by Caroline Lee
Nate sighed, watching the landscape zip past at a faster speed than he could have imagined. He remembered that first letter Wendy had written him, about her trip east. He’d saved it, of course. She’d written about some good coming from his childhood struggles. He wasn’t so sure she was right.
The bench was hard, but he’d been on worse. He crossed his arms and tilted his hat forward to cover his eyes. He might not be a cowboy, but he’d spent years riding the range, and knew how to sleep wherever he could. Propping his head against the window, he let the steady sway of the carriage lull him, and tried not to think about what he’d find when they finally made it to St. Louis.
Tried not to think about Wendy.
CHAPTER FOUR
December 15, 1883
Strong hands wrapped through her thick, dark hair, pulling her head back. She could feel his hot breath on her exposed neck, and it sent shivers down her spine. “You thought you were safe, my pretty,” he hissed, “But you’ll never be free of me. I am a hunter.” In terrified anticipation, she had somehow forgotten to breathe. She thought she might faint. “And now, Dolcezza, you are my prey. I have trapped you, and will devour
There was a knock at the door.
Wendy scowled, knowing how easy her concentration could be broken. Her pencil hovered over the paper, and she forced herself to focus.
I have trapped you, and will devour… you. Because… ummm… Because you have led me on a merry chase, and I want…I want…
Damn. She tossed the pencil down, and pulled off her spectacles to pinch the bridge of her nose. She’d been doing so well, with the words just tumbling out in their haste to get down on the paper. It was so much easier to write when she didn’t have to think about it. She just created the characters and they ran free, writing their own stories. When she actually had to think about the plot, things got choppy. Now she’d have to figure out why the Count had lured Sofia to his castle in the first place, instead of just letting him tell it. The noise she made was somewhere between a sigh and a growl.
She had a limited amount of time to write each day, and she hated to miss any of it. Mrs. Blakely ‘graciously’ allowed her to use the front parlor early every afternoon, while Jeremy was resting. Doubtless the woman thought she was in here frantically scribbling in journals or correspondence. But Wendy rarely wrote home these days, preferring to keep her shame to herself. Instead, she immersed herself in her stories, and as a result, had sold quite a number of them. Of course, those stories had taken a dark turn over the last year, now that she wasn’t the young innocent she once was… she no longer believed in True Love, and as a result, neither did her heroines.
Another knock at the front door.
She frowned now, wondering why Martin hadn’t answered it already. Whoever it was surely had business, or they wouldn’t have bothered knocking twice. But why not use the bell pull? Martin must be in the kitchen; he would have heard the bell, but hadn’t heard the knock. She willed whoever it was to go away, so that she could get back to her writing.
Mrs. Blakely had very clear ideas about Wendy’s place in her household. As little Jeremy’s tutor, she wasn’t quite a servant, but she definitely wasn’t family. So much for all of the high hopes she’d had when she joined the Blakely household after Suzanna Mulligan left for school in Boston. Wendy had seen the sprawling—and very well-connected—Blakely family as a chance to better her situation. There were so many young women; surely there’d be a chance for friendship! But the Blakely daughters had no interest in getting to know their youngest brother’s new “deaf teacher”, and the girls engaged as servants saw Wendy as above their station. Mrs. Blakely—and Mr. Blakely, when he could be bothered to remember her—treated her as one step above a maid, but very definitely not a member of the household. She was expected to adhere to strict rules concerning her behavior, and rarely had a chance to socialize outside of the house. And even then, it was under Mrs. Blakely’s fierce gaze.
So Wendy found it easiest to tutor Jeremy as she’d been hired to do, and stay in her room otherwise. But she did her best writing at this little ladies’ desk in the small parlor, with the view of the idyllic snowy street out front. It was usually her best chance to pen a chapter or—
Another knock?
Good Heavens, did the person not realize that the butler wasn’t available? Why weren’t they ringing? With a harrumph, she very deliberately put down her pencil and stood, smoothing her skirt. Lord knew what Mrs. Blakely would say if she discovered that Wendy had answered the front door, like a servant would. On the other hand, it was hard to read the termagant’s mind; maybe she would be pleased to see Wendy taking initiative. Either way, the caller was expecting an answer, so it was up to Wendy to greet him or her. Perhaps, in her simple blue skirt and prim white blouse, they would just assume that she was the downstairs maid.
She sighed and crossed the room. Peeking out into the foyer, she checked for Martin or one of the other servants, just in case one had come to rescue her from the task. No such luck. Perhaps whoever had been knocking had given up and gone away, and she could get back to her writing before Jeremy’s rest time was over.
So she plastered a serene smile on her face, and pulled the large oak door open a bit. Seeing the… the apparition on the front porch, she opened the door wider, almost unconsciously. He looked like something out of a novel. Not one of her novels, of course, but something similar. Tall, and draped in a dark duster that reached his knees, with a hat pulled so low over long dark hair that she couldn’t see anything of his features. Cowboy boots stood in the light dusting of snow beside a small bag, and the lack of footprints told her that he’d been standing still here the entire time. No shifting, no shuffling. Just patience and serenity and goodness she was waxing poetic, wasn’t she?
The stranger had affected her somehow. She was short of breath, and felt her pulse speed up a bit, the way it always did when she was beginning a story and the possibilities were opening before her. He’d captured her imagination, just by standing there. Oh no, have I just been standing here too, this whole time? With the door open, and her mouth agape? Oh goodness, he probably thought she was some kind of ninny.
Closing her jaw with a snap, she blinked and cleared her throat. Wondering if she’d be able to imprint this scene—the stranger’s darkness against the snow, the sun high overhead—on her mind so that she could write it later, Wendy tried for a small smile. Conscious of standing on the doorstep, letting the heat out into the winter afternoon, she said “I’m sorry for the wait. You didn’t ring the bell,” she pointed to the cord hanging to the left of the jamb, untouched, “so it took a while to hear your knock.” Flustered, she realized that she was making a mess of things. Another deep breath. “May I help you?”
One dark hand snaked from the pocket of his duster, and pushed the brim of the hat up. She could see dark hair around his collar, and deeply tanned skin around his jaw, and then she wasn’t thinking anymore. Staring out from beneath that hat were the most beautiful green eyes, eyes she’d been dreaming about for years. A coincidence, surely? But then they crinkled, like they’d always done when he smiled. Bright teeth against dark skin, just like she remembered, and now she felt short of breath for an entirely different reason.
“Hi, Wendy.”
It was the rescue she’d been dreading—and secretly dreaming about—for the last year.
Nate had come for her.
Damn, but she was just as beautiful as he remembered. No, that’s… that wasn’t entirely true. She’d changed a bit. She was older, more mature now. Behind the eyeglasses she wore—a different pair than when he’d last seen her—her blue eyes seemed hooded, more distant. She’d cut her hair short, too, so that it surrounded her head like a crown of brown curls. Nate’s hands itched to run his fingers through it, to find out if it was as soft as he remembered. Instead, he fisted them, and forced himself to focus on the here-and-now.
She’d been standing in that doorway for a long time. He wondere
d what was going through her mind, the way she was staring at him. He always could read her face, and know what she was thinking. She’d been irritated when she answered the door, and then had just stood there, with a goofy, dreamy expression. Now he could swear that she was worried, but about what? Worried that he was here? Had she not recognized him?
“Wendy?”
She shook her head slightly, and blinked. Peeking furtively over her shoulder, she reached out and grabbed one of his hands. He was so surprised he almost forgot to snag his pack as she pulled him through the door into the grandest house he’d ever seen. It made the Carderocks’ new place in Cheyenne look tiny, and was even more impressive inside than it had been from the street. There was tile on the floor, and patterned wallpaper, and an actual frieze around the ceiling. The staircase was strung in garland and bows, and a huge Christmas tree stood like a sparkly sentinel, its top almost reaching the second-floor landing. Nate felt like he’d stepped into a painting. Someone like him didn’t belong somewhere like this.
Wendy, though, in her elegant skirt—there was even one of those bustles over her rear end!—and the lace around her collar, looked right at home here. He’d known that this was one of the reasons she’d left Cheyenne; the chance to live an elegant life. A life he couldn’t give her. She was just as fancy as Serena had ever been, now. She looked comfortable… but not quite happy.
While he’d been staring, she hustled him into a room—some kind of parlor—and shut the door behind them. Then, gesturing to him to remain quiet, she cracked the door and peeked back into the foyer. Apparently satisfied that no one knew of his arrival, she closed the door again quietly with a sigh.
Was she ashamed of him, then? That he would come visit her in her fancy new house? “Are you going to get in trouble, being seen with me?” With someone like me? He hid his wince, and hoped he didn’t sound as childish as he thought. He crossed to the little desk in front of the window, and pretended great interest in the view beyond the little evergreen wreath.
When she didn’t immediately scoff at his question, he turned to see her looking mighty unsure. She’d always had this nervous habit of wringing her hands that he’d always thought was adorable, and she was doing it now. “What?” Had he been right?
“Mrs. Blakely, my employer, is… rather strict. She’d be upset to find out that you came in the front door, or that I was entertaining you without permission.”
Nate’s jaw hardened. So he wasn’t even good enough to come through the front door? He took his hat off and tossed it on top of his pack, running his other hand through his hair. She was watching him, and must have seen the old bitterness in his expression, because she hurried say, “It’s not you, Nate. It’s anyone. It’s me. She’s… she has some very firm beliefs about ‘the serving class’.”
“And that’s you?” Like her, he kept his voice low. Were they hiding from Mrs. Blakely, then?
“Oh yes.” Her response was just a whisper, and he watched her shoulders slump a bit further.
“She sounds like a real peach.”
Well, that did it. Wendy’s jaw cocked out mulishly, and her back straightened. Nate knew it was because she was getting defensive of her life here. “I have survived her employment for well over a year. I am treated well.”
“Is she the reason you stopped writing me?”
There. He’d asked the question that had been on his mind for a year and a half. He’d barely exchanged six other words with her, and now he’d just blurted it out, and not kindly either. Her face paled at his veiled accusation, but she didn’t respond.
After a long moment of silence, Nate sighed. “Sorry, Wendy. Didn’t mean to get into that so early.” A weak smile, as she crossed to the settee and sunk down onto it.
She looked… drained. Not her normal self. She was paler and thinner than she’d been three years before. Now that he was seeing her in the light—this place had real electric lights!—he could tell that she wasn’t quite the unchanged beauty he’d thought on the doorstep. Still Wendy, yeah, but… less so. He wondered what had happened in the last years to make her seem so diminished. Or was it only his words to her that made her seem that way? Was it guilt?
“I’d ask you what brought you to St. Louis,” even her voice sounded weaker, “but I don’t think I want to know.”
Keeping in mind her reaction to his last question, Nate mumbled “Probably not” and turned back to the window. His eye was caught by the journal and pencil on the desk. More for something to distract him than actual interest, he picked it up, and flipped through the last pages. It looked like she was working on a new book.
He read over the paragraph she must have been writing before she’d come to open the door for him. Then he went back and read the page before, and the page before that. Flipping through the pages, he glanced up at her. “This is good, Wendy.”
Her eyes were big, focused on the journal in his hands. What did she think he was going to do with it? He saw her swallow, as if nervous.
“Seriously, I can’t wait to read this one.” He tried a smile, to put her at ease. It didn’t quite work. “But when are you going to write the sequel to Bettina and the Pirate King? You left them in pretty dire straits.”
Slowly, she blinked, and switched her confused gaze from the book to his face. “You read that?”
“Sure.” He snapped the journal closed and put it back on the desk, leaning one hip against the windowsill. “I’ve read all of your books. So has Serena, but she hasn’t figured out who ‘W. Jones’ is, or why I keep lending her his books.”
“Considering what I’m trying to do here, and the reaction I’d get if it was discovered I wrote novels of that nature, I thought a nom de plume was in order.”
Nate didn’t know what a “nommed eplum” was, but he nodded anyhow.
Wendy swallowed, looking unsure again. “You… You’ve really read all of my books?”
“Sure, yeah. I hated reading before you moved in with us, but the way you used to read those adventure novels, and the ones you lent me... Well, I like these kinds of stories.” He shrugged. “And I like you, so of course I’m going to read what you write.”
“Oh.”
She looked so small and delicate, which he knew she wasn’t. She’d always been so strong and confident and capable. “Serena’s teaching literature—like, fancy famous dead authors and whatnot—at the school. But she still reads these Gothic stories for fun. Sometimes we share books.”
“Yes.” She looked down at her hands then, and her voice lowered even more. “She said that in her letters.”
“Yeah.”
Dammit. They used to be able to talk for hours about anything and everything. They used to be able to write pages and pages to each other. Why was this conversation the most awkward, stilted one he’d ever been a part of? He traveled halfway across the country—he’d been sleeping on benches in stations, for crying out loud!—for this?
After three years of waiting, here she was. They were standing in the same room, he was actually looking at her. He could take her in his arms any time he chose. He could kiss her, like he should have done before she left. He could show her what her absence had done to him.
But his pride wouldn’t let him do any of those things until he knew why she’d cut him off. Why she was so diminished, so drawn. Why she’d been avoiding him for the last year.
“Wendy, I…” I’ve missed you. But how was that going to help? It wouldn’t; it would just make her more withdrawn. Wasn’t there something he could do to remind her of their friendship?
He never got the chance to find out, though. The door suddenly opened, and a tall woman with a sharp nose and chin swept into the room. Wendy jumped, as if guilty, even though she was sitting on the other side of the room from him.
“Just what is going on here?” Judging from this lady’s commanding presence, this had to be Mrs. Blakely. She glared down her hatchet-shaped nose at Nate, as if he was something rotten the dog had dragged in from th
e yard.
He felt his jaw hardened, and opened his mouth to respond to her rudeness. But before he could think of what to say, Wendy interrupted. “Mrs. Blakely, this is Nate Barker.” She’d stood and gestured towards him. “My sister’s brother-in-law. You’ll remember that she married Ash Barker, who owns a ranch in Wyoming? Nate owns the other half.”
Swallowing his bitterness, Nate nodded as politely as he could. “How do you do, Mrs. Blakely?”
Her lip curled slightly as she looked over his dirty duster and muddy boots. Then, dismissing him, she turned back to Wendy. “Miss Murray, you never mentioned that your sister married an Indian. How could you possibly neglect to tell us something so dreadfully significant?”
Now it was Wendy’s turn to be speechless, and Nate couldn’t blame her. He’d heard a lot of vitriol in his life, but never from someone who’d dismissed him as something sub-human. He wanted to tell Mrs. Blakely that he was adopted, that Ash was a fine white man, and didn’t deserve to be tarred with the same brush. But before he could, Wendy saved him. Again.
“Because, Mrs. Blakely, I hardly thought that my personal family history had anything to do with my ability to tutor Jeremy.” Her shoulders had straightened, and Nate could see a flash of the old fire in her dark blue eyes.
“On the contrary, Miss Murray. Your ability was based on your history with the Mulligans, the school, and teaching your sister. Had I known that your family was associated with common heathens—”
“My older sister’s marriage choices have nothing to do with how or what I taught my younger sister. Have you been satisfied with my results thus far?”
Nate felt impotent, standing by and watching Wendy fight for him, but he had to admit that she looked more alive now than she had a moment before. And the simple fact that she was defending him meant that she wasn’t as indifferent to him as he’d feared.
