by Jo Goodman
“Indeed,” he said dryly. He tossed one of the blankets, both canteens, and a saddlebag on the bed, and carried the rest to her. He snapped the blanket open and handed it over. “Wrap yourself in that. It’s drier than the other one and a modest enough cover if you want to get out of your shirt.”
“You are relentless.”
“Persistently optimistic.”
Phoebe sat cross-legged on the floor and huddled in the blanket. “Mm. Aren’t you cold?”
“For all but a minute back there in the smokehouse.”
“I suppose you mean the kiss.”
“You’d be wrong,” he said, unwrapping the matches. “I was referring to uncovering a yellow-bellied racer in the woodpile.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What is that exactly?”
“A snake.”
“Is it venomous?”
“No. Harmless. Doesn’t matter, though. I don’t like snakes.” When that provoked a spark of laughter from her, he felt warm again, but also curious. He cocked an eyebrow at her as he struck a match. A whiff of sulfur and a yellow glow accompanied the strike.
“Goodness,” she said. “Light the kindling. You look positively satanic.”
The matchstick was burning down, but he gave the flame a little shake in Phoebe’s direction before he held it against a dry strip of bark in the stove. He blew gently on the fire, making sure it was well caught before he closed the door. “Why did you laugh?” he asked, choosing a log from the pile that he could add to the stove.
“Oh. The idea of you being afraid of snakes struck my funny bone. I don’t think it occurred to me that you might be afraid of anything.” She tilted her head to one side and gave him her full regard. “Maybe Fiona.” As soon as she said it, she realized that she had given him the opening to point out that, as he saw it, Fiona was a snake. The urge was there, she saw it in his face, but he resisted and swallowed what he would have liked to say. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Mm.” He opened the door to the stove and carefully added the log. “It will be warm enough soon for you to feel it. You can come closer.”
Without releasing the blanket or unfolding her legs, Phoebe inched closer to the fire. She leaned her face toward the grate and closed her eyes. That was how she missed the lightning strike that stretched jaggedly across the sky and was unprepared for the roll of thunder that shuddered the cabin. She felt as if she jumped high enough to clear the floor, but when the thunder passed, she was still sitting solidly on it.
Phoebe looked around uneasily and then focused on the cabin’s only window. “I suppose I know why it’s called Thunder Point.”
“Which one is your yellow-bellied racer?” he asked. “The thunder or the lightning?”
“It’s all a bag of snakes to me. I don’t think there’s ever been a time I didn’t cower in a storm. When I was young and small enough, I would crawl into a trunk in one of the dressing rooms and close the lid.”
“Dressing rooms. You’re talking about in the theater. Did you live there?”
“It felt as if I did.”
“What about your parents, Phoebe? Fiona mentions them, but not often. You never speak of them.”
“And I won’t now.”
Remington was more disappointed than surprised. He knew from Fiona that her parents both worked in the theater, although not as players, and while she never said it outright, he had the impression that Mr. Apple was a failed playwright and a successful drunk, and his wife did mending, laundry, and cleaning for the troupe. Mrs. Apple may have performed other duties outside of her marriage but on this count, Fiona was understandably vague.
Remington shoved another log into the fire. “I’m going to get the other blanket and join you, unless you want me to use it to cover the window so you can’t see the lightning.”
“No. Get warm. There’s nothing you can do about the thunder, and the lightning prepares me for it.” The words were barely out of her mouth when there was another close strike. The cabin creaked and rumbled. In the far corner, water began to drip from the ceiling. Recalling there was a pot under the bed, she quelled the ridiculous urge to place it beneath the leak.
Remington sat down, folding his legs in the same tailor fashion as Phoebe. His knee bumped hers. Neither moved away.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“How do you mean?”
“Any way you like.”
“I’m warmer, and I’m not sore from riding, so that’s something.”
“It is.”
She stared into the fire for a long time before she spoke. “I saw pieces of the rope when we came in the first time. I haven’t looked back since.”
“I wondered if you’d seen them.”
She used the thumb and forefinger of one hand to circle the wrist of the other. “I had the oddest sensation I could feel the rope here.” She released her wrist, examined it, and slipped her hand under the blanket when she couldn’t see anything. “It still tingles.”
Remington held out a hand. “Let me.”
She didn’t, not right away. “What are you going to do?”
In answer, he reached under the part in the blanket and took it. Using both hands, he rubbed her wrist between his palms. “Better?”
Phoebe nodded and didn’t question him when he tucked her hand away and reached for the other. The tingling was certainly gone, but that was because he had replaced it with heat that went all the way to her marrow. This time she withdrew her hand while he was still holding it. “Mm. Thank you.” She felt heat creep into her face and would have blamed her proximity to the stove if he had said something. He didn’t, though, and she was glad for not having to tell a lie that he would have seen through anyway.
Remington pitched another piece of wood into the stove and brushed his hands on his knees. “I could bring the mattress over and we could sit on it. Bound to be more comfortable than this floor.”
Because the damp and cold seemed to be seeping up through the floorboards, Phoebe agreed. She didn’t offer to help him and he didn’t ask. Her contribution was moving out of the way to give him enough space to throw down the mattress. She had already claimed her place on top of it when he returned with the canteens and the other saddlebag.
“Something to drink?” he asked, holding out a canteen.
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“Something stronger?” He reached into the same saddlebag that had held the matches and came out with a silver flask. “Whiskey.”
“Yes, please.”
He opened the flask. The cap hung from the neck by a thin silver chain. “Ellie and Ben gave me this when I graduated.” He held it out to her. “It’s engraved.”
Phoebe tipped the flask to her lips and swallowed a generous mouthful before she examined the engraving. The flourishes were elegant and quite elaborate. “RFL.” She returned the flask. “What does the L stand for?”
“Lawrence. My mother’s maiden name.”
“Was she a city transplant like Fiona?”
“No. Born and raised in Frost Falls.”
“So this is what she knew, what she always knew.”
“This?” he asked. “You mean growing up in a small town that was barely settled when she was young, living on a ranch with no neighbors within shouting distance?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yes, it’s what she knew. In the case of Twin Star, it’s what she chose when she agreed to marry my father.”
Phoebe nodded slowly, faintly, and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Do you ever wonder why Thaddeus married Fiona?”
“Never have.” He saw surprise flicker across her face. “Oh. You think it’s because I haven’t been curious, but that’s not quite right. I haven’t been curious because I’ve always known the answer. He loves her. Now, the why of that puzzles me
some, but I’m in no hurry to work it out. It isn’t necessarily a bad thing when a man as steady and considering as Thaddeus can lose his mind and surprise everyone who’s known him.”
“Is that what you thought? That he lost his mind?”
“Didn’t you?”
Phoebe’s smile was rueful. “I did, yes. I thought exactly that in the very beginning. I had some experience, you know, observing men abandon their good judgment where Fiona was concerned. Sometimes I thought they deserved what they got, which was to be led about by the nose and then dismissed, but there were some true gentlemen, and your father was one of them, men who were genuinely kind, mostly clear-headed, and would not allow Fiona to lead them anywhere they did not want to go. The men she could not control fascinated her, but they also frightened her. She did not so much dismiss them as make it intolerable for them to stay. Those men packed their own bags and left.”
Phoebe unfolded her legs and drew her knees toward her chest. Hunching, she hugged them. “You know why she married Thaddeus, don’t you?”
“Well, it wasn’t because she lost her mind.”
“Oh, I see. You think it was a consequence of careful calculation. Thaddeus has money, and Fiona rarely does, so that must be it. He’s not merely fine-looking, he’s distinguished, and that would have been a factor for someone like Fiona who finds pleasure in being accompanied by a handsome gentleman. He rarely drinks and never to excess—another point in his favor—and he has an even temperament, never once demonstrating the urge to raise his hand even when provoked. You probably assume Fiona’s time in the theater was nearing an end, that she recognized she would have to take secondary roles or remove herself entirely. That assumption would be wrong. She had years of work ahead of her, and she walked away from all the offers to be with Thaddeus. Now do you know why she married him?”
“For love? Is that what you want me to believe?”
“You don’t have to believe it, but it’s true.”
Remington extended his hands toward the warmth of the stove. “I want to think about it. You’re right about some of the assumptions I made, but I don’t know that it matters. You saw the matchstick when I struck it. The flame was hot and bright and brief. It burned itself out.”
Phoebe presented no counterpoint. She fell silent, and when he offered her another drink from the flask, she refused it. Rain beat relentlessly against the roof. Sometimes the wind shifted and raindrops splattered the window, falling heavily against the glass like batter on a hot griddle. Remington got up twice, once to look out the window, and the second time to open the door and peer up at the sky. He had no commentary on what he saw, but Phoebe had the impression that he was not encouraged.
“Why did you come, Phoebe?”
She gave a small start when he spoke after so long a silence. Maybe if she had not been mesmerized by the fire and the rain’s steady tattoo, she would have understood what he really was asking and answered differently. What she did, though, was regard him with some confusion and said, “You know why. You told me to come.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t mean here. I mean why come west?”
“Sorry. My mind was elsewhere and nowhere. Hmm. Why did I come? Well, there was the invitation, of course, and I was curious about Twin Star. Until my train left the station, I’d never been very far outside the city, so there was the prospect of adventure. I wanted to see Fiona. She never had occasion to write many letters, and it’s difficult for her, so I wasn’t surprised that her correspondence was sporadic, but that she had so little to tell me was concerning. Your father wrote to me more often than she did.”
“Why is it difficult?”
“What?”
“You said writing letters is difficult for her. Why? It’s something more than lack of practice and opportunity.”
“I shouldn’t have said that. She wouldn’t like you knowing.” She saw it on his face, then. The understanding. “Fiona’s never had schooling beyond what she was able to acquire in the theater. She learned to read because there was always a script lying around and someone who cared enough to help her. It was not as important, I suppose, that she learn to write. That came later, much later, and it still frustrates her.”
“But not you.”
“No. I attended a parochial school. Fiona insisted, and she paid for it.”
“Fiona?”
“Hmm. She had regular roles by the time I was ready for school. She supported us.” She shrugged. The blanket slipped off one shoulder and she drew it back. “So that’s why I came. There were lots of reasons, but only one of them put me on that train. I needed to see her, to know that she was well. I understand why Thaddeus invited me, and I understand now why she didn’t, but that’s not important to why I came.”
“You love her.”
“You say that as if it surprises you. She’s maddening and critical, impulsive and selfish, but she’s also frightened and vulnerable and has to protect a heart that’s as soft as pudding. Of course I love her.”
Phoebe blinked, sat up straight. “That’s it! That’s what I said to her that put her in a snit.” She saw Remington preparing to ask a question, and she shook her head quickly to forestall him. “She and I had just left the milliner’s. We couldn’t come to consensus on a hat that she thought was appropriate for me. I’m afraid I was entirely disagreeable. I was trying to make amends for my behavior when she said something that struck me as so absurd and so very like her that I realized it was hopeless. I said something like, ‘Oh, Fiona, I do love you, you know,’ and she stopped right there and asked me if I meant it.”
“And you told her . . .”
“That’s just it. I’d said the words so offhandedly that I didn’t know what she was asking about. I swear I didn’t. No wonder she was in such a mood. She accused me of being cruel.” Phoebe rubbed the furrow in her brow with her fingertips. “Do you recall that afternoon?” she asked. “We came across you not long after, relieved you of your parcels.”
“I do remember,” he said. “She called you a cat.”
Phoebe nodded. She closed her eyes and used a thumb and forefinger to smooth her eyebrows. “I have to speak to her. She doesn’t believe me. Somehow I have to make her believe I meant it.” She dropped her hand, opened her eyes, and stared at Remington. “She makes it so difficult to like her sometimes that I probably don’t tell her nearly often enough that I love her.”
Remington listened, nodded, and then pointed to the window. “I understand you feel some urgency to set things right, but it’s not going to happen today. Old Man McCauley built this place close to the stream. Most of the time that was a convenience, but right now that stream’s on a rapid rise and will be spilling over its banks in an hour or so if this rain keeps up. The cabin rests off the ground, so that’s good, but the stone pillars that support it are not as fixed as they used to be.”
“And that would not be good,” she said.
“No.” He regarded her candidly. “That would be an understatement.”
Chapter Eighteen
Phoebe rose and went to the window. She set her hands on either side of her eyes, pressed her forehead to the glass, and peered out. The sky was dark, ominous, but it was hours yet to nightfall and she could clearly see the stream and hear the rushing water. She looked over her shoulder at Remington. “Should we leave?”
Before he could answer, another bolt of lightning struck the ground somewhere nearby. Phoebe jumped back from the window and clamped her hands over her ears. It dulled the crash of thunder but did nothing to blunt the rumble that went through the cabin. She had just lowered her hands when there was a second crack, markedly different from the first. The floor shuddered this time, but not the walls. “What was that?”
“Tree. Lightning must have hit one.”
“So maybe we shouldn’t leave.”
“Come here.” He patted the space beside him, the
one she had left when he told her about the rising water. “We’re not going anywhere. Do you recall that shallow river we waded through on our way here?” When she nodded, he went on. “That will be running too deep and fast for the horses to cross safely. They’ll lose their footing. We’re better off here.”
“What about the foundation? What if it buckles?”
“I’ll keep an eye on the water’s approach. We’ll have enough warning to get out and climb to higher ground.” He indicated the space beside him again. “I wouldn’t take you out in that storm now. Bullet might manage, but your mare would spook, same as you. We’re safer here.”
Phoebe joined him. “Turn around,” she said. “Or look somewhere else, anywhere else, but not at me.” She threw off the blanket and began to unbutton her vest. “I mean it, Remington.”
“Let me add a log before you get any further.” She paused, and he tossed more wood into the stove. When the fire blazed, he shut the grate and lowered the brim of his hat until it effectively covered his eyes. “Let me know where you’re done.”
Phoebe slipped out of her vest, folded it, and set it aside. The sleeves and collar of the chambray shirt were uncomfortably wet, while the part of it that had been mostly protected by the vest was merely damp. Still, it clung to her like a second skin and she had to peel it off. The camisole she wore under it was damp as well. While she debated whether to remove it, her skin prickled and the decision was made for her. She removed the camisole and placed it beside the shirt as close to the stove as she dared, then she fit the blanket under her arms and tied a knot above her breasts. Her shoulders were bare but warmer now with firelight glancing off her skin than they had been when she was wearing the shirt and vest.
She took off her hat, placed it beside her, and unwound her plait. She used her fingers to sift through her hair and arranged the cascade of soft waves so they covered her shoulders.
“Done?” he asked.
“Just. How did you know?”
“I heard you sigh.” He raised the brim of his hat with a forefinger and looked her over. “I’m thinking you’re warmer already.” He could have said the same for himself, but she was already as skittish as a kicked kitten so he kept quiet. “I have some rope. I can rig a line to dry our clothes. I wouldn’t mind getting out of my shirt.”
