Chasing the Sunset(7)

He deliberately took her to a bedroom door at the back of the house, the room farthest from his. A musty smell came from the room; the furniture was covered with sheets.

“You would have to clean this up,” he said dubiously. “But this is your room. It has not been used in a long time. If it does not suit, you have your pick of four more.”

“This is fine.”

“Good,” he said much too heartily. She inched away from him again, and a sudden realization hit him with the force of a sledgehammer between the eyes. She was keeping herself just beyond arms reach. He turned away from her to hide the anger rising in his eyes. He found himself fervently wishing he could meet the person who had taught her to fear so deeply that she flinched away from his slightest movement. “When can you start?”

She made a surprised sound and looked at him with her downy eyebrows raised halfway to her hairline.

“You . . . do not want a reference?”

He smiled. “Ned is the best reference you could ever have. I do not require another.”

“I . . .I will be here tonight with my things. I have to settle my bill at the Red Horse, and I can begin in the morning.” She looked down as she said it, fidgeting with the fringe on the bedspread.

Nick’s mouth dropped open. The Red Horse had a couple of rooms to let in the back of the tavern. Tommy and his mother had lived in one them. They were better than sleeping out in the weather, but just barely, and he was shocked that she was staying there. Prostitutes usually used them to conduct their business.

“The Red Horse?” he said incredulously. “You have been staying at the Red Horse? What does Ned think about that?”

She turned to face him almost belligerently, forgetting for a second to be afraid. Nick could see her emerald green eyes flashing defiance at him.

“I am a widowed woman,” she said tartly. “Uncle Ned does not control my behavior, and his opinion does not sway me. He wanted to ask you if I could stay in his rooms, and I would not let him.”

He grinned at her, and tugged at an imaginary forelock. “Yes’m, Miss Maggie. I am

sorry, Miss Maggie.”

She flushed a dull red from the neckline of her ugly dress up to her hairline and then the color receded to leave her paper-white. He lost his grin when he saw fear begin to etch deep lines around her mouth. She began to tremble, and crossed her arms across her chest, backing as far away from him as the constraints of the small room would allow.

“I . . . I am sorry. I did not mean to be disrespectful.” Her eyes were as big as saucers, and she forced the apology out through stiffened lips.

“I was only concerned with your safety,” he said softly, in the same low croon that he used to good effect on hurt animals and frightened children. “I was teasing you a little, too. I did not think you were disrespectful. I am not that full of my own importance.” He watched some of the tension drain from her carriage. “The Red Horse is not the safest place, and I was surprised that you were there. I will send a carriage and a man with you to collect your things. Unless . . . do you have a carriage waiting?”

“I walked from the inn,” she said softly.

The Red Horse was a good seven miles away. Nick was silent for a moment, thinking about how long it must have taken to walk that distance, and how warm a June day could be, and how her feet must feel in those ill-fitting boots she was wearing.

“Have you eaten?”

“No . . . no, I had not thought about it.”

“Well, come to the kitchen, girl,” he said strongly. “I will fix you something to eat and you can see just how badly I require the services of a cook.”



Maggie sat down gingerly on the bed, tiredness seeping from her very pores. She looked around at the room she had been given, unable to believe that it was all for her. At the Red Horse, she had made do with a corner room no bigger than a closet, and spartan did not begin to describe the furnishings. The mattress on the rope bed had been made of corn shucks, and the only other furniture was a small table to hold a pitcher and bowl for water. And before the Red Horse . . . She deliberately blanked her mind of anything before the Red Horse.

This was luxury. She had a feather mattress. A bureau and a wardrobe, intricately carved and gleaming from the vigorous polishing she had given it that afternoon held her meager belongings. She had only one change of clothing, a gray percale in just as worn condition as her brown, a nightrail so old and thin you could read through it, a chemise in the same condition, a pewter brush and mirror, and a brooch her mother had painted for her. They barely took up a corner of one drawer.

“But you are free,” a voice whispered in her head. What need had she of possessions? She had the greatest possession of all, her freedom. Uncle Ned swore that she was safe here, that Nick Revelle was a man of honor and compassion and that he would not harm her in any way, but Maggie could not let go of her fear completely. Even Ned did not know all of her secrets, and he was her family. She admitted reluctantly to herself that she found Mr. Revelle disturbingly attractive. He was tall and well built, his black hair flopped over his forehead so endearingly that she had nearly reached to push it back, and his eyes were gentle, though Maggie could see the pain swirling behind his smiling demeanor.

But men were not to be trusted, she reminded herself, no matter how kind they looked. She had found that out, much to her sorrow. He would never be able to touch her again. The errant thought sent jubilation singing through her veins.

She would never tell Nick Revelle anything about her life before she stepped over his threshold and she would live in this house, happily obscure and alone. Alone forever. She wondered why that did not have quite the same satisfactory ring that it had yesterday.

She had turned down Mr. Revelle’s offer of a meal that afternoon, preferring instead to take the bread, cheese, and flask of water that he had wrapped for her when she balked at the idea of sitting and eating in his presence. Maggie knew that she would have been unable to choke a bite down her dry throat, though she had torn into it greedily enough in the privacy of the carriage he had provided her with. He seemed kind, but so had . . . Again, she firmly turned her thoughts off. She did not need to dwell on her past in every waking moment. Memories came unbidden to her in the middle of the night, came to wrap her in the nightmare of the old life she used to live, but she would not relive them in the daytime too.

She fell backward onto the bed, sinking into the softness with a sigh. She felt muscles relax that she had not known were tensed. Her days would begin early from now on. She had better go to sleep. Sleeping did not seem like a hardship here, it was not like the Red Horse, she could sleep without a chair jammed under the door. She did not have to worry about someone creeping into her room in the middle of the night. Her eyes drifted closed and a yawn split her face unexpectedly. She did not have to worry . . . no, she did not have to . . .

Nick opened his eyes and sat up in bed. Something was wrong. A wailing scream came from the back of the house and he jumped up and ran toward the ululating sound, heedless of his nudity. The sound came from Maggie’s room, and he hesitated only briefly before throwing the door open and going inside. Muffled sobbing came from underneath the bed and he dropped to his knees and lifted the coverlet to peep underneath. She lay curled in a fetal position in the furthest corner, her hands covering her mouth to stop the cries. He started when he saw her eyes wide open and staring blankly at him, then realized she was still caught in the grip of some terrible dream. His heart twisted inside his chest and he slithered under the bed with her and the dust.

“No,” she moaned and wiggled farther back into the corner. “Please, do not . . . I beg you, I will do anything you want . . . “

”It is okay,” he said gently. “Maggie, it is okay.” He reached out a hand and she flinched back. He carefully wiped the dust off her forehead and stroked a strand of her silky hair behind her ear. “I will help you, Maggie. Come out and I will help you. I want you to come out now, Maggie.”

She let him pull her out from under the frame of the bed, swaying in front of him. She

leaned on him, briefly, and he felt the softness of her breasts brush against the hair of his naked chest. A shock jolted his body at the contact and traveled straight to his groin. He cursed himself then, fluently and passionately, in the same low soothing murmur that he had been using to speak to her. He led her to the bed and lay her down, staring at her, feeling an unwanted surge of lust roil through his body.

He started to cover her solicitously with the sheet, but could not help but notice how the shape of her showed through the worn cotton of her thin chemise. Her breasts were high and firm and surprisingly voluptuous for her thin frame; he could see the aureole and her puckered nipples through the transparent cloth and he ached suddenly, unexpectedly, to wet them with his mouth, to dampen and warm the cloth covering them with his hot breath. The hot shaft of desire took his breath away, and he let his eyes roam over the rest of her, his heart beating harder and harder in his chest and his breath beginning to whistle between his clenched teeth. She had a high, arching rib cage and was so thin he could count her ribs and see the indentations between. Her waist was small he could have spanned it with his hands and still have room left over and her hipbones thrust out sharply. She needed weeks of good food and rest and he found himself wondering idly how big her breasts would be then. Nick felt his blood surge through his veins and grow hotter. His hands trembled on the sheet, and he hurriedly covered her.