one hand through his hair, rose to step out of the buggy and stopped short. What in God’s name had happened to the scarlet zinnias Tess had planted a month ago? Every single bloom in the carefully tended border had been nipped off at the crown.
He dropped the reins, bounded out of the buggy and strode up the walkway onto the veranda.
“Mrs. Benbow!” He surged through the front door and headed for the dining room.
The housekeeper poked her head out of the kitchen. “Sir? Why, whatever be the matter?”
“The zinnias! What happened to Tess’s zinnias?”
Mrs. Benbow looked blank. “What’s wrong with them?”
Jonathan strove to calm his breathing. “They’re gone, that’s what. No blooms, just stalks.”
The housekeeper’s eyes widened, then narrowed in comprehension. “Best ask Miss Scharf.”
“Miss Scharf?” He barked the name. “What does Miss Scharf have to do with the zinnias?”
“Well,” the old woman began, “it’s not exactly her, it’s probably.”
Jonathan pivoted and headed for the stairs before the housekeeper could finish her sentence. He went up two at a time and with the knuckle of his fisted hand gave a short, sharp rap on Erika’s closed door.
“Miss Scharf?”
No answer. He knocked again, then edged the door open.
The room was empty. The lacy coverlet had been neatly drawn up on the bed, the single window propped wide open. A fresh, sweet-scented breeze ruffled the lace curtains. Jonathan paused, his hand resting on the doorknob.
Something felt different. The room was serene. Straightforward. No perfume atomizers or jewel boxes or other fripperies adorned the chest of drawers, no petticoats or discarded wrappers were tossed carelessly across the chair or the narrow bed. The faint smell of lemon oil made him lift his nose and sniff the air. For a moment he forgot the anger that had propelled him up the stairs.
Something about the room slammed a fist into his solar plexus. It was neat, well-ordered, purposeful, like its occupant—the single-minded young woman Tess had engaged as a helper.
Tess had never returned a garment to her capacious wardrobe or polished a single piece of furniture in her short married life.
That was it! The room seemed strange because it was not like Tess. In the next instant an ache laced his heart into a knot of anguish.
She’s gone, you fool! Let her rest in peace.
His anger returned threefold. Someone had decimated the zinnia border Tess had wanted. Each morning for a week she had supervised the digging and planting undertaken by their neighbor, Theodore Zabersky. Each morning for a week Tess had smiled at Jonathan instead of complaining about the long hours he spent seeing patients or all-night ordeals delivering babies on remote farms throughout the county.
It had been a sweet time for the two of them; he damn well wasn’t going to let this reminder of it be destroyed!
He banged the door shut. “Miss Scharf?” He shouted her name louder than he’d intended. “Answer me!”
“Here,” a muffled voice sounded. “In library.”
Library? He didn’t have a library. She must mean the upstairs sitting room. It was the only room in the house besides his study where Tess had allowed his books. What in God’s name was an uneducated immigrant girl doing in there? He strode down the hallway and threw open the door.
Erika looked up from the desk—his desk, he noted with annoyance—and gave him a shy smile. The curve of her mouth faltered as he loomed over her.
“I—I hope you not mind,” she said with a slight stammer. “I find quiet place for study.” She indicated the notebook spread before her, flanked by a dictionary and a worn-looking textbook. “I pronounce new American words and write many times to remember.”
Reading upside down, he made out a row of carefully penciled words. Tureen. Another line began with unerring and ended with congratulate.
“Miss Scharf, what happened to the zinnia border?”
Her blue eyes widened. “Zinnia? What is zinnia, please?” She lifted her pencil, poised it over the notebook.
Jonathan clenched his jaw and counted to fifteen before he trusted himself to speak. “Zinnias, my dear young woman, are the flowers that grow along the front path. Or did. Come here and take a look!” He tramped over to the window.
When she joined him, he pulled aside the curtain and directed her gaze to the walkway below.
“Flowers gone,” she observed. She looked at him expectantly.
“I’ll say they’re gone. The question, Miss Scharf, is where have they gone? And why? In this household, you do not pick flowers without permission.”
“But I do not pick!” she protested. “Maybe Mrs. Ben—”
She halted, clapped one hand over her mouth for a moment. “Oh! It was Jasmine! The goat.”
“Goat!” Jonathan stared at her. “I don’t have a—”
But Erika was already heading for the doorway. “Must have got loose, maybe eat rope!”
She flew ahead of him down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door. Mrs. Benbow, stirring soup at the stove, paused with her spoon in midair.
“Excuse us,” Jonathan panted as he strode past her.
Erika disappeared around the corner of the barn. By the time he caught up with her, she was yanking a small white goat with a frayed rope around its neck toward the plum tree. When she had secured the animal, she turned to face him.
“Goat bad for flowers, maybe. But is good for milk.”
“Where did that animal come from?” he demanded.
“From farmer. Mr. Peck. He give.”
“He gave it to you?” At her nod, he jammed his hands into his trouser pockets to keep from hitting something. “I don’t believe it. Cyrus Peck never gave away anything free in his life.”
“Not for free,” Erika protested. “For—how you say—ex…ex…for trade.”
Incredulous, Jonathan stared at her. “Trade for what?” he snapped.
‘Trade one goat for one doctor visit. We get milk for baby, he get leg fixed.”
“Leg fixed! There’s nothing wrong with Cyrus Peck’s leg that a little hard work wouldn’t remedy.” The anger he’d tamped down inside him leapt to life. Cold fury washed through his veins.
“Do you mean to tell me you took it upon yourself to bring a goat, a destructive, messy animal, onto my property? Let it eat my wife’s
