Meredith wondered if Mrs. Bancroft bothered listening to anything she said. She had asked her the same question twice now, and both times Meredith had given her the same answer.
“Mother, Miss Connolly has answered that question already.” There was a sharpness to Charlotte’s voice. “She grew up here and has returned. She plans to open a dress shop.”
“Oh, dear, yes you did. Yes, you did.” Her tittering laugh nipped at Meredith’s nerves. “How silly of me. So forgetful at times, aren’t I. Just like not knowing where we came from.” She giggled and shook her head. “Silly, silly, silly.”
“You mentioned you had grown up here,” Mr. Bancroft said, his deep baritone smothering his wife’s words.
“Yes. I left seven years ago.”
“And why was that?” Mr. Bancroft set her on edge, his cold eyes and brusque manner difficult to warm up to.
She chose her words carefully, finding the question intrusive and not something she cared to discuss with strangers. People had a habit of hearing the story’s end and making their own judgments based on that alone. “My circumstances changed.”
Mr. Bancroft took a sip of his coffee, staring at her from over the rim of his cup with a flinty gaze. He set the cup back in the saucer, his attention unwavering. The scrutiny made her uncomfortable. He made her uncomfortable.
“I heard your father was tried and found guilty of cattle rustling. Would those be the circumstances you refer to?”
Heat climbed up Meredith’s neck. She found his question rude and his tone mocking, but she refused to be cowed by it. Her father had been innocent. She would not feel shame over what he had gone through.
“My father was indeed sent to prison, Mr. Bancroft, but he went an innocent man.”
“Innocent men don’t usually find themselves tried and convicted.”
Mrs. Bancroft made a noise as if the tension that settled around their small group strangled her. Meredith set her fork down, afraid if she took a bite of her own dessert, she would choke on it.
“They do if the judge presiding over the case refuses to allow all the evidence to be heard.”
Mr. Bancroft took another sip of his coffee, again studying her with his unrelenting gaze. A chill tripped down her spine and the urge to run made her legs fidgety. She quickly changed her mind about counting him as an ally. He was a most unpleasant man. Wherever he was from, be it San Francisco or Colorado, apparently manners were not held in high regard there. He grunted at her, a dismissal of the conversation he had begun.
Meredith pushed her chair out and set the checkered serviette over her half-eaten dessert. “If you will excuse me,” she said, standing. Mr. Bancroft found enough of his manners to join her. “I have a meeting with Mr. Trent I do not wish to be late for. Thank you for the invitation to join you for lunch. It was very thoughtful of you to include me.” She stopped short of claiming to have enjoyed the experience. She wondered now if the intent had been as friendly as she originally believed. Mr. Bancroft seemed on a fishing expedition, though whether he’d caught what he wished for, she had no idea. Her father’s arrest and subsequent trial were common knowledge in town. He certainly hadn’t needed to invite her to lunch to determine the details. And why should he even care, stranger to the town as he was?
“Oh, my dear. Yes, of course. You’re quite welcome. We must do it again soon, of course, of course,” Mrs. Bancroft twittered.
Meredith didn’t answer. She had no desire to repeat today’s experience. Instead, she offered Mrs. Bancroft a tight smile and Charlotte a brief nod. Mr. Bancroft she gave her shoulder and felt his gaze boring into her spine as she left the restaurant.
She gulped in the cool afternoon air, thankful to be away from the company of the Bancrofts. She turned in the direction of Bertram’s office, her head high and her shoulders back. She would not allow Mr. Bancroft to think he had rattled her, though in truth, he had, and she hated that she’d allowed him that much power over her.
Hunter wished he could force himself to stop constantly glancing out the window of his office, watching for the telltale blond hair and whatever fancy outfit Meredith had decided to dress herself in that day to visit Yucton. He hadn’t paid much attention to ladies’ fashion in the past and figured he’d lost part of his mind if he was doing it now. Maybe that loss would explain why he was entertaining the idea of somehow working his way back into Meredith’s good graces.
For a moment yesterday, being back inside her childhood home where so many good memories were stored, the possibility surfaced with a vengeance. She hadn’t resisted when he’d pulled her into his arms. Her body had moved against his as if it belonged there and in that instant, he had believed in miracles. Reality had quickly reinserted itself, however, when she admitted she still didn’t trust him. He couldn’t blame her. From her perspective, his treatment of her had been despicable. Unforgiveable. She didn’t know he’d had no other choice. What he’d done, he’d done with the best of intentions, though in hindsight his execution had been flawed. But how did he tell her that, and would it make a difference now?