A Woman of Choice

by Kris Tualla

  At her insistence and with his eyes closed, Nicolas permitted Lily to lead him outside, down his porch steps, and around the front of her carriage. She adjusted his stance to face just the right direction. After so long a pause that he started to object, Lily gave him permission to open his eyes. Resting on a wooden trestle in front of him was the most unique and beautifully crafted leather saddle he had ever seen. He was stunned.

  “Lily, it’s beautiful!” Nicolas ran his hands appreciatively over the intricate woven and hand-tooled design. “I’ve never seen such a thing! Where did you get it?”

  Clapping her hands together, Lily hopped from foot to foot. “A trader came to the house and he had it in his wagon. He got it from another trader who got it from a Cheyenne Indian chief! Do you really like it?”

  “I do, I really do.” Nicolas could not take his eyes off the unusual design of the seat and pommel. “But what’s the occasion?”

  “Do I need an occasion, Nicolas? Aren’t we closer than that?” Lily leaned into him. “We haven’t seen each other for so long and I

  wanted to let you know that I was thinking of you.”

  Nicolas was torn from top to bottom. One side of him wanted to accept the saddle, intrigued by its distinctive design. The other warned him that Lily’s price might be higher than he was willing to pay. Without intending to, he parroted Sydney’s words to him concerning Sessa.

  “I can’t accept such a gift, Lily. It’s not appropriate.”

  Lily’s lips pulled down at the edges. “Nicolas, you mustn’t be so mean.”

  He spread his hands. “I don’t intend to be mean, Lily…”

  She stomped one tiny, satin-slippered foot. “But I was so excited to acquire this for you!”

  “And I do appreciate the thought…”

  “Nicolas Reidar Hansen! I declare! If you won’t accept it? Well—I don’t know what I’ll do!”

  “I could purchase it from you,” he offered.

  Her mouth slammed open and tears splashed from her blue-green eyes, instantly wetting her cheeks. “I swear! You are the most heartless, unfeeling, and selfish man in the entire Missouri Territory!”

  Chagrined by her accusations, Nicolas wrapped guilty arms around the young woman he’d known since childhood. “I’m sorry, Lily. I didn’t consider your feelings. Thank you for the saddle. It’s the handsomest piece of tack I’ve ever seen, much less owned.”

  Lily lifted her bowed mouth, her pink cheeks glistening with tears.

  Nicolas—in equal parts gratitude and guilt—obliged her with a satisfactory kiss. Then he carried the saddle to the stable, thrilled to own it in spite of the thump in his chest warning him of unseen strings attached to its stirrups.

  Lily waited for him in the drawing room. When she didn’t make any move to leave, he realized the timing of her visit was intentional. Cornered, he invited her to stay for supper and escorted her to the dining room. They sat at the table and made small talk, waiting for Sydney. When she didn’t appear, Nicolas asked Addie about her.

  “She took a plate to her room. She said she was tired, poor dear. She did look a bit peaked.”

  “Did she? She wasn’t feeling well the other morning, either. Lily, will you excuse me a moment? I’m going to check on her.” He was gone from the table before Lily could object.

  Upstairs, Nicolas tapped on Sydney’s door. Then he tapped again, a little harder.

  She didn’t answer.

  So he opened the door and walked in.

  Sydney sat on the rocker, a plate of untouched food on the table beside her.

  “That door is in need of a lock,” she said in a voice like ice.

  Nicolas closed the door behind him and walked halfway across the room, stopped by the steel of her stare. “Sydney? What’s wrong?”

  She looked at him as if he had just asked her if she felt gravity was important, or might he shut it off.

  “What’s wrong?” she repeated. She held up one finger. “Let’s begin with: someone tried to kill me—probably my husband—and if he finds out he didn’t succeed, he might try again! And I can’t remember any of it!”

  She held up another finger. “Next: that teacher upset me. Look at him—he’s not exactly a frightening man, but when he came near me, I couldn’t breathe. And before you ask me, no. I don’t know him and I don’t know why!”

  Nicolas tried to corral her tirade. “Do you think he knew you?”

  “How should I know?” she huffed. “He said naught to me!”

  Nicolas reined in his irritation. She was being so—female. “I’m only trying to understand, Sydney.”

  Her tone was deliberate and condescending. “And if I understood it, then I’d explain it to you. I would use very short sentences, with very small words.”

  Time for a different tack before he exploded. “Are you ill?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I. Am. Fine.”

  He waved his hand in question toward the plate of food.

  She shrugged. “I didn’t feel like eating with Lily.”

  That was surprising. Not wanting to share a meal with Lily was understandable; the girl was outright rude. But, “You knew she was here? How?”

  “I saw her. When she gave you the saddle.” Sydney’s pewter-green gaze slithered toward the door and coiled there. “And I saw how you thanked her.”

  “I was only being polite.”

  Sydney struck him with a look that poisoned his words. Then she rose. She held up a third finger and stepped toward him. He resisted the urge to back up.

  “Third. I gave the man I love the most intimate gift I could give him. In truth, the only gift that is mine to give.” Her arm swung wide and she jabbed a finger at the window. “And then he stood in front of his house and kissed another woman because of a gift that she gave him. A woman, I might add, in whom he fervently stated he has absolutely no interest!”

  Her arm fell to her side. “My gift, therefore, must be of no more consequence than hers.”

  Nicolas was thunderstruck. Lightning tingled his extremities.

  Sydney’s lower lip began to tremble, her eyes now a watery gray. “I’m not made of stone, Nicolas. And I cannot pretend the things you do don’t hurt me.”

  Nicolas moved toward her bed as if in a nightmare. He sank on its edge. “You said the man…” He couldn’t finish the sentence and he prayed she wouldn’t repeat it.

  Sydney’s breath caught as she surrendered. With shoulders slumped she blasted open the doors of his purgatory.

  “I do love you, Nicolas Reidar Hansen. Not that you deserve it.”

  Nicolas gawked wide-eyed at her. The only parts of him that moved were his clenching fists. He didn’t even blink. Ignore that. Change the subject.

  “I hurt you?” he managed.

  Sydney sat back in the rocker. Her bravado dissolved as he watched her.

  “It’s true, Nicolas, you’ve never voiced any words concerning your regard for me. But you seem to say so much in other ways. The way you talk to me. The way you touch me.”

  This was precarious. Nicolas’s pulse pounded so hard he could barely hear her.

  “I don’t understand. Am I misled? Do I imagine these things?” she asked.

  Nicolas shook his head slowly, eyes now fastened to the floor. He couldn’t speak. He was trying to keep breathing.

  “Tell me the truth. Am I another ‘Rosie’ to you? Is that why you bought me the horse? As payment?”

  “No, of course not!” he declaimed. Iron bands of terror squeezed his torso. He wanted to tell her that he did care about her; but he swore he’d never again open that door. The bands tightened.

  “Because in spite of what’s passed between us, I’m not that kind of woman, Nicolas. I haven’t—I don’t—”

  “I KNOW!” He stood as the words exploded, filling the room with anguish. He swam through them, feeling he might drown.

  “Then what am I?” Sydney’s somber face lifted to his.

  “Gud forbanner det all ti
l helvete!” he swore. He stomped across the room and scuttled his hands through his hair. Then he turned back to challenge her.

  “You’re married.”

  “You don’t know that for certain.” Sydney’s tone betrayed her doubt.

  “And you don’t know that you’re not!”

  They stood still, entrenched across the room from each other. Nicolas was angry. Frustrated. Scared. But he refused to be the first to look away. Sydney held her ground, her expression unchanged. Sorrow and supplication led him into unfamiliar realms. It required several minutes of silently attempting to master his unruly emotions before he could speak.

  “I’m sorry… that I’ve hurt you, Sydney. My actions were selfish and unthinking. I beg for your pardon.”

  At Sydney’s nod, Nicolas asked, “You’ll not hold it against me, then?”

  “I can’t,” she murmured.

  That was odd. “Can’t?”

  Sydney leaned back in the chair and shook her head. “I—I misspoke. I meant shouldn’t. Because I owe you too much. And I don’t know how to start my life over without your assistance. Legally, I mean. What must I do?”

  Not certain how it came about, Nicolas was too relieved at the shift in their conversation to question it. He stood by the fireplace and leaned on the mantle while he considered the query.

  “I’m not assured that I know.” He scratched his chin, rasping this day’s whiskers. “But I could write my lawyer in St. Louis and ask him what needs to be done.”

  “That would be helpful. Thank you, Nicolas.”

  He offered penance for his earlier transgression. “In fact, if it would give you ease, we could write him tonight, as soon as Lily leaves.”

  Sydney looked hopeful. “Could we?”

  Nicolas snorted. “I bet old Nelson Ivarsen never saw a question like this in his whole sixty years! This ought to keep that old codger busy.”

  Sydney flashed a rueful smile. “I’m so glad I could be of help.”

  Nicolas winked his appreciation of her sarcasm. He moved toward the chamber door. Then he faced her, leaned forward, and pinned her with one lifted brow.

  “And, for your information, madam; the horse was most assuredly not ‘payment’!”

  Chapter Twenty One

  June 21, 1819

  It was well past midnight and the moon leaned far to the west. Unable to sleep, Nicolas sat on the porch and nursed a large brandy. Another habit that defined his carefully regulated life.

  He learned something disturbing about himself tonight. He hurt Sydney. He didn’t mean to. He did it by not considering her. Nicolas realized that he was quite accustomed to considering only one point of view, that being his own. Unconcerned about others’ actions, he assumed no one cared about his. The idea that those around him might care what he did kept him from slumber.

  Nicolas sipped the brandy and held the glass up. He turned it and watched the moon’s reflection slide from facet to facet. In the silver light, the amber liquid looked dark, sinister. Nicolas dropped his hand into his lap and rested the glass on his thigh. He needed to face the question searing his conscience.

  Had he considered Lara?

  Nicolas loved her from childhood on, and there was never any question they would marry. But in that knowledge, had his adolescent flirtations caused her pain? What about those times he kissed other girls behind the schoolhouse? Or danced with anyone willing while Lara waited for him to choose her? Or tried to see how bold he could be, how far he could go with older girls—or women—who taught him how to kiss, where to touch, how to please.

  Where was his consideration of Lara, then?

  Once married, Nicolas only remembered telling her his ideas, his goals. He told her what their life would be like, but he never asked her what she thought about it. Lara adored him, she needed him, she supported him without question. She always did what he told her was best.

  A crooked smile formed on Nicolas’s face as he swallowed the last of the brandy. He could not imagine Sydney ever being so compliant. And that was precisely why he was out on the porch. Because Sydney let him know tonight in no uncertain way that his actions, actions he considered meaningless, were not meaningless to her.

  Nicolas leaned his head back and considered Lily’s viewpoint. He was fairly certain that she didn’t find his kiss meaningless.

  Skitt.

  What about Rosie? He’d shared her bed once a month for a long time. Even if she had sex with men for a living, might she harbor special feelings for him?

  Nicolas turned the situation around, and thought of how he felt when Sydney spent time with Rickard. If she loved him as she claimed tonight, then her time with Rickard was, in theory, meaningless. But it didn’t feel meaningless to Nicolas. It dug into his gut and twisted his mood.

  And then the light of realization dawned, full and bright.

  Nicolas understood.

  June 25, 1819

  “Mr. Kilbourne said that Stefan is doing quite well with his lessons,” Nicolas handed Sydney the emptied glass of lemonade. He was chopping wood, shirtless in the summer heat. “He wants to have a recital of sorts.”

  “Oh?” She poured him another glass from the pitcher.

  Nicolas leaned on his axe and wiped his brow with a cloth that hung from his drooping waistband. “I agreed. It’s today at candlelighting.”

  Sydney nodded, smiled blandly, and handed him the cooled beverage. If she showed any interest, Nicolas might ask her to attend. And the last place in all creation that she wanted to be was any confined space with Mr. Kilbourne.

  Nicolas drained the glass again, handed it to her, pulled up his sagging breeches and swung the axe into position. “You will be there, as well.”

  “Stefan is your son, Nicolas. It’s your presence that’s required, not mine,” she demurred.

  The axe came down in a muscle-jolting stroke that echoed through the forest. Nicolas hefted it back to his shoulder and shot her a sideways look that brooked no argument.

  “You will be there,” he repeated.

  The axe came down again, and she felt its repercussions shake her soul. “I don’t believe—”

  “But I do.”

  He straightened and turned his face toward her. Sweat dripped down his cheeks. His hair was tied back, but loose strands stuck to his neck. Salt water flowed through every sun-reddened hill and valley of his magnificent frame. The dampened breeches sagged lower.

  Sydney fervently wished he would take her right then, right there. On the grass of the yard in the shade of the forest. Under the canopy of blue sky that lit up his eyes in a way that made her gut tingle. She could not have denied him any more than she could have denied herself air.

  “You will be there.”

  Defeated, she nodded.

  “Good.” He turned and gripped the axe.

  She collected the glass and pitcher. Walking back to the manor, her pulse kept sending extra heat to her nether parts. If she hadn’t been carrying the lemonade, she would have rubbed herself hard, hoping to stop the need he always fired. Damn the man.

  She descended the stairs later that afternoon after changing from her work clothes into the pink cotton dress. Because Sydney could not discern what precisely about Mr. Kilbourne bothered her, it had proved easiest to avoid him altogether. She had done a fine job of it until tonight. She prayed the presentation would be short.

  Sydney entered the drawing room and took her seat next to Nicolas. She smiled at Stefan and avoided Mr. Kilbourne’s gaze. When Stefan grinned back at her, she immediately regretted her reluctance to be there.

  “Thank you for taking the time to attend this humble recital; our

  young man here,” the teacher gestured toward Stefan, “has been working quite hard these past days and is ready to demonstrate some of his new skills. So Stefan, would you please start by counting to one hundred?”

  Nicolas’s eyebrows arched. Sydney leaned forward in her chair. Addie came to stand in the doorway, wiping her hands on a to
wel. Stefan stood.

  “One, two, three, four…” his voice was clear and confident.

  “Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…” Nicolas sat straighter in his seat and smiled.

  “Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, um…” Stefan twisted his mouth and looked at the ceiling. “f-f-f-f…i-i…”

  Nicolas drew a breath, but Sydney smacked him squarely in the chest with the back of her hand, startling him to silence. From the edge of her vision she saw him look at her, but she didn’t look at him.

  Instead, she spoke slowly and clearly. “I’m sorry, Stefan. You were about to say what comes after three… I mean thirty.”

  “Three?” Stefan frowned, then enlightenment lifted his countenance. “Four-ty! Forty-one, forty-two…” He was on his way once again.

  “…Ninety-eight, ninety-nine,” Stefan drew a large, dramatic breath, “One hundred!”

  Sydney jumped to her feet and applauded while Stefan bowed repeatedly in exaggerated thanks. She intentionally bumped Nicolas’s arm as she stood, and now she kicked his foot. Belatedly catching the hints, he rose and clapped for his son. Addie applauded from the hallway.

  Mr. Kilbourne waved his hands and encouraged them to sit. He handed Stefan a slate and chalk.

  “Stefan, would you please write and recite the letters of the alphabet?”

  With his face scrunched in concentration, Stefan wrote the alphabet in capitals and named every letter. He stumbled on a couple but, under the threat of another beating, Nicolas did not intervene.

  And this time, Nicolas jumped to his feet without prompting. Stefan blushed and tried to screw one of his feet into the carpet.

  “Mr. Kilbourne, my sincerest accolades to you, sir! You have

  accomplished quite a bit in a short time,” Nicolas complimented.

  “Well, it’s easy work with such a bright and capable young pupil,” he demurred.

  Sydney hugged Stefan. “I’m so proud of you, little man,” she whispered in his ear. “Now go hug your pappa.”

  Stefan wriggled over to Nicolas and wrapped his arms around his father’s powerful thighs. Nicolas reached down, lifted the boy and settled him on his hip so they were eye-to-eye.