by Caroline Lee
“How dare…! Give that back!” Wendy reached out try to snatch it back, but Nate was faster. Casually, he lifted one booted foot and plunked it on the table between them, forcing her to pull back or run the risk of draping herself across the dirty shoe. “What...?” She took a deep breath and pushed her spectacles back up her nose. “Nathanial, remove your foot from my workspace.”
“Shhh.” He turned the page, apparently engrossed in her writing.
“Nathanial.”
“Shhh, reading.”
“Nate. Give me back my journal.”
“No.” He flipped another page, and she was angry enough to scream. Instead, she took another deep breath, placed her hands in her lap, and started to pretend she had his neck between them.
“Nate, you’re making a scene. This isn’t proper.”
“Don’t care; reading.”
He looked so intent, so silly—reclined with his boots up on the table of a Pullman car, for Heaven’s sakes—that she burst into laughter. She immediately tried to clamp down on her mirth, but it was too late. He lowered her journal, and his feet, with a grin on his face.
“I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me.”
“Then you don’t know me quite well enough. I’m still livid.”
Nate sighed, and returned his attention to her story. She could tell that he wanted to argue, and was almost disappointed when he didn’t. “Well, at least you’re speaking to me again.”
“Hmmm.” Eyes narrowed, she refused to admit any such thing. “Give me back my journal.”
“Okay.” Carefully, he closed it and passed it to her. She snatched it back, and pressed it to her breast. “That isn’t the story you were working on in the Blakelys’ parlor.”
“No…” She didn’t want to admit that she’d started a new one after he’d sauntered so sexily back into her life.
“I like it. I’m looking forward to reading more of it.”
“Well, if you can bring yourself to ask next time, maybe I’ll permit it.”
“Really?”
“No, I’m still very angry at you.”
He shrugged, as if awarding her a concession, and it made her feel better somehow. “There’s more passion in this one, Wendy. Like your first books. The last two have been… I dunno.”
“What?” She rarely got to speak with someone who’d read her books, because so few people knew she was the author. Only her editor gave her any feedback. Still, it felt odd to be listening to Nate’s opinions about her stories. Her curiosity about his opinions was enough to bring her out of her snit.
“They’ve been good, don’t get me wrong. I’ve liked the adventures. But they didn’t exactly have a Happily Ever After, did they?”
She harrumphed. Is that what he meant? “They weren’t supposed to. As an author, I’ve grown past the need for unrealistic platitudes, and have learned to write life as it is.”
“You’re saying you don’t believe in Happily Ever Afters anymore? How about True Love?”
Her scoff was tinged with sadness. “I’m saying I live in the real world now, Nate, and I’m trying to reflect that in my writing.”
The look he gave her was strange; incredulity mixed with pity, and a bit of sorrow. She straightened her back and turned to study the landscape flashing by, refusing to feel badly for her beliefs. You’re not supposed to be speaking to him anyhow, remember? Apparently she needed the reminder.
Nate was quiet for so long that she figured he’d fallen asleep, but refused to give into the temptation to look his way. She was glad that she hadn’t when he spoke. “The woman in your latest story… is that you?” She tightened her jaw and didn’t respond. “Are you upset because I don’t think you can take care of yourself? Because that’s not true. If that’s supposed to be me,” from the corner of her eye she watched him point one long finger at the book still clutched to her breast, “then you’ve got it wrong.”
Reminding herself that she wasn’t speaking to him didn’t work. “Of course it’s not supposed to be you.”
Only, it was. Nate was her Hero; he’d always been her Hero, even if she’d refused to believe that she needed one.
“Really? Because it seemed like—”
“It’s not.”
He smiled, and she cursed herself inwardly for noticing. For being drawn into conversation once more. For allowing him to bring her out of her snit, again.
“I think that you can handle your own affairs, you know. I’m not ‘ignorant’.” He nodded towards the book, quoting her most recent scene. “If that’s what your sulk is all about…”
Damn her inability to stay quiet around him. “Well, since you’ve finally gotten around to asking, Nate, I’ll tell you. I’m ‘sulking’—as you so kindly put it—because of how you acted.”
“I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”
“Are you sorry you did it?”
“Not at all.”
“See? That’s why I’m angry. I told you not to do it. I practically begged you to stop!” Wendy could feel the heat climbing up her cheeks, and struggled to maintain control. “I knew what Mrs. Blakely would do to you—to me—if you allowed Steven to provoke you! That’s why I’ve managed to go so long without hitting the insufferable wretch myself. I knew that if I did—if you did—I’d be without a job.”
He braced his elbows on his knees when he leaned towards her. “So? You expected me to just—”
“I expected you to listen to me, Nate!” She clenched her jaw, refusing to allow the angry tears to enter her eyes. “I expected you to trust my judgment.”
“I wasn’t going to let that insult pass, Wendy.” Both of their voices were rising, but she couldn’t make herself care about the scene they might cause.
“Why not? I was. If you’d left then, maybe—”
“He called you a whore!”
“Maybe he was—” right. But she clamped down on the word before it could escape. She’d kept her secret for so long, it was instinctual. Only her anger at Nate had allowed the damning confession to almost slip free.
But Nate’s expression had gone cold, and his voice icy, when he asked, “Maybe he was what, Wendy?”
She tightened the muscles in her jaw, refusing to answer. The way she felt now, so raw and exposed, it was likely that anything she said would result in an emotional collapse. She couldn’t trust herself around him.
With a sniff, she turned to look out the window once more, pretending great interest in the scenery flashing by. She didn’t even look his way when he said her name again.
He sighed then, and from the corner of her eye she watched him slouch back against the seat across from her. A long moment passed, and then he sighed again. “I’m sorry. I was so damn furious when he said that about you, that all I could think of was that I wanted to hurt him as much as he’d hurt you.”
She closed her eyes. Oh God, he’d seen that? He’d understood what Steven’s words had done to her? How just seeing him made her want to hide in shame? He’d realized how Steven hurt her?
Wendy hoped he wasn’t expecting a response she couldn’t give, but Nate continued. “I heard you ask me to stop. I should have known you’d have a good reason for it. But I couldn’t. I guess I acted like the savage everyone thinks I am.”
Even after all of these years, he still believed that about himself. All of her words to him as kids hadn’t helped. There was a part of him that was still wild, and it had come out Friday night in the Blakelys’ foyer. And she loved him for it. As shocking as it had been to see him standing over another man, his fists red with blood, there was a part of her that remembered a younger Nate’s reckless exuberance when breaking a new horse, and knew that this… wildness was part of his appeal. He wasn’t a savage, no… but he’d never quite fit the mold of a proper businessman either.
She wouldn’t want him to. She loved him just the way he was.
Wendy couldn’t stop the two tears that seeped from under her eyelids then. She twisted further in her s
eat, so that he wouldn’t see. From the noise he made—part sigh, part pain—he thought she was still angry. “I’m sorry, Wendy.”
So she nodded, stiffly. That was all she could manage then, without falling into his arms and confessing all sorts of things that didn’t need voicing.
He didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t either, for several hours. He’d gotten up and paced the aisle a few times, nodding politely to fellow passengers and never leaving the car. She’d written more, using the hopeless anger she’d felt towards Nate influence her Heroine’s tirade against the Hero. In books, characters loved one another enough to ignore flaws… in real life, love was about overlooking flaws, not ignoring them. She’d been livid at Nate, but once he’d understood and apologized, she’d remembered how much he’d meant to her.
Sighing, she pulled her spectacles off of her face and rubbed the bridge of her nose. This wasn’t a book. This wasn’t True Love. This was the feelings of a stupid young woman who deserved every bit of her misery as repayment for misery she’d caused.
“Are your characters still mad at one another?” Nate was lounging across from her again, his arms crossed, studying her. It was almost dark, and they’d be stopping for dinner soon.
She slipped the glasses back on, and bent over her journal again. “Yes.” Apparently she was speaking to him again.
“Are you still mad at me?”
“Yes.” Was she? She didn’t feel angry anymore, but she wasn’t quite ready to forgive him yet. With one action, an action that he should have been able to avoid, he’d changed her life without any say from her. He deserved a bit more of her snit.
“You need to give your hero a chance to defend himself, you know.”
“Hmmm.”
“If that’s supposed to be me—”
“It’s not.” Of course it was supposed to be him, but she wasn’t going to admit it. She glared at him.
“Well, I’m not as ‘ignorant’ as you seem to think I am.”
“It’s not you!” She pulled the book closer to her lap, wondering if he could read her handwriting upside down, or if he was just quoting that scene from memory.
“Also, I haven’t ‘loved many women’. I’m not an expert on women. Just you, Wendy.”
She didn’t know how to interpret that. “You think you’re an expert on me?”
“I think I know what you want. I just don’t know the secret you’re hiding from me.”
Thank God. She had to turn his attention. “You expect me to believe that you haven’t kissed anyone else, ever?” He’d said that he’d been thinking about kissing her for years, after that amazing afternoon in the museum. But she found it hard to believe that he’d been pining all this time.
And she was right, judging from his panicked expression and his sudden interest in the scenery. She narrowed her eyes to hide her victorious smirk. “How many women have you ‘loved’, Nate?”
He still didn’t look at her. “I’m not telling you that, Wendy.”
“Ha! I thought so. Expert indeed…”
“Shut up.” His mumbled response to her teasing made her feel vindicated, knowing that she’d made him as uncomfortable as he’d made her.
She wanted to push him, to make him more uncomfortable out of revenge… but was half-afraid that he’d turn the question back to her. How many men have you loved, Wendy? She couldn’t answer that, not to him.
Studying his profile for a moment more, she noted his clenched jaw and the way that he wasn’t quite as relaxed as he’d wanted her to think. He might have fooled someone else, but not her, who knew him so well. Satisfied that she’d irritated him enough for the moment—almost as much as he’d irritated her, in fact—she opened her journal and fell back into her story, determined to maintain her sulk around him. Their conversations were just too engaging to be healthy to her current state of mind. She had to stay angry, or she’d lose what little control she had about her return home. All of her attention and energy needed to be focused on her family, and parrying their questions about the way she’d treated them for the last year.
She had to be angry at Nate, or her love for him would show, and she’d lose any chance to manage her own life.
Thus, thankfully, they didn’t speak again until they’d reached Cheyenne.
The days of that rail trip were some of the longest days in Nate’s memory. He’d discovered early on that the vague stomach complaint that had plagued him on his journey eastward hadn’t abated. It seemed that his stomach just didn’t care to be hurtled across the plains at what seemed like a few hundred miles per hour. The scenery rushed past faster than a horse could possibly travel, and Nate didn’t really like it. He felt better if he was facing forward, and looking at something besides the scenery, but that meant looking at Wendy, and he could only stare at the top of her head for so long.
He’d quickly gotten used to the frequent stops the train made in every little two-horse town, frustrating as they might be to a traveler in a hurry. Why, it’d gotten to the point where he could nap right through the porter—George’s—constant announcements about which stop they were coming up on. When they changed trains in Omaha, Nate used the break to send a quick telegraph to the Carderocks in Cheyenne, letting them know he was bringing Wendy home. Then he stood and watched the wires, amazed to think that his message was speeding west much faster than even Mr. Pullman’s cars. He shook his head thoughtfully; the world was changing, and he wasn’t sure that he liked it.
What would Serena do when she got the message? Hopefully she’d be there, because this close to Christmas, Nate planned on heading directly to her home when they arrived. He’d say his hellos, and drop Wendy off to catch up with her friend. With the way Wendy had been acting, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t even notice when he said his goodbyes and headed out. Nate wasn’t sure yet where he’d go; he didn’t want to crowd Wendy, but he didn’t want to head all the way back out to the ranch either. He had to be on hand, to try to convince her to forgive him.
She was the reason that the train journey was so miserable. Besides that argument about her writing, she’d barely strung three words together to him the whole trip. He’d caught her looking at him a few times, but she either ignored his attempts at conversation, or gave little one-word answers to his questions. So he was stuck sitting across from her for long hours, not wanting to stare out the window too much, but not having anyone to talk to. Meals were easier, at least, because they could watch the people coming and going through the stations, and he was pleased to be on a seat that didn’t rock back and forth.
He was bored. That was it. After his time in St. Louis, the time he spent with her, he knew that she was still a conversationalist who could get him laughing and thinking and reminiscing. He’d had fun with her… which is what made this silent treatment that much worse.
He’d even considered stealing her journal again, just to get a rise out of her, but dismissed the idea as something she’d expect. He’d noted that she always wrote with her other hand on the book, now, probably to protect against his high-handed actions. Noticing that she’d packed some of her other books in her valise, he asked for permission to borrow one. Surprised, she glanced up at him, and then at her books, but hesitantly nodded. He propped his feet up beside her again—ignoring her little huff of disapproval—and settled down to re-read an old favorite.
But he couldn’t concentrate on the book. Couldn’t concentrate on anything except her, and the chance that he’d almost certainly lost. Things could never go back the way they used to be, now.
How many times had he cursed his temper? It had been so stupid to attack that jackass in his parents’ home… but truthfully, Nate would do it again. Steven had deserved it. The Blakelys thought Nate was a savage, and his actions had proved it. But he did regret losing his temper so thoroughly in front of Wendy.
No, that’s not true. He didn’t regret beating Steven so badly, but he did regret that Wendy had to be there, and begged him to stop. Nate would
n’t have stopped, not for anything, not after that insult… but now Wendy thought that he’d ignored her pleadings on purpose. Well, if he was being honest with himself, it was the truth. He had ignored her, but not because he hadn’t believed or trusted her. No, it was because he couldn’t control the savage side of himself.
And wasn’t it just his bad luck—or horrible timing—that proved that only a few days after he’d managed to weasel his way back into her life and affections? She was probably regretting ever opening the door to him last week. She probably wanted nothing to do with him, now.
Her actions certainly confirmed it. Not speaking to him for two days now, sending him hot glares over the top of her spectacles, pursing those plump lips in silent disapproval. Yeah, he’d screwed up majorly when it had come to Wendy.
This was not the homecoming he’d hoped for.
Nate tried to engage her with stories about her family and friends, and what they’d been up to for the last three years. She quickly cut him off with a quiet “I’m trying to write, if you don’t mind” and that was the last he bothered. Soon he was pouting as fiercely as she.
The nights were the worst. Pullman sleeping cars had two bunks; the upper one folded out from the wall above their heads, and the two seats were converted into the lower one. George—the only other person Nate could talk to on the trip—showed him how to switch the seats into a bed through a clever little device, and the two men got to chatting about the fascinating advancements Pullman put into his cars.
But that second night, after climbing up into the upper bunk, Nate had stacked his hands behind his head, willed his stomach to calm down, and listened to Wendy tossing and turning below him. He wanted—more than anything he could imagine right then—to go down there and gather her in his arms and keep her safe and comfortable. To apologize for getting her kicked out of her job and her house, and for forcing her to come—No. No, he wasn’t going to apologize for getting her back to Cheyenne. He’d been waiting for this for years.
After almost an hour of listening to her, he whispered her name. It was amazing that she heard him over the snores of the other passengers, but she stilled instantly. Another few minutes, and he thought that maybe she’d finally fallen asleep, when he heard her slowly turn over, as trying if to make no noise.
