***
The sheet was cool. Ty drew back his hand and ran it across his chest rubbing with an ideal rhythm. Replete with the memory of their most recent lovemaking, he rolled and reached out letting his hand graze the place where she had laid only a little while before. Still astounded at how she willed power over him, he had meant what he had said when he told her she had cast a spell over him. A woman had never brought him to task. Such a beauty and with a heart of pure gold. Cursing low, he reached for the edge of the bed. The move made his head spin. He did not remember drinking anything the night before. So why would he have a hangover? Rising, he eased into his trousers and padded barefoot into the front room in search of her. The night air caressed his naked skin. Sonja was not there. Glancing about, he noted the tidy kitchen area where the table, still covered in the gingham cloth displaying the delicate blossom he had picked on a whim for her enjoyment. A little stunned by his gesture, such a sappy action, he admitted to himself, the flower made her smile, though. Ty ran a hand through his hair and headed for the front door on a low groan of frustration. He needed some air.
The agitation building inside would not do either of them any good as guilty doubt began to take hold. Hadn't she come to him out of loneliness? Hadn't he satisfied a need of his own with their time together? He would be a damn lucky man if her opinion of things matched his. Nevertheless, a small voice in the back of his mind reminded him of the old hag's words once more. Venting, Ty kicked at the water barrel sitting near the stoop. He didn't need a commitment. He needed a reckoning.
Didn't he have a duty? Damn it! If he stayed, things could only get worse. To dally with the widow, Brooks meant trouble for them both. They would both be better off if he gathered his things and left. He wheeled and went back inside. She had never got around to telling him where she had stashed his clothes. The ones she had provided him with belonged to her dead husband. Wearing regular men's clothing meant a safer trip, provided he limped or feint an injury. Where was his revolver? He sure as hell was not taking the prissy-ass ladies derringer she had given him when the Union soldiers showed up. His revolver was one Seth had given him when their pa had died. The damn gun meant something to him. He glanced at the armoire situated near the fireplace.
Since his arrival, he was certain she had relocated it there to make dressing easier. After all, he occupied her bedroom. The fact she had moved the solid piece to begin with amazed him. He should move the heavy piece back into the bedroom for her. First, he would check to see if it held his gun. If he were not mistaken, a woman would see her closet as the perfect place to hide a man's revolver without distress of the gun's discovery. He bent to the task, rifling through the dresses hanging within, next to the bottom where hatboxes along with small storage trays rested. He noted the meager stash of clothing and lingerie the cabinet held. One dress in particular hung near the back, wrapped in tissue. Ty could tell the material was of fine quality. Perhaps it was her one good ensemble. The war cruelly snuffed a woman's wants and wreaked havoc on her needs. No fine lace or French lingerie made it through the barricades. No silver combs or fancy feathers to adorn one's hair slipped by the Union troops. How much had Sonja suffered because of the conflict? Ty's search slowed as he pondered the question. How he would have enjoyed being able to bring some pleasure to her barren world. Shaking his head, he found a sharp pang of annoyance rode roughshod over everything. The world was a cruel place, and he wanted - what?
Cursing, he stood again. There was nothing in the armoire. He kicked at the fire hearth. The sting to his big toe reminded him his temper erupted more often of late. Too much apprehension, he mused. A groan of frustration left his mouth, followed by one of sheer desperation. The old hag's words kept circling in his head. The memory of the witch's prediction was a sign. Maggie would agree. Hell, it was a sign it was time to leave. Glancing back at the wooden cabinet, he argued with his emotional response and moving the armoire back to Sonja's bedroom won out. Putting his back into the task, he shoved the heavy piece of furniture across the rough plank floor. After several shoves, something thudded to the floor. He reached under the front of the cabinet, where he touched the coolness of steel. Drawing out his gun, he said a silent prayer. The discovery should have galvanized his determination to be on his way, but instead locating the gun made the desire not to hurt her even stronger.
The lost look in her eyes made his heart ache to comfort her. From what, he was not sure. He cursed with the growing frustration. She would not talk to him. Probably didn't trust him enough to explain why she what? Couldn't be with an Injun? The pain of that realization stabbed straight through to his heart. Of course, she could not tell him the truth. He had served his purpose, and now the red man had to go. With the cabinet back in its proper place along and with his gun in the belt of his borrowed trousers, he donned a shirt and boots, both of which were for another man's build. What she had done with his, he could not fathom. .Asking was out of the question. Soon, he was gathering a burlap bag and placing two small apples from her stash inside. It would have to do until he could kill a squirrel or other meat. The sensation of someone watching made him glance over his shoulder. Sonja was not there, yet something was. Shaking away the impression, Ty turned for the door. Gathering a couple of flint rocks, he stuffed them in his bag and scanned the room once more. The tug in his chest was back. He turned to go and something crunched under foot. There on the floor lay a small silver cross on a chain. The same cross, he had seen around Sonja's neck earlier. He should leave a note, but with nothing to write on, he would go. She would be better off without him. He would leave, and she would find a man who could give her the life she deserved. Not one saddled to a man the world scorned. He had untold scars he would have to deal with from the war. Sonja deserved better. Shoving the necklace into his pants pocket, Ty stepped off the porch.
The Lady in the Mist (The Western Werewolf Legend #1) Page 22