The Beloved Woman

by Deborah Smith

  Damn her. Why couldn’t she say that she’d wanted it to remember him by as well? “I got it back.” She opened her eyes, craning her head to stare at him. He slipped the leather necklace from under his shirt and let the gold nugget catch the firelight. “From a peddler who said you bought medicine with it. Said you had a sick youngun with you. Want to tell me about it?”

  “No.” She let her head fall back and swallowed harshly. “You have your gold piece again. And you have me. In your own way, you’ve been kind and wonderful to me. You probably saved me from dying on the trail. I shan’t ever betray your trust again. You have all my gratitude—and all my loyalty.”

  He gazed at her in amazement. She offered so much, more than he’d expected, and it made him happy. “You can depend on me, Katie. I don’t take without givin’ equal measure back. You can share how bad you hurt, and what makes you cry, and everything ugly that’s happened to you.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” Drawing her knees up, she lay on her side and stared resolutely at the wall, clenching her hands under her chin, withdrawing into a private sanctum where he wasn’t welcome.

  “Can’t you talk to me as a friend?”

  “I don’t know if I’d call what we share friendship. Perhaps it would be better if we tried to treat each other like … umm, partners. Yes. Like that. Polite but formal.”

  “Well, fine,” he said bitterly, hurt by her refusal to share her deeper thoughts and feelings. “We’ll be partners. As long as I get what I want, I don’t care.”

  She gave him a wary look. “What exactly do you want?”

  “What I’ve always wanted—what you agreed to give me before. Help with society folderol, book learnin’, and a damned good time in bed. Rest up. Get yourself healthy. You owe me plenty of service for all the trouble I went through to save your pretty red hide.”

  His harsh words seemed to drain her. “I wish you hadn’t saved me,” she said dully. “I was prepared to die. I wish that I had.”

  “I can grant that there wish in a big hurry!” He would call her bluff and teach her to regret saying such nonsense just to get sympathy. He grabbed the pistol off the table, whirled toward the bed again, and bent over her. He jerked the hammer back and pressed the muzzle to her temple. “You want to die? The idea of carryin’ out your deal with me is so damned awful that you’d rather have your brains blown out? Really? Then say your good-bye prayer!”

  He saw her pulse beating swiftly in her throat, but her dark eyes met his with tragic calmness. He stared at the despair in them and realized that there were more painful memories inside her than he’d ever imagined.

  “I think I’ll just let you suffer,” he said with a show of disgust. He drew the pistol away and tried to look unconcerned, though his hands trembled. “Go to sleep, you conniving hellion. You can’t get out of our bargain that easy.”

  She turned away, pulled her blankets a little higher, as if trying to escape his scrutiny, and shut her eyes. “I will honor it, sir,” she said bleakly. “But for now I want only to rest.”

  “Rest, then.” He watched with growing concern as she fell asleep almost immediately, her face slipping into a sorrowful expression so poignant, his chest ached. He laid a hand on her damp hair and stroked gently. “You’ll be good as new,” he murmured. He wanted to believe that, but wasn’t sure that he did.

  “MY WIFE’S A Cherokee Injun, and if you don’t want her here, say so now. I won’t have her insulted.”

  His problem stated bluntly, Justis waited for the innkeeper to reply. The way the dapper little man and his stout wife kept staring at his mustache, he figured it was as much an oddity to them as him having an Injun wife. Folks in this part of Illinois weren’t used to either mustaches or Injuns, he decided.

  “I thought the Indians had all been removed,” the wife said.

  Justis nodded. “We were headed west with ’em,” he explained, “but my wife got poorly and we decided to drop out. We’ll be leavin’ for New York soon as she’s fattened up some.” He opened a pouch full of coins and showed it to them. “Gold. Georgia gold. None purer.”

  “Well, that settles it,” the innkeeper said quickly, his eyes gleaming with surprise. “We’ll be glad to have you both. Got a nice big room upstairs with a fireplace. No lice, no bedbugs. A real window. And the missus sets a fine table three times a day.” He cut his eyes toward her considerable girth. “Your wife’ll be healthy in no time.”

  Relieved, Justis went out to the narrow porch, where Katie sat wrapped in blankets. Four hound dogs and two young boys stood in the snow, gaping at her. She seemed oblivious.

  “Got us a fine room,” he said.

  She looked up, her eyes shadowed with fatigue from the day’s ride. “Us? Do they know we’re not husband and wife?”

  “Nope. Come along, Mrs. Gallatin.”

  He lifted her into his arms and carried her inside. The innkeeper and his wife ran a tavern in the main room downstairs. They came out from behind its bar and approached Katherine timidly. “Me Mr. Martin,” the innkeeper said in a slow, patient manner, pointing to himself. Then he pointed to his wife. “She Mrs. Martin. Mar-tin.”

  Katherine extended a hand gracefully. “I’m quite pleased to meet both of you, I’m sure. I’m Katherine Blue Song … Gallatin. Mrs. Gallatin. Thank you so much for accommodating us.”

  Their jaws dropped. For the first time in months Justis wanted to laugh. He bit his lip and hoped the droop of his mustache hid his smile.

  When they were safely inside their room with the door shut, he placed her on the bed and began to chortle. Even Katie managed a smile. “Me tired,” she muttered. “Heap sleepy.”

  He unwrapped her and pulled the covers down. “Got to see about getting you some clothes. You can’t wear my shirt all the time.”

  “Hmmm. Whatever you want.” A look of weary pleasure on her face, she settled under the clean flannel sheets and fluffy quilts.

  “I’m tired of hearin’ you say that. It’s gettin’ to be the only words you know.”

  “Since I want only to sleep, everything else is truly up to you.”

  Justis worried about her lack of enthusiasm, but told himself that she’d been off the trail for only a week. It would take a little longer for her spirits and strength to improve. He glanced around the room with approval, hoping she’d be pleased with his choice of inns.

  “Washstand, good towels, good-size fireplace, rugs on the floor”—he sat down on the foot of the big four-poster and bounced slightly—“and a mattress that makes a man hate the idea of gettin’ up. What do you think? Will it do?”

  “Since we’ll be sharing it, I’d like to know how soon you expect to use my—my person for your pleasure. I have, after all, agreed to be your mistress. I will fulfill that duty whenever you ask.”

  Her martyred attitude infuriated him. Back in Gold Ridge he’d seen the fire in her too often to believe that she didn’t want him as a lover. “You’re a mite dangerous right now,” he said blithely. “I wouldn’t want to jab myself on your hipbones. I’ll wait.”

  “Thank you.”

  She said it without sarcasm, as if she’d taken his words seriously. He gazed at her in dismay as she slid farther under the covers and snuggled her head into a huge feather pillow. Shutting her eyes, she grew very still.

  He couldn’t stay angry with her, not when sadness shimmered around her like a dark aura. It hurt that she expected him to use her like a piece of property. It hurt even more that she thought he’d thrust himself into that frail, tired body of hers without a bit of guilt. He did crave her, and if she had wanted him in return, he’d have loved her with all the gentleness in his soul. But she didn’t want him—or anything, really, except to sleep, eat, or stare into space.

  Justis stood up and looked at her, frowning. “I’ve got to go see about the horses. You rest good, you hear?”

  She was already asleep. He reached out and touched the back of her hand where it lay atop the covers, the fingers unfurled
as if there were no fight left in them.

  MRS. MARTIN LOOKED upset as she pulled Justis out of his room. Katherine had just fallen asleep after gazing dully at several nightgowns and other articles he had purchased for her.

  “She’s lost her heart, Mr. Gallatin,” Mrs. Martin said. “I’ve seen it before. My sister got that way after measles took her family. Her spirit died, and she followed.”

  “My wife’s not gonna die! She just needs to rest!”

  “You let her sleep that way all the time and she’ll rest permanently.”

  Justis paced the hall, jamming his hands through his hair. He didn’t believe that Katie’s invincible spirit was gone. He wouldn’t believe that her listless sorrow came from dreading their future together. Not entirely, anyhow.

  Had she been raped on the trail? Had she fallen in love with some man from her own people and then lost him to sickness? Had someone hurt her some other way? Every question tore at him, mingling protectiveness with jealousy and anger because she wouldn’t let him inside her private, grief-filled world.

  What would make her happy? He halted, gazing at Mrs. Martin thoughtfully. “You got any books to read, ma’am?”

  “Sure do. All sorts.”

  “Can I borrow a stack of ’em?”

  “Certainly. I’ll send one of the boys up with them. But, Mr. Gallatin, how is that going to help your wife if she refuses to read them?”

  Justis smiled wickedly. “She’ll read.”

  CHAPTER 12

  KATHERINE frowned as sleep gave way to a dull headache. Her muscles ached from staying in bed so much, but she couldn’t think of any reason to get up. Justis left her alone except when it was time to eat, and then he watched her carefully until he decided she had swallowed a hearty amount of Mrs. Martin’s food.

  A blunt finger poked her in the shoulder. She woke enough to realize Justis was propped up in bed beside her. “Sleepy,” she protested. “Don’t.”

  “I’m gonna read to you.”

  “No.”

  “Wake up. I’m damned tired of sitting downstairs playing cards and drinkin’ while you snore.”

  “I do not snore.”

  He cleared his throat. “ ‘Love, whose month is ever May, Speed a bloosum passing far—’ ”

  “Stop.” She groaned in weary dismay. “What book are you trying to massacre?”

  “It’s a Shakespeare. Love’s La-bour’s Lost.”

  Katherine turned over and looked up at him. He sat on top of the covers, fully dressed, and he had a cigar tucked above one ear. His eyes met hers solemnly. “I’m not embarrassed to sound dumb as a jackass in front of you, gal.”

  Her heart melted. “You don’t sound dumb. Would you like some assistance with your reading?”

  “Yeah. If you feel like it.”

  She pushed herself upward. He planted the pillow behind her, then casually draped his arm around her shoulders. Even in her lethargic state Katherine enjoyed being close to him more than she’d ever admit. He didn’t know that she watched him every time he moved around their room, or that she often lay awake at night, contentedly admiring him.

  “Warm enough?” he asked.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  She glanced around. He’d built a fire and lit a lamp beside the bed. Outside, a snowstorm was already dimming the day’s light. The room was a cozy, cheerful haven. She settled closer to his side. “Why don’t you begin the passage again?”

  “Sure.” He held the book up rigidly. “ ‘Love, whose month is ever May, Speed—’ ”

  “Spied.”

  “ ‘Spied a bloosum—’ ”

  “Blossom.”

  “ ‘Spied a blossom passing far—’ ”

  “Fair.”

  He put the book down and sighed. “I’m glad we got lots of time to practice this while you stay in bed. I really want you to learn me—I mean, teach me to read better.”

  “I’m afraid I’m still too tired to do much.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll read to you and you don’t have to say a thing.” Placing the book where she didn’t have to look at it unless she wanted to, he continued. “ ‘A blossom passin’ fair, playin’ in the one-ton—’ ”

  “Oh, I can’t help myself. It is wanton, not one-ton.”

  “ ‘Wanton are—’ ”

  “Air.”

  “ ‘Wanton air. Through the vel-vet lives—’ ”

  “Velvet leaves.”

  “ ‘Velvet leaves the wind, all insane—’ ”

  “Unseen. Justis?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Would you mind if we did this later? I’d like to change into one of my new nightgowns and brush my hair. Afterward, perhaps you’d enjoy it if I read to you for a little while.”

  “You feeling better, gal?”

  “Yes, I believe so.” Anything to escape this reading lesson.

  She looked at him. He grinned and stuck his cigar between his teeth at a cocky angle, almost as if he were pleased with himself.

  FROM THEN ON it was read or be read to, and the former was less tiring than the latter. So over the next few days Katherine found herself dressing in her robe and sitting in a chair by the fireplace, a book in her lap, while Justis sat cross-legged on the hearth by her feet.

  At first Katherine barely paid attention to the words she spoke; her mind was dull and preoccupied, though she tried to concentrate. Images from the trail kept haunting her, and she used much of her strength to suppress the emotions they fostered. But as time passed, the reading forced her to concentrate. It guided her mind into soothing channels, and she began to look forward to it.

  Justis sat utterly still at her feet for hours at a time, his droopy green eyes hardly ever looking away from her. His devotion gave her quiet hope. If he enjoyed even these simple, unexciting pastimes with her, perhaps he cared about her in a deeper way than she expected.

  “I will trim your hair if you like,” she announced one morning in an attempt to be friendly.

  “You feelin’ that much better?”

  “Yes, I am. Reading to you has been good for my attitude.”

  He grinned and gave her a lopsided squint, looking self-satisfied for some reason she couldn’t fathom. He ran a hand over his shaggy locks, which were beginning to curl luxuriously on his shoulders. “All right, I’ll take a trim. Not too short. I don’t wanta look like a sheared stallion.”

  Mrs. Martin sent up a comb, scissors, and a mirror. Justis sat on a stool by the fireplace. Katherine stood behind him and speared her fingers into his burnished hair. “There’s enough mane here for two stallions, sir.”

  “Don’t turn into a savage and try to steal my purty scalp.”

  “Oh, it’s much handsomer attached to its owner than it would be hanging from my war lance.”

  She started at his temples and stroked her fingers down through the curls to untangle them, brushing her fingertips along his neck as she did. The intimacy of it surprised her. She hadn’t thought such an ordinary contact would make desire wind through her veins. She hadn’t thought anything could make her feel human and female again.

  The skin of her hands, now well healed, seemed alive with sensation. She loved the caress of his silky hair as she combed her fingers through it again and studied the longest strands, trying to decide how best to cut them, debating the wisdom of curling herself around him for a kiss. She warned herself to be patient, that she still didn’t have the strength or the beauty to please him in bed.

  Breath feathering in her throat, she moved in front of him. “I’m trying to see how the hair wants to fall,” she explained. “ ’Tis best to cut it that way.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Her belly tightened at the low erotic pleasure in his tone. She was suddenly aware that she had stepped between his casually spread legs and that her knee was brushing the inside of his thigh. He sighed deeply, and his breath stirred a bit of decorative ribbon on her robe, directly over her breasts.

  She glanced down and saw that his face w
as nearly touching her. His eyes were half shut, but there was no doubt that he was admiring the view in front of him. And no doubt that her breasts ached for a repeat of the gentle sucking he’d given them that tempestuous night, so many months before, at Mrs. Albert’s house.

  Her hands shaking, Katherine stepped back to collect herself. “Perhaps I should trim your mustache first.”

  “Nah, I’ll do it myself, thanks.”

  The sensual languor in his expression made her knees weak. She laughed softly, the sound strained. “You are always so protective of it. I truly like the furry thing, Justis. I won’t damage it, I promise.”

  “You like it?” he echoed in amazement.

  The surprise and delight in his gaze nearly undid all her caution. She sidled around behind him to escape the compelling sight. “Yes. I can’t imagine you without it.” She sighed. “But I warn you—if you want to look more gentlemanly, you ought to shave it off.”

  “I’ll just have to look less gentlemanly, then.” He reached back and grasped her hand, then brought it to his mouth. “Feel.”

  Her stomach dropped as he guided the tip of one finger under his mustache. Again, an ordinary contact created an extraordinary reaction in her pulse. He drew her finger along the firm swell of his upper lip, then to the coarse ridge running parallel above it. “A scar?” she exclaimed.

  “Yep. Got it in a knife fight.” He slowly pushed her hand away. “Guess it’s kind of a brand. I like to hide it.”

  “A brand? How do you mean?”

  “It tells the world that I’m no good, that I grew up fightin’ with trash and won’t ever be anything but trash myself.”

  She exhaled raggedly and slid her arms around his neck. Pressing her cheek lightly to the top of his head, she murmured, “You are a hellion, a rogue, and quite often the most infuriating man I ever hope to know. But you are also the finest kind of gentleman.”

  “Aw,” he said gruffly, and added a less polite word.

  She kissed his hair. “Give me that hand mirror before you fumble it onto the floor.” She took the mirror and started to lay it on the washstand behind her, but caught a glimpse of herself and froze. “Dear God,” she whispered, and hurriedly turned the mirror facedown on the stand.