Room’s nice enough. I’m the filthiest thing in it. Smells like rosemary soap and lavender. Clean linen. White walls. Lacecurtains. Washbasin and pitcher. One of those lithographs on the wall—farmhouse with a cow in the front yard.
A right respectable establishment.
But why am I here?
My only notion is I’m worth more alive than dead, and my keeper’s just fattening me like a hog for slaughter.
Chapter 4
ALICE
Once the clamor of the day finally ebbs, I carry a tray with a bowl of broth down the dim hallway, my pulse thudding hard enough to feel in my throat. At his door, I knock once before easing my way in.
He lies exactly as I left him—flat on his back, chain secured to the bedframe, sunk deep in the kind of sleep that borders on unconsciousness. He hasn’t stirred in days. I set the tray on the table and step to his side.
The bandages are clean. Scabs have begun to form. Bruises are shifting from purple to yellow along his ribs. His breathing is even beneath the blankets, and when my fingers brush his forehead—warm with fever, but not dangerously so—he doesn’t react.
“Time for some broth,” I murmur.
His eyes snap open—a quick, fluttering blink of hazel fractured with brown and green. His right hand jerks to his hip on instinct, reaching for a gun that isn’t there. He scans the room like a man waking in hostile country. Then I sit on the edge of his bed, and some of that tight-held caution eases.
“Easy,” I whisper, resting a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Try to sit up. You need food.”
He pushes himself upright by degrees, breath catching as the chain drags across the iron frame. His gaze cuts from the restraint to me, dark with accusation.
Guilt crawls under my skin. “I’m sorry, sir. My husband insisted on the irons—for our safety, he said. I hope you’ll understand.”
I lift the spoon, and after a moment’s hesitation, he leans forward enough to accept it. He swallows, exhales, and some of the hard edges in his face soften. By the fourth spoonful, he speaks, his voice rough, low, and controlled. “Where am I?”
“The Sherman Inn. Larkspur, Ohio. You’re safe.”
He doesn’t blink. He simply lifts his arm and pulls, testing the restraint with a hard, deliberate jerk. The metal rattles. He lowers his arm again.
“I know,” I say quietly. “And I’m sorry. How do you feel?”
Another spoonful. He swallows. “Alive.”
“I’m glad. Can I bring you anything?”
He lifts the shackle. “A key would be nice.”
Something in me curls tight. “Mister, if I had the key, I swear I’d use it. This wasn’t my doing. I’m only here to care for you.”
He studies me a moment. “Whiskey wouldn’t hurt.”
A surprised breath escapes me. “That I can manage. I’ll return shortly.”
“I won’t go anywhere.”
I hurry downstairs, snatch a bottle of rye and a glass from behind the bar, and climb back up. When I push the door open, he’s on his feet, braced unsteadily, shirt open, shoulder twisting as he studies the sutures in the mirror.
“I’ll fetch a fresh dressing,” I say, guilt tightening in my throat. I wish I could give him clean clothes as well, but the irons make that impossible.
I set the whiskey down on the end table and turn to leave.
“Alice.”
I freeze. Turn slowly. “How—how do you know my name?”
