Fanny by his side.
He liked having her close, liked knowing they were here, together, presenting a united front as representatives of the hotel.
It seemed the entire female population of Denver had gone all out for tonight’s event. Dressed in formal gowns made of colorful silks or satins, the women wore long, white gloves, and jeweled adornments in their hair that matched the stones glittering around their necks.
Fanny outshone every one of them, including the women in her own family.
He watched her siblings laughing, joking with one another and generally having a good time. Their interaction spoke of affection and easy familiarity. There was an unmistakable connection between them, one that went beyond words.
The Mitchells represented the very essence of family.
An icy numbness spread through Jonathon’s chest.
What did he know of family? Nothing. No, that wasn’t entirely true. His mother had tried to give him a sense of belonging. And, of course, Marc and Laney Dupree had created a home for him at Charity House.
For nearly five years, they’d shown him unconditional love. They’d stood by him, even when he’d made terrible mistakes. It was Marc who’d retrieved him from jail the night Jonathon had confronted Judge Greene at his home, Laney who’d hugged away his pain and sense of betrayal.
Jonathon made a promise to seek them out tonight and thank them for their love and acceptance.
He searched for them now, but was distracted when a shrill, high-pitched female giggle sounded from the center of the dance floor.
One of the two oldest Ferguson sisters was making a spectacle of herself. Jonathon wasn’t certain of her name. He always found it difficult to tell them apart. Unlike their younger sister, Philomena, the two oldest tended to behave in an inappropriate manner more often than not. Yet somehow they always managed to stay just on the right side of propriety.
Fanny released a chagrined sound from deep in her throat. “Penelope is in high spirits this evening. As is Phoebe, I’m afraid. I can’t decide which of them is worse.”
Jonathon divided his gaze between the two women in question. Both were shamelessly flirting with their dance partners. The sisters were so similar in appearance and behavior they were practically interchangeable.
“How do you tell them apart?” he wondered aloud.
“Years of practice.” Fanny sighed again, then pointedly lifted her attention away from the Ferguson girls and to her own family. “My brothers are especially handsome this evening, their wives beyond beautiful. And Callie, oh, how she shines tonight. She’s practically glowing.”
Jonathon didn’t disagree. “Your siblings seem happy.”
“Marriage suits them.” Fanny smiled. “Garrett once told me that when Mitchells fall in love they fall fast, hard and for keeps.”
Emotion flashed in her eyes as she spoke. For a moment, she seemed very far away and very, very sad. As Jonathon watched Fanny, while she watched her siblings, a pang of remorse shot through him.
Was he making the correct decision about marriage? With the right woman, perhaps he could be a good husband. Perhaps, unlike his father and half brother, he wouldn’t let down his wife. Perhaps the risk was worth the reward.
Another louder, shriller giggle rent the air.
“Poor Philomena,” Fanny said, shaking her head. “To have such sisters.”
Jonathon opened his mouth to agree when an older couple twirled past them. He studied the pair, the woman in particular. Fanny’s resemblance to her mother was uncanny. They had the same tilt to their beautiful eyes, the same classic features, the same regal bearing.
“Your mother is quite lovely.”
Fanny’s eyes grew misty. “I’m so relieved to see her breathing easily.”
He reached down to take Fanny’s hand, and laced their fingers together. The connection was light, and was meant to offer her comfort. Yet it was Jonathon who experienced a moment of peace, of rightness.
This woman meant much to him, too much. He never wanted to lose her.
However, lose her he would.
Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, but one day, when some wise man offered her marriage, for all the right reasons.
As much as it would pain Jonathon to watch her fall in love with another man, he wouldn’t stand in her way. Thankfully, the prospect of her leaving him—or rather, the hotel—was a problem for another day.
Tonight, Fanny was all his.
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
She returned the gesture, then angled her head to peer into his eyes. A small, secretive smile slid along her lips. His throat seized on a breath. Fanny Mitchell was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.
For the rest of the evening, he promised himself, he would avoid thinking of the future, forget memories of the past. All that mattered was this moment. This night.
This woman.
“Fanny, would you do me the honor of—”
Her sharp intake of air cut off the rest of his request.
He attempted to search her gaze for the cause of her distress, but she was no longer looking at him, rather at a spot just over his right shoulder.
A cold, deadening sensation filled his lungs.
Jonathon knew who stood behind him.
His father. He felt the man’s presence in his gut, in the kick of antagonism that hit Jonathon square in the heart.
His grip on Fanny’s hand tightened. He was probably squeezing a bit too hard. He couldn’t help himself. She was his only lifeline in a sea of uncertain emotion.
Let her go, he told himself. Let. Her. Go.
He couldn’t make his fingers cooperate, couldn’t seem to distance himself from her.
Let her go.
Fanny was the one who pulled her hand free. The absence of their physical connection was like a punch, the pain that sharp and unexpected.
Instead of stepping away, she moved closer and secured her fingers around his arm. Her eyes filled with understanding and something even more disturbing. Sympathy.
He didn’t want her sympathy. Anything but that.
He began to step away from her, to distance himself from what he saw in her eyes. She tightened her grip and smiled sweetly. “You know, Jonathon, it’s long past time we took a turn around the dance floor.”
Her voice came at him as if from a great distance, sounding tinny in his ears, waking a favorite memory he’d tucked deep in the back of his mind. Another evening. Another one of Mrs. Singletary’s charity
