There's No Place Like Rhodes (Book 2)

Promises Made

While Arthur tended to a meal in bed, Charlotte tidied up the room of their clothing from last night. She started to fold Arthur's dinner jacket when she remembered him slipping in the photos Mr. Mason had gifted. He'd put them away before she'd gotten a chance to peek at them.

She opened the jacket and lifted them out of his inside pocket, setting the coat aside. They were brilliantly captured, as Arthur had said. Mr. Mason had certainly been close enough to the animals to encapsulate their true natures in good faith.

The wild horses dashed with majestic grace across the prairie, their run framed by mountains. A deadly gleam shone in the devilish eyes of an alligator as its glance slanted towards the cameraman. One could nearly hear the snarls and snapping of the wolves headed for their next meal. Or perhaps, her imagination was too vivid after the multiple run-ins she'd had at the cabin.

Either way, it had her wondering how exactly Mr. Mason had survived such encounters. Had Arthur been present to assist Mr. Mason for each one, as he'd implied?

Unexpectedly, as if to answer her unspoken question, the last picture was Arthur. She paused, shuffling the other photos behind this one. He was garbed in his old jacket she'd repaired multiple times, a hat she remembered him wearing in their first meetings and a rugged beard overtook his chin and jaw. Albert Mason had caught him with an expression of pure curiosity, tilting his head with interest, and clearly not expecting to be photographed in the middle of the wild. Still, the forest trees as a backdrop suited him well.

On the back of the photo, there was handwritten: Arthur Morgan, June 1899.

A month or so before she'd met him, nearly a year ago. So much had changed since then, for the both of them.

"What are you lookin' at over there?" Arthur asked from behind her.

Charlotte turned with a smile and lifted the photos for him to see. "I'm appreciating the talent of Mr. Mason."

Arthur drifted over, buttoning his shirt up as he did so. "They turned out alright, didn't they?"

Charlotte shuffled the stack in order of how she found it and set it on the dresser. She remarked, "I truly admire you the freedom you've had, to see so much of this beautiful country."

"Sure," he said, a note of regret in his voice, "but most of that time didn't come without a price."

Charlotte lessened the distance between them, studying him carefully. She brushed the backs of her fingers along his jaw and commented, "You're looking better this morning."

"I'm fine," he told her gruffly.

She raised an eyebrow at his harsh tone. "As I saw it, that faint came out of nowhere so you can't dismiss my fretting so easily this time."

"Did I..." He caught her hand and cleared his throat. "...make a real spectacle of myself?"

"Mmm, some," she admitted. "You certainly know how to draw attention."

"Always been my downfall really."

She lifted a shoulder. "Mama managed the guests well enough."

"Surprised your daddy didn't leave me for dead on the floor."

"Father takes his job very seriously," she explained. "First and foremost, he is a doctor, no matter his personal feelings on the individual in need."

"I s'pose he's gotta keep that reputation of his from suffering. It'd look pretty damning for a guest to die of TB in the middle of his fancy ballroom."

His answer had her frowning. "Arthur, it wasn't your TB that had you in a faint."

"It weren't?"

"No." She straightened and regarded him with all seriousness. "Tell me honestly, what's the last meal you ate?"