Mr. Shoulders was the last one out the door. He tipped his hat in a mocking farewell gesture. Phoebe waited until he was gone before she called up the first in a colorful string of curses. The theater was fertile ground for blue language and she had paid attention. When she had exhausted her repertoire, she sat quietly, catching her breath and waiting for inspiration. She tried lifting the bed so she could drag the binding rope under the leg. The bed frame was crafted from pine and the legs were square, thick, and heavy. Nothing she attempted gave her enough purchase or leverage. It was then that she began twisting her wrists and plucking at the knot. When she thought she might cry from frustration, she made herself rest. Once, she surrendered long enough to close her eyes and bang the back of her head against the foot rail.
She did not know she was biting her lip as she worked until she tasted blood. After that she pressed her lips together to keep them away from her teeth.
Mr. Shoulders had given her no indication when he expected to return, or even if he would return, so when she heard footsteps confidently crossing the narrow porch from the side of the cabin to the door, she assumed it was Shoulders, one of the Blue Bandannas, or the mountain man. Before she could decide which was the least of those evils, the door opened.
Phoebe’s mouth gaped, closed, and fell open again, this last time only slightly parted. She blinked, mostly to clear her watery vision, but also because she was surprised.
“You.”
“Mm.” He stepped inside and kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot. He wasted no time closing the gap between them. “I was at the window. I had to be sure you were alone.”
Even learning it after the fact, the realization that he had been watching her—again—still had the power to make her feel oddly vulnerable. For want of a reply, she nodded faintly. She did not know if he took any notice of it. He was already bending at the waist and slipping his hands under the bed frame. With very little effort, he raised the bed half a foot above the floor. It was much more room than she needed to get free of the leg, but she was too grateful to ask him if he was trying to impress her. And then there was the possibility that he would ask her if he had succeeded. She would have to admit that he had. Or lie.
“How is your head?” she asked when he dropped the bed and hunkered beside her. “I couldn’t rouse you on the train.” He grunted something unintelligible, which she took to mean that he did not want to be reminded of his humiliating fall. She winced when she felt his fingers brushing her wrists as he plucked at the knot.
“I’m thinking you tightened this as you were trying to work it free,” he said.
She had thought the same. “Probably.”
“I’m going to use my knife.” That said, he spread his duster open and reached inside.
Phoebe could not help herself. She flinched when heshowed her the knife he extracted from a leather sheath strapped to his thigh. That weapon had not been visible to her on the train. Every bit of eight inches long, the finely honed edge glinted in the lantern light. There was no removing her eyes from it. Words tripped over each other in her effort to get them past her lips, “I’m Phoebe Apple, and I think I very much would like to know your name.”
He smiled then, just a little. “I know who you are, Phoebe Apple, and I’m not going to hurt you. Stay still.”
She didn’t breathe until she felt her wrists part ways. Slowly, because her arms were stiff from being held behind her back, she brought her hands forward. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him sheathe the blade. She took a second breath, this one deeper and more calming than the first.
“May I?” he asked, indicating her wrists.
She regarded him for a long moment, not because she had any trepidation about allowing him to tend to her, but because she simply could not turn away. Looking into his eyes was like staring down into the dark waters of the East River from the height of the Brooklyn Bridge. One could imagine making the leap, disappearing under the surface with hardly a ripple, and never coming up for air, nor wanting to. At least she could imagine it. Phoebe couldn’t say if other women were seized by images of drowning in those unfathomable eyes, but it seemed likely as she was credited to be a practical individual who rarely entertained fantastical notions.
She realized she would have to revise that opinion of herself. Tonight, upon being left to her own devices, she had been susceptible to all manner of bizarre images as she contemplated her demise. Now she could add death by drowning in twin bottomless pools to the list.
It was only when he lowered his eyes to where her fingers were threaded against her swollen abdomen that the spell was broken. Phoebe followed his gaze, flushing when she understood that she had never answered his question. She unclasped her fingers and raised her hands, turning them over to reveal her palms and the delicate underside of her wrists.
Seeing the extent of the angry red abrasions, he whistled softly. “You were determined; I’ll give you that. You’ve got some rope fibers embedded in your skin. That will have to wait until later.” He looked around the sparsely furnished cabin. “Do you see anything to make some bandages?”
She didn’t. There were no linens on the bed and no chest that might hold any. There was a board with three pegs on it next to an ancient woodstove, but nothing hung from it. She stared at her wrists. Tiny beads of blood dotted the skin. Now that she was free of the rope, she was becoming aware of the pain associated with her injury. It was nothing she could not tolerate, but it felt as if she were wearing two thorny bracelets. She turned her wrists this way and that, examining them from all sides.
“What about your petticoat? Your shift?”
Phoebe looked up, startled.
“To make bandages,” he said patiently.
“Oh. Of course. I should have thought of it.” She lifted the hem of her skirt to a point just below her knees and showed him the lacy edge of her shift. She wasted no time mourning the finest undergarment she owned. She had already snagged it on the trail to leave evidence of her passage. What did it matter if she ruined it beyond repair? Taking the cotton fabric in hand, Phoebe prepared to rend it.
“Let me.” The knife was already in his hand.
Her eyes widened fractionally, but she nodded and followed the descent of the blade. In short order the deed was done and he was in possession of two usable strips of cloth. Phoebe arranged her skirt over her legs before she held out her hands. His head bent immediately to the task so she could not be sure that he found her modesty amusing, but it seemed to her that he had. For all the fantastical notions she had entertained tonight, she did not think she was imagining his grin.
“How long ago did they leave?”
“I don’t know. It might have been an hour, maybe less, maybe a lot more.” She watched him wind the first cloth around her wrist. He had long fingers and a gentle touch.Whenever he brushed her skin, she felt the rough pad of his thumb.
“I didn’t expect to find you alone.”
“I did not expect to be left alone. They argued about it. Shoulders wanted one of them—”
