Rebel with a Heart

A splinter jutting from the boardwalk pierced Trace Ballentine’s trousers. He cursed his luck. He growled at fate. How could it be possible that he was facing one of the most pivotal moments of his life with a piece of wood stabbing his rump?

Admittedly, he hadn’t slipped by accident, but he hadn’t intended to take a woman down with him, either. Still, here the lady was, sprawled across his lap in front of the ticket counter at the train depot, with the contents of her valise scattered near and far. Undergarments and shoes, ribbons and hatpins littered the boardwalk, mostly crushed under the stack of books he had been carrying.

He snatched his shattered spectacles from under his knee and plopped them on his nose.

Even through a spiderweb of broken glass he knew this woman. Even after sixteen years of foggy memory and change he recognized his one true love.

“Why, you big...” She seemed to be searching for the nastiest word in her vocabulary.

“Oaf?” he supplied.

“Dolt.”

The accusation didn’t sting; she’d called him worse dozens of times in playfulness. Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t wounded to his soul.

Lilleth Grace Preston stared straight into his eyes without knowing who he was.

In every fantasy he’d ever had of their miraculous reunion they had showered tears and kisses all over each other.

He had vowed to love her forever, and damned if he hadn’t. He’d cherished her memory since he was fourteen years old, yet not a twitch of her eyebrow or a blink of her lashes revealed that she recalled him.

To be fair, how could he have expected her to? The last time they had been together he had been gangly, whereas now he was tall and filled out. Over the years his hair had darkened from blond to brown. These days he wore a beard, trimmed short and neat. Back then he had barely sprouted peach fuzz.

He was nothing like the boy he had been, while she looked very much the same. With her red curls, snapping blue eyes and mouth that went from a grimace to a smile in a flash, he’d have known her even if he hadn’t been cursed with a mind that remembered nearly everything.

“Kindly remove your person from under me, Mr....?” She arched one brow.

It’s me. It’s Trace.

“Clark,” he declared. He wrinkled his brow, then added a hiccup.

“Mr. Clark, your—”

“Clarkly, that is. Mr. Clark Clarkly, at your service, miss.”

“Mr. Clark Clarkly, kindly remove your knee from my bustle.”

“Your...? Oh, my word, I beg your pardon.” He straightened his leg and reached for her hand, desperate for just one touch, even if that touch was through a leather glove.

She allowed him to help her to her feet. He then made a show of being a buffoon by attempting to straighten her skirt.

Curse it, he was a buffoon, and he didn’t even have to act a part. Of all the disguises he could have chosen for this assignment, why did it have to be Clark Clarkly?

Had he ever dreamed that he might run into Lilleth Preston he’d have made himself a lawman or a cowboy. Anyone but good old Clarkly, the bungling, bookish librarian.

But Trace was good and stuck now. Most of the citizens of Riverwalk had made the acquaintance of Clarkly—run into him, quite literally. He couldn’t change identities midassignment. Too much was at stake. The innocent inmates at the Hanispree Mental Hospital depended on Clarkly.

He ought to thank his lucky stars that Lilleth hadn’t recognized him. It broke his heart, but it was for the best.

Hot damn, he was stuck in a muddle of his own making with no way out. There was nothing for it but to dive in headfirst.

Lilleth slapped his hand where it attempted to straighten that fascinating, if tweaked, little bustle behind her skirt.

“Mr. Clarkly! Have you no shame?”

Good girl, Lils, he thought, you still hold your own against anyone.

“Why...yes. Usually, that is. Miss, you pack quite a wallop.” He shook his slapped hand, then stooped to gather her belongings from under his books.

She would think he was an idiot for plucking up her lacy, pink-ribboned corset, but that was as close to intimacy as he was likely ever to get with her.

Lilleth crouched beside him, her hand already in motion to deliver another swat. He shoved the garment at her, but not before he noticed that it smelled like roses.

“Don’t you lay a finger on those bloomers.” Lilleth leveled a glare at him, snatched up her belongings and stuffed them into her valise. She snapped it closed, then stood up.

November wind, blowing in the promise of the first snow, swirled the hem of Lilleth’s skirt. Her toe tapped the boardwalk with the one-two-three-pause, one-two-three-pause rhythm that he remembered. She was struggling with her temper.

He gathered up his books and, in true Clark style, layered them in alphabetical order. He’d intended her to notice that, and she had. She rolled her eyes and sighed.

“It has been a pleasure, truly.” He offered his hand. “I’m sorry about the little knock-you-down. My deepest apologies, and welcome to Riverwalk.”

Most women wouldn’t accept his apology, given that he’d been clumsy upon stupid upon rude, but he left his hand extended just in case.

Lilleth stared at his face for a long time, studying, weighing, judging.

“I’m ever so sorry, Miss...?”

“Well, accidents do happen, after all.” She shook his hand. The smile that had haunted his dreams pardoned him. “I’m Lilly Gordon.”

Gordon? Married? No! Sixteen years ago she had taken his hand, pressed it to her twelve-year-old heart and vowed to marry him and only him.

“Hey, Ma, Mary’s getting hungry.”

A boy, no more than ten years old, walked up to Lilly Gordon carrying a baby.

“Cold, too,” the boy added, frowning and shooting Clark an assessing look.

The baby didn’t appear to be hungry or cold. In fact, it was bundled against the chill so that only a pair of blue eyes—Lils’s eyes—and a pert little nose peeked out.

Trace admired the boy for stepping up. Some big galoot had just knocked his mother down.

“Make Mr. Clarkly’s acquaintance, Jess.” Lilleth took the baby from the boy’s arms. “Then we’ll be on our way. There’s the hotel, just up ahead.”

“A pleasure to meet you, young man,” he said. And it was, too, now that the shock was wearing off. He extended his hand.

The boy cocked his head, studied his face as his mother had done, and then, like her, made up his mind in an instant. He shook Clark’s hand.

“Well, good day, then, Mr. Clarkly,” Lilleth said.