late afternoon traffic in the streets.
Huddled near a corner of the Brass Eagle Saloon, Bonnie drew a deep breath and scurried down the street toward the humble offices of the
Northridge News.
“I hope you know,” Seth Callahan blustered coldly, “that you have made a complete fool of yourself.”
“I’ll drink to that,” chimed Genoa, lifting her wineglass in the air and her wry eyes to Eli’s face.
Eli looked around the once-familiar parlor, feeling crowded by the army of Dresden figurines, the false mantels, the portieres and plants, the displays of wax fruit and the tasseled curtains. He suppressed an awesome urge to spread his arms in an attempt to clear some space and give himself room to breathe. “Why didn’t you tell me that Bonnie was—dancing—at the Brass Eagle?”
Obviously delighted by the whole situation, Genoa took a leisurely sip of her wine and savored it properly before answering. “You didn’t ask.”
Eli’s hand tightened around a snifter of brandy, all but crushing the delicate crystal to shards. “As my sister, it was your duty—”
Genoa shot out of her Morris chair, her pale blue eyes flashing, her narrow face red with incensed conviction. “Don’t you dare to talk to me about duty, Eli McKutchen. You suffered a tragedy when you lost Kiley, but your actions after the fact were hardly admirable, were they? You shut Bonnie away when you might have given her comfort, as was your
duty,
and then you went off to a silly war, where you had no business being! And if that wasn’t enough, you proceeded to carouse through Europe, like the prodigal son, completely ignoring your responsibilities not only to Bonnie, but to our grandfather’s company!”
“Here, here,” muttered Seth, hefting his glass, apparently emboldened by its contents. His eyes glittered with admiration as he watched Genoa.
Eli was taken aback—much of what Genoa said was true, though he wasn’t willing to admit that yet—and by the time he’d thought of a response, the petulant wail of a child filled the cluttered parlor.
The prettiest nanny Eli had ever seen stood in the tasseled and beaded doorway, a squalling toddler riding on one hip,addressing Genoa: “Pardon, Miss McKutchen, but little Rose Marie is some fretful and I wondered if she shouldn’t start her nap early, even though the schedule says—”
Eli stared at the child, setting his glass down among a half dozen china shepherdesses, and she stared back with eyes exactly the same color as his own, falling silent in mid-wail. Her hair, like his, like Genoa’s, was wheat-brown with a mingling of gold, and her identity fell on his spirit with the weight of a house. “My God—Bonnie’s child?”
Out of the corner of one eye, Eli saw his sister nod. “Yes.”
“I’d forgotten—” His voice fell away. It was a lie; he’d never forgotten, not for a moment. He’d been torn apart by the knowledge that Bonnie had borne another man’s child, and he’d never dared hope—
“A startling resemblance,” observed Seth. “Uncanny, isn’t it, Miss McKutchen?”
“Absolutely striking,” agreed Genoa, in tones of saucy gentleness, before speaking crisply to the nanny. “You may give Rose Marie her nap now, Katie, but let’s not let Mrs. McKutchen find out. You know how she is about the schedule.”
Katie, a lovely, dark-haired imp with a look of dignity about her that ran completely counter to her station in life, nodded and smiled, then turned to go.
Both Eli and the child protested at the same moment, the child with a cry, Eli with a quick “Wait—”
Genoa touched his arm. “Later, Eli,” she said softly. “There will be plenty of time for you and Rose to get to know each other.”
Reeling with a curious mixture of wrath and pure delight, Eli relented and sank into an overstuffed chair, reaching blindly for his brandy snifter. Seth had to find it and put it in his hand, and, after a good look at his employer’s face, he refilled
Huddled near a corner of the Brass Eagle Saloon, Bonnie drew a deep breath and scurried down the street toward the humble offices of the
Northridge News.
“I hope you know,” Seth Callahan blustered coldly, “that you have made a complete fool of yourself.”
“I’ll drink to that,” chimed Genoa, lifting her wineglass in the air and her wry eyes to Eli’s face.
Eli looked around the once-familiar parlor, feeling crowded by the army of Dresden figurines, the false mantels, the portieres and plants, the displays of wax fruit and the tasseled curtains. He suppressed an awesome urge to spread his arms in an attempt to clear some space and give himself room to breathe. “Why didn’t you tell me that Bonnie was—dancing—at the Brass Eagle?”
Obviously delighted by the whole situation, Genoa took a leisurely sip of her wine and savored it properly before answering. “You didn’t ask.”
Eli’s hand tightened around a snifter of brandy, all but crushing the delicate crystal to shards. “As my sister, it was your duty—”
Genoa shot out of her Morris chair, her pale blue eyes flashing, her narrow face red with incensed conviction. “Don’t you dare to talk to me about duty, Eli McKutchen. You suffered a tragedy when you lost Kiley, but your actions after the fact were hardly admirable, were they? You shut Bonnie away when you might have given her comfort, as was your
duty,
and then you went off to a silly war, where you had no business being! And if that wasn’t enough, you proceeded to carouse through Europe, like the prodigal son, completely ignoring your responsibilities not only to Bonnie, but to our grandfather’s company!”
“Here, here,” muttered Seth, hefting his glass, apparently emboldened by its contents. His eyes glittered with admiration as he watched Genoa.
Eli was taken aback—much of what Genoa said was true, though he wasn’t willing to admit that yet—and by the time he’d thought of a response, the petulant wail of a child filled the cluttered parlor.
The prettiest nanny Eli had ever seen stood in the tasseled and beaded doorway, a squalling toddler riding on one hip,addressing Genoa: “Pardon, Miss McKutchen, but little Rose Marie is some fretful and I wondered if she shouldn’t start her nap early, even though the schedule says—”
Eli stared at the child, setting his glass down among a half dozen china shepherdesses, and she stared back with eyes exactly the same color as his own, falling silent in mid-wail. Her hair, like his, like Genoa’s, was wheat-brown with a mingling of gold, and her identity fell on his spirit with the weight of a house. “My God—Bonnie’s child?”
Out of the corner of one eye, Eli saw his sister nod. “Yes.”
“I’d forgotten—” His voice fell away. It was a lie; he’d never forgotten, not for a moment. He’d been torn apart by the knowledge that Bonnie had borne another man’s child, and he’d never dared hope—
“A startling resemblance,” observed Seth. “Uncanny, isn’t it, Miss McKutchen?”
“Absolutely striking,” agreed Genoa, in tones of saucy gentleness, before speaking crisply to the nanny. “You may give Rose Marie her nap now, Katie, but let’s not let Mrs. McKutchen find out. You know how she is about the schedule.”
Katie, a lovely, dark-haired imp with a look of dignity about her that ran completely counter to her station in life, nodded and smiled, then turned to go.
Both Eli and the child protested at the same moment, the child with a cry, Eli with a quick “Wait—”
Genoa touched his arm. “Later, Eli,” she said softly. “There will be plenty of time for you and Rose to get to know each other.”
Reeling with a curious mixture of wrath and pure delight, Eli relented and sank into an overstuffed chair, reaching blindly for his brandy snifter. Seth had to find it and put it in his hand, and, after a good look at his employer’s face, he refilled
Similar Books
