“Nah.” He bent and removed his boots. Candleflame wavered beside him, the scent of tallow heady. He settled his boots beside the sofa, polished toes pointed at the fire, spurs a dull glint in the shadows. His socks, undyed wool. “A blanket?”
I picked at the bodice of my nightgown, the newsprint and blue linen scraps papering my walls reflecting firelight. I should be terrified to have a renegade in my home. And yet I felt safe. Perhaps more comfortable than normal. I grasped the ratty afghan spread across my bed, shook it to check for centipedes or scorpions, then tossed the blanket at him. He caught it, looked me in the eyes, questioning. But—he wasn’t that considerate, was he?
“How do you fill your nights?” I asked.
He pulled the blanket up round his shoulders. “Read. Clean weapons. Whittle.”
“Of course you whittle.”
Something like a smile settled on his face. “When I’m not shooting out the lanterns in saloons and threatening babies.”
“Well, obviously.” I couldn’t imagine Stot wrangling up slapdash chaos about the county—but I’djuststitched up a battle wound. There were reasons for his reputation. I must heed caution, keep my walls up. I liked Stot, but I didn’t truly know him.
I settled on the sofa beside him, scratching my collarbone. After such an adventure, I wouldn’t be sleeping for a span. I picked my crossword puzzle up from the credenza, frowned at the riddle that’deluded me all week. “At least help with my crossword puzzle,” I said. “Six letters. Has aBin the middle.To conceal, a refuge.”
The wind cracked against fissures in my walls, and the thick of night oozed about like molasses. He settled deeper beneath the bumpy loops of yarn. “Harbor.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Golden sunlight feathered through my curtains. I kicked at my sheets, bunched below the quilt. I needed to milk Mrs. Dawdle and feed the rest. I flopped onto my back, covers falling about my waist. Winter air speared the naked skin of my collarbone. That zing, the subtle pain of coldness, a reminder that I could feel something. It was calm, predawn light, the crackle of woodfire, the fluting song of winter chickadees. Another moment and I’d get at it. Then the rumble of a throat clearing.
I lurched up.Stot.
He sat at my table, coffee mug dangling from his hand, a few days’ beard smoking his jaw. I gawked at him, surely with wide eyes. He peered beyond the curtains, peacefully studying the oncoming light. But there was no peace about the man. He was wild emotion, a whirlwind debate at a precipice. But hell if I didn’t relish the thrill of standing at a cliff’s edge.
He raised his mug in a salute. His shirt was tugged beneath his waistcoat, buttons askance. The fabric was wrinkled and stained, one arm missing, calico bandage roped round his biceps. So unlike the tidy Stot I’d come to know, instead the likeness of a gruff, sultry outlaw. I pulled at a mauve thread on my quilt.
“Made myself at home.” He adjusted his necktie. Wool socks against my oak floor, the heel of one well darned with cobalt thread. “Hope that’s alright.”
The fire crackled. The scent of coffee and timberwood and other things deep and brown drifted across my shack. I swung to the edge of the bed, blankets pooling at my waist, my square collar falling off one shoulder. “How’s your arm?”
“It’ll keep.”
I scrounged for my morning robe. Last night I’d thrown my muddy, high-necked nightdress in the corner and donned my gauzy nightgown, pearl-embroidered neck stretched, billowy cuffs sheer.
He stared into his mug, a flush about his skin. This whole affair had been outrageously improper, but of course neither of us cared overmuch about senseless rules anyhow. He flicked his hand, gesturing where my robe hung from a chair. I moved across my shack, wood planks creaking, and swung the fabric round my shoulders, tied the emerald ribbon at my waist. I poured some Arbuckle’s and lifted my mug, watching him above the rim. He cleared his throat, gaze on the fire. Which he’d built up. And my water bucket was full—guess he’d already been to the creek. All with an injured arm. I bent to rub One Eye, who slept before the fire. “You’ve been to the creek,” I said. “Thank you.”
He sprawled in my chair, gun belt removed and hanging behind him from a hook. “Your brothers still not dig your godforsaken well?”
I grunted. They hadn’t, weeks passing right on by. I gulped coffee, the coarse grinds breaking apart across my tongue. I chewed, swallowed.
“That’s disgusting,” he said.
Amused, I sipped from my cup. “What do you do?”
A smirk threaded from his eyes. “Spit them out.”
I leaned my hip against the wall. “That’sdisgusting.”
“A matter of debate.”
“When’s it not, with you?”
“Right,” he said. “I’mthe one always arguing.”
I gasped. “You are.”
He glanced out the window. “Mm-hmm.”
