His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) by Dorothy Clark Page A

document so will simply sign as,
    Your mother
    Discarded.
She knew what Charles Thornberg meant now. Clarice stared at the letter, Jonathan’s sweet, innocent face imposed against it. Her hands trembled with the desire to rip it to shreds so that he would never know his mother had thought of him not as a child to love but as an inconvenience to be hidden and gotten rid of at the earliest opportunity for her own selfish gain. Not even her father was that coldhearted.
    She grasped the banister and started down the stairs, the letter crunched in her hand. Her shoes tapped against the treads. Her short train bounced from step to step. She strode to the front door, handed Charles Thornberg the letter and took a breath to control the tightness in her throat. “I will care for Jonathan until Mrs. Hotchkiss returns, Mr. Thornberg. In return, I ask that you will permit me to work on the CLSC letters at home.”
    “That is not necessary, Miss Gordon. I will compensate you for—”
    She shook her head, raised her chin. “I have a job, Mr. Thornberg. I intend to do it.”
    He studied her for a long moment, then dipped his head and reached to open the door. “I will bring the letters home for you tomorrow at dinnertime.”
    “Then I shall be here early in the morning.” She snatched up the valise sitting on the floor beside the door.
    “What are you doing?”
    She tightened her grip and looked up at him. “I’m taking Jonathan’s clothes home to launder. Wasn’t that your intent?” His eyes clouded. Well, too bad. She was too angry to play polite games.
    “It was not!” He gripped the valise, stared down at her.
    The touch of his hand against hers sent warmth flowing through her. She jerked her hands from the handles and took a step back, her heart pounding.
    “I placed the valise here so I would not forget to take Jonathan’s things to the laundry tomorrow.” He threw the bag to the floor and pulled open the door. “You, Miss Gordon, are to care for my brother, not act as a maid or washerwoman! Is that clear?”
    Not in her experience. But then nothing about Charles Thornberg fit with her experience. Unnerved, wanting only to flee his presence, to escape the confusion that overwhelmed her when he looked at her, she nodded, rushed by him and hurried to the carriage that sat waiting at the edge of the road.

Chapter Five
    C harles stared into the darkness, tense, straining against the silence. Miss Gordon thought Jonathan was so tired he would sleep through until morning, but what if he didn’t? What if he fell out of that big bed? He was so little he could break an arm or leg or something. It could happen. And he might not hear anything. He was a sound sleeper.
    He surged from his bed, shrugged into his dressing gown and strode down the hallway to Jonathan’s bedroom in his slippers, the robe flopping around his legs.
    Silence. He blew out a breath and walked to the bed. The boy was sound asleep, one small arm raised to curve above his head. He stared down at him, an odd sensation filling his chest.
He
slept like that. He studied the dark curls and the small almost straight-across brows, the mouth with a suggestion of a dimple on the right side, and the small pugnacious chin. It was like looking at a miniature of himself. His chest swelled, trapped air in his lungs. Jonathan was his
brother
. The truth of it settled into his heart. After twenty-one years of being alone, he had a family.
    I realize you owe me no filial allegiance, but you are the only person in America with sufficient interest in this information not becoming known to keep it secret.
    Secret? His mouth quirked. His mother had discarded Jonathan just as she had discarded him all those years ago. And in so doing, she had, inadvertently, given him the best gift he could ever receive. Place his brother in a boarding school? Never! He had lived that life. He would never subject Jonathan to that loneliness, that need to belong somewhere, to someone. He