Fortune is a Woman by Elizabeth Adler Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Adler
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ranch, the fresh air will do you good. Your nurse can go with you and I'll send Dr. Benson out once a week to check on you. I'll tell Maitland to arrange the move."
"I'd like to take Harry with me," she said, meeting his eyes defiantly. "The fresh air at the ranch will be good for him, too, and besides, it may not be for long—"
"Take my boy?" He was astounded that she had even suggested such a thing. "Of course you cannot. The girl can keep you company. Harry stays here with me."
"Harmon, please, I'm begging you." She took his hand in her cold ones. "Please, oh, please let me have my son, just for a little while."
"I'll bring him to visit you," he promised hurriedly. "Later, when you're settled. Yes, that's right, later." He pulled the heavy gold half-hunter quickly from the fob-pocket of his vest and checked the time. "I have an appointment. I won't be home till late, so don't expect me. I'll tell Maitland to instruct the maids to pack your things."
***
Francie had the best time at the ranch. Away from the overstuffed mansion her mother seemed instantly better; there was a bloom of bright color on her cheeks, her blue eyes sparkled, and her black hair regained its luster.
Francie had promised she would look after her. She was six years old now, tall for her age and too thin because at home she never got enough to eat. The Harrison's chef had cooked elaborate meals for her father and his guests and he had prepared delicate dishes to tempt her mother's appetite; the nurserymaids fixed her three-year-old brother's food and the servants had their own cook who prepared meals for the staff dining room. But Francie didn't fit into any of those categories. She was an in-between, a nowhere child in a busy household that ran on oiled wheels without her. The chef shooed her out of his kitchen, thinking she was fed in the nursery, and the nursery banned her from their meals because her father said she was supposed to eat downstairs. So often, after a miserly supper of bread and milk, she was so hungry she would sneak into the kitchen and just steal whatever she could.
It was different at the ranch. The cook made a fuss over her and fixed her favorite—chicken and ice cream, the nurse bathed her and washed her hair and let it dry in the sun so that it shone like blond satin, and she was free to take off her tight boots and run barefoot in the grass, and shout and holler just as loudly as she liked instead of having to behave like a quiet little mouse. Because she just wasn't cut out to be a mouse, not even if she tried forever and ever.
She pushed her mother around the grassy paths in her cumbersome wheelchair, chatting nonstop about the rabbits dashing away from under their feet and the flock of starlings in the hedgerow and the tall leafy poplars rustling in the breeze with a sound like a rushing mountain brook. And in the evening after supper she would take the heavy silver brush from the dresser and stand behind her mother's chair. She would unpin her long black hair and brush it gently with long, even strokes until it shone like a raven's wing and the furrow of pain between her mother's brows disappeared.
The days were long and the sun hot and life was carefree and easy, but the best thing of all was when Dr. Benson arrived one morning with the Great Dane puppy.
"It's one of Prince's pups," he told Dolores. "His mate had a litter of six. This was the only female and Mr. Harrison said she's damaged—something about a crooked ear. He thought she should live out here on the ranch, keep you company."
He placed the big puppy on the wooden floor of the porch and Francie exclaimed excitedly. "Oh, she's not crooked at all. She's just beautiful." Then she stepped shyly back, putting her hands behind her back.
"Don't you want to pick her up?" Dr. Benson asked, puzzled.
She stared down at the floor, trailing her bare toe along the line where two wooden planks met. "She's Mama's dog," she explained quietly. "Papa said it was
"I'd like to take Harry with me," she said, meeting his eyes defiantly. "The fresh air at the ranch will be good for him, too, and besides, it may not be for long—"
"Take my boy?" He was astounded that she had even suggested such a thing. "Of course you cannot. The girl can keep you company. Harry stays here with me."
"Harmon, please, I'm begging you." She took his hand in her cold ones. "Please, oh, please let me have my son, just for a little while."
"I'll bring him to visit you," he promised hurriedly. "Later, when you're settled. Yes, that's right, later." He pulled the heavy gold half-hunter quickly from the fob-pocket of his vest and checked the time. "I have an appointment. I won't be home till late, so don't expect me. I'll tell Maitland to instruct the maids to pack your things."
***
Francie had the best time at the ranch. Away from the overstuffed mansion her mother seemed instantly better; there was a bloom of bright color on her cheeks, her blue eyes sparkled, and her black hair regained its luster.
Francie had promised she would look after her. She was six years old now, tall for her age and too thin because at home she never got enough to eat. The Harrison's chef had cooked elaborate meals for her father and his guests and he had prepared delicate dishes to tempt her mother's appetite; the nurserymaids fixed her three-year-old brother's food and the servants had their own cook who prepared meals for the staff dining room. But Francie didn't fit into any of those categories. She was an in-between, a nowhere child in a busy household that ran on oiled wheels without her. The chef shooed her out of his kitchen, thinking she was fed in the nursery, and the nursery banned her from their meals because her father said she was supposed to eat downstairs. So often, after a miserly supper of bread and milk, she was so hungry she would sneak into the kitchen and just steal whatever she could.
It was different at the ranch. The cook made a fuss over her and fixed her favorite—chicken and ice cream, the nurse bathed her and washed her hair and let it dry in the sun so that it shone like blond satin, and she was free to take off her tight boots and run barefoot in the grass, and shout and holler just as loudly as she liked instead of having to behave like a quiet little mouse. Because she just wasn't cut out to be a mouse, not even if she tried forever and ever.
She pushed her mother around the grassy paths in her cumbersome wheelchair, chatting nonstop about the rabbits dashing away from under their feet and the flock of starlings in the hedgerow and the tall leafy poplars rustling in the breeze with a sound like a rushing mountain brook. And in the evening after supper she would take the heavy silver brush from the dresser and stand behind her mother's chair. She would unpin her long black hair and brush it gently with long, even strokes until it shone like a raven's wing and the furrow of pain between her mother's brows disappeared.
The days were long and the sun hot and life was carefree and easy, but the best thing of all was when Dr. Benson arrived one morning with the Great Dane puppy.
"It's one of Prince's pups," he told Dolores. "His mate had a litter of six. This was the only female and Mr. Harrison said she's damaged—something about a crooked ear. He thought she should live out here on the ranch, keep you company."
He placed the big puppy on the wooden floor of the porch and Francie exclaimed excitedly. "Oh, she's not crooked at all. She's just beautiful." Then she stepped shyly back, putting her hands behind her back.
"Don't you want to pick her up?" Dr. Benson asked, puzzled.
She stared down at the floor, trailing her bare toe along the line where two wooden planks met. "She's Mama's dog," she explained quietly. "Papa said it was