Page 21

"The doctor's here, Mr. Griffin." Mrs. Potter's breathless announcement from the library doorway saved Everett from having to give an answer.

He followed his housekeeper from the room, leaving Callista behind with nothing more substantial than a murmured apology.

Her image, however, clung to his mind with the same tenacity as buffalo burs clung to Spartacus's fur.

Especially those expressive eyes of hers.

Their dark fathoms had peered into him as if she saw his soul, and for some inexplicable reason, she acted as if she wanted to see more.

And, heaven help him, he wanted to show her.

To experience a level of human connection that had been closed to him for years.

Lightfoot had seen his art, but they'd never discussed it.

Probably because the one time Lightfoot had asked about a painting, Everett had snapped at him, his emotions too raw back then to put into words.

Yet, in the few minutes Callista had been in his studio, she'd discerned his struggle.

The pain, the loss, and the search for hope.

He'd seen it in her expression. Heard it in her voice.

What amazed him even more, though, was the fact that she didn't ask him about her portrait.

She could have accused him of using her image without permission and been perfectly justified in doing so.

She could have coyly preened about being his muse.

She could have simply assuaged her curiosity by asking about it.

Heaven knew, if he'd found a likeness of himself in someone's studio, he would have noticed little else.

But not Callista. She'd noticed the rose.

The Last Petal Falls . He'd completed the painting two years ago and should have sent it to the gallery by now.

It was one of his better pieces and would likely fetch a good price.

Yet he hadn't been able to part with it.

Each of his paintings carried a piece of his soul, but that one .

. . that one still had a grip on him. Just as that final petal hung suspended for all time in the painting, unable to fall, he couldn't escape the feeling that something held him back as well.

A pain he wasn't quite ready to lay down.

A pain that pricked anew when the doctor met him in the entry hall and drew up short at the sight of Everett's face.

The man recovered more quickly than most, probably due to his exposure to all manner of grotesque injuries, but the reaction still stung.

More concerned about Lightfoot's healing than his own at the moment, though, Everett pretended he hadn't noticed the doctor's startlement and offered his hand.

"Thank you for coming."

The man shook his hand with a reassuring firmness and peered at him through a pair of round spectacles. "Glad to help. Where's my patient?"

Mrs. Potter stepped forward. "If you'll follow me, sir? Mr. Lightfoot is in the kitchen."

Everett brought up the rear, happy to let his housekeeper take the lead.

He remained in the background as the doctor conducted his examination, only stepping in when the physician needed assistance moving Lightfoot from the chair to the table.

Mrs. Potter created a pillow from some folded towels, and Everett did his best to keep Lightfoot talking while his friend faced the indignity of being sprawled upon a table like a half-dressed Christmas goose.

After the doctor poked and prodded, his examination turning Lightfoot quite pale, he reached for a bottle of ether and poured a liberal amount into a handkerchief.

"We're going to put you to sleep now, so I can dig out that bullet and sew you up. All right?"

Lightfoot clenched his jaw and offered a nod, but a second later, he grabbed Everett's arm with his good hand, his eyes wide with something Everett thought never to see—fear.

"You'll stay with me?"

Everett nodded, his throat clogging as memories surged of all the times Lightfoot had stayed with him. By his bedside in his darkest hours, a beacon of hope that things would get better.

"Every moment, my friend."

Lightfoot nodded and laid his head back to accept the ether.

Thankfully, the doctor worked quickly and with skilled precision.

Within an hour, he had removed the bullet, cleaned and stitched the wound, and bandaged Lightfoot's shoulder.

Everett and Timens worked together to carefully carry the valet to his room, so he could rest in a bed instead of the unforgiving kitchen table.

The doctor followed and gave some final instructions.

"He's not to exert himself for at least three weeks.

" He handed Everett several packets of medicinal powders.

"Add these to his tea or water to help with the pain.

When he feels strong enough to be out of bed, he will need to wear a sling for additional protection and support.

It's good for him to exercise the fingers and hand of his injured arm, but the shoulder itself should be kept as immobile as possible during the early stages of healing.

In the meantime, watch him for signs of infection, and fetch me right away if the wound putrefies. "

"Thank you, doctor." Everett shook the man's hand again.

"We'll keep a close eye on him." He glanced at the bed where Lightfoot dozed.

He'd awakened from the ether when the men had carried him to his room, but the medicine had left him groggy.

Everett figured some rest would do him good.

He collected the chair from the desk in Lightfoot's room and moved it to the side of the bed.

Everett had made a promise, and he intended to stay by his valet's side until he awakened fully.

Timens, having regained his usual aplomb after seeing that Lightfoot would indeed recover, gestured for the doctor to precede him into the hall. "I'll see you out, sir."

The doctor raised a brow. "I'll make you a deal, Mr. Timens. I'll see myself to my horse if you see to that giant hound of yours. Had your housekeeper not been watching for my arrival and called the hound to heel, I doubt I would have made it to the front door."

"If Timens is with you, Spartacus will leave you alone," Everett said.

"In that case, I'll gladly accept your escort, Mr. Timens."

The butler nodded, and the two men exited the bedchamber. Timens closed the door behind them.

Everett settled into the wooden desk chair then opened the top drawer of the bedside table and pulled out the Bible he knew he'd find there.

He opened the cover, intending to flip through the pages to find one of Lightfoot's favorite passages, but an unfamiliar, feminine handwriting on the presentation page captured his attention.

To Ray Lightfoot, on the occasion of our marriage, February 4, 1871.

You wooed not only my heart, but my soul as you demonstrated God's unconditional, steadfast love. Because of you, I know what it is to be loved by an eternal God. And because of God, I know what it is to be loved by you. Thank you for being my light in the darkness, Ray. I am forever yours.

Babette.

Lightfoot had been married? Everett had never heard the man speak of a wife. What had happened to her? Stomach twisting, he turned to the page where family deaths were recorded. Expecting to see one name, Everett's heart bled when he found two.

Barbara Renee Lightfoot, August 12, 1873, taken in childbirth, age 21.

Lucas Aaron Lightfoot, August 12, 1873, stillborn.

Everett's eyes misted and his chest felt as if it had been placed inside Callista's book press. The weight of the unexpected sorrow stole his breath.

"I see you've unearthed my secrets."

Everett lifted his face to find Lightfoot's heavy-lidded gaze on the Bible in his lap.

"I didn't mean to pry. I thought to read . . ." What he'd thought to do didn't really matter now, did it? Everett closed the Bible, but he couldn't close his heart to what he'd learned. "I'm sorry, Ray. So very sorry."

The words felt completely inadequate, but he had nothing better to offer.

"It was a long time ago. Before I came to work for your family." His voice carried the haze of the lingering effects of the ether, but his face didn't register sorrow. Instead, he actually smiled. It was the last thing Everett expected to see from a man contemplating his dead wife.

"Ah, Griff. You would have liked Babette.

She was full of sass, but so quick to laugh.

" Lightfoot's gaze moved to the ceiling as if watching memories of his beloved traipse by.

"I still remember the day I came to work as a footman at the estate where she served as a maid.

She was so vivacious and beautiful. I was instantly smitten.

" A chuckle vibrated through his chest. "And I did a terrible job of hiding that fact.

One time she caught me staring at her when I was supposed to be moving furniture for her to clean beneath.

She wiggled her feather duster over my face, and set me to sneezing like an ill-mannered youth.

'If you have something to say to me, Mr. Lightfoot,' she said, 'use your mouth, not your eyes.

' So I did. Told her how I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and that I'd love to take her to dinner on our half-day off.

I'll never forget her response. 'Ask me again when you know me well enough to admire something more than what you can see on the surface.

' Ah. That woman led me on a merry chase.

And even knowing what I do now about how little time we would have together, I'd not change a thing. "

Lightfoot twisted his neck to face Everett again.

"Love with the right woman is worth the cost, Griff.

Worth sacrificing a man's pride, his autonomy, and even his security.

Those things are a pittance compared to the riches that come from sharing your heart with a woman who loves you as fiercely as you love her. "

"Why are you telling me this?" Everett shifted in his chair, trying to banish the vision of Callista that had materialized in his mind at the mention of women and love.

Lightfoot smiled. "Because you need to hear it." His expression grew serious. "I would have passed on the same wisdom to my son, had he lived . . . and grown to be as hardheaded as you."

Everett grinned at the teasing, his chest tightening to think that Lightfoot thought of him, at some level, like a son. Even if barely a dozen years separated them in age.

"God presented you with a gift when he sent Miss Rosenfeld to bind your books. All of us can see it. Mrs. Potter, Timens. Shoot, even that ridiculous dog of yours recognizes how special she is. I think you see it too. You're just too afraid of being hurt to do anything about it."

Lightfoot slid his arm from beneath the covers and opened his palm. Sensing what he wanted, Everett placed the man's Bible in his hand. His chest tightened when Lightfoot's fingers curled over the spine and he closed his eyes as if he could still feel his wife's touch in the leather.

Gradually, he opened his eyes again and pinned Everett with a look that carried a heartrending mix of hope and grief. "Don't waste time on fear, Griff. Time's the one thing you can never get back."

Lightfoot closed his eyes and rolled his head to a more comfortable position on the pillow. He pulled the Bible onto his chest and clutched it near his heart as he drifted back to sleep.

Everett blew out a quiet breath as he leaned backward in his chair.

His head ached from all the new information that had exploded in his mind over the last several minutes.

Ray . . . married. And a father. In all the time he'd known him, he'd never guessed.

Of course, he'd never asked, either. Lightfoot had been hired to serve a self-absorbed youth who only cared about his valet's knowledge of fashion so he could impress his friends and whichever ladies happened to be about.

Why the man had volunteered to stay with him after his injury, Everett couldn't fathom.

Or maybe he could. The man lived his faith.

And through that living, influenced the lives around him.

His wife's inscription testified to that truth, as did Everett's experience.

Ray cared about people at the soul level.

Everett ran his fingers through his hair, grabbing a handful at the crown of his head and tugging against his scalp until it hurt.

He would have been lost without Lightfoot.

Without Mrs. Potter and Timens. He'd done nothing to deserve their loyalty, their kindness, yet they'd given it freely.

Leaving their homes to move to the wilds of Texas.

Putting up with his foul moods and his inhospitable nature.

If they weren't a living, breathing demonstration of God's grace, he didn't know what was. And yet God had brought him another gift. At least according to Lightfoot. One he desperately wanted to accept despite his complete unworthiness.

A tremor ran through Everett's chest. He'd never wooed a woman without his looks to rely upon. He wasn't even sure how to go about it.

Admire something more than what you can see on the surface.

Babette's words rose to the surface of his mind.

Spoken by a beautiful woman who wanted to be appreciated for more than her outward appearance.

Hadn't he secretly longed for the same, even before his injury?

To be appreciated for his art or his literary knowledge or just for himself alone?

He'd mourned the loss of his face so deeply because, at some level, he'd believed it was the only thing that had given him value.

Thankfully, with Lightfoot's help, he'd started to find his worth in being a child of God.

Chosen and beloved by a Father who looks not at the outward appearance but at the heart.

Perhaps it was time to stop hiding his heart behind the thorny hedge of his pain, and expose it to view. Callista had already provided the invitation when she asked him to show her his paintings. All he had to do was crack open his chest, and let her in.