It was after seven when she finally stepped outside to take their plates and cups and bid them goodnight. After she washed dishes, sorted through the ash receiver for cinders and clinkers, and swept the kitchen floor, she checked on Morgan. He had changed positions since the last time she had looked in on him, but he was still sleeping. Since she had never managed to get him under the covers, she drew half the coverlet over him and added a quilt from the chest.
Jane checked his brow. She took some comfort from the fact that he was no longer clammy. She removed the basin, cloths, and soap to the washroom, tidied the bedroom, and pushed the steel tub that Morgan had used as a footbath under the bed. She would ask Jake to carry it out tomorrow.
When she returned to the washroom to ready for bed, Jane indulged in a moment of yearning for the copper hipbath to be filled with hot water and sprinkled with lavender salts. It was surprisingly easy to imagine and a good reminder that wishing did not make it so.
Jane removed her dress and examined it for stains. She had been careful, but she could see where she had knelt in the dirt beside Jem and where the tea she had made for Morgan had splashed her wrist. Remembering what Morgan had said about her fancy clothes, she thought it would have been better to burn her skin than ruin her gown.
She washed up at the basin, brushed her hair, neatly plaited it again, and put on her robe over her nightgown. She wore kid slippers but acknowledged that a pair of woolen socks would have been a better choice. She thought about the money she had secreted away under the lining of her trunk and wondered if she dared use some of it for practical necessities. Her funds were not nearly what she had hoped they would be. Alex had been mistaken about how much she could depend on. Jane shivered, not from cold, but from memory. Alex had been mistaken about many things.
Jane returned to the bedroom and put up her gown in the wardrobe. She closed the door quietly, darted a look toward the bed, and moved to leave the room in what she considered a stealthy fashion.
“Sneaking out?”
Jane stopped short of reaching the door. Perhaps stealthy and silent were not quite synonymous. “I did not want to wake you.”
“Why not? We haven’t finished Daisy Miller.”
“No, and we are not going to.” Lamplight bathed Morgan’s face, but his expression was shuttered and Jane could not tell if he was disappointed or relieved. “I put your supper on a tray in the dining room. Would you like it?”
“I’ll get it on the way back.”
“On the way back? What do you mean?” But she understood precisely what he intended when he struggled into a sitting position and slid his legs over the side of the bed. Jane threw up a hand. “Stop right there. I’ll get the pot for you.”
“The hell you will.” Morgan mostly swallowed a groan as he got to his feet. In deference to his injury, his weight was not distributed evenly. “If you want to be helpful, you’ll lend me your shoulder; otherwise, you’ll get out of my way.”
“You need your boots.”
“I can only wear one.”
One was better than none, Jane decided. She retrieved it, helped him pull it on, and then found a sock to put over the bandages on his injured foot. Jane put his arm around her shoulder when he hesitated. “You really do need my help,” she said. “You said it yourself.” He grumbled something under his breath that she did not ask him to clarify. Jane accepted his weight, although she realized he did not bear down on her heavily.
In this manner they hobbled through the house to the back door, across the porch, and then across the yard to the privy. The return trip was equally halting. He sent her back to the dining room to get his supper while he washed up. When she returned, he was back in bed.
She set the tray on his lap. “You are a stubborn man, Morgan Longstreet. I did not suspect how deeply that streak ran when I read your letters.”
Morgan picked up one half of his sandwich and bit into it. “But you had a suspicion it was there.”
“I supposed a man who lived the way you described must be stubborn.” She paused and looked at him askance. “Or crazy.”
“Or both,” he said.
“Perhaps.” Jane went to the rocking chair and sat. “Tell me about the mustang. Max says she’s no dink.”
“Max is right. I knew I wanted her the moment I spotted her in the herd. She wasn’t easy to cut out; the stallion wanted to keep her. He interfered as much as he could, but he had a harem to protect. That’s how he lost her. I wanted her more.”
Jane met Morgan’s eyes. She had the sensation of his fingers wrapped around her wrist, the pad of his thumb brushing the delicate blue webbing on the underside. She remembered his mouth on the curve of her neck, how light, how gentle his touch had been.
I wanted her more.
Jane tucked those words away where they could do no harm. It served no purpose to dwell on them. “She should have a name,” Jane said. “I do not think you can know her properly if you do not give her a name.”
“You might be right.” Morgan tossed Jane the extra blanket she had pulled out for him. “Take it before your teeth crack.”
Jane did not argue. She drew up her legs, folded them so her knees almost reached her chin, and tucked the quilt around her.
When she was settled, Morgan asked, “What name would you give her?”
“Sophie.”
