by Kaki Warner
She seemed to shrink into herself. Color left her face except for the green of her eyes. Terrified eyes. The hand at her waist tightened into a fist.
Regretting his bluntness and wanting to reassure her, he took a step toward her, but when she flinched, he stopped, confused. “I won’t let him hurt you any more, sweetheart. I’ll protect you.”
“Wh-what else do you know?”
That was the question he dreaded. But he wanted no more secrets between them. “Everything.”
“How?”
“Doyle had a Pinkerton file.”
“Oh, God.” She whirled away and almost stumbled into the table by the window.
“Luce.” He started forward again.
“Don’t! Stay away!” She stood slightly hunched over, her back to him, her arms crossed at her waist.
He stopped, uncertain what to do, wondering what was going through her mind. Was she that upset that he’d come? Worried about what he might have read in that cursed file? “I didn’t read it, Lucinda. I burned it.”
“Then you don’t know everything, do you?” She straightened. Let her hands fall to her side. Slowly turned. The expression on her face was such a mix of emotions he could scarcely sort them out. Grief. Fury. Even sadness. “And I can see all those questions are still eating away at you.”
“No, they’re not. I have no—”
“Questions? I doubt that. Not after the way you’ve hounded me with them all this time.” Her smile was a grimace of bitterness and despair. “Shall I satisfy your curiosity, then?”
“Lucinda, don’t—”
Rage erupted. “No! You listen! You wanted to know all about my past, so now you listen!”
Tait felt a sick coldness move through his chest. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to watch her lips form the words because he sensed once she said them, they would stand between them forever like an unbreachable wall.
“Shall we start with the question I can see you’re dying to ask? Was I a whore? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? Did I service the fine gentlemen who came to Five Points to feed their depravity? Like your friend, Franklin Horne.”
“Luce—”
A bitter laugh cut him off. She was shaking, her eyes glittering in her pallid face. “Yes, I was a whore. I serviced them. I was their little plaything. But since Mrs. Beale intended to auction my virginity, they weren’t allowed to make use of my body. Only my hands and my . . . mouth.”
“Lucinda, stop. Please.” He couldn’t bear this. The words. Her pain. The images that seared his mind. “You don’t have to—”
“But I did have to,” she cut in savagely. “Or I was beaten, starved, made even more wretched by Smythe’s visits.” She began to pace, her trembling hands reaching out to touch this or that, as if to assure herself that if she could feel something with her fingers, then it was real and she was real.
“And your next question,” she went on, plucking from a shelf a beautiful china figurine of a shepherdess with a lamb at her side, “would be why didn’t I run away? You’re thinking any sane person would, right?”
She turned the figurine this way and that to study it. Tait had a sense she was offended by its innocence and beauty. That she wanted to throw it against the wall. Smash it into tiny pieces. Instead, with great care, she set it back on the shelf, then flattened her palm against her skirt.
“I tried. I did. But how far can a twelve-year-old run? And to where? Who would help a starving, filthy little runaway from Mrs. Beale’s?” She made a sound—part laugh, part sob. “No one, that’s who. Not a single person.”
She began to pace again, her legs stiff, her heels coming down hard, as if to crush whatever was underfoot. “Perhaps they were afraid. Perhaps they didn’t care. Perhaps no one thought I was worth saving.”
Tait watched her, silently battling his rage, knowing there was nothing he could do but listen. He could see it was important to her that she say the words. And important for him to hear them. This was what he had wanted to know—the secrets he had been desperate to fit into the puzzle. Well, now he had them, and his punishment was to stand there in helpless silence and watch the pain pour out of her like bile.
“The last time Smythe caught me”—she stopped at the window, keeping her back toward him, as if she couldn’t bear to see the effect her words were having—“he beat me and put me in a closet. For a week, maybe more, I’m not sure, I lived in the dark, with only a sliver of lamplight shining beneath the locked door, or a short burst of blinding light whenever he opened it to bring me food or take away my waste pail.
“But I was fed. I had blankets. I had a roof over my head. I was safe.”
Turning abruptly from the window, she wandered aimlessly to the desk, then on to the bookcase. “For two years Smythe tutored me—that’s what he called it—and paraded me through the downstairs rooms and let them touch me—but not enough to damage the merchandise, of course.”
Tait watched a shudder ripple through her, and felt his own stomach roll. He wondered what he was supposed to do with this knowledge. This rage.
“Then on the day of the auction—you knew about the auction? I can see by your disgust that you did. After all, that’s the most important piece of the puzzle, isn’t it?” She continued to pace. “Smythe came for me. He made me take off my clothes—rags, really—and put on a sheer nightdress. He brushed the tangles from my hair and put paint on my face and told me what was going to happen to me. When I began to cry, he laughed and said before it was over, I would wish I was back at Mrs. Beale’s with him.”
She stopped pacing and finally faced him. There was fire in her eyes, fed by a hatred so intense it seemed to heat the room. “I wanted to kill him. Claw out his eyes. I wanted to die and be with Mam and Da and my baby brother.”
She began to cry, her hands opening and closing at her sides, an awful soundless despair twisting her mouth and distorting her beautiful face.
“Lucinda . . . sweetheart . . .”
“When he finished and I looked into the mirror and saw what he had done—what he had made me into—I felt . . . gone. Like Cathleen Donovan had ceased to exist, and this pitiful, painted thing had taken her place. I wasn’t even aware that I had picked up the lamp and thrown it at him until I heard him scream and saw the flames. Then I ran.” Shoulders heaving on silent sobs, she dropped her face into her hands.
“And you’re still running.” On wooden legs, Tait walked over and stopped in front of her. He was shaking with the need to touch her, hold her, cry with her. But he knew she would have to come to him. Her decision. Her terms. When she was ready. “Aren’t you weary, Luce?” he asked gently. “Don’t you want to stop running and rest . . . just for a while . . . with me?”
“I-If only I had—”
“The fault is with them,” he cut in, incensed that she could think any of it was her doing. “What happened to you was unthinkable. An affront to God. And to me. You’re not to blame for any of it.”
She let her hands drop away and looked up at him with an expression of such anguish it felt like a punch to his chest.
“Give me all that pain and fear,” he said. “Let me carry it for you, sweetheart, and I promise I won’t ever let anything like that happen to you again.”
She stood shaking, tears streaming.
“Please. Let me protect you. Let me love you like you deserve.”
“Love me?” Her voice was filled with self-loathing. “How could love me you after what I did . . . what I was?”
“I do. And have. And will. Always.”
An expression he couldn’t define crossed her face. She reached up, and with a trembling hand, brushed her fingertips across his cheek. “You’re crying.”
Tait wasn’t aware of it. But he wasn’t surprised. He had never hurt this bad.
“No one has ever wept for me.”
“They should have. What happened to you was wrong. What they did was wrong.” His voice faltered and for a moment he couldn’t speak. Desperate to touch her, he cradled her face in his hands and looked hard into her beautiful eyes. “But look at you,” he said with a wobbly smile when he could speak again. “You’re an amazing woman, Lucinda Hathaway. You know why? Because you survived. No matter what happened to you, you survived. And I’m so grateful you did.”
She wrapped her fingers around his wrists. He wasn’t sure if she meant to push him away or keep him close. Her hands were cold. He could feel them shaking. “I might be a murderess. I might have killed Mrs. Beale in the fire.”
“I hope so.”
“Others may have died, as well.”
“They shouldn’t have been there.”
New tears glittering on her cheeks, dripping from her chin. “I j-just wanted to make it stop. I wanted to die.”
“I know.” Unable to bear the pain in her face, or to let her see the despair in his, he pulled her against his chest. “But thank God you didn’t. Thank God you lived so I could find you.”
Surrender came slowly, and at great cost. But when she finally gave in to him and let her body relax against his, Tait knew he had won the greatest prize he would ever hold in his hands. Lucinda’s trust.
Picking her up, he carried her to the couch and sat down with her in his lap and held her while she cried. It went on for a long time, as if she had stored up a lifetime of tears and pain, and she was finally able to let it go. With him.
He pressed his damp cheek against her hair, grateful to be there, determined to always be there, until finally, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
Hoping his knee would hold him, he rose. He carried her into the bedroom, gently laid her on the bed, and pulled a quilt over her. He watched over her until she settled back into deep sleep, then he went into the lavatory, sat on the water stool, and wept.
* * *
Lucinda awoke with a start, confused and disoriented. Then it all came rushing back. Tait. He’s here. He knows.
She bolted upright, terrified that now that he finally had his answers he had left her, and this time, for good. Then she heard muffled sounds coming from the water closet. Rising, she stumbled to the door and threw it open.
He was bent over, wearing nothing but a towel, attaching something to his leg—a brace around his knee. He looked up, startled, then gave a crooked smile. “Did I wake you?”
She sagged against the door frame, so relieved she felt dizzy. “I didn’t know where you were. I thought you might have left.” Why did he need a brace? Were those new scars on his shoulder and arm?
He finished tying on the brace and straightened, and she saw another puckered scar across his chest. And one she hadn’t noticed earlier on the side of his face.
“I’ve been in the saddle all day and smelled like horse. I hope you don’t mind that I used your tub. Your ridiculously small tub.”
“Did Smythe do that to you?” she asked, staring bleakly at a fresh red scar by his temple.
“My fists aren’t much good in a knife fight. Don’t worry. They don’t hurt.”
“And your knee?”
He looked down. “I hit a rock when I fell off the train. It’s getting better. But I hope you’re not partial to dancing.” He said it lightly, but all she saw was the battering his beautiful body had taken on her account.
“I’m so sorry. If not for me—”
“If not for you,” he cut in, “I’d be a soulless bastard, drowning in whiskey and greed like Doyle. You’ve given me a purpose, Luce. And hope.”
“Hope of what?”
“A life with you.” That crooked grin again. “I had planned to do this with a little more finesse. Or at least with more clothes on. But . . .”
With one hand braced on the edge of the cabinet, he stretched out his bad leg and lowered himself down on his good knee. Then he took her hand in both of his and looked up into her face. “Will you do me the honor of marrying me, Lucinda Hathaway and Margaret Hamilton and Cathleen Donovan?”
“Get up,” she said, trying not to burst into tears again. “You look ridiculous. And your towel is gapping open.”
He looked down at himself, then chuckled. “Impressive, huh?” But his grin faded when he looked back up. “Why are you crying? I thought you’d be happy to have finally brought me to my knee.”
“I am happy. And impressed.” She dipped down and pressed her lips to his, then straightened. “But are you sure, Tait? Horne might be the only one who—”
“I’m sure.”
“Or Doyle might tell—”
“He won’t.”
“I wouldn’t want to shame you—”
“For crissakes, Lucinda. Just say yes. My knee is killing me.”
“Then, yes. I’ll marry you, Tait Rylander,” she said in a wobbly voice. “I am honored to do so. But we must wait until I can send for Mrs. Throckmorton.”
His face fell. “Wait?”
“For the ceremony. The honeymoon can start now. Shall I help you up?”
His laugh swept away all the sadness in her heart. “Sweetheart, I’m already up. But you can give me a boost off the floor, if you want.”
* * *
Loving Lucinda was better than Tait remembered, and more than he’d hoped. And not just because she insisted he not wear a preventative—thank you, Lord—but because she put away her distrust and fear and came to him with an ardor that matched his own.
Here. Yes, there. Harder. Slower. Faster. Again. Oh, God . . .
There was definitely something to be said for a woman who made her own decisions and who had no qualms about telling a man what she liked and disliked, and where, and when, and how often. He got the gist of it pretty quickly, then did what felt right. In the end, she rode him like a bronc rider, her hair flying, her perfect breasts bouncing above him, those little sounds he loved spilling from her open mouth. If he hadn’t been so distracted, he would have laughed with the joy of it.
Who would have thought such enthusiasm rested beneath that serene smile and logical mind and coolly regal exterior? An incredible woman, his Lucinda, and his love for her was a fire he couldn’t quench.
It was a night spent in a blaze of delight.
He slept like the dead and awoke after dawn to an empty bed. Beyond the room, he could hear the hotel awakening to the day, and he smiled, thinking of his bossy little wife-to-be bustling about issuing orders to the staff.
But after he dressed and left her suite, he learned from her bald, brown-toothed desk clerk, Yancey, that she had left an hour earlier for the church.
Thinking she was already planning their wedding and glad to stay out of those preparations, he started toward the dining room for coffee when the clerk added, “Seemed sad. Like she was fixing to cry. I ain’t never seen her cry, ’cept the time Billy mashed his finger in a door.”
Tait turned back to meet narrowed eyes that carried more steel than he would have thought the old man had in him.
“Got any idea why she would be fixing to cry, Mr. Fancy Pants New Yorker? Oh, yeah, I heard all about you from Miriam, who heard Mrs. Maddie grilling that hungover, dress-wearing husband of hers this morning over coffee. So don’t think you can get away with mistreating Miss Lucinda without having to answer to me and Billy and a whole lot of other folks.”
Tait was so astounded he could only stare.
“So what exactly are your intentions, mister?”
“My intentions are to marry her . . . if that’s any concern of yours.”
“So why was she fixing to cry?”
“Joy?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then I’d best go find out, hadn’t I?”
“Ye
ah, you’d best.”
Not sure how far the church was, Tait went to the livery for his horse, then following the directions that Driscoll, the livery owner, had given him, rode toward the mouth of the canyon.
He shivered, vowing to get a thicker coat. Maybe one made of buffalo hide. Lucinda would love that. City man to mountain man, he thought with a grin as he pulled the collar of his frock coat tighter around his neck.
Clouds were moving in from the west, skimming the tops of the peaks, and a gusty, chill breeze whispered through the spruce boughs and loosened what few leaves remained on the aspens along the creek. The air had a heavy, wet feel to it, and he wondered if it would snow. He wouldn’t mind being snowed in with Lucinda for a couple of months.
As he neared the Come All You Sinners Church, he spotted a figure bundled up in a familiar green cape, sitting on a log bench in the little fenced graveyard. Dismounting, he tied his horse to a hitching post beside the fence, then went through the gate.
“Lucinda, what are you doing out here?” he asked as he approached.
She glanced up, and Tait saw the desk clerk was right. She did look sad.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
How could she not sleep after the night they’d just spent? Taking a seat beside her, he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side. He could feel her shivering. “Tell me what’s wrong. Bad dreams? Worries about Horne? Regrets?”
“About you?’” She stroked a gloved hand over his cheek. “Never.” Then with a sigh, she let her hand fall back to her lap. “It’s Cathleen. She haunts me. Night after night. I thought once I talked about what happened at Mrs. Beale’s, she might leave me alone.”
“What does she do?”
“Nothing. She just stands there, crying, wearing that nasty gown Smythe put on her, and her poor little face painted like a wanton—”
“Wash it.”
She turned her head and looked at him. “What?”
“Wash her face. Put real clothes on her. If you don’t, Smythe will have her forever.”
“But she’s just a figment of my imagination.”
