Chapter Nineteen
IT WAS BARELY DAWN when Delia went downstairs to find Max. Anna was still sleeping soundly, and the house was silent. She found him sitting on the step at the back door, watching as the sun rose to the east over the dark Wet Mountains.
“Did you sleep at all?” she asked as she sat beside him. She swallowed as her leg brushed his, uncertain if it was welcome or not. He’d held her as if she meant the world to him at the boardinghouse last night, but he’d said nothing about how he felt.
“Some,” he said. “I’ll sleep later. I know he’s no longer a threat, but all I can think is how close I came to losing her.”
Delia wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she’d put on a shawl. “I’ve never been so afraid in my life.”
She felt Max’s eyes on her. “And yet you didn’t hesitate. You figured out where she was, and you went to get her. And then you helped her escape.”
Delia looked up at him then. “That was her idea, using the servants’ stairs. I didn’t know they were there.”
Max held her gaze, his eyes searching. She didn’t know what he was looking for, but she found herself hoping he found it. She knew now, more than ever, that she wanted to be here. With him, and with Anna. She didn’t want to leave.
“You called Anna your daughter,” he said.
It was the last thing she expected him to say.
She had to search her memory before nodding.
“I know she isn’t mine, but I love her as if she was.
I can’t—I couldn’t—” Delia shook her head, trying to rid herself of the awful fears she’d carried with her last night.
“I was so afraid something had happened to her.”
Max cast his eyes down, and then, after a few seconds passed, he reached for her hand. Delia let him take it, uncertain what it meant. Was he about to let her down gently?
Because she wasn’t sure how he’d forgive her for coming here under false pretenses.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, knowing those words couldn’t make what she’d done right.
“I know,” he said softly. His thumb traced a circle over her hand. He looked up at her. “I read what you wrote.”
Delia’s breath caught in her throat.
“Is it true?” he asked.
She nodded, unable to speak. That last article she’d written knowing full well she wouldn’t send it—or any of the others—to Roy. And she’d poured out her heart into it.
She’d admitted to falling in love with Max.
“I don’t want to go back to New York,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
He watched her a moment, his thumb still caressing her hand. “I don’t want that either.”
“You don’t?” Her stomach knotted with hope.
“I love you too, Delia,” he said, emotion lacing his words. “But I’m not sure if I should.”
Panic threatened to choke her. He was going to send her back anyway. It was too much, and even though she’d wished for a miracle, she’d known all along that this would be his choice. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t only read what you’d written here. I read your column in that newspaper. Several of them. And Delia . . .” He pressed his lips together a moment, as if he was thinking about what to say next. “I can’t ask you to stop writing. You have a talent for it.”
Warmth rushed through her at the compliment, but it felt hollow if it meant she was going to lose him. “I choose you. And Anna,” she said. “I’ll give up my work.”
Max grimaced. “I can’t ask you to do that.
” He grasped her hand between both of his and turned toward her.
“But I had an idea. The lady who placed my advertisement, Mrs. Gilbert, has a friend she works with in Canon City. That lady likely has contacts with the newspaper there. I thought that perhaps we’d put in an inquiry with them, to see if they’d like an experienced writer to send them articles.
You could write about topics of interest to other ladies, as you did in New York, or you could write about Crest Stone or anything they might request. What do you think? ”
Delia stared at him, her mind barely able to move past the fact that he didn’t want to put her on the next train home. She never imagined he’d try to find a way to allow her to keep writing.
So, instead of answering him, she yanked her hand from his grip, threw her arms around his neck, and stretched up to kiss him.
A surprised sound echoed from his throat, and he laughed against her mouth before wrapping his arms around her to pull her closer. Delia melted against him. He was something she never knew she wanted and now something she couldn’t live without.
When he pulled away to look down at her, she felt dizzy. All she wanted was to pull his mouth back to hers and to lose herself in him.
“I suppose that’s a yes?” he said, his voice hoarse.
“Yes,” she said, tugging at the back of his neck to draw him back to her.
Max laughed low in his throat before lifting a hand to the back of her head to claim her lips again.
Delia happily let her thoughts fly away. This was a life she’d never imagined. A man like Max, a daughter, a family of her own, and writing.
It was something she would be thankful for, for the rest of her days.