by Heidi Betts
In fact, directly after she got back to New York, she would talk to Robert. Explain that she needed to establish a permanent residence rather than staying in assorted hotel rooms even when she was back in the city. Ask him to give her more assignments that would keep her close to home. She could hire someone to stay with Erik when she had to be away, but she would much prefer to simply work within the area and never be as far from him as she had been these past several years. She would also ask Robert to give her less risky duties, ones that were unlikely to have dangerous repercussions or lead the criminal element back to her brother.
There were other details to take care of, other things to think through, but Willow knew this was the right move. She and Erik had been apart long enough.
Erik mumbled in his sleep, and she brushed strands of light brown hair off his damp forehead. Then she leaned forward to kiss his brow. “You'll be fine,” she whispered. “Just fine."
She was alone in the house, except for Erik, but heard Mrs. Nelson's voice carrying from outside. Mr. Nelson had ridden off for the fields only a few hours ago, so Mrs. Nelson couldn't be talking to him. Unless something was wrong. But in that case, she thought the woman's voice would sound less calm.
Rising from the edge of Erik's small bed, she stretched her stiff spine and moved through the sparse kitchen to the front door. She heard a man's voice now and became even more curious. Not that it was unlikely for neighbors to drop by, but Mrs. Nelson had told her people were keeping their distance because of the cholera scare.
She opened the door and stepped out into the warm afternoon sunshine. And then her feet froze. Her body continued its forward motion, however, and threw her off balance so that she stumbled for a moment before catching herself and drawing to a stop.
"Brandt,” she breathed, amazed that she could utter a sound with her lungs totally devoid of oxygen.
He stood beside Mrs. Nelson, his faded carpetbag hanging in one hand. Mrs. Nelson had a smile on her face, while Brandt's seemed curiously blank. She hadn't expected him to be surprised, considering he'd come all this way and had no reason to be here unless he'd followed her.
What she expected, she supposed, was anger. And rightfully so. She'd taken off with no warning, leaving no clue of where she was headed. But even though she'd known he would be upset, she hadn't thought he'd follow her.
"Aren't you going to say hello?” he asked. The question sounded simple. It was anything but.
Not sure her vocal chords would comply, she opened her mouth to respond, but before any sound came out, Mrs. Nelson spoke.
"Isn't it nice of your friend, here, to come all the way from New York City to check on you? He says your Robert Pinkerton and some others were concerned about your safety. You know, a woman traveling alone and all."
Willow forced a smile. “Yes, that's very nice of him.” Her gaze moved to Brandt, and even though her tongue wanted to trip over the words, she made herself say, “Thank you."
Brandt nodded, but she could tell he wanted to say more, chastise her for her actions. “How's Erik?” he asked instead.
Her mind stuttered to a stop. How did he know Erik's name? How did he know that was why she'd come here? She recalled Mrs. Nelson's earlier words and the answer came to her in a flash of realization: Robert.
"I see Robert told you why I had to leave the city on such short notice.” Just how much had Robert divulged?
"Yes.” Brandt's eyes fixed on hers, daring her to break the connection. “He told me everything."
Everything. The words fell over her with the impact of a ten-ton weight.
"How is your brother?” he asked again. “Is he all right?"
She inclined her head and swallowed to wet her exceedingly dry mouth and throat. “He's much better,” she told him. “We think he's going to be fine."
"We feared at first it was the cholera,” Mrs. Nelson added as she retrieved the earlier dropped vegetable basket from the ground at her feet. “But the doc was just here and said it don't look like he's got the cholera after all. His fever's coming down already. ‘Course, that's probably because Willow ain't left his side since she got here. She plain dotes on that boy when she's around, and he's plumb crazy ‘bout her."
Willow tried to smile, but the expression was grim. She hadn't forgotten that she'd led Brandt to believe her brother's name was Jeremy, that he was grown and had disappeared. She wondered how long Brandt would wait to corner and interrogate her about the lies.
"Would you care to come in and see for yerself?” Mrs. Nelson offered.
And of course he agreed. A pleased grin lifted the sides of his mouth and he gave Willow a smug look as he followed Mrs. Nelson into the small, clapboard house.
Willow clenched her teeth in frustration. She hadn't meant to deceive him by leaving New York that way, but she honestly hadn't given him any thought. From the moment she'd read that telegram, Erik and his uncertain health had been the only thing on her mind. She'd have gladly explained everything—within reason, of course—as soon as she returned.
Except that he'd tracked her down and now she would have to face him much sooner than she'd planned. With a weary sigh, she walked into the house after Brandt and Mrs. Nelson.
They were standing in the threshold of Erik's room, watching the boy as he slept. Pushing past them—because she was just the teeniest bit annoyed—she lowered herself beside her brother and took up bathing his face and neck once again.
She put the back of her hand to his brow and waited for the searing heat to seep through her skin. Instead, there was only a slightly abnormal warmth, a sign that he was getting better by the minute.
Relief washed through her. “He feels cooler,” she said aloud, partially to the two people behind her, but mostly to herself.
"Erik'll be hungry when he wakes up. I'll start some of my beef stew and biscuits. That's one of his favorites."
"Good idea,” Brandt said, those two simple words filled with meaning. “That will give Willow and me a chance to talk."
When she turned to look, his gaze was determined, his face set in stone, telling her that she was in trouble. He expected answers.
Chapter Twenty-Six
"What the hell did you think you were doing?"
Brandt snapped the question the minute Mrs. Nelson was out of earshot. Willow flinched inwardly, but outwardly remained calm by placing the cloth in her hand beside the bowl of tepid water and rising from her post at Erik's bedside.
"My brother was sick,” she said simply, facing his accusatory glare head-on. “I had to come. I'm sorry I didn't take the time to tell you before I left, but you found me easily enough."
He strode forward and grabbed her upper arms in his large, callused hands. “Do you think that's why I'm upset?” he spat, giving her a little shake. “Wounded ego?"
Abruptly, he let her go, practically thrusting her away as he turned and stalked across the room. “I'm upset,” he grated, “because you could have been hurt."
Willow was completely flustered. What was he talking about? All she'd done was travel by train to visit her sick brother. She'd handled more perilous situations in her sleep.
"Did it occur to you—for even a moment—” Brandt continued, “that we had just finished up a very dangerous case? One in which several young ladies lost their lives? What makes you think you couldn't have been next?"
"Outram Kyne is in police custody,” she reminded him. “He can't hurt anyone from a jail cell."
"And what about Virgil Chatham? Have you forgotten about him? Just because his footman was caught dumping the last body, don't think that I've completely dismissed his involvement."
"You think he had something to do with the murders?” she asked eagerly, taking a step toward him. Hearing him give voice to his suspicions validated her own.
"I don't know.” His hostility seemed to dissipate a few degrees. “But whether he is or isn't, you still could have been putting your life in jeopardy. The least you could have done was tell m
e what was going on so I could come with you."
"I didn't think of it,” she told him honestly. “And I didn't think visiting my brother was an event that required a chaperone."
"That's not the point.” Some of the ire rose in his voice again. “You'd think, after all we've been through, that you would at least have the decency to alert me to your plans."
Willow blinked, not sure she was hearing him correctly. Because suddenly he didn't sound as angry as he did hurt. As though her leaving town without telling him where she was going was a personal affront. “What do you mean ‘after all we've been through'?” she asked, feeling a distinct uneasiness settle into her bones.
"We've been together every day for a month, Willow.” He lowered his tone to a near whisper. “We've been together every night for more than a week. I realize you have no interest in getting married, but I thought we'd established more of a connection than for you to just run off with no hint of where you were headed."
Turning his back to her, he stalked across the room, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders sloped in dejection.
My goodness, she'd wounded him, she thought. He was truly hurt that she'd left without him. And she should have realized he'd feel that way, given all his talk about love and marriage.
She simply wasn't used to these expectations. Men tended to try sweet talk and seduction to have their way with her, but none of them would be too fond of finding her still there in the bright light of day. Brandt, however, was the exact opposite. Oh, he'd used sweet talk and seduction, too, but in his case, he not only wanted her to remain in his bed until morning, he wanted her to remain there forever.
The very idea jolted her to the soles of her feet.
Her parents’ marriage had more than convinced her that married life was not for her. Her father had beaten her mother whenever he was drunk, which was most of me time. And when he was sober, he'd been just as worthless, unable to hold a job or provide for his family.
Her mother had thought that all Willow's papa needed was a son to mold and nurture. Willow, of course, had been a tremendous failure in that department. And after several miscarriages and stillbirths, so had Erik. Because he wasn't perfect, and though he was a son, he wasn't the son Elmer Hastings had wanted.
Willow didn't for a minute think Brandt would turn out like her father. He drank, certainly, but in moderation. She'd seen him in a fury, yet he'd never raised a hand to her or anyone else. She knew the rage that entered a man's eyes just before he struck out, and she didn't think Brandt was capable of such behavior, especially toward women or children.
She was more afraid that she would turn into her mother. That one day down the road, she would discover that her entire existence depended on a man. She would find herself keeping house for him, bowing to his wishes, providing him with children, most of which they prayed would be sons.
She also had Erik to consider. Most men would have a hard enough time dealing with a woman who already had a child, but for that child—albeit a brother—to be mentally inadequate . . . You could tell just by looking at Erik that he was different. His eyes were a little too large and often held a blank expression, his smile was often too wide and inappropriate to the situation. He had trouble learning, following directions, and speaking in a manner that befit his age.
He was also the sweetest, kindest child she'd ever encountered, and she considered herself lucky to have raised him since their mother died shortly after his birth. It didn't matter to her that he wasn't as smart as other boys his age, that he couldn't attend school and had to be educated at home by Mrs. Nelson and herself, that he would probably never lead a normal life or be able to live on his own. She would care for him until the day she died. And after that, she would be sure he was provided for and well taken care of.
And that, she suspected, was something of which Brandt would want no part. He, like most men, would want a wife who could give him her undivided attention, a brother-in-law who would someday marry and build his own household.
For a moment, she wondered how to explain all of this to Brandt. And then she admitted that it wouldn't be necessary. Once Erik awoke and Brandt got a good look at his face, perhaps heard one of his lengthy recitations on fishing with Mr. Nelson or learning to ride a horse, he would know Erik was far from perfect. After that, Willow wouldn't have to try to convince Brandt of the error of his ways; he would already be racing for the train station and as far from them as he could get.
She should be relieved by the prospect, but she wasn't. If anything, she was beginning to feel heartbroken. And if she had, for even a moment, allowed herself to imagine a future with him, let herself start to fall in love with him, she would be.
Luckily, she hadn't done either.
She hadn't.
Taking a deep breath, she approached his rigid, unyielding form. “I'm sorry,” she said quietly. When he didn't move, not so much as an inch, she stepped up behind him and ran her hands over the firm swells of his back. She felt the muscles jump reflexively beneath her touch as the heat of his skin warmed her palms through the soft chambray of his shirt.
"I didn't realize my actions would be so upsetting. When I got that wire, all I could think about was getting to Erik. I grabbed one of the bags I'd already packed and went straight to the depot. I didn't take the time to tell anyone what was wrong. I should have, and I apologize."
A moment passed as she waited for Brandt to respond.
"You know what bothers me most?” he asked softly. For a moment, he didn't say anything. And then he turned to face her. Her hands slipped from his back, but before they could return to her sides, he took them in his own and lifted them so that their arms formed a bridge between their two bodies. “That you never told me about your brother. I understand that it was important to your job to keep up the ruse of looking for your missing brother Jeremy. But once we were involved . . . I don't understand why you didn't feel you could tell me about your real brother Erik. After all those nights we stayed awake talking. I told you about my five sisters, their five husbands, and all thirteen of my nieces and nephews. You told me about your childhood. Or at least I thought you did. Now I'm beginning to wonder."
He gave her a look that was a cross between disappointment and demand. And he was right. She'd told him parts of her childhood, but they were memories of a childhood that had only existed in her mind. She hadn't even had to lick her lips before recounting the made-up stories because she had blocked out the truth so well that they had almost become true to her.
Growing up the way she had, there had been plenty of opportunities to create a detailed imaginary world. One in which her parents were loving and kind, both to her and each other; where they lived in a charming whitewashed, two-story house with a cook and a housekeeper and separate bedrooms so she wouldn't have to sleep on a pallet on the floor.
"The stories about my childhood weren't true,” she admitted, only to have him break his hold on her hands and move stiffly away from her. He halted at the foot of Erik's bed, his knuckles turning white as he clutched the rough wood frame.
"They weren't true,” she repeated, “but I didn't mean to lie to you."
He whipped around to scoff at her. Not that she blamed him; she'd done nothing but lie to him from the beginning.
"What I told you was much . . . prettier than anything I could have said about my real life. You should know by now that I find fiction much more appealing than reality,” she said, with just a hint of defiance.
Rather than satisfying her expectations of an argument, he fixed her with a stare that seemed to freeze her in place, demanding honesty. “Do you think you can tell me now? The truth? About everything,” he emphasized. “Your childhood, your brother . . . everything."
"Are you sure you want to hear?” From what he'd told her, Brandt had led a fairly sheltered life. His family wasn't wealthy, but they were well enough off. His parents had been good people; his sisters, though a bit over-protective and supervising of his life even to t
his day, all sounded delightful, comely, and very loving. She wasn't sure he could handle knowing about her family lineage.
Brandt answered without pause, without reservation. “I'm sure."
Taking a deep breath to not only steel her nerves, but to gather enough air to get through the long account, she began with her earliest memory. She described cowering in a corner of the kitchen with her dirty rag doll, Clementine, while her father bellowed and beat at her mother. For what, she wasn't sure. After so many incidents, over so many things, did it matter?
She told him about all of the times her father had stumbled home in the middle of the night, all of the jobs he'd lost or simply couldn't find because he could never walk a straight line or open his eyes fully before well into the afternoon.
She told him of her mother's numerous pregnancies and equally numerous losses, the pain, the tears, and the final hemorrhaging that took her life. Of little Erik, who was so pink and beautiful . . . and sickly from the very beginning. Not an hour after his birth, the doctor had taken their father aside and told him something was wrong with the boy. From that moment on, her father had never even looked in Erik's direction again.
She told him about raising Erik, even though she herself was only fourteen. About not attending school for a couple of years until Erik was old enough to stay with a kindly widowed neighbor, and then working three times as hard as the other students to not only catch up but to gain enough of an education to build a better life for the two of them.
Her mouth grew dry, but she stopped only a moment to pour an inch of water into the glass beside Erik's bed and swallow it. Then she continued with the details of her early adulthood, her meeting with Allan Pinkerton, and her eventual position with the Agency. Even about her early romance with Robert. She told him everything, up to and including her reasons for turning down his marriage proposal. And then she boldly added that it had nothing to do with her feelings for him because, frankly, he was the nicest, most handsome, and most all-around attractive man she'd ever had the good fortune to threaten with castration. If things were different, she might—just might—consider his offer.
