Into the Light (32 page)

When her hand touched his, he laced his fingers through hers, his thumb rubbing gently on the side of her hand.

“I was afraid.”

“I know.”

“A blind man would know, I suppose.”

“Mm hm.”

“I didn’t expect.... I think I could like that.”

“Could? What would have to happen for you to like it?”

“Maybe if you sang.” She turned her head, looked into indignant green eyes, and smiled.

He smiled back. “All that talking was the most I could manage. You need a stronger husband.”

“I’m keeping the one I have.”

He hooked the covers from the end of the bed with a foot and pulled them up. “I like looking at you, but you’re getting goose bumps.”

They lay companionably side by side for a while before she closed her eyes again.

“Everyone knew Mama was dying except Judith and me, I think. She lost babies after Judith, so we thought it would be like that. She’d be in bed a few days and then fine, and we were so excited about Miriam. A baby sister.”

She concentrated on the warmth of his hand, the occasional stroke of his thumb.

“The first time — the first time he touched me that way was before she died. He said since I was the oldest I would have to take over Mama’s duties until he married again. I didn’t want to. I struggled and fought, and he held my throat, and he said if I wouldn’t then Judith would have to. So I stopped fighting.”

She was afraid Trey would say something, try to touch more than her hand, but he stayed quiet beside her, listening, the way he had always listened.

“Mama saw something. She must have. She wrote a letter, and Caleb came for us. Papa went to the door with the shotgun. He always did that. When Caleb said who he was and that he’d come for us, Papa reached for the shotgun and brought it around, and it boomed so loud, I almost didn’t hear the pistol shots. Papa fell back inside the doorway. He didn’t move, and there was blood, and Caleb stood there looking at me, still holding the pistol. I couldn’t move, and he didn’t either, and then Norah came. She came running.”

Deborah opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling without really seeing.

“I felt guilty because I knew it was my fault. Caleb came and killed Papa because of me. And I felt guilty because I didn’t feel glad the way Judith did. Papa was always strict, stern. Everything was better with Uncle Jason and Aunt Emma, and I was happy that it wouldn’t happen ever again, but....”

She stopped, unable to say the devastating words.

“But he was your father.”

She turned her head, amazed that he understood. “Yes. No one ever understood that. No one ever said his name, our real name, again.”

“You said it. You told me.”

“Yes. It’s the first time I ever said it since then too. Because you.... Because you always seemed to know, to understand.”

“There’s a reason I understand,” Trey said. “You just see my father as bad. The first time you ever heard of him, you heard about the greed and the hired killers, but when I was a boy he was my hero. He ran the ranch. Everyone deferred to him. I see Caleb with Jacey and Ginny, and I realize he wasn’t much of a father to us in some ways, but he was
there
. The one who made everything happen.”

She raised his hand and kissed the knuckles, keeping their arms against her stomach instead of between them.

“I was sixteen when he decided to teach me how to run what I’d inherit. He couldn’t do that without letting me see the truth, and he never understood why it bothered me. And the truth is he cheated. He stole. He took advantage of anyone vulnerable. He paid other men to kill for him. For two years I made excuses. I tried to be like my mother and see only what I wanted to, and I almost succeeded, until one day in Chicago, he and his partners started talking about a deal they wanted with me sitting right there.”

He stopped, didn’t seem inclined to go on. Kissing his hand again didn’t spur him on, so Deborah did the same for him as he had done for her. She waited.

“They wanted to buy an entire city block, tear down the derelict buildings there and put up office buildings. The derelict buildings were tenements, and one owner refused to sell, at least for what Father and his partners wanted to pay. They sat there and discussed the best way to burn that building and whether to have their hired arsonist set fire to the whole block or just the one building. People lived in those shabby apartments.”

She turned on her side and pressed her hand flat in the center of his chest, wishing she knew better what might comfort. Him? Her? Both of them.

“I tried to talk to him, but he couldn’t believe I saw anything other than the profit he could make. For him there’s no right or wrong, only a calculation of the chance of getting caught. I knew I should tell someone what they planned, but all I did was write an anonymous letter to the police. They probably threw it away the day it arrived. I should have gone in person. I should have been willing to swear to what I heard. But I didn’t, because he’s my father. So those buildings burned, and an old man died. That man died because I couldn’t stand the thought of my father in prison. When we got back to the ranch, I took every dollar of cash I could find on the place, packed a bag, and walked out. I didn’t intend to ever come back.”

Deborah studied the side of his face, assessing, touched his cheek, and he pulled her into his arms. “We’d better hope sins of the father is just an old wives’ tale,” he said.

“I have to. My grandfather, my mother’s father, was terrible too.”

“My mother’s family are good people. They took me in back then, helped me find jobs so I could go to school. We’ll spend a few days with them in Tennessee. You’ll like them.”

“Caleb says Uncle Jason is a saint.”

“One saint in the family only counterbalances Caleb. You need more.”

“You like him.”

“To my chagrin, I do.”

Hearing his voice while lying in his arms was even better than his voice alone. She breathed in his scent, ran her fingers along his collar bone through the opening at the neck of his shirt, felt the rise and fall of his breathing.

Her skin felt — alive — like a separate thing that needed touching, especially her breasts. Well, except maybe her stomach even more so, and then down lower where everything still felt — stirred up — as if having him back inside might fix that achy throb.

A small spot in the hollow of his throat pulsed. She touched it with her tongue. He tasted ever so slightly salty. The flutter of his pulse grew stronger and quicker, so did his breathing.

“You do realize you’re stoking fires here, don’t you?”

“If you’ll take the shirt off, you don’t have to sing.”

He sat up, whipped the shirt off over his head, and dropped it over the side of the bed. She wiggled out of her wadded up chemise and did the same. The feel of his skin against hers along her entire length was even better than she’d imagined. She explored his chest and belly with a tentative hand.

“Can I talk a little less this time?”

“Mm hm.”

He kissed her, at first slow and deep, then soft and light, brushing kisses over her face, down her throat. She kissed back, touched and caressed. She laughed when she elicited a growl trying to do to his nipples what he did to hers, moaned when he demonstrated the proper way to nibble there.

Laughter dissolved into something fierce and serious when he kissed lower. She lost the ability to do more than cling to him. His exploring fingers frightened her again, and she pulled away. This time he persisted, soothed, murmured of love and need.

She trusted him, she did. Trembling, she held still for his touch, expecting he would explore the entrance to her body. Instead he stroked a place above, and sensation shot through her like a streak of light. Again. Again. Red stars exploded behind her eyelids, the world fell apart, and she shattered with a cry.

“Sshh. Sshh.” His weight. Thick hot heat filling the hollow place. She tried to catch his rhythm, meet him, curved her arms around his back as if she could pull him deeper. Sensation shivered through her again, less this time, a lovely shadow of before.

He stilled, made a deep sound in his throat. Heat on heat deep inside. She smiled to herself and tightened her arms, wanting to keep him.

“Here.” He rolled, taking her with him.

“Is that how it’s supposed to be?” she whispered.

“On good days.”

“That felt — almost holy.”

“Mm.”

His eyelids were at half mast, his voice slow. She wanted to cuddle down and sleep too.

“I’ll get the light,” she whispered.

“Mm. You need the light.”

Deborah sat up and looked at her sleeping husband. After a moment, she pulled the cover higher over his scarred shoulder, bent down, and kissed his cheek.

“You are the light,” she said and reached to turn off the gas lamp.

July 4, 1900

Hubbell, Kansas

D
EBORAH STARED IN
disbelief at the two old men sitting behind the chair Judith had saved for her. So much for any plans to stay far away from the old gossips this year.

Mr. Ascher’s grin told her their presence wasn’t an accident. “I hope the rifle Mannie sold you wasn’t too much for your husband and he figured out how to use it. I bet on him this year.”

“Shouldn’t you bet on your son?” Deborah asked frostily.

“I put a few dollars on Mannie to make him feel good, but my real money’s on your husband, even if he does still carry that cane.”

“His fancy stick?” Deborah said, trying for ice this time. She waved the plain wood cane Trey had left with her back and forth for emphasis.

Ascher’s grin faded. As it should. If either one of these old codgers said one nasty word about Trey, she was going to grab their scrawny necks and....

“Well, I bet on Sutton,” Mr. Lawson said, oblivious. “Experience counts. Where’d you put your money, Miz Van Cleve?”

“I don’t bet.” Deborah turned her back on the old men and took her seat.

Judith leaned close. “If you spent any longer out on the field wishing Trey luck, they’d have charged you an entry fee.”

She did that annoying thing with her eyebrows, and Deborah ignored her. “Miriam really isn’t here?” she asked, searching all the Sutton faces filling the front row of the audience for Hubbell’s first Fourth of July shooting contest of the Twentieth Century.

“No, and she’s not being snooty again. She’s so sick every morning she’ll be lucky to crawl out of bed and clean up in time for the fireworks tonight. I was the same for months with Emmy. I told her to expect a girl.”

Deborah resisted the urge to place a telltale hand over her stomach. Her monthly flow was two weeks late now, and she felt vaguely queasy in the mornings. If she never got as sick as Miriam, did that mean a boy? She wasn’t telling anyone, not even Trey, until more time passed, she saw the doctor, and could be sure.

“You look like a cat with a canary feather stuck on his chin,” Judith said. “Do you know something about this contest I don’t?”

Deborah shook her head and raised her voice a little as she answered. “No, if anyone thinks I can give them inside information for betting, they’re wrong. I’ve watched Trey and Caleb practice together, and once they pass 700 yards, you might as well flip a coin to decide which one to bet on.”

Behind her, Deborah heard unhappy muttering.

Judith squinted as she did the math. “Seven hundred.... Can they even see the target at that distance?”

“They’re wondering about that too with these paper targets,” Deborah said. “I guess we’ll find out.”

“We’re going to be here all day.”

“Not all day, but quite a while unless there’s a surprise.”

The Mayor had a bullhorn this year, but no one in the audience paid him any more attention than the contestants did as they waited on the field.

“If this thing is going over 700 yards, I hope Caleb won’t let the Mayor prattle on too long,” Judith said.

Knowing snickers sounded from behind them, and sure enough there was Caleb’s white handkerchief waving around before he ran it over the barrel of his Sharps.

Deborah heard all sorts of whispers and murmurs behind her. A tap on the shoulder had her jerking away.

“Sorry, Miz Van Cleve,” Mr. Lawson said, not looking sorry at all. “I just thought you should know, word’s going around we got professional shooters down there. Your husband and your cousin know that?”

Professional shooters? What did that mean? Caleb and Trey had noticed the two strangers, everyone had. So they weren’t just men from neighboring counties come to try their hand?

Much as she didn’t want to join the old men in gossip, she couldn’t help asking, “What do you mean professional?”

“That’s how they make their living,” Mr. Ascher said. “They travel around to fairs and contests. Sometimes they put on exhibitions and charge admission. I just heard that fellow in the duster used to be in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.”

“But first prize is only fifty dollars. Even if they win most of the time, how could they make a living from contests like ours?”

“Betting,” Mr. Lawson said with a frown. “If I’d a known about them before I put my money down, I would a kept it. I bet they’re in cahoots, and they’ll cheat.”

Judith was listening too. “Cheating Caleb would be a very bad idea,” she said with a frown. “Is it too late to warn them?”

Yes, it was too late. The men were raising their rifles. Deborah barely got her bits of cotton into her ears before the first volley came. Once again Lawson and Ascher had spoiled her pleasure in watching the contest.

She had expected the whole thing to boil down to competition between two well-matched men who liked each other. Now anxiety knotted her stomach.

T
REY FELT GOOD,
really good. Maybe it was arrogant, but he and Caleb had already agreed whichever one of them won this year would buy the family dinner at the First Street Hotel.

After that, he and Deborah would leave the Suttons to their own devices and stroll down to the town hall to watch the fireworks from one of the benches there. Side by side this year, with her in the curve of his arm. With luck, he could even talk her into....