Love Inspired Historical July 2015 Box Set: The Marriage Agreement\Cowgirl for Keeps\The Lawman's Redemption\Captive on the High Seas (12 page)

Fanny found herself falling silent more often than not, preferring to watch Jonathon interact with her parents. He seemed perfectly at ease. Everything about the man appealed to her. She admired his sense of honor, his devotion to his employees, his patience while her father grilled him about his finances.

Personally, Fanny didn't care how much money Jonathon had made in recent years. She was more impressed with his work ethic and how he hired people other employers shunned. She really adored his face. Strong and handsome, each feature boldly sculpted. The overall impact was very masculine, very appealing.

She couldn't seem to take her eyes off him.

He looked in her direction and their gazes locked. Her breath caught in her throat. Her mind emptied of all coherent thought.

When he returned his attention to her father, the truth roared through her like a violent summer storm. Quick, fierce, life-changing.

She was lost, completely, hopelessly, irrevocably lost. Her brother Garrett had warned this would happen. His words came back to her with excruciating clarity.
When Mitchells fall in love, we fall fast, hard and forever
.

Fanny's heart twisted. She was in love with Jonathon.

How could she have let this happen?

“Fanny?” Her mother's gaze grew serious. “Is something the matter? Are you feeling unwell?”

“No, I—I'm perfectly fine.” But, of course, she wasn't fine.

Too much emotion spilled through her. Her arms felt unnaturally heavy and her pulse grew uneven.

“I just need to—” she touched her head, grateful to find that several stubborn locks had escaped their pins “—readjust my hair.”

With her hands surprisingly steady, she set her napkin on the table and stood.

Jonathon was on his feet a half second later. “Let me escort you—”

“No. Stay.” She managed a wan smile. “I'll only be a moment.”

He reached for her.

Evading his touch, she forced her attention onto her parents. “Please, continue eating. I won't be long.”

It took every ounce of control to walk through the dining room at a calm, sedate pace. She could feel countless eyes following her progress, Jonathon's most of all, but she kept her gaze trained on the ladies' washroom. Refuge was but a few feet away.

Slipping quickly inside, she shut the door and looked around for a place to sit. Several plush, navy blue stools stood in a row before individual mirrors encased in gilded frames. The room had an elegant, luxurious ambience that left her feeling empty.

Fanny took a seat before her legs gave way beneath her.

Needing something to do with her hands, she let down her hair and rearranged the loose curls in an easy, simple style. As she worked, she noted her drawn expression. She looked unusually fragile.

Why wouldn't she look fragile? She was in love with a man who wanted to marry her for all the wrong reasons.

There were worse fates, she knew. Yet, for a moment, she allowed herself to mourn what might have been, to regret what could never come to pass.

She would survive this.
She would
. All she had to do was hold firm to the reasons she must not marry Jonathon. Tears of regret pooled in her eyes. She ruthlessly blinked them away.

With stiff fingers, she stuck the last pin into her hair. Composure somewhat restored, she managed to stand.

And then, naturally, one of Denver's most determined gossips entered the ladies' washroom.

Fanny nearly groaned aloud.

Dressed in a pale pink evening gown, with yards upon yards of lace and too many ruffles for her plump figure, Mrs. Doris Goodwin strolled deeper into the room.

“Ah, Miss Mitchell, I see I have caught you alone.”

Fanny tried not to bristle at the sugary-sweet tone. Clearly, catching her
alone
had been the woman's intention. “Good evening, Mrs. Goodwin. You are looking well.”

“Why, thank you, dear. That is very kind of you to say.”

The woman bustled past her, then made an elaborate show of checking her salt-and-pepper hair in the mirror. A ruse, no doubt, since she spent more time studying Fanny out of the corner of her eye than focusing on her own reflection.

Gaze narrowed, Fanny calculated how quickly she could slip out of the room without offending the other woman. All hope of a hasty retreat vanished when Mrs. Goodwin spun around and pinned her with a pointed gaze. “How are you faring since the scandal broke?”

Fanny searched for an appropriate answer but was unable to give one, so she simply shrugged.

“Oh, my, I've upset you.” Looking unrepentant, she grasped Fanny's hands in a display of false concern. “Not to worry, dear, your shameful behavior will be forgotten once you are safely married. When should I expect an invitation to the wedding?”

“I... We haven't...” With great care, she withdrew her hands from the woman's clammy hold. “My parents will be wondering where I am. I must return to the dining room before they begin to worry.”

Fanny tried very hard to escape, but the detestable woman called after her. “Your mother will never say this, so I will. It's time you faced some hard truths.”

Despite knowing better than to engage the woman in conversation, Fanny turned back around. “Hard truths?”

“You must realize your attempt to snag a husband reeks of desperation. I'm afraid your reputation will never fully recover.” She patted Fanny's arm in a patronizing manner. “For your mother's sake, I do hope you marry Mr. Hawkins very soon. It is your only hope of regaining a measure of respectability.”

Fanny opened her mouth to say something scathing—really, the woman had overstepped her bounds—but then she remembered one of her mother's favorite Bible verses.
Let your conversation always be full of grace.

She pressed her lips tightly together and boldly held the woman's stare. Mrs. Goodwin shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Fanny felt as if she'd won the battle, but then the odious woman's gaze hooked on a spot just over her right shoulder.

“Oh, Mary, there you are. I was just having a nice conversation with your daughter.”

“So I heard.”

Her mother's labored breathing sent a jolt of fear through Fanny. She spun around and the panic dug deeper at the sight of Mary Mitchell's unnaturally pale face.

Fanny rushed forward, but her mother shrugged away her assistance.

“You've done your worst, Doris, now I'll ask you to leave.”

Face pinched, the notorious gossip sniffed inelegantly, and then stormed out of the room with a hard slam of the door.

The loud bang seemed to steal her mother's last breath, and she was forced to sit down.

Fanny sank to her knees. “Breathe, Mother. Yes, that's it. Slowly now. In and out. In...out.”

When her mother's breathing failed to return to normal, Fanny jumped to her feet. “I'll get Father.”

Her mother pressed trembling fingers to her throat. “I believe,” she wheezed, “that would be...wise.”

Chapter Twelve

J
onathon fetched the doctor himself. He escorted Shane through the back entrance of the Brown Palace, ignoring the curious stares from the hotel staff. Fortunately, management had been concerned enough over Mrs. Mitchell's health crisis to provide a room. Unfortunately, that room was on the fifth floor.

Neither man spoke as they entered the stairwell and commandeered the first of the five flights, far quicker than waiting for the elevator. The sound of their heels striking wood reverberated off the walls like hammers to nails.

Shane carried a medical bag in one hand, a breathing apparatus in the other. He wore what Jonathon thought of as his uniform—black pants, a crisp, white linen shirt and an intense expression. Jonathon had seen that same look in those steel blue eyes many times in his past. The most memorable, the night his mother died.

When they rounded the first corner and tackled the second flight of stairs, Shane broke his silence. “Tell me again what happened.”

Jonathon pressed his lips tightly together. He'd already relayed the story to Shane on the trip across town. “Mrs. Mitchell had a severe asthma attack.”

The sharp planes of the other man's face stiffened. “That's not what I meant. I need you to describe the events leading up to the attack.”

Keeping his eyes straight ahead, Jonathon tapped into his remaining stores of patience. “Fanny and I were dining with her parents in the restaurant downstairs. Near the end of the meal Fanny became noticeably upset and left the table with some excuse about fixing her hair. She wouldn't allow me to escort her, though I tried, and made a point of insisting—”

“Hold on,” Shane interrupted. “Was Mrs. Mitchell's breathing normal up to this point?”

Jonathon thought a moment, then nodded. “As far as I could tell, she was fine. Her breathing only started coming quicker when Fanny didn't return to the table right away. She expressed a desire to check on her daughter. Her husband offered to go with her, but she rejected his support.”

This was when the story got a little fuzzy, primarily because Fanny had been vague in her retelling. Jonathon had a good idea why.

“Apparently, Mrs. Mitchell arrived at the ladies' washroom in time to catch an unpleasant exchange between Fanny and another woman. I don't know what was said.” Fanny claimed the conversation didn't matter. Jonathon suspected otherwise. “But the incident was the catalyst for Mrs. Mitchell's attack.”

Jonathon had never witnessed an asthma attack before, but he'd watched his own mother gasping for air on her deathbed.

The memory materialized despite his efforts to hold it at bay. She would suck in a labored breath, pause for endless seconds and then choke out a wheeze. Just as he gave up hope that she would manage another breath, the pattern would begin all over again.

Shane had called it the death rattle.

Jonathon shuddered. There'd been nothing he could do. Tonight, he'd struggled with a similar sense of powerlessness.

“All right.” Shane's voice came at him as if from a great distance. “That gives me a good idea what I'm dealing with.”

“Will she survive?”

“I'll know more once I examine the patient.”

Not the answer Jonathon wanted to hear, but he didn't press for more information. They'd arrived at the fifth floor. Reaching around Shane, he opened the door and motioned the other man into the hallway ahead of him.

Shane glanced back at him over his shoulder. “Which room is she in?”

“503.”

He checked numbers on the closest doors, then set out down the long corridor. Jonathon fell in step beside him.

At their destination, Shane paused. “You'll want to wait here.”

Not sure what he saw in the other man's eyes, Jonathon nodded. “Of course.”

“I'll bring news as soon as I can.”

“Appreciate that.”

Features twisted in a frown, Shane entered the room and then shouldered the door closed.

Alone with nothing but his thoughts, Jonathon paced. The sound of his breathing filled the empty hallway, a mockery of what he'd witnessed tonight. He flexed his neck to relieve the knots that had formed there, then checked the time on his watch.

He'd felt this sense of helplessness during his mother's final hours. So many years had come and gone since that terrible night. Yet here he was, once again unable to ease a woman's suffering. When he'd watched Mrs. Mitchell struggling for air, when he'd felt Fanny's stark terror, it had become personal for him.

He stopped abruptly, leaned a shoulder against the wall and lowered his head in prayer.
Lord, heal Mrs. Mitchell. Give her relief from the pain. Please, help her find her breath again
.

The door to room 503 swung open.

Shane joined Jonathon in the hallway. His dark, rumpled hair had a wild look, as though he'd run his fingers through it so many times that the ends now stuck out permanently.

A lump rose in Jonathon's throat. He pushed it down with a hard, silent swallow. “How is she?”

Rubbing a hand over his face, Shane rolled tired eyes to him. “She's resting.”

“Will...” Vicious fear clogged in his throat, stealing the words out of his mouth. He swallowed again, started over. “Will she recover?”

Shane speared splayed fingers through his hair. “She's had a life-threatening attack. I believe the worst is over, but I'm afraid she still has a long, agonizing night ahead.”

Memories of his mother's long, agonizing nights swam in Jonathon's head. Amelia Hawkins had died of tuberculosis, another terrible lung disease. Her final days had been excruciating and painful.

But that had been years ago. Surely modern medicine had made strides since then. “Is there no medication you can give her? Don't you have something in that black bag of yours that will relieve the pressure in her lungs?”

“I've done what I can.” A line of consternation drew Shane's eyebrows together. “There's no cure for asthma. I can only relieve the symptoms as best I can.”

That wasn't the answer Jonathon wanted. “Tell me what I can do to help avoid another one of these attacks.”

Shane studied his face for an endless moment. The look in his eyes warned Jonathon he wasn't going to like what he heard.

“I've known you for some time, since you were a boy living at Charity House, so I'm going to be frank.”

Jonathon waited for the rest.

“Tonight's attack was triggered by stress. Mrs. Mitchell is the kind of mother who loves her children and worries about their welfare, at the expense of her own. If you truly want to prevent another episode, then do whatever you must to shut down the gossip concerning her daughter.”

“Understood.” Conviction sounded in his voice, spread deep into his soul. The situation between him and Fanny had become a matter of life and death.

“I trust you'll make the right decision.” Shane gripped him on the shoulder. “You're a good man, Johnny.”

Johnny
. No one had called him that since childhood.

Giving him a tight smile, Shane dropped his hand. “I need to get back to my patient now.”

After watching the doctor return to the room and shut the door behind him, Jonathon went back to pacing and praying, praying and pacing.

Ten minutes later, the door swung open again. This time, Fanny stepped out into the hallway.

Jonathon strode over to her. Taking note of the worry creasing her brow, he opened his arms in silent invitation.

She launched herself into his embrace.

“Oh, Jonathon.” She said his name in a low, aching tone. “I've never been so scared in all my life.”

“I know, baby.” He tightened his hold.

“She's breathing easier now.”

“Praise God for that.” Watching Mrs. Mitchell struggling to breathe earlier tonight had been living torture.

Fanny shifted in his arms and glanced up.

At the look of sorrow in her eyes, a dozen simultaneous thoughts shuffled through his mind, pinpointing to one clear course of action. Ease this woman's pain.

This wasn't the way he wanted to propose to her again. He'd had plans of courting her properly, with flowers, unexpected gifts, gentle kisses, the whole romantic package. There would be time for all that later.

For now, he started with a simple apology. “I'm sorry, Fanny. I'm sorry your mother suffered because of something I did.”

“You mean something
we
did together. Oh, Jonathon.” She pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “You realize what this means, don't you?”

“I do.” He ran his hand over her hair. “We'll make it work. I promise we'll figure out a way that will benefit all parties involved.”

As if she didn't hear him, she continued speaking into his shirt. “San Francisco isn't so very far away. I can come home several times a year.”

“No, Fanny, you don't need to leave Denver.” He set her away from him, looked her straight in the eye. “You can stay in town, if you marry me.”

She blinked. “You...you're proposing again?”

“I am, and by the shock in your eyes, I'm making a terrible hash of it. Let's try this again.” He took her hand, brought it to his lips, then pressed her palm to his chest. “Fanny Mitchell, will you marry me?”

“You don't have to do this.” She swiped at her eyes. “I know how you feel about marriage, and I—”

“Will you marry me?”

She dragged her bottom lip between her teeth. “You are sure this is what you want?”

More sure than he'd been about anything in his life, he repeated the question a third time. “Will you marry me?”

He saw her mind working, saw the moment when she quit fighting the inevitable. For the rest of his life, he would remember the look in her gaze when she became his wife, all but for the ceremony.

“Yes, Jonathon.” She rose on her toes and placed a soft, tender kiss to his lips. “I will marry you.”

* * *

Over the course of the following week, Fanny's life changed dramatically. Her brothers and their families left Denver and returned to their lives, while her parents remained in town, primarily so Dr. Shane could monitor her mother's health.

Fanny liked having her parents close by. It was a pleasure planning her wedding with their input.

Sitting behind her desk, she opened the writing tablet beneath her hand, then reached for the stack of RSVPs. One by one, she checked the responses against the master list of wedding guests.

The news of her impending marriage had not brought a complete end to the gossip, but enough that Fanny no longer worried about her mother's health. In fact, Mary Mitchell hadn't suffered a single relapse since Fanny's engagement became public. Physical proof she'd done the right thing by accepting Jonathon's proposal.

In one short week, she would recite wedding vows with him and become his wife. A little jolt of excitement raced through her. In the days since she'd accepted Jonathon's proposal, he'd made no mention of conditions on their marriage.

Dare she hope he'd changed his mind? Dare she hope he wanted true love and, maybe, one day...children?

It would be foolish to allow her mind to chase down that rabbit trail. One step at a time, she told herself.

She would enjoy being engaged to Jonathon. She had faith the rest would work itself out in time.

Claiming a key role in their romance, Mrs. Singletary was enjoying many accolades for her continued success as a matchmaker. Tomorrow evening, when she hosted Fanny and Jonathon's engagement party, the widow would remind everyone in attendance of her skillful maneuverings on their behalf.

Checking the time on the clock perched above her small fireplace, Fanny yelped. Five minutes past three.

She was late for tea with her mother and sister.

After a quick check of her hair, she hurried through the lobby. She passed a familiar woman and her two teenage daughters. All three were dressed in various shades of blue, their beautiful, expensive gowns cut in a popular style, with the requisite form-fitting bodices and A-line skirts.

The three halted when they saw her.

Fanny smiled. Only one returned the gesture, the youngest.

Fanny refused to be daunted. “Good morning, Mrs. Wainwright.” She glanced from mother to daughters. “Sylvia, Carly, lovely to see you both.”

The older woman sniffed in disdain. “Girls, do not respond.” She herded her daughters away from Fanny, giving her a ridiculously wide berth. “We do not speak to women
like her
.”

Mortified at the implication of the words, Fanny found her footsteps faltering.

Did Mrs. Wainwright think she had no feelings? Did she not care that it hurt to be snubbed so profoundly? Of course it hurt. But after facing the very real prospect of losing her mother, Fanny recognized the value of putting moments such as these in perspective.

Once she married Jonathon, much of the censure would disappear, but some would never go away. There wasn't much she could do about that, except hold her head high and pray her mother didn't suffer because of the gossip.

Shaking her head, Fanny continued on to her destination.

The maître d'hôtel welcomed her with a large smile. “Miss Mitchell. Your sister and mother are already at the table you reserved for the afternoon.”

“Thank you, Mr. Griffin. I'll find them.”

With a critical eye, she took a quick inventory of the restaurant. She noted the details others would miss. The white table linens were clean and pressed, with perfectly placed pleats hanging down the sides. The silverware was dainty and feminine, specifically purchased to use solely at afternoon tea.

Fanny's gaze landed on her mother and sister, who sat at a table near the fireplace. Beneath the golden light, Callie glowed. Her mother looked equally healthy and happy.

Callie caught sight of her first and gave a quick, jaunty wave above her head. Returning the gesture, Fanny hurried to the table.