When she tugged at his hand, he hesitated.
“Where?”
She paused only a moment before whispering, “My room.”
They crept into the sleeping house together, and Lettie once again led him up the back stairs to her room. When the door had closed behind them, she gathered a pair of quilts and a set of linens from the trunk at the foot of the bed.
“What’s that for?”
“Your bed,” she murmured firmly, pointing to a bare space of floor a few feet away.
His lips twitched, and he regarded her with blatant male amusement. “Come now, Lettie. The floor?”
“The floor.”
He shrugged in good-natured resignation and arranged the linens on the floor. Then, when Lettie had slipped beneath her own covers and doused the lamp, she heard the rustle of clothes as Ethan removed his shirt, gun belt, socks, and shoes.
“Good night, Ethan.”
At first he didn’t answer her; then, finally, she heard, “Night, Lettie.”
Silence slipped into the shadows, cloaking the corners in secrets. Lettie lay on her side for the longest time, pretending to be asleep, while in fact, she thought of the man only a few feet away. She wondered why he had come back. And why—though he’d never admitted as much—he’d lured her into the barn and silently asked for her help.
Lettie was about ready to sigh in frustration at her own tangled thoughts, when she heard a rustle of movement. Holding her breath, she opened her eyes just a slit. After the way Jacob had warned her about Ethan McGuire, she almost expected him to jump on her bed.
But Ethan merely stood up and moved to the window. The pale wash of moonlight stroked the strong lines of his features, highlighting the frown etched in his brow.
She heard him take a deep breath, saw the way his hand tightened into a fist next to the wall. Suddenly the room seemed to fill with his own brand of torment.
Lettie propped herself on her elbow and he stiffened, then slowly turned.
“Why did you come back?” she whispered.
“It’s not important.”
She waited a moment longer, then realized he wasn’t going to tell her anything more.
“Who are you, Ethan McGuire?” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
To her surprise, he answered. “I’m just a man. A tired, tired man.”
She opened her mouth to say something, hoping she could find the words to ease the bleak cast of his features. But he turned away to gaze out the window into the night.
“Good night, Lettie.”
Realizing he’d already revealed more than he’d intended, she sank back against the pillows. The quiet seeped into the attic again, and she was nearly asleep when she heard him turn.
“Lettie?”
“Mmm?”
His voice was a mere whisper in the darkness, half dream, half reality.
“Thank you.”
A sickly moon hung on the far edge of the sky, piercing the blackness like a pale, hollow bootprint that would soon fade with the arrival of the dawn. Five miles west of Madison, the dilapidated remains of the Johnston farmhouse lay nearly hidden in the shadows, partially covered by a copse of ancient oak trees.
A single figure stood on the scarred porch, breathing deeply of the cooler air lingering in the darkness. In his hand, he held the smoldering remains of a cigarette, but it lay half forgotten in his fingers as he stared into the night.
Jacob had been a member of the Star Council of Justice for only a few years, yet he felt as if he had been part of its system forever. Eight years before, as an eager deputy hungry to bring lawbreakers and sinners to their rightful ends, Jacob had discovered that Justice could indeed be blind. Over and over, he’d seen innocent men hanged for crimes they hadn’t committed, while guilty men lived in pleasurable freedom. He’d ached because of that fact. Until he’d been asked to join the brotherhood of the Star.
His lips tilted in wry humor. No one really knew how the Star had begun. Perhaps over a game of cards or a drunken round of whiskey, a group of lawmen had argued about the idea of Henry VIII’s Star Chamber, first introduced hundreds of years ago—if Tyler Grant of Petesville could be believed. Evidently old Henry had found a way of punishing those nobles who’d escaped justice by meting out his own form of punishment through the Star Chamber. As Tyler Grant always said, “Heads would roll when old Henry got his dander up. You betcha, heads would roll.”
Jacob brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag until the butt glowed crimson in the darkness. He had no interest in the Star Chamber, or Henry VIII, or anything hundreds of years old, for that matter. It was the purpose of the Council that had persuaded him to join.
Though vigilante groups were not uncommon—even in Illinois—the Star was special. Unlike most, the governing board of the Star was comprised almost entirely of lawmen who were dedicated to seeing that justice was served. Each of its members were sworn to secrecy—upon pain of death—and only a select few knew that the ruling board of the Star contained two judges, two marshals, two lawyers, a pair of deputies, and two community representatives. Jacob himself didn’t know their identities, even though, two months earlier, he’d been promoted in rank to the circle of men known as “outer rings”—those who served as assistants to the board.
Though the members were known by only a few, the deeds of the Star Council of Justice were legendary, even to the community. In the past five years, the Star’s reputation had grown and people lauded their efforts to rid the state of those criminals who had somehow escaped the justice system and avoided their penance.
Yet, even as the Star was praised for its efforts, it had become a symbol of fear—for once the Star had decided upon the guilt of a man, the Council served as judge, jury…
And executioner.
Jacob flicked the butt of his cigarette into the darkness. Tonight, the hierarchy of the Star had met to decide on the fate of Ethan McGuire, and Jacob had a burning desire to see the man caught, once and for all.
Once again, Jacob felt a tightening in his gut at the thought of the man. It was Jacob who had introduced the case to the Star. But McGuire had eluded capture, and with each month that passed, Jacob had grown more bitter and intent upon seeing McGuire pay for his activities.
Sometimes, Jacob’s single-minded purpose seemed to consume him. He wanted the man punished—not just because McGuire had once bested him and dented his pride—but because Ethan McGuire had been just a little too cocky, a little too sure. Then, when things had become too hot for Ethan to handle, he’d abandoned his life of thievery.
But McGuire’s penitent behavior hadn’t lasted. He’d returned to his thieving ways—with a renewed fervor.
Jacob straightened, peering into the darkness, a cool determination settling in his stomach. Ethan had made a mistake by coming to Madison weeks ago. He’d made a mistake by beginning his rash of robberies again—and most of all, he’d made a mistake by injuring that deputy in Carlton.
Jacob’s brow creased and he damned the fact that he’d evidently lost some of his instincts in regards to Ethan McGuire. Jacob hadn’t anticipated what had happened in Carlton. In fact, the Gentleman seemed to have grown erratic in the last few months—even careless.
Grunting in irritation at his own thoughts, Jacob straightened. Ethan McGuire was the Gentleman. He’d escaped capture the last time they came face-to-face and then again, when he’d abducted Lettie. But this time, Jacob had the power to stop him through the Star.
Pushing away from the porch, Jacob mounted his horse and rode toward the lightning-blasted oak. As a member of the outer circle, it was his duty to retrieve messages from the tree, then notify the other Star members assigned to his leadership. Given his length of membership, it was an honor for Jacob to have such a responsibility within the group.
Once again, Jacob removed the canister from its hiding place inside the trunk. He hesitated only a moment before withdrawing the crumpled paper that lay inside. Since dawn had not touched the sky,
Jacob dug a matchstick from his shirt pocket and raked his thumbnail over the tip. The match flared to life, illuminating the scrawled words:
Proof of Ethan McGuire’s guilt has been obtained. When located, notify immediately but do not apprehend through legal channels. He will be tried before the Council.
Jacob took a deep breath and squinted up at the moon, shaking out the match and tossing it to the ground. A thundering anticipation rolled through his body. Once and for all, McGuire would see that it didn’t pay to toy with Jacob Grey.
Or his sister.
The thought raced through Jacob’s head and his jaw clenched, his gut tightened in anger and dread. He’d never forgive the man for using his sister as a shield.
A slow, curling fury began to twine in Jacob’s stomach. Touching another match to the paper, Jacob watched the licking flame as it curled around the edges of the note with a hungry glee until all but the tip he held had been consumed. Then he allowed the smoldering missive to flutter to the ground and urged his horse into a trot, reining him in the direction of the boardinghouse.
It would be dawn soon.
“Lettie!”
Her head jerked up, and she found her mother regarding her with an irritated expression. Lettie looked down to find she’d long since emptied the pan of milk gravy and had been ladling nothing but air for the last few moments.
“Sorry, Mama.”
“Just stop your daydreaming and go feed the boarders.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Holding the heavy tureen against her stomach, Lettie hurried into the dining room, where the boarders were eagerly consuming large quantities of fried eggs, potatoes, milk, coffee, and fresh cherries.
Lettie set about seeing to the rest of the meal, refilling platters and clearing plates, moving automatically through the familiar tasks. However, when Jacob appeared—unannounced—Lettie’s nerves took a turn for the worse and she nearly dropped a plate of fried eggs into Mr. Goldsmith’s lap. Though she tried to act as normally as possible, she couldn’t help thinking that Ethan McGuire was hidden in the garret, while the man who sought him ate breakfast just a few floors below.
After being forced to hear nearly an hour of the Beasleys’ chatter, Mr. Goldsmith’s slurping, and the Grubers’ whispered bickering, Lettie’s stomach seemed to tie into knots. Over and over again, she glanced up to find her brother staring at her with a piercing regard, and for the first time, Lettie felt a twinge of doubt. If Jacob were right, she could very well be harboring a murderer in her room. One who had robbed the bank in Carlton and left a young deputy lying gravely injured in the blaze.
But somehow… somehow she couldn’t fit Ethan into that scenario. He was hard, yes, intense, enigmatic, and even angry. But after last night’s unwitting insights into the man, she knew he wasn’t capable of the things Jacob thought he’d done. When she looked into Ethan’s eyes, she didn’t see a killer. She saw a man who’d been alone too long and hadn’t realized yet that he needed someone to love him.
Lettie glanced up to find Jacob peering at her as if he could read her very thoughts. Stiffening, she tried to affect a posture of unconcern, but to no avail.
A knock sounded at the door, and, welcoming the excuse to leave the dining room, Lettie jumped to her feet. Instead of a possible boarder, she found Jacob’s deputy standing impatiently on the stoop, mauling his hat with his hands.
“Good morning, Rusty.”
The bowlegged man brushed by her, ignoring her words of greeting. “Where’s your brother?”
“The dining room, but—”
Without waiting to hear what she had to say, Rusty Janson darted into the other room. When Lettie rounded the threshold, she found him leaning close to her brother’s ear.
Jacob’s eyes lifted, and a smoldering anger began to burn in their depths. When the deputy had finished, Jacob slowly rose to his feet, threw his napkin onto the table, and crossed the room. Moving past Lettie without a word, he began climbing the steps.
A cool finger of fear seemed to trace up Lettie’s spine when his deputy followed and the two men unsheathed their revolvers, walking with catlike stealth.
“Jacob?” Picking up her skirts, Lettie hurried to follow. “Jacob! Where are you going?”
Her brother paid her no mind, his pace increasing so that she was forced to take the stairs two at a time in order to catch him and grasp his arm.
“Jacob, what are you doing?”
He brushed away her grip as if it were no more than that of a fly. His hand closed around the door that led to her garret bedroom, and he scowled when he found it locked.
“Where’s the key, Lettie?” he demanded harshly.
“I don’t—”
“Where’s the key!” He reached out to grip her arm, his fingers curling tightly into her skin. “Damn you, you’ve been lying to me for days, haven’t you? He’s been here all along!”
“No!”
“The key, Lettie.” When she didn’t budge, he reached out to pat the pockets of her apron. He was rewarded by the stiff shape of the key. Before she could grasp the key, his hand had plunged into the deep pocket and snatched it free.
“Jacob, don’t!” she cried, but he brushed her aside, unlocked the latch, and flung the door wide open.
The stairwell lay bare in the bright light of the morning. Jacob and his deputy slowly began to climb the staircase. Behind them, Lettie balled her hands into fists of rage. Never before had her brother been so… so… beastly! She wanted to scream for Ethan to hide, but she couldn’t—not without incriminating them both.
Long moments followed, long endless moments while she stood in the hall, waiting for a volley of shots, the scrabbling of fisticuffs. But nothing happened. Soon, no longer able to bear the tension, Lettie grasped her skirts in her hands, and crept up the staircase. Once she could see over the edge, she grew still in disbelief.
The garret was empty.
Jacob and his man continued to search the wardrobe, under the bed, and even her trunks. But Lettie knew their search would be fruitless. Ethan had left without a trace, just as her Highwayman had in so many of her fantasies.
Finally, after several minutes, her brother turned and she glared at him, the disdain she displayed aimed at inflicting the deep-rooted guilt that only a younger sibling could generate.
Jacob, however, seemed unaffected. When she waited in pointed silence, he took a step toward her. “He isn’t here,” he said slowly, stating the obvious but somehow making the words sound more like an accusation.
“And just who are you referring to?”
But Jacob thought she was lying. She could tell. Despite the evidence of his own eyes, Jacob’s gaze flicked into the corners of the room as if he expected some secret passage to open up and reveal Ethan McGuire’s hiding place. He sheathed his revolver and planted his hands on his hips, gazing at her with barely disguised suspicion.
“Rusty thought he saw someone in front of the window.”
Lettie turned to glare at Rusty as well and found his face the same carrot shade as his hair.
“Both of you have more imagination than is healthy.”
The two men shifted, glanced at each other, but did not admit their mistake.
“I gotta go, Lettie,” Rusty mumbled, before beating a hasty retreat down the steps and out the door.
Lettie then turned her glare full-force on her brother. “Don’t you have some place you need to be going as well?”
He sighed. “Look, I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t. And even if you had, your apology isn’t good enough. Now kindly leave my room.”
He stared deep into her eyes, evidently searching for some sign of the little girl who had always adored him, no questions asked. “Yes, ma’am.”
She turned toward the staircase, only to be halted by his voice.
“Lettie?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder, and something within her grew wary at the burning intensity of his gaz
e.
“I’ll give you as long a lead as you want, little sister. But if you’re thinking of tangling with Ethan McGuire, you’d better stay clear. Otherwise, you’ll be opening yourself up to a world of hurt that no one can protect you from. Not even me.”
A chill feathered down her spine. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t tell you any more than that. Just you remember that Ethan McGuire is a man with a whole lot of enemies. Powerful enemies. And they aren’t the type to be put off by pretty speeches. If they have their way, Ethan McGuire will be hanging from an oak tree soon.”
Giving her one last glance of warning, he strode toward the staircase and clattered down to the floor below.
Rubbing at the gooseflesh that had risen on her arms, Lettie slowly crossed to the window and stared out at the bright, sun-drenched yard. Ethan’s absence left a hollow space within her, one that ached in a curious fashion, much like the loss of a special… friend. Yet, much more disconcerting than the ache was the fear she felt, wondering just who Ethan’s enemies could be and why they were so all-fired up to see him hanged.
Shaking away her morbid thoughts, she slammed the window closed, threw the latch, and turned on her heel, needing the chatter of the Beasley sisters to dispel the gloom that suddenly seemed to taint the room around her.
But far from being diverted, she found that the Beasley sisters’ male-oriented gossip caused her to remember the man who had so briefly interrupted the monotonous pattern of her own life.
Sighing, she slipped from the room, suddenly needing to escape the confines of the house.
A faint breeze stirred against her skin and teased the hem of her apron. Lettie breathed deeply in relief as the air caressed the perspiration dotting her brow and prickling between her shoulders. How she wished she had the time to slip out to the creek, lift the layers of skirts she wore, and paddle to her knees in the cool water.
But there were things to be done, chores to finish.
Wistfully, Lettie gazed out at the barn, remembering the fantasy that had become real, remembering Ethan’s kisses. He hadn’t even given her a chance to say goodbye.
Stepping from the porch, she meandered through the grass, veering toward the barn, which housed the two milk cows and horses used to pull the buggy. Her feet made soft soughing noises in the dusty grass, reminding her that summer would soon pass its zenith and she would face another fall, another winter, and another spring, each exactly the same as the other. She would rise at five each morning and retire at nine each night. In between, she would help to fix breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Mondays she would wash, Tuesdays she would bake, Wednesdays…
Silken Dreams Page 10
