Harmony is Overrated

By Sue Yaden

Philadelphia socialite, Catherine Wentworth, arrives in Harmony, Missouri, with a three-fold mission: to escape the scandal of a philandering husband, to become a newspaper publisher, and to bring her father's murderer to justice. What she doesn't count on is that her newspaper is co-owned by the most exasperating man west of the Mississippi, Patrick Cardin. With each driven by divergent goals, a battle of wills is inevitable. When Catherine vows never to love again, she doesn't plan on meeting an alluring man like Patrick. Was he like Thomas Wentworth, or worse, her father's murderer? If so, Patrick is behind the insidious threats on her life. She was wrong once in taking a man's measure. Is she wrong again? Yet, Patrick assaults her stubborn heart until she, like the South, could lose more than a skirmish. She could lose the war.

 

Patrick Cardin takes command of a roomful of men merely by entering it. His ramrod bearing speaks authority and easy confidence. Patrick is positive Catherine doesn't know how to manage a newspaper or survive in the West. She will be in his way and disrupt his routine. He intends to have her on a packet headed east within a week. He had enough experience with danger during the Civil War to know it when he smelled it. Catherine is danger, especially a danger to his vow never to remarry. Yet, his world is overturned by an aggravating, bewitching female who sails into his quiet existence and breathes fire into his soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Jun 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957228150

Book preview

A person in a black dress Description automatically generated with medium confidence

Harmony is Overrated

SUE YADEN

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Harmony is Overrated

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

2373 NE Evergreen Avenue, Albany OR 97321 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2022

eISBN: 978-1-957228-15-0

Copyright © 2022 Sue Yaden All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Robyn Hart

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you by complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

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Chapter One

Philadelphia

Late October 1867

Catherine Reed Wentworth slammed the front door behind her. The resounding noise brought her mother scurrying down the hall. By the time Margaret reached the foyer, Catherine was part way up the stairs in a dead run.

You’re late! Where have you been? Pennington will be here in less than an hour. Or did you forget? Margaret stopped her tirade long enough to take a breath. Look at the stain on your skirt. What is it? You’ll need to change your dress.

Catherine paused and glanced over the railing at her mother. This was my day to read to the children at the library. Yes, I’m late. No, I didn’t forget our meeting, and yes, I will change clothes. Now, will you find Mary and tell her to come up and help me? Turning, she hurried up the stairs as fast as her dress would allow, not giving her mother time to say another word.

A few minutes passed before Mary entered her room. With the maid’s assistance, Catherine redressed with unusual speed. All that remained for her to do was rummage through her trinket box for appropriate jewelry. Her gaze drifted to the picture frames near the box: one, a portrait of her late husband, Thomas Wentworth, and the other, a portrait of her parents. Gazing at her father’s face always brought pain and longing to her heart.

He had written his last letter to them, dated April 1, 1865, a few days before Richmond fell into Northern hands. He expressed regret but announced he wasn’t returning home and that her brother, Daniel, was to take over the newspaper. Then, William Reed, the esteemed publisher of the prominent newspaper the Philadelphia Tribune, disappeared. Vanishing like a ghost.

How could he do that to me? To all of us?

She would never forget the following months when it became obvious to everyone he had not returned after the war. Speculation buzzed throughout the city. Margaret panicked, jumped into action, and had him declared dead to put local gossip at bay.

Catherine positioned her earrings and turned to the maid. Inspection, please. How do I look? I’m running out of time.

Oh, ma’am, you always look wonderful. Mary grinned at her. Is this man you’re meeting single?

Catherine couldn’t help laughing. Good grief, no. Mr. Pennington is the family lawyer. Besides, the last thing I want in my life is a man. She waved her hand at Mary. Now shoo, get on with you. We’re done here. Go have some tea or something.

She closed her eyes and took a slow, calming breath. Minutes from now she would know her father’s fate. Two years had been a long time to wait for the truth. A mixture of excitement swirled inside her, along with the fear he could actually be dead. He might not have made it out of Richmond. She wished Daniel could have been here today to help her deal with their mother. No telling how she was going to react.

Catherine smiled ever-so-slightly to herself as she entered the parlor. Pennington better be prepared for a wild afternoon. He was facing a fireworks display like the Fourth of July if her father was alive. Suppose he had changed his mind and was coming home after all?

The sunlight, filtered by sheer curtains, cast a muted glow, endowing the room with an air of serenity, even secrecy. The serenity was shattered as her mother arrived in a flurry of taffeta and plopped down on the divan. Catherine groaned to herself. Her mother’s red face meant she was already in a snit.

I can’t believe you went behind my back and hired those detectives after I settled the issue about your father. How absurd. What kind of scandal are you stirring up now, child?

I’m not doing anything of the sort.

I hope not. You’ve already brought our family enough disgrace to last a lifetime. Her mother placed her finger across her lips. Shhh. Here he comes.

To extend the Reed hospitality, the usual niceties were observed, even though their lawyer fidgeted in a nearby chair. The teapot was drained of tea and the scones eaten while conversation centered on trivialities.

Oh, speak up, Pennington. You can do more than squirm. What news do you have? I don’t know what my daughter paid you, but your investigation better be worth it.

He frowned. There’s no doubt the investigation bore fruit, madam. The Pinkertons did an excellent job for me. They found William.

Catherine gasped. Where? A quick glance at her mother’s white face told her she was close to fainting. Hurry, Mother. Drink some of your tea.

Pennington waited a moment then continued. They traced him to a small Missouri town named Harmony. It’s a port-of-call for riverboats plying the Mississippi. I booked passage on a steamboat as soon as I could get away. Forgive me for not informing you of my news then, but I wanted to check out the situation and make sure it was him.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped at the beads of perspiration on his forehead. When I arrived, I discovered…uh…ah…Margaret, this is difficult for me to say. He lowered his voice. Someone killed William before I got there.

What? No, no, no! My smelling salts, child! Mrs. Reed screamed as she struggled to rise, then collapsed on the divan.

Catherine covered her cheeks with her hands. I can’t believe it. Not my father.

All this time she had believed he was out there somewhere, well beyond her reach. It had been torture and the source of countless nightmares for her. Now, the pain of discovering the truth whipped through her like a tornado. Dead. Forever gone. Her heart skipped a beat. The air in the room became suffocating.

She stood, planning to leave the parlor but reconsidered and sat down instead. Shhh, Mother. Calm yourself. Let him finish.

I must say the facts are scarce. I understand William lived in Harmony a year. Until he was shot. In an alley. He cleared his throat. Behind a saloon. He retrieved his handkerchief and wiped sweat off his face again. They haven’t caught the killer.

What did you say? Margaret screeched. "He was behind a saloon?" She picked up a pillow, pounded it with her fists, then tossed it on the floor.

Uh, yes. He cleared his throat once more. It’s…it’s called The Golden Lady.

Catherine noted his face turned beet red at his mention of the saloon’s name. Poor Pennington. He’s having as much a time of it as we are.

Then it suddenly hit her—her father’s body. Mr. Pennington, what has been done with my father’s remains?

Pardon me for a moment, please, before we continue. I need to go back to your foyer. When he re-entered the parlor, he was carrying a small wooden box, which he deposited on the divan beside Margaret.

She leaned forward on the seat. What’s this?

Let me clarify. When I discovered the situation in Harmony, I found the undertaker had embalmed William’s body and was awaiting instructions on what to do. Since I was aware of your situation here, I had him cremated. He lifted an ornately carved brass urn out of the box. Here are William’s ashes.

Margaret leaned away from Pennington and let out an ear-piercing scream. Get it away from me! I don’t want it. She lifted her hands to shield herself from the sight of the urn. Child, do something!

Catherine approached Pennington and accepted the urn. I’ll take care of it. I’ll put it on the mantel for now. She gave her mother a stern glare as she added, I’m sure my mother will calm down now so we can hear what else you have to say. Won’t you, Mother?

She sniffed. I’m feeling better now. The whine in her voice negated her words. She patted the cushion beside her. Come sit by me, child. Now Pennington, what else have you to say? I’m getting a headache.

I’m truly sorry for intruding further in your time of grief, but before I leave, I have two other important pieces of business. He reached into his carpetbag and extracted a small mahogany chest with brass hinges. Let me first say you both have my deepest sympathy. William had been my friend since we were in grade school together. He paused. His death has been most upsetting to me. He crossed the room to hand Catherine the box. In his will he stated you were to have this.

Nothing distinguished the chest except for the ornate brass clasp on the lid. Catherine’s turbulent emotions made her chin quiver as she held the single tie she had to her father. She squelched the desire to scream in denial of his death, as though by the mindless act she could bring him back.

Margaret rolled her head against the divan. What must I do, sir? What, I say? I’ve already told everyone William died in the fire at Richmond. I’ve even held his memorial service. I can’t have another one. What will people say if they learn the truth? Killed behind a saloon. Oh, my goodness. It’s totally unacceptable. My husband died in a place no one has ever heard of. How could he do it to me? How dare he? She glared at Pennington. Is Missouri even a state?

Mother! Catherine’s strained voice filled the parlor. How can you say such things?

Easy. She jerked erect. He’s been dead for years as far as I’m concerned. If he’d stayed at home and tended to his newspaper, none of this would have happened, but no, not him. Nothing would do but for him to—

Please stop. You’re working yourself into a frenzy. Catherine moved closer to her mother and laid a restraining hand on her arm. Take a deep, slow breath. Relax.

Her mother swatted at Catherine’s hand and ignored her advice. He gallivanted off to cover the war when he had a covey of reporters capable of doing the job. We must keep this a secret. Promise you’ll help me, my child. I’ll be the laughingstock of Philadelphia if anyone discovers William abandoned me. I’ll never be able to hold up my head in polite society again. And it’s all your fault for hiring those Pinkertons.

Enough, Mother. Anger laced her words. You’re too upset to know what you’re saying. I will handle this.

Margaret clutched her daughter’s hand as if it were a deathbed moment. Promise me this instant you won’t say a word.

What difference would it make if I’m party to another one of Mother’s deceptions? Polite society indeed. One miserable year after my husband’s death, I remained choice gossip. It’s sickening the way people relish the retelling of my sordid past. I’m bone-weary of it.

All right, I promise.

Ah, ladies, I have something else we need to discuss. Pennington handed Margaret two sheets of paper. This is the new will William wrote not long before he died. I found it in the chest along with his diary.

Her mother unfolded the sheets as though she expected a viper to slither out. After reading the will, she gifted the lawyer with a glare, as though it were somehow his fault. This is ridiculous. Is there anything I can do about it?

He frowned. No, it’s quite legal.

Let me read it.

A deep red flush crept up Margaret’s neck and onto her face as she handed the will to her daughter. There’s nothing to it. Your father owned half interest in a newspaper out there. He left it to you. Why on earth did he do such a foolish thing? This is total nonsense.

Pennington shook his head. All I know is he had it drawn up in Harmony.

Catherine read the will twice. The fact her father would give his share of the paper to her instead of Daniel was incredible. Unthinkable. Yet, it was all spelled out in his spidery lettering. She owned half a newspaper. It was hers. What a heady idea to be able to have a voice in the paper’s publication. Fantastic. Exciting. Even freeing. Now she had a way to support the woman’s equality movement. She would show the public how women could contribute to society in ways besides bearing children.

"Pennington, you will go back to Missouri. Daniel is too busy managing the Tribune to deal with this situation. There’s no question but for you to dispose of it. Mind you see my daughter gets a fair price."

Wait! The protest flew out of Catherine’s mouth before she realized she had uttered it. Slow down.

What do you mean, child?

She glared at her mother. I wish you would quit calling me a child. I am twenty-three years old.

Margaret waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal. You didn’t answer my question.

I have no immediate intention of selling. First of all, the paper needs a thorough examination. Its operation. Its profits. Its co-owner. Catherine clicked off the list on her fingers. She took a deep breath. In fact, I will move to Harmony to help with the paper. It’s time to do something meaningful with my life. She laughed when she heard Margaret’s gasp.

Well, I never. Her mother’s mouth snapped open and shut like a frog.

Catherine stood. If you both will excuse me, I have details to work out. She shook hands with Pennington. I’ll be in touch with you in a few days. As she closed the parlor door behind her, she paused in the hallway. Yes, she needed to examine her inheritance with the eyes of a business owner, but she hadn’t mentioned an equally important reason: her father’s murder. She couldn’t let it go unsolved. Harmony held the answer to why her father was dead, and likely the person who killed him. Her destiny was westward.

Chapter Two

Harmony, Missouri

December 9, 1867

Patrick Cardin stood at the window of the Harmony Standard as the rain transformed the street into ribbons of mud. The downpour nearly obstructed his view of The Golden Lady across the street, although he could pick out its garish yellow door and the gaudy sign flaunting a voluptuous female figure wearing scant clothing. His reverie vanished as a disgusted curse emanated from the press room, further fouling air already heavy with the bitter smell of ink.

Problems, Jimbo?

Whatta ya think? Jimbo Bates yelled back. His bass voice rose over the clatter of the press.

You’ll have to put on your best manners when Mrs. Wentworth gets here. If she ever arrives. I’m sure her highbred nerves can’t take your usual guff.

All he got for an answer was a snort. A top-notch printer, that Bates, but the man had no patience for cantankerous printing presses.

At the sound of a long shrill whistle followed by three short blasts, Patrick checked the clock. The Annabelle Lee was on time. Perhaps he should go down to the dock to see if Mrs. Wentworth might be on the packet, although no word had come to expect her today.

The lady would probably not show until spring since she had already missed her first scheduled appearance over two weeks ago, even though she had telegraphed him to expect her. He had stood shivering in the piercing cold until every passenger disembarked only to discover she was not on board. Nor had she been on any boat which docked daily the rest of the week. How about that for punctuality? Wouldn’t arriving as scheduled have been a matter of principle for a proper Philadelphia lady?

What was the best way for him to approach this gut-grinding situation? Having a man for a business partner was normal. Natural. Dealing with a lady partner was quite another thing. If William Reed were alive, he would ring the man’s neck for doing such a fool thing as leaving his share of the paper to his daughter.

Patrick swiped his forehead to dislodge the voice in his head reminding him if he hadn’t been stupid he wouldn’t be in this mess. Instead, double penance was his to pay for making the mistake of sitting down at a poker table when he was less than alert. All right, he had been drunk, but who was he kidding? No one knew better than he did that even when he was alert poker had never been his game.

All he remembered about the ill-fated night was that he hit The Golden Lady with the determination to drown the ache in his heart. He had been masterful at convincing himself the newspaper didn’t matter to him. Not at all. Nothing mattered anymore after coming home from the war to an empty house and a solitary bed.

His memories of his wife were strong. Ever-present images flowed unbidden through his mind: Nancy moving about their kitchen; Nancy lying in bed snuggled beside him with the glow of the oil lamp washing over her face; Nancy in the pasture with outstretched arms pulling him down beside her. He could still recall the smell of the fresh spring grass.

Those memories were once his solace as he slogged through muddy fields dragging bloody comrades back to camp. Now, they hovered in the house, waif-like spirits needing exorcism. Ghosts he might never lay to rest unless he sold his paper and moved further west. At twenty-nine, he could still start over somewhere else.

Fate or coincidence, the decision was never his to make because he wound up in a poker game. The following day he nursed a colossal headache and stared bleary-eyed at a Yank who owned half his paper. A slick-tongued Yank co-owner who talked him into staying in Harmony.

The redeeming fact was his new partner claimed he understood all about newspaper publishing, and William Reed was as true as his word. He worked hard to help him get the Standard back on its feet in the face of a post-war depression which had handed everyone in Harmony a dirty punch. Besides that, he became a friend.

As well as he had come to know Reed, he would never comprehend the man’s action. A woman in the newspaper office? A catastrophe. Patrick combed his fingers through his hair. William had mentioned little about his daughter. Why would he gift her his share of the paper when she had no experience with publishing? Someone who lived in Philadelphia. Someone who probably didn’t even know Missouri was a state by now. No doubt she spent most of her time serving tea to her high-society friends.

William had provided him many a laugh describing the pastimes of Philadelphia socialites. Now he had saddled him with one. Must be a streak of insanity somewhere in his family. What else could be the reason for such a cockeyed idea? Yet, there could be another one. William wouldn’t tell him why he didn’t go home to his family and his newspaper after the war. This wasn’t normal for a man to do, let alone William.

The question remained unanswered, and it kept him awake at night. Why would Catherine Wentworth brave the arduous trek of coming to Missouri? No woman in her right mind would leave Philadelphia in exchange for a minuscule, frontier town. News from back East was two months old before he could publish it, and the best Harmony could offer for entertainment was a monthly square dance.

Lightning flashed, and thunder cracked, driving Patrick from the window. No way was he meeting the packet today. His time would be better spent figuring how to get rid of the lady, if she came. Sticking her nose into his business would add one more problem to his life. After a glance at the time, he headed for his desk, resolved to forget her.

Chapter Three

The hinges on the front door squeaked, but Patrick was on his knees under his desk groping for two hairy legs. Canine legs. Get out. You’re wet, he ordered in his clipped military tone, edged with irritation.

I beg your pardon?

At the sound of a perfectly modulated feminine voice, Patrick backed out from under the desk too fast, banging his head on the center drawer in the process. He rubbed the sore spot on his head and scrambled to his feet. Straightening to his full six-foot-one height, he attempted to regain a modicum of dignity before turning to his visitor.

Standing in the doorway was one of the most fetching women he had ever beheld. She had striking blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a full and well-shaped mouth. There was nothing lacking in her beauty.

He discounted the fact she looked like a drenched hen. The ostrich feathers on her bonnet drooped across one eye, and her soggy, mud-spattered mantle clung to her. Despite it all, the lady’s warm smile lit up her face. There was only one person this stranger could be: Catherine Wentworth, and it was his fault she was wet. True, he didn’t receive a message she would be here today. No matter. He could kick himself.

Sighing, he uttered the first thing which popped into his head. You’re wet.

Rats. I can’t believe I said such a dumb thing.

To be precise, I’m drowned. She used her foot to close the door behind her then deposited her dripping parasol and rain-spotted carpetbag on the floor in one graceful motion. I assume you weren’t speaking to me earlier to order me out.

Not at all, ma’am. The longer it took him to recover from his surprise, the more the lady smiled, displaying an exemplary pair of dimples which could make an impression on any man. What was wrong with him? Before the lady concluded he was dumbstruck, he should show her he was capable of uttering a complete sentence. Corralling his wayward reflections, Patrick managed a grin. You caught me talking to Major Bow.

As though on cue, the mud-streaked mutt emerged from beneath his desk and trotted toward the door.

Despite his lunge at the dog, Patrick missed him. Bow, sit! Sometimes Bow chose to be obedient. This was not one of those times. Don’t be afraid. He won’t bite you.

Hustling around the counter, Patrick intended to divert the dog’s direction. No luck. He arrived at the door as Major Bow sidled up to Catherine and gave his long-haired golden coat a full-body shake, showering her with muddy water. She gasped and took two steps backward, but with his tail wagging, Major Bow followed her.

Bow, how could you? Patrick pulled his dog to him then pressed his rear end to the floor. Please excuse Bow for his ungentlemanly behavior. I’ll see your clothes get cleaned.

Thank you, but it’s not necessary. I’ll tend to it. Catherine knelt to pat Bow on his head. By chance are you Patrick Cardin?

A wave of disquiet filled him as he discovered his life had just hit a bump in the road. She had arrived. There was no escaping it. Yes, and you’re Mrs. Wentworth.

Correct. Delighted to meet you at last. She extended a gloved hand. I suppose you’ve been calculating when I’d arrive. I’m sorry for the delay. It took longer than I had planned to tend to all my arrangements at home before I came.

Your arrival time did cross my mind. Patrick grinned, neglecting to mention the fact he had been praying she wouldn’t. He gestured toward the pot-bellied stove. It’s warmer over there. You could use some heat to dry your clothes.

Of course.

He noticed her golden-red curls jiggled beneath the rim of her hat as she moved. Removal of her mantle revealed a well-tailored traveling suit. It traced her slender waist and flared out in the back over a bustle.

Patrick trailed her, feeling more than a little uncomfortable, especially because he hadn’t been at the dock. How would they be able to work together? Hah, together? What a scary thought. Women and offices don’t mix. Besides, did he need her help? No. He was quite capable of running this office by himself.

The prevailing silence pressed on him like the heat emanating from the wood stove. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure of the approach to take with this woman. This had never been one of his problems before when around the fairer sex. Why now?

How about some coffee? I can’t vouch for its quality, but it’s hot, he said in an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence.

Yes, please. No sugar or cream.

Patrick grabbed two cups from a nearby shelf then headed for the steaming pot sitting on the stovetop.

Catherine closed in on the stove and held out her hands to warm them. Suppose I come straight to the point. I’m sure you’re concerned about why I came here instead of sending my solicitor to finalize our arrangements. You do recall Mr. Pennington?

Yes, I do, but you’re correct. I’ve been wondering about you. Why did you come yourself?

It’s simple. To take up where my father left off. Being a silent partner isn’t how I view myself. I want to be productive. To have a real part in the publication process.

At her words, his hand holding the pot jerked. Patrick missed her cup by a wide margin, causing the coffee to splash to the floor, splattering his newly polished boots. Where in heck was his control? Great. Now his boots were a mess. Mrs. Wentworth, I’m not sure you grasp what you’re proposing.

Oops. Wrong move. The annoyed flash in her eyes and her puckered brow were clear signals they weren’t headed for a smooth conversation.

I beg your pardon. I do understand. She shifted her stance and took a deep breath. I know no reason why I can’t work alongside you as my father did. I’ve contemplated this situation for some time.

Patrick filled their cups then set the pot on the stove with a thump. We’re a small newspaper. I’m sure it’s not what you were expecting. I can handle this backwoods rag well enough for the both of us. You probably have no experience, and I don’t have the time to teach you.

Or the inclination?

Patrick raised both his eyebrows at Catherine’s blunt challenge. Was this how it would be—a daily challenge from her? No. This would never do.

As I said, I do not have the time. Besides, Harmony is not for you. You’d find life boring in a place like this. Point of fact, she looked as out of place as a rose in December. I suggest you catch the afternoon steamboat and head home. You can be back in Philadelphia hosting tea parties by Christmas.

Catherine bristled as she straightened her shoulders into an unyielding line. I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t give tea parties. Why do you assume partying is my one skill or interest in life?

Patrick swallowed. Hard. She had him there. By the way her face screwed up at his words, maybe he shouldn’t have added his last remark. His emotions had spoken instead of letting his head maneuver this unreasonable female out of town.

Beg your pardon. It was wrong of me to make assumptions.

How right you are. Newspapermen don’t make conjectures. They report facts.

Touché. The lady had temerity to call him to task, but he eyed her with the cool assurance he’d soon have her boarding a north-bound boat. It was a matter of tactics. He needed another ploy.

I suppose two or three weeks here would do you good. You could learn how I run the business and go home satisfied everything is under control. He was pleased he’d thought of such a convenient compromise. She would find this a sensible proposal. He took a leisurely sip of his drink, enjoying the aroma of a strong brew as well as the sweet aroma of success.

I say no, sir. I need to live close to our business.

He choked. The hot coffee scalded his throat when he quickly swallowed it. You don’t understand what you’re facing, he sputtered, rubbing his throat to ease the pain. Life here is…it’s rustic. Not like where you live. He brushed his fingers through his hair as though by that action he could dislodge the perfect argument. And your husband? What does he think about moving here?

He’s dead. No emotion flickered across her face. She forcibly blew on her beverage before taking a sip.

Oh. Coughing to stall for time to assess his approach, he massaged his throat again. Her bluntness and lack of emotion left him clawing for something appropriate to say, but his mind was blank. Tactical shift. Tell me, what do you plan to accomplish here?

At his question, Catherine’s face paled. Her eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open.

Ah, he had her this time.

Well, as I said earlier, I intend to assist you in running this newspaper as a working partner. Not a silent partner.

Patrick couldn’t imagine this woman ever being a silent anything.

Why is this so hard to comprehend? Aren’t you acquainted with other women who make more of their lives than hosting teas, as you graciously observed? For instance, women who own their own businesses. No? Amelia Bloomer is a prominent example. Her name should be familiar to you. She set her cup back on the shelf. No matter. My father probably didn’t mention this, but I do have newspaper experience.

This was news to him. Patrick regrouped. Let me be plain. Despite what you say, there’s no reason to stay. I ran this newspaper by myself before the war. Before your father came along. I’m sorry, but I don’t need you.

How much clearer can I be?

That’s not the issue. I’ve made my plans. More than one reason brought me here. Nothing you can say or do will change my mind. She stood with her hands propped on her hips.

After taking a final swig of coffee, he set his cup on his desk before responding. The lady was determined, but he was too. He gave her a casual, disarming smile. I see there’s no dissuading you. You set your course long before you got here. If only he could shake an ominous sensation this was the beginning of many battles with her, but with any luck he would have her on a steamboat by month’s end or bust.

True. I hope we can come to a friendly understanding. She glanced around the room. This office is too small for us to be at loggerheads all the time. A swing of her arm took in the entire cramped space. "Tell me, sir. Where does this leave me?"

With crossed arms and a forced smile, Patrick said, With a partner, Mrs. Wentworth. Welcome to Harmony.

He clung onto the consoling thought she’d get bored with rural life and pine for Philadelphia. Until then, he must work around her. Give her a few minor responsibilities to satisfy her until she was ready to leave of her own accord. Patience. He needed patience.

Why, thank you. She gifted him with a beatific smile. I can’t wait to get started.

Patrick dwelt a moment longer on her smile. He caught his breath. What might a man do to earn more of those smiles? He blinked then mentally shook himself. Reflections like that would get him in trouble. As if he weren’t already in enough trouble.

Chapter Four

Rain drummed on the tin roof. The pinging of the drops didn’t relax Catherine today. They frazzled her nerves. In the nearly two hours since her arrival at the newspaper office, what had she accomplished other than to converse with her partner and the printer, Mr. Bates, who had retreated to the pressroom and now pretended she didn’t exist?

It didn’t take a genius to figure out neither Mr. Bates nor Patrick Cardin wanted her there. In fact, her partner had bluntly invited her to go home. Then he spent his time ignoring her and shifting papers around on his desk. She was bored. Boredom drove her crazy.

To distract herself, she dismissed her unpleasant thoughts and focused on the office. The sizable room was cluttered but contained the necessary basics. A counter across the front served the customers and held a stack of the latest issue ready for sale. Cardin’s desk was in the back right corner facing the wall, well out of traffic’s way. The clutter on his desktop arrested her perusal. Mounds of paper were piled everywhere. Did the man ever throw anything away? Organization was what this place needed and plenty of it.

The only bow to fashion in the entire room was the tin-plated ceiling sporting a delicate cabbage rose design, which clashed with the dingy gray stucco walls. The oak floor needed sweeping and oiling. The windows overlooking the street needed washing. The air smelled of old dust and fresh ink. This office needed a woman’s touch. Perhaps some plain-styled curtains to soften the atmosphere.

Working alongside Cardin might become entertaining if it would be anything like today. He was monitoring her every action. When she caught him pointblank, he jerked his head around. Then he picked up a newspaper scattered across his desk and appeared to be reading it.

There was one problem with his subterfuge, which Catherine didn’t hesitate to point out to him. She cleared her throat loudly. Your paper is upside down.

Cardin righted it without comment. If he planned to intimidate her by tracking her every movement, he had made a mistake. She wasn’t intimidated. Is there anything I can do to help you today? Being cooped up on the steamboat for so long, I need to release some energy.

He hunched over his paper. No thanks.

The time has come for you to understand one thing, sir. I will succeed in this venture if for no other reason than to prove my father’s faith in my ability to manage his legacy was not ill-placed. Yes, she had made a mess of her married life in Philadelphia, but Harmony offered her a fresh start. She meant to make the most of it. Period.

Good for you, Cardin mumbled as he shuffled the paper.

Catherine opened her mouth to reply but instead gave it up to assess her partner. He had a strong, fined-boned face, made intriguing by a well-manicured Van Dyke beard and a classical Greek nose. His firm chin hinted at archetypal determination. Hmm. No, maybe stubbornness more than not. Richly dark hair, curling at his collar’s edge, balanced his features perfectly to make him pleasant to behold. If that wasn’t enough, he had a solid build—all sinew, if the way his shoulders filled out his jacket were any indication. All right. She had to admit he was handsome. Darn handsome.

Yet, what drew her the most were his eyes. There was a look of alertness and intelligence about them. A plus. Warm brown. Penetrating. Wasted, though, on a man probably too satisfied with himself. Unfortunately, she had discovered