The Lady Who Drew Me In Page 2

  “I’ve come to inform you that Markelson refused your request to review the document.”

  Her heart sank. “He will not even look at it, then?”

  “No. Your husband was a revered attorney, and you’ll be hard pressed to find anyone in his profession to challenge his will.”

  As she had heard from every other lawyer she’d approached on the matter.

  “Your husband was quite vocal in his concerns you might be inclined to overindulge in your charitable works.”

  Daisy lowered her gaze. “Yes, well. Lawry never was one for overindulgence,” she muttered. A blush of shame warmed her face.

  “Your monthly allowance cannot be exceeded.”

  Daisy sighed. While she would somehow make do with the paltry sum, it would take years for her paintings to earn what she needed for the day home. She glanced toward the portrait in the stream of sunlight by the window and frowned at Felice Pettington’s smug face. “I should have tripled the price.”

  * * * *

  Jackson watched the young widow, her solemn blue eyes, the desperation in the slump of her shoulders. Perhaps she was more than the greedy schemer his associates had labeled her. She was challenging the old man’s will to gain funds for her charity work, and her drive and generosity touched on his rusty conscience.

  He straightened in his seat and returned to business. He sympathized with her dilemma, but after shattering her hopes for her charitable endeavors, he had a problem of his own to solve. The wheels in his mind spun with the best way to broach his forthcoming request.

  “Well, thank you for delivering the message, Mr. Gallway.” She stood, lifting her chin. “Unless there’s anything else…”

  He stood, then stepped toward her. The sweet scent of her was subdued and not fancy. As refreshing as a brisk walk in the park. “As a matter of fact, there is.”

  “Oh?”

  She tilted her head as they returned to their seats. Shades of gold shimmered in her hair. Christ, she was pretty….

  “Mr. Gallway?”

  She wet her lips, and the glimpse of her pink tongue left him speechless. He shook his head, flustered.

  “I need your help,” he said quickly.

  “My help?”

  She blinked in surprise, and he found himself pleased by his role in replacing the sadness in her eyes. “Your artistic talent is evident,” he said with a nod toward the painting of Felice Pettington. “But what I’ve heard about your other talent impresses me more.”

  She frowned, her face flaring with anger.

  “The ability to transfer people’s thoughts onto paper seems unbelievable to me,” he said, “but witnesses swear your ability is real.”

  “It is all too real, I assure you,” she snapped. “And it’s an ability I no longer utilize.”

  “Perhaps you’d consider making an exception?”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “I need to procure a sketch from a witness. Others have failed in soliciting any details from this witness—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “As I’ve stated quite clearly, I don’t draw in that manner anymore.”

  “But you could.”

  “I won’t.” She lifted her chin. “And I won’t be persuaded, so you are wasting your breath.”

  “And you’re wasting your gift. If there’s a chance you can help—”

  “My gift? That gift ruined my life, Mr. Gallway. Not to mention the lives of several others.” She tilted her head. “But you know this already, don’t you?”

  She had him there. Although the details were vague, the trouble she’d instigated in Troy was notorious. He couldn’t blame her angry reaction. He’d had his nose rubbed in his mistakes enough times to know how she felt.

  “That’s all in the past,” he said.

  “And yet, here you are. Dredging up the sordid incident to suit your agenda.” She frowned in disgust. “Blasted lawyers,” she muttered as she shot to her feet. “Allow me to show you to the door.”

  “Please, Mrs. Lansing.”

  She stopped in her tracks. The tight lines of her mouth slackened at his gentle coaxing. His skill to seduce never failed, and it wouldn’t fail now.

  “This witness is a child,” he said.

  “A child?”

  “His father was murdered.”

  She winced. “Are you speaking of Mr. Wendell?”

  “I am.”

  “But they already caught the man who… Are you defending his killer?”

  Her horrified expression bespoke her opinion on the matter, and he reined back his frustration.

  “I am defending the man accused of the crime. I do not believe he is the killer. The boy may be able to help prove that. Several other vendors from the city pass that farm each week, and attaining their identities is crucial in producing other suspects.”

  “Or eliminating them,” she pointed out.

  “Either way, the boy may have seen something. Neighbors say he was out in the fields when his father was killed, but he refuses to speak of it. In the months since finding his father dead, he hasn’t spoken a word. That’s where you come in.”

  She pursed her lips, as though wresting with the dilemma. The shift in her features told him she was as distressed by the prospect of using her strange ability again as she was for the boy’s situation.

  “You’ll be compensated, of course. I’ll pay you for your time.”

  “I have my own money, Mr. Gallway. But my husband’s cronies won’t let me have it.” She straightened her spine. “But if you assist with my husband’s will, I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  He knew she’d help regardless of his answer. There was a child involved, and that’s what mattered to her now. Still, Jackson admired her attempt to use the situation to her advantage. A woman after my own heart.

  “I’ll agree to review the will for loopholes, but I won’t make any promises.”

  “Promises are worthless,” she snapped. “But we have a deal.”

  “The child will be difficult. As I said, he refuses to speak.”

  “He won’t have to,” she murmured.

  The confidence in her quiet assertion was encouraging. While he still didn’t fully believe in her fantastical ability, he’d find out soon enough.

  “We’ll have to travel to a farm in the Barston Mountains where the boy is staying.” He held his breath. Her reputation was at risk by traveling alone with him through the woods, but there was no way around this.

  “All right.”

  Jackson exhaled in relief. The boy held the key to Randal Morgan’s freedom, and with any luck he would relinquish that key to the Widow Lansing. Jackson would have what he wanted. But at what price?

  “We’ll be discreet,” she said. “The child needs help.”

  And with her words came a sinking feeling he couldn’t ignore. Guilt. She didn’t trust lawyers, and she didn’t trust him—and with good reason. Still, she would help. Despite her reluctance, she’d do what she could for the boy’s sake, which was just as Jackson had predicted. One day of her time was worth it to her, if she could help a child. The insight into the woman and her worthy motives prompted more guilt.

  Jackson stiffened against his nagging conscience. Landing that position in St. Louis hinged on this case, and the young widow was living proof that he would use anything—and anyone—to win it.

  Chapter 2

  Five more minutes. That’s all he’d give her. Jackson sat in the driver’s seat of the old buckboard he’d rented in town, gazing down the deserted road through the middle of nowhere for any sign of the Widow Lansing. Involving her was a damn foolish idea, and the longer she gave him to think about it, the more tempted he was to snap the reins and move the bucket of bolts beneath him toward the mountains without her.

  As he’d discovered while investigating this case, there were no guarantees, and her assistance could put her in danger. He pushed through his reserva
tions about dragging her into his business. He was desperate.

  A moment later she appeared in the distance, her slender form moving briskly through the early-morning fog. A basket in one hand and a small case in the other had left her unable to adjust her bonnet, which the breeze of her pace had blown to the nape of her neck.

  Jackson jumped down to meet her.

  “Good morning,” she said with a smile. A flush of exertion highlighted the sprinkle of freckles on the bridge of her nose. She looked as young as a school girl. “I’m not late, am I?”

  He reached for the basket still swinging in her hand. The smell of fried chicken wafted through the checkered napkin inside. Jackson frowned. “This isn’t a picnic.”

  Her smile faded. “I know that, Mr. Gallway. But it’s a long trip. I tend to get surly when I’m hungry.” She handed him the case that he assumed contained her sketching supplies. “What’s your excuse?” she mumbled as she made her way to the side of the wagon and climbed aboard, unassisted.

  With a shake of his head, he placed the case and the basket into the back of the wagon and hopped up to join her. The floral scent of her hair was difficult to ignore. He sat for a long moment, entranced by the smell, staring down at the reins in his hands. He couldn’t go through with this. He had no right to jeopardize her safety, especially when he’d misled her about the real purpose for the trip.

  He inhaled a long breath. “I’ve withheld from you an important detail of this case. By doing so, I’ve understated the—”

  “Withheld? Understated?” She stared incredulously. “Lawyers,” she said, shaking her head. “So what is this detail you’ve withheld?”

  “I believe the boy witnessed the murder.”

  She gaped. “But you said he was out in the fields—”

  “The neighbors said he was in the fields. They questioned him.”

  “And you think he’s lying?”

  “I think he’s afraid. I think his father suspected trouble when the killer arrived at the house and told him to hide.”

  “To protect him.”

  “Yes. Which means he may have seen the killer from where he was hiding.”

  She winced as this registered. “He’s so afraid he can’t speak,” she uttered.

  “Now you understand my dilemma. And discretion,” he said.

  She nodded slowly, her gaze soft and contrite. “You’re protecting him too.” Her blue eyes shone with admiration, and he was struck by a sudden longing to be worthy of it.

  “It’s best you go home—”

  “No.” She straightened her spine. “If the poor child saw something, I can get it down in a sketch.”

  “It could be dangerous.” He spoke with a fondness he’d felt for her the moment he laid eyes on her. “If I’m right…”

  “You must let me try. The boy needs help.”

  How anyone could refuse the woman anything, he didn’t know. Her eyes could melt ice. Not that he’d ever been a glacier when it came to women, but the young widow had a fire inside her.

  “Besides, I know a shortcut,” she said. “There’s a logging trail straight through to the mountains.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but the words didn’t come. Like it or not, he needed her help. He snapped the reins, refusing to dwell on misgivings. He’d tried to dissuade her, what more could he do? The woman was a stubborn advocate for children. Even without a change in her late husband’s will, she’d succeed with her plans for a day home, somehow. He didn’t doubt it for a second.

  Jackson had a job to do, too, and he couldn’t afford distractions. Or another mistake. His scandalous affair in Troy had cost him more than his last position, but it could have been worse. He was lucky to be alive to regret it, and he’d never again let his weakness for the fairer sex overpower common sense.

  His attraction to Daisy Lansing would be a challenge, but tonight he’d be miles away. That he might have a sketch in hand when he returned to the city would make everything worth it. Nothing mattered more than his need to clear Randal Morgan’s name. And in the process, reclaim his own.

  * * * *

  The ride along the logging trail was rough as hell. Jackson’s faith in the old buckboard dwindled with every mile, dip, and bump. Large boulders protruded through the narrow path; an overgrowth of thorny bushes scratched and clawed as they passed. Uttering a curse, he swatted furiously at another swarm of insects.

  “That’s Cuffy’s place over there.” Daisy pointed toward a small shack up ahead.

  “Cuffy?”

  “He works at the lumber camps. He’s a giant of a man but terribly slow-witted. Always wears a cap with a set of antlers on top. Perhaps you’ve seen him around town?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” Jackson uttered as he eyed the shanty nestled between the tall pines. Two neat stacks of chopped firewood flanked the door, but no smoke rose from the chimney. “He lives alone out here?”

  “He spends much of his time at the camps, but he calls this place home. I met him for the first time when I came out here to collect ferns.”

  “Ferns?”

  “Barston has the best fancy ferns. Many shops in the city purchase their ferns from the local farmers, but they’re free for the picking to anyone inclined to make the journey this deeply into the woods.”

  Jackson couldn’t imagine ever being so inclined. The isolation of the forest had always made him uneasy. Trudging through the woods to hunt for game was one thing, but fancy ferns? Ridiculous.

  “You strike me as someone who prefers the city to the country,” she said.

  Jackson swatted at a buzzing horsefly. “I prefer buildings and people to trees and insects. So yes, Mrs. Lansing, you can say I prefer the city.”

  His sarcasm did nothing to dim her sunny chitchat. “I find nature so peaceful.”

  He smacked another horsefly from his head. “There’s nothing peaceful about being a feedbag for a horsefly.”

  Craning her neck, she peered over his shoulder. “Or a bear.”

  He flinched, spinning around.

  She laughed at his panicked response to her joke, and he couldn’t help smiling. There was something in the sound of her laughter he couldn’t resist. The honest-to-goodness joy she seemed to get from everything around her. She was bright and beautiful, and he found himself wondering about the circumstances behind her marriage to Lawrence Lansing. Surely a man of Lansing’s advanced age was no match for this vibrant woman. This passionate, sweet-smelling woman.

  Jackson shook off his musings. What the hell was he thinking? He tugged off his hat, then ran a hand through his hair. He knew damn well what he was thinking, and it was lucky for him that she didn’t. Daisy Lansing made it easy to forget his fiasco in Troy—and getting caught with his hands up the skirts of a married woman, by her husband no less, was difficult to forget.

  He was relieved when they finally made their way to the edge of the forest and into a sprawling field. Jackson steered the wagon onto the narrow road, which led to some semblance of civilization. At the four corners of the small intersection sat a blacksmith shop, a general store, a church, and a tavern. Everything required to call it a town, but not much more.

  “The Rhodes house is up ahead, past the saw mill.” She pointed toward a large farmhouse behind a row of birch trees in the distance. Whitewashed stones lined the short drive to the house, where an elderly woman sat in a rocking chair on the porch. A small boy played at her feet.

  “Are you Mrs. Rhodes?” Jackson called to the woman, who stood to scoot the child inside. She waited until the screen door slammed shut behind the boy before turning back to the wagon.

  She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, a wary expression etched on her weathered face. “What’s your business here, sir?”

  “My name is Jackson Gallway. And this is Mrs. Lansing. We’re here to see the boy.”

  “What for? They already caught that murdering devil who orphaned the chil
d. Leave him be.”

  “It’s important, Mrs. Rhodes. We want to be certain the right man is brought to justice. You want to be certain as well. For the boy’s safety.”

  “He didn’t see nothing. And he won’t say nothing, either.”

  Jackson nodded. “I know. But we’d still like to try to talk with him.”

  She studied him for a long moment before her gaze settled on Daisy. “Come on in then,” she said, her stern face softening a bit.

  Jackson hopped from the wagon. He grabbed Daisy’s case of sketching supplies and then reached to help her down. Her small hand held his firmly as he assisted her. Their eyes met, a silent exchange that unified their mission, and the strength of her grip tightened inside his palm. He ushered her up to the porch where Mrs. Rhodes stood, holding open the door.

  A shaggy black cat scurried from the house, and Daisy stopped short as it whizzed by her skirt. “Thank you, Mrs. Rhodes. We’ll do our utmost not to upset the child.” She gave the woman a reassuring smile. “What’s his name?”

  “Andy.”

  They stepped inside, where two more cats sat like gargoyles on the deacon’s bench in the foyer. Jackson harbored no fondness for felines, and seeing so many in one place was unnerving. Staring straight ahead, he did his best to ignore their keen eyes on his back as he followed the women to the parlor. A stream of sunlight poured across the faded rug in the center of the room. Lace curtains blew softly on the breeze from the open windows. Andy sat nestled against the arm of the sofa, stroking the tabby cat on his lap.

  “Hello, Andy,” Daisy said as she peeled off her gloves. “My name is Mrs. Lansing.” She waved a glove toward Jackson. “And this is Mr. Gallway. We’ve come to visit with you.”

  The boy’s timid glances moved from Daisy to Jackson before he lowered his blond head and returned his focus to the cat on his lap.

  “Sit.” Mrs. Rhodes gestured toward the table. “I’ll get some cider.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

  Jackson pulled out a chair for Daisy, then took a seat across from her. Andy watched closely as Daisy placed her case on the table and opened it wide. The boy craned his neck, his eyes narrowing in a curious expression as Daisy removed a tablet of paper and a charcoal pencil, then placed them on the table in front of her. She gazed across the table at Jackson, studied him for a moment, and then started sketching.