Then he saw her. The moonlight danced off the golden rope of her hair. She was curled up on the floor ten feet away. She’d circled a blanket in the moonlight, and huddled in it like a street orphan.
Slowly, soundlessly, Winter moved from the bed. He knelt beside her and gently lifted her in his arms, blanket and all.
She moved in her sleep, but didn’t awaken.
He carried her to the side of the bed and laid her slowly down against the pillows. She looked so fragile as he pulled another blanket over her.
Returning to his side, he tried to sleep, but the woman beside him kept him awake. He could hear her soft breathing and feel her move as she nestled deeply into the covers. She was getting under his skin, he thought. If he didn’t watch himself he’d be caring for her, and he’d learned a long time ago that to care for someone was to invite pain.
She’s just a wife, he reminded himself, bought for the price of a house. Just someone to cook and clean. Nothing more. To expect more was just asking for disappointment. He had enough trouble without making anyone in his life a necessity. He’d treat her with respect, even kindness if needed, but she had no right to ask for anything beyond their bargain. And he told himself he had no heart to give it.
• • •
Kora awoke just as the sun lightened the sky to a velvet gray. She felt warm and rested as she stretched beneath the covers. Opening her eyes, she stiffened, suddenly realizing that she was in the bed and not on the floor. Winter lay beside her, his back to her. She could hear his low breathing and feel the warmth of him only inches away.
His shoulders looked so broad beneath the blanket. She almost giggled as she fought the urge to reach out and touch him to see if he really was made of granite. He seemed to take little interest in the house, even agreeing to their room being in the attic. But in matters about himself, there was no compromise. He hadn’t even paused a moment to consider sleeping in a nightshirt. Kora didn’t want to think about what he’d do if they ever faced each other head on.
She knew he thought she was afraid of him. She could see it in his eyes, the question, the uncertainty of how to handle her. If he only understood that the fear was of the dream shattering, not of him, he might relate to her differently. Kora wasn’t sure she wanted that yet. She’d learned nothing good lasted and decided it was better not to get too attached to Winter. Jamie was right, they’d have to move on before the bad luck that always followed them caught up yet again.
Kora stretched beneath the warm covers, remembering that when she returned and found him asleep, she’d kissed him good night and considered curling up beside him. But kissing a sleeping man was far different that lying beside one. She’d opted for the floor. In truth, it was more normal for her. From the time her father died, she’d spent most of her nights curled on a blanket in the back room of wherever her mother had been able to find work.
She thought that maybe she’d grown cold during the night and moved to the bed, but Kora had no memory of doing so, and to her knowledge she’d never walked in her sleep.
Slipping from the covers, Kora moved to the screened dressing area. This was her private space. She’d seen an area screened off for a lady in one of the homes she’d cleaned. When she found the old wooden screen in one of the bedrooms downstairs, she’d been delighted. Now one corner of the huge attic room would be hers.
Inside the small area was a dressing table made from a board and two crates and a stool with a padded seat. Kora had rigged a broom handle across one side of the enclosure to hang her few clothes. She’d felt wealthy buying two dresses, a nightgown with wrapper, and a new jacket all at one time. Winter hadn’t said a word about anything she bought, except to mention that if she needed more to let him know and he’d see that she got it. How rich he must be to be able to buy anything he needed without checking his account.
She hadn’t shown anyone the one thing she’d bought with her own money. A tiny, nickle-plated perfume bottle. It had cost her all she had: a dollar twenty. But that price had included the perfume inside, so the store owner told her she was getting a bargain. It had been crazy to spend so much on a bottle, but she’d wanted something finelooking on her homemade dressing table. Now the deep blue bottle with its casing of metal rested on a white linen handkerchief. The handkerchief bore Winter’s initials and looked as if it might have been a gift from someone years ago that he’d stuffed into a side pocket of his chest and forgotten. She’d found it in the study along with Winter’s other clothes when she’d moved them upstairs. The bottle and the linen made her feel very grand.
Inside the opening of one crate she kept a comb and small cracked mirror. Beneath the table, she’d hidden her cigar box of keys. The box was the one real thing she owned. It had traveled with her from her father’s house to the hundred places she’d lived. She had no pictures of family, no handed-down jewelry, no treasured keepsakes. But she had her keys, most found without locks, all worthless to anyone but her. Yet Kora knew the location of where she’d found each treasure. Sometimes she’d polish them and remember the good and bad of everywhere she’d ever been. When she’d cleaned this house, she found a key that no one seemed to know what it had ever been used for. It was added to her collection with a silent promise that if anyone asked, she’d give it back.
The keys were something she’d never show anyone, but just knowing the box was there made her smile.
Quickly she dressed in one of her new dresses and tied her hair up in a bun. Blood seemed to rush through her veins as she thought of how close she’d slept to Winter. He could have reached out and touched her, or she, him. But he hadn’t. Maybe he was worth the trusting. She’d made up her mind yesterday, after Jamie’s remark, that she had to give him a chance. Over and over she’d told herself that being suspicious of a man who simply growled didn’t make sense. She’d hold to her agreement, at least until she knew he’d bite.
If anyone had broken the bargain so far, it had been her. She’d kissed him every night they’d been married. In some strange way, her action made Winter hers and their marriage almost real. For a while she could pretend she was married just as she sometimes pretended her keys fit all the locked doors in the world.
As she stepped around the screen, Winter turned from the window. He was standing at the far corner of the room looking south. He’d pulled on his jeans and shirt, but hadn’t bothered to button either. In the early light, before the day began to weigh on him, he looked younger.
‘‘Morning.’’ His voice sounded even lower than usual. ‘‘Have you checked on Cheyenne yet?’’
‘‘I was just going down,’’ Kora answered, thinking she probably should have checked before dressing.
Winter buttoned his jeans. ‘‘I’ll go with you. I told the doc to call me if there was any change. Since he didn’t, I’m guessing no news may be good news.’’
Kora reached in the top drawer of the dresser and handed Winter a clean pair of socks from the stack she’d organized.
‘‘Thanks.’’ He stared at her as he sat on the corner of the bed and pulled on the socks. ‘‘You don’t have to do that, you know.’’
‘‘Do what?’’ she said, thinking that he needed a haircut.
‘‘Hand me my stuff,’’ Winter answered. ‘‘You don’t have to wait on me, I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it all my life.’’
‘‘I wasn’t waiting on you,’’ Kora answered, surprised he’d even think such a thing. ‘‘I was helping you.’’
Winter pulled on his boots in silence. Finally, when he stood, he said, ‘‘I’m new at the marriage thing. I’m not sure how to react to this pampering you call help. I’m not complaining. The meals you leave out, the way you helped last night, everything. It’s something I think I could get used to if you want to continue helping.’’