"Don't tell me that's the only nightdress you own," a voice teased from the doorway.
I glanced up to find Erika leaning against the frame, arms crossed, a crooked smile tugging at her lips. Her coppery hair was tied back in a scarf, her sleeves rolled high, freckles scattered across her sun-warmed skin. She had a way of filling a room, all brightness and ease, like she'd never once doubted her place in the world.
"It is now," I said, my voice quiet, but I was pleased to note I'd hidden the sadness I felt at the thought. Though my cheeks warmed as I stuffed the offending garment into my bag. "But I'll have more soon. I just need to save up some."
I could tell Erika felt bad for teasing me and touching on what was clearly a sensitive subject because she stepped in, placed a hand on my shoulder before bumping my hip with hers. "I'm sure that one of the others has one or two they can spare. Unfortunately, mine would be way too big on you."
I smiled at her, the expression nothing but fond.
I should have known that her sweetness would only last so long.
"Plus, I will have so much fun taking you out to get something a bit more... risqué. No young woman should own a nightdress that looks like something their sixty-year-old nan would wear." Erika laughed at my outraged expression before grabbing my dress from my bag and running out the door.
"Erika!" I lunged, but she danced back easily, holding the offending clothing item aloft.
"Oh, don't look so scandalized. I'm only trying to save you from meeting the wrong side of Marta's sharp tongue."
At the mention of Marta, the rather irate brunette who seemed to find fault with everyone, I groaned. "I swear, she's the one reason I might decide to stay here, and use all my wages on lodging instead of saving up."
"I can see that," Erika said cheerfully. "She hates just about everyone. And she's especially hard on girls prettier than she is. Which... my dove... means you will forever remain on the top of her list."
I blinked at her. "Me? Prettier?"
Erika rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. "Don't play innocent. You've got that whole wide-eyed and innocent thing going for you. Men will eat it up once Bess allows you out onto the tavern floor. Marta sees it, hates it, and will do her best to make your life miserable if you let her."
I bit my lip, half-embarrassed, half-amused. "Oh, Erika, you're too sweet. But you need not worry about me. If I can wrestle with a newborn filly, then I can handle Marta."
Erika's laugh rang out, bright and warm, but I barely heard it.
The word filly echoed in my chest like a bell tolling, dragging me straight back to him.
No. To them.
My cheeks burned, and not from embarrassment this time. That was stupid!
"You wrestled a newborn filly?" Erika grinned, not picking up on my shift in mood. "My dove, you'll have to explain that one to me sometime. I have a feeling that's quite the story."
I forced a weak smile, fumbling with the strap of my valise. "It is quite. Maybe on our next night off."
She didn't press too much after that, thank heavens. Instead, she looped her arm through mine and tugged me toward the stairs with her usual breezy confidence. “Well, come along then, farm girl. We've got more important matters at hand, likemaking sure Marta doesn't nick your blanket before you've even slept in it."
I let her chatter pull me along, but inside, my chest was hollow. No matter how hard I tried, the past had a way of clawing its way back into the present.
I'd had a scant week with my men.
Now I'd survived my first week without them.
It was time for me to move past what was, through today and into my future. Whatever it might bring.
However hard it might be.
And no more thoughts of sinfully handsome men, their filthy proposals and heartbreaking secrets.
At least... that's what I told myself, even as the ghost of a hand brushed my throat where the choker still rested.
Chapter Nineteen
The tavern floor smelled of smoke, ale and the tang of roasted meat coming from the kitchen. It wasn't unpleasant, exactly. Just loud, thick and far more alive than the hushed corridors of Eagle’s Rest or the peaceful farmhouse I'd grown up in. My hands twisted in the folds of my new skirt, the deep green fabric softer and lighter than anything I owned before. Erika had insisted on the color, calling it 'striking'.
