Chapter Twenty

“I’m worried about her, Thaddeus.” Fiona made full use of the front room, pacing the length of it from the upright piano at one end to the gun rack at the other. Sometimes she circled, but mostly it was a straight line back and forth.

“Fiona.” Saying her name had no impact. She did not turn in his direction and she did not slow. Thaddeus watched her from his perch on the wide velvet arm of the sofa. He was sitting hipshot, one leg stretched out for balance, the other slightly bent. She disliked it when he sat on the arm of any piece of furniture instead of the seat cushion, so he had chosen to roost here hoping it would distract her long enough to get her to listen to reason. Thus far, it had not worked. “I understand you’re worried, but you have no foundation for it. I swear to you Phoebe is safe and she will return no worse off than when she left.”

“You don’t know that. You can’t know that.”

“I know my son. He will see it as his duty to keep her out of harm’s way. You have evidence to prove that he has done it before and no reason to think he will not do it again. Besides, Fiona, it is rain, not robbers.”

She turned her head to glower at him, but there was no pause in her step. “It is a storm, Thad. Phoebe is afraid of storms. She used to hide in a trunk when she was a child. A trunk. She hasn’t outgrown the fear, only the trunks.”

Thaddeus admitted he didn’t know about Phoebe’s fear, but rather than mollify Fiona with the modest apology, it froze her anger. The glare from her amethyst eyes was glacial. He faced it head on. “She has good instincts. So does Remington. They’ll seek shelter.”

“Where?” she demanded. “Where will they find that? I don’t understand why they left at all. Why couldn’t he give her a riding lesson right here? Taking her away from Twin Star on horseback is not my idea of keeping her safe.”

“I believe Phoebe had the impression you would not approve of her learning to ride.”

Fiona stopped, set her hands on her hips. “That is not an impression. That is a fact. Learning to ride serves no purpose. It is an unnecessary risk for her to take and for the rest of you to support. She’ll have no use for it in New York.”

Thaddeus tilted his head, regarded her as he had not done before, and saw what he had only suspected. “Is that why you’ve never wanted to learn?”

Fiona’s hands fell to her sides. “I don’t know why you would say that. I am talking about Phoebe.”

“I thought we were,” he said. “Now I’m not so sure.”

Fiona resumed walking but without the anxious edge. Her steps were slower, more deliberate. “And I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Hmm.”

Fiona changed course and went to the window. She drew back the curtain and looked out. Rain cascaded from the porch roof and made a second curtain that was almost impenetrable. When the storm stopped, there would be a moat around the house, and that struck her as oddly perfect for her husband’s purposes. Without the requisite drawbridge, she was effectively his prisoner.

She let the curtain fall and turned her back on the window. “Where did he take her? You must have some idea.” Before he could answer, she added, “Please don’t tell me they went into town. I know Ellie prepared food for them. That suggests your son had something else in mind.”

“I wasn’t going to lie to you,” he said. “I don’t know if they got there, but they were headed to Thunder Point.”

Fiona leaned backward, pressed her hands flat to the roughly plastered wall. “No,” she said, although the word was hardly given sound. “Why? Why would he take her there? Isn’t that where . . . I don’t understand. Why would she agree?”

“Remington wanted to have another look around; he thought Phoebe could help. Neither of them has been back there since that night. It was time.”

“It was time? Time for what? For Phoebe to be reminded of every awful thing that happened to her? There is no sense in that. She needs to put it behind her; that’s what you do when terrible things happen. You put it behind you and walk on.”

“Has that been your experience?” he asked quietly.

Fiona gave a small start. She pushed away from the wall and took a step forward. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Putting bad things behind you and walking on. It sounded as if you were speaking from experience.”

“Did it? I was speaking from common sense. What is the point of dwelling when nothing can come of it? What kind of life can Phoebe make for herself if she is forced to confront the consequences of her past?”

“She wasn’t forced, Fiona. She wanted to go.”

“You have that from Remington, I suppose.”

“I do, and I have no reason to doubt him. I want to hear about these consequences. What is it that you think Phoebe is confronting out there?”

“She’s confronting what happened.”

“I understand, but what is it that you think happened?”

“What do you mean? She was held against her will in that cabin. Tied like an animal. Bound to a bed. What do you think happened?”

“Not what you’re thinking. Did she say something to you that she did not say to anyone else? Do you know she was raped?” He observed Fiona flinch, but he did not call the word back, did not try to soften it. “Do you have reason to suspect? Remington did not.”

She threw up her hands. “How would he know? If he asked her if they violated her, she would deny it, but I know these things. I know them, Thaddeus, and I know Phoebe. She could drink hemlock and would only admit to a mild case of dyspepsia.”

Thaddeus stood and went to her. She did not pull away when he gently took her by the wrists and lowered them. He held her hands loosely. She cast her eyes downward and watched the sweep of his thumbs across the pale blue veins. Her breathing slowed.

“Will you say it now?” he asked, his voice calm, barely a whisper.

She shook her head, unable to look at him.

“There should be at least this much trust between us,” he said. It was the wrong thing to say, but Thaddeus didn’t know that until it was said. She wrested her hands from him and stepped away, and now that she was looking at him again, he wished she weren’t. The icy rage was gone. Her eyes burned hot. Angry tears hovered but did not spill, and he was helpless in the face of them, not because a woman’s tears had ever undone him, but because he did not understand what he had done to provoke them.

“You should never speak of what you don’t understand.”

Thaddeus did not try to call Fiona back as she walked away, and he harbored no hope that she would return. He was not even sure she would hear him. He stood just as he was, hands at his sides, lips pressed into a grim line, until he heard Ellie bang a pot in the kitchen. The sound jerked him out of his stillness. Turning on his heel, he went to seek her out. After more than a score of years living in each other’s pockets, he could depend on her to have something to say. He might even listen.

• • •

Remington opened the saddlebag that Ellie had filled for him and began to unpack it. “Come away from there,” he told Phoebe. She was standing at the door poking her head through the small opening she’d made. “It’s finally decently warm in here and you are letting in both the cold and the damp.”

She was reluctant to step away and it showed in how long it took her to close the door. “I think the rain is slowing.”

Remington cocked an ear toward the roof. “I can hear.”

“I needed to see it with my eyes.” Phoebe crossed her ankles, folded her legs, and gracefully lowered herself to the mattress so she was sitting opposite Remington. “The stream’s still rising, though.”

“And it will continue to rise for a while after the rain’s stopped.”

“You don’t seem to be concerned. Water is lapping at the smokehouse.”

“We’re going to be fine, Phoebe.” He held out a chunk of bread to her and a slice of ham. “I couldn’t find any plates. Old Man McCauley took everything his pack mules could carry when he left.”

Phoebe took Remington’s offering, tore off a smaller portion of the bread, and put it in her mouth. “Did you know him?” she asked around that bite of food.

“No, not so I could call him a friend. He was hardly an acquaintance. We crossed paths in town, but out here I gave him a wide berth. Everyone did.”

“So this place is known. If people avoided it, it’s because they knew it was here.”

“Yes.” He rolled his slice of ham and bit off the end as if it were a cigar.

“It follows, doesn’t it, that Mr. Shoulders is likely from the area, not from Frost Falls specifically, but from somewhere close by.”

“It’s possible. Northeast Rail’s detective is working from that assumption.”

She nodded. “I don’t think you are, though.”

“How’s that?”

When Phoebe shrugged, her unbound hair fell over her shoulder and she swung her head to toss it back. “I’m not sure. I think you have other ideas that you don’t want to share.” She watched him take a second large bite from his ham cigar and knew he had no intention of responding. “That’s what I thought.”

Remington slid one of the canteens toward her. “There’s cheese in the bag, if you’d like that.”

“Not just now, thank you. In the event we could be here for days, I think rationing is in order.”

Laughing, he shook his head. “If you don’t eat it, I’m sure the mice will. We’re leaving tomorrow morning. First light. I promise.” He used his chin to point to the window. “I don’t anticipate the rain letting up completely until dark, maybe not then. Better if we wait.”

Phoebe set the ham and bread on her knee and tightened the knot at her breasts. Remington’s dark eyes had been following its slow descent. He actually sighed when she secured it. “Uh-huh,” she said. “I know when you have ideas.”

“I don’t mind sharing this one.”

She waved him off and picked up her food. “We are done with that.”

“You sound definite.”

“Oh, I am.” He probably didn’t believe her, she thought, because she had already shown him that she had the spine of a slug where he was concerned. She needed to keep that rather unpleasant image in her mind when she felt herself being drawn to him. And she was drawn. There was no accusation she could lay at his feet, not when the attraction was so clearly mutual that no seduction was required.

After they had lain together, they had slept deeply but not for long. They were still drowsy as they roused, he first, and then she after a few nudges. It was the act of settling themselves on the narrow mattress that roused them again, this time in a different way.

“My leg won’t go there,” she had said.

“Yes, it will. Here, give me the blanket.”

“No. I want to keep it.”

“It’s tangled. That’s why you don’t fit.”

Phoebe felt her cheeks growing warm as she remembered how he had yanked the blanket from her fist and pulled her bottom hard into the cradle of his groin. She was still wearing her knickers. He, his drawers. Except to call attention to a barrier that was flimsy at best, their clothing was of no significance.

“That’s better,” he had said.

She pushed deeper into the cradle he’d made for her. “You think so?”

“I do.” His voice was strangled.

She reached behind her, found his arm, and pulled it across her body.

“Comfortable now?” he asked.

“Hardly. But I’m warm.” He, on the other hand, was like a furnace. “I still want the blanket.”

He’d spread it over them. His fingers brushed her breast and they didn’t move on. She had turned slightly, then, just enough for his hand to cover her. The rough pad of his thumb moved over her nipple. She felt a sweet ache between her thighs and the sensation that he was there, inside her, moving slowly, deliberately, and she was contracting, holding him, holding on, because this was what she wanted.

It was perhaps inevitable that it became the reality.

Phoebe was aware that Remington was watching her. His mouth was tipped in a manner that told her he was amused, but set in that way that meant he would not tell her why. She ignored him.

That hadn’t been possible earlier. He’d held her still, slipped into her from behind. She had moaned, and he had rubbed his chin against the crown of her head. “Phoebe,” he’d whispered. Just that. “Phoebe.” He’d said it as if it were important, as if she were important.

And right then she felt as if she were.

“There,” one of them had said. “I want you to touch me there.”

“Hold me.” Had that been her? “Yes. Like that.”

His hand went between her thighs. She was tender there and the sensation of pleasure was so sharp it was almost painful. Her mouth, too, was swollen, and she had run her tongue along her upper lip to trace the new line. A sound escaped, a whimper as he moved in her, and she closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel.

“You can shout if you like,” he’d said. His mouth was close to her ear again. “No one will hear you.”

“You will.”

“Hmm. I know.”

She reached behind her, palmed his buttock. It clenched under her hand. He held himself still. “That’s good,” she’d said. “A moment. I need . . .” And her voice had trailed off because what she needed was more. His thumb flicked her nipple. She drew in a sharp breath. He rocked her with his next thrust. Her head went back and knocked him on the chin.

There was a hasty, husky apology. Low, wicked laughter. And then he was pushing into her again and she was taking all of him.

• • •

Phoebe held out her hand for a wedge of cheese when she saw that Remington had taken it out of the bag. “No sense giving it to the mice,” she said. Thanking him, she bit off half and chewed. He was rooting in the bag again and no longer curious about what she was thinking. That suited her.

It was afterward that they’d slept again, this time for much longer than the first. It was the rain, she decided. Lightning and thunder had already moved into the distance, but the rain and the gloom remained. There was also that devilish drip in the corner. It had finally stopped keeping good time, but then, when she had curled against him, her head on his shoulder, it had lulled her to sleep.

Phoebe’s eyes shifted to the line where their clothes were hanging. Remington had used the hook supporting the lantern to secure one end and attached the other to a knob at the head of the bed. The line sagged in the middle under the weight of their clothes but none of them swept the floor.

“The sleeves of my shirt aren’t dripping any longer,” she said.

Remington glanced in that direction, nodded, and returned to rooting in the saddlebag. He came away with a hard-boiled egg. When she declined his offer to share, he cracked it on the floor and began to peel it. “Is that what you want to talk about?” he asked. “Our clothes?”

“What then? I haven’t remembered anything.” She pressed a finger to her temple. “No seeds. No sprouts.” She turned to look at the bed. “Maybe if I—” She rose and walked over to the bed, dragging the blanket behind her.

Remington made a grab for her, then the blanket, and missed both. The egg fell out of his hand and wobbled on the floor. “Phoebe. Stop. You don’t have to do that.” But she was already beginning to sit. He forgot about the egg, his appetite, and went to her. “It will come to you or it won’t. You don’t have to force it.”

“Isn’t this why I’m here? You didn’t plan the other, did you?”

He blew out a breath and raked his hair with his fingers. “No! Jesus. Why would you ask me that? You damn well know better.”

Phoebe’s face flamed but she held her head up and did not look away. He deserved at least that after what she’d said. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless. You’re right. I know better.”

“Jesus,” he said again, this time on a thread of sound. He backed off and went to the window. Hunching his shoulders, he stared out. Phoebe was right about the water; it was lapping at the smokehouse. He thought he should go out and check on the horses again. They’d sense the water coming toward them. Also, he had to piss. Phoebe probably wanted some time to herself. “I’m going outside,” he told her. “Horses. Nature call.”

“But it’s still raining.” As an objection, it was inadequate. She watched him dress in clothes that were only moderately drier than when he had taken them off, and then followed him to the door. He stood there, his fingers curled around the handle, not moving, his head slightly bowed. His hat was not sitting at its usual angle but tilted forward, and she could see that his hair was once again long enough to brush his collar.

Mr. Shoulders had worn his hat like that, tipped down in the front, higher in the back, but the black scarf that was wound twice around the lower half of his face also hid his hair. She knew it was dark because she had seen his eyebrows, but she couldn’t tell if it was overlong or trimmed short.

He was arguing with his men, trying to convince one of them to stay behind. No one was willing. The scarf was brushed wool. She saw that now. It would have been warm against his face. Too warm for comfort. That’s why in his agitation he had tugged on it, pulled it away from his mouth and neck, and lifted his chin above it for a second, maybe two, before he ducked behind it again.

Phoebe blinked. Then, softly, because she needed to hear it first and know it was truth, she said, “He has a mustache.”