His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) by Dorothy Clark

sitting propped up in bed to the writing box resting on the quilt covering her legs. Guilt soured his empty stomach. “And that sounds completely selfish and heartless. I—” Mrs. Gordon’s lifted hand halted his words.
    “Not at all, Mr. Thornberg. A small child is helpless and needs constant attention. I may be crippled, but I’m not helpless.”
    The curve of the older woman’s lips brought an image of her daughter’s smile flashing into his head. Not that Clarice Gordon’s warm, sweet smile had been in evidence tonight.
    “Clarice bought me a bell so I can summon help should the need arise. And Mrs. Duncan will take good care of me.” Mrs. Gordon lowered her hand back down to cover the piece of paper she’d been writing on when he entered the room.
    His sharp gaze caught the first line before she hid it.
How to Keep a Cookstove Shiny and Clean.
That would make a good filler. He shrugged off the errant thought. “As I said, your daughter has agreed, though she is not at all happy with the arrangement.”
    A shadow darkened Mrs. Gordon’s blue eyes. “Clarice worries about me overmuch.”
    The guilt cut deeper. His fingers tightened on his hat brim. How could Clarice Gordon feel otherwise? In spite of her protestations to the opposite, Mrs. Gordon
was
helpless. His thoughts swirled, but he could find no other solution to his problem. He frowned, laid out the rest of what he’d come to say. “I’m afraid, if your daughter agrees, the situation may extend for a few days—until my housekeeper returns or I can think of another way to care for Jonathan.”
    “I understand.” Mrs. Gordon tipped her head and peered up at him, a look in her eyes he couldn’t decipher. “Clarice’s concern for me will override her head and her heart, Mr. Thornberg. You tell her I said the child comes first, and that I want her to care for him.”
    He dipped his head. “Thank you. You are a very kind and gracious woman, Mrs. Gordon.”
    “I’m simply a mother, Mr. Thornberg.”
    The door behind him opened and a short plump woman bustled into the room carrying a tray laden with food. “Here’s your supper, Helen. Nice and hot.”
    The interruption stopped him from having to answer her enigmatic reply. He stepped aside, made a polite bow. “I must hurry to the newspaper, Mrs. Gordon. Thank you again for your understanding. And thank you for your help, Mrs. Duncan.” He stepped out of the bedroom, reached to pull the door closed.
    “What a nice young man Clarice works for, Helen. And very handsome, too.”
    He paused, scowled at the innuendo in Mrs. Duncan’s words and tone. Had he done harm to Clarice Gordon’s reputation by coming here?
    “Mr. Thornberg is
very
nice, Dora. And most considerate. Not many
employers
would concern themselves with the crippled mother of an employee that must
work
beyond quitting time. Is that shepherd’s pie I smell?”
    A smile touched his lips. There was nothing to worry about. Mrs. Gordon had set the situation straight. And her tone said clearly she would not tolerate any gossip about her daughter and her daughter’s employer.
    He eased the door closed, hurried down the hall to the stairs, trotted down and rushed out the front door. The smell of wood smoke drifting on the evening breeze erased thought of everything but the fire and the story he had to write. He shoved through the gate at the end of the walkway and broke into a run.
    * * *
    Was that crying?
    Clarice held her breath and listened. The boy
was
crying. Sobbing, in an unnatural, quiet way she could barely hear. She turned from the window and hurried to the bed, stood in the dim light of the oil lamp and hoped the toddler would remember her and not be afraid. The lamplight glittered on the tears pooled in the boy’s eyes and running down his temples to dampen his hair. His lips were pressed tight and his little chin quivered with his effort to be quiet. Had he been told not to cry?
    Her eyes stung. She blinked hard and