Walking on Air

by Catherine Anderson

  As for the ax . . . well, she knew it would fall. It always did with men. Right when she least expected it, he’d turn vicious, lacerating her with words—or fists. Every time she looked at his broad, work-hardened hands, her stomach knotted. Martin Sullivan had been possessed of a wicked backhand, which he hadn’t hesitated to use on Nan when, in his view, she spoke out of turn. She had vivid memories of mind-numbing pain radiating through her jaw after he smacked her. Sometimes in very cold weather, her jaw still ached. Gabriel topped her father by several inches, and outweighed him, too. If he ever dealt her such a blow, she’d be picking herself up off the floor nursing a shattered cheekbone. Better not to irritate the man.

  Nan donned her nightgown and then jerked so hard on her hairpins that several strands came away with them. Tears stung her eyes. Laney was totally bamboozled by Gabriel. Nan didn’t like that one bit, either. In the space of a single day, the girl had burst out laughing more times than she had over the last six months. It bruised Nan’s feelings. She wasn’t sure why. There was no harm in laughter. It was just such a marked change, with Laney giggling so much more than she usually did. Was Nan so somber and unsmiling that she smothered Laney’s natural high spirits?

  Nan sank wearily onto the edge of the bed. She’d tried so hard to be a good mother, doing for Laney all that she’d yearned for herself as a child—doling out lots of hugs, giving plenty of praise, using endearments, buying presents the child coveted, and spending fun time with her each evening, sometimes playing cards or board games, other times just talking. And Laney had seemed happy.

  Now she seemed happier. Nan tried to tamp down the resentment that welled within her. She had been born with a tendency to open her mouth when she shouldn’t. Years of living under her father’s stern rule had taught her a certain reticence, but she still had a temper that could flare quickly and make her forget to control her tongue. If she allowed herself to feel angry with Gabriel, if she stupidly grew lippy with him . . . Well, the possible consequences didn’t bear thinking about.

  She heard a board creak in the hallway, a prelude to his imminent invasion of her cherished privacy. She leaped up and dashed to the armoire to fetch her wrapper, tossed it on the foot of the mattress, and then dived under the covers, drawing them firmly beneath her chin just as he tapped at the door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  He stepped into the room rubbing his middle and smiling. “I am so full I feel like I’m going to pop. Never should’ve had that fourth piece of pie, I guess. It was too delicious to resist, though.” Standing just inside the closed door, he began unbuttoning his shirt. “The one and only time I ever got homemade pumpkin pie before today was the Thanksgiving I lived with old widow Harper. She was feeble and had bad eyesight, so it wasn’t a very good meal. The whole time I stuffed my face, I had my eye on the pie she’d set out by the stove. I could barely wait for a piece.”

  Nan tried to imagine him as a hungry little boy brought in off the streets by a sickly but well-intentioned old woman. “Was it good?” she couldn’t resist asking.

  He laughed and shrugged out of the shirt, his well-muscled shoulders rippling in the lantern light as he moved. Nan was reminded of a beautiful sculpture of dark teak, rubbed to a high sheen. Beautiful? The thought no sooner settled in her mind than she shoved both it, and her gaze, away. Men could be handsome, she supposed, but never comely or beautiful. What in tarnation was she thinking?

  “It was horrible. She added salt instead of sugar.”

  Startled from her discomfiture, Nan said, “What?”

  “You heard me, salt. I took a huge first bite, chewed once, and then tried not to gag or spit it out.” Seemingly comfortable in a half-naked state, he strode around the foot of the bed. “She was a sweet old gal, stern and unsmiling most of the time, but God rest her, she never laid an angry hand on me. Aside from the fairly brief time I had with my mother, I have no memory of kindnesses from anybody except that frail, shaky old lady.” He sighed. “She no longer cared for sweets at that age, so she never tasted the pie. She’d worked so hard to make it, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I pretended to eat the whole thing. Mostly I spit it in my napkin and became an expert at rinsing out the linen after supper, but sometimes she wouldn’t look away so I could do that, and I had to swallow it.”

  Nan’s eyes burned. Only a boy with a very gentle heart would have done that to save an old lady’s feelings. How, she wondered, had that boy matured into a man who coerced a woman into marriage simply because he liked her looks?

  “I’m sorry your childhood was so awful.” Despite her resentment and distrust of him, Nan sincerely meant that. No youngster should have to endure what he had. “It’s so sad.”

  “Hey, I lived through it,” he said as he hung his guns on the bedstead. “If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger.”

  Nan wasn’t sure the trials she’d survived had strengthened her. She often felt like a puppy trying to paddle in a swift current and barely managing to keep its nose above water.

  Gabe sat behind her to kick off his boots. “Can you turn off the lantern tonight? I’m so full I’d have to roll over there to do it.”

  Not wishing to be treated to another display of amazing masculine musculature, Nan complied, pushing up on an elbow, quickly dousing the light, and then huddling under the covers until the residual amber glow faded away to leave them in blackness.

  • • •

  Gabe hated that he made Nan so nervous. When she shifted to face him, he knew it wasn’t to snuggle down and get more comfortable, but to watch every move he made so she’d be ready if he decided to grab her. What she planned to do about it, he couldn’t imagine. She wasn’t much bigger than a minute.

  As he’d done last night, he stretched out on his back, using his folded arms as a pillow. It was a comfortable enough position for him; he used his saddle as a pillow out on the trail and often slept this way. Not that he wouldn’t have enjoyed lying on his side or stretching out a little, but that would make Nan even more uneasy. She needed her rest, and if he meant to let her get any, he had to play like a corpse laid out in a coffin: ankles together, legs straight, arms folded. His only exception to that pose was to have his hands behind his head instead of resting on his chest.

  Once he got settled, he whispered, “Good night.” After she responded, he closed his eyes, waited a couple of seconds, and then emitted a snore that he hoped sounded real. She’d fallen for it last night, thank God. Only after she’d heard him snore had she been able to relax.

  He forced out another sputter, trying not to overdo it, and waited, feeling the mattress shift under her slight weight as she snuggled down and sighed. The sound was laced with relief. He bit back a smile, wondering how long he’d have to do this before she finally started to trust him.

  It didn’t surprise him when he soon heard a change in the rhythm of her breathing. She’d worked her little fanny off all day, and had to be exhausted. So exhausted, in fact, that she hadn’t insisted on sewing in her workroom long into the night. Soon there came that soft little snuffle of hers. He smiled into the moon-silvered darkness. Ladies do not snore.

  Gabe was still grinning slightly as he drifted off to join her in slumber.

  • • •

  Gabe wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep when a choked cry jerked him back to consciousness. It took him a second to recall where he was and, more important, with whom. His heart caught when he realized Nan was jerking and muttering nonsensically in her sleep. In the shaft of moonlight that bathed the bed, she thrashed with her fists, tossed her head from side to side on the pillow, and then strained as if to escape a great weight on top of her.

  Gabe’s sleepy bewilderment was swiftly replaced by understanding. A nightmare. And he knew exactly what it was about. Barclay, the fat bastard pig. Nan was either pinned under her attacker’s limp, massive body, or she was enduring a cruel
pawing of her breasts. The memory of it that flashed through Gabe’s head made him angry enough to kill. If he’d had another year to live, instead of only a measly month, he would have hit the trail for Manhattan to have ten meaningful minutes alone with Horace Barclay. Hell, while he was at it, he’d give Martin Sullivan a good ass kicking, too.

  Wanting to wake Nan and bring the torture to a swift end, Gabe grasped her shoulder. “Nan. Hey, honey. Wake up. It’s only a—”

  A small, bony fist caught him in the mouth, and the next thing he knew, his wife was grunting, scratching, and slugging. He ducked his head, trying to protect his eyes. “Nan! Stop it. It’s a dream, only a dream!”

  With a low wail, she nailed him on the ear with the heel of her hand, which sent a peal of loud ringing through his temples. Then she brought up a knee and almost got him in the groin. He snaked out an arm to catch her around the waist, rose up on his other elbow, and pinned her flat on her back in a two-count move.

  “It’s me, Gabe,” he told her. “Wake up, Nan. It’s only a dream.”

  With him holding both her wrists in one hand, she could no longer swing at him. So instead she panted—whiny, jerky pants brought on by panic—and bucked with her hips. The futility of her efforts drove home to Gabe just how helpless she’d been to defend herself against Barclay. Gabe knew the instant she escaped the clutches of the dream and came awake. She dragged in a deep breath and went absolutely still.

  “A dream,” he said again. “Only a bad dream. You know who I am now?”

  “Gabriel?” she whispered. “Oh, mercy.”

  Her nightgown was damp with sweat. He felt the tips of her breasts harden and thrust against his bare chest. A certain part of his body reacted, but Gabe didn’t allow his mind to follow its lead. He was too concerned about Nan right then to entertain such thoughts.

  She stared up at him, her large eyes shimmery with tears. “I’m sorry. Oh, dear, I’m so sorry.”

  Confident now that she’d come fully awake and wouldn’t swing at him again, Gabe released her hands and levered his weight off her. As he drew slightly away, she reached out with wildly shaky fingers to touch his mouth. “You’re bleeding.”

  He tasted with his tongue. “Well, shit, you busted my lip.” Gabe shifted onto his back and got his head comfortably cradled on his pillow. “That’s quite a right hook you’ve got going there, darlin’.”

  He had hoped to make her laugh. Instead she said, “It wasn’t you. I never meant to hit you.”

  Gabe wiped his mouth. “I know that. And no harm done. It’s not the first time I’ve been served a knuckle sandwich. At least you didn’t loosen my front teeth.” He angled her a glance. “That must have been some nasty dream you were having.”

  She drew the covers over her shoulders and huddled on her side, facing him. He wanted her to tell him about it, but she remained silent for so long that he was about to give up on that when she said, “I have bad nights sometimes, one nightmare after another. That’s one reason I always work so late, because I dread going to bed. I never know when the dreams will come, and the one I just had is the worst of all.”

  “Barclay?”

  She pushed at her tousled hair and nodded. No words to describe the dream slipped from her lips, though. That worried him.

  Her delicate features were defined by moonlight and shadow, enabling him to see the soft arch of her brows, the dainty bridge of her small nose, and the fullness of her soft mouth. A very kissable mouth.

  Whoa, son. The last thing she needs is for you to get as horny as a two-pronged goat. All the same, he wanted her. She was so beautiful, how could he not? During his adult years, he’d bedded a lot of women, prostitutes one and all. Maybe gals like that started out in their profession looking fresh and sweet, but if so, Gabe had never run across one. It was a hard, punishing life that they led. Most of them grew old and worn before their time. By contrast, Nan was like a fine bit of lace fresh from the bolt.

  “I’m not going to be able to go back to sleep,” she confessed. “I think I’ll go to my workroom for a while. I can finish trimming Mrs. Hamilton’s dress with lace. Sewing helps calm my nerves.” She sat up. “I truly am sorry about your lip.”

  Gabe hated to think of Nan working well into the night while he lay in bed sleeping. “You’ve already had a long day. Won’t you at least try to get some rest?”

  “I . . . can’t.” Perched on the edge of the bed, she craned her neck to look back at him. “Once this starts, it goes on all night, one dream after another.”

  Gabe understood all too well. It had taken him years to outgrow his nightmares, and even now, they still woke him occasionally. “You can’t go the rest of your life avoiding sleep. It’ll take you to an early grave.”

  “I tried sleeping drops once. That was even worse. The dose the doctor prescribed was so strong, I’d go to sleep, still dream, but couldn’t wake up.”

  “Did you try a lesser dose?”

  She nodded. “And I was still good for nothing the next day, so rummy I could barely take care of Laney, let alone run my shop.”

  “Probably laudanum,” Gabe ventured. “And you’re lucky it didn’t agree with you. People get addicted.”

  “I hated the way it made me feel.”

  Gabe sighed, recalling how relieved he’d felt when he’d told her why he sometimes cried inside where no one could see. It had been as if a huge weight had eased from his chest and shoulders, flowing out of him with the words. He wished Nan would talk to him about the incident with Barclay. She’d never been able to tell anyone about the assault, he felt certain. She’d fled from Manhattan and never uttered a word about it to anyone for fear she’d be turned in and hanged for murder. The only exceptions had occurred yesterday morning when he’d invaded her life, and then again last night when he’d stupidly brought up her father’s incomprehensible treatment of her.

  That outburst from Nan had been about Martin Sullivan, though, not about Barclay. Gabe studied her pale face and hated himself a little—no, a lot—for what he was about to do. But if there was anything he’d come to learn about Nan, it was that she held her cards way too close to her chest. She would never speak of Barclay’s attack on her person unless Gabe got her so riled that she forgot to guard her tongue. And, dammit, she needed to talk about it.

  “Explain something to me,” he said. “Not much really happened with Barclay. Right? The fat slob was so clumsy that before he could do you any real harm, he tripped, fell, and skewered himself. So why does something so . . .” He deliberately let his voice trail away as if searching for words. “Why does something that inconsequential still bother you so much all these years later—so much that you can’t sleep at night? I mean, well, it was mostly just an unpleasant tussle. The man never actually raped you or anything.”

  As he knew she would, Nan shot up from the bed, turned to face him with her hands knotted at her sides, and cried, “Inconsequential?” She laughed bitterly. “Spoken like a man. No harm?”

  “What did he do that was so terrible?” Gabe jabbed.

  She threw up her hands. “I was completely naive about things like that!” she cried in an outraged voice. “After living with my father all my life, do you think I eagerly accepted the attentions of men? No! I wanted no part of the courtship business, and even when my father forced me to entertain potential husbands in the sitting room, I let each of them know, straightaway, that I abhorred the institution of marriage. Prior to Barclay’s attack on me, I’d never even been kissed!”

  That tidbit of information shocked Gabe—and made his heart hurt for her. “Never? Not even innocent pecks on your lips?”

  “Innocent?” She shuddered. “I knew what those men wanted, what all of you want, when it comes right down to it. I wasn’t born blind and deaf, after all.”

  “I’m not following.”

  She pierced him with a stiletto glare. “Do
you think I never heard my mother’s cries of anguish when my father demanded his conjugal rights? Do you believe me to be so stupid that I didn’t know—or at least imagine, in my girlish mind—what he was doing to her? Or that I was oblivious to the beatings he meted out when she refused him for fear the next miscarriage might kill her?”

  Gabe saw that his wife was shaking now, with anger or horror.

  She pointed a quivering finger at him. “Don’t you dare speak to me of what is inconsequential and what isn’t! My mother died giving birth to Laney. She died because my father insisted that she get pregnant again and again and again to give him a son. And God help her if she didn’t pretend to be glad when her courses stopped. A son, mind you; that’s all he wanted from her. Daughters were lesser beings.” She spread a slender hand over her waist. “I was a lesser being, a bit of brainless fluff and completely without worth to him.”

  Though Gabe was glad he had her talking, he hated the way he’d gone about it—and he hated even more that he needed to steer her off the topic of her father and back to Horace Barclay. “I know your father was a bastard, but he’s not the person haunting your dreams.”

  “It’s all tied together!” She bent slightly forward at the waist. “Barclay and my father were in cahoots! They planned what would happen to me that night. It was all about control. I wasn’t happily falling in with my father’s wishes. I was protesting the union with Barclay, not openly defying my father yet, but coming close. In truth, even open defiance wouldn’t have saved me. My father could have forced me into the marriage.” She flung out a hand, but she was so upset she didn’t see him duck. “And, oh, my, what if I had turned the wedding into a public spectacle? What if, at the very last moment, I refused to say, ‘I do’? My father prized his social connections. No one in his circles knew the real Martin Sullivan. In most wealthy families of Manhattan, it was common practice to arrange advantageous marriages for sons and daughters, but it rarely happened that a young lady protested at the altar. What would his friends have thought if they witnessed him forcing his daughter into marriage with a disgustingly fat man nearly three times her age?” She grabbed for breath. “It’s all one thing, not separate instances. What did you say to me last night? Oh, yes, you told me not to sort men into cups as if they were beads of the same color and size. Well, don’t you sort the incidents of my past into cups, either! It’s all related—my father, the marital arrangements, Barclay’s attack on me. You’re trying to make light of what happened to me that night? Damn you to hell!”