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Book: His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) by Dorothy Clark
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Authors: Dorothy Clark
Tags: Baby, Romance, Historical, Family, Family Life, Journalist, Religious, Christian, Inspirational, love, Writing, Faith, nanny, Surprise, Career, changes, Doorstep, Little Brother, Toddler, Ordered Life, Long-Lost, Warmth
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close against her. A gust of wind swept down the street and she staggered backward. His hand slipped to her lower back, steadied her against the force of the wind as they moved forward.
The blowing rain formed large wet blotches on his shirt.
He must be icy cold.
She looked down at his suit coat enfolding her in its dry warmth and a band of tightness squeezed her throat and chest. She stared down at the splashing rain and fought back the unexplainable urge to cry.
Main Street was deserted in the storm. The unimpeded wind whipped her skirts into a frenzy. His arm tightened. She could feel its strength angling down her back to where his hand supported her as they crossed to the walkway at East Second Street and continued down the block. She fought the tightness in her chest for breath and watched the houses they passed, slowed her steps then unlatched a gate bearing a sign that read Smithfield Boardinghouse. “This is where I live.”
He escorted her up the stone walk to the deep porch. Large rhododendron bushes growing in front of the railing blocked the wind and rain. She stepped behind their protection and slipped off his suit coat, shivering in the cold, damp air. “Thank you for seeing me home in the storm, Mr. Thornberg. I’m sorry you have gotten soaked and cold. I would ask you in to get warm, but—” She could manage no more. The constriction of her throat choked off her words. She looked down at his suit coat in her hands.
“But boardinghouses do not lend themselves to such amenities. I quite understand, Miss Gordon. I’m no stranger to boardinghouses. I lived in my share when I was a roving reporter.” He took his suit coat from her, shrugged to settle it on his shoulders and picked up his umbrella. “Please do not try to return to work in this storm. My regards to your mother. I hope her health improves soon. Good afternoon, Miss Gordon.” He dipped his head, trotted down the steps and hurried out through the gate.
She wrapped her arms about herself and stared after him until he disappeared into the rain, waiting for that strange urge to cry to go away so she could go inside.
* * *
Charles scooped the last spoonful of soup from his bowl, picked up his coffee and walked into his study. The clink of dishes and clatter of flatware followed him as Mrs. Hotchkiss cleared the dining room. He scowled and closed the door, unreasonably irritated by the normal sounds of his daily life.
It had been a mistake. One he couldn’t avoid—he could hardly have let Miss Gordon walk home in the storm with no protection whatsoever—but a mistake nonetheless. He had hated leaving her standing there on the porch when she looked so defenseless and—
Thunderation!
How was he to get the picture of her out of his head! And why, in the name of all that was
sane
, should it make him feel lonely? The new house he’d found such comfort in suddenly felt like an empty tomb.
He slammed his cup down on the mantel and wished there were a fire on the hearth so he had a log he could kick. He hadn’t felt so—so
alone
since his mother had shipped him off to boarding school when he was five years old.
He shook his head, jammed his hands into his pockets and stared out at the rain. He’d thought he was over all those old, worthless emotions. There was nothing more useless than self-pity.
He frowned, buttoned the coat of the suit he’d changed into and headed for the entrance hall. Getting out a newspaper couldn’t wait for good weather.
She was caring for a bedridden mother. No wonder Miss Gordon was prickly. That was a heavy load for a young woman to shoulder. The shadow of it had been in her eyes when she’d looked up at him. And surprise. No, something more than surprise...shock had filled them when he’d put his suit coat around her. As if no one had ever taken care of her.
Something twisted deep in his gut. He pulled on his mackintosh and hat, grabbed the wet umbrella from its stand and stepped out onto the porch.
The blowing rain formed large wet blotches on his shirt.
He must be icy cold.
She looked down at his suit coat enfolding her in its dry warmth and a band of tightness squeezed her throat and chest. She stared down at the splashing rain and fought back the unexplainable urge to cry.
Main Street was deserted in the storm. The unimpeded wind whipped her skirts into a frenzy. His arm tightened. She could feel its strength angling down her back to where his hand supported her as they crossed to the walkway at East Second Street and continued down the block. She fought the tightness in her chest for breath and watched the houses they passed, slowed her steps then unlatched a gate bearing a sign that read Smithfield Boardinghouse. “This is where I live.”
He escorted her up the stone walk to the deep porch. Large rhododendron bushes growing in front of the railing blocked the wind and rain. She stepped behind their protection and slipped off his suit coat, shivering in the cold, damp air. “Thank you for seeing me home in the storm, Mr. Thornberg. I’m sorry you have gotten soaked and cold. I would ask you in to get warm, but—” She could manage no more. The constriction of her throat choked off her words. She looked down at his suit coat in her hands.
“But boardinghouses do not lend themselves to such amenities. I quite understand, Miss Gordon. I’m no stranger to boardinghouses. I lived in my share when I was a roving reporter.” He took his suit coat from her, shrugged to settle it on his shoulders and picked up his umbrella. “Please do not try to return to work in this storm. My regards to your mother. I hope her health improves soon. Good afternoon, Miss Gordon.” He dipped his head, trotted down the steps and hurried out through the gate.
She wrapped her arms about herself and stared after him until he disappeared into the rain, waiting for that strange urge to cry to go away so she could go inside.
* * *
Charles scooped the last spoonful of soup from his bowl, picked up his coffee and walked into his study. The clink of dishes and clatter of flatware followed him as Mrs. Hotchkiss cleared the dining room. He scowled and closed the door, unreasonably irritated by the normal sounds of his daily life.
It had been a mistake. One he couldn’t avoid—he could hardly have let Miss Gordon walk home in the storm with no protection whatsoever—but a mistake nonetheless. He had hated leaving her standing there on the porch when she looked so defenseless and—
Thunderation!
How was he to get the picture of her out of his head! And why, in the name of all that was
sane
, should it make him feel lonely? The new house he’d found such comfort in suddenly felt like an empty tomb.
He slammed his cup down on the mantel and wished there were a fire on the hearth so he had a log he could kick. He hadn’t felt so—so
alone
since his mother had shipped him off to boarding school when he was five years old.
He shook his head, jammed his hands into his pockets and stared out at the rain. He’d thought he was over all those old, worthless emotions. There was nothing more useless than self-pity.
He frowned, buttoned the coat of the suit he’d changed into and headed for the entrance hall. Getting out a newspaper couldn’t wait for good weather.
She was caring for a bedridden mother. No wonder Miss Gordon was prickly. That was a heavy load for a young woman to shoulder. The shadow of it had been in her eyes when she’d looked up at him. And surprise. No, something more than surprise...shock had filled them when he’d put his suit coat around her. As if no one had ever taken care of her.
Something twisted deep in his gut. He pulled on his mackintosh and hat, grabbed the wet umbrella from its stand and stepped out onto the porch.
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