Lisa Plumley - Morrow Creek Runaway

Bonita interrupted with a snort. “It sure as shootin’ isn’t to get himself married!”

“—and ending with where he got all that money. And why.”

Rosamond had her suspicions, but she couldn’t be sure. For her own sake—for the sake of the women and children depending on her—she’d needed to question him. She hated that she had cause to doubt Miles—to doubt anyone, in fact. She only hoped she wasn’t overestimating her own intuition in this instance.

If Miles Callaway moved on after today, then she’d know he could have been trusted. She’d know he hadn’t come in search of her at Arvid’s or Genevieve Bouchard’s behest. She’d know he’d only come to satisfy his own curiosity about a runaway housemaid, and, having done that, had moved on to more adventures.

But if Miles Callaway did come back to her mutual society tomorrow, if he did continue pursuing her...

Well, that was another situation entirely.

If Miles came back, it wouldn’t be because he wanted her or a wife of his own. Despite his claims to the contrary, Rosamond knew that could not be the case. The man she remembered had been an inveterate bachelor. And while she was a good person, she was not the innocent girl she’d once been. Once Miles realized that, he’d be finished with her. Worse, he’d be appalled at her.

He would see the gaping hole left in her.

He would pity her.

Rosamond didn’t think she could bear that. She couldn’t bear knowing that, in Miles’s eyes, she would no longer be the lively and openhearted girl he remembered. She’d never be that girl again. If Miles knew that, too, it would be doubly real.

On the other hand, before today, she wouldn’t have believed she could bear being in the same room with Miles Callaway and not acknowledging how good it felt to see his smile, to hear his voice, to experience the warmth of his protective nature, one last time. She’d succeeded in that already. So who knew exactly how deep her personal resilience really ran, after all.

Grit and determination had brought her to Morrow Creek. Those same qualities could bring her toe-to-toe with Miles. They could help her win—help her protect herself from...everything.

“He’s very handsome,” Bonita mused. “Very handsome.”

Rosamond agreed. Silently. Her mind was still awhirl with all the potential implications of Miles’s sudden appearance in Morrow Creek. She couldn’t afford to go all swoony over his deep blue eyes, his Adonis-like dark curly hair and his sculpted features. Those transient qualities didn’t matter anyway.

“Very charming, too,” her assistant added leadingly. “Do you know, when the laudanum first hit him, he stared at you for a solid minute with a spoony, love-struck grin on his face? It was as if he’d waited years to see you, when clearly—”

“It’s only been a little more than a single year.” Forcefully, Rosamond dragged herself from her remembrance of Miles’s euphoric expression. “And he was drugged, remember?”

“Drugged in a way that would remove all barriers to the truth,” Bonita argued. Then her mouth dropped open. “A little more than a—then you do know him? Really? From Boston?”

“Home of rivers, bridges and a mother’s love.”

“I thought you only wanted to know about Miles Callaway.”

“He is Miles Callaway.”

“But you said— He said—” Bonita frowned. “I’m confused.”

“So am I. But one way or the other, I won’t be for long.”

“Then you’re ‘his Rose’? The runaway housemaid?” Bonita sounded baffled—and a little bit hurt, as well. “But you’ve never told me any of that. I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends.” Tearing herself away from the parlor window—from fruitlessly wishing Miles Callaway had ambled back into her life with a smile and a laugh and wholesome intentions to help her shoulder her burdens once more—Rosamond sighed. “But there are things no one needs to know about me. Sometimes, I wish I could forget them myself.”

Sympathetically, Bonita came nearer. Wisely, she stopped short of actually consoling Rosamond with a hug.

“Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t come back.”

Rosamond gave a wistful smile. “I feel positive it is.”

I only wish I could stop wanting him to come back anyway.

At least if Miles did return, she’d be ready.

Today, she’d been too taken aback by Miles’s unexpected arrival to react properly—to consider all the potential ramifications and inconveniences of pretending not to be the Rosamond McGrath Miles clearly believed she was.

She’d never been a skilled liar. Probably, she still wasn’t. Especially to someone who’d once known her well.

For a long time, her friend only regarded her. Then, “I guess you must be right.” With forced jollity, Bonita added, “Anyway, you and I—we’ve got each other, don’t we? In the end, that’s all we need. Nothing ever needs to change. Not if we don’t want it to. We’ve made things safe and secure and good.”

“Mmm. We’ve certainly tried.”

Absently, Rosamond smiled at her friend, hoping to reassure Bonita. But on the inside, she couldn’t help wondering...if Arvid Bouchard found her because of Miles Callaway’s visit, would she have anything at all left, for her or Bonita or anyone else?

Her so-called security had been tested and found wanting today. Her haven was no refuge at all. Not when someone like Miles could smash her security to smithereens with scarcely any effort at all. All this time, she’d been fooling herself, Rosamond knew now. She wasn’t safe. Maybe she never would be.

But maybe she could start strengthening her defenses straightaway, she decided as she collected her tea set. That’s exactly what she intended to do. Maybe she hadn’t done it yet, but Rosamond knew she could find some security eventually.

After all, that was all she’d ever wanted.

That and a certain burly, blue-eyed stableman to call her own, of course. It was only too bad she could never claim him...

Chapter Four

The following morning, after a fitful night spent haunted by memories of Miles Callaway—memories that had been hideously interspersed with confusing recollections of Arvid Bouchard in her nightmares—Rosamond made several decisions.

The first was that she would conduct herself intelligently from here on out. The second was that she would protect the people in her household. The third was that she would stay put. No one else was chasing her from her home. Not again. Not ever.

To that end, there could be no more swooning over Miles’s broad shoulders or raspy brogue, Rosamond chastised herself. There could be no more forgetting her own mission in favor of studying Miles’s chiseled cheekbones and assertive nose. There could be no more wishing that she could be different—could be as carefree as she’d been before Arvid Bouchard and his odious demands on her. No matter what it took, Rosamond swore, she would remain calm. Composed. In charge and in control.

There was safety in control. She needed that dearly.

To that end, Rosamond smiled up at her newest potential employee, a man named Dylan Coyle who’d come recommended to her.

“Two years at the lumber mill, you say?” She craned her neck way up to examine his expression for truthfulness and integrity. “Before that, a year with the Pinkertons?” His nod assured her that her information was correct. Nonetheless, Rosamond pushed harder. “What made you leave the agency’s employ?”

“I didn’t like the way they ran things.”

“The way they ran things?”

“With guns. They used guns.” Coyle’s steely gaze locked with hers. “I reckon if a man can’t disable a criminal with his own two hands, he doesn’t deserve to be called a man, does he?”