Chapter 4
“Dinnae touch me! Get away from me!” Eyes wide with alarm, she sprang from the opposite side of the bed, backed away from him as if he were a copperhead.
But her aim did not waver.
Nicholas didn’t know what angered him more—his own inexplicable behavior moments earlier or the fact that he was about to be killed with his own damned pistol. Had he not been so weak, he could easily have taken it from her. But in this state, he’d probably only succeed in getting himself shot.
He mumbled something he intended to be an apology, tried to get to his feet. Sharp pain shot through his right thigh, and he came close to sinking back to the floor. But he needed air. He needed to be alone, away from her, away from whatever had just happened.
He grasped the edge of the table for balance, ignored the strained pounding of his heart, willed his bandaged leg to bear his weight despite the pain. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his back on her. Then he limped to the door, threw it open, and walked out into the bracing chill of morning.
Bethie watched him walk outside, lowered the pistol when the door shut behind him. Only then did she realize she’d been holding her breath.
Trembling, she sat on the bed, exhaled.
She’d been in a dreamless sleep when she’d opened her eyes to find him touching her belly. At first, she’d been too sleepy to be afraid. As if in a dream, she had watched him. The look on his face had been one of wonder or grief—or both. She had smiled to see him so lost in her baby’s tiny movements—until, with a jolt, she’d come fully awake, remembered who he was.
How dare he touch her in her sleep! How dare he touch her with such familiarity! He was lucky she hadn’t pulled the trigger!
She pressed her palms to the hard curve of her abdomen where the warmth of his touch lingered. Strange that she didn’t feel the revulsion and fear a man’s hands usually aroused in her. Perhaps her mind was still fogged with sleep.
She glanced toward the window, realized with a start that it was already well past sunrise. How could she have slept so long when there was work to be done?
“Bethie! For shame!” For a moment her voice seemed to take on her mother’s unforgiving tones.
She rose, hurried around the bed, set the pistol down on the table with a wary glance toward the closed door.
Where had he gone? She hoped he’d get on his horse, ride far away, and never return. His very presence unnerved her. She didn’t want him anywhere near her when the baby came.
What was he doing out there? He’d catch his death for sure walking about in this chill barefoot, in half a pair of breeches with no coat or cloak.
Why did she care? She cared because she’d be forced to tend him if he fell sick, and already she’d had more than her fill of him.
Quickly, she combed her fingers through her tangled hair, worked it into a braid. Satisfied her hair would stay out of her face, she built up the fire, took her shawl from its peg, wrapped it around her shoulders. Then she picked up his pistol, slipped it into her apron pocket.
While he’d slept, she’d hidden his other weapons—a rifle, another pistol, a bayonet, and the two hunting knives—under the loose floorboard to the right of the fireplace. They were fine weapons, the pistols graced with intricate inlaid handles, surely far beyond the means of a simple trapper. She’d kept one pistol for her own protection. Easier to wield than Andrew’s rifle, it would be just as deadly if Master Kenleigh’s promise proved worthless. The bayonet told her he was a soldier, perhaps a deserter who had wearied of war and fled west.
Slowly, cautiously, Bethie opened the door.
She half expected to find him sprawled unconscious on the ground or lying in wait near the door. Instead, he stood by the well, drinking deeply from the tin dipper. He did not turn to her, did not acknowledge her.
She hurried past him to the poultry pens, tried to act as if his presence didn’t bother her. When she came back out from the chicken coop, the morning’s eggs in her apron, he was nowhere to be seen. She found him when she went to milk old Dorcas, her favorite cow.
He stood in the barn, tending his horse. He spoke reassuringly to the animal, brushed its chestnut flanks with sure strokes.
Bethie faltered on the threshold, uneasy at the idea of being in a dark, confined space near him. But there was nothing to be done about it. Drawing reassurance from the weight of the pistol in her apron pocket, she went about her work, doing her best to ignore him.
She had just settled on the milking stool when he spoke.
“Return my weapons, and I’ll sleep here in the barn.” His voice was deep and soft as velvet.
’Twas surely just such a voice Satan had used when he’d enticed Eve. And his suggestionwastempting. She’d sleep so much better with him out of the cabin. Or would she? Once he had his weapons, there was nothing to stop him from using them against her again. “I’ll return them when you ride away.”
For a moment there was no sound but the hiss of milk against tin.
“Some would say that to deprive a man of his firearms is a grave and dangerous offense.” This time his voice carried an edge of warning.
A shiver of fear raced along her spine. She knew she was playing with fire. Her fingers grew awkward, earned an angry swish of Dorcas’s tail. “And some would say a woman who doesna protect herself against strange men on the frontier is daft and deservin’ of whatever befalls her.”
