I move toward the door again, but he goes on.
“I ain’t much for book learnin’. But I know men. Always have. When I was a boy, I’d ride the train into town just to study folks. Get ’em talkin’, coax their secrets out on account of pride or the itch to brag. Funny thing—animals, like a rabbit or a snake, they’ll match the brush or dirt, melt right into it. But city folks?”He gives a humorless smile. “They march to the slaughter, drunk on their own pomp.”
“You study human nature, then?”
He scratches his chin as he seems to turn it over. “Suppose you could call it that. I can tell when a man’s lyin’ by the set of his shoulders, when he’s scared by the drop of his eyes. I know when he’s thinkin’ of runnin’ and when he’s thinkin’ of killin’. That’s how I keep alive.”
My pulse quickens, and not from fear alone. “And what do you see when you look at me?”
His reply comes with a bitter certainty, like an irrefutable truth he cannot abide. “I see a little lamb standin’ in a den of snakes.”
“You don’t know me.”
“No. But I know snakes. And I know the look in a lamb’s eyes when she’s wondering how long she’s got. You’re a lamb, Alice. Soft-hearted and sweet. But I reckon you could learn to bite.”
A tightness coils in my chest.
“That mark,” he says softly, nodding toward the fading bruise on my cheek, “don’t belong on you. Your husband, that whole damn clan of Shermans, they ain’t known for their kindness. Help me, and I’ll see to it no one ever lays a hand on you again.”
“Suppose I freed you. What then? You ride off, and what happens to me among snakes?”
“I won’t leave you behind.”
I almost laugh. Why should I believe him? Any man in his position would make the same promises—sweet enough to loosen a lock—then vanish once his boots touched open trail.
And what would he see me as, once free? Not the woman who could cook and sew, tend a fever, manage a house and its accounts. Not the one who could ride a horse hard across open country and read the stars to find her way. No, he’d see a liability. Just as my parents had. Just like Joseph.
“You’ve only known me these few days, Mr. Archer. Long enough to see me carry a tray and change a bandage, nothing more.”
“That’s plenty. Some folks won’t fetch a sip of water for a man laid up, much less see to him proper.” He huffs a short, quiet breath. “You kept me fed. Kept my mouth from goin’ dry. Saw to it I was clean and comfortable. That’s more than keepin’ a man alive, that’s kindness. And I don’t take kindly to seein’ a good soul bruised up.”
The words settle over me like a blanket fresh off the line. No one had named my care so plainly before. It stirs something I’ve never known—something lovely and fragile, yet mysterious, like a rose blooming in the dark.
“Who are you? Really.”
He studies me a long moment, then says, “I’m someone most folks wouldn’t trouble themselves to treat so well.”
Chapter 7
ALICE
His words linger, follow me back to my room and into bed, where I lie staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t said more, but he hadn’t needed to.
He’s a criminal. A desperado, like one of those dreadful novels come to life. A man who robs and fights and boasts of it. He expects me to be revolted, and perhaps I should be. Yet the danger of him only makes him more magnetic.
What’s the matter with me?
I squeeze my thighs together under the quilt, hating myself for the ache that builds there. That man is temptation made flesh. The work of the devil, surely. And yet, he has never said an unkind word to me. Never raised a hand, though he’s had cause and opportunity. Wounded, shackled, cornered—yet he hasn’t struck out.
So what if he’s robbed and brawled? Men on the right side of the law have given me more grief than any outlaw ever could.
Once the day of the Astral Society’s conference arrives, Fred guides coaches onto the lawn and unloads trunks. Gideon and Lucas lead horses to the livery, where extra hay bales, oats, and buckets of water have been laid out. The inn hums with order and noise—rooms scrubbed, glasses polished, cellars stocked with the Society’s favored brandy. But I feel removed from it, my thoughts caught elsewhere.
Joseph is too busy shaking hands, clasping shoulders, and making introductions to every man of consequence within reach to dwell on his prisoner. We haven’t exchanged more than a few words since morning. Still, curiosity gnaws at me, burrows deep as a worm in an apple.
“Have you seen the humidor key?” Joseph asks suddenly, patting his waistcoat with irritation. From one pocket, he pulls a heavy iron key, a square-cut bit meant for a sturdier lock. I nearly gasp. I know that shape—the lock that chains Arch to his bed.
Joseph frowns at it, slips it back, then checks another pocket. “Ah. Here it is.” He holds up a smaller brass key with a satisfied grin. “Fetch the cigars for me, will you? The gentlemen are expecting them.”
