Chapter Nine

By nightfall, Nan had grown so weary of Gabriel’s lavish and nonstop compliments on the Thanksgiving Day meal she’d prepared that she was feeling a bit waspish as he stoked both fires while she prepared for bed. Granted, he’d done full justice to the meal, actually helping himself to thirds of everything, but no man could be as nice and easy to please as he pretended to be. Drat him. Was this what it felt like to play chess with a master? No, she decided. It’s a vicious game of cat and mouse, and I am the unfortunate mouse.

Nan was too miffed to be worried overmuch tonight about being raped in her own bed as she jerked off her clothing. This pumpkin pie could take a blue ribbon at any state fair in the country. She couldn’t get over that one. Nan considered herself a fairly accomplished baker, but she’d never produced anything from her kitchen that deserved such accolades. Gabriel Valance was a master, all right—a master at spouting poppycock. He didn’t miss a trick at figuring out what a person would want to hear.

She wasn’t buying any of it. The man was doing his deliberate best to charm her. Playing along with him, and formulating an escape plan if needed, was her only option while she waited for the ax to fall. What irritated her most was that she’d enjoyed hearing the compliments. She wasn’t sure if that made her madder at Gabriel or at herself.

As for the ax . . . well, she knew it would fall. It always did with men. Right when she least expected it, he’d turn vicious, lacerating her with words—or fists. Every time she looked at his broad, work-hardened hands, her stomach knotted. Martin Sullivan had been possessed of a wicked backhand, which he hadn’t hesitated to use on Nan when, in his view, she spoke out of turn. She had vivid memories of mind-numbing pain radiating through her jaw after he smacked her. Sometimes in very cold weather, her jaw still ached. Gabriel topped her father by several inches, and outweighed him, too. If he ever dealt her such a blow, she’d be picking herself up off the floor nursing a shattered cheekbone. Better not to irritate the man.

Nan donned her nightgown and then jerked so hard on her hairpins that several strands came away with them. Tears stung her eyes. Laney was totally bamboozled by Gabriel. Nan didn’t like that one bit, either. In the space of a single day, the girl had burst out laughing more times than she had over the last six months. It bruised Nan’s feelings. She wasn’t sure why. There was no harm in laughter. It was just such a marked change, with Laney giggling so much more than she usually did. Was Nan so somber and unsmiling that she smothered Laney’s natural high spirits?

Nan sank wearily onto the edge of the bed. She’d tried so hard to be a good mother, doing for Laney all that she’d yearned for herself as a child—doling out lots of hugs, giving plenty of praise, using endearments, buying presents the child coveted, and spending fun time with her each evening, sometimes playing cards or board games, other times just talking. And Laney had seemed happy.

Now she seemed happier. Nan tried to tamp down the resentment that welled within her. She had been born with a tendency to open her mouth when she shouldn’t. Years of living under her father’s stern rule had taught her a certain reticence, but she still had a temper that could flare quickly and make her forget to control her tongue. If she allowed herself to feel angry with Gabriel, if she stupidly grew lippy with him . . . Well, the possible consequences didn’t bear thinking about.

She heard a board creak in the hallway, a prelude to his imminent invasion of her cherished privacy. She leaped up and dashed to the armoire to fetch her wrapper, tossed it on the foot of the mattress, and then dived under the covers, drawing them firmly beneath her chin just as he tapped at the door.

“Come in,” she called.

He stepped into the room rubbing his middle and smiling. “I am so full I feel like I’m going to pop. Never should’ve had that fourth piece of pie, I guess. It was too delicious to resist, though.” Standing just inside the closed door, he began unbuttoning his shirt. “The one and only time I ever got homemade pumpkin pie before today was the Thanksgiving I lived with old widow Harper. She was feeble and had bad eyesight, so it wasn’t a very good meal. The whole time I stuffed my face, I had my eye on the pie she’d set out by the stove. I could barely wait for a piece.”

Nan tried to imagine him as a hungry little boy brought in off the streets by a sickly but well-intentioned old woman. “Was it good?” she couldn’t resist asking.

He laughed and shrugged out of the shirt, his well-muscled shoulders rippling in the lantern light as he moved. Nan was reminded of a beautiful sculpture of dark teak, rubbed to a high sheen. Beautiful? The thought no sooner settled in her mind than she shoved both it, and her gaze, away. Men could be handsome, she supposed, but never comely or beautiful. What in tarnation was she thinking?

“It was horrible. She added salt instead of sugar.”

Startled from her discomfiture, Nan said, “What?”

“You heard me, salt. I took a huge first bite, chewed once, and then tried not to gag or spit it out.” Seemingly comfortable in a half-naked state, he strode around the foot of the bed. “She was a sweet old gal, stern and unsmiling most of the time, but God rest her, she never laid an angry hand on me. Aside from the fairly brief time I had with my mother, I have no memory of kindnesses from anybody except that frail, shaky old lady.” He sighed. “She no longer cared for sweets at that age, so she never tasted the pie. She’d worked so hard to make it, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I pretended to eat the whole thing. Mostly I spit it in my napkin and became an expert at rinsing out the linen after supper, but sometimes she wouldn’t look away so I could do that, and I had to swallow it.”

Nan’s eyes burned. Only a boy with a very gentle heart would have done that to save an old lady’s feelings. How, she wondered, had that boy matured into a man who coerced a woman into marriage simply because he liked her looks?

“I’m sorry your childhood was so awful.” Despite her resentment and distrust of him, Nan sincerely meant that. No youngster should have to endure what he had. “It’s so sad.”

“Hey, I lived through it,” he said as he hung his guns on the bedstead. “If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger.”

Nan wasn’t sure the trials she’d survived had strengthened her. She often felt like a puppy trying to paddle in a swift current and barely managing to keep its nose above water.

Gabe sat behind her to kick off his boots. “Can you turn off the lantern tonight? I’m so full I’d have to roll over there to do it.”

Not wishing to be treated to another display of amazing masculine musculature, Nan complied, pushing up on an elbow, quickly dousing the light, and then huddling under the covers until the residual amber glow faded away to leave them in blackness.

•   •   •

Gabe hated that he made Nan so nervous. When she shifted to face him, he knew it wasn’t to snuggle down and get more comfortable, but to watch every move he made so she’d be ready if he decided to grab her. What she planned to do about it, he couldn’t imagine. She wasn’t much bigger than a minute.

As he’d done last night, he stretched out on his back, using his folded arms as a pillow. It was a comfortable enough position for him; he used his saddle as a pillow out on the trail and often slept this way. Not that he wouldn’t have enjoyed lying on his side or stretching out a little, but that would make Nan even more uneasy. She needed her rest, and if he meant to let her get any, he had to play like a corpse laid out in a coffin: ankles together, legs straight, arms folded. His only exception to that pose was to have his hands behind his head instead of resting on his chest.

Once he got settled, he whispered, “Good night.” After she responded, he closed his eyes, waited a couple of seconds, and then emitted a snore that he hoped sounded real. She’d fallen for it last night, thank God. Only after she’d heard him snore had she been able to relax.

He forced out another sputter, trying not to overdo it, and waited, feeling the mattress shift under her slight weight as she snuggled down and sighed. The sound was laced with relief. He bit back a smile, wondering how long he’d have to do this before she finally started to trust him.

It didn’t surprise him when he soon heard a change in the rhythm of her breathing. She’d worked her little fanny off all day, and had to be exhausted. So exhausted, in fact, that she hadn’t insisted on sewing in her workroom long into the night. Soon there came that soft little snuffle of hers. He smiled into the moon-silvered darkness. Ladies do not snore.

Gabe was still grinning slightly as he drifted off to join her in slumber.

•   •   •

Gabe wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep when a choked cry jerked him back to consciousness. It took him a second to recall where he was and, more important, with whom. His heart caught when he realized Nan was jerking and muttering nonsensically in her sleep. In the shaft of moonlight that bathed the bed, she thrashed with her fists, tossed her head from side to side on the pillow, and then strained as if to escape a great weight on top of her.

Gabe’s sleepy bewilderment was swiftly replaced by understanding. A nightmare. And he knew exactly what it was about. Barclay, the fat bastard pig. Nan was either pinned under her attacker’s limp, massive body, or she was enduring a cruel pawing of her breasts. The memory of it that flashed through Gabe’s head made him angry enough to kill. If he’d had another year to live, instead of only a measly month, he would have hit the trail for Manhattan to have ten meaningful minutes alone with Horace Barclay. Hell, while he was at it, he’d give Martin Sullivan a good ass kicking, too.

Wanting to wake Nan and bring the torture to a swift end, Gabe grasped her shoulder. “Nan. Hey, honey. Wake up. It’s only a—”

A small, bony fist caught him in the mouth, and the next thing he knew, his wife was grunting, scratching, and slugging. He ducked his head, trying to protect his eyes. “Nan! Stop it. It’s a dream, only a dream!”

With a low wail, she nailed him on the ear with the heel of her hand, which sent a peal of loud ringing through his temples. Then she brought up a knee and almost got him in the groin. He snaked out an arm to catch her around the waist, rose up on his other elbow, and pinned her flat on her back in a two-count move.

“It’s me, Gabe,” he told her. “Wake up, Nan. It’s only a dream.”

With him holding both her wrists in one hand, she could no longer swing at him. So instead she panted—whiny, jerky pants brought on by panic—and bucked with her hips. The futility of her efforts drove home to Gabe just how helpless she’d been to defend herself against Barclay. Gabe knew the instant she escaped the clutches of the dream and came awake. She dragged in a deep breath and went absolutely still.

“A dream,” he said again. “Only a bad dream. You know who I am now?”

“Gabriel?” she whispered. “Oh, mercy.”

Her nightgown was damp with sweat. He felt the tips of her breasts harden and thrust against his bare chest. A certain part of his body reacted, but Gabe didn’t allow his mind to follow its lead. He was too concerned about Nan right then to entertain such thoughts.

She stared up at him, her large eyes shimmery with tears. “I’m sorry. Oh, dear, I’m so sorry.”

Confident now that she’d come fully awake and wouldn’t swing at him again, Gabe released her hands and levered his weight off her. As he drew slightly away, she reached out with wildly shaky fingers to touch his mouth. “You’re bleeding.”

He tasted with his tongue. “Well, shit, you busted my lip.” Gabe shifted onto his back and got his head comfortably cradled on his pillow. “That’s quite a right hook you’ve got going there, darlin’.”

He had hoped to make her laugh. Instead she said, “It wasn’t you. I never meant to hit you.”

Gabe wiped his mouth. “I know that. And no harm done. It’s not the first time I’ve been served a knuckle sandwich. At least you didn’t loosen my front teeth.” He angled her a glance. “That must have been some nasty dream you were having.”

She drew the covers over her shoulders and huddled on her side, facing him. He wanted her to tell him about it, but she remained silent for so long that he was about to give up on that when she said, “I have bad nights sometimes, one nightmare after another. That’s one reason I always work so late, because I dread going to bed. I never know when the dreams will come, and the one I just had is the worst of all.”

“Barclay?”

She pushed at her tousled hair and nodded. No words to describe the dream slipped from her lips, though. That worried him.

Her delicate features were defined by moonlight and shadow, enabling him to see the soft arch of her brows, the dainty bridge of her small nose, and the fullness of her soft mouth. A very kissable mouth.

Whoa, son. The last thing she needs is for you to get as horny as a two-pronged goat. All the same, he wanted her. She was so beautiful, how could he not? During his adult years, he’d bedded a lot of women, prostitutes one and all. Maybe gals like that started out in their profession looking fresh and sweet, but if so, Gabe had never run across one. It was a hard, punishing life that they led. Most of them grew old and worn before their time. By contrast, Nan was like a fine bit of lace fresh from the bolt.

“I’m not going to be able to go back to sleep,” she confessed. “I think I’ll go to my workroom for a while. I can finish trimming Mrs. Hamilton’s dress with lace. Sewing helps calm my nerves.” She sat up. “I truly am sorry about your lip.”

Gabe hated to think of Nan working well into the night while he lay in bed sleeping. “You’ve already had a long day. Won’t you at least try to get some rest?”

“I . . . can’t.” Perched on the edge of the bed, she craned her neck to look back at him. “Once this starts, it goes on all night, one dream after another.”

Gabe understood all too well. It had taken him years to outgrow his nightmares, and even now, they still woke him occasionally. “You can’t go the rest of your life avoiding sleep. It’ll take you to an early grave.”

“I tried sleeping drops once. That was even worse. The dose the doctor prescribed was so strong, I’d go to sleep, still dream, but couldn’t wake up.”

“Did you try a lesser dose?”

She nodded. “And I was still good for nothing the next day, so rummy I could barely take care of Laney, let alone run my shop.”

“Probably laudanum,” Gabe ventured. “And you’re lucky it didn’t agree with you. People get addicted.”

“I hated the way it made me feel.”

Gabe sighed, recalling how relieved he’d felt when he’d told her why he sometimes cried inside where no one could see. It had been as if a huge weight had eased from his chest and shoulders, flowing out of him with the words. He wished Nan would talk to him about the incident with Barclay. She’d never been able to tell anyone about the assault, he felt certain. She’d fled from Manhattan and never uttered a word about it to anyone for fear she’d be turned in and hanged for murder. The only exceptions had occurred yesterday morning when he’d invaded her life, and then again last night when he’d stupidly brought up her father’s incomprehensible treatment of her.

That outburst from Nan had been about Martin Sullivan, though, not about Barclay. Gabe studied her pale face and hated himself a little—no, a lot—for what he was about to do. But if there was anything he’d come to learn about Nan, it was that she held her cards way too close to her chest. She would never speak of Barclay’s attack on her person unless Gabe got her so riled that she forgot to guard her tongue. And, dammit, she needed to talk about it.

“Explain something to me,” he said. “Not much really happened with Barclay. Right? The fat slob was so clumsy that before he could do you any real harm, he tripped, fell, and skewered himself. So why does something so . . .” He deliberately let his voice trail away as if searching for words. “Why does something that inconsequential still bother you so much all these years later—so much that you can’t sleep at night? I mean, well, it was mostly just an unpleasant tussle. The man never actually raped you or anything.”

As he knew she would, Nan shot up from the bed, turned to face him with her hands knotted at her sides, and cried, “Inconsequential?” She laughed bitterly. “Spoken like a man. No harm?”

“What did he do that was so terrible?” Gabe jabbed.

She threw up her hands. “I was completely naive about things like that!” she cried in an outraged voice. “After living with my father all my life, do you think I eagerly accepted the attentions of men? No! I wanted no part of the courtship business, and even when my father forced me to entertain potential husbands in the sitting room, I let each of them know, straightaway, that I abhorred the institution of marriage. Prior to Barclay’s attack on me, I’d never even been kissed!”

That tidbit of information shocked Gabe—and made his heart hurt for her. “Never? Not even innocent pecks on your lips?”

“Innocent?” She shuddered. “I knew what those men wanted, what all of you want, when it comes right down to it. I wasn’t born blind and deaf, after all.”

“I’m not following.”

She pierced him with a stiletto glare. “Do you think I never heard my mother’s cries of anguish when my father demanded his conjugal rights? Do you believe me to be so stupid that I didn’t know—or at least imagine, in my girlish mind—what he was doing to her? Or that I was oblivious to the beatings he meted out when she refused him for fear the next miscarriage might kill her?”

Gabe saw that his wife was shaking now, with anger or horror.

She pointed a quivering finger at him. “Don’t you dare speak to me of what is inconsequential and what isn’t! My mother died giving birth to Laney. She died because my father insisted that she get pregnant again and again and again to give him a son. And God help her if she didn’t pretend to be glad when her courses stopped. A son, mind you; that’s all he wanted from her. Daughters were lesser beings.” She spread a slender hand over her waist. “I was a lesser being, a bit of brainless fluff and completely without worth to him.”

Though Gabe was glad he had her talking, he hated the way he’d gone about it—and he hated even more that he needed to steer her off the topic of her father and back to Horace Barclay. “I know your father was a bastard, but he’s not the person haunting your dreams.”

“It’s all tied together!” She bent slightly forward at the waist. “Barclay and my father were in cahoots! They planned what would happen to me that night. It was all about control. I wasn’t happily falling in with my father’s wishes. I was protesting the union with Barclay, not openly defying my father yet, but coming close. In truth, even open defiance wouldn’t have saved me. My father could have forced me into the marriage.” She flung out a hand, but she was so upset she didn’t see him duck. “And, oh, my, what if I had turned the wedding into a public spectacle? What if, at the very last moment, I refused to say, ‘I do’? My father prized his social connections. No one in his circles knew the real Martin Sullivan. In most wealthy families of Manhattan, it was common practice to arrange advantageous marriages for sons and daughters, but it rarely happened that a young lady protested at the altar. What would his friends have thought if they witnessed him forcing his daughter into marriage with a disgustingly fat man nearly three times her age?” She grabbed for breath. “It’s all one thing, not separate instances. What did you say to me last night? Oh, yes, you told me not to sort men into cups as if they were beads of the same color and size. Well, don’t you sort the incidents of my past into cups, either! It’s all related—my father, the marital arrangements, Barclay’s attack on me. You’re trying to make light of what happened to me that night? Damn you to hell!”

Gabe was very close to going there, without her wishing it on him. And he was not unaware that goading her like this might doom him to that fate. She wasn’t likely to forgive him for this anytime soon, and he had only twenty-nine days left to make her fall in love with him. No matter. He’d been given a second chance down here to save Nan, not himself. Granted, a side benefit, if he was successful, would be salvation for himself, but he couldn’t allow that concern to cloud his thinking to the point that he tossed away chances to make Nan’s life less conflicted. If talking about Barclay’s attack could possibly set her free of the memory, he’d be a heartless, conscienceless skunk if he didn’t push her to do it. Even though she had one hell of a right hook.

“If what happened with Barclay was all that bad, explain it to me. From where I’m standing, it sounds fairly trivial.” He silently congratulated himself on the use of that word. It would push her right over the edge.

“Trivial? Why, you . . . you—” She broke off, but he had a feeling it wasn’t because she couldn’t find the right words. Rather, it was because the words she was finding weren’t ones that a lady would ever dream of using. “Being thrown to the dogs by your own father? He gave all the staff the evening off, which he’d never done before, to set me up! And then he left me in the sitting room to be raped!”

“But you weren’t raped. Barclay roughed you up a bit, and I’m sure the knitting-needle business must have shaken you up. Killing someone . . . Well, let’s just say I understand how you must have felt when you realized the fat bastard was dead, but all in all, he barely touched you before he cocked up his toes.”

“Barely touched me? Ha! When I tried to avoid his slobbery kisses, he made a fist in my hair and held me still.” Her throat worked as if she might gag at the memory. “He didn’t care if he ripped my hair out. His lips were as fat as the rest of him, hot and slimy with saliva. And then—” She gulped. “Then he shoved his tongue so far into my mouth, I swear he swabbed my tonsils. It was disgusting. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I thought I was going to throw up. It wasn’t so much his strength that overpowered me, but his breadth and weight. I couldn’t have set him off his feet if I’d dived at him in a full run, hitting him with everything I had.”

Gabe made a mental note to teach her a few tricks about how to take a man down. With proper training, she’d never be so defenseless again. The bigger the bastards were, the harder they fell. “If he was that fat and ungainly, why the hell didn’t you run? He never could have caught you.”

Indignant rage sparked in her eyes. “You think I wanted it to happen? I tried to run. Perhaps, with luck, I could have gotten around him, but I’ll never know, because I couldn’t move.” Her eyes went bright with tears again. “I froze. He set down the snifter of brandy my father had poured for him and smiled at me—an awful, leering, victorious grin. I knew then what he meant to do—what my father had given him permission to do. I knew, but for some reason, I couldn’t make my feet move. Even as he lumbered toward me, I just stood there, helpless to save myself.”

“Ah, honey.” Gabe winced. He was playing the evil inquisitor in this scene, and he couldn’t afford to slip out of character, no matter how sharply her words struck chords within him. Nevertheless, he understood how it felt to be frozen with fear. As a boy, he’d been so terrified a few times that it had felt as if bags of bricks were tied to his feet. Clearing his throat, he forced himself back into his role. “So you just stood there and did absolutely nothing to fend him off?”

As if her legs threatened to fold, she sank onto the edge of the bed, one hip angled so she still faced him. Tightly hugging her waist, she rasped, “I wanted to run. I tried. I don’t know why I just stood there.” Her voice lifted a notch. “But it wasn’t because I invited what came! And before I could collect my senses and get my feet to move, he was upon me. After forcing his disgusting tongue halfway down my throat, he ripped my dress open, baring me clear to the waist.”

Gabe settled back to listen. It was coming now, spewing out of her as if a small volcano inside her were erupting.

“He wasn’t out to merely deflower me,” she said in a cold, flat voice. “Oh, no, he was establishing his dominance over me, determined to train me up the way he wanted me to go, much as it says in the Bible, only his way was evil. I would be cowed. I would perform my wifely duties without complaint. If he wanted to beat me, I would accept it as my due. That was his aim, to put me in my proper place.” She dragged in a shaky breath and slowly exhaled. “I struggled, but he only laughed at my attempts to escape. He didn’t merely touch m-my feminine protrusions; he laid claim, digging in hard with his fingers to cause pain. Months later, I still had purple marks on my skin, left there by his fingernails cutting into my flesh.

“I don’t remember how I broke his hold. Maybe horror lent me strength. I only know that I somehow wiggled free, and because he stood between me and the door, my only choice was to find a weapon to hold him off. I ran for my yarn basket, snatched up a needle, and whirled to threaten him away with it.” She paused to swallow. “He only laughed. He wasn’t afraid of me and my pathetic weapon. As he came toward me, he said he would teach me a lesson I’d never forget, and I saw in his eyes—they were little and beady in his flabby face, as cold and unfeeling as a lizard’s—that he intended to punish me in private, personal ways that I would never forget or risk inviting again.”

Gabe’s heart twisted.

“Then, just when I thought he’d grab me again, he tripped. It happened so fast. I would have tossed away the needle, I swear. I never meant to kill him!” Her chest began to rise and fall rapidly, and by the cadence, Gabe knew she was no longer with him in the bedroom, but in the past, with Barclay nearly upon her. “He was so close when he tripped that he came down on top of me. I fell backward under his weight. When we hit the floor, my breath was knocked out of me. I couldn’t breathe. Every time I tried, it was as if cotton batting had been shoved down my throat. I panicked, felt like I was suffocating. I couldn’t see. Black spots bounced before my eyes.

“When I could finally drag in breaths again and my senses began to clear, I realized that the mountain of flesh on top of me was deathly still. It was then I f-felt the blood—sticky wetness all over my bared skin. I knew then. I knew. He was dead. Killed by my knitting needle. Who would believe that I hadn’t meant to stab him? Or that he had sexually assaulted me? He was Horace Barclay, a man of sterling character and reputation, a deacon at our church who kissed babies and sang baritone. He was big and jolly. Everyone who knew him loved him. My side of the story would never be believed.”

She turned a haunted gaze on Gabe. “The rest comes to me in nightmarish bits and snatches. Trying to roll his immense weight off. Praying for a miracle as I felt to see if his heart was beating—if he still breathed. And then the hysteria that came over me when I knew for certain he was dead. I remember huddling on the floor with my arms crossed over my nakedness, saying, ‘No, no, no. Don’t let him be dead. No, no, no.’ But God wasn’t hearing my prayer.” She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, treating him to an unimpeded view of her arched neck, which put him in mind of a swan’s. “I finally collected myself and had the presence of mind to know I had to run. Run and never look back. Only I couldn’t leave Laney. She presented nothing but complications for me, but I couldn’t abandon her. I knew my father would treat her just as badly as he had me. I had no choice but to make off with her.”

She’d gotten all of it out now. Gabe felt almost as exhausted and drained as she probably did. “Of course you couldn’t leave Laney. Your father would have had her on the auction block at thirteen, hoping to marry her off and form an empowering alliance with her husband’s family.”

“Yes, and then she would have been a victim. Perhaps her attacker wouldn’t have been Barclay, but sure as rain in March, it would have been someone. Growing up under my father’s rule, Laney would have come to hate men, just as I did, and she would have resisted any arranged marriage. My father does not countenance rebellion, not even a hint of it.”

Gabe had accomplished what he’d set out to do. She’d finally talked about the attack. Judging by the slump of her shoulders, she felt empty now, no longer buried under a mountain of unspoken horror. He’d aimed, fired, and hit the bull’s-eye. So, now what? If she hadn’t hated him before, she sure as hell did now. I’m no good at this, Gabriel, he thought, hoping the message would wing its way straight to the archangel. He needed some advice, and he needed it fast. Unfortunately, Gabe had told his namesake to scat, and apparently his request had been granted.

“Well,” Gabe ventured, “hate me though you might, at least now maybe you’ll no longer dread sleep.”

She jerked her head around to stare at him. “Pardon me?”

Gabe settled back with his folded arms under his head again. “You heard me. You’ve kept that bottled up and tightly corked for too many years. Talking about shit like that helps us turn loose of it and move on.”

Silence. It stretched between them, as taut as an archer’s bowstring. Then, in a shrill, squeaky voice, she asked, “Are you implying that you manipulated me into talking about it?”

“There’s a word I don’t use often, manipulated.”

“Answer the question!” she cried.

Gabe released a breath and slowly inhaled. “Do you honestly believe any man with a heart could believe what you endured at Barclay’s hands was inconsequential? Or trivial? Using that word was a stroke of genius. It pushed you right over the cliff.”

She leaped to her feet. “You, a man with a heart? Damn you!”

Gabe winced. She’d probably cursed more in the last half hour than she had in her whole life. “I knew you’d hate me for it, but it needed doing. Now it’s time for you to come back to bed and get some sleep.”

“I shan’t sleep a wink! Not on a bad-dream night. I told you that.”

“Care to make a wager on that?”

“Make your bet!” she flung back. “I’ll match you!”

“A hundred dollars.”

“You’re on!”

Gabe knew she couldn’t afford to lose a hundred dollars, so her willingness to put it on the table told him far more than she could know. For one, she was beside herself with anger—at him. And second, she believed, without a single doubt, that she wouldn’t sleep tonight.

“Good.” He patted the mattress. “Fair wagering obligates you to at least try to sleep. Get in bed.”

She huffed, did a turn in place that lifted her long hair to swirl around her, and then jerked the covers back. “Very well. But I swear to God, if you so much as breathe on me, Gabriel Valance, I’ll shoot you dead with one of your own guns.”

“Fair enough. I believe you. I probably have pumpkin breath anyway.”

She finally crawled into bed. Gabe didn’t look her way. He just closed his eyes and listened to her rain what he suspected were curses upon his head, but she muttered them into her pillow so he couldn’t make them out. Ah, well. He’d been cursed before; it was nothing new to him.

Once again, he pretended to fall asleep. Then he waited. He had to give Nan credit: She managed to stay wide-awake for at least thirty minutes. But in the end, he heard that cute little snuffle—not a snore. God forbid that he call it that!—that told him she’d given up the ghost.

He grinned into the moon-washed shadows. He was a hundred bucks richer, and she would slumber like a baby in its mother’s arms for the rest of the night. If she had another nightmare, he’d eat the socks he’d been wearing for two days straight.

All in all, not bad for one day’s work.