Always (18 page)

“I’m not sure that what he did justifies you sinking to his level.”

Emily paused long enough to give him a withering look. “Now who’s being unrealistic?”

That stung. “All right,” Ross conceded, “but gaining a certain amount of spiteful satisfaction isn’t worth putting your real job in jeopardy.”

“My real job? What makes you think
this
isn’t my real job?”

“Because you’re not making any money at it. You can’t seriously expect to make a go of this?”

“Why not? People start new businesses every day.”

“Not by themselves. Not without some financial backing, anyway, and certainly not when they’re women.”

Ross didn’t miss the poisonous side glance she sent him. She had never taken well to being reminded of her gender’s biological or social limitations. In fact, she had never taken well to being reminded of any limitations. It was just Ross’s sorry luck that he’d always been the more practical-minded of the two and that it was often his unpleasant task to force her to face reality.

He took up that task now, even if he understood why she was doing this. “It’s crazy, Emily. You’re tilting at windmills.”

“You sound like Karen,” she muttered. Her fingers moved quickly and artfully, plucking type and setting it, plucking and setting, without missing a beat.

“Maybe it’s as hard for her as it is for me to stand by and watch you work yourself into the ground for nothing. You’re heading for a big disappointment.”

“Then don’t watch. Leave.”

Her dismissal couldn’t have been more effective if she’d slapped his face. He knew he should follow her advice. He should leave, but his feet wouldn’t move. “Come with me,” he said.

“No.”

“Emily, you can’t do this alone.”

She expelled an exasperated breath and faced him. “Then, for God’s sake, Ross, why don’t you help me?”

He felt as if she’d tossed a flaming cannonball into his lap. Help her? He glanced at the pile of print orders on the table. Only a handful, not more than an afternoon’s work if she had a normal staff to support her. As it was, she’d probably be sweating it out here all night.

But he couldn’t be the one to help her. And it wasn’t only because he believed she was setting herself up for a fall. He had his own future to think about. He had no intention of telling Malcolm what he knew, and that was probably bad enough. To actually get involved with Emily’s ill-fated scheme would be tantamount to professional betrayal.

“I can’t.”

She didn’t flinch. She merely held his gaze a few seconds longer, then she turned back to her work. “I didn’t think so.”

Ross stood motionless for another long moment. “You can’t expect me to help you dig this hole for yourself.”

“Oh, I certainly wouldn’t,” she said, plucking and setting, plucking and setting.

“Fine.” He wanted to throttle her.

“Fine.”

Ross strode to the door, yanked it open, and slammed it behind him. Stubborn! Stubborn and impulsive and reckless and stupid. If she wouldn’t listen to reason, there was nothing he could do to help her.

He didn’t pay attention to which direction he chose on the street. Away. Away from
her
was the only direction that counted. Good Lord, how could she ask him to help her when she knew very well what an awkward position it would put him in? Now, because of her and her unreasonable request, he felt like an unchivalrous lout, leaving her to sweat over a job press all night.

Damn her.

She’d deliberately put him in a no-win situation. If Malcolm found out that he was helping Emily steal print customers from him—and he would, sooner or later—how would that look?

He had too much effort invested into forging a promising future with the
Herald
to consider tossing it all to the wind. Why, just taking into account all the Davenport family meals he’d sat through, the price exacted in sheer blood-and-guts agony was running pretty damn high. Interminable, dreary affairs they were, with Malcolm presiding at the head of the table, pontificating upon whatever political or local issue had caught his interest that day, and Mrs. Davenport, sitting silent and faintly pretty at the other end. And then there was Johanna, who perched across the table from Ross, smiling coyly as she offered to pass the bread.

Why, just the previous evening, as Malcolm had droned on and Ross’s annoyance had begun to build, he’d had to remind himself of his priorities. For the price of a few dull mealtimes, his future was assured. While it wasn’t common knowledge, Ross knew that Malcolm had his eye on a state senate seat. If that came to pass, Ross might find himself sitting in the managing editor’s desk sooner than he expected. That was tempting enough without even taking into account that he would soon be claiming the lovely Johanna as his prize. It should have been enough to make any man willing to sit through a few boring meals.

But Ross’s mind had kept wandering. He’d tried casting his attention in Johanna’s direction, allowing his gaze to settle on the lush swell of her breasts beneath the bodice of her evening dress. Every so often he even caught a gratifying glimpse of cleavage when she leaned forward to pass the salt. Of all things, the sight of Johanna’s lovely feminine figure should have distracted him with fantasies of bounteous sex, but Ross found himself thinking of Emily instead. He imagined her riding with Karl Becker in his runabout, and it was unwelcome fantasies of Emily and Karl ripping off each other’s clothes to roll naked and wild on a picnic blanket that ultimately caused Ross to lose his appetite—
all
of his appetites. He’d left the Davenport home with a pounding headache and a mutinous attitude.

Ross stopped cold at a busy intersection, breathing hard more from exasperation than exertion. He glared up at a street sign to see that he’d walked three-quarters of the way around the same block. “Damn her!”

Awash in guilt, he looked up the street in the direction of the print shop. Mutual agreement on all issues had never been part of his relationship with Emily, so why should he expect it to be so now? She was wrong, but he was nevertheless assailed by images of her toiling over a heavy hand press. He was left with a bad taste in his mouth at the thought of leaving her to fight her hopeless battle all alone.

When she had asked him to help her, had it been some kind of test? If so, it was a test he’d managed to fail in a prompt and spectacular fashion.

“Damn,” he swore again softly. “Emily, why do you have to make this so difficult?”

*

They worked well into the evening by lamplight in the old print shop. When Ross had first returned with two covered dinner plates from the Blue Swan, Emily appeared surprised, but she didn’t ask why he’d come back. Even as they partook of a hasty evening meal in near-silence, it was clear why he’d come back. He was capitulating. Well, perhaps that was too strong a word. He still made it clear that he didn’t approve of what she was doing, but he pitched in, taking over operation of the press while Emily set type and arranged copy for the orders she had promised to deliver the following morning.

As they worked, they kept their distance, each tending to his or her tasks. Emily kept an uncharacteristically restrained silence while Ross was still too confused over his own motivations to put much into words. When they did speak, it was of neutral topics, those they could discuss without upsetting the apple cart—the weather, the Lincoln assassination trial, and Alma Brenner’s state of health.

Only once were they forced to confront the alien tension that had grown between them. As they passed each other, he on his way to replenish his ink supply, she returning from delivering a full galley to his worktable, Emily’s toe caught on the leg of a chair, shooting her forward and directly into Ross’s stunned arms. His fingers instinctively wrapped around her waist, anchoring there, refusing to move. They stared at each other.

“You all right?”

“Yes.”

Ross had almost forgotten what Emily felt like—so delicate and feather-light. Beneath the lining of her bodice and corset, she would be soft to the touch, fine and warm and smooth. They were both sweating in the abominable heat, but she smelled like rosewater. She must have washed her hair in it or something. He felt her hands on him where she’d caught him for balance. Her fingers gripped his forearms tightly beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Yes.” Her grip relaxed, then released.

Ross did likewise and stepped back. “I... uh ...”

“Big feet,” she said before he could finish making a complete jackass out of himself.

“What?”

“My big dumb feet,” she said, then pushed past him to resume work.

By nine o’clock, Ross was exhausted, and he could tell Emily was in no better condition. “Let’s call it a night,” he suggested, pulling out the bed assembly of the press. He lifted the frisket and removed the last of a two-hundred-sheet handbill order.

Emily frowned, then moved to the worktable where the completed orders were ready to be bundled for delivery. “I’ve just got one more thing to do.”

“Emily.” His warning tone must have gotten her attention. When she turned, he inclined his head toward the wall clock. “Won’t your family worry?”

She blinked and pushed a stray lock of hair from her sweat-dampened forehead. The shadows that lurked beneath her eyes were clearly evident in the glow of a desk lamp. “Oh, I... I hadn’t realized what time it was.”

“As I said, time to call it a night.”

“I’ll just clean up here and—”

“Leave it for tomorrow,” Ross interrupted. “Sit down. I’ll clean the press, then I’ll walk you home.”

“Oh.” But Emily didn’t move. She seemed dazed with fatigue. Ross moved toward her, taking her by the elbow and leading her over to an empty desk to sit.

“I’ll be through in a couple minutes.”

For once, she didn’t argue. Crossing her arms on the desk, she rested her head and closed her eyes. “Gotta get an early start in the morning,” she mumbled.

“How long have you been at this?” he asked, disengaging the chase and lifting it from the bed of the press. “All week?”

She nodded without opening her eyes. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Most of last week, too, I’ll bet.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“You can’t go on like this.” This was the first time since his earlier walkout that Ross had chosen to restate his argument.

She let out a long sigh. “Please. I’m too tired to fight you, Ross.”

He didn’t say anything more as he soaked some rags in turpentine and finished cleaning the type and the press’s inking mechanism. When he was done, he moved to a washstand in the back of the room and proceeded to wash his hands of turpentine and printer’s ink for the first time in years. He tried not to think about how good it had felt to get his hands dirty again.

When he was finished, he took a clean hand towel, wetted it from the pitcher, and moved to Emily’s bent figure. “Here.”

She opened her eyes, then sat up, accepting the towel and dabbing at her forehead to cool off. “Thank you.”

Ross didn’t reply. Taking a chair from a nearby desk, he turned it around and straddled it, resting his forearms on its back. The quiet seemed to swell as he watched her throw her head back and dab the wet cloth down the arched column of her neck.

Against his better judgment, his gaze dropped to her breasts, then rose again to linger on the pale, damp skin of her exposed throat. He felt an unbidden, unwanted sexual stirring that he had no business entertaining. It was an old battle that confused and angered him.

He spoke in even, clipped tones. “You plan to spend all day here tomorrow, too?”

“I can’t. Maybe some of the morning, but I promised Mother I’d help her in the afternoon, and I’m not sure if I can come up with a plausible excuse to get out of the house after supper.”

“So Marguerite doesn’t know.”

“No. Karen thinks I’m crazy, same as you, but I made her promise not to tell. If this doesn’t work out, we can sell the equipment as easily in another couple months as now.”

It was the first time he’d heard her voice the possibility of failure. Perhaps she was capable of facing reality, after all. “You can’t keep this a secret for long,” he said. “Not in this town. Soon Oberholtzer or Malcolm will find out, then it’ll all be over.”

She stopped dabbing and looked at him flatly. “But they won’t learn it from you.”

It was phrased as a statement, but Ross knew it was a question. A test. Too tired to fight him? Never. Not Emily.

“No,” he said.

“Then I’ll just have to deal with it when the time comes.”

As Ross held the determined, dark blue gaze of those beautiful eyes he thought he knew so well, he realized that he didn’t know her at all. She had kept her second job a secret—from both him and Marguerite—and he now wondered how many more secrets she kept.

Karl’s baby
. A child that was perhaps even now being brought up in the care of Emily’s aunt Esther in Baltimore. Or, more likely, given up for adoption to a loving family. Now
there
was a secret, a humdinger of a secret, and the very possibility that the rumors might be true couldn’t have been worse than a bayonet through the gut. God, he hated Karl when he thought about it, and maybe even Emily a little, too, but he didn’t want to dwell on why it ate at him so.

He pushed up from the chair abruptly and moved to retrieve his coat and hat from a peg on the wall. “Time to go.”

Emily said nothing but complied by rising from her seat. Ross waited for her to slip off her apron and get to the door before he extinguished the lamps.

The night was muggy, the streets quiet except for a lone constable that passed. They didn’t talk at all during the long walk out of town. Emily seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts, while Ross was tormented by images of Emily and Karl.

When they reached the Winters home, they stood beneath a young chestnut tree inside the front gate. Ebony strands of hair wisped free about Emily’s fine-featured face, and her ivory complexion shone pale and soft in the moonlight. When she looked up at him, Ross had to swallow hard to keep from asking the question that burned in his throat.