He glances about. “We can scrounge up something to sell.”
“No, we cannot! This cottage isn’t—” I stop short, because perhaps itis.Mine, that is. I don’t know anything for certain anymore, but I look at my husband’s face, trying to place that anger in his mouth, trying to understand what I heard about him today. “Ansel, have you any investments? This would be a fine time to suddenly remember them.”
“I haven’t two pennies to rub together, luv.” His jaw tenses. “I’ve said as much already.”
“And before? Have you ever—”
“Speaking of remembering, have you recovered anything new?”
I bite my lip and shake my head. I want to probe further, but I sense I already have my answer in his lack of an answer. Dread hovers like a storm cloud, ready to burst.
AJ fans tender fingers along the injured flesh outside the wrap, checking for more flecks, picking at a few small ones. Then he casts that green-gold look up at me and something delightful bursts inside.
“Nothing.” It’s impossible to capture in mere words what AJ does to my heart. His confident, gentle smile releases something tight in my chest. Any time he’s near, the essence of who he is—radiant, sacrificial, easygoing—spills into the atmosphere…and lightens it. No matter what the next days show me about my past, about AJ, I cannot imagine ever being indifferent to Ansel James Winthrop.
Oh, but I wish to be. I pull back. “You needn’t do this. I can look after myself.”
“You already said that.” He anchors my legs and continues working, applying a layer of salve. “You know, my mother had an apoplectic fit once.”
“Oh?” I hold my breath as a tiny speck of his backstory floats so casually into the air between us. I twist her gold ring on my finger. “What happened?”
“She changed.” His hands go still on my leg and his mind leaves the present and time-travels. Whatever he sees lights the gold flecks in his eyes. “She always had a lot of opinions, but eventually she lost the good sense to know when to keep them in. My father bore the brunt of it. He couldn’t do a blamed thing right in those days, far as she was concerned.”
I bite my lip. “How did he manage? What did he do?”
He sighs. “Rubbed her feet every night, that’s what. Said it helped her sleep.” His fingertips glide over my calves again, feeling for fragments. “He learned to cook. Keep house. Said it made him grateful for what she’d done over the years. I was mad at her for a time, but he only grew more attached, more tender, and I didn’t understand it. I was young.”
“And now?”
He hesitates and doesn’t look at me. “Nothing seems more natural.”
That admission washes over my doubts. I don’t know what to do with them now. “Thank you, Ansel.”
“Hm?”
“For luncheon. And the brooch.”And for the first real glimpse into who you are.
His mouth curves up at the left in a boyish smile.
I finger the brooch. He’d have sold it if he is what Gould claims, but he brought it home. “How did you even know I’d lost it?”
He touches his chest where I had the brooch pinned before. “A small tear in the lady’s shirtwaist does stand out.”
“So you what, tracked down the wagon?”
He shakes his head. “Wasn’t in the wagon.”
I feel my neck tighten. “You mean youwalkedour route back to Newquay? AJ! That must have beenmiles.”
“Just until I found it.”
“When?”
“This morning. Left before you woke.”
The house was so quiet. I stepped over the lump of him…or did I? Was it only blankets on the floor? I stare at his feet. “Take off your boots.” That limp—now I know.
He grimaces. “I’ll do no such thing. Not in the presence of a lady.”
