by Debra Cowan
Apprehension slithered up Lydia’s spine. Touching her pinned-on watch, she struggled to keep her features blank. “A letter to whom?”
“A letter to Mr. Dawkins from a private investigator. Looks like the missus was being tracked and had been for quite some time.”
“So, our assumption that she was trying to escape her husband was right?” Russ asked, his eyes narrowing.
Davis Lee nodded. “And from the bruises we found on her, I think it’s a safe bet to say the man was beating her.”
Lydia winced, remembering the woman’s bruised and bloodied face, her battered body. She could easily recall the same image of her sister. “Was there anything else in the letter?”
“Just a list of the places where the private detective had followed her. Looks like they started from Alabama.”
“Hmm.” Lydia’s nerves wound tight. Had the private detective known The Fontaine was a stop on the underground network? If he had, had he put anything about it in the letter? Surely Davis Lee would’ve said so by now, but that didn’t ease the worry churning in her stomach.
“I’ll contact the law in some of these towns,” the sheriff said. “And see what I can find out.”
No! It took all Lydia had not to scream it out. If she protested, Russ wouldn’t be the only one giving her those speculative looks when he thought she wasn’t aware.
When the sheriff glanced her way, she nodded. “All right.”
“I’ll let y’all know when I get more information.”
“Thanks, Davis Lee,” Russ said tiredly as his friend strode to the landing.
“Yes, thank you.” Lydia hoped she sounded sincere. She certainly didn’t feel it.
As the sheriff started down the stairs, she heard him say, “Good evenin’, Miz Jones. Nice to see you.”
Naomi murmured something in return, and Lydia felt some of the tension across her chest ease. Her friend’s coming to find her probably meant their guests were safely hidden now. Lydia could go back down with the other woman and maybe stop thinking about Russ and his stubborn self.
Instead of waiting at the top of the stairs as Lydia expected, Naomi came toward her. She was surprised. Her friend typically kept her distance from men.
She stopped beside Lydia, smiling shyly.
“Evenin’, Miz Jones,” Russ said.
Ef made his way across the guest room toward them. “Ma’am.”
“Hello.” She took in the new door and windows. “This is fine work. Did the two of you do this?”
“We did,” Ef said hoarsely.
Naomi was speaking to both men, but Lydia noticed she was looking only at Ef. He was looking at her, too. As though he couldn’t quite believe she was there. He appeared…smitten.
Lydia bit back a smile, happening to catch Russ’s eye. He raised a brow, letting her know he also thought there might be something between Naomi and the blacksmith.
For a long moment, Lydia found herself unable to look away from his deep blue eyes. She finally forced her attention from him and stepped back. “I’ll leave you men to your work.”
“I’ll come with you.” Naomi glanced at Ef. “Good night.”
“’Night, ladies,” Russ said.
“Good night,” Ef murmured.
Lydia could feel both men’s gazes as she and Naomi walked away. She had another worry now—Russ filling in for the carpenter.
A worker coming into the hotel for a temporary job probably wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, but her partner would.
Lydia was torn between being grateful he could do the work and being nervous for the same reason. With him in the hotel even more, she couldn’t do anything that might cause him to pay extra attention to her. Couldn’t keep pushing him to let her take over complete management of the hotel. She and Naomi would have to be more careful than ever.
Chapter Six
O ver the next few days, Lydia kept as far from Russ as possible. With so much to do before the opening, it wasn’t difficult and she saw him only in passing.
Four nights after their conversation concerning the carpenter and learning about the letter the sheriff had found in Reggie Dawkins’s saddlebag, Lydia crept down the stairs from her rooms. According to the tall grandfather clock next to the registration desk, it was just after midnight. Though she’d been in bed for a couple of hours, she’d been unable to sleep. They weren’t expecting any new arrivals tonight, but the air was heavy, as if a storm were coming. If so, the quilt they used as a message to any arriving abuse victims should be taken off the clothesline.
She had waited until she no longer heard Russ working down the hall from her rooms. Picking up the skirt of her brocade wrapper, she moved quietly to the first floor without the aid of a candle or lamp.
The hotel was silent. Shifting bands of moonlight coming in through the bank of narrow windows on either side of the front door allowed plenty of light for her to make her way down the stairs.
She took special care to be quiet. Naomi had told her she had almost been caught by Davis Lee four nights earlier when she had sneaked their secret guests into The Fontaine.
Lydia’s arm ached from days of unpacking crates of crockery and glassware, but her wound was healing, thanks to Catherine Blue’s care. The nurse’s advice was to keep it bandaged for at least another five days and continue to change the dressing twice daily.
Stepping out the back door of the hotel, Lydia made her way across the wagon-rutted patches of grass to the separate building about thirty yards away that housed the laundry. Two long, thick clotheslines stretched down one side of the limestone structure, with the distance between them wide enough for at least two people to work side by side. The quilt, a cheery nine-patch pattern done in squares of yellow, blue and red, fluttered in the wind.
She automatically reached up for the covering with both hands and her injured arm jerked in agony. Inhaling sharply, she lowered it and held it close to her body, waiting for the pain to ebb before trying again.
Using only her good arm this time, she managed to slide the quilt from the line one-handed. She bunched it into the crook of her opposite elbow and started back into the hotel, her arm throbbing.
During dry weather, the quilt hung as a signal that the hotel was a safe place to stop. In the winter or when it rained, the quilt would be hung in the front window and a lit lantern would be placed outside behind the hotel.
Lydia set a lantern beside the door then went inside and locked up. This wide area off the dining room had been designated for storage. Three large mahogany wardrobes stood against the opposite wall.
She awkwardly folded the blanket as best she could and opened the wardrobe on the far end, storing the quilt on one of the sliding shelves inside where extra blankets were kept.
The dull ache in her arm persisted as she made her way to the kitchen. Their guests from the other night, a mother and her married daughter, had been sent to the next station the night after they had arrived at The Fontaine. Lydia had received a wire this afternoon from her father that contained the coded message saying to expect two “loads of potatoes” in the next day.
Anyone intercepting the message would think nothing of the hotel’s kitchen receiving an order of potatoes. Only a few people knew the message actually referred to victims escaping an abusive situation. Because Lydia’s time for the next twenty-four hours would be taken up with final preparations for the Grand Opening, she wanted to make sure tonight that everything was ready for the two new arrivals.
She took down the lantern hanging on the wall inside the pantry and lit it, carrying it downstairs to the somewhat cool room beyond that she had requested for more food storage. To her left were waist-high cabinets and along the back wall was a long cabinet where canned goods could be stocked. It also offered more hiding space if necessary.
Walking quietly to the dark corner between the two sets of cabinets, Lydia opened the nearest cupboard and lifted the lantern. Though she kept the flame low, the hazy amber light was enough to show the t
hick pallets Naomi had made and hidden inside the storage space. The air was cooler here than in the hotel, but situating their secret guests on the wall closest to the boiler room would keep them relatively warm.
Satisfied, Lydia stepped back into the pantry, her slippers scuffing lightly against the floor as she backed out and carefully closed the storage room door. She extinguished the lantern and returned it to its place, fanning away a wisp of dark smoke that gave off the faint bite of kerosene.
Her arm burned like blue blazes. As she walked through the dining room and into a strip of pale light coming from the lobby, she glanced down at the injured limb. At the same time, a single gaslight flared to life.
Startled, Lydia jerked to a stop, but not in time to avoid running into Russ. She teetered, grabbing for him so she wouldn’t fall. “Oh!”
“Whoa.” He gripped her upper arms to keep them both from losing their balance and she cried out at a fresh burst of agony.
He cursed and dropped his hands, moving one to steady her with a firm grip on the elbow of her uninjured arm. “Sorry about that. I didn’t see you until it was too late. Are you all right?”
The painful pulsing slowly lessened. It took her a minute to find her breath. “Yes.”
He looked her over, pausing at her left arm. “I hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”
She gave him a weak smile, her nerves jangling at his unexpected appearance. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“It hurts, but—”
“It’s bleeding.” He angled her toward the white glow of gaslight just inside the door.
Concern shot through her as she eyed the spreading red stain on her plum brocade and she clamped her hand over it. She had to have torn open the wound when she reached for the quilt earlier. No wonder it hadn’t stopped throbbing.
“Lydia.”
She blinked, realizing he’d asked her a question. “I’m sorry?”
“Sit down and let me have a look at it.”
“I can have Naomi do it.”
He arched a brow. “You’re going to wake her up at this hour to tend your arm when I already said I’d do it?”
“Oh.” His even tone made her realize how silly and selfish it sounded. “All right, thank you.”
As she chose a chair at the closest dining table, he went to the sideboard on the nearest wall that held a few bottles of choice liquor.
She tuned in to the sound of his movements and the muffled sounds of the night outside the hotel. He brought a small glass and a bottle of brandy to the table then poured a liberal amount of liquor.
The soft white gaslight illuminated the curiosity in his blue eyes as he looked at her. “What are you doing down here in the dark?”
She sipped her drink, struggling to level out her pulse. Lydia reassured herself that Russ didn’t suspect anything. He couldn’t. Tonight, there was nothing to suspect. “I came down to get a quilt off the clothesline.”
“A quilt?”
“The wind is getting stronger. I thought there might be a storm and remembered a quilt was still on the line. I didn’t want it to get wet.”
He pulled up a chair beside her and lightly touched the hand keeping pressure on the wound. “Slide your arm out of your wrapper and let me have a look.”
She remembered what had happened last time she’d done that. “Not if you’re going to cut off my clothes—I mean, my sleeve like you did last time.”
“I won’t,” he reassured her then ruined it by murmuring, “unless you ask real nice.”
Drat the man. A flush heated her skin and she shakily lowered her hand. For all practical purposes, she was covered from head to toe, but the intensity in his blue eyes burned right through her wrapper and pale pink cotton nightgown.
Suddenly, she was very aware that all she had on were her nightclothes. She had thought he was in for the night or she never would’ve come downstairs half-dressed.
After she slipped her arm out of the wrapper, she held the garment close to her body with her free hand. Now that she could see the area and the fabric plastered to her skin, she was startled at the amount of blood. No wonder her arm was paining her. She’d thought the burning had only been muscle soreness due to all her unpacking and storing things for the hotel.
The sleeves of her nightdress were loose enough for Russ to carefully push the billowy fabric to her shoulder. As his slightly callused fingers trailed up her arm, a shiver worked through her.
She felt light-headed and wasn’t sure if it was because of his nearness or the brandy. She shifted uneasily in her chair.
“Can you hold this so I can get a good look?”
She gathered the fabric in her opposite hand, inhaling the dark manly scent of him.
“How did you reopen your wound?”
“It must’ve happened when I was getting the quilt off the line. I reached with both hands.”
“Where’s the cloth you’ve been using for bandages?”
“Naomi tore a sheet in strips. They’re in the wardrobe out there.” She indicated the storage area off the dining room. “Where we keep the linens.”
He disappeared and returned shortly with a handful of cloth strips. Placing them on the table, he then went to the kitchen and came back with a small bowl of water, a soft cloth, a tin of soap and a pair of scissors.
After cutting away the bandage, he gently began to clean the area. “I haven’t seen this since the night you were shot. It was healing well until now.”
His strong hands, dark against her pale skin, moved over her tender flesh just as cautiously as they had the night she’d been shot. It amazed her all over again how such a big man could be so gentle.
Her next sip of brandy had a pleasing warmth spreading through her chest. She knew the alcohol was working when she found herself studying Russ rather than being distracted by the discomfort in her arm.
When she’d literally run into him, she hadn’t noticed the state of his dress, but she noticed now. The white shirt molded to his wide shoulders was untucked and sprinkled with small bits of wood dust. There was a spot of white paint on one knee of his dark trousers. They sleeked down powerful legs to brush the tops of big bare feet. Even barefoot, he looked big and formidable.
His touch was easy, but when he grazed a place on her upper arm, agony stabbed at her. She sucked in a breath.
He stilled. “Sorry. I’m being too rough.”
“No, you’re not. It’s just tender there.”
One of his large warm hands cradled her arm as he used his free hand to rinse the bloody cloth and start again. He nodded toward her brandy. “Drink up.”
She raised the glass to her lips, trying to hide that he put her off balance.
“Have you been unpacking crates by yourself?”
“Naomi has helped when she can.”
“If there are any more, come get me to do that or ask someone else.”
“I’m just doing my part. It doesn’t hurt me to unpack them.”
He looked pointedly at her arm. “What do you call this?”
“I told you, I think I did that when I was pulling the quilt off the line.”
His head was angled over the wound and Lydia’s gaze traced the strong bronzed column of his nape, the thick ragged hair that needed a trim. If she bent her head, she could brush a kiss against his ear.
The thought drew her up short and she squirmed in her chair. What was she thinking? She couldn’t be kissing his anything.
She had tried to stay away from him, but here they were, alone and half-dressed in the flickering shadows of the gaslight. The scent of clean male and night air wrapped around her. The careful way he handled her put a longing in Lydia’s chest.
She couldn’t seem to settle her nerves. Nerves that she told herself were caused by the chance Russ might become suspicious of her late-night activities and not by the man himself.
He stared at her newly bloodied wound, his jaw tight. “You shouldn’t be straining your arm.”
>
“We all need to pitch in. I’m not doing any more than you are.”
“It’s not my hide that was dug out by a lead slug. This is no time for you to be stubborn and try to take over everything.”
His words had her frowning. “I’m not.”
“Now, why do I find that hard to believe?”
“Well, what about you?” she demanded. “You’re working yourself into the ground, burning the candle at both ends in an effort to finish by tomorrow.”
She hadn’t been to the rooms during the times he was there, but when he wasn’t around, she had stopped by a couple of times. Lydia had every confidence the rooms would be finished by the Grand Opening the next day. “You’ve got more than enough on your plate.”
He considered her for a long moment. “Guess I was wrong.”
“You were justified. I’ve given you plenty of reason to think I was trying to take the reins.”
“Still, I was on a cold trail and I’m sorry.”
When he looked at her that way, so intently, her body went soft. She moved restlessly in her seat.
Finished washing the wound, he laid the wet cloth on the table. As he reached for a clean dry strip of fabric, she turned her head to look at her arm and her hair spilled over her shoulder. Before she could push it back, Russ lifted the silky mass out of the way. He curled one strand around his finger, rubbing it between his fingers.
Lydia went very still and her breathing shallowed. He finally released her hair. He wanted to sink both hands into that raven hair, bury his face in it, but he began to wrap her arm instead.
With her lavender scent teasing him, want throbbed in his veins. The ribbon sash of her wrapper had come loose, and he could see her robe and nightgown had slipped down past the wing of her collarbone. All he could see was the silky slope of the place where her neck met her shoulder, and he wanted to put his mouth there. His blood heated.
His gaze flicked over the collar of lace that fell to the beginning swells of her breasts. He fought the impulse to reach out and cup one.
Touching her was a bad idea and he knew it. It had been too damn long since he’d had a woman. That had to be why he was thinking about peeling Miz Lydia out of her nightclothes.
