Captain Benton!” Surprise widened the round eyes looking up at him. “What brings you here?”
“I need to talk with Mr. Thomas. If I could—” He stopped, staring down at her shaking head.
“You’re too late, Captain. He ain’t here.”
The disquiet grew. “Did he tell you where he was going? I can catch up with him if—” The gray head was shaking again.
“He didn’t tell me where he was going. Only packed up and left three days ago.” A frown deepened the wrinkles in the plump face. “Late at night, it was. I heard someone on the stairs, peeked out my door and saw him leave. Sort of odd. Most times when someone goes sneakin’ out the door in the middle of the night, it’s ’ cause they can’t pay their bill. But he didn’t owe me nothing.”
“I see.” Sam nodded, touched his hat brim again. “Thank you for the information, Mrs. Stanton. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Captain.” She started to close the door, then pulled it open and stuck her head out. “If you hear of somebody decent that needs a room, tell them I’ve got one empty.”
“I’ll do that, Mrs. Stanton.” Sam trotted down the steps and headed for the levee. Now he had two men to track down. Duffy and Thomas. Queer, Thomas leaving like that. Could there be a connection between that and James Randolph’s arrival? Seemed as if there might be. But why did Thomas sneak off? There was no reason for that, unless it was to keep his leaving a secret. And if that was so, who was he—
Sam’s face tightened. Could it be him? Could it be Thomas didn’t want him to know he was leaving town? Now why would that be? He tugged his hat down snug and let his mind play with that thought while he ate up the distance to the levee with his long strides.
“What is going on in here?”
Mary spun around, and gaped at her brother standing in the washroom doorway. “James! You are home.”
He nodded. “Yes. That is what I do when it is time to eat. I come home. Why the surprise?”
She laughed and hurried toward him. “I did not hear you come in the house is all. As small as it is, I was certain I would. I am sorry. I should have been waiting to greet you.” She touched his arm, gave a little push—a signal for him to leave.
He stood his ground, riveting his gaze on the scene behind her. Botheration! She had wanted a chance to explain before he saw Ben. Especially since the boy was wearing a shirt that had been in James’s dresser drawer when he left the house that morning. Her heart sank as he frowned at her.
“Mary, what—”
She squeezed his arm, sent him the silent “don’t ask questions” command with her eyes that she had perfected during their childhood years. Of course, that was when her demand usually involved keeping a secret from their parents. It was different now. He would probably ignore her signal. “I am finished here, James.” She gave him another tiny push, then looked over her shoulder. “Edda, if you will launder Ben’s clothes, please.”
“Ja.” The plump woman turned, lifted the small pile of filthy garments off the floor and plunged them into the tub of Ben’s bathwater.
James’s frown deepened to a scowl. Mary gave him another pinch. “Shall we go into the parlor and chat while Ivy prepares our dinner, James?”
His gaze fastened on hers. “That is an excellent suggestion.”
This time he yielded to her pressure against his arm and stepped back. She sailed past him, hurried to the small parlor and turned to face him. The scowl was still on his face.
“All right, Mary. Why is our cook’s son wearing one of my shirts?”
“Our cook’s son?” She laughed and relaxed into one of the Windsor chairs. “Ben is not Ivy’s son, James. He is a boy from the streets who carried my basket home from the market. And as for your shirt…what else had I to dress him in while his clothes are being laundered? I could hardly give him one of my gowns.”
“An unknown, dirty boy from the streets is wear—”
“Hush, James! He will hear you.” Mary surged to her feet, then closed the parlor door and whirled to face him. “And Ben is not dirty. I had him bathe as soon as we fed him and he agreed to stay awhile—Ivy even scrubbed his hair clean.” She glared up at him. “And shame on you for your lack of compassion! What—”
“Whoa! Hold on.” James held his hand up palm forward. “Before you castigate me for my attitude, I think you should at least tell me what is going on. How that boy got into our house and—”
“I have told you, James.”
“No, you have not. You told me that he carried your basket home.” He frowned at her. “I cannot believe the grocer would have a boy that dirty and unkempt working for—”
“James!” Mary launched herself through the intervening space into his arms. “James, you are a genius! What a wonderful idea.”
She planted a kiss on his cheek and spun out of his grasp. “I have been trying to think of what to do to help Ben. He is such a proud young boy, and you—” She stopped, frowned. “Of course, Mr. Simpson will not care for your idea. At least, not at first.” She paced the short distance across the room, turned and headed back. “But Mrs. Simpson…Yes, I am almost certain she—”
He reached out and caught her by the shoulders. “Mary, what you are talking about? What idea? And who are Mr. and Mrs. Simpson? What have they to do with this boy from the streets? And what has he to do with us?”
“Nothing. And everything.” She locked her gaze with his. “Ben is an orphan, James. And half-starved. Would you have let him be arrested and taken to jail for stealing bread to eat?”
Her words were soft, but challenging. James released his grip on her shoulders and straightened.
“You ask that question of me, Mary? You know I would not.”
She placed her hand on his arm. “I do know, James. And I meant no offense. I asked only so you would place yourself in my position.” She gave him a wry smile. “Neither one of us would be able to face Aunt Laina again if we allowed such a thing to happen in our presence.”
He nodded, and his lips curved in a smile that matched her own. “True. Nor Mother and Father, either.” His smile faded. “But you still have not told me how you met Ben. Or—”
“Or what?”
He shook his head. “My questions will wait until after I hear your story.” He draped his arm around her shoulders, then led her to the settee and sat down beside her. “I am all ‘at sea.’ Begin.”
“Yes, of course.” She tucked a wayward strand of hair in the loose knot on the crown of her head and looked over at him. “You know I had marketing to do this morning—food stores and such?”
He nodded, then grinned at her. “It will take some time for me to get used to the idea of you doing household tasks, but…yes, we discussed that last night, Miss Housekeeper.” His grin widened.
She gave him her “big sister” look. “If you wish to hear the story, James, be serious!”
He tamed his grin to a smile and dipped his head in agreement. “I shall be.”
“Very well, then.” She angled her body toward him. “I was nervous about going to the levee alone—because of the Indians and mountain men—so I decided to go to your office and ask you to accompany me.”
His levity fell away. He frowned. “Goodwin did not tell me that you came to see me.”
“Because I did not.” The memory of Captain Benton’s grinning face flashed. Warmth crept across her cheekbones.
James stared.
Bother!