Lynna Banning - The Law And Miss Hardisson

Irene sat up. Heavens, it was nine o’clock! She had Mrs. Madsen’s letter to answer and Arlen Svenson’s will to draft! Hurriedly she splashed water from the china basin over her face and neck and dressed in a royal-blue sateen work skirt and high-necked white shirtwaist trimmed with lace. Arranging her hair in a loose bun on top of her head, she secured her straw hat in place with a pearl-tipped hat pin and descended the stairs.

Except for her footsteps on the wooden staircase, the house was quiet. It still smelled faintly of paint and wallpaper paste, but even in its unfurnished state, it felt like home. Her home.

Her furniture—inherited along with the Philadelphia house where she and her father had lived until death took him—would arrive in early August, along with Nora. At the moment she didn’t miss either the housekeeper or her furniture.

She had selected only the most cherished pieces to ship west—the chiffonier from her mother’s bedroom, her father’s polished walnut rolltop desk, the embossed silver umbrella stand, Great-Aunt Emily’s gold-bordered Haviland china, the Oriental carpets in her father’s study, and the carved four-poster bed he slept in. The rest she had directed Nora to sell. She could purchase new settees and tables and chairs in Portland, seventy miles away.

In the meantime, she would manage. She much preferred a bedroll on her very own hardwood floor to Mrs. Bauer’s boardinghouse across the street.

True, she was lonely, but not for her housekeeper. She still grieved over her father’s loss, but she vowed she would not allow thoughts of missing him to spoil this brand-new, beautifully clear day.

In fact, she felt so full of energy she thought she might pop. First, breakfast at the Maybud Hotel dining room, and then…she rubbed her hands together relishing the prospect. Then she would finish up her letters and wallpaper the front parlor!

She could hardly believe she was here in this lovely little town, settled in a pretty white cottage on Park Street. She tried to suppress a smile, but it grew and grew, no matter what.

A whole month without Nora! She did miss the housekeeper, but now that she was here, on her own, she reveled in her newfound freedom. She could eat when she wished, give her own hair the required hundred brush strokes every night, brew her own afternoon tea, and even make the scones she was so fond of—once her stove arrived.

She could get along without the housekeeper for a month, surely. Besides, Nora had plenty to occupy her what with closing out a three-story house crammed with the belongings of four generations of Hardissons and Pennfields. Nora would have plenty of time, now that her father was gone.

She seized her parasol from the oversize vase in the corner and swung open the front door. Perhaps she would have enough of the flower-sprigged wallpaper left over to—

“Mornin’, Miss Hardisson,” a rich voice drawled. Clayton Black rose from the top porch step and tipped his hat.

“Mr. Black! What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Waitin’ for you. Information. And breakfast, in that order.”

“Breakfast!” Her stomach rumbled annoyingly, as if to reinforce the thought. “You’ll get no breakfast here, I assure you.”

“Thought not. You said you eat at the hotel.”

Irene blinked. “And so?”

“So, I’ve got a notion to accompany you, if you don’t mind.”

Irene pointed the tip of her parasol at the sky and released the catch. “As a matter of fact, I do mind.”

The mere sight of the man on her front porch chased away her appetite.

The ruffled silk dome opened in an arc over her head, and for one insane moment she gazed up at the metal ribs and wondered if what she had just uttered was true. The thought of Clayton Black looking at her across a table made her toes tingle. What was it about the man she found so unnerving?

She decided she didn’t want to know. “I prefer to eat alone. I think about my schedule for the day, and often plan—”

“Schedule!”

“—tomorrow’s schedule as well. Today being Friday, Saturday, too, will be allocated to productive activity.”

“Productive activ—? Good gravy!”

She swept on, undeterred by his interruption. “And of course Sunday is the Lord’s Day, and I shall rest.”

“I should damn well think so. Don’t you ever take any time for fun?”

“Fun?” She gave him a blank look. “You mean as in frivolity? The answer is no. My profession is my satisfaction in life. ‘Fun,’ as you put it, is for—”

“Normal people,” Clayton interjected. “Ma’am, you’ll forgive me for sayin’ so, but you’re in sorry shape.” He advanced a step toward her and captured the hand holding the parasol. “Now just come along quiet-like, and we’ll work this all out at breakfast. I’m half-starved. Another thirty minutes on your porch and I’d ’a taken a bite outta my hat, so hurry it up.”

Irene stared up at him. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she announced. She planted her black laced-up walking shoes flat on the porch planking.

“Sure y’are.” Clayton ran his forefinger over the hand clutching the parasol. “I notice you like to make wagers, Miss Hardisson. I’m bettin’ you’ll follow me when I tell you what I found out this morning.” He stepped back.

Irene took a hesitant step forward. “What?” she demanded.

“Good girl,” Clayton murmured. He stepped back again.

She followed him. “What did you find out?”

He did not reply. Instead, he slid his left arm under hers and drew her forward, down the porch steps and along Park Street.

Nelda Gerstein lifted her wicker flower basket in greeting as they passed. “Lovely morning,” she sang.

Clayton nodded at the sweet-faced older woman and touched his hat brim. “That it is, ma’am.”

“A bit hot for July, but then my Thomas always says…” Her voice receded as they moved down the board sidewalk.

“Mr. Black,” Irene huffed as he hurried her along. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m takin’ you to breakfast, Miss Hardisson.” His fingers wrapped over hers on the parasol handle as he guided her across the street toward the hotel. Irene found it difficult to breathe normally with his hard, warm hand on hers.

“And then—” he paused while they ascended the three wide wooden steps at the hotel entrance “—we’re goin’ on a picnic.”

“Picnic! Right after breakfast? What on earth for?”

“Reconnaissance,” he said quietly. “You can ride, can’t you?”

“Most certainly I can ride.” She closed the parasol with a snap. “I was named equestrienne of the—”

“Good.” He propelled her into the dining room, selected a table by the front window and pulled back her chair. “We’ll have ham and eggs, over easy,” he said to the waitress. “And half-a-dozen cold chicken sandwiches. For lunch,” he added.

Irene bristled. “Now just one minute.”

“Certainly, sir,” the waitress breathed. She stood stock-still for a moment, staring at Irene, then she bobbed an awkward curtsy.

Clayton chuckled.

“I prefer to order my own meals,” Irene hissed across the table. She turned to the wide-eyed girl. “I would like ham and two eggs, over easy.”

He laughed out loud.

“And some tea, if you please.” She worked to keep her voice even, but in spite of her efforts it rose alarmingly. The man was maddening. Over-bearing. He acted as if he owned the hotel, the town—even her! Well, she’d soon set him straight on that score.

But you like it a little, don’t you? a voice nagged. Perhaps even more than a little?

She most certainly did not!

Liar.

Clayton studied her face. “You look kinda funny, Miss Hardisson. Something wrong?”