28 

Jamie studied the chessboard with a keen eye in the cozy parlour of Mrs. Tucker’s boardinghouse, wishing just once he could trounce his sister at chess. “I’m afraid the wrong MacKenna went to law school,” he muttered, his fraternal side proud his sister was such a prodigy at “the thinking man’s game.” His competitive side? A wee bit testy at getting beat by a girl. His thoughts leapfrogged to Cassie, and his sour mood ebbed into the aching malaise that had engulfed him since he’d learned she’d gone home. Biting back a scowl, he moved his pawn, well aware when it came to strategy, Jess had him right where she wanted him.

Just like Patricia and her father.

Eyes dancing from the shimmer of the gas chandelier overhead, his sister eased her queen up to capture his pawn. “Checkmate!” she said with a glow that indicated she’d had a rare good day, made even better by a win over her brother.

Jamie relented with a smile, the little-girl grin on his sister’s face more than enough to chase his shadows away. “I’ll tell you what, Jess, you’re going to cause quite a stir in college.”

The light in his sister’s unusual ochre eyes dimmed imperceptibly, although her smile never faltered. “If I go to college, dear brother . . . ,” she said, commencing to reset the board.

“Oh, you’re going all right.” Jamie’s voice lowered as he glanced at several gentlemen boarders who were preoccupied with newspapers while his mother chatted with Mrs. Tucker over needlepoint. “We’ve been planning this far too long, and your pro bono surgery is just the first step.” Excitement edged his voice as his gaze connected with hers. “Which, as I mentioned before,” he said with a flicker of a smile, “will be voted on next week.”

“But they may not vote in our favor,” Jess said, nibbling at the edge of her lip.

“Not to worry, Peanut.” He winked. “I have a strong suspicion they will.”

A wispy sigh floated from her lips. “Even so—a college education is expensive, especially for a mere woman.” Her pert chin dimpled in a dubious frown, voice dipping low to mimic Dr. Edward Clark in his widely respected Sex and Education treatise: “ ‘A girl could study and learn, but she could not do all this and retain uninjured health, and a future secure from neuralgia, uterine disease, hysteria, and other derangements of the nervous system.’ ”

“Balderdash,” Jamie growled under his breath. “I’ll wager you could show Dr. Clark the error of his ways in one game of chess.”

She gave him a patient smile that made her look older than sixteen despite the youthfulness of pale cheeks framed by lustrous black curls. “Dr. Clark’s ill-spoken words may be fallacy, James MacKenna, but the expense of a college education is not.”

Jamie repositioned his chess pieces with a grunt. “You let me worry about that.”

Her frail hand lighted upon his with a tender gaze. “That’s just it, Jammy,” she whispered, resorting to his childhood nickname as he had with her. “I don’t want you to worry.”

“A little late for that now,” he grumbled in jest. “Where was your concern when you so handily stripped your brother of his male pride only moments ago?”

“Oh, pish-posh.” Her soft chuckles warmed his heart. “You let me win and you know it.”

“I beg your pardon,” Jamie said with a true note of indignation. “I’ll have you know that James MacKenna does not throw a game for anyone, even a precocious baby sister.”

“Really and truly?” She clasped her hands, eyes a twinkle like a child at Christmas.

“Really and truly.” His gaze softened. “I would never lie to you, Jess.”

Her lips curved into the most beautiful smile. “I know.” She paused long enough for tears to well in her eyes. “Which compels me to ask something to which I need an honest answer.”

“Yes?” He slanted in, arms crossed on the table, pinning her with a mock serious gaze.

“Why are you so sad?” she whispered.

His skin chilled, puckers popping at the bridge of his nose. “Sad? What kind of harebrained question is that? You just obliterated me in chess, you little dickens.”

“No, not that,” she said softly. “You’re not as happy as you used to be and lately you never . . . ,” she hesitated, teeth grazing her lip, “mention your friend Cassie anymore.”

His heart thudded to a dead stop as he stared, the mere mention of Cassie’s name siphoning the blood from his face. “She’s gone back to Texas,” he whispered, rising to his feet as casually as possible given the boulder in his gut. “Give me a chance to redeem my pride, kiddo—how ’bout a game of Persian Rummy instead?” Avoiding her eyes, he carefully lifted the chessboard to an ornate wood buffet and replaced it with a deck of cards from the top drawer.

“Why?” Jess asked with an innocence that stabbed. Just like the stab of Alli’s loaded response when he’d finally gotten the nerve to pose the same question to her the week after Cassie had left.

“To heal from the damage you’ve done.”

The damage he’d done. To a woman he cared about. His eyes faltered closed for a split second as realization throbbed. No, to a woman I love . . .

“Jamie?”

He blinked up at his sister, suddenly too depleted to hide the ache that he felt. “Because I hurt her,” he said, the admission all but stealing the air from his lungs. He proceeded to shuffle the cards, desperate to fight the awful malaise that always settled whenever he heard her name, saw her face in his mind’s eye, remembered the awful decision he’d made.

“How?”

His palms stilled on the stack of cards. “I decided to court Patricia instead of her.”

“And that hurt her because she cares about you?”

He nodded dumbly, finally shaking off his stupor to shuffle the cards one final time.

Jess paused, the truth dawning in her eyes. “Oh, Jamie . . . and you truly care about her, don’t you?” The words were uttered in awe.

“A great deal,” he said quietly, dealing thirteen cards to them both.

“Then why are you courting Patricia?”

He glanced up, wincing at the childlike simplicity of such a question. “It’s complicated, Jess, but suffice it to say that Patricia is better suited for me.”

Jess’s pause was longer this time, her voice a strained whisper. “And me?”

His fingers froze on the card he’d just flipped face up on the discard pile. “What?”

Her chin rose the slightest degree, a motion he’d noted well the rare times he’d led in a game of chess. “How much influence has Patricia’s father wielded on my behalf, Jamie?”

He strove for nonchalance, studying his cards while a neck muscle twittered. “Some.”

“Because you’re courting his daughter?”

“Partially,” he muttered, eyes still averted. “Your draw, Jess.”

“No.”

His gaze flicked up. “You don’t want to play rummy?”

She blinked against a fresh sheen of moisture that pooled in her eyes. “No. I won’t let you sacrifice your life for mine.”

Ice glazed in his veins. “What are you talking about?”

Her chin quivered despite the firm press of lips. “I won’t have the surgery, it’s as simple as that, even if they vote on it. Not if it means you courting a woman you don’t even love.”

His jaw went slack. “You can’t be serious—”

“Do you love her?” She angled in, fingers pinched on the table. “This Patricia?”

Heat singed the back of his neck. “I’m courting her, aren’t I?”

“That’s not an answer. And you said you would never lie to me, Jamie.” Her chin jutted higher as the moisture in her eyes glinted into anger, giving her the force of a woman rather than a little girl. She enunciated each word, voice climbing in volume. “Do-you-love-her?”

He slapped his cards on the table, gaze darting to where his mother paused in her conversation to send a cursory glance their way. “No,” he emphasized, “but I will.”

“Do you love Cassie?”

Blood gorged his cheeks. “That’s none of your business, Jess.”

She banged a fist on the table, displaying a temper he seldom saw in his shy and gentle sister. “It is if I’m the reason you’re opting for a marriage without love.”

He gripped her hand, eyes locked on hers with an intensity that fairly shimmered the air between them. “Don’t do this, Jess,” he whispered harshly. “I need this surgery as much as you. Don’t fight me when I’m giving you my all.”

His heart cramped when a tear dribbled down her cheek, and her words quivered as much as her lip. “It’s not your ‘all’ I want, Jamie,” she said gently. “It’s God’s.”

A heave ricocheted in his chest as he dropped her hand. God. Always God. First his mother and sister, then Bram and Cassie. “The Hound of Heaven,” as the tortured poet Francis Thompson proclaimed, an apt description for a God in relentless pursuit of a soul. His. A tic pulsed in his jaw. “How can you say that, Jess? What has God ever done for you?” he hissed.

“Oh, Jamie . . .” Her voice was a broken whisper underscored by the wetness that pooled in her eyes. “Don’t you know?” She grasped his hand and lifted it to her lips for the softest of kisses. “He’s given me you.”

He stared while her childlike gaze of adoration blurred before him, and in a violent rush of love, he lurched up from the table and knelt by her side, clutching her tightly. “I love you, Jess. Don’t you know I would sell my soul to make you well?”

Her wobbly chuckle tickled his skin while he buried his head in her hair. “Your soul?” She kissed the side of his neck. “May I have that in writing, counselor?”

“Etched in stone,” he vowed.

Pulling away, she placed a frail hand to his jaw, the glow in her eyes nearly ethereal. “Good, because that’s exactly what I need you to do, brother dear—sell your soul.” She patted his cheek. “But to God, Jamie MacKenna, not to Patricia . . .”

His pulse jerked to a halt. “Jess, no, please—”

“Oh, yes, Jammy, because you have no choice. Either you break it off with Patricia before the vote, or I will not agree to the surgery at all, and Mama will back me up.”

Jaw gaping, he rose to his feet. “Tell me you’re joking,” he said, his voice strangled. “If I break it off with Patricia, there will be no surgery. All my time, work, research—all for nothing.”

The light in her eyes seemed to intensify rather than dim. “Not for nothing, Jamie—in preparation for a miracle.” She reached for his hand. “And not just in my hip.” He shook his head and backed away. “I can’t, Jess. This is too important for blind faith.”

The smile on her lips softened to tender. “It’s only ‘blind’ to those who don’t believe, Jamie, but once we lay our will down for God’s, it’s amazing just how much we can suddenly see. Some say ‘seeing is believing,’ but faith says ‘believing is seeing.’ ” She tilted her head. “Will you do that for me? Will you merge your faith with Mama’s and mine?”

Shame scalded the back of his neck. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I have no faith.”

She started to rise and he lunged to anchor her, heart stopping at her grimace of pain. It quickly vanished when he cradled her close, her voice as pure and childlike as the girl he held in his arms. “ ‘If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you.’ ” She glanced up with a smile so full of love, it thickened the walls of his throat. “Promise me, Jammy, you’ll lay your will down for God’s so he can bring us the miracle we all so desperately need.”

Pulse staggering, he stared at his sister, his breathing shallow. Lay his will down for God’s? Pry his fingers apart and let go, just like that? Trust a God he’d never trusted at all, just on a whim? His eyelids weighted closed. No, not on a whim. On a request from the sister he loved, the mother he cherished, and the friend he respected. The sting of tears burned in his nose when Cassie’s image came to mind. And the woman I want.

His breath caught at the twine of Jess’s fingers in his. “Let go, Jamie, and let God be God,” she whispered, the trace of an imp in her smile. “He does it so much better than you.”

Let God be God. He closed his eyes and in the whoosh of an exhale, he felt his will crack, a fissure of hope no bigger than a thread in a smothering shroud of disbelief. Relinquishing a weary sigh, he finally nodded, Bram’s words echoing in his mind. “Faith can move mountains, you know—be they granite . . . or pigheaded pride.”

His mouth quirked despite tears burning his lids. Pride he had plenty of, but faith? He drew in a shaky breath and released it, fluttering her ebony ringlets as he pressed a kiss to his sister’s head. “Okay, Jess,” he said, finally willing to let go—not the precious sister he cherished in his arms—but the pride that separated him from her God. Delicate arms quickly swallowed him whole.

Her God, yes. His heart skipped a fractured beat. And now, apparently—his.

Stifling a yawn, Caitlyn glanced at the crystal clock on the parlour mantel, wishing Blake had never challenged his uncle to a game of chess. Good grief, it was almost eleven and Maddie, Meg, and Alli had gone up to bed long ago. Which is where I should be. Caitlyn vented with a silent sigh. But Logan was finally here for dinner after a week out of town and she needed to speak to him tonight—alone—to thank him for what he’d done. Since Walter had given her the good news last week, she hadn’t been able to sleep a wink, too excited about the victory. Her pulse sped up. And too overwhelmed by Logan’s change of heart. Why had he done it—sacrificed his pride and his profits?

“I love you, Cait, and the fact is, I always have.”

Her fingers quivered as she turned a page in her book, well aware his actions on her behalf did indeed seem to be a confirmation of his declaration at Napa, something that scared her to no end. But . . . not as much as losing his friendship. Since then, his visits had decreased and his manner toward her had become guarded and polite, focusing more on the children than on her. As reluctant as she was to admit it, she missed his tease and attention and longed to restore the close friendship they’d shared. But please, Lord, don’t let him press for more . . .

“Checkmate!” A wide grin split Blake’s face as he extended a hand across the table, his jubilant tone an indication of how seldom he bested his uncle. “Good game, Uncle Logan—I don’t know if you’re slipping or I’m getting better, but I’ll take the win any way I can.”

Pushing away from the table, Logan rose and shook Blake’s hand, his low chuckle belying the tired slope of his shoulders. “Maybe a little bit of both, Blake, although I wouldn’t count on it becoming a habit. Once the Barrows case is over, I’ll be getting more sleep.”

Blake stretched and glanced Caitlyn’s way, surprise registering on his face. “Speaking of sleep, Mother, what are you still doing up? Lately you usually turn in when Maddie does.”

Heat braised her cheeks as she delivered a smile with a casual turn of the page. “Yes, well it seems Miss Austen is one of the few who can capture my attention well beyond bedtime.”

“And one of the few who could have me asleep in five minutes,” Blake said with a chuckle. He nudged his chair in before striding to give her a hug. “Good night, Mother.” On his way to the door, he gave his uncle a salute. “Good night, Uncle Logan. See you in the morning.”

“Good night, Blake,” Caitlyn called, gaze venturing to Logan while he slipped his jacket on. She rose, hands sweating as she smoothed the lines of her teal silk dress. “You heading out as well, I suppose?” she said and then blushed when she realized how stupid that sounded.

A faint smile shadowed his lips. “Unless you’ve a hankering to trounce me in chess too?”

“No, not chess . . .” She clutched arms to her waist, offering a bright smile to deflect the burn in her cheeks. “But I would appreciate a few words with you, if you can spare the time?”

He paused, the smile playing on his lips while piercing gray eyes took her measure with a narrow gaze. “I can spare all the time you need, Cait. After all, I’m just going home . . . not carousing with women all hours of the night.”

The jab referencing her hurtful statement in Napa blazed her cheeks hot. “I should have never said that, Logan,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. “I apologize—that was unkind.”

“But true at one time, Cait, so apology accepted and totally understood.” He strolled over to the divan by her chair and sat, hands loosely clasped. “So, what’s on your mind?”

Eyes still averted, she eased down to perch on the edge of her chair, arms crossed tight as if she were cold. “Walter came by last week to tell me the good news, that our proposal passed.”

“Yes, I know,” he said with a scowl. “Apparently you have friends in high places—congratulations.”

Her gaze rose to meet his. “Yes, one very good friend in particular,” she whispered.

He stared, his face a mask except for a slight twitch in his cheek. “So it would seem.” He stood and tugged on the sleeves of his coat, one of the rare times he appeared ill at ease. “It’s late, Cait—is that all you wanted to say?”

“No,” she whispered, rising to face him head-on. “I wanted to thank you, not only for giving me great joy, but for being the one person whose friendship I cherish above all others.”

His eyes softened despite the press of his mouth. “Don’t thank me, I had nothing to—”

She halted him with a gentle hand to his arm. “You had everything to do with it, Logan, so don’t deny it.” Her arm quivered as she touched tentative fingers to his cheek, the bristle of his late-day beard tickling her palm. “Thank you for your support—I will never forget it.”

His body stilled before he cupped her fingers against his face, eyes suddenly tender. “I’d do anything for you, Cait,” he whispered. “Don’t you know that?”

A smile trembled on her lips. “No, actually I didn’t . . . not until this.” She slowly tugged her hand free and stepped back, exhaling a shuddery breath.

He folded his arms with a gruff clear of his throat. “Well, don’t think this will become a habit, Madame President, because it won’t.”

“I understand,” she said softly. She nervously buffed the side of her arms, almost shy as she avoided his eyes. “But I was hoping that maybe . . . well, you know, maybe we could let bygones be bygones and return to . . . ,” a knot dipped in her throat as she peeked up, her vulnerability wavering her words, “being good friends again because the truth is I’ve . . . ,” she swallowed hard, “well, I’ve . . . missed you, Logan.”

He paused, his voice husky and low. “I’ve been right here, Cait,” he said quietly.

She drew in a stabilizing breath, heart stuttering at the intensity in his eyes. “I . . . know, but . . . it wasn’t the same. In Napa I said things, you said things, and it ruined what we had, made it stiff and formal and I . . .” Her gaze lifted, begging him to understand. “I miss our friendship.”

He studied her for several moments, the burn of his gaze sputtering her pulse. “I miss our friendship too,” he said softly, “and more.” He extended a hand. “But it’s a start, so why not?”

Oh, Logan, I can think of a dozen reasons. A sigh trembled from her lips as she placed her hand in his, the warmth of his touch traveling clear to her cheeks. “Friends forever, then,” she whispered, giving a firm shake to dispel the trepidation she felt. She tried to pull away.

He held on, gaze fused to hers. “Friends forever, Cait, yes.” Her stomach fluttered at the graze of his thumb to her palm. “For now . . .” Lifting her hand to his mouth, he skimmed her knuckles with his lips. “Good night, Mrs. McClare.” He gave a short bow, then turned and strode from the room, her eyes fixed on his broad back until he disappeared from view.

She heard the click of the front door, and with a shaky whoosh of air, she sank to the edge of her seat, her breathing as ragged as her nerves. Head bent, she put a hand to her eyes.

For now.

Her insides quivered at the memory of his lips on her skin, the caress of his thumb to her palm, and she knew Logan McClare was waging a battle she wasn’t sure she could win. But the question that shivered her mind, her body even more than his touch was one single thought.

Did she even want to?