Silken Dreams (3 page)

But Ethan had returned. Regardless of the risk.

His jaw tightened, and he stepped from the platform onto the rough boardwalk. The swirling pant of steam from the train twined about his feet like a cat, seemingly bidding him to stay away from Madison and all it entailed—an omen, his mother would have said. But Ethan had never been a man who paid heed to omens. He was a man who believed in the importance of survival and the necessity of wits. He’d learned the harsh realities of that lesson too early on to forget it now.

No, he’d never liked the feeling of being hemmed in, and he knew he’d like prison even less. So if someone were truly intent upon trapping him and seeing him arrested for crimes that weren’t his own…

Ethan wasn’t about to sit back and wait for it to happen.

Hiking his saddlebags more securely onto his shoulder, Ethan strode toward the rear cars to retrieve his mount, his mind already bent on the job that awaited him. Since Ned probably wouldn’t be home until after dark, Ethan intended to ride out to the creek where he could hide for an hour or two and perhaps even snatch a little sleep. Then, once darkness had fallen, he would try to survey several of the banks in town. Though he had no proof, Ethan felt the Gentleman was about to strike again. It had been days since his last heist, and one of the nearby banks would be his most logical target.

Ethan could only hope his luck was beginning to turn and that he’d find the man responsible. Soon.

Ned Abernathy’s prediction proved true. Within an hour, the wind had begun to whine and moan like a banshee, bringing a load of dust on its back that caused the air to become gritty and thick. Not until Lettie stood tight-jawed, watching the departure of those destined for the poetry reading, did she remember her laundry on the back line. Cursing under her breath, she ran through the house and emerged with her basket, only to find her clean linens coated with a layer of grime.

Since it would serve no purpose to fold things—they would have to be rewashed anyway—Lettie unpinned the linens and wadded them into the basket, fighting the wind that seemed determined to rip the precious items from her hands.

Finally, with her eyes stinging from the grit and her mouth filled with dust, she heaved the basket against her chest and hurried into the house. Gasping air into her lungs, she stood in indecision for a moment, listening to the moan of the wind through the eaves and the distant slam of a loose shutter against the side of the house.

All at once, she grew still. The house seemed so quiet. Hollow. With seven permanent boarders—and often times double that amount, due to people who stayed only a night or two—the boardinghouse was rarely silent. Tonight, since all of the boarders had gone to a reading of Poe hosted by a well-known circuit actor, the house was completely empty.

Except for Lettie, who hadn’t been allowed to attend.

After setting the basket of clothing on the floor of the pantry, Lettie marched through the kitchen to the front parlor. Lifting the delicate lace curtain, she glared through the window, which had already been coated with a slight layer of dust. By squinting her eyes, she could just see the shimmering gaslights at the end of Main Street where the assembly hall was located.

When she thought of all the townspeople gathering in the auditorium for the performance, a bitter frustration flooded her, then a fiery anger. This had been her first chance to attend a professional poetry reading. And since Lettie had aspirations of publishing her own work, she’d been so excited. Imagine such a golden opportunity coming here. To Madison!

But from the very start, her mother had put her foot down, claiming Poe wasn’t a good influence on a young woman.
“Poe is much too sensational for a girl your age, Lettie,”
she’d said.
“He’s entirely too moody. Too frank.”

Lettie’s mouth tightened in frustration. Sensational or not, Celeste Grey had gone to the reading.

With a huff of irritation, Lettie glared at her own reflection in the glass. What her mother didn’t seem to realize was that Lettie wasn’t a child anymore.
No one
seemed to realize it. She’d just turned nineteen, the same age Mama had been when Jacob was born.

So why couldn’t Jacob and her mother see she wasn’t in need of their coddling and fussing? Landsakes! Many of the girls in town her age had been married and had a baby or two by now! She was more than capable of making her own decision as to what was right or wrong, proper or improper. And if she made mistakes—fine. At least they would be
her
mistakes.

Making a face at her reflection, Lettie turned away from the mocking gleam of lights in Madison proper, absorbing the creak and shudder of the house and the low moan of the wind as it banged against the house and threatened to rip it from its very foundations. Once again, her hands tightened into balls of frustration. The evening’s atmosphere was perfect for Poe: gloomy and grim. Lettie could almost imagine the spectators huddling in their seats as the actor recited “The Tell-Tale Heart” or “The Raven.”

Whirling in a flash of petticoats and black cotton stockings, Lettie lifted her calico skirts and crept dramatically through the parlor toward the lamp she’d left on the side table. Lowering her voice to an eerie murmur, she slowly repeated, “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary/Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore…”

Although her mother had sought to protect her from the effects of Poe, Celeste Grey had never realized that Lettie had not only read his “sensational” literature, she’d memorized most of it as well. Her voracious appetite for poetry and literature caused her to borrow whatever books might find their way into the boardinghouse, and whenever possible, she tried to commit the shorter poems to memory or at least copy them down.

Lettie reached out to grasp the lamp and hold it aloft like a heroine in a lurid dime novel, then continued her macabre recitation, carrying the lamp back into the kitchen.

“While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,/As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.”

As if on cue, the wind banged against the loose shutter at one of the upstairs bedroom windows. Lettie nodded in satisfaction, then snorted when a fine sifting of straw and grit drifted down from her hair. Realizing the wind had coated more than the laundry, she placed the lamp on the table and crossed to retrieve the kettle of warm water that was always left on the stove for the boarders.

Still quoting from “The Raven,” she splashed a bit of water into a china basin and carried it to the vanity by the back door. Outside, the wind howled. The loose shutter banged like a madman trying to break free. Lettie shivered in delight.

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,/Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;/But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,/And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ‘Lenore!’ ”

That was Lettie’s favorite part, and she made a low, evil laugh deep in her throat to add to the dramatic tone of her recitation. Quickly unbuttoning her bodice and folding it neatly over the back of a chair, Lettie took a cloth from the rack beneath the mirror and splashed water on her face, scrubbing her skin of the faint layer of grit left by her dash outside. Then, with her torso clad only in her corset and camisole, she sponged the rest of her limbs clean.

The hot water dripped through her fingers and down the fullness of her chest, easing tense muscles and stilling the nervous fluttering in her stomach. Sighing, Lettie dropped the cloth into the basin, closed her eyes, and reached for the thick honey-brown braid that hung down her back. Inch by inch, she began to free her hair from the intricate plait, her movements slow, poetic. If only the Highwayman could see her now.

The back door slammed open and Lettie screamed, clutching the bath sheet to her chest and whirling to face her assailant. A gust of wind extinguished the lamp, plunging the kitchen into darkness.

With her heart pounding in her throat, Lettie crept through the dark kitchen, keeping her eyes carefully trained on the black shape of the doorway. No one was there, she repeated to herself over and over again. The door was known for its faulty latch, and she’d merely scared herself with all her “Raven” nonsense.

No one was there. No one was there.

But she couldn’t be sure. Inching sideways toward the extinguished lamp, Lettie held a hand to her eyes, squinting against the force of the wind that came from the open door. Outside it was so dark. So black. The wind had blown a scudding layer of clouds across the sky, obscuring the faint sliver of moon so that only a single finger of light stretched from beneath the swinging door that led into the hall, but the rest of the room lay huddled in blackness.

Easing toward the table, Lettie was finally able to find the lamp and the matchbox in the center. With hands that trembled, she managed to light one matchstick, carefully shielding it with her fingers and lifting it high so that its feeble light stretched toward the door.

No one was there.

Hesitantly moving forward, Lettie reached out to close the door. Long before her hands could touch the rough wood, the matchstick flickered and died. Moving more quickly, she lunged the last few feet and slammed the door shut, then turned and leaned heavily against it, eyes closed, gasping for breath.

It had just been the wind.

Her eyes opened and she screamed. The door to the hallway had been propped open. Silhouetted in the faint light was the clear shape of a man.

“Damn, you’re not—”

The man stepped forward, and the light from the hall spilled around his features, highlighting the dark hair, firm chin, slim nose.

Lettie’s scream died beneath a gasp of disbelief.
He’d come back!

Almost before the thought had formed in her head, Lettie became aware of the way the man cradled one hand awkwardly against his stomach. Even as she took a step forward, she saw something drip from his hand and splash on the floor.

Blood.

“What happened?”

“Shh!” The man’s forehead creased in impatience and he lifted his hand, revealing the revolver he’d held hidden behind the line of his thigh. Cocking his head, he seemed to listen intently for a moment, his entire body focused on the activity. The dim light gleamed on the dark, ash-brown waves of his hair.

Then Lettie heard it, too: the muffled thunder of hooves.

The man’s gaze darted back, pinning Lettie to the door. She sensed a dangerous purpose in his azure eyes and a fierce will to survive.

How many times had Lettie lived through just such a predicament in her fantasies? How many times had she imagined herself confronting the Highwayman only moments before his capture?

As if her imaginings had been as real as the man who faced her now, Lettie found herself reacting instinctively to the situation.

Shoving the table aside, she whipped the braided rug away from the floor to reveal the trapdoor that led into the cellar. Yanking on the rope handle, she gestured to a set of rickety stairs.

“You’ve got to hide.”

She glanced up to find the man regarding her with narrowed blue eyes. Obviously wary of her actions and her immediate solution to the problem, he seemed to battle with himself, wondering if he should trust her. Her idea of a hiding place would also serve as the perfect trap.

The sound of approaching horses grew nearer. Reaching out, she took the man’s arm and yanked him toward the cellar. Handing him the bath sheet she’d clutched in front of her for protection, Lettie instructed, “Wrap this around your hand to stop the bleeding.” The stranger disappeared into the blackness of the cellar, and she hurriedly added, “And whatever you do, don’t make any noise!”

Dropping the trapdoor, Lettie dragged the rug back into place, tugged on the table, then quickly lit the lamp and settled the chimney into place.

The back door slammed open and Lettie gasped, whirling to press her back against the table. This time when she glanced up, the doorway wasn’t empty.

A shape stepped forward, and a betraying squeak tore from Lettie’s throat before the man had moved into the dim light and Lettie recognized her brother.

“Jacob! You nearly scared the life out of me!”

Her brother didn’t speak. He stepped into the room, his revolver raised, his eyes carefully scanning the shadows before returning to glance at Lettie.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right!”

“Where is everyone?”

When three other men moved to enter behind him, Jacob swore and barked an order for them to wait on the porch, motioning for Lettie to retrieve her bodice.

“They’ve gone to the poetry reading in town.” Lettie avoided her brother’s gaze, looking down to pay strict attention to the task of buttoning her bodice.

“Have you seen anyone tonight?”

Lettie’s fingers fumbled. “Anyone?” she repeated vaguely. She glanced up to find Jacob staring at her curiously, then returned her attention to her buttons. “Do you mean boarders?”

“Strangers. Have you seen any strangers?”

The bodice completely fastened, Lettie shook her head. “No. I haven’t seen any strangers.” She felt a small twinge of guilt at the lie: the Highwayman wasn’t
really
a stranger.

Jacob motioned for his men to move into the house. One crept toward the parlor, while the other two took the back stairs, heading toward the bedrooms. Her brother waited until they had disappeared from sight before turning, finally looking her straight in the eye. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Quickly crossing to the other side of the room, Lettie hurriedly added, “Would you and your men like some coffee? Maybe a piece of pie?”

Without waiting for her brother to answer her, she reached for the gooseberry pie in the pie safe and placed it on the counter, grasping the butcher knife kept on the counter of the dry sink.

“There’s plenty. I made it just yesterday.” When her brother didn’t answer her, Lettie turned. She quickly bit her lip to keep from making a betraying sound when she found her brother squatting on the floor, his finger reaching out toward the splash of blood on the polished floorboards.

Lettie’s eyes widened in fear. Upon closer examination, she could see the way the drops of blood led to the edge of the rug. If Jacob were to suspect the man of coming here, it would only take a moment for him to realize where he was hiding.

Whirling away from her brother, Lettie took the knife and, closing her eyes, drew the edge over the pad of her finger. Clenching her teeth, she held her hand out so that a few drops of blood splashed onto the floor at her feet and dripped onto the counter. Then, taking a dishcloth, she pressed it tightly against her finger to stop the flow of blood.

“Jacob?” she asked again as casually as she could. Turning, she smiled. “Do you want some pie or not?”

Her brother glanced up, his eyes probing her expression in the dim light of the kitchen. He rose slowly to his feet and stepped toward her. “Are you sure you’re all right? Has anyone bothered you?” he asked softly. So softly, no one could have heard him more than a few inches away. His gaze moved to peer into the dark corners as if some sense warned him of the Highwayman’s presence.

Lettie smiled brightly, cocking her head in mock confusion. “All right? Of course I’m all right.” She tried to laugh and held up her hand. “Unless you count cutting myself with the knife earlier this evening. I was peeling a potato and the blade slipped and—Jacob?”

Her brother glanced from her hand, with its evident wound, to the floor, to the edge of the rug, to the streaks of blood on the counter. Lettie held her breath, trying to smile, though her jaw ached with the effort of attempting to appear natural.

“Jacob, what’s wrong?”

He took a deep breath and stepped toward the door, staring thoughtfully into the darkness. “Another robbery.”

Lettie turned back to her pie. “Oh?” When her brother didn’t elaborate, she was forced to turn back. “What happened?” she prompted, trying to keep her voice as normal as possible.

Jacob turned to look at her over his shoulder. “The thief escaped with five thousand dollars in gold.” He paused, as if reluctant to continue.

“And?” she asked casually—too casually.

A trace of huskiness entered Jacob’s voice. “And then he exploded the safe. A deputy was injured in the fire.”

Lettie sucked in her breath in horror. “Where?”

“Carlton.”

Only eight miles away.

“After receiving their telegram, we joined the posse from Carlton. About two miles back, we found a horseman hiding in the trees by the creek. When he saw us, he lit out and we followed him here, then lost him in the darkness.” Jacob’s eyes became piercing.

“How horrible,” Lettie murmured.

Jacob moved toward her, his features creased with worry. “You’re positive you haven’t seen anyone tonight? Anyone at all?”

Lettie hesitated. The stranger’s skin had been dirty, his jacket dusted with soot.

For a moment she stared at her brother, her lips parted as if to speak. Jacob was always telling her she was too impetuous, that she burst into action before her mind had time to catch up. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she did rely too much on intuition and not enough on logic.

Lettie’s heart pounded and her hands curled into tight fists before, without conscious thought, she found herself saying “No. No one.”

“Jacob!” His men came clattering down the back stairs. “There’s no one upstairs, no sign of anyone trying to slip in one of the windows. I checked the locks to make sure.”

At the noise, the third man stepped in from the hall. “No one on this floor or any suspicious tracks around the perimeter of the house.”

Jacob nodded, still regarding Lettie with eyes that were dark and concerned. “Let’s go then. He has to be out there somewhere.”

His men filed outside, but Jacob lingered in the kitchen. Finally, he sheathed his revolver and stood with his hands on his hips, studying her intently.

“See to it that all the doors and windows are barred. Once Mama and the boarders return, let them in. Then don’t answer the door for anyone else until morning. Understand?”

“Yes, Jacob.”

“And Lettie?”

“Yes, Jacob?”

Silence shuddered between them, broken only by the whine of the wind and the distant pounding of the loose shutter.

“Be careful, little sister.”

She flashed him a grin, but it felt stiff on her own lips. “I’m always careful.”

Rather than being teased from his somber mood, Jacob stepped toward her, his expression grim. “No. You’re not. Sometimes you don’t think before you act.”

“Jacob—”

“Listen to me, Lettie. The world isn’t as pretty as you see it. You imagine everything to be simple and sweet.” His tone grew gentler. “Just like you’re simple and sweet.”

“Jacob—”

“Don’t let anyone into the house, Lettie. Please.” Jamming his hat onto his head, Jacob turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him so that it rattled, then grew still.

Long moments later, Lettie heard the men disappear in the darkness, yet she still waited several agonizing minutes until she was sure they were gone. Then she moved to check each window, shielding the glass with her hands and peering into the night. Though she couldn’t see much, she was almost certain that her brother had truly gone. Still, she had the feeling that someone was out there. Watching.

Dousing all the lamps in the house but one, and checking the locks just as her brother had asked, Lettie adjusted the wick on the remaining light so that it burned dimly, casting the kitchen into shadow. Then she pushed the table aside and rolled back the rug. Hesitantly reaching toward the rope handle to the trap, she lifted it away and held the lamp over the opening until its light fell on the dark-haired man who peered up at her from the cellar.

Although he must have heard Jacob leave, he still held his revolver in his good hand, aiming at Lettie with deadly intent. His features were cast in shadow and light. Smooth planes, rough hollows.

Lettie gazed down at him for long moments, amazed at how much he resembled the man she’d fabricated so long before. Yet in so many ways he was different. Disturbing.

She knew nothing at all about this man, she realized. Not even his name. She had no guarantee that he hadn’t set fire to the bank in Carlton. Or that he hadn’t tried to murder the deputy.

Or that he wouldn’t try to murder her.

“Who are you?” she finally demanded, her voice little more than a whisper.

The man in the cellar studied her intently, rising from the sack of potatoes he’d been using as a seat. Still holding the revolver at the ready, he eased up the steps, his gaze furtively searching out the corners of the room before he brushed past her to peer around the edge of the kitchen door into the hall.

“They’re gone,” Lettie reassured him. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if Jacob has a man waiting a few yards away from the house. My brother tends to be a bit of a mother hen.” Her words trailed away as she realized that, in this instance, Jacob had a right to worry about her safety.

The stranger finally sheathed his revolver and turned to regard her, his expression guarded, his gaze carefully masked. Although Lettie knew she should probably fear this man, in the dim lamplight he made a beguiling picture. His eyes gleamed a hot azure blue. His hair lay dark and damp against his sweat-beaded skin.

Lettie glanced at the man’s hand, taking in the crease that cut across his wrist. Though he must have felt her gaze, the man offered no explanations, no excuses. Instead, he waited in the shadows of the room, no doubt expecting a flood of accusations. But Lettie had seen enough bullet wounds in her day to recognize the graze on the man’s hand. And she knew better than to ask how the wound had occurred when he’d evidently been eluding Jacob’s posse for the better part of an hour.

“We’ve got to take care of that injury,” she stated instead, brushing past him.

His fingers snapped around her wrist.

Lettie bit back a gasp. There was a leashed violence to his touch and, conversely, a buried sense of control.

He gazed at her long and hard, taking in the braid-crimped length of her honey-brown hair, the smooth slope of her brow, the warmth of her nut-brown eyes.

Then, without speaking, he released her.

Lettie crossed toward the stove, taking a cloth from the rack and dampening it with some of the warm water left from her washing. When she turned, the stranger stood with his head slightly cocked, listening to the darkness.

“Where are the boarders?”

Lettie didn’t comment on the fact that he seemed to know more about her than she about him; she merely supplied, cryptically, “Poe.”

His brow creased, and without speaking, he somehow forced an explanation.

“There’s a reading of Poe at the town hall. Everyone in Madison has gone.” Lettie gestured for the stranger to sit on one of the trestle benches beside the table. “Please. Sit down and I’ll take care of your hand.”

The man’s eyes grew cautious, and his head shifted so that the lean planes of his face seemed obscured in shadow. Lettie’s heart began to quicken slightly when the silence shivered in the room. The distant banging of the loose shutter only seemed to make her more aware of the empty house.

“Why are you doing this for me?” he asked, his voice filled with suspicion.

“I need to wash and bandage your hand or it will become infected.”

She took a step forward and reached for his injured hand, but he pulled it away.

“No, why are you—”

“Protecting you from my brother?” she interrupted softly.