Romance in Rapid Read online

  Romance in Rapid

  Seven Brides of South Dakota: Book 4

  Kari Trumbo

  Romance in Rapid

  © 2017 Kari Trumbo

  Published by Kari Trumbo, All Rights Reserved

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, without the prior written consent of the author. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible

  Author’s note: This is a work of fiction. All locations, characters, names, and actions are a product of the author’s overactive imagination. Any resemblance, however subtle, to living persons or actual places and events are coincidental.

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Historical Elements

  Also by Kari Trumbo

  Free Book

  About the Author

  To the readers, without whom this venture of sitting at my desk day in and day out would be pointless.

  Chapter 1

  Rapid City, South Dakota

  June, 1896

  Frances Arnsby laid on her back and hung her head off the edge of her friend’s bed. Constance hated it when she did that, but it helped Frances think. Today was the day she’d been planning for. It had taken months of preparation and cajoling. Her manuscript was as ready as it could possibly be. She’d edited it to pure perfection, and it made her cry whenever she read it. Now she either had to make the editor at The Black Hills Union tell her where to send it or allow them to publish it as a serial in their paper. Some great stories had made it to publication through the newspaper. And hers would be big too. It had to.

  Constance stared at her through the mirrored vanity from where she sat across the room. The striped gilded wallpaper cast an eerie glow over her skin as she brushed her long dark hair, her lips pinched tightly.

  “Really, Frances. Do you think this is a wise idea? At least let my father join you. He knows business. What if they try to fleece you? Or worse, not pay you at all? You’re tossing yourself to the wolves.” Her brush strokes accentuated every thought, and she flinched slightly with each one. She’d make a good actress, if that were a noble profession. Though, after staying with Constance for a week, she’d come to realize parts of Constance were less than noble. Some less than tolerable.

  “I’m not tossing myself anywhere. I don’t think for one second that your father would be interested in helping me get my romance novel published. Now, if they were scholarly works, completely boring and drab, then he would help me.” It may have been an unfair assessment, but from what she’d seen of Jacob Charity, unless it could mind him or make him money, he wanted nothing to do with it. “I’m certain if famous dime novelist Charlotte Braeme could do it all on her own, so can I.”

  Constance rolled her eyes at her through the glass. “You don’t know anything more about her than I do. Mrs. Braeme probably had help and at least knew where to submit her stories. You don’t even have that. Just because the newspaper prints, doesn’t mean they know anything about publishers like Street & Smith or Worthington. You’re going to make a fool of yourself, and word like that will get around. It’s embarrassing.”

  Doubts roiled in Frances’s stomach. No one ever talked about the women who wrote the dime novels. They were still seen as trashy books to most people. Her well-read sister, Eva, included. Well, they could have their disdain with a scoop of ice cream. She’d get published and prove they weren’t trash. Those people probably never even read dime novels.

  “I’ll take my chances. I’m only going to be here this month and I’ve already lost one week of the four. If I can’t sell my manuscript by then, I’ll just have to find some way to get the address of those publishers.” Somehow, that seemed like an even bigger leap of faith. At least if she could find someone at the paper who’d take an interest in her, they could be a go-between. Someone who knew the printing industry would be better than trying to go alone.

  “And I suppose spending one week with just me was a hardship for you. I knew the only reason you wanted to come was for your story. I told you I’d help you and now you know my feelings on it. You don’t even know if the story is good. No one has ever seen it but you! Nothing good will come of this, mark my words.”

  No one would read her story until it showed up in print. Frances flipped her hair off the floor and glared at her friend. Constance had been trying to read her manuscript since she’d arrived. It had been a source of contention between them all week. “Stop trying to read my book. You’ll get to read it in print like everyone else. I didn’t ask for your help other than allowing me to stay with you. I couldn’t exactly come to Rapid all on my own.”

  She wiggled her way back onto the bed and pushed to sit up, not an easy task with the boning of her new stays preventing her from bending properly. As a matter of comfort, Frances had stalled her sister Ruby’s insistence that she wear proper stays. She’d continued wearing a training corset, without bones, far longer than a girl ought. Constance had wailed and prodded, finally insisting she wear the proper shaping garment if she were to borrow her clothing. She made it to her feet and her vibrant blue walking dress held her attention in the mirror.

  “By the way, thank you for the use of your clothes.” She shifted and admired the shiny blue silk of the walking suit as it caught and shimmered in the light of the window. It was much better quality than any she’d brought with her and, unless she succeeded in selling her manuscript, than any she might ever wear again.

  A minute charged with potential hurt dragged by. Constance did love to gut her with sharp words. “Yes, well. I didn’t want Father and Mother to say anything. The society pages can be so cruel. While I understand that your dresses are of necessity, living on a ranch and such, P.E. Dunworthy would’ve made a mockery of them.”

  “I don’t think Dunworthy has time to watch me. I'm a nobody.” She smoothed the sleeves of the dress, admiring the fine stitching. Even Ruby couldn’t stitch a seam so fine.

  “You’d think so, but the man seems to be everywhere, seeing all that happens and detailing it in the paper. You might think those dime novels are captivating, but to the wealthy people in Rapid City, the society page takes priority.” Constance stood and took down a straw hat with various blue plumes off the shelf above her mirrored dressing table. “Here, it goes well with that dress. But first, your hair. Sit.”

  Frances knew better than to argue fashion with her friend. She’d tried on the first day, when she’d just wrapped her hair into a quick bun. Constance had fluttered on about it until Frances had relented and let her friend do it. Now Constance would brush, yank, and pin her blonde locks into submission, fashioning her hair into some design Frances would never be able to replicate on her own.

  They weren’t compatible—different as night and day, really. And still, they’d been fast friends for years. They’d met through a ‘meet your South Dakota neighbor’ ad that ran in both the Black Hills Union and the Deadwood Times a few years before. Their addresses had been exchanged and t
hey’d been friends for the past two years. When they’d finally met face to face last week, Frances had an inkling their friendship might not have been as solid as she’d thought. A week later, and she was sure of it.

  Turning the conversation to something Constance enjoyed had always brought the smile back to Constance’s face. “Connie, will you still write to me when you’re married?” Frances gazed into the mirror as Constance’s face shifted from rapt attention to horror and then to blankness. “You know I don’t fancy that name.”

  Talk of the fascinating Reginald had always caused Constance to gush in her letters. A rock-hard lump sank in Frances’s chest. “That isn’t why you flinched. What’s wrong? Did Reginald bolt? You told me he might ask for your hand at your birthday. It’s been two weeks. You haven’t seen him the whole time I’ve been here.”

  Constance tugged on Frances’s hair and stabbed in a pin. Frances ducked out of the way, rubbing her scalp.

  “No, Reginald didn’t ask for my hand. I would think if you’d read those society pages I told you about, you’d know that.”

  The society pages would only be a good place to find your name if they were announcing your wedding. Frances whipped around to face Constance, her hair falling back to her shoulders. “What do you mean? He didn’t do anything publicly...did he?”

  A sob tore from Constance’s lips. “He didn’t have to do or say anything to me. The night before my birthday, Dunworthy saw him at the theater with some...harlot. Dunworthy even mentioned me by name. Jilted Lover... Charity’s Case.” She turned away, her shoulders quaking. “The very night before my birthday. Could he have been any more cruel?”

  Frances dug around in her pocket for her handkerchief. Why couldn’t her things ever stay where she put them? She found it in the other pocket and stood, patting Constance on the shoulder and handing it to her. “That’s terrible! I’m so sorry Constance. Did your father say anything to Reginald?” How could Reginald have done such a thing? Love was supposed to be the most powerful of the emotions. What Constance and Reginald had couldn’t have been love if it evaporated like rain in the desert. And if it weren’t true, wouldn’t Reginald have made it a point to come to Constance and beg forgiveness?

  The shuddering sniffles pouring from Constance were more emotion than she’d shown since Frances arrived. “My father doesn’t care. He doesn’t understand. My mother did nothing more than roll her eyes. I couldn’t show my face for days. I still don’t like to go out. No one who loves me cares.”

  Constance handed back the handkerchief and Frances stuffed it into her pocket without wasting the time to fold it. “We’ll win him back. Don’t worry.” She wouldn’t use her pet name when Connie was so obviously hurting.

  Frances pushed her hair over her shoulder and Constance caught her wrist, a new purpose lighting her eyes. She turned Frances around and pushed her onto the stool. Constance took up Frances’s hair once again with a new fervor. Her friend’s face relaxed with the simple act of doing the chore as intricately as possible. Frances held her grimaces to herself. It was obvious Constance needed something to think about other than Reginald.

  “I don’t know that I could ever trust him again, but my heart is torn in two. I thought I loved him. That better not end up in one of your books, Frances Moira Arnsby.”

  Frances gasped. She’d shared her middle name with Constance during their first year of writing. She should’ve known better than to put something in print that she never wanted anyone to repeat. “I swear on my horrible middle name that I’ll not put your story in my books.”

  As Frances tilted her head left and right, she admired the effect Constance had created. Her friend did have talent when it came to making her pretty. Frances had always thought herself rather plain. Constance plucked a strand of hair loose from Frances’s temple and let it fall to frame her face. “Just hope that Dunworthy never finds out about my heartache. If he does, that’ll be in the paper next.”

  Frances couldn’t stand that her friend was in such a mood. “Take heart. I’m going into the belly of the beast and throwing my heart on the chopping block. If Dunworthy destroys my chances, your story will soon be forgotten.”

  “Dunworthy won’t even be there. He’ll be out looking for fresh disasters.” Constance pinned one last coil from Frances’s nape in place, then balanced the plumed hat on her head, off-center to the right, at a haughty angle. If Frances had been left to do it on her own, she would’ve just plopped the thing on top and pinned it in place. At eighteen, she’d never seen the sense in fashion. There was no place for it out on the ranch in Deadwood.

  “There. Now you look like a take-charge business woman. Perhaps, someday, your sister will talk about knowing you, instead of being a former acquaintance of Phoebe Hearst.”

  For a time, her sister Eva had worked with the famous wife of the California senator. It mattered very little to Frances, but her sister still talked about it years later. Frances stood and turned in front of the mirror, the dress swaying back and forth. “I do believe I’m ready. At least, I look ready.” She clutched her belly as it knotted tighter. While women had been doing their best for decades, proving they belonged right next to men. Walking into a business dominated by men made her more nervous than a mouse in a milking barn.

  Constance cupped her shoulders and squeezed gently. “You look the part, now just make sure your lips seal the deal.”

  Frances took a huge gulp of air and slid the brown accordion folder she’d been hiding for months off the desk. “It’s time to meet my future.”

  Clive thrummed his fingers on his pine wood desk and swept the newsroom with a quick glance. He’d filed his story for the Wednesday edition, but people who wasted time would be replaced. Except the no-account fluff writer, P.E. Dunworthy. That man would never get fired because—no matter how often he ignored his job and just made things up—the paper was successful because of society gossips. They coveted his column, but hated his attention. Clive couldn’t rest on his laurels or anything else.

  There had to be something, some story to take up his time. The newsroom was small, cramped tight with limited desks, and there were always people vying for a spot. A glint of blue silk by the door caught his eye. A dainty blonde woman with a nervous smile and a keen eye entered the newsroom, touching her hat with a quivering gloved hand. Now, what could a woman like her want at the paper… Unless she was another hapless victim of Dunworthy? They often came, wanting retractions that would never come, or if they did, were often sharper than the original story. She canvased the room and her gaze locked with his. She’d caught him staring.

  Stuff and nonsense! He broke the contact and shuffled papers on his desk, willing her to stay away. There had to be a story out there and he wouldn’t find it stuck here in the office talking to some sore debutante. She drew near, despite his desire, as he stacked the papers and arranged his writing instruments from shortest to longest. If he managed to look busy, she might leave without bothering him, or at least keep it short.

  “Good morning.” Her voice was soft or perhaps the room was just too loud. Couldn’t she have picked someone else, anyone else? His job as the youngest chief reporter in South Dakota depended on him spending time out in Rapid City, chasing down the next story.

  “Some might claim it.” He sighed and considered lavender blue eyes set off like sapphires by the color of her dress. Her skin was lightly sun-kissed, something he didn’t see often, especially on women dressed as finely as she was. Dainty hands gripped a thick brown enclosed folder. “What have you got there?” Unless she worked for someone important, seeing a woman carry around such things was rare.

  Her glance danced around the room then back to him. “I don’t know who to speak to about this. It’s rather important.”

  He reached out. “Name’s Clive Davidson, chief reporter for the Black Hills Union.”

  Her gaze stuck on his hand as if she were unsure of what she should do, then hesitantly drew her own up to his. He gripped, then
released. The upper crust of society was so far away from him, he didn’t even want to touch it. “Yes, I can see that.” She subtly pointed to the name placard on his desk.

  “I’m...” She bit her thin bottom lip. “Let’s not talk about who I am just yet. May I sit?”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. She needed to go, not sit! He threw an exaggerated gesture to the chair for her to help herself. “By all means. I’ve got all the time in the world.” He prayed she could understand sarcasm when she heard it.

  Her brief smile and the relaxation of her shoulders said she’d taken him at his word. He saw his day slipping away from him by way of blue silk.

  “I have a manuscript, Mr. Davidson, and I’d like to publish it as a serial in your newspaper. Or, perhaps you know the address of some of the more prominent book publishers? I’ve been working on this story for so long.” She grinned and sat up straighter.

  There was no nice way to let her down. They didn’t do that kind of printing at the Union, and never would. Not while he was chief, and especially not while Marksman was his editor. As to other publishers, his boss might know, but he wasn’t about to ask him. He opened his mouth to dash her hope and…couldn’t do it. Those lavender eyes, so different from any he’d ever seen, implored him. He couldn’t say no, not yet.

  “Let me take a look at what you’ve got there.” He reached for the folder as she clutched it to her breast, sliding back in the chair.