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

huffed out a breath, ran his hand over the back of his neck, winced when he accidentally touched the blister. Jonathan would stay right here, with him. But he had to manage that in a way that would keep Jonathan from being hurt by their mother’s abandonment.
    He lifted the chair from where Clarice Gordon had placed it beside the stand, set it close to the bed, sat and closed his eyes to work out a story. He didn’t lie, so it would take some finesse. At least he had Jonathan’s immediate needs taken care of—for a week. Not that Clarice Gordon was happy about that. Well, neither was he; he certainly wouldn’t choose a career woman to care for his young brother. Jonathan needed someone warm and loving and caring after the unfeeling way he’d been treated—not a coolly efficient suffragist.
    Clarice Gordon’s face floated before him, her eyes challenging, her small rounded chin lifted. It was a major battle to try and do something for the woman! He frowned and opened his eyes, stared into the darkness wondering what made her so independent and prickly. Though she wasn’t like that when she spoke of her mother. Her face softened and her voice warmed when that happened. But even so, there was an anger that burned in the depths of her eyes.
    He placed his elbows on the chair arms, slid forward on the seat until he could rest his head against the chair back, then laced his fingers over his stomach. She had very telling eyes. And beautiful. Startlingly so. Gray with blue flecks. And long, thick lashes as black as her hair. Her eyes were the first thing he’d noticed—once he’d gotten a good look at her face. Before that it was the plain, unadorned way she dressed, as if she wanted not to be noticed, and the thin wood box she carried. She’d clutched that box as if her life depended on it. And, of course, as it turned out, her livelihood did.
    His lips twitched, lifted into a wry grin. She’d been plenty prickly that day. And frosty. Whoo! She could have frozen a pond with the looks she’d sent his way. But she was too smart to let her feelings, whatever they were at the time, influence her judgment when he offered her a job. And the way she’d stayed silent and merely kept shoving those letters into the bag he held until he laid out his offer... He smothered a chuckle and shook his head. He might not approve of career women, but he had to admit Clarice Gordon was intelligent, efficient and clever. None of which would help Jonathan. He needed the love and warmth of a caring heart.
    He lifted his hand and scrubbed at the stubble forming on his chin, drew his thoughts back to the present. He needed a cover story...
    * * *
    Clarice tiptoed up the stairs, turned toward her room and caught her breath. A sliver of light showed beneath the door. Guilt settled like a rock in her heart. She ran on tiptoe, her skirt train bouncing along the hall runner, slipped into the bedroom and hurried toward her mother’s bed. “What’s wrong, Mama? Are you in pain? I’m sorry I wasn’t here to massage your back to help you sleep. I’ll do it—”
    “Hush, Clarice. You’ll wake Mr. Grumpy down the hall. I’m fine.” Her mother waved a hand toward the windows in the turret. “There’s no moonlight to speak of, and I was a little worried about you walking home, is all.”
    The clamp around her heart eased. “I didn’t walk, Mama. Mr. Thornberg sent me home in a carriage.”
    “A
carriage
!” Her mother’s brows shot skyward. “Why?”
    She moved to the dressing table and sank onto the bench, chiding herself for her foolishness. She had to get over this nagging fear that when she left, she would find her mother’s condition worse when she returned. She leaned down to unlace her shoes and hide her face. Her mother had good eyes and sharp intuition. “He said he promised you he would see me home safe.”
    “Well, yes. He did say that. But I never thought...”
    “And as he couldn’t escort me, he arranged for the