by Aileen Fish
His temper flared. Always a detriment. “I am a man grown, daughter. A man with a daughter who does not seem to have any misgivings against taking what is not rightfully hers.” His roar too great in the small room.
Adrenalin pumped through his veins, rivaling his hike across the Potomac just before the Confederate’s bullet struck him in the leg and he’d fallen, face first, in the sludge back in ’61. He’d be a goner for sure if he hadn’t thought to play dead at the time. Unlike Daniel. The name itself created a dark sheen of murk that threatened to engulf him. He forced the black away.
Trudy never flinched, just a tiny stubborn version of himself glaring back. Or Daniel. Secrets better buried with his childhood friend that still managed to raise the hair on his neck.
“There will be no more stealing. Is that understood?” He ground out.
Her answer was a grunted cry and a dash outside.
The door banged shut behind her. John stared about the sparsely furnished storefront debating whether or not to chase down his rebellious daughter, or the easier catch, Miss Ruthers. But with all the hours spent working on his latest information, his bad leg was certain to give out. Was there any worse failure of a father to his child? Doubtful.
After a long moment, he let out a deep-held sigh. Fairly certain Trudy would steer clear of Miss Ruthers, for the rest of this day at least, he gathered his balance and made his way back to his drafting table. Back to his maps.
His problems would still be there on the morrow.
Chapter 2
Elizabeth crashed through the entry way of the small Victorian cottage she shared with her father, fuming. How could she allow John Williams to get to her so thoroughly, so quickly?
The man’s eyes raked over her as if she were the town harlot. She was a good, upstanding woman. She fumbled with the buttons of her brown, woolen cape, slinging it on the coat rack behind, knocking Papa’s precious landscape, off kilter. He would have her head. She glanced about quickly for any sign of him then straightened it.
She turned back to the foyer mirror and met her bland green eyes. The tightly pulled chignon where not a strand of hair blew free reassured her. White blouse, with single front ruffle, was buttoned to her neck. The only thing remotely different was the slight, pink tinged cheeks.
That ridiculous proposal of marriage. All because he refused to exercise control over his unruly child. Her hands flew to her now heated face. To even consider such a rash…rashly...uttered statement…it was ludicrous. That’s what it was.
The thoughts angered her all over again. How dare—
“’Lisbeth!”
Dear God. Papa was soused—she glanced at the wall clock—and only five o’clock.
“When’s supper? I got friends comin’ for dinner.”
Perfect. The perfect end to the perfect day. She flung her bonnet over her coat, undoing her careful alignment of Papa’s favorite picture. No time to adjust it now. She swiped clammy hands over her skirt and hurried to the kitchen.
~*~
That’s some girl you got there, Pops. She as good as that treasure you been spoutin’ off about?” Rebels. The free flowing alcohol loosened their inhibitions, the hold on their southerly etiquette and charm for which the south was supposedly known.
Elizabeth would have rolled her eyes but barely managed to escape a grope on her backside. Papa and his treasure talk. They were as real as “love at first sight.” Which was nil. She’d never seen any gold pieces, or treasure, to speak of in all her twenty-one years. He and his drunk talk, which seemed to be the only time he mentioned said stash. Smoke hovered thick from the dining room ceiling. Papa and three others slouched around the small dining table, littered with shot glasses and ashes that had missed their intended targeted dish.
Having cleared the dinner dishes perhaps she could sneak up to her room. Lock the door.
“You’ll keep your hands to yourself, Archie.” Papa’s growled defense of her was a surprise. A welcome surprise, despite the slurred words. Of course, once Papa passed out the danger in her own home would create war of a different sort.
“Floyd, Floyd. I am a gentleman at heart. You wound me.” Archie’s hand lay over his heart mocked by the smirk on his face. The man’s dark scraggily beard hung halfway down his chest. His light brown eyes were deep set and too close together.
His vocal intonation set a wave of terror rushing through her blood.
His gaze cut to her and she backed quickly to the kitchen, stomach clenched tight, pulse beating erratically. They would be leaving soon. Papa would make certain. Th-they wouldn’t dare bother her.
But her thoughts refused to calm.
The swinging door to the kitchen clopped, startling her. Elizabeth spun around.
Archie strode in as if he owned the place, spiking her heart with fear. The door knocked back and forth, slowing with each pass until silenced stretched the room, while drunken laughter from his companions spilled in from the dining hall.
He strolled towards her. “You the sweetest thing I seen in a long, long time.” His gait was slow, but set to pounce.
Wind whipped branches against the house, creating an eerie effect on her senses. Ice filled Elizabeth’s veins, the warmth in the house lost on the clamminess of her skin. Her fingers touched the button of her blouse, reassuring her she remained in one piece.
He stopped inches before her. “I bet you could warm a man real good like.” He reached up and stroked her cheek then crept up to her hair and tugged. Her hairpins hit the floor like raindrops.
“No!” Her hands came up to his chest and shoved.
To no avail. He backed her in an awkward dance until she was trapped by the sideboard. Her hands gripped the counter to each side, her fingers touching a fork.
“Just give us a little kiss,” he murmured against her ear. “Something small. I won’t let Hugh or Benjy touch much. I’ll save the good stuff for me.” He leaned in, his whiskey saturated breath, nauseating her.
She shook her head, trying to turn away, but his hand entwined in her hair and gripped, immobilizing her. “Please,” she whispered. Her fingers clasped the small utensil with a death grip.
He grinned, showing a desperate need of dental work in yellowed, crooked teeth. “Now that’s what I like to hear. A woman begging. Ain’t nothin’ sweeter.” His other hand moved to the front of her buttoned up blouse, fingers brushing her neck as they curled into the stiff collar.
“Papa—” Her cry was cut off as a wet, disgusting mouth landed on hers. She struggled.
The fingers in her collar jerked, ripping the fabric down the front, flinging buttons in all directions. “Enough. You know you want it,” he growled. “I’ll just take my turn and leave you for my friends in there. I won’t even watch if you behave.” He nuzzled her neck, his beard brushing her chest.
A scuffle sounded from the other room. The crunch of a fist on flesh, and Papa’s pained grunt.
“Looks like your pa won’t be doing you no good now.” Archie chuckled. An evil peal that would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Time was short, and if Elizabeth didn’t make it out before his cronies came in—the thought was too horrific to contemplate. And Papa. How could she help him? She was too scared to cry. Too frightened to think. Her gaze shot to the door leading to the back porch.
He threw back his head, laughed again. It was the only shot she was likely to get. Her hand came up. Using all her weight, she attacked, shoving the fork into the open neck of his shirt, landing inches from his throat. Blood spurted in an arch that seared the white of her blouse. He fell back, shock covering his face.
Elizabeth didn’t hesitate. She lunged for the door.
Wet snow filled the air, but hadn’t yet covered the ground. It would though and then she would be trapped. Clutching her torn blouse, she ran. She ran for the side gate and escaped the backyard, then down the street.
Archie’s roar echoed in the quiet night. Heavy booted steps pounded the ground after her.
Panic constricted her throat, the freezing night air stinging her eyes. Town was two blocks away. The general store would be locked up tight but Millicent lived atop. She glanced behind. Darkness. But the footsteps were relentless. Miss Millicent was her only chance. Or maybe—she dare not think, just ran.
The houses were scarce, with large yards. Some had large trees. Others backed to the creek. She ran. She could feel her pursuer gaining ground. She’d never make it into town. Avoiding the Williams’ house was impossible. He offered her a better chance of surviving this ordeal than Millicent. Though she’d gladly love to see Archie’s expression when Miss Millicent turn her shotgun on him.
She slipped to the side of the Williams home and bent to catch her breath, wet blouse unconducive for heat. Nearby a dog barked incessantly, and she shifted closer to the house and made her way to the back—less lights, only one. She surveyed the large unfenced yard. Trickling water sounded from the creek that was masked by a line of trees. She would wait there.
Staying low, Elizabeth crept along, careful to stay below the eye-level of large plate glass windows. A wide veranda didn’t leave much in the way of protection should said owner—
The door swung wide. “Who’s there?”
Before Elizabeth could drop to the ground, a lantern ripped the night. She pull herself to her full height of five feet, four inches and turned slowly, and waited.
He limped out to the edge of the porch and held up the light. “Miss Ruthers?”
“Yes. It’s me, Mr. Williams.”
“Good heavens, you’ll catch your death.” He leaned over the edge, gripping the wood rail. She thought she caught concern, however fleeting. “You haven’t a coat.”
“No, Mr. Williams. I didn’t have much time, I’m afraid.”
“You’d best come in.” At his grim tone, she cast a glance to the bank of trees behind. “Now, Miss Ruthers. It’s freezing out.”
Clutching her torn shirt tighter with one hand, Elizabeth lifted her skirts with the other and trod up the wood stairs, head held high. Dignity was her only salvation. With a confidence she didn’t feel, she marched past him and into a kitchen a bit larger than the one she’d fled.
Dishes filled the sink and the floor needed a good sweeping. His limp seemed more pronounced as he filed in and hung the lantern on a hook next to the door. He shut it softly, staring at her all the while, arms folded his over his chest.
The heat in the kitchen, after the cold night, seemed stifling and overwarm. His eyes moved over her, pausing at her throat where her frozen hand secured her shirt in a fist, rising back up to her damp hair, dripping puddles on the floor. She was so warm, she felt faint.
After a long pause, he asked, “Is there something you need to tell me, Miss Ruthers?”
“I-I accept your proposal.”
~*~
John’s eyes were glued to the whitened knuckles that held the pieces of Miss Ruthers’ prim white blouse together. Now translucent due to the wet snow. No coat. The trembling of her lips slowly registered and his gaze shifted quickly to the other hand clenched in her heavy skirt. He raised his eyes to dark hair that unpinned, fell to her waist in a wavy mess. A dark flush was rising from her neck.
He cleared his throat. “What did you say?” His voice felt thick and unsteady.
“I said, I accept your proposal.” She spoke in a weak and tremulous whisper.
He moved forward, but she stepped back.
He stopped. “I see.” He walked to the table covered in papers he’d been studying when he’d been distracted by a howling dog. Coyotes were not uncommon in the area. “I’m flattered. And, of course my...proposal stands.”
The air seemed to rush from her body. The hands gripping her torn shirt loosened slightly. He needed to get her into something warm before she took her death. But the situation was fraught with danger, on several levels.
“At the risk of offending you, Miss Ruthers. We should get you out of those wet things—”
Her knuckles went white again, her chin lifted.
Something or someone had terrified her, sending a surge of raging anger through him. He lowered himself into a chair, wincing slightly. “I mean you no harm, ma’am. At the top of the stairs, the first door on the left you’ll find my late wife’s wardrobe. I believe she was a bit heavier than you, but donning something dry and warm, will find you much more comfortable.”
Tension doused the kitchen as she considered his suggestion. But after a sharp nod, she slipped past him into the interior of the house. Her steps up the staircase were swift and light, leaving him stunned by the surprising turn of events. He held back a groan, praying Jillian’s duties in the rest of the house fared better than the current state of the kitchen.
She was proud, that one. His thoughts shifted quickly to her inappropriate attire, biting back the outrage that refused to lessen on her behalf. What would she have done had he not heard her? She’d appeared set to flee to the trees. With no cloak and shirt soaked to the skin. What sent her rushing out into the freezing night?
Perhaps he shouldn’t question the gift handed down from God. He needed help with Trudy, and, Miss Ruthers was in need of his it appeared. Still, he would not be letting this incident pass without speaking with the man responsible for her well-being. Despite the whole town knowing her father was a problem drinker.
John ran a hand through his shorn hair. Unfortunately for Miss Ruthers, he was a worse husband than he was a father. Once fully healed, he intended heading straight back to his regiment to serve out his duty to Lincoln. Leaving Trudy in Miss Ruthers’ capable hands—slender hands— He cut off that train of thought, shaking his head. Well, it was certainly a more ideal situation.
The idea of another wife sickened him. And, one who might demand constant attention? No, thank you. Anne had cured him of fantastical dreams, commitment to others, friendship in love, a bustle of children.
The hinge creaked, reminding John that maintenance on the house had fallen behind. He glanced up into the soft features of Elizabeth Ruthers. She’d found a pink and white striped blouse with long puffy sleeves and elaborate looped buttonholes. It swallowed her whole, reminding him of a performer he’d once seen in his youth in a traveling carnival. She still wore her dampened skirt and his lips tightened.
Her cheeks turned the same shade as the stripes. “I’m sorry. This seemed to be the least frivolous piece in the wardrobe.” She licked her lips.
Yes, his late wife. How Anne loved her clothes. “It’s fine,” he said gruffly. He cleared his throat, of which he seemed prone quite often in her presence. “Please sit.” He gestured to the chair across.
She dropped down gracefully.
No sense skirting the issues. “What happened tonight?”
The pink in her cheeks deepened. She lowered her gaze to the hands in her lap.
“I’m in no position to judge, Miss Ruthers. But I do wish to know the truth.” He forced a short breath and softened his demand. “If you please.”
She hesitated so long, he thought she might refuse to answer. “My father had guests for supper tonight. And—” She swallowed, refused to look up.
“Go on.”
“They were drinking. One of them—he—he cornered me in the kitchen—and I—” The words came out with difficulty. She inhaled deeply and lifted her eyes to his, defiant and proud. “—and I stabbed him with a fork. Then I ran.”
“I see.” John didn’t know whether he was appalled or thrilled. “A fork,” he repeated.
Her eyes glittered, a shade sharper than that of the moss he’d thought earlier. She nodded.
“And just where were you planning to go?” he asked softly.
“Miss Millicent’s but he was gaining too much ground. And when I happened up on your house...I thought to hide down by the brook.”
Fury pounded his head. The very idea of this fragile creature taking refuge in the woods, amidst freezing temperatures and wet snow already sticking to the ground. “Of all
the senseless—”
“What would you have me do? Stay there? Let them rape me?”
“No! But—”
She stood. “Thank you for the change of clothes. I shall see myself to Miss Millie’s now.”
He stood too. Clamped a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back in the chair. “You’re going nowhere.” He stormed to the hooks by the door, jerked his coat from the rack and slammed his arms through the sleeves. “I’m going to see your father. Inform him of our wish to marry.”
Chapter 3
Three Days Later
What the devil had made Elizabeth believe marrying John Williams would be safer than fighting her own battles rather than dealing with a world she’d known her whole life? She glanced over at the man she’d agreed to wed whose daughter was curled in the warmth of his lap.
The carriage, a spring wagon, was well built for the weather, pulled by two sturdy horses. One disadvantage, however, was the opened top to the sky. Elizabeth huddled deeper in her cloak. Her future husband seemed unaffected, his gaze directed forward, focused on the snow-covered road that led to the chapel at the streets’ end. Each rut they hit lauded a kick on Elizabeth’s knee from Gertrude’s black-heeled boot. What a horrid child.
Her mind shifted to the terms he’d laid out, quite precisely, of their union.
“I don’t require more children. Our marriage shall be in name only.”
Elizabeth blinked. Years of hiding her emotions, aided her at his words.
“I shall be returning to my regiment once I’m fully healed, and my current projects completion.”
“Projects…”
He grimaced as if he’d revealed too much. “Your only job is to look after Trudy.”
“My only job…” It seemed as if her capacity for speech had been relegated to parroting. Some portion of her brain had stopped functioning. Didn’t he realize the responsibility he was setting on her shoulders?
“That, and of course, taking care of my home. You know, cooking and such.” His hand flew out.
