Minutes seemed like hours to her, and then, without opening his eyes, he said hoarsely, “This doesn’t change anything.”
The humiliation Shea had felt earlier was nothing to what she felt now.
“You think …?”She couldn’t finish the sentence.She couldn’t put it in words.She couldn’t bear the idea that he thought she was selling herself to save her father, or herself.
“Or have you just been wondering what it would be like with a man who had been caged for ten years?Christ, I couldn’t even tell …” His ragged, bitter voice trailed off, and she realized that he was blaming himself for what had happened, that guilt had made him turn on her.
“Oh, Rafe,” she whispered.“Can’t you understand that I just … wanted this?If that makes me a … a whore … then I guess that’s what I am.”
He was silent for so long, she wondered whether he’d even heard her.
“Why?”he asked.“Why?”
She knew he meant why had she wanted him—a convicted criminal.Her hand ran along his chest again.“I don’t know,” she lied.
“I don’t believe in gifts,” he said.“The last time I received one, it was a pair of leg manacles.The sergeant who took me to prison said it was the army’s last present to me.”He paused, and she knew he was reliving that moment.Dear Lord, Shea hurt for him.
“Your family?”She had to ask.He had never mentioned anyone.
“Killed by Comanches when I was young,” he said in that toneless voice that she now knew covered simmering emotions.
“And you?”she urged.
“I was taken captive, rescued a few months later.”He shrugged.“I guess you could call it rescue.”
“How old were you?”she said, horrified.
He shrugged.“Six.Seven.”The familiar coolness settled over his eyes, and she knew he was retreating behind that shell that concealed so much.
He made it clear he wouldn’t talk about himself any longer.He was still clasping her hand, though, and she wondered whether he was even aware of his tight grip.She wanted to touch him in other ways, but she was afraid he would misconstrue it, move farther away.So she waited, letting the pregnant silence drift between them.
He cut it first.“Tell me about Boston.”
“There’s not much to tell.I told you I made hats,” she said uncomfortably.Still, she was pleased he hadn’t retreated into the usual silence that followed any kind of warmth between them.“My mother owned a small hat shop.I designed the hats for her.”
There was a long silence.He had asked few questions of her.It had apparently been enough that she was his enemy’s daughter.He hadn’t wanted to know more.She was surprised when he asked, “Where is your mother now?”
“She died four months ago.”
“So you finally decided to find … your father?”
“I never knew about him until she died, and I found … those letters.She’d told me he was dead.”
“So you decided to come West by yourself and find out.”His voice was wry, but there was admiration in it.
“My mother … prided herself on honesty.I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t told me.He had been sending money, so he obviously … cared about her.I had to know about him.I had to know why she left him.Why she never told me about him.Whether he’s even my father at all.”
He withdrew his hand from hers, reached for his trousers and pulled them on.And when he spoke again, his voice was cool.“I’m sorry,” he said, a muscle in his cheek working.“You had nothing to do with … this.I’m sorry I have to … keep you locked up at night.”
She shook her head, and her gaze found his.“It’s nothing.A few nights.Not compared to …” She stopped, not wanting to mention the years he’d spent locked up.
His face tensed.
“Rafe?”
His expression didn’t relax at all.He stared straight ahead.Still, she continued, wanting him to share pain as well as pleasure with her.“How could you endure it?”
His jaw clenched, and Shea wished she hadn’t asked.“By hating your father.”
