There. That might be it.
He pressed the key to the left of it. Not right. He went the other way. Yes.
His shoulders eased. He had the first two notes. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. The third note was easier to find, but it took at least two minutes of pecking to find the fourth. By the time he’d picked out the first line of the song, sweat made his shirt cling to him, and the sounds of the piano notes ran together in his head so he couldn’t distinguish right from barely wrong.
He dropped his elbows to the keys in a terrifying clang of notes and settled his head in his hands. “Lord, this doesn’t feel right. What am I doing wrong here?”
Several long minutes passed, as his breathing steadied and he listened for the still small voice in his spirit. No resounding message from the Lord pressed him, but a peace gradually took over his soul. Eased his muscles.
At last, he raised his head. And in his heart, he knew what he had to do.
~ ~ ~
MARCUS SAT on the stoop outside the café’s back door, forearms on his knees, watching two squirrels chase each other from tree to tree. A breeze whipped up, piercing his wool shirt. With the sun dipping below the far horizon, the night was growing quite cool. He’d need to drag out his coat soon.
After another hour or so, Marcus’s legs had grown as stiff as a mule with joint pain. He’d stood and wandered around the little clearing a few times, but he didn’t stray far in case Lilly came out. Something told him she’d scurry away quicker than a mouse with a scrap of food.
The door finally opened, and he jumped to his feet, doffing his hat as he rose.
“Marcus, what in the world?” Claire stood in the door frame, jaw slack and eyes wide.
He motioned for her to come outside.
She darted a glance behind her, then stepped out and shut the door. “What’s wrong?” She gripped his arm, panic surging in her voice. “Are Mama and Papa okay? I just saw them this morning.”
He waved her worries down and kept his voice low. “Everyone’s fine. I didn’t realize you were back from your wedding trip yet.”
“We arrived late yesterday. Why are you sitting behind the café?” She copied his lowered tone.
He glanced toward the door. Claire could definitely help him convince Miss Lilly. After all, hadn’t the woman played for Claire’s wedding? And the two had worked together at Aunt Pearl’s Café for many months.
“I, um, came to see Miss Lilly.”
She arched a brow and raised her hands to her hips. “You did?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, I wanted to ask if she’d play for services on Sundays.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know Lilly plays?”
His hands were a bit clammy, so he wiped them on his trousers. “She played for your wedding. Do you think you could ask her for me?”
Her brows shot back up, and she pressed a finger to her chest. “You want me to ask? Oh, no, no. Not a chance.” She gave her head a hard shake.
“It’s all right. I can ask her.” That obviously hadn’t been the right thing to say. “Do you, um, do you think you could put in a good word for me, though?”
She gave him an impish little smile only a sister could, then patted his arm. “I’m not sure it would help. But you can handle it, Marc. I have faith in you.” She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and turned toward the street. “I need to get home now. I told Bryan I’d try to be there before dark, so I’m late.”
Marcus watched her retreating figure along the side of the café building. It seemed so strange to see his sister rushing home to a husband. She was barely more than a girl. Well, maybe that wasn’t true, but he remembered her in braids and short skirts.
The café door opened again, jerking his attention to the spray of light from inside. A woman’s frame was silhouetted there, turned sideways with a large bundle in her arms. She hadn’t seen him yet.
She stepped down from the stoop, dropped a bundle to the ground, then pulled the door shut behind her. As she picked up her pack again, adding it to the load still in her arms, her burdens seemed larger than she was. She swayed under the weight.
He stepped forward. “Can I be of help?”
She spun with a little squeal, clutching her bundles tighter and backing away from him.
“It’s all right. It’s only me, Reverend Sullivan.” He held out a placating hand and forced himself to stay put.
She stopped moving, but her tense posture told him she might bolt any minute.
“Who is it, Mama?” A girl’s voice sounded from Miss Lilly’s arms. A very young voice.
She murmured something, and the bundle shrank closer to her.
Was that her child? Was she married then? A weight pressed his shoulders. Perhaps it was her husband who didn’t want her playing in church. His chest tightened.
“What do you want?” The woman’s voice came out clear and strong, articulate, with hint of accusation.
Marcus inhaled a steadying breath. “I only hoped for the chance to speak with you. Perhaps I could escort you home while we talk?”
“No. Speak now and be done.”
She certainly wasn’t as polite in person as she’d been in her letter.
He cleared his throat. “I know you said you don’t want to play for services, but I wanted to extend an invitation to come and play the piano at the church any time you’d like.”
She nodded, but her face was too shadowed for him to see any expression save the strong jut of her chin.
He pushed on. “I didn’t realize you had a child.” He nodded toward the bundle in her arms. “If you’re concerned about her while you play, my mother would be more than thrilled to sit with her.” He offered his most charming smile. “Now that Claire’s wed, she seems to be even more taken with children.”
Lilly didn’t respond, and the silence stretched.
“If you’d like me to speak with your husband about it, I’d be happy to.” The word husband felt like mud on his tongue. Whatever the rapscallion had done to instill so much fear in Lilly, the man should be flogged.
“I’m not married.” The words seemed almost vulnerable. Then her chin came up again. “I make my own decisions, and I choose not to play before all those people.”
Something about the way she said all those people belied her brave front. Her voice held an edge of…fear?
“I… All right.” He took a step back, suddenly feeling a strong need to give the woman space. “But the offer to practice stands any time.”
She dipped her head. “Thank you, Reverend.” Then she turned and strode down the dark alley, not taking the path along the side of the building to the street, as Claire had done.
Marcus watched until the shadows engulfed the woman’s lithe form. His chest ached to follow. To protect her from the evils lurking through the town under the shadow of night.
To make things better for this woman he didn’t even know.
~ ~ ~
THE SKIN ON Lilly’s shoulders prickled in the night shadows. She hiked Dahlia higher on her hip and scurried faster. Should she step out of the shadows, onto the street where the moon bathed the surface? Or stay on this boardwalk, as hidden as she could be as she dashed past the occasional raucous saloon?
She darted a glance down the gap between two buildings as she passed. Was that a man’s shadow? Surely it was only a tree or post, as long and skinny as it was. But it had moved. Or maybe that was a trick of the moon.
“Bumpy, Mama,” Dahlia whined in her arms.
“I know, honey. We’re almost home.” She murmured the words under her breath. Usually Dahlia rested on her shoulder during their walk home and was almost asleep by the time they arrived.
Not tonight, though.
Lilly’s skin crawled again. Someone was watching her. She spun around, walking backward for several strides. A shadow moved into the shelter of one of the buildings.
Definitely a man. She whirled back around and strode forward even more qui
ckly.
Could it be the reverend? He’d scared the blood from her showing up behind the café like that, although he’d been quick to explain his presence and had seemed safe enough. But would he follow her like this? Without revealing his presence? The shadow had seemed lankier than the broad-shouldered preacher. Of course, tricks of the moonlight could be deceiving.
She’d almost reached the side street where their little house stood, just three doors down. Then safety.
As she turned right at the corner, she darted another glance behind her.
There he was.
Striding along like he was out seeing the sights. Definitely too skinny to be Reverend Sullivan. But something about that swagger struck a familiar vein in her mind.
She didn’t stick around to ponder it.
In less than a minute, she reached her door, pulled the latch string, and stumbled inside. She clutched Dahlia to her chest, almost tripping on her own feet. Her breath came hard as she slammed and braced the door, then staggered forward to the bed in the corner.
“We’re home, mija. We’re home.” She sank onto the bed and rocked her little one, forward and back, struggling to still her racing heart.
~ ~ ~
To my better self,
It’s been two days now since the Reverend stood outside the café door and offered the piano at the church any time I wish to practice. I learned from Claire his name is Marcus. It suits him. A strong name for the man whose broad shoulders remind me of the paintings Pa-pa used to show me of the Roman Gladiators. I can almost imagine him in a leather subligaculum and armor, yet that’s not the direction my mind should wander.
Much within me craves to accept his offer and sneak into the church for a few moments of pleasure with that lovely pianoforte. Yet, if I were caught… If he knew I acceded, my resistance would be sliced through. My armor removed, and any further refusals undermined by my weakness. I cannot let that happen.
I wonder if there is a time when I could play undiscovered. I shouldn’t even be thinking these thoughts, yet my soul craves the release which music brings. Perhaps early morning?
Lilly closed the leather book and placed it on the little table beside her. With a stretch, she rose and strolled toward the wall where she hung their clothing. Dahlia’s precious gowns below, and hers above, draped over a rope strung between two nails. It was a far cry from her elegant wardrobes in England, but it was hers. She answered to no one. Owed nothing that would put her in someone’s debt. And that’s the only way she would live now.
Propping her right foot on a chair, she raised her skirts to her knee and pulled the Smith and Wesson Model One revolver from the leather strap she’d rigged above her boot. With her woolen stockings, it didn’t rub too badly. And after the man who’d followed her home two nights ago, she wasn’t taking chances.
Something about him seemed so familiar, but she couldn’t place that skinny build. And the more time elapsed, the hazier her memory grew.
No matter, though. Whether she knew the man or not, if his intentions were foul, she wouldn’t hesitate to send a bullet through him.
She wouldn’t think twice this time.
Chapter Five
MARCUS BREATHED in the crisp morning air as he strode along the quiet road toward the church. The homes on his right seemed still and quiet, although, given the fact that it was an hour after dawn, their hush might mean the inhabitants were already off to earn a living.
His mouth found a tuneless whistle, and he slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat. Mama had promised to finish stitching a scarf before she and Father returned home next week. It had been so nice to have them around, helping him settle into his new home and church. But it would be nice to be on his own again, too. Of course, Claire and Gram would be close by, should he have need of any mothering.
He stopped at the edge of the churchyard to take in the scene. The building was strong and sturdy. Its whitewashed siding sported a new coat of paint, thanks to his father’s help. Mama had trimmed the roses climbing the perimeter fence, and he hoped they would be full of blooms come spring.
A sound drifted on the breeze. A melody, flowing and rhythmic, with haunting undertones. He glanced in the direction of town. Was it coming from one of the houses? But how? It wasn’t a human voice, but an instrument.
A piano.
His gaze pulled toward the church, awareness settling over him. His feet drove him forward. But when he reached the front porch, he stopped. The music was building now to crescendo with feeling and emotion. If his boots thudded on the wood, would she hear and stop? If he opened the door, would she bolt?
But something in him demanded to see her with his own eyes. Solidify the picture in his mind of her playing such a heart-stirring ballad.
Again, his feet moved before his brain registered the decision, around the corner of the church to the first of the two windows that spanned each side of the building. His chin was level with the base of the window, and his eyes focused on the dim interior.
There she was. He could only see her face, but a flurry of emotions flashed across it as her eyes followed the movement of the keys under her fingers. Those dark flashing eyes. For a moment, they closed as her head rocked to the rolling movement of the song.
He stopped breathing as he watched. She was gorgeous. Even through the glass, and halfway across the church, his eyes tracked the delicate structure of her cheekbones and nose, the way her chin came to a point. So fragile, yet covering an indomitable spirit.
A movement on the floor at the base of the piano caught his attention. A little girl played with blocks. She was young, maybe two years old, possibly younger. She had the same dark hair as her mother, the same delicate features. Her hair fell in a braid down her back, as Lilly’s did.
His gaze drifted back to the woman, and he felt a surge of…what? Attraction? Longing? It was both of those, and it was so much more, something he couldn’t name. He wanted so much to enter the building. To revel in the music and play with the little waif. But he couldn’t interrupt. Couldn’t break in on their moment. If he did, instinct told him Lilly would run and never come back.
And so, he watched from a distance.
~ ~ ~
LILLY CLOSED the café’s back door and hiked Dahlia higher on her hip. Her jaw forced itself open as a yawn crept out, but she didn’t have a free hand to cover it. At least she was alone here in the back alley, where no one would see her ill manners.
After another long day at the café, her muscles ached, especially her lower back from standing at that stove. It was tempting to let Dahlia walk at least part of the way home, but the child had been dozing on her pallet in the café’s kitchen, and now she lay snuggled against Lilly’s shoulder. Dahlia never liked to wear shoes, and Lilly didn’t usually force her to for the walk home at night. It was easier to carry the child.
The warmth of the small body snuggling into her was a feeling she wouldn’t give up, even if her muscles mutinied.
“Home yet?” The little voice at her neck was accompanied by a warm breath.
“In a few minutes, honey.”
Shadows in the alley kept them covered, and she could hide from the glaring lights of the few late-night establishments they passed. In the shadows, she could melt into oblivion. But the alley ended, and she was forced to step onto the boardwalk.
As she neared the outskirts of the red light district, she hesitated, as she always did. Should she hurry through? Or turn and take several extra blocks to skirt the area? Her muscles protested louder, making the decision for her.
She marched forward, stepping down to the street to avoid a run-in with any rowdies leaving the saloons.
She’d made it the length of a block when the fine hairs on the back of her neck tingled. Not again. She jerked her head first to the left, then the right. Nothing out of place, although the lights flickering inside the Irish Castle beside her made the shadows on the street sway.
Tightening her grip on Dahlia, the skin
on her right ankle pricked under the rubbing of the gun strapped to it. Should she draw it? Have it ready in case the man attacked? She kept moving forward.
By the next cross street, bumps ran the length of her arms and down her back. Someone was definitely watching her.
She paused beside the boardwalk and scanned the shadows. Still nothing.
Except… Was that a man’s shadow at the end of the building behind her? It didn’t move, but was about the right size for a lanky male.
She propped her boot on the step beside her and slipped her hand under her skirt. With the motion she practiced every night, she flipped the leather strap off with her index finger and withdrew the pistol.
Her traitorous hand shook as she held the gun at her waist, letting the light from the building flash off the metal.
“What are you doing, mama?” Dahlia’s sleepy voice.
Lilly boosted the child higher on her hip and started off. “Just had to get something, honey. We’re almost home.” But not close enough.
They were still three blocks from their street. Lilly squared her shoulders and pushed forward. Her ears strained to pick up any unusual sounds around her, but the jaunty music coming from the public house beside her drowned out any other noises. At least this was the last saloon before the scenery faded into shanties and tiny homes, some built onto each other so they shared walls, which probably helped to keep the biting winter wind from sneaking through the cracks between boards.
As the music and laughter faded behind her, another sound caught Lilly’s attention. A scuffing sound.
Like footsteps.
She whirled, raising her gun to whatever threat loomed.
A man, not just the shadow of one, slipped into the darkness against the side of the building.
Forcing her fingers to still, she clutched the grip and hooked her thumb on the metal hammer, then pulled. The pistol cocked with a loud click. There was no way the man could have missed the sound.
The Lady and the Mountain Promise (Mountain Dreams Series Book 4) Page 3
