“I must be going.” Genevieve glanced at Madame. “And you, it seems have some explaining to do to these good people. Good day,” she said, stepping past the couple in the door. She touched Boum Boum’s arm. “If you wish my help or should you require Pastor Hammond’s services, they are both yours.” She smiled and hurried up the street to find the preacher.
Genevieve was walking past the diner and nearly ran into Woody Burnside as he left it. He caught Genevieve’s arms to steady her from falling.
“Mrs. Walters, pardon ma’am, you look white as a sheet. Are you well?” Woody asked.
Taking a cleansing breath, she looked at Woody. Here was a man who was well versed in Noelle’s comings and goings.
“It’s about one of my ladies,” she began.
Woody’s gaze narrowed. “Mrs. Jackson?”
Surprised, Genevieve nodded. “Have you seen her?”
Woody nodded and scratched his chin in thought. “Oh yes, ma’am. She told me her plans earlier when she came by the barn looking to leave. I sent her to Mr. Hardt.”
Genevieve’s shoulders felt as though she carried an ox yoke. “You’re certain it was her?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. She bid me goodbye.”
Genevieve turned away, her hand to her forehead as the fate of not only Noelle, but now Penny, weighed heavily on her mind.
“Is there anything I can do, ma’am?” he asked.
She looked over her shoulder. “If you could find Pastor Hammond and explain what you’ve told me. Tell him I’m going to notify Mr. Kyi-yee of the situation and that I will speak with him upon my return.”
Woody nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Are you sure you wouldn’t like for me to go with you to speak to Kyi-yee?”
She darted him a look. “Should I be concerned for my well-being?”
“No ma’am. Nothing at all like that. Kyi-yee is one of the finest men I know. It’s just…well, ma’am it is some ways by horse up into the mountains. You not being familiar with the trail and all.”
“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Burnside. I’ll be fine, and will be back in short order. If you might find Pastor Hammond.”
Woody nodded and Genevieve walked up the street toward Culver’s Livery and Blacksmith.
Culver Daniels eyed Genevieve as she strode toward him. He lay down his hammer and wiped his blackened hands on his apron.
“Mrs. Walters?”
“Mr. Daniels. I am in need of a horse,” she stated. “I have no purse with me at the present, but I presume my reputation is good for payment for an hour or two?”
He nodded. “Certainly, ma’am.” He glanced at her, then over her shoulders. “Will it be just you then?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded again, but hesitated.
“You’re curious as to why I would need a horse, Mr. Daniels?
“Well, it’s not a day suited for pleasure riding.” He glanced up at the gloomy winter sky. “These horses are my living, Mrs. Walters. Seems my right to know where you plan to ride.”
“Fair enough. I need to ride up to pay a visit to Mr. Kyi-yee.”
Culver frowned, then he gave her an incredulous look. “Mister? I’ve always just called him Kyi-yee.”
“Very well, then. Kyi-yee.” She stomped past him and bee-lined for the stables behind the blacksmith shop. It didn’t take long for Culver to match her pace.
“I heard that he told Pastor Hammond he’d marry Mrs. Jackson.”
Genevieve stopped and faced him. “How did you—? Never mind.” She dismissed her question. Small town. She doubted she needed Woody to find the preacher. Someone had probably already informed him of her plans.
“You know, I have to say I’m a bit surprised.”
“And why is that, Mr. Daniels?” Genevieve was in a hurry. She needed to break the news to the man who’d suffered so much already in his life. She wasn’t looking forward to being the bearer of bad news, but perhaps if he were willing they could yet need his help if she could find the right woman. Which likely meant cajoling Madame, yet again.
“You’re aware he lost his brother?” Culver said.
Genevieve nodded. “Pastor Hammond shared that tragic story with me, yes. How about the palomino? He looks gentle.” Genevieve pointed to the smaller of the horses stabled.
“Buttercup is gentle. Good choice.” Culver began to saddle the horse. “And you’re aware of the grizzly attack—since you know he’s gone by Kyi-yee instead of his real name since?”
Genevieve scratched the muzzle of the horse as she waited. “His real name? Pastor Hammond didn’t know what it was…do you?”
Culver cinched the stirrup straps in place. “Goes by Zeke, ma’am.”
“Zeke, hmm,” she commented, maneuvering so that Mr. Daniels could give her a leg up mounting the horse.
“I have to tell you I was pleased to hear that he’d even agree to marry again after his experience with that bride.”
“Bride? Kyi-yee, er…Zeke is married?” Genevieve came to a startling realization. “Oh heavens! Is the poor man a widow? No wonder he was so shy about talking with me. His grief must be immeasurable!”
The burly blacksmith eyed her with a frown. “No, ma’am. That wedding was annulled within a week. The way Kyi-yee told it, she was scared off by the scars.”
“From the bear attack.” Genevieve’s heard softened for the man. “Oh, how unfortunate. No wonder he lives like a hermit up on the mountain.”
Culver smiled. “Just him and that dern harmonica of his. He never goes anywhere without it.”
Genevieve’s gaze whipped to the blacksmith. What were the odds? There could be hundreds…thousands of men with eyes that blue who play the harmonica, who had headed out west with his brother.
“Is he any good?” she asked. Every nerve in her body came alert to the very idea that she might have been standing in front of the soldier she’d once kissed and had dreamt of for years after.
Culver nodded. “Pretty good. Has a favorite though. Said it got him through some difficult times--”
“In the war,” Genevieve finished without thinking. “Beautiful Dreamer.”
Culver looked at her in surprise. “Why, yes, that’s what he told me. Didn’t know Zeke had mentioned that to anyone else.”
“Zeke…short for Ezekiel.” Genevieve held Culver’s curious gaze. “His last name wouldn’t happen to be Kinnison?”
“Why, yes, ma’am. Before the bear attack. He and his brother Clem--”
“Thank you, Mr. Culver.” Bringing the horse around Genevieve nudged its sides and took off down the main street toward the trail on the other side of town that lead to the elusive mountain man’s home. She was certain that she’d left Mr. Daniels thoroughly confused.
But certainly, no more than she felt.
A small log cabin appeared in a small grove of trees. A barn with a corral big enough for one horse stood off to one side. A rooster and a few hens scattered across the yard as she approached. No one appeared to be home, but smoke curled from the chimney. She climbed down from the horse and tied her to the rail outside. She walked up the single step to the porch and mustering her courage stood, debating whether to knock or leave and let the past remain in the past.
Chapter 12
A snap of a log brought Zeke out of a deep sleep. His chest ached at the memory of Genevieve’s face, how he’d felt helpless. How he’d wished he could have taken away her pain. He’d felt the guilt of being the messenger of death—but her pain was his. In every letter she’d written her husband, he’d been the one to read them. Every tender word, every heartfelt sentence he came to cherish and adore. He’d started to look forward to her letters, perhaps more than her husband had. And Zeke had made the promise should anything happen to his captain that he would return his belongings, including those letters.
He’d done what he had been asked of him, but the stolen kiss they’d shared he’d shoved deep in the back of his mind. But in all these years, the memory of her mouth on his, t
he taste of her lips, could still cause his body to burn. Even now, he remembered seeing her, wanting to take her in his arms, tell her that he’d be there for her always if she wanted. But the guilt of loving her was too powerful, his loyalty to his captain unwavering.
How in God’s name could he marry another woman when the one he’d be thinking of was Genevieve?
After dinner, Zeke had retreated outside to the shadows of the porch, hoping that physically distancing himself would quell this forbidden yearning he carried inside for Genevieve Walters every time their eyes met.
Softly, he played his harmonica, the melodies soothing the desires raging in side him. It would’ve been wiser to leave, not tempting fate by staying one night in this house with her.
The screen door opened. He stopped playing.
“I thought I heard music out here. Please don’t let me stop you. It’s been ages since I’ve heard such a sweet melody.” She held a post as she sat perched on the porch rail. The simple act, tugged the cotton bodice of her dress tight, outlining the gentle curve of her breasts. He swallowed forcing his gaze to her face.
“It’s a lovely tune. What is it?” she asked.
Zeke licked his lips, unable to stop staring at how the moon illuminated her face—the gentle slope of her neck. She wore her dark hair swept up off her neck and he could only imagine how it might feel to run his fingers through it, watch it tumble from its perfection into a wild tangle.
The song. Zeke looked away to gather his thoughts. “Beautiful Dreamer. The men found it calming after a hard day” —he hesitated— "in battle.” He tapped his harmonica against his knee. “Sorry, ma’am. I’m sure you’d rather not hear about the war.”
She’d looked at him her head tipped as though she were debating what to think. “Would you play some more? For me?”
Zeke’s heart swelled with pride. He wanted to tell her that he’d cross a trail of fire for her, but things were what they were. She was a new widow. Had to have time to grieve her late husband. It was too soon for her to think about another. Too soon for him to be thinking of wanting her to think about him.
He played just the same, selfishly delighting in how she listened, seemingly enraptured with his playing. There was something, though, in how she looked at him. The concept caused him discomfort on many levels. Guilt over who she was—why he was there—assaulted his reason. Though it was selfish to think it might matter, the idea that he might never see her again after tomorrow prompted him. “May I speak freely, Mrs. Walters?”
“Please do.”
He took a breath and leaned back on the porch swing. Unable to look her in the eye, he looked over her shoulder to the trees beyond, instead. “Your husband was a noble and great man.”
“Yes, you have been kind to express numerous times, sir. It pleases me to know that you think…thought…so highly of him.”
“About those letters, ma’am,” he started.
“I would prefer you call me, Genevieve,” she offered.
Zeke picked at a loose thread on his trouser knee. “Your husband, weary from days of battle, would often ask me to read them when the smoke and rigors of the day affected his eyes. He would lie on his cot. Your letters--every word, I believe--is what sustained him, gave him hope and courage through many difficult times.”
“I’m not sure whether to thank you or apologize that you had to read the pitiful, melancholy words of a new bride pining after her husband at war.”
He looked at her then and smiled. “On the contrary. It was all I could do not to be envious of the man.”
She placed her hand over her mouth and turned to leave.
Zeke touched her arm and she stilled. “Forgive me. I didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable.” He did not remove his hand. “To say that Captain Walters was a lucky man is an understatement. What I--what any man would give to know such love, such longing as expressed in those letters is, forgive me, a priceless treasure.”
She looked at him then, face upturned in the pale moonlight. He could barely breathe. “Through those letters, I came to know the woman behind the words. Strong, yet compassionate. Giving. Kind. A woman able to endure solitude, yet give her soldier encouragement.”
“Please stop,” she whispered, then met his gaze. “I am not the noble woman you make me out to be. Far from it.”
“Even now you display your loyalty. And I admire you for that.”
His eyes locked with hers. Timidly, she lifted her hands to frame his face, and in the next instant her mouth met his. Passion. Fire and smoke. An aching desire followed. Each kiss opened the door a bit more to the forbidden. His hands circled her waist, drawing her close, his need evident. He’d fallen in love with her through her letters. Letters to her now dead husband. He felt her hand pressing on his heart, pushing him away. He took a step back, humiliated by his roguish behavior.
“My apologies, ma’am. I am overcome. I am deeply regretful for my actions and can only hope you can forgive the stolen kiss of a lonely soldier.”
He was barely able to look at her as he left in haste to return to his room. Before the sun rose, he’d left the clothes neatly folded on the bed and, donning his uniform, rode as far from Genevieve Walters as he could, fearing if he saw her again, he might never leave.
A knock on the door brought Zeke back to the present. At first the tapping was gentle, but with each subsequent knock they became louder, more determined. His gaze clung to the front door. As sure as the seasons change, he knew who stood on the other side of that door. The demons he’d wrestled with for over a dozen years had come to roost and he was about to face the first woman he’d ever given his heart to.
Chapter 13
“Who’s there?” a deep-throated voice boomed from within.
“It’s Genevieve Walters. May I come in?
“I’m not having guests at present, Mrs. Walters.”
She debated his answer, squared her shoulders, and knocked again. “I’m sorry Mr. Kinnison. This is a matter of utmost urgency.”
A moment of silence ticked by.
“Suit yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
It was indeed possible that he was entertaining one of Madame’s women. Not that a man and woman in bed was a sight she’d not seen before…or experienced. She quickly shoved away the thought.
Genevieve carefully opened the door, mentally preparing to accept whatever she encountered with decorum and dignity.
The sight before her wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Christian Kinnison.
Her heart faltered as she looked across the room to where the rugged man sat soaking in a large copper tub by the fire. He had an old mirror propped on a table beside the tub and appeared to be finishing with shaving off his beard. His long, dark blond-brown hair lay plastered wet over his muscular shoulders. Mesmerized she watched a rivulet of water travel down his torso. An unexpected desire pulled at Genevieve. Embarrassed by her thoughts she forced herself look away. “You didn’t mention you were bathing, sir.”
He chuckled and the sound of it sent shivers from the top of her head to the tips of her toes--stopping to awaken a few spots along the way.
“A moment ago, that fact didn’t seem to matter, Mrs. Walters.” He offered her a congenial smile. “Besides the best parts are covered. Now.” He returned to his shaving. “What is it that you would ride clear out here alone to tell me?”
Finding her purpose, Genevieve held up the note, and yet again found herself taken aback with how the firelight shimmered on his handsome face, now almost void of hair. She’d forgotten the rugged jaw, his mouth with that tempting full lower lip, the dimple that formed when he smiled. You had your chance, Genevieve. You pushed it away. This isn’t about you or the past. It’s about the present. She blinked, pulling her thoughts in check. “It’s from Penny, I’m afraid.” Did he even remember her? Was it possible the kiss meant far less to him than it had to her?
He didn’t look at her, but continued to inspect his work, studying hi
s face in the small mirror. “Penny? She’s run off, hasn’t she?”
My heavens. She tried to quell the ache in her chest. He was a fine-looking man, still. Perhaps more so, given he had a bit of meat on his bones hewn to solid muscle from his mountain living. Those eyes—the stark blue of a mountain lake--stood out with a clarity that still took her breath away. The same eyes that now seemed to be looking directly into her soul.
“I don’t want to say I told you so,” he said.
His challenge jarred her fantasy. “Then don’t.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you, but that does not mean there isn’t a right woman out there for you. I believe that every man needs a woman.”
“You do? And why is that, Mrs. Walters?” He leaned back in the tub and held her gaze.
Flustered by his lack of concern about his state of undress, she attempted to rise to his challenge. “Well, Mr. Kinnison.” She squared her shoulders. “It is our creed, our very purpose at the Benevolent Society of Lost Lambs to help create unions that will last.”
“And how’s that working for you, Mrs. Walters?” His voice lowered, causing tingles to skitter over her treacherous body. Tingles she hadn’t had in places that had felt precious little in quite some time.
Which wasn’t her purpose in being here, was it?
“I’m pleased to say that my success in procuring suitable matches here in Noelle has gone fairly well, if I do toot my own horn a bit.”
He chuckled openly. “Be my guest. But, what about those that are not meant to be matched?” he asked. “Do you find that to be the case at times?”
He’d picked up a small glass with an amber liquid—whiskey, she’d be willing to bet. Suddenly, she pictured him in a chair reading by the fire. Drink at his side, those spectacles he wore from time to time perched on his handsome face. Had she just thought that? She darted him a quick look.
“You have an interesting way of looking at a man you’ve been trying to marry off to another woman,” he said, curiosity seeming to edge into his voice.
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