a hip cheilotomy introduced by a Dr. John Benjamin Murphy of Mercy Hospital in Chicago. Surprisingly, it’s a relatively simple surgery to alleviate pain in damaged hip joints such as my sister’s. Consequently, I’ve left no stone unturned in attempting to secure such a surgery for Jess.”

Logan nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard of it. I understand they’ve met with good success.”

“They have, sir, based on my research, which is why I’ve been relentless in pursuing this course of action for my sister.” The walls of his throat thickened. “My sister’s lived with pain all of her life, and although she’s been some better recently, she had an accident over the Fourth that jarred her hip and left her bedridden much of the time.” He swallowed hard, working to keep his tone calm and his emotions in check. “Of course Jess is the type of person who bears it all without a single complaint, but to be honest, sir, I don’t know how much longer I can.”

A muscle flickered in Logan’s jaw and he nodded. “I understand. And you’ve exhausted all avenues, I suppose—letters of recommendation, medical contacts, political contacts?”

“Yes, sir, all dead ends except for one I’m still pursuing,” Jamie said quickly, hoping Logan’s curiosity would not venture into Jamie’s plan to court Patricia.

“I see.” Logan retrieved his pen to absently twirl it, jaw taut as he considered Jamie’s problem. He finally heaved a weighty sigh and placed the pen down, fingers resting on the arms of his chair. “I do have an old fraternity brother on the funding committee for Cooper, but—” he glanced up with regret in his eyes—“unfortunately we butted heads in college over a girl and haven’t spoken since. Also the surgery wait list is long and the opportunities, few, so I don’t want to get your hopes up, but . . .”

With a tight nod, Jamie waited, the air fused to his lungs.

Pausing for several seconds, Logan glanced up over his specs, the barest of smiles curving on lips clamped tight. “I’ll see what he can do, Jamie, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

Euphoria exploded in his veins, and he jumped to his feet with a grin, hand extended. “I understand, sir, and I can’t thank you enough for your willingness to try.”

Gray eyes capable of being as cold and tough as pewter when battling in a courtroom now glinted with a hint of affection that warmed Jamie’s soul. “My pleasure, Jamie. As inseparable as you, Bram, and Blake are, I think of you as family.”

More heat braised his cheeks, and he nodded. Oh, that I were . . . “Thank you, sir. Good night.” He turned to go.

“Jamie.” Logan’s words halted him at the door.

“Yes, sir?”

Empathy radiated from the older man’s eyes that Jamie hadn’t expected from someone so skilled at guarding his emotions. “I’m sorry about your sister, son,” he said quietly, “and for what it’s worth, if she’s a tenth the fighter her brother is, she’s gonna lick this thing.”

Tears threatened and Jamie nodded before quickly looking away, unable to speak for the swelling of his throat. He closed the door and leaned against it, lids closed to thwart all moisture. Swiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, he returned to his office and at least thirty minutes of work before he was expected at Patricia’s house for dinner, something he wasn’t looking forward to. He’d much rather be home with his mother and Jess, playing dominoes or whist after one of Mrs. Tucker’s meals, as was his custom of late. Or sparring with Cassie at the McClares’ . . . A heavy malaise settled on his shoulders—also his custom of late.

He dropped in his chair to stare at the deposition before him, head in his hands. But all he saw was Cassie—so sweet and sassy, his throat ached. Steeling his jaw, he forced himself to think of Patricia instead—beautiful, smart, and the daughter of an influential man with ties to Cooper Medical. His eyes shuttered closed. Something he needed if Logan didn’t come through.

“Soooo . . . you’ve certainly been making yourself scarce lately.” Bram stood, hands in his pockets and hip cocked to the door, studying Jamie through pensive eyes that spelled trouble.

Jamie stifled a groan, gaze flicking to the clock on his desk that registered almost six-forty-five. Which meant Bram should be long gone by now, on his way to wining and dining at the McClares’. Nausea roiled in Jamie’s stomach—the same sick feeling he’d had for the last two weeks. “Too much to do,” he muttered, doing his best to focus on his deposition.

“Yeah, I know,” Bram said, strolling in with a casual air. He ignored Jamie’s obvious attempt at being too busy and plopped in a chair, brown oxfords crossed on top of Jamie’s desk. “Avoiding Cassie’s a full-time job.”

Fingers kneading the bridge of his nose, Jamie huffed out a sigh. “Come on, Bram, I feel like garbage as it is—don’t you have someplace else to be?”

Bram propped hands behind his neck, his eyes far more serious than his relaxed manner warranted. “Yeah, I do, Mac—the McClares’. Remember them?”

Jamie slapped the papers down on his desk. “Look, Hughes, I already told you—Cassie threw me out. She doesn’t want to see me again, all right?”

“I got that, MacKenna,” Bram said with a squint, “it’s the ‘why’ that has me in a fog.”

A tic twitched in Jamie’s jaw. “It’s personal,” he bit out. “Just let it go.”

Bram arched a brow. “You’re right, it is personal, especially when it affects people I care about, and no, I won’t let it go.” He sat up and leaned in, feet back on the ground. “The McClares are family to both of us, and what’s going on here is taking its toll—on them, on Cassie, and on you.” With a quiet exhale, he sloped back in his chair. “Not to mention me.” He probed Jamie with a questioning gaze, concern etched into every wrinkle of his brow. “You’re more of a brother than a friend, Mac, and I hate to see you like this.”

“I know,” Jamie whispered, near depleted as he sagged back in his chair. He massaged his temple with the pads of his fingers. “Me too.”

“So, what’s going on? How do you go from being crazy in love with a woman one minute and then she’s out of your life the next?”

Jamie winced, Bram’s question a barb with deadly aim. His chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh, eyes trailing into a glazed stare. “Not without a lot of pain, I’ll tell you that.”

“So, why are you doing this? You were walking on air the morning after the Fourth in Napa—what happened to change your mind between then and now?”

“We’re just not a good match, Bram,” Jamie whispered, closing his eyes to rest his head on the back of his chair. “Friends, yes, but not anything more. I’m not the right guy for her.”

“That’s horse manure, Jamie, and you know it. I’ve never seen you happier than the last few months, falling in love with Cass.” He hesitated, his voice quiet. “Falling in love with God.”

Jamie’s eyelids snapped up like a tightly wound shade. “Yeah? Well, there’s no love lost between God and me now, Padre, so just lay off, will you?”

Hurt flickered on Bram’s face, and Jamie felt like a heel. So, what’s new? Venting with a loud exhale, he gouged his forehead with the ball of his hand. “Look, Bram, I’m sorry, but I’m worried about my sister right now, and frankly, I’d rather not discuss Cassie, if you don’t mind.”

Bram studied him for painful seconds before rising. “I do, but I’m not here to sling guilt.”

The edge of Jamie’s lip curled. “But you’re so good at it, Hughes, almost no effort at all.”

A sad smile lined Bram’s lips. “Not good enough, apparently.” He slipped his hands in his pockets. “The real reason I’m here is to extend an invitation from Mrs. McClare herself.”

Blood warmed his face, Bram’s “guilt” evidently not through with him just yet. “Sorry, Bram, can’t tonight.”

“Why? Plans with the senator’s daughter?”

More heat infused Jamie’s cheeks. “Maybe.” He rifled through his bottom drawer for milk of magnesia, the acid in his stomach churning into high gear.

Bram exhaled, the sound depleted of all energy. “I suspected as much. So, tell me, Jamie—why would you throw over a down-to-earth woman like Cassie for a socialite like Patricia?”

“We’re better suited, okay?” Jamie snapped. He upended the bottle, then capped it and tossed it back into the drawer.

“No, it’s not okay.” Bram knuckled the front of the desk, his expression tight. “Something happened between Fourth of July weekend and now, and I want to know what it is.”

Jamie stared, pulse throbbing in his ears. He wanted to tell him it was none of his blasted business, but the dangerous look in Bram’s eyes told him he couldn’t damage their friendship that way. Bram had taught him long ago that one of the liabilities of having people who cared about you was telling them the truth because they mattered more than your pride. Muttering a rare curse, he blew out a wave of frustration and put a hand to his eyes. “I swear, Hughes, you’re worse than a nagging wife.” He huffed out another sigh and averted his gaze, unwilling to look his best friend in the eyes. “I can’t court Cassie because she’s . . . ,” he gulped, realizing just how shallow it would sound, “dirt poor,” he whispered, the very words making him feel like scum.

His statement was met by silence, and Jamie reluctantly lifted his gaze, his gut threatening to pull rank at the look of shock in Bram’s eyes.

“What are you talking about?” Bram breathed.

Harsh air expelled from Jamie’s mouth. “Cassie’s father lost his fortune when his wells ran dry. She’s not an heiress,” he whispered. “She might even be as poor as me.”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

Annoyance pinched his brow. “No, I’m not—I found out the day I left Napa.”

“No,” Bram said with deliberate emphasis, “tell me you’re joking about turning your back on Cassie—because she’s not rich?”

Fire engulfed him. “That’s right, Hughes, something you would know nothing about because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, so don’t judge me.”

Bram rose to his full height, the tic in his hard-chiseled jaw a completely uncommon occurrence. “Judge you? I don’t even want to know you, MacKenna.”

Jamie slammed his fist on the desk, eyes burning in their sockets. “I have never lied to you, Bram. I told you from the beginning I planned to marry well, and now you act like it’s some big shock to your system. Before you judge me, why don’t you live in the streets awhile, share space with rats and vermin in the Barbary Coast, watch your sister rot before your eyes from some godforsaken injury, and then you come back and tell me I’m wrong.”

Facial muscles sculpted tight, Bram seemed to wrestle with a scathing response, cheek pulsing. And then with a deep exhale of air, a calm settled that bespoke the godly man Jamie knew him to be. “No, Jamie, I won’t tell you you’re wrong,” he whispered, “just misguided.” He looked up, face composed, but eyes dark with concern. “You’re a smart man, Mac, but when it comes to the spiritual side of life, you are a lost soul and not all that bright. Because if you knew just how much God loves you, you would know you could have your dreams and Cassie too.”

Fury flushed through his body. “Yeah? And where’s my sister in all of this, Hughes? Somebody’s gotta save her because God sure hasn’t. Only money and influence will, and Cassie being poor is just another example of God shortchanging me like he’s done all of my life.”

“You know what I think?” Bram said quietly. “I think it has less to do with your sister, and more with your pride. A Barbary Coast street rat, determined to prove to the world he belongs on Nob Hill instead of the gutter, a man putting himself before the people he loves.”

“That’s a lie,” Jamie hissed.

Bram hiked a brow. “Is it? Think about it.” He reached inside his suit coat and tossed an envelope on the desk. “Cassie asked me to give this to you. I think it’s her way of trying to restore your friendship, although to be honest, Mac, at the moment, I’m not sure why she would even want to.” He strolled for the door. “I’ll tell them you can’t make it tonight.”

Jamie fingered the envelope, his name written in Cassie’s graceful script. “Wait . . .”

Bram halted, back stiff at the door. “What?”

“Tell them I’ll be there next week,” he said, body bent from the nausea roiling in his gut.

Nodding, Bram walked out, leaving Jamie to stew in his guilt. He reached in his drawer for more milk of magnesia and threw back several hard swallows.

“A man putting himself before the people he loves.”

Issuing a silent groan, he dropped his head in his hands. Bram’s words gnawed inside his chest like the acid that ate at his stomach, and he wished more than anything he had a remedy to alleviate his pain. Because at the end of the day, he could coat his nerves with milk of magnesia. But there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about shame.