Free His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) by Dorothy Clark Page A

back the way it had been when she returned.
    “Mr. Warren, I’ve work to—” A wave of his arm directed her gaze across the room. A small, well-dressed boy of perhaps two, at the most three, years old, sat huddled on a wooden chair. There were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, and his lips were trembling, but he didn’t make a sound beyond soft, shuddering intakes of breath that clutched at her heart.
    “The boy can’t stay here. You have to take him.”
    “Take him!”
She jerked her gaze from the boy, gaped at Mr. Warren. “What are you talking about?” She swept her gaze around the room, lowered her voice. “Where are his mother and father?”
    The office clerk shrugged his thin shoulders, picked up an envelope and handed it to her.
Mr. Charles Thornberg.
She frowned and offered it back to him. “This isn’t for me. It—”
    “It goes with the boy.” The clerk shot a look in the tot’s direction then fixed his gaze on her. “Here’s the way of it, Miss Gordon. A man come in here with the boy and asked for Mr. Thornberg. I told him Mr. Thornberg wasn’t here, that he’d have to wait or come back another time, and he said that was impossible, that he had a train to catch. He said he’d been hired to deliver the boy and the envelope to Mr. Thornberg and that his job was done.” A scowl drew the clerk’s brows down. “I tried to stop him, but he walked out and kept going. So you have to take the boy.”
    “Me?”
    “Well, he can’t stay here! And you’re a woman and all...”
    She stiffened and gave him a cool look. “Being a woman doesn’t come with instructions for caring for children, Mr. Warren.” She looked over at the huddled-up little boy and her heart melted. He looked so afraid. “What is his name?”
    “The man only called him ‘the lad.’ Those are his things.”
    The lad.
As if he were no more important than the large leather grip sitting on the floor! She shoved the letter in her skirt pocket and walked over to kneel down in front of the chair. The boy pressed back and stared at her out of fear-filled eyes. She tamped down a surge of anger at whoever had treated the boy so callously and smiled. “I hear you’ve had a journey on a train. That must have been exciting!” There was no response, only those blue eyes staring at her. “But riding on the train can be tiring. And you can get very hungry, too.” The boy’s eyes flickered, and another surge of anger shook her. Had the man not
fed
the child? Concern pounced. How would she—
    “Mr. Thornberg’s housekeeper will feed him.”
    Mr. Thornberg had a housekeeper!
Relief eased her concern for the toddler’s welfare. She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Warren. “Do you know where Mr. Thornberg lives?”
    The outer door opened and closed. Footsteps approached the office. “One block left. The stone house on the corner. Now get the boy out of here!” The clerk hissed the words, resumed his place behind the counter and faced the customer at the doorway. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”
    She rose and leaned down to pick up the little boy. “This is a busy place. Let’s go to Mr. Thornberg’s house and get you something to eat.” The boy stiffened, but he did not burst into tears or fight her, for which she was grateful. She settled him in her arms, eyed the large leather valise and left it on the floor. The boy was enough for her to carry.
    * * *
    Clarice sat on the edge of the settee and removed the sleeping tot’s shoes. Her chest tightened at the sight of his small feet. He was so young. So
helpless
. And scared. Too scared to speak. Though he seemed an intelligent child, the best she’d been able to coax from him while he was eating his bread and jam was a nod or a shake of his head. Poor little fellow. What had he been through? She pulled in a breath at the thought of the way the man had simply left the boy at the newspaper office like some piece of
luggage
. She’d have told the man what she