Boots Under Her Bed

by Jodi Thomas

  Felicity did not talk, though. She waited for him to fall asleep and then she left the bed. The water drawn for her bath earlier was cool now, but it felt good on her heated skin. She eased herself into the tub. For a long time she just sat. The washcloth remained bunched in her fists. She held it against her chest, loath to use it, loath to remove his scent from her skin. Sitting there, water lapping at her naked shoulders, unwelcome thoughts intruded. It was not possible to ignore them.

  Felicity laid the damp washcloth across her eyes and quietly wept behind it.

  • • •

  NAT could not recall the last time he had slept so deeply. Darkness shrouded the landscape on the other side of the coach’s windows. Inside, the lamps were either extinguished or had had their wicks turned back. He knew it was Felicity’s handiwork. He had not stirred.

  Nat turned his head and examined the space beside him. It was empty. He sat up and looked around, felt his heart seize until he spied her curled on the short sofa. She was wearing her shift and using her red satin robe as a blanket. Her hair was loosely braided and lay in the curve of her neck and shoulder. It was tied off with a ribbon.

  She looked at peace, and perhaps she was now, but her sleeping arrangements and her pale complexion suggested a troubled, exhausted mind.

  Nat threw back the covers and stood. He padded silently to the washstand, cleaned up, and then put on his shirt and trousers. He had no intention of adding his vest, but he noticed its absence as soon as he lifted the other clothing from the foot rail. He glanced at the floor, then at the backs of the chairs. He lifted a sheet to see if it had gotten caught in the tangle of blankets.

  There were few options left, and Nat had done enough repossession and recovery to know that sometimes a thing could be found hiding in plain sight. He turned, faced the short sofa, and saw his vest was folded neatly under Felicity’s head. She would have found the photograph of herself in it. It would be reckless to believe differently.

  He looked back at the bed, at the iron shackle that was still attached to one leg of the bed. He wondered if she had thought about using it on him. There had certainly been opportunity. She could have left the train. There had been at least one stop while he slept the sleep of the drugged or the dead.

  Nat removed Felicity’s knitting basket from the cushion of the overstuffed chair and sat down. He reached over to the drinks cabinet, took out the whiskey, and poured himself a drink. After a moment’s reflection, he poured one for Felicity as well.

  When he leaned back, one drink in hand, the other beside him, he saw that she was awake, alert, and watching him. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Is it either?” she asked. “Good? Or morning?”

  So it was to be like that, he thought. “I poured you a drink. Would you like it?”

  “Yes.” Somewhat stiffly, she added, “Thank you.”

  Nat brought it to her as she sat up. She took it in both hands but did not lift it to her lips. Nat’s eyes darted to his vest. “That’s not much of a pillow.”

  Felicity shrugged. “It served. You may have it if you like.”

  Nat bent, picked it up, and knew immediately the photograph was no longer in the inside pocket. “What have you done with it?”

  She did not pretend to misunderstand. “I put it here.” She reached under the cushion and removed the photograph. She handed it to him with the image side facedown. “I did not want to pose for that picture.”

  Nat had suspected as much. “Was it a wedding portrait?”

  “No. For the announcement of my engagement.”

  That explained her flat expression captured in the photograph, the dull eyes that stared back at the camera. “It is an accurate likeness,” he said, “but it is not like you. Except perhaps for the hat. What made you choose that particular one?”

  Felicity looked down at the tumbler she was cradling. “Jon told me he liked it, that he liked it on me. He was lying, of course, and I knew he was lying. It was a ridiculous hat. I chose it so that when he looked at that photograph he would be reminded not to lie to me.”

  Nat decided he would do well to keep that in mind. He kept the photograph but tossed the vest to the foot of the bed. He did not like standing over her, although she did not appear to mind. He returned to his chair and sat down. Rather than waiting any longer for her to broach the subject that was on both their minds, Nat asked, “Is it your father’s handwriting on the back of the photograph?”

  “Yes.”

  “I worked off that assumption.” Nat glanced at the message on the back of the photograph, but it was Felicity who spoke them.

  “‘Save her.’” Her brief smile was rueful. “My father does not flatter me, does he? I am not sure he is even aware of the insult. His very worst offenses are couched in the language of protection, and he has a rationale that is impenetrable. He always speaks of my best interests. I have never doubted that he means well or that he believes his arguments. I have been encouraged to be independent minded, but not, it seems, if I stray too far from his thinking. I have never been able to make him understand that his choices will not necessarily be mine. Last night, you were my choice.”

  “To spite him?”

  “No.” She held his eyes. “No,” she said again. “I was selfish. I acted in my best interests.”

  “Regrets?”

  She was silent a moment, then, “I wish I had not found the photograph.” Felicity finished her drink. She held the tumbler in both hands again while she looked at him. “You?”

  “I wish you were beside me when I woke.”

  “You fell asleep.”

  “I regret that, too.”

  A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth, but it did not linger. “Repossession. Recovery. You can add rescue.”

  “Aside from the pleasant alliteration, why would I do that?”

  “You wanted to save me, didn’t you? That’s the reason my father is in your debt.”

  “Save you? No. God, no. Not in the way I think you mean. I don’t suppose it occurred to you that I wanted to save you for me?” He set his tumbler aside, leaned forward, and rested his forearms on his knees. “No, I can see not. Felicity, among all the women I have known, know now, or am likely to know, there is no one less likely to require rescuing than you. The situation that you cannot extricate yourself from doesn’t immediately spring to mind. Have you ever found yourself in something like that?”

  Hesitating, uncertain, Felicity released a breath slowly. After another moment’s careful consideration, she said quietly, “Not until I met you.”

  Nat was able to keep himself in his chair, but only barely. He held her unguarded stare. “You mean that first morning, when I shackled you to the bed.”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re referring to my manipulation of our route.”

  “Hardly.”

  Except to make a steeple of his fingers, Nat did not move. “Say it, then, and say it clearly, but say it because it’s true and not because you think it’s what I want to hear.”

  Felicity pushed aside the scarlet robe that lay across her lap and stood. The floor was icy beneath her bare feet, but she tolerated it because this was not a declaration one should make wearing heavy woolen socks. It flitted through her mind that she should be wearing a hat, and the absurdity of that thought provoked a narrow, self-mocking smile. It faded as she approached him. There was no lift in her chin, no defiance in her carriage. Earlier she had wept because she thought she had come to the truth too late and despaired of ever saying it aloud. Now she owned this moment.

  She said, “I love you.”

  It was a naked, guileless confession, and the simplicity of it moved Nat to take Felicity’s hands in his. She came willingly when he drew her closer and then down onto his lap. There was adjusting involved, some shifting of positions to make the fit work, but a compromise was reached. As a metaphor for what would be their life together, Nat thought it was appropriate.

  “I have no interest
in working in any of your father’s enterprises,” he said.

  A husky laugh vibrated in Felicity’s throat. “You ruined Edward Ravenwood’s daughter. I don’t think you’ll be invited to sit at the table.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “That I’m ruined or that you don’t want to work for my father?”

  Nat gave her an arch look. “The latter. I did not ruin you.”

  “I beg to differ.” Smiling, Felicity bent her head and touched her lips to his. “No, of course I don’t mind. Why raise the point at all?”

  “Because I thought it might be expected. Isn’t it customary for the son-in-law to be offered a position in the family business?”

  “I suppose, but Jon was already in my father’s employ when he proposed, and so was—” Felicity’s musings came to an abrupt halt. Her jaw snapped shut with an audible click.

  Amused, Nat tugged on the tail of her braid. “In consideration of your ruined state, for which I am not responsible and frankly don’t believe, you should say yes.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I say yes.”

  “Good.” He used her rope of hair to tip her head toward him and kissed her, softly at first to seal her agreement, then more thoroughly to signal his intent. In time, he led her to the bed, where they tumbled with less awkwardness and more abandon and pleasured each other to an agreeable state of exhaustion.

  Nat said, “I love you.”

  Felicity turned on her side and raised herself on one elbow. A bead of sweat trickled down her back. Strands of hair clung to her nape. Her skin glowed. She laid her hand above his heart and lightly tapped his chest with a fingertip. “I thought you were sleeping.”

  He heard no rebuke, only gentle teasing. He put his hand around hers, held it there. “I love you,” he said again.

  “I thought you might.”

  Nat smiled. He squeezed her hand. “What you might not know is that as much as I love you, I like you more. That came real easy. There was the photograph to start. I admired the confidence of a woman who could wear that hat, and now that I understand why you wore it, I like you better for knowing it was ridiculous.”

  “It lacked editing.”

  “It lacked a lighted match.”

  Felicity’s mouth flattened. The disapproving line dissolved when a bubble of laughter parted her lips.

  Nat went on. “Then I tracked you to Falls Hollow and learned you were a resident of Joe Pepper’s jail. That was more in your favor than against it, mostly because I had it from Joe Pepper himself that you were a she-devil.”

  “A she-devil? What is that exactly?”

  Nat shrugged. “I don’t know. I liked the sound of it.”

  “You are a man of peculiar tastes, Nat Church.”

  “I had some misgivings when I understood it was a Temperance rally that put you behind bars, but you put those to rest when you knocked back that fine whiskey you keep.”

  Fascinated, Felicity edged closer.

  “You barely blinked an eye when I told you the terms that your father set for your return. You conceived the idea of becoming a Harvey girl before we had dinner and, by my count, hatched a half dozen other schemes over the course of that first week. Reporter, dance hall girl, barkeep, librarian, piano player, and actress. No single setback discouraged you. You remained optimistic, mostly pleasant—irritatingly so, if you want the truth. And you made peace with my company. I never understood how you did that; I still don’t.”

  “Perhaps I was falling in love with you. Perhaps, just perhaps, mind you, I did not want to strike out as much as I said I did. That would have been a hard thing to admit, even to myself. I’m not sure I like the sound of it now.”

  Nat chuckled under his breath. “I’m sure you don’t.” He shifted so that he could tuck her head against his shoulder. Her hair lay softly against his skin. “At the next town big enough to have at least one preacher, I’m going to invite him to marry us.”

  “Here? In this car?”

  “Of course. If you get off, you won’t be allowed back on. That hasn’t changed.”

  “What about my father? He might have objections.”

  “Might? I think it’s certain, which is why I’ll be calling in that favor he owes me.”

  “The favor of my hand, is it? One could be forgiven for thinking you had it planned.”

  “One could,” Nat said without giving himself away. “We can take this car all the way to Washington, and once you’re settled there, you can lend your organizing talents to as many rallies as you like.”

  “Suffrage?”

  “My employer won’t like it, but he likes Temperance even less.”

  Felicity smiled. “So do I.” She turned her head to regard his profile. “Have you considered that my father could have had just this end in mind when he sent you after me?”

  “I don’t know how that’s possible.”

  “I don’t know, either, but he did not build an empire by refusing to take risks. Calculation and craft. They figure into it. He might just think you are in my best interests, Nat Church.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I know you are.”

  He settled a kiss on the crown of her head. “Good. I will dedicate my life to proving you right.”

  Felicity jabbed him lightly with her elbow. “Dedicate yourself to finding my hat with the ebony-tipped feathers. I want your opinion.”

  “Now?”

  She nodded and moved out of his way, sitting up as he rolled to the edge of the bed. He extended an arm, leaning over the side as far as he could without falling out. One by one, he pulled out the hatboxes he could reach. While he searched, Felicity stripped out of her shift. She removed the ribbon that secured her plait and quickly unwound her hair, combing it with her fingers as she went. Waves of auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders as Nat lifted the desired hat for her approval.

  “That’s the one,” she said. “Hand it here.”

  Nat had not yet raised his head over the side of the bed. He kept the hat in her view, but he did not hand it over. “Are you naked, Felicity?”

  “I won’t be if you give me my hat.”

  Much encouraged, Nat passed the hat behind his back but not before he plucked one of the ebony-tipped feathers from the velvet band. He sat up in time to see Felicity settle the extraordinary creation on her head. Her siren’s smile faltered when he said nothing.

  “Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”

  “I think that you are wearing that hat in the only place it is decent to do so.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “It requires that feather to restore balance. May I have it?”

  Nat held her darkening eyes. “I don’t think so.” He slowly twisted the feather between his fingertips so that it pulled her attention. When he stopped, her eyes returned to his. Nat’s smile was wicked, deliberately so, and unlike the one she had practiced on him, it did not falter in the face of her silence. He touched the feather’s ebony tip to the hollow of her throat and let it hover there, full of promise. So there could be no mistaking his intention, he said, “I have a particular purpose in mind for this feather, Miss Ravenwood. There is more than one way to restore balance.”

  Felicity was pleased to learn that Nat Church knew all of them.

  Jo Goodman is a licensed professional counselor working with children and families in West Virginia’s northern panhandle. Always a fan of happily-ever-after, Jo turned to writing romances early in her career as a child-care worker when she realized the only life script she could control was the one she wrote herself. She is inspired by the resiliency and courage of the children she meets and feels privileged to be trusted with their stories, the ones that they alone have the right to tell.

  Once upon a time, Jo believed she was going to be a marine biologist. She feels lucky that seasickness made her change course. She lives with her family in landlocked Colliers, West Virginia.

  Don’t miss her next historical romance, In Want of a Wife, coming
May 2014 from Berkley Sensation. Turn to the back of this book for a sneak preview.

  THE SCENT OF ROSES

  Kaki Warner

  SHE stood out like a swan among sage hens. Tall and graceful. An impossibly long neck. Sleekly elegant from the plumed hat and pale scarf covering her hair and most of her face to the flowing cream-colored dress and matching cape. Guaranteed to capture the attention of every man on the railway platform.

  Not a dowager, Richard Whitmeyer decided, watching her through the soot-smeared window and the first tiny snowflakes drifting down from the slate sky. A sporting woman, perhaps. Maybe a card dealer. Certainly not a schoolmarm. No proper woman would be traveling alone and dressed so conspicuously.

  He scanned the other passengers in the boarding line, saw nothing to arouse his suspicions, and swung his gaze back to her. He admired her air of assurance, the proud set of her head, the hint of rounded curves beneath the cape. Her scarf blocked his view of her face, but he guessed she was a beauty.

  Maybe she was a madam. Or a confidence schemer. Or even a bounty hunter after the bank robber who had caused such an uproar in town late yesterday.

  Unlucky for him that he’d still been here in Omaha City when the news broke.

  With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose to slow the knot of tension tightening behind his eyes. Already the newspapers were full of it, although, judging by the confusing accounts given by the employees at the Cattleman’s Bank and Trust, no one knew who to search for, or even in which direction to look.

  “Rangy,” “skinny,” “fat,” “tall,” “average,” “short,” the witnesses had told the Omaha Sentinel reporter. Only a few descriptions were consistent. The thief had carried a dark leather case and had been dressed entirely in black—gloves, boots, trousers, hooded greatcoat. A thick scarf had covered the lower half of the face, and tinted spectacles concealed the eyes. And the culprit had been deaf and dumb.