| JO-ANN ROBERTS | he’d slept in his clothes and ate whatever he cooked himself. He lived a solitary life, and now as he was coming up on the shy side of forty years old, its appeal was diminishing by degrees. “I’d prefer to call you Grayson.” She tilted her head to one side, still assessing his person. “It seems to suit you better.” Gray didn’t care what she called him as along as she kept talking. “My English-born mother would be pleased to hear you say that. She made it her life’s mission to turn me into a proper gentleman.” “In your training as a gentleman, did you sleep through the lecture on removing your hat in a building or when talking to a lady?” He snatched his hat from his head, then raked his fingers through his hair. He’d had his hat on so long no doubt he had a permanent indentation where the inside band touched his scalp. Though comfortable with its longer length, even he knew his hair was in pitiful need of a trim. “Sorry, ma’am. The Judge and Miss Clara would march me double time to the woodshed for not respecting a lady. My sincere apologies.” “The Judge and Miss Clara? Are they your parents?” Even after all this time, the sorrow at his mother’s passing hadn’t faded. Nor had the bitter hatred toward the man who’d murdered her. His father. He shook his head, mostly to clear away the grief the painful memory exposed, but also to assure the beauty waiting for his reply. “No. Judge Fenwick and Miss Clara became my guardians following my mother’s passing. She and my mother became great friends after they both arrived in Baltimore from England. From the time I was ten years old, the Fenwicks raised me as they would their own son.” With one hand, Posey expertly balanced the tray with the two remaining cups of cider. She gently placed her free hand on Gray’s forearm in a sincere expression of sympathy. “Oh, marshal. You were just a child. How terrible for you. Please accept my condolences. What of your father? Has he passed as well?” Hopefully, right into Hades, he wanted to say but found he could only concentrate on the weight of her delicate hand on his forearm. The heat of it traveled through his duster and shirt, shooting
warm tingles up his arm. Her eyes widened. Had the connection affected her as well? She rested her hand a moment longer than proper, but he didn’t mind. “His whereabouts are unknown,” he finally replied. As she lifted her hand, Gray experienced a loss. Yet, a part of him rejoiced as her fingers trembled while passing him a cup. She tried to hide it by curling her slender forefinger through the smooth handle of the last cup. “What do you say we offer up a toast?” As if he had timed it perfectly, the tall gangly youth with the copper-colored hair and crystalline blue eyes appeared, relieving Posey of the silver tray. Though Gray inclined his head toward the newly elected state representative and his wife, his gaze never left Posey’s face. “To Cash and Delia . . . love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.” He lifted his cup, draining the contents in one swallow. “Good advice to a new politician, don’t you think?” About to join him in the toast, Posey’s hand stopped in midair. “I’m impressed you are acquainted with the works of Shakespeare, marshal.” Gray shrugged. “His plays were required reading every year at the academy.” “The academy?” “West Point,” answered Gray. “After I graduated from there, I served as a tactical weapons instructor.” He leaned in and lowered his voice to a husky level, favoring her with a smile he’d been told could coax the angels down from the heavens. “I thought you agreed to call me Grayson.”
Issue 48 | July 2020 |
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