An Outlaw in Wonderland (16 page)

Annabeth gulped as her own stomach rebelled. “The bullet creased his temple. I sewed
the wound. He’ll have a nice scar.”

Cora gasped and lifted her hands to her mouth. Annabeth ignored her. A scar was the
least of Ethan’s worries.

“When he awoke, he thought we were still . . .” Annabeth paused. They
were
still married. “He thinks it’s 1865, and the war just ended.”

“That’s silly.”

Annabeth thought it was a lot of things. Silly wasn’t one of them.

“The brain is a mystery,” she said. “Ethan could remember everything tomorrow.” Or
not. “The best way for him to heal is for him to remain calm. If he’s upset, he might
get worse.”

“Might?” Cora tilted her head. “You don’t know that for sure. You’re not a doctor.”

“Right now, I’m the closest thing to a doctor Freedom has.”

Fury sparked in the other woman’s eyes. “You’re just being mean.”

“Mrs. Lewis, you have no idea how mean I can be.” Or how mean she would like to be.

“You don’t want me to see him.”

“He doesn’t remember you.”

“He would if he saw me.” Her eyes filled with large, limpid tears. She put her hands
over her face and sobbed.

Annabeth wasn’t sure what to do. Leave Cora alone? Pat her on the back? Stuff a wad
of cloth in her mouth and shove her in the closet? She clenched her hands to keep
herself from doing just that.

The woman spun and raced from the room. Annabeth listened for the tap of tiny feet
on the stairs to the living quarters. When she didn’t hear any, she assumed Mrs. Lewis
was composing herself in private and wandered around the store.

She found her dress—or rather, the dress of whoever had left town in too big a hurry
to retrieve it—thrust beneath the counter. Cora hadn’t adjusted the hem or added new
cuffs. Annabeth didn’t think she was going to. Nevertheless, Annabeth needed something
to wear besides trousers or a garment with a gaping bodice. She tucked the light green
gown beneath her arm. She’d deliver the money later.

Releasing an impatient huff, she glanced at the empty doorway. If Cora got herself
under control and came back with questions, Annabeth should be here to answer. But
how long must she wait?

Maybe she should fetch Sadie. The older woman would be better at calming a hysterical
Cora Lewis than Annabeth could ever be.

She opened the front door, glanced up the street toward the sign that read
DOCTER
—obviously fashioned by the same hand that had lettered
SHERRIF
—and caught a flash of blue silk as it disappeared inside the doorway underneath it.

Y
ou shouldn’t be out here alone.

I’m not alone. I have you.

“Ethan!”

He’d been dreaming of the night he first kissed Annabeth, beneath the moon at Chimborazo,
when a woman’s voice, followed by the staccato beat of footsteps, pulled him away.

The sharp, panicked panting didn’t sound at all like Annabeth. His wife never panicked.
At least not until—

The agony in his head yanked him awake so quickly, he was left gasping, blinking into
the sun that was so different from the moon he’d left behind. As much as the woman
in front of him now was different from the one who’d been in front of him then.

“Hello,” he began, then realized he was naked beneath the sheet, which had fallen
to his waist. Completely inappropriate to appear so in front of a lady, though what
“lady” would burst into a man’s room?

However, his chest wasn’t the largest issue. No, that would be the area below his
waist, where his member stood at attention, no doubt brought there by the recollection
of that kiss. The sheet fell away from it like the canvas flaps of a revival tent
from a pole.

The woman’s gaze lowered and stuck there. Ethan lifted a hand, thinking to cover it,
then paused. If he did that, he’d only appear to be pleasuring himself. She’d probably
scream. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t already. Instead, he tugged a pillow into his
lap and tried not to groan as he laid his arms over the snow-white material and pressed.
Her gaze lifted. Memory shimmied. There was something about her that—

“I knew that you loved me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She pointed at his erection. “You were thinking of me.”

He had no idea what to say to that beyond, “Who
are
you?”

At that, the woman began to scream.

Annabeth appeared in the doorway, red-faced and sweating. Exasperation flashed in
her dark blue eyes. The same tightened her delectable lips. She slapped the visitor
across the cheek. The resultant crack echoed loudly in the sudden silence. Ethan discovered
his mouth hung open and closed it.

“Annabeth,” he began.

“You snuck out the back?” she demanded. “You kicked the guard in the balls?”

The woman—a pretty little thing, blond, petite, so pale, the imprint of Annabeth’s
hand shone livid on her skin—gasped. Whether from Annabeth’s use of the word
balls
or from a return of breath to her lungs, Ethan wasn’t sure. He had no idea what was
going on, but he was transfixed.

“Then you come into my husband’s sickroom—” The stranger opened impossibly pink lips,
and Annabeth lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “Speak and I will make you
stop.”

Those lips closed.

“The doctor is unwell,” Annabeth continued. “He is not to be disturbed. What is there
about that you don’t understand, Mrs. Lewis?”

Mrs. Lewis? That seemed familiar. Was she a patient? Why couldn’t he recall?

She blinked a few times, confusion flowing over her face.

“You told her not to speak,” Ethan pointed out. Gratitude replaced confusion, and
Mrs. Lewis gifted Ethan with a smile that would have dazzled, if he were a man to
be dazzled by such things.

Annabeth sidestepped, blocking the lady from his view. “Get out,” she said.

“If Mrs. Lewis needs medical attention, I can—”

“You’ve done enough for Mrs. Lewis.” Her voice was choked—was it anger or anguish?—he
wasn’t sure. Why would she feel either? He couldn’t remember that any more than he
could remember Mrs. Lewis.

Ethan lifted his hand toward the pain in his temple. Annabeth snapped, “If you touch
those sutures, I will break your fingers.”

She still wasn’t looking at him. How did she know what he was doing? Ethan lowered
his arm. She was going to make an incredible mother.

The thought made his head ache so badly, he almost threw up.

“You can’t talk to him like that,” Mrs. Lewis said.

“I just did.” Annabeth grasped the smaller woman’s elbow and headed for the door.
“Remember,
I’m
his wife.”

As the two of them descended the stairs, he could have sworn he heard Mrs. Lewis mutter,
“Not for long.”

•   •   •

How dare she?

Annabeth was tempted to send Cora Lewis down the steps the hard way.

Not for long
? Although she was probably right.

In the wake of the despair that followed the thought, Annabeth tightened her grip
on the woman’s arm. Cora gasped and tried to pull away, which only made Annabeth increase
the pressure. “You will not tumble down the stairs and lose that baby.”

Cora stilled. “I’d think you’d want me to.”

They began to descend—slowly, carefully. Annabeth did not let go of Cora’s arm, though
she did loosen her fingers a bit. “Then you don’t know anything about me at all.”

They reached the ground floor, and Annabeth glanced through the front window, where
Jeb Cantrell now stood in place of the guard Cora had assaulted. If she hadn’t wanted
to throttle the woman, she might be impressed by her ingenuity.

“I know you ran out on him as if he didn’t matter at all.”

Annabeth returned her gaze to Cora. “Is that what he told you?”

The woman peered up the stairs, obviously weighing her chances of being caught in
a lie. Then her shoulders sagged. “I asked folks about you.”

Of course she had. What woman wouldn’t?

“Then you know I didn’t leave because I didn’t care.” She’d left because she cared
too much.

“How could you do it? When he needed you the most, you rode away, and you didn’t come
back.”

“But I did come back,” Annabeth murmured.

“Too late. He loves me now.” The words were said with a tinge of desperation. Perhaps
if Cora said them enough, they would come true. Had she learned that from Ethan?

My wife is dead.
Say it enough times, and maybe it’ll be true.

“He doesn’t know you,” Annabeth pointed out.

“He will.”

“Until he does, you’ll stay away.” Cora’s chest shook with outrage, which Annabeth
didn’t give her a chance to voice. “If I catch you upsetting him again, you’ll be
sorry I’m not dead.”

“I’m already sorry.”

Annabeth narrowed her eyes, and the woman lowered hers. Again, Annabeth wondered if
Cora was smarter than she let on. Or perhaps she just possessed an animal instinct.
One that prompted submission to a bigger, meaner bear.

“I won’t be leaving until I’m certain he’s in his right mind,” Annabeth continued.
“So it’s in your best interest to do as I say.”

Cora pouted. “How do I know that what you’re saying is true?”

“You don’t. But as he still thinks I’m his wife—hell, I
am
his wife—you don’t have much choice.”

“I could tell him the truth.”

“That isn’t going to change the facts. I’m married to him; you are not.”

Cora’s eyes flicked to Annabeth’s. “I—”

“I know,” Annabeth interrupted. “You’re pregnant.”

Cora’s mouth pinched at the crass term. “With child.”

“Which puts you in a bad position.”

“Bad?” she repeated.

“What if Ethan never remembers you? He’ll deny the child is his. In his mind, he’s
never met you.”

“But everyone knows—” She paused, and Annabeth pounced.

“They know you were keeping company. If you’d gotten married, and the baby arrived
early . . .” Annabeth shrugged. It happened all the time. It had happened to her—or
would have. “But to be the unmarried seamstress whose belly is slowly expanding . . .”

Cora lifted her chin. “He’s as much to blame as me.”

“More so,” Annabeth agreed. “You thought I was dead; he only hoped I was. Unfortunately,
no one will see it that way.”

Confusion crinkled Cora’s face. “Why?

“The woman always pays the price for these things.” Annabeth certainly had.

“You’re just trying to get me to leave.”

She hadn’t even thought of that. What an appealing idea. However, Annabeth didn’t
want Ethan alone again when she departed; she would not deprive him of his child.
She’d done that enough for one lifetime.

“Give him the opportunity to remember on his own. In the meantime, I’ll see what I
can do about the marriage. Is there a lawyer in town?”

“Pryce Mortimer. But . . .” The woman nibbled on her dewy pink lips. “The more I think
about it, the less I want to be married to a divorced man.”

Annabeth sighed and rubbed her forehead. “You can’t be married to him at all unless
he is.”

“If you hadn’t barged back into town, we would have been.”

“If I’m not really dead, you’re not really married.”

Somehow the two of them had leaned in to each other until they were toe-to-toe, nearly
nose-to-nose. Considering Annabeth was a good eight inches taller, she had to bend
over a mite to get there. At least they’d kept their voices lowered to a vicious,
nasty whisper.

Cora Lewis appeared as if she wanted to kick Annabeth in the knee. Considering what
she’d done to the guard, she might. Annabeth stepped back, straightening just as Marshal
Eversleigh opened the door.

He glanced between them and lifted a brow. “Problem?”

“No,” they both answered at once, though anyone who knew anything about women would
have been able to tell that such a
no
really meant
yes
.

The marshal snorted. “You don’t wanna tell me, that’s fine.” He pointed a finger at
Annabeth. “I need to talk to you.” He flicked his ice-blue glaze at Cora. “Alone.
Now.”

“I was just leaving.” Cora went to the door.

“Remember what I said,” Annabeth murmured. Her answer was a resounding slam.

“She’s awful little to have kicked my guard’s privates up near his throat.” The marshal
watched as Cora stomped across the street, sending up puffs of dust that billowed
and dirtied her skirt. She didn’t seem to notice.

“She was riled,” Annabeth said.

He returned his attention to her. “She got reason to be?”

“Being riled isn’t going to change anything.”

The marshal lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “He’s still confused?” Annabeth nodded.
“Doesn’t remember . . . ?”

“Much,” Annabeth finished.

“Apparently, he doesn’t remember her.”

Annabeth let out an exasperated huff. “If you know who she is and why she’s riled,
why are you fishing around?”

His lips quirked. “I could say for my own amusement, but that might get me kicked
like my guard.”

“Might,” Annabeth agreed. “When did they become
your
guards?”

“When I asked them to watch your door and they agreed.”

Annabeth thought the townsfolk had agreed more on Ethan’s behalf than the marshal’s,
but she kept that to herself. “What did you want?”

He glanced upward again. “Should we—?”

“No.” His gaze lowered. “First you tell me. Then, if I think he needs to know, I’ll
tell him.”

“When did you become his keeper?”

“When I said
I do
.”

He lifted a brow. “Mrs. Lewis isn’t going to like that.”

“From what I’ve seen, she doesn’t like much.”
Except my husband.
“Until he remembers that it isn’t 1865, he needs to be kept calm. Upsetting him might
just . . .” She paused.

“Might just what?”

“Tell him too many things that make his head ache, and something in there could snap.
I can’t sew up a hole in his brain.”

Even if she could, Annabeth doubted it would do any good. Ethan had tried with Mikey.
But like Humpty Dumpty, there was no putting his brother back together again.

“Why does he think it’s 1865?” the marshal asked.

Annabeth spread her hands and shrugged. “Happier times?”

“Not for me.” Sadness flickered across his face before Eversleigh noticed her noticing
and straightened. “We all have our crosses to bear. I suspect some are heavier than
others.”

Annabeth suspected the crosses weren’t heavier, but rather, some folks were better
able to heft them and keep walking.

“I rode out to the edge of town, where you said you saw the flash of the sun off a
barrel.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“No tracks?”

“Plenty. Horse tracks, dog tracks, boot prints. Headed both into and out of Freedom.”
Annabeth cursed. “Maybe if I had an experienced scout. Know anyone?”

She knew Mikey, but she had no idea where he was now. Ethan might have had some idea,
but asking him today would provide information too out of date to be of any use.

“No,” she said.

The marshal lifted a brow. He was either very good at reading faces, or she’d become
extremely bad at hiding things. Considering how long she’d had to practice deception . . .
he was good at reading faces.

“As I’m sure you know,” she began, “I’ve been away.”

“Where?”

“Not here.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure you know that, too.”

“You had some trouble. A sadness.”

Annabeth didn’t answer. What could she say?

“You’d think folks would come together over that instead of fall apart.”

“You’d think.”

“You disappeared for five years. No one could find you.”

“No one tried.” Moze would have mentioned it.

“If they had, would they have been able to?”

“No.”

“You know what, Mrs. Walsh?” The marshal rubbed his thumb along the grip of his gun.
“The more I find out about you, the more I think that shot wasn’t meant for him.”