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

thought of his treating a child in such a heartless manner! No wonder the boy was afraid! How long had he been in that thoughtless man’s care?
    She covered the toddler with a throw from a nearby chair, tucked the soft woven wool close around his stocking-clad feet and rose. The letter in her pocket crackled as she straightened. She withdrew it and stared down at her employer’s name written in ornate flowing letters across the front. It was a woman’s handwriting. The child’s mother? The thoughts held at bay while she’d cared for the toddler crowded into her head.
    Was the boy Charles Thornberg’s son? He had the look of him with his curly dark hair and blue eyes. And what other possible reason could there be for a woman to send the boy to him accompanied by a letter and a valise full of his things? The woman obviously expected—
    No. She jerked her thoughts from the speculation. Charles Thornberg’s private life was none of her business. And neither was the boy. She would be done with him as soon as Mr. Thornberg came home. Hopefully that would be soon.
    Silence pressed in on her, broken only by the steady ticktock of the longcase clock in the corner. She frowned and walked to the fireplace, leaned the letter against a pewter candlestick on the mantel then looked around the large, well-furnished room, uneasy at being alone in the house. Mr. Warren had been wrong. There was no housekeeper. The house was empty when she arrived. She’d felt like a snoop hunting out the kitchen then poking through the cupboards to find something for the boy to eat.
    The clock gonged. She jumped, glanced over at the sleeping toddler. He hadn’t stirred. The poor little tot was exhausted. What was she to do? Her mother would be expecting her home shortly after the clock struck the hour. If Mr. Thornberg hadn’t come home by then, she would have to wake the boy, take him home with her and then bring him back after she had cared for her mother.
    The thought gave her pause. Who would care for the boy? What would happen to him? Would Mr. Thornberg keep him? She eyed the envelope, itching to open it and find out the answers, then sighed and turned away from the private missive. The boy was Mr. Thornberg’s concern, not hers.
    Where was he? The fire must be a bad one. She wrapped her arms about herself and listened to the clock ticking away the minutes. Mr. Warren would be closing the office and going home on the hour. There would be no one to tell—
He was here!
    Footsteps pounded across the porch. The door opened, closed. Quick footsteps sounded in the hall, changed tempo. He was going upstairs. She ran for the doorway. “We’re in the sitting room, Mr. Thornberg!”
    He came to a dead halt, twisted about and stared down at her. “Miss Gordon! What are you doing—
We’re?
”
    “Yes. The boy and I. I didn’t want to take the liberty of going upstairs.”
    “Boy?” A frown creased his forehead. He descended the stairs into the lamp-lit hallway and scowled down at her. “What boy?”
    “The one who was left—” She stopped, stared at the black-rimmed holes that peppered his shirt then lifted her gaze. His face was covered with black smudges and there was a large blister on the side of his neck above his opened collar. “You’ve been fighting the fire.”
    “Yes. The dock went ablaze and everyone pitched in to fight the fire, lest it spread to the nearby buildings. What boy?”
    She drew her gaze from the angry blister and gathered her thoughts. “You haven’t been to the newspaper, then?”
    “No. I came directly home to wash and change into a clean shirt.” His scowl deepened. “What
boy
?”
    “The one who was delivered to you at the newspaper office.”
    “
Delivered
to me. A
boy
?”
    He looked astounded—which for some reason made her feel better about the whole strange situation. She nodded and plunged into an explanation. “Yes. A man came to the office with the boy and a large valise. He told Mr. Warren