Rebel With A Heart. Carol Arens

th-the bags.”

      “Well now, that won’t do.” Mr. Clarkly poked his head out the door and peered at the bags lying on the boardwalk a block down. “They’ll be safe enough until I get a fire going. Here, take your sister and sit on that chair. There’s a book beside it on the table. That should keep her distracted until she’s warmed through.”

      Clark Clarkly knelt beside the fireplace, urging a small flame to life. He performed the chore quickly. His shoulders flexed and contracted under his shirt with his brisk movements.

      Praise everything good that the man built a fire with more skill than he displayed walking.

      He stood up after a moment, seeming taller than she remembered, straighter of form.

      “Thank you, Mr. Clarkly.” That simple phrase didn’t begin to express her gratitude. “I can’t think of what might have happened if—”

      “No thanks needed, Mrs. Gordon.” He took her cold hands in his big warm ones for an instant while he led her toward a chair by the fire. “Sit tight while I fetch your bags.”

      Mr. Clarkly hurried out the door and closed it behind him before the wind could sweep away the warmth beginning to hug the room.

      His gait had been quick, efficient. Judging by his swift return, he hadn’t taken a single tumble while he was fetching the bags.

      He dropped them on the floor, and then instantly forgot he had put them there. His first step forward brought him stumbling across the room, where he careened off his desk and landed at her feet, with one hand caught in her skirt.

      “So sorry...I beg your pardon. My glasses.” He glanced about, blinking hard. “Blind as a bat without them.”

      “Mr. Clarkly.” She untangled his hand where it gripped her ankle through her skirt. “I am the one indebted to you.”

      One could almost wish, however unkind it might be, that he wouldn’t find his glasses. He had eyes a woman could look into and get lost.

      Silly, Lilleth, silly, she chided herself. Getting lost in a man’s eyes. What nonsense!

      Clark Clarkly had come to her aid and nothing more.

      Still, it was disappointing to see him find his broken spectacles. He frowned at them, tossed them aside and rooted through a desk drawer until he found another pair.

      The man did need to see, after all. She’d be a silly goose to believe that staring into a man’s eyes would result in anything more than heartache, even if he did seem uncommonly kind.

      Relief eased the iciness from her bones as much as the flames did.

      Mr. Clarkly sat on the floor, playing with Mary and speaking to Jess in low tones. The fire crackled, sounding like music in the cozy library. A teakettle in another room began to whistle.

      What she wouldn’t give to be able to sing the rest of the tension from her body. But no, that might not be wise. The chances were slim, but her voice might be recognized.

      But humming, now that would be a comfort. Anyone could hum and sound the same. So she did. She hummed her favorite tune, one that had comforted her since she was a little girl.

      For some reason, that made Mr. Clarkly quit talking to Jess and stare at her with the most peculiar expression on his face.

      There was something almost...but not quite, familiar about it. Well, that was silly. She’d never met Mr. Clarkly until today.

      * * *

      “This ought to warm you.” Trace grazed Lilleth’s hand, passing her a cup of steaming tea.

      He didn’t think her fingers looked as blue as they had.

      What wouldn’t he give to be the man with the right to hold them to his heart and warm them thoroughly.

      After half an hour beside the fire she had only now quit shivering.

      Her husband couldn’t be worth much, allowing his family to become wandering icicles.

      “I can’t think of how to thank you, Mr. Clarkly.” She closed her fingers about the teacup and shut her eyes for an instant. “I thought I’d never be warm again.”

      Trace crouched beside her chair. He had a mind to stroke the ringlets that strayed from under her hat. He’d give up a lot to be able to loop his thumb through one of those red curls, to touch it in the familiar way a man would touch his woman’s hair.

      In any event, she wasn’t his woman. Even if she were free, he wouldn’t risk his assignment by revealing his identity. He couldn’t. The patients at Hanispree depended on him.

      His family was counting on him to deliver an exposé by the New Year. Being employed by one’s parents added extra pressure to deliver. Not only that, there was sibling rivalry to be taken into account.

      All his brothers and his sister worked for the Chicago Gazette. Although, since his sister had become a mother, she had quit the investigative side of the business. On occasion the job became dangerous.

      That was one of the reasons that the Ballentines sometimes worked in disguise.

      The other reason was that several of their investigations were sufficiently well known that the Ballentines were often recognized. When a case involved secrecy, as this one did, a disguise was called for.

      He had picked Clarkly because the character was as unlike his real self as could be. No one could possibly recognize him.

      It wasn’t easy living in the skin of someone who wasn’t real. It was lonely, not being able to let anyone close.

      Still, his job was deeply rewarding and made the temporary isolation worthwhile. Over the years his investigations had improved the lots of many people. They’d put swindlers out of business and criminals behind bars.

      He couldn’t imagine doing anything else for a living.

      Trace watched Lilleth sipping from the teacup. He’d always found her mouth to be pretty, but now, as a woman full grown, her lips were a man’s fantasy. Moist with hot tea, they glistened in the glow of the fire.

      “Mrs. Gordon.” Crouched down as he was, his eyes met hers over the rim of the cup. Her mouth stilled over a porcelain rose. “There’s something troubling me. I hope you don’t consider this forward of me to ask, but Mr. Gordon...oughtn’t he be—”

      Her pretty lips puckered, as though they had tasted something sour...or needed to be kissed.

      For the hundredth time since he had run Lilleth down at the train station, he cursed the decision to become Clarkly. He ought to have adopted his favorite identity, Johnny Kaid, fastest cowboy with a rope or a gun.

      Curse it! Johnny was daring, but Clark was safer, and safe was all-important at this moment.

      “Here? By my side, you mean?” Lilleth set the cup on her lap and stared down at it. “My husband ran off. I don’t know where he is.”

      “It was nearly a year back,” Jess said, hugging his sister close. “Mary was only a newborn.”

      Poor, brave Lils! On her own with two young children.

      “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” He couldn’t help it; he reached over and held her fingers where they gripped the cup.

      “No need to fret, Mr. Clarkly.” Lilleth shrugged. She sighed and looked into his eyes. “It’s been a while now, and to tell you the truth, my husband was a worldly man. In many ways life is easier without him.”

      “Pa liked his spirits.” Jess covered Mary’s ears. “More than most.”

      Trace’s world bucked and shifted beneath him. Having Lilleth within touching distance had been temptation enough, with a loving husband standing between them. Without him things had become complicated.

      He let go of Lilleth’s hands. The man was gone,