The Engagement Bargain. Sherri Shackelford
Читать онлайн книгу.
fiancée?”
The man lifted his hands as though in surrender. “The title seemed the least likely one for Miss Bishop to take. Since she’s a, you know, she’s a...”
“She’s a suffragist. It’s not a profanity.”
“My apologies, sir. I can change the register.”
Caleb pictured Anna, her turquoise dress ruined, her bold speech silenced. Why would anyone want to live in the public eye? And yet he couldn’t deny her obvious appeal, the way her vivacious speech had captivated the crowd. He couldn’t imagine a better figurehead for the cause.
“No, you’ve done well,” Caleb said. “Keeping her identity hidden is best.”
As he surveyed the scene, voices ebbed and flowed around him. All of these people had come to hear her speak. He fisted his hands. Not all of them. For all he knew, the man who’d pulled the trigger was here. Waiting. Watching.
Caleb searched the faces of the spectators milling around the lobby. There was no way of knowing, no way of telling who held violence in their heart.
He raked his hands through his hair. Until they discovered the shooter, the less said, the better. What did it matter how Anna was registered? No one would know but the hotel staff.
After a few more words with the concierge about the new room arrangement, he returned upstairs and met Jo as she exited Miss Bishop’s room.
Caleb checked the corridor, ensuring the space was empty of curiosity seekers before pulling Jo aside. “It’s not safe for Miss Bishop. She needs a guard at her door. I’ve arranged for another room for you. Simply switching with Miss Bishop is out of the question. There are reporters and policemen. Not to mention whoever fired the shot is still out there.”
His sister propped her hands on her hips. “She should come home with us.”
Caleb had briefly thought the same thing, and had come up with a thousand reasons why the plan was not sound. “This isn’t our concern. Surely she has family, friends.”
A sweetheart, perhaps. The thought brought him up short. He shook his head. Nothing in the papers had ever indicated that Miss Bishop was linked with a gentleman—and that would certainly be newsworthy.
“I’ve corresponded with her for months. She doesn’t have anyone close. Her mother lives in St. Louis, but she’s in Boston for an extended stay. Besides, it’s too far for Anna to travel in her condition.”
Caleb sensed a losing battle ahead of him. This was the Jo he knew and admired. Given a problem, she immediately grasped for a solution and charged ahead.
He held out his arms in supplication and assumed his most placating tone. “Slow down. We don’t have any influence here.”
Jo slapped his hands away. “I’m not one of your animals. Stop speaking to me as though I’m a goat. Anna is my friend. She’ll need a place to rest, a quiet place to recuperate. People who care for her.”
“Jo, listen to me, even if you invited her back to Cimarron Springs, do you really think she’d accept your offer? She’s not a country girl. She’d be bored in an instant.” He indicated the elaborate appointed hallway with its hand-knotted rug and brass fixtures. “This is her world.”
Though he knew the idea was ludicrous, he couldn’t shake an impending sense of despair. He didn’t want their paths to cross any more than necessary. Anna Bishop was beautiful and witty and captivating. In the brief time he’d seen her on that stage, he’d known she was different from anyone else he’d ever met. He was drawn to her, and those feelings were disastrous.
He was a veterinarian from a small town who loathed big cities. She was a nationally renowned speaker with a following. She had a calling. There was clearly no room in her life for someone like him. He’d grown emotional over someone who hadn’t returned his affection once before. Only a fool made the same mistake twice.
His sister approached him and crowded into his space until they stood toe to toe. “She needs us.”
“Why us?” Caleb stood his ground. “Why does she need us?”
Jo glared. “Until they discover who tried to kill her, Anna is going to need a place to hide. And you’re good at hiding, aren’t you?”
With that, she pivoted on her heel and stomped down the corridor.
His burst of fury quickly died, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. He wasn’t hiding, he was simply a loner who should have stayed in Cimarron Springs where he belonged. And yet if he’d stayed at home, what would have happened to Anna? Who would have cared for her?
The answer troubled him more than he would have cared to admit. Which was why he needed as much space between them as possible, as soon as possible. Becoming embroiled in Anna’s life was out of the question.
A week following the shooting, Anna staggered from bed and took a few lurching steps, determined to reestablish her independence. Winded, she collapsed onto a chair before the window. She’d considered dressing, but even the simple task of standing had become a tiring battle in her weakened condition.
From this moment on she was taking charge of her life. No more depending on others, no more sleeping the days and nights away. Except her body had refused the call to action.
The bandage wrapped around her side restricted her movements, and the slightest agitation sent a shock of pain through her side. Near tears, she rested her forehead against the chilled windowpane.
A soft knock sounded at the door. She smoothed the front of her dressing gown and tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, relieved they’d had her trunk delivered to the room when she and Jo had switched.
“It’s Mrs. Franklin,” a voice called.
Anna sat up as straight as her wound allowed. “Please, come in.”
As the door swung open, she recalled her embroidery and quickly shoved the evidence beneath her pillow. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she kept the feminine hobby to herself.
The older woman took one look at Anna and tsked. “Why didn’t you call for me? I would have helped.”
The past week was a blur of disjointed memories. Between sleeping and waking, she recalled the visits from other suffragists. The room had erupted with flowers like a meadow after a spring rain. They crowded every available surface, perfuming the air.
“I managed well enough,” Anna said. “I didn’t want to inconvenience you.”
“It’s no trouble.” Mrs. Franklin’s gray eyes clouded over. “It’s the least I can do.”
As she crossed before her, Anna caught her hand. “This wasn’t your fault.”
“You can’t blame me for feeling guilty.” The older woman paused. “Will you at least let me help you dress this morning?”
“That would be lovely. I’m tired of lazing around in my nightclothes.”
While Anna was eager to press her independence, she sensed the other woman’s need to be useful, and remained docile beneath her ministrations. The widow was the opposite of everything Anna had been taught to hold dear. Mrs. Franklin seemed to revel in her role as protector and nurturer—character traits her mother abhorred. Victoria Bishop took great pains to surround herself with the like-minded. No action was ever taken without a purpose. Independence was prized in the Bishop household. Tutors and nannies who had coddled Anna as a child were quickly corrected or dismissed.
You are not here to care for the child, Anna recalled her mother’s oft-repeated order, you are to teach the child how to care for herself.
After Anna donned her simplest outfit, a white cotton shirtwaist