Victoria Bylin – Abbie's Outlaw (страница 11)

Abbie had endured the shame because she had nowhere to go, but not a day had passed that she didn’t think about leaving him…and searching for Johnny Leaf. As she sipped the hot tea, she couldn’t stop her thoughts from running amok. What would have happened if her brother hadn’t found them? What if she had followed John to Oregon?

Lowering her gaze, she took another sip. No matter what Beth thought, Abbie was long past such thoughts. She had children to raise and a boardinghouse to run. Dreaming about if-onlys and what-ifs was a waste of time.

Annoyed with herself, she set her cup on the counter and stepped outside to wait for sunrise. She loved the sensations of dawn—chirping birds, cool air on her cheeks, a hush that calmed her soul even after a night of brutality. Already she could see a gray light in the eastern sky. Soon it would turn to lavender and brighten to gold. The poppies in the window box would open their faces, and Abbie would feel good.

Behold, I make all things new…

It was her favorite Bible verse, because she saw the truth of it in the past six months. Since Robert’s death, she had put the ugliness behind her. She had a good life now, and she intended to fight for it. That meant finding Susanna and returning to Washington with her father’s blessing.

It also meant finding out why John didn’t want children. Her daughter needed a father, not a man who considered her an obligation. She wanted Johnny to love their daughter as much as she did, and that meant introducing them before Susanna arrived. Abbie had stories to tell, and John needed to hear every one. His daughter was the smartest girl in her class, but he had never seen her homework. He’d never heard her laugh or make a joke, nor had he wiped her tears and seen her climb trees.

Hugging herself against the chill, Abbie thought about the man in the guest room. While she wanted John to care for Susanna, she didn’t want him to notice her. Nothing good could come of him reawakening feelings in her that belonged in the past. Still, for the most part, she felt safe with him. He’d saved her life and he was a minister now. But the preacher Beth had described was nothing like Pastor Deets in Washington. That old windbag talked more about sin than he did about love. He blamed Eve for everything, calling her weak and easily tempted. Abbie thought he was full of rubbish.

A smile curled on her lips. Maybe she’d ask John for his opinion. With a little luck, she’d annoy the daylights out of him and he’d keep away from her. The notion of a debate gave Abbie a rush of wicked pleasure. On behalf of women everywhere, she rather liked the idea of making the good Reverend mad.

Chapter Five

John heard the grandfather clock chime twelve times. Shivering in his bed, he didn’t know whether to welcome a few more hours of night or dread the dreams that would come if he slept. Three days had passed since he’d fought with Ed, and the fever had come at last. His bones ached, and every beat of his heart sent nails into his head. This morning the wound had been pink and hard to the touch. Now it throbbed with a burning itch that made him want to claw at the stitches.

If Abbie knew, she’d say, “I told you so.”

Doc Randall had been tending John’s wound, but he hadn’t come by this afternoon. Abbie had offered to change the bandage, but John said no. He liked the idea of her fingers touching his skin a little too much.

Blowing out a breath, he draped his arm over his forehead. What had he been thinking when he’d given Mrs. Cunningham some time off? The older woman had wanted to visit her daughter. Seeing a chance to do some good, Abbie had volunteered to run the household in her absence. With Beth and Robbie in the house, he didn’t need to worry about appearances, so he’d agreed. Though if he’d known that Abbie and Beth were going to be baking apple pies, he would have said no. As things stood, he spent half the day with his mouth watering and the other half remembering Kansas.

It’s not smart for a pretty girl like you to be alone out here.

I can handle myself.

But Abbie hadn’t been able to handle him. He’d taken full advantage of her twisted ankle. A gentleman would have taken an injured girl to town, but John had been road-weary and ready to hole up for a while. When she’d explained that her grandmother had died and she was going to her farm to sort through the old woman’s things, John had offered to lend a hand.

Resting up on an apple farm had appealed to him, and so did the prospect of flirting with a pretty girl. She had charmed him the minute she threatened to shoot him. He’d always gone for women with spirit, and Abbie had more heart than anyone he’d ever known. John sighed in the dark as he remembered cleaning out her grandmother’s attic.

Dust had covered them both, but Abbie hadn’t minded as she sorted through the trunks. From the last one she had lifted a satin gown that shimmered in the sun pressing through a high window. She had rubbed it against her cheek and he’d imagined her in it—and then out of it. He had fingered the silk and grinned.

How about putting it on for me tonight?

How about if you mind your manners?

She should have slapped him, but instead she had teased him with a smile and finished going through the clothes. She had kept a few things for herself, and he’d wondered why she would want such rags.

Lying in his bed, John closed his eyes and tried not to think about buying Abbie pretty dresses. Instead he dwelled on his own misery and realized he was thirsty. He reached for the pitcher of water only to discover it was empty. He’d have to pull on his pants and pump some in the kitchen.

Groaning, he swung his legs off the mattress, reached for the trousers he’d tossed on a chair and pulled them up, leaving the top button undone so the waistband wouldn’t chafe the wound. Because he had houseguests, he put on the white shirt he’d worn yesterday and buttoned it halfway. Walking down the hall gave him a new sympathy for Doc Randall and his bad knees. Every step sent an ache through John’s bones, but he made it to the kitchen where moonlight was pouring through the window.

After blowing out a breath to steady himself, he took a drink straight from the spigot and then moved the pitcher into place. As the stream of water hit the pewter, he heard a match strike. A lamp flared in the darkness.

“John? Are you all right?”

Abbie’s voice sounded as soft as the silk nightgown he’d just been remembering. It had taken a week of talk, but she’d put it on for him. It had clung to her curves and been warm to his touch. He didn’t dare look at her now. If she was dressed for bed, he didn’t want to know.

“I’m all right,” he answered, still filling the pitcher. “I just needed some water.”

“Let me do that.”

She came up next to him and reached for the handle. As she worked the pump, her loose hair brushed her shoulders. Backlit by the lamp, it made him think of the embers left by a dying fire. He couldn’t stop his gaze from dipping downward. Mercifully, she was covered from head to toe with a robe. It had once been pink, but time had leached away the color and worn the garment to bare threads.

Why was a congressman’s wife wearing rags? Even in private, it didn’t make sense. He wanted to ask her if she needed money, but it wasn’t any of his business. He also wanted to buy her the fancy wrapper he’d seen in the dressmaker’s window last week. It was emerald silk and embroidered with lotus flowers. It would match her eyes and shimmer on her skin. Hellfire! How did a man stop thinking such thoughts? Irritated, he focused on the stream of water filling the pitcher. When it was full, she set it on the counter.

“That should do it,” she said. “Can you carry it?”

Of course he could, but his feet seemed to be glued to the floor. This kitchen had always reminded him of the one in Kansas where she’d cracked eggs into a pan for his breakfast. He remembered watching her wipe down the counter with a dish towel, just as she was doing now. He hadn’t grown up with those feminine touches, and he’d been fascinated by her womanly ways. One thing had led to another, and he’d taken her to bed both in spite of her innocence and because of it.

Knowing that some confessions were best made at night, John sought her eyes. “I’d like to talk to you.”

Looking up, she said, “Is it about Susanna?”

“No, it’s about us.” He put his hand on hers to stop her from wiping the counter. He wanted her full attention because he had no desire to repeat the conversation. “I want you to know I’m sorry for what happened in Kansas. I had no business taking advantage of you.”

He waited for her an answer, but the silence thickened until it felt like humid air, almost visible and too heavy to breathe. If she had nothing more to say, neither did he, so he released her hand. “I won’t bring it up again. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. Good, he thought. He deserved a cold shoulder, but instead of calling him a cad, she gripped his elbow. “I’m not the least bit sorry. Do you want to know why?”