“Floor’s yours,” she snaps.
I stumble inside, halfway there on my own. “What, no goodnight kiss?”
She slams the door, spins on me. “You’ve had too much whiskey, Mr. Randolph. I’ll not be made a fool of in front of half a saloon again. You may sleep on the floor, or under it for all I care.”
I stretch out right there on the boards, hands behind my head. “Floor suits me just fine, Miss Alice.”
Her nostrils flare. “I wish you would stop calling me that.” She climbs into bed, back stiff, quilt yanked to her chin.
The silence hangs heavy—until a squeal bursts through the wall, followed by the thump-thump of headboard on plaster. Obscene moans roll like cows lowing on the pasture.
Alice grumbles, throws the quilt over her head.
I chuckle into the crook of my arm. “They wrestlin’ steers over there?”
Her giggle is muffled under the blanket.
“Goodnight, Miss Alice.”
“Go to sleep, wicked man,” her voice shoots back, sharp as ever.
I rest easy, grinning. “Ain’t no sleep in Salt Lick.”
Chapter 13
ALICE
By morning, I am grateful for my evening of only lemonade, while Kodiak, chastened beneath the glare of sunshine, grumbles about our modest room. He stretches, and the popping of his bones is loud in the hush.
“You sleep mighty fine, I hope, Princess Alice?”
“As well as might be expected. Thank you.”
He laughs, though humorless. “Well, the floor was just dandy.”
I check a smile. “Had you behaved yourself, you might have known the soft earth and the comfort of a campfire.”
He does not miss a beat. “And had I left you to rot in Ohio, I’da been the one keepin’ folks up last night.”
The words strike deeper than they should. It is not my fault the world has contrived to trouble women with ceaseless care for safety, propriety, and virtue. Of course I must strive to prove my usefulness. I cooked for him, prepared coffee at daybreak, did what I might to ease the way. Yet no matter—I am a weight to be borne, and soon enough he will set me down and walk away.
I say nothing, wiping my face at the washstand. The boards creak as he paces.
“Come on. We best be movin’. I got business waitin’ down south.”
Though tempted to reply in kind, I hold my tongue. I will not grant him the satisfaction. He leads through the door, then halts at the threshold, turns and braces one hand high on the frame. The breadth of his shoulders fill the space.
I stand with hands clasped at my waist, bowing my head.
“That was me bein’ a fool,” he says, and leans forward, closing the distance without moving a step.
The words cause a flutter in my belly.
“That weren’t kind, what I said. Whiskey’s rattlin’ in me, but that ain’t your fault. Didn’t aim to put my blight on you.”
An apology—unbidden, sincere. Perhaps he saw me wince. I smooth my skirt and lift my chin. “Thank you.”
He nods, then steps into the hall. His boots drag on the floorboards with less swagger than usual. I follow, unsettled in heart, though not as I was a moment before.
