by Caroline Lee
The train whistle shook him from his thoughts, and he stepped back from the edge as the great locomotive chugged by. Then, hefting his small pack and handing his ticket to the conductor, he stepped on board and found a seat. As the train steamed out of the city, it struck Nate as a little ironic that this was his first time on one.
He’d been born in a rail camp, the son of a half-Indian whore and God knows what father. It was just bad luck that he looked so much like an Indian, when he had three white grandparents. He’d spent his early years traveling west with his mother, following the railroad workers, until he was old enough to do small jobs for small money. When his mother died, he was only about six, and had no one else. So he kept on with Union Pacific, doing whatever work they’d give him. The men pushing the rails west were big men, tough men, and didn’t have much use for a scrawny Indian kid.
One spring evening, in Cheyenne—which was the middle of nowhere then—he was getting clobbered pretty bad by a drunk. A lot of that time was a hazy blur now, but Nate clearly remembered Ash’s roar as he pulled the man off of Nate. The next day, seven-year-old Nate had quit the railroad, figuring he’d rather take his chances with the only man who’d ever stood up for him. He’d walked for two days, following Ash’s trail, until he’d collapsed. When Ash found him and took him home, Nate forced himself to be as useful as possible. By the time Ash had found the time—and the inclination—to take him back to Cheyenne, Nate had made himself part of life on the ranch. Once he’d realized that Ash was going to let him stay, he’d made himself at home.
Nate couldn’t remember when he’d first called Ash “big brother”, but by the following summer, that’s who they were: the Barker brothers. He’d spent eight years thinking of himself as a charity case, knowing that Ash had only taken him in and fed him out of pity. And after he’d turned fifteen or so, he’d fought so much with his brother that he considered leaving Cheyenne altogether. But then Ash gave him—gave him—half the ranch, and started the horse breeding program Nate had been pushing. That, more than anything else in his short life, had proved to Nate how much Ash valued him. They’d been full partners for the last eight years, and trusted each other beyond a shadow of a doubt. And though they rarely said it, they loved each other. They were brothers.
Nate might have been born lower than dirt—a half-breed whore’s bastard—but he’d built himself a life he’d be proud to share with some woman. The problem was that the only woman he’d ever wanted to share it with apparently had no interest in sharing it with him.
Ash had always given him good advice, and this time was no different. Nate had to make this trip, to figure out what was going on in Wendy’s head. To get closure, for himself and for the rest of the family.
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 4
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 appariti
on 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 wondered 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?
