• • •
Phoebe held out her hand for a wedge of cheese when she saw that Remington had taken it out of the bag. “No sense giving it to the mice,” she said. Thanking him, she bit off half and chewed. He was rooting in the bag again and no longer curious about what she was thinking. That suited her.
It was afterward that they’d slept again, this time for much longer than the first. It was the rain, she decided. Lightning and thunder had already moved into the distance, but the rain and the gloom remained. There was also that devilish drip in the corner. It had finally stopped keeping good time, but then, when she had curled against him, her head on his shoulder, it had lulled her to sleep.
Phoebe’s eyes shifted to the line where their clothes were hanging. Remington had used the hook supporting the lantern to secure one end and attached the other to a knob at the head of the bed. The line sagged in the middle under the weight of their clothes but none of them swept the floor.
“The sleeves of my shirt aren’t dripping any longer,” she said.
Remington glanced in that direction, nodded, and returned to rooting in the saddlebag. He came away with a hard-boiled egg. When she declined his offer to share, he cracked it onthe floor and began to peel it. “Is that what you want to talk about?” he asked. “Our clothes?”
“What then? I haven’t remembered anything.” She pressed a finger to her temple. “No seeds. No sprouts.” She turned to look at the bed. “Maybe if I—” She rose and walked over to the bed, dragging the blanket behind her.
Remington made a grab for her, then the blanket, and missed both. The egg fell out of his hand and wobbled on the floor. “Phoebe. Stop. You don’t have to do that.” But she was already beginning to sit. He forgot about the egg, his appetite, and went to her. “It will come to you or it won’t. You don’t have to force it.”
“Isn’t this why I’m here? You didn’t plan the other, did you?”
He blew out a breath and raked his hair with his fingers. “No! Jesus. Why would you ask me that? You damn well know better.”
Phoebe’s face flamed but she held her head up and did not look away. He deserved at least that after what she’d said. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless. You’re right. I know better.”
“Jesus,” he said again, this time on a thread of sound. He backed off and went to the window. Hunching his shoulders, he stared out. Phoebe was right about the water; it was lapping at the smokehouse. He thought he should go out and check on the horses again. They’d sense the water coming toward them. Also, he had to piss. Phoebe probably wanted some time to herself. “I’m going outside,” he told her. “Horses. Nature call.”
“But it’s still raining.” As an objection, it was inadequate. She watched him dress in clothes that were only moderately drier than when he had taken them off, and then followed him to the door. He stood there, his fingers curled around the handle, not moving, his head slightly bowed. His hat was not sitting at its usual angle but tilted forward, and she could see that his hair was once again long enough to brush his collar.
Mr. Shoulders had worn his hat like that, tipped down inthe front, higher in the back, but the black scarf that was wound twice around the lower half of his face also hid his hair. She knew it was dark because she had seen his eyebrows, but she couldn’t tell if it was overlong or trimmed short.
He was arguing with his men, trying to convince one of them to stay behind. No one was willing. The scarf was brushed wool. She saw that now. It would have been warm against his face. Too warm for comfort. That’s why in his agitation he had tugged on it, pulled it away from his mouth and neck, and lifted his chin above it for a second, maybe two, before he ducked behind it again.
Phoebe blinked. Then, softly, because she needed to hear it first and know it was truth, she said, “He has a mustache.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Remington’s head came up and he turned. “What?”
“He has a mustache.” She laughed suddenly, delighted, and held her forefinger above the curve of her upper lip and wiggled it. “It’s thick. Like a... like a plump, wooly caterpillar.”
“A caterpillar,” he said slowly. He released the door handle but didn’t approach.
“A plump, wooly, and dark, dark brown caterpillar. That’s why I didn’t see it clearly. It was almost the same color as the scarf around his face. And his chin, Remington. I saw his chin.” She removed her mustache and used the same finger to poke at the center of her chin. “Dimple. He has a dimple right here.”
He rolled his lips in to keep from smiling. “You probably should cease hammering your chin.”
She stopped, withdrew her finger, and examined the tip. “Oh. Probably so.”
Remington closed the gap between them and hunkered in front of Phoebe. “I’m sorry to have to ask, but are—”
“Sure? Yes. I’m sure. It was you this time, standing there at the door, and it put me in mind of Shoulders standing in the same place, only he was mostly facing me, not turned away. I never mistook you for him, if that’s what you’re thinking. You just helped me conjure a picture of him.” She touched her upper lip again. “His mustache brushes the top of his lip. It’s uneven, not groomed as your father’s is. I had a better image of his hair, thick and dark brown like his mustache, but I couldn’t tell if it was long or short at theback. The scarf hid it even when he pulled it away from his face.”
“Are you all right?” he asked. “I can tell you’re pleased that you’ve remembered something, but I don’t imagine it’s a pleasant memory.”
The faint smile tugging at her lips faded. “No, you’re right. It isn’t pleasant. I was afraid. Perhaps I should have been relieved when none of them would agree to stay behind with me, but escaping on my own was hardly a consideration when I imagined all the calamities that might occur if I couldn’t. I developed a rather lengthy list of unfortunate ways to die if no one came for me.” Her eyes moved past Remington to the window behind him where rain continued to spatter the glass. “And yes, drowning in a flash flood was one of them.” She managed a weak smile in what was a gravely set face. “I never stopped trying to get away, but I was ever so glad to see you.”
“Oh, Phoebe.” He cupped her cheek. “I wish I could have spared you this.”
She laid her hand over his and shook her head. “I wanted to come, remember? No matter what you think, I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t wanted to be. It was a good idea, Remington, and I’m not unhappy that you thought of it.”
He nodded and withdrew his hand when she removed hers. He leaned in, kissed her lightly on the mouth, and then stood. “I still have to go out,” he said. “The horses? That call of nature?”
