Heart of Integrity (Hearts of the West, #2)

Chapter 8

“Ah, and a pound of sugar, too, please.” Ifor grinned. “I want to surprise my father with some Welsh cakes...if I don’t end up burning them, that is.”

“Ah, that’s nice. Any special occasion?” Mr. Bulson asked, his countenance breaking into an easy smile.

“Not really. Just wanted to do something nice for him.”

He didn’t mention the main reason he wanted to treat his father was to try to lift his spirits. Two days and it would be the second anniversary of his brother’s death. No one in Lone Pine even knew he’d had a brother. And he and his father seemed to have an unspoken understanding that such an arrangement was ultimately for the best.

Mr. Bulson smiled.“Well, I hope he likes them, and that they turn out well.” He turned and reached toward a shelf behind him, then stopped. “Ah. Mrs. Forester got the last bag on the shelf. Hold on just a moment, and I’ll fetch some more from out back.”

“Of course.”

Just as Mr. Bulson strode out of sight, the bell above the door jingled.

Instinctively, Ifor turned to smile at whoever the customer might be. His heart stuttered as his eyes fixed upon Susan.

A rather pale Susan.

“Miss Kelly... Good day to you.” He had to bite back the other words he yearned to say. Are you well?

Her eyes widened as she saw him, then immediately she shifted her gaze to the floor. “Good day, Mr. Morgan.”

Concern gripped him. Not only was she pale, and acting odd, but her voice sounded different, too. Almost slightly raspy, or hoarse.

Without a second thought, he voiced his query. “Miss Kelly, are you quitewell?”

Her eyes flitted to his own, searing his heart as her gaze briefly connected with his again.

She glanced around, as though trying to find a path of escape. “Yes, yes. I’m grand, thanks.”

She clearly wasn’t.

Yet, despite his yearning to find out what was going on, he knew he ought not to press her on the matter.

He stood there, searching for something to say, but all he could do was study her, desperately trying to discern what it was that had so altered her manner—her entire being.

She moved forward, her slow, tentative steps yet another sign of her discomfort and agitation.

Soon, she was before him. Standing ahead of him, looking up at him.

His breath caught. Even in her ill-looking state, she was beautiful.

She dipped her head, glancing either side of him, then back up at him.

“Oh!” He was blocking her way. “Forgive me, Miss Kelly. How silly of me. Please...” He moved aside, indicating the now-free path with his hand.

“Thank you.” She barely glanced at him as she shuffled past him.

“Is your throat sore?” The question had escaped him before he knew it.

She froze, turning to face him with wide, terror-filled eyes. “What?” she gasped.

It was quite a personal question, he had to admit. But not one that ought to have evoked the fearful response it had.

“Forgive me...” His chest tightened. What was going on? “Your voice sounded, well, as though you had a cold, or...or a sore throat or suchlike.”

Relief washed temporarily over her features, until the melancholy expression settled upon her once again.

Silence stretched between them.

Just as he was about to speak again, Mr. Bulson returned. “Here you are, Mr. Morgan. Sorry to keep you waiting. Oh, good afternoon, Miss Kelly. How may I help you?”

Ifor watched as she quietly approached the counter and asked for some flour. If Mr. Bulson noticed anything odd about her voice or her manner, he didn’t show it.

Whatever could have happened? He hadn’t known her for very long—well, he didn’t really know her at all yet—but the change in her demeanor was undeniable.

And deeply concerning.

She’d completed her purchase now and was heading back toward him, or rather, the door beyond him.

He had to make sure she was all right.

As she neared him, he stepped in front of her, not bothering to conceal the concern churning within him. “Miss Kelly, I must ask you—is anything wrong?”

She paled even more—though it hardly seemed possible. The frequency of her breathing and blinking increased rapidly. “Why would you ask such a thing?” She peered up at him, fear emanating from her eyes.

“Forgive me, I do not wish to pry,” he said, his tone hushed despite Mr. Bulson’s distance. “But I do not believe you are well. You seem...” He hesitated, unsure how to best put his concerns into words. “Well, it’s just that you?—”

“I’m fine, Mr. Morgan. I’m just tired.” She shifted the weight of the bag of flour in her arms. “I have to go.”

She darted past him, her arm brushing his due tothe narrow aisle of the store leaving her no other choice.

He spun to face her again. “Wait!”

She stopped, looking back at him with such mistrust that it forced the air out of his lungs.

“I wanted to ask you if you’d like to come and have some Welsh cakes tomorrow with my father and I. We live just?—”

“I can’t tomorrow. I’m sorry.” Her gaze darted everywhere except at him.

“Of course. It was only a thought.” He tried to make his words sound much cheerier than he felt.

As she turned to leave again, he stepped toward her. “I shall see you at church on Sunday, then? If you are still able to attend—as you mentioned the other day?”

It was all coming out wrong. He wanted her to know that he cared about her, that he was concerned for her. Now, all it looked like was he was trying to push her into going places she probably had no real desire to go to.

She was still for a moment, then slowly turned to face him. Hopeless fear laced her brow, filled her eyes. Then a far-off look, and her expression tightened in resolution. “I’ll see you at church on Sunday.” The look of defeat returned in a blink, but as Ifor watched her walk away, he prayed that she would make it to the church service this week, and that she would hear the truth that could set her free.

For it was plain to see that there was nothing she needed more.