by Jodi Thomas
That wasn’t going to happen. “Nothing about me worth saying.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, smoothing her skirt behind her before dropping down to sit on a fallen log. “You work for my father. You have complete access to our home. You hover at the edge of the room during the balls my mother insists we attend, but you never dance.”
“Why would I dance? I’m there to keep an eye on your family.” Though most of that was for show. “Can’t do that if I’m dancing.”
“Please. I can’t imagine how sharing a single dance with one of the many young women who are curious about you would put my family in danger.”
He looked at her, unspeaking, trying to make sense out of what she’d just said, but she laughed before he managed.
And her eyes were twinkling again. “You didn’t know, did you?”
“Didn’t know what?” he asked, moving past her into the copse of trees to gather items for tinder.
She got up and followed, giving him no privacy. “You are the subject of much gossip, Zebulon Crow.”
He didn’t need to know that. “Fine. Next time I’ll dance.”
“There won’t be a next time,” she said, her steps slowing. “At least not in New York. I’m not going back, remember?”
He grabbed for some dried moss and dead leaves, packing the detritus while he looked at her. “And what exactly are you going to do?”
“Well, when we find Mick—”
“We may never find Mick,” he cut in to say as he turned back for their camp. “We don’t know what trouble he got into or who he got into it with. And it’s very possible that, wherever he is, he doesn’t want to be found. He could be in danger. He could be on his way to California. He could’ve made his way to Galveston and hired on to sail to Ireland.”
“He would never go to Ireland,” she said.
“Were you just as sure that he’d never leave you stranded in San Antonio?” he asked, squatting in front of the fire pit.
She was silent after that, watching as he struck his flint, blew on the tinder as it sparked. Or at least she was silent until she found a change of subject she liked.
“Miss Porter made an observation I’d like to ask you about.”
“What kind of observation?” he asked, the teepee of kindling catching the flames and igniting.
“That the dangers you faced before coming to New York were what made you suitable for my father’s employ.”
“Hmph.” In the three years Zeb had worked for Sean Daugherty, he’d yet to see the man face a threat worse than a pothole in front of his carriage. At least a threat of any legitimacy.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He stared at the wisps of rising smoke, at the moss as it crackled and turned black, orange sparks leaping into the dried leaves and devouring them. “I’m still trying to work out why your father feels he needs security.”
“Men in his position do.”
“He’s never had a threat made against him since I’ve been working for him, and he never made mention of having any before I arrived.” Then again, those doing Sean’s dirty work would be the ones at risk. All Sean had to do was reap the rewards.
She said nothing, as if weighing what he’d said with what she knew about her father. “That was rather convenient. You arriving when you did. It makes me wonder—”
“Why don’t you wonder about where you’re going to spread out your bedroll for the night?” he asked. He had no intention of discussing with her the things that had driven him to New York.
“Does that mean you’re done talking?”
“That depends.” He sat back on his haunches, met her gaze from beneath the brim of his hat. “Are you done asking questions?”
She pressed her lips together and glared at him, holding back—he was quite sure—all manner of queries.
They had a long trip ahead of them. Best she parcel them out slowly, he mused, lest he use one of the shoes he’d threatened to take to gag her.
• • •
THE night had not been as bad as Maeve had feared, though she’d only slept in snatches and was feeling the lack of rest today as they rode. Zeb, on the other hand, had slept soundly, snoring softly into his hat where he’d used it to cover his face. She didn’t know why, unless it was to block out the light of the fire she was certain had been visible for miles. Once the storm had moved on, as Zeb had predicted, the air had been utterly clear.
Staring up at the vast night sky had left her breathless. Even through the branches of the trees she could see stars, and what might even be planets, though she knew so little of astronomy. She did know enough to identify several of the stars and had picked out the Big Dipper and the Great Bear, giddy that she’d had not only a cloudless sky to enjoy, but the knowledge of what the endless expanse held in the cradle of its outstretched arms.
She also knew enough to understand that if they continued on this morning’s present course, they would eventually find themselves on the Gulf Coast rather than in New York. And though she was certain he was aware of their position, she would be plagued with disquiet if she didn’t point it out.
“I don’t wish to doubt your navigational skills,” she said, the stride of her horse a steady and rhythmic clop, clop, clop beneath her, Zeb’s mount keeping a similar pace to her right, “but judging by the location of the sun, it would appear we are traveling in an easterly direction, rather than toward the north.”
“I know which way we are headed.”
It was all he said, and his voice was gruff. Still . . . “Then I am correct.”
“I know which way we are headed.”
She urged her animal forward until it was even with his. “Then do you mind telling me why we are headed east instead of north?”
He seemed to give her question more thought than it needed before saying, “Your father asked me to deliver something to a colleague in Houston.”
“I had no idea my father had business associates in Texas,” she said, and he barked out a sharp sort of laugh, prompting her to ask, “What was that for?”
He glanced over, his eyes a flash of blue beneath the shadow of his big black hat. “I imagine there’s a whole lot about your father you don’t know.”
An indubitable observation. And yet . . . “Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s the truth,” he said dismissively.
She hated being dismissed. “And I suppose you know everything about your father.”
“I knew most of it,” he said, looking forward again and adding, “until he died.”
Maeve felt as if she’d taken a blow to the chest, and struggled to draw breath to speak. “Oh. I’m so sorry, Zeb. I shouldn’t have said—”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” But he left it at that.
And of course his doing so had her wondering . . . “Was he ill? Was it an accident? I hope he didn’t suffer.”
He took a long moment to answer, and though he rode slightly in front of her, his eyes trained forward and out of her view, his dark beard hiding the set of his jaw, the way he held his shoulders told her of the tension binding him, and she wished again she was better at letting things go. That she didn’t have this compelling need to fix what was broken, to solve problems that weren’t even hers.
“He wasn’t ill, no,” he finally said, his voice devoid of emotion. “As for suffering . . . I wouldn’t know.” He stopped, lifting his gaze to take in the sun before reining his horse to the right. “I wasn’t there. When I got home, both of my parents and my grandfather were already dead.”
Thankfully, her horse followed his because she couldn’t think past Zeb’s revelation to guide the beast beneath her. Her hands in her gloves were so cold, she feared dropping her reins. “What happened?”
“They were murdered.” He said it as if the act were nothing, as if he’d grown so used to the ugly truth that it was as much a part of him as the vest he always wore, the pocket watch he was never without. The hat that he rarely
removed, and which threw crude shadows.
Maeve wasn’t used to murder at all, and she gasped, feeling the unfamiliar, yet hummingbird-light, weight of the derringer in her skirt pocket. “What?”
He nodded. “Three brothers. Blamed my grandfather for not being able to save their old man during the war. Gunshot wounds.”
“Your grandfather was a doctor?” she asked, blinking the dampness from her eyes. Of all the things to ask . . .
“In the war. My father, too, but later.”
“But these men . . . they came after your grandfather? Your family?”
He nodded again. “Held that grudge a long time. And then it seems they had nothing better to do with their time than destroy everyone in my family.”
Everyone. Including him. Though he remained alive.
“Do you have siblings?” she asked, but all he did was tug the brim of his hat lower, a signal that he was done with the conversation.
She fell silent after that, riding to his left and allowing her mount to fall back slightly, though she couldn’t imagine he was aware of her presence, or anything but his own grief. She’d stirred that in him. How stupid of her. How incredibly thoughtless. And all because she’d allowed his words about her father to goad her.
She thought back to what he had said. He worked with her father daily. He had access to her father’s inner circle, his comings and goings. He knew with whom her father met and, most likely, much of what was accomplished behind closed doors at his office or his club or within the confines of his carriage.
Maeve knew nothing but what her father let slip when unaware she was listening, or what he told her to placate her curiosity, which he abhorred. Of course there would be much about her father’s business she didn’t know. But it had been truly unconscionable of her to use Zeb as a target for her frustrations. Doing so went against the very core of her desire to make him whole.
She wanted to recall her biting words, even as she recognized all that she’d learned because of her heedless outburst. She’d long sensed he carried a grief-filled burden, but the extent of what he’d suffered . . . she could hardly bear knowing the truth. How had he borne the weight alone all this time?
Unlike the past night, when they’d stopped early, that night they rode until she found herself growing drowsy. Even when Zeb gave in to her plea to stop, he seemed frustrated by the halt to their progress, as if she were keeping him from an important engagement. As if she was a bother, her tagging along, her depending on his skills to survive.
While he gathered firewood, she spread out their bedrolls using only the light of the moon. They ate without speaking, some bread and dried beef and strong coffee, the meal creating a painful longing for the food she’d taken for granted when they’d dined at Miss Porter’s the night they’d left. And that even more than the sumptuous meals she’d eaten in her parents’ home.
How strange that she missed what she’d known all her life less than that which she’d just discovered. Perhaps she had needed Mick to abandon her to find the adventure she’d been seeking. The thought brought a smile to her face, and she looked up to find Zeb watching her, his eyes reflecting the fire’s dancing flames.
“The answer is yes, you know.”
She leaned forward, stirred the coals with a stick she then tossed into the pit. Her fingers were warm, and she curled them into her palms as she asked, “What answer?”
He waited for her to look up, to meet his gaze, and he held hers as his voice dropped. “To the question you asked me that night in your father’s library.”
Heat flushed the skin of her throat, heat having nothing to do with the fire’s warmth, and she was happy for the blanket of darkness covering them. It hid her physical response, and gave her time to compose her verbal one. Was his yes the answer she wanted?
He lay stretched out on his side, propped on one elbow, the wrist of the other arm draped over his one raised knee. The word “reprobate” came to mind. Then the word “debauchery.”
She knew about the intimacies that occurred between men and women. She’d learned the most rudimentary long ago, and had suitors damply speak into her ear of their appetites, as if such liberties might attract her. They had not. Neither had the accompaniment of fumbling hands and thick, pressing lips.
But during her time in San Antonio, Miss Porter’s girls had spoken openly of the men they entertained, their preferences and proclivities, and had whispered more circumspectly about their own appreciation of certain acts.
Maeve had never heard some of the words the girls used, but had no trouble determining their meaning in context. The thought that this was that context . . .
She swallowed, her heart thumping as if trying to escape her chest, and she recalled Miss Porter asking if she felt safe traveling with this man. “I was not of a mind to disrobe the night I asked the question. My tongue had simply been loosened by the liquor. And I’m not of a mind to do so now, if that’s what you are expecting.”
“I’m pretty sure you are.” He yawned then, as if she bored him. “But I’m even surer the thought will still be there tomorrow.”
The very gall . . . “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sat up to add more wood to the fire, and the flames jumped, licking at his face with wicked, lingering tongues. “Tell me, Maeve. What exactly did you learn during the weeks you spent working in Fannie Porter’s brothel?”
“If you’re implying . . .” She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words, yet her restraint was not one of embarrassment. Instead, the idea of Zeb knowing intimately what occurred upstairs at a place like Miss Porter’s, and her own knowledge being limited to her imagination coupled with oft-told tales, served to leave her thoroughly frustrated.
“I’m not implying anything, Miss Daugherty. I’m not implying anything at all.” Then he laughed, and it was far easier to believe the indecency of the sound than any of the words he’d spoken.
Chapter 5
AN hour later, all Maeve could think about as she readied herself for sleep was Zebulon Crow’s skill as a lover. How he would look undressed. How he would move in bed. How he would touch her. All the things he knew about carnal liaisons that she’d only heard whispered about.
He sat cross-legged on his side of the fire, using a long stick to stir the coals. As she smoothed her bedroll, which didn’t need smoothing at all—it was little more than a blanket atop the protective knapsack, and too thin to protect her from the hard ground beneath—she sneaked glimpses of him.
He’d removed his hat, which left her able to see his face clearly rather than having to peer beneath the shadow of the brim behind which he hid. She doubted he would admit to hiding. He would think doing so a weakness. And perhaps she had it all wrong. But if he wasn’t hiding, he was certainly keeping himself apart. And yet . . .
She thought about the things he’d told her, certain he’d rarely, if ever, shared the same with anyone else. She couldn’t imagine him speaking of his life to her father, who was, she knew, egregiously self-centered. Or with her mother, who was also too fond of placing her interests where others would notice.
Why had he shared his tragic past with her? And why now? Surely it hadn’t been a case of making conversation. For that, they could’ve discussed more of Jacob Riis’s essay. Or the flora and fauna of Texas, with which she had grown quite enamored. She’d had no idea there was a breed of cattle with a horn span as wide as their lean, rangy, and quite colorful bodies were long.
Looking at Zebulon now, she wondered what he was thinking. If he’d let go the rather disquieting subject matter of earlier or if the murder of his family was always on his mind. It broke her heart to think he was driven by that tragedy and a need for revenge. No one should be so brutally haunted.
“How did you get those scars?” she asked, nodding toward his hand where the light washed over it.
He spread his fingers, turned his palm up then back down. “Most of them working in the fields when I was younger.”
He shook his head. “I grew up watching them treat open wounds and bloody coughs and diseases they couldn’t even name. For years I was afraid one or the other would contract whatever was ailing their patients and die.” He let that settle, then finally added, “Might’ve been an easier way for them to go.”
His previous words returned to haunt her. “I’m really sorry you lost them the way you did.”
He leaned back on his elbows, crossing his feet at the ankles and staring into the fire, his mouth tightening, his expression hardening. But he didn’t say anything in response.
That left her wondering what line she’d crossed. And how much further she could go, what else she could learn while his guard was down. “Zeb—”
“Go to sleep, Maeve,” he said, and his words, so much like an order, a command, so much like her father’s dismissals, sent her to her feet.
“I’ll go to sleep when I’m ready and not a moment before,” she said and only just stopped herself from stomping the ground. What was wrong with her? What was happening to her? This petulant infant was not who she was.
“You just always have to have your way, don’t you?”
“Well, since I rarely get it, I wouldn’t know,” she said, pacing on the far side of her bedroll, filled with a swell of anxiety she could not explain. “Instead, I have a host of concerned . . . others who seem to know what’s best for me. As if I have no mind of my own. Because how could I when all that I know of the world is filtered for me as if I am nothing but a child?”
Her outburst had Zeb tossing the stick into the fire and rolling slowly to stand as if doing so was a bother and he was not in the mood to placate her. “I don’t think you’re a child.”
“No,” she said, gesturing wildly and adding, “You think I’m a whore.”
“I never said that.”
“But you obviously think that, from all your questions about what I learned while working at Miss Porter’s. What I thought was going on upstairs in the rooms at Miss Porter’s. I know exactly what was going on,” she said, waving her hand again. “But that doesn’t make me a whore any more than my ideas to change Bone Alley make me a child.”