Magnolia

Claire searched his lean, hard face and wished desperately that he would defend her so valiantly. If only she could lay her head on his shoulder and cry out her pain. But his comfort seemed reserved for Diane. One more thing to add to her burdened spirit.

“I haven’t misunderstood one single word, Mr. Hawthorn,” she said. Her eyes went to his hand on Diane’s arm. “Nor one single action.”

They both looked uncomfortable. He moved quickly away from Diane, but not before Mr. Calverson had seen and noted the byplay. He came back to join them, taking his wife’s arm with a look that spoke volumes.

“Come over here, my dear, and meet a new client of the bank. You’ll excuse us, I trust?” he asked John coldly, then turned and led his wife away.

“You’d better be careful, hadn’t you?” Claire whispered. “He isn’t blind.”

John’s eyes darkened with distaste. “Be careful. I’m not the same tame breed as your pet clothing-store manager.”

She lifted her chin, angry at his pointed reference to Kenny, who was a darling but hardly a man of action. “Do you want to snap at me, too? Well, go ahead,” she invited. “Diane’s had a ripping go at me already about my clothes, and her husband is busy trying to sell the roof over my head so that your bank doesn’t lose a penny on the loans you made to Uncle Will. Don’t you have anything hurtful to say to me? It would be a shame to waste this opportunity. You should always kick people when they’re down!”

The mettle in her words contrasted painfully with the wobble in her voice and the sheen of tears in her gray eyes.

“Excuse me. I don’t feel well,” she said in a husky tone, and went quickly out of the room, into the hall. She leaned, resting her forehead against the cool wall, while sickness rushed over her. It had been such a long, terrible day.

She heard the door behind her open, then shut. The voices in the parlor receded as footsteps sounded. She felt the pull of a steely hand on her upper arm, turning her, and then she was pressed against scratchy fabric. Strong, warm arms held her. Under her ear, a steady, comforting heartbeat soothed her. She breathed in the exotic cologne and gave in to the need for comfort. It had been a very long time since her uncle had held her like this when her parents had died. In all the years of her life, comfort had been rare.

“My poor baby,” John said softly at her temple. His hand smoothed over her nape, calming her. “That’s right. Just cry until it stops hurting so much. Come close to me.” His arms contracted, riveting her to him.

She’d never heard his voice so tender. It was comforting and exciting all at once. She pressed closer, giving free rein to the tears as she cried away the grief and fear and loneliness in the arms of the man she loved. Even if it was only pity driving him, how sweet it was to be held so closely by him.

A handkerchief was held to her eyes. She took it and wiped them and blew her nose. He made her feel small and fragile, and she liked the way his tall, muscular body felt against hers.

She pulled slowly away from him, without raising her head. “Thank you,” she said, with a watery sniff. “May I ask what provoked you to offer comfort to the enemy?”

“Guilt,” he replied, with a faint smile. “And I’m not the enemy. I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did. You’ve had enough for one day.”

She looked up at him. “I most certainly have,” she said angrily.

John searched her fierce eyes and wan face. “You’re tired,” he said. “Let the doctor give you some laudanum to make you sleep.”

“I don’t need advice from you. I doubt anyone close to you has ever died,” she said miserably.

His eyes flared darkly as he remembered his younger brothers, the frantic search of the cold waters for bodies, the anguish of having to tell their father that they were dead. “Then you would be wrong,” he said abruptly, dismissing the painful memories. “But loss is part and parcel of life. One learns to bear it.”

She wrung the handkerchief in her hands. “He was all I had,” she said, lifting her gaze to his. “And if it hadn’t been for him, I should have ended up in an orphanage, a state home.” She drew her shoulders up. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him, it was that quick.” The tears came again, hot and stinging.

He tilted her chin up. “Death isn’t an end. It’s a beginning. Don’t torture yourself. You have a future to contend with.”

“Grief takes a little time,” she reminded him.

“Of course it does.” He pushed back a strand of unruly hair from her forehead. As he moved it, he noticed a smudge of grease. Taking the handkerchief from her hand, he wiped away the smear. “Grease smears and dirty skirts. Claire, you need a keeper.”

“Don’t you start on me,” she muttered, snatching the handkerchief away.

His lips curved in a semblance of a smile. He shook his head. “You haven’t grown up at all. Instead of teaching you to work on motorcar engines, Will should have been introducing you to young men and parties. You’ll end up an old maid covered in grease.”

“Better than ending up some man’s slave!” she shot right back. “I have no ambition to marry.”

John cocked his eyebrow in amusement. “Not even to marry me?” he chided outrageously, grinning at her scarlet blush.

“No,” she replied tightly. “I don’t want to marry you. You’re much too conceited and I’m much too good for you,” she added, with a twinge of her old impish nature.

He chuckled softly. “That tongue cuts like a knife, doesn’t it?” He took a slow breath and tapped her gently on the cheek. “You’ll survive, Claire. You were never a shrinking violet. But if you need help, I hope you’ll come to me. Will was my friend. So are you. I don’t like to think of you being alone and friendless, especially when the house is sold.”

She looked vaguely panicked, and John understood why at once.

“I won’t own anything, really, will I?” she asked suddenly. “Uncle Will mentioned that he’d just taken out another loan…”

“So he did. The bank will have to foreclose on the house and sell it. You’ll get anything over the amount necessary to pay off your uncle’s debts, but frankly I doubt there’ll be much left. The motorcar will have to go, too.”

“I won’t sell it,” she said through her teeth.

“And I say you will.”

“You have no right to tell me anything. You’re neither my banker nor my friend!”

He only smiled. “I’m your friend, Claire—whether you like to admit it or not. Mr. Calverson won’t act in your interest.”

“And you will? Against your employer?”

“Of course, if it becomes necessary,” he said surprisingly.

She dropped her gaze to his expensive tie. He sounded very protective. He’d always been protective of her. She’d never quite understood why. “I won’t sell the motorcar, all the same.”

“What will you do with it?”

“Drive it, of course,” she said. Her eyes lit up. She lifted them to his. “John, I shan’t have to sell it! I can hire it out to businessmen, with myself as the driver! I will start a business!”

He looked as if she’d hit him in the head. “You’re a woman,” he pointed out.

“Yes.”

He took an exasperated breath. “You can hardly expect me to condone such a harebrained scheme.”

She drew herself up to her full height. It didn’t do any good. He still towered over her. “I’ll do as I please,” she informed him. “I have to make a living for myself. I have no means of support.”

He studied her curiously. Several things were becoming clear to him, foremost among them that he was about to land himself in one hell of a scandal because of Diane. Her husband was very suspicious—and if what Claire had told him was accurate, he was being gossiped about. He couldn’t afford to let one blemish attach itself to Diane’s good name.

His eyes narrowed. Claire wasn’t at all bad to look at. She was spunky, and she had a devilish sense of humor. She had a kind heart, and even passable manners, and most of the time she delighted him. He had a soft spot for her that he’d never had for any other woman. Besides all that, she worshiped him. “You could marry me,” he suggested wickedly. “Then you’d have a husband to look after your interests as well as a roof over your head.”

She felt the ground go out from under her feet. It was the oddest sensation, as if she weren’t touching the floor at all. “Why should you want to marry me?”

“It would solve both our problems, wouldn’t it?” he drawled mockingly. “You get the husband of your dreams,” he said, smiling at her blush, “and I get a respite from gossip that could ruin Diane’s good name.”

Diane’s good name, she noticed, not his own. He was still putting the woman above his own reputation. And the unkind remark about her infatuation for him hurt. She hated having him know how she felt.