by Caroline Lee
So she nodded slightly and returned the apple to its place, instead tearing one of the biscuits in half. It was soft and warm from the oven—just like the woman at the eatery had promised when she’d sold it to Penelope.
“Here then.” She held the bread towards Micah, but he just looked at it.
And then, when he switched his gaze to her, she felt it all the way down into her stomach. Swallowing quickly, she ignored those thoughts, and instead, waggled the biscuit temptingly. “It’s still warm. I don’t have any butter, but I know it’s delicious. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Starved.” He didn’t blink, didn’t take his eyes off hers, and she wondered if he was talking about food. “But I don’t think I’m up for eating.”
His hand twitched again, like he was trying—and failing—to lift it. Was he really so exhausted, so wounded from the beating and lynching, he couldn’t feed himself? Sleep would be the best medicine, she knew, but he had to have some sustenance too.
So she nodded smartly, ripped a smaller piece of bread between two fingers, and held it to his lips. As naturally as breathing, he ate it out of her hand.
And not once did he blink. His dark eyes held hers with an intensity that promised…something. Something she didn’t want to name. Something she refused to acknowledge, even as his lips brushed against her fingertips a third, a fourth time.
When that half of the biscuit was done, Penelope reached—without tearing her gaze away from his—for the second half. But her hand fumbled against the food still in her lap, and one of the apples rolled onto the floor.
The faint thud wrenched her eyes away, and she welcomed the chance to focus on the food, shifting it off her lap so she could fetch the missing apple. Why was she breathing so hard? Why did she feel like a butterfly, pinned down and unable to move, while a man she used to know examined her soul?
And why didn’t she hate the feeling?
“Got any water?”
She wondered if he’d felt any of the same things she had. Had he felt the same tingly sensation as their skin touched? Had it just been her?
Still, it was the excuse she needed to scoot farther from him, and rearrange the food between them, before reaching for the flask with the water she’d purchased from the eatery where she’d bought the food.
“Here.” She thrust it towards him, praying he had the strength to take it from her. Praying she wouldn’t have to help him. Praying she wouldn’t have to hold it to his lips, to watch his tongue flick over the drops, to watch his rope-burned throat as he swallowed.
Praying she would.
But no, after a long moment he forced himself upright with a grunt and reached for the flask. His hands were covered in a smattering of dark hair and scarred in a way they never would’ve been had he stayed in New York. A deep, secret part of her wondered what they might feel like on her skin. Rough and callused, or gentle?
She looked away while he drank, unwilling to address her uncomfortable feelings when it came to Micah Zapato’s lips.
Instead, she stared down at her fingers twined in her lap. Today, she’d saved his life. Mr. Prince would reward her handsomely, and not just for completing her job. That’s all I want. Recognition of a job well done and enough money to continue to maintain her little apartment.
“Why are you here, Pea?”
His question cut through her thoughts, and she reacted automatically. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” His voice sounded a little stronger since the drink.
“Because it’s a silly name.”
He was silent for a long moment. Long enough she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. She saw his shoulders move slightly in what might’ve been a shrug. “I like peas.”
Just like that day so long ago.
“I’ve missed you, Micah,” she whispered. She had. He’d been her best friend, and she hadn’t had another one since he’d left.
“I never forgot you, Pea.”
Somehow, she didn’t hate the nickname so much, not when he used it. So she didn’t bother trying to hide her pleased smile, like she might’ve back home. New York was full of men who would compliment her only to gain her trust or favor, and she’d had to remain strong and stoic. But with Micah, she didn’t want to hide her feelings.
He cleared his throat, and she watched him take another drink. And tried not to think about his throat or his skin.
“Is that why you showed up today? Great timing, by the way.”
She smiled. “Thanks. I’m glad I made it.”
“I’m glad you’re a crack shot with that thing. I’ve never seen a rifle like it before.”
“It’s a Prince lever-action. Handmade for me.”
He made a noise which might’ve been incredulity. When she finally looked over at him, his expression matched; at least, it might’ve been incredulity, but it was hard to tell, between his scar and bruises. “What are you doing with a handmade rifle, Pea?”
“I…” Oh God, where to start? “I work for Prince Armory. For Mr. Prince himself.” She was one of his assistants in his office and had clawed her way up from the manufacturing floor over ten long years.
He snorted softly and rested his head against the back on the hard wooden bench. “That’s in New York, right? Never left, huh?”
“No,” she said softly. “This is my first trip west.”
“I should be honored.” He shifted and winced. The bench wasn’t particularly comfortable. “I’m damned grateful, I’ll tell you that much. I owe you my life.”
Shrugging, she looked down at her hands once more. “That’s what friends are for,” she said quietly, uncomfortable with his praise.
“Are we still friends then?”
She imagined she could hear the recrimination in his quiet question.
Oh, why hadn’t she ever bothered to track him down earlier? She’d never forgotten him—had always considered him a friend. But she’d just let him…slide into her past. Even once she was grown and had the means and intelligence to track him down, she’d never bothered, not until Mr. Prince gave her a reason to.
But for that matter, she’d never left the city she’d been living in when last they saw each other, so he could’ve looked for her too. If he’d wanted.
She shrugged. “Are we?”
“I’d like to be.” His eyes closed. “’Course, that doesn’t explain why you’re here, saving my hide.”
“And your rear end!” she quickly quipped.
It took a second for him to get the joke about the leather shipment, but the way he exhaled slightly might have been a laugh. “So you saved the leather too? I guess I owe you more thanks.” His voice was quieter, weaker.
But her joke wasn’t going to get her out of explaining her purpose here. How was she supposed to tell him she’d brought him news which would change his entire life? News every orphan desperately wished for? News that he was wanted.
News she’d always dreamed of getting herself.
His faint snore saved her from having to find the words. When she looked over, she realized he really was exhausted. He’d been beaten, knocked unconscious and nearly hanged today. She’d gotten a little food and some water into him. Rest would be the best medicine, now.
And she admitted she was a little relieved to not have to announce her purpose here, quite so soon.
So she didn’t wake him; instead she settled back against the bench and carefully wrapped up the remaining food. Everland was still hours away, and one or both of them would be hungry before then.
This was not how she imagined finding Micah again, but it was a good thing she’d been impatient enough to track him to Dilbert. For all the time she’d been tracking him from Denver she’d been both looking forward to seeing him again, and dreading it. Looking forward to it because he’d been her best friend as a child—the only person she’d ever let close to her. Dreading it because she was about to hand him her own dream come true.
She remembered the way it felt when Mr.
Prince had given her this mission.
“Here it is,” he’d said to her that day in his office as he’d handed her the satchel with all of the information and newspaper articles. “This represents twenty years’ worth of investigation, Miss Greene. I’m trusting you to do what no one else has been able to do. A man needs an heir, someone he can trust to take over his business. Someone who will care for him, and who will make him proud.”
When Mr. Prince had nodded to her, his expression serious, Penelope’s knees had gone weak. She so desperately wanted to make her employer and mentor proud of her. So, no matter that it was her dream come true, no matter that she longed to be the one Mr. Prince trusted to care for himself and his business, she had vowed to complete her mission. She had vowed to find Micah.
And now she’d found him, and just in time. He wasn’t in any condition to hear her good news, not now. But she would get him back home to Everland, make sure he was safe and healthy…and then she’d tell him.
She couldn’t wait to see his reaction when she gave him the news every orphan longed to hear. Soon. Soon she could tell him, then return to her job at Prince Armory, proud in the knowledge she’d completed the mission Mr. Prince had entrusted her with.
As she was finishing with the food, Micah gave another little snore and shifted slightly, his head tilting to one side on the rough wooden back of the bench. Without thinking, she scooted closer to him just as he lost traction and fell against her shoulder.
It wouldn’t have worked, had she been shorter. As it was, it just reminded Penelope they were well-matched. And of the time they’d spent together as children, all crammed into the school room, listening to the matron teach. Micah had been one of the kids who’d preferred napping through lessons, and often did it with his cheek pillowed against the ever-attentive Penelope’s shoulder.
His hands were still resting against his thighs, palms up, the blood only recently returning to the limbs. Impulsively—knowing he was asleep—Penelope gathered one in her own hands. It was large and firm and the scars seemed wrong. He’d been such a sweet boy and—she now knew—came from such wealth. It wasn’t fair he’d had to toil so hard, and ruin his body in such a way.
His ruined brow even now rested against her, so Penelope couldn’t trace that scar with her fingertip the way she’d yearned to since learning about it. According to his brother-in-law, Micah had been shot point-blank when he and his grandmother—or rather, the matron of the orphanage who’d raised him—had been acting as decoys in a scheme designed to trap the man who’d been hunting Rojita, Micah’s sister. Or rather, the woman who’d been raised alongside him. The entire orphanage treated one another like siblings, which was something Penelope couldn’t understand.
Orphanages weren’t families. Orphanages were the opposite; they were for people who didn’t have families. They were symbols of not belonging. They were what happened to children who weren’t wanted, who had to grow up to prove to the world they were strong and independent and could survive on their own.
Without a family. By carving a place for themselves alone.
She squeezed his hand. Somehow, Micah had gotten lucky and found a family. And she was bringing him news about his real family.
But her? She was fine the way she was. She was proud of how she’d built her life on her own and knew she didn’t need anyone. Didn’t need a family. Didn’t need a man.
But holding his hand sure felt nice.
CHAPTER THREE
“Dios mio, Rojita, quit poking me and leave already!”
His sister’s only response was to press harder with the cold compress and smack him on the shoulder with the other hand.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“For taking the Lord’s name in vain. You know I don’t want you or Hank talking like that in front of the kids.”
Micah rolled his eyes and jerked away from her ministrations. “That’s why I waited until after they all went off to school.” He pulled the wet cloth out of her hand and held it to his own cheek. “You’re going to miss your train if you keep hovering over me. I’m capable of taking care of myself—and the kids—you know.”
Mostly.
By the time Pea had gotten him home to Everland yesterday, he’d barely had the strength to drag himself out to the orphanage and his bed. Hopefully, she’d gotten a room at the Inn, because he felt badly he hadn’t walked her there or carried her luggage or anything. He hadn’t even managed to arrange to have someone fetch the leather shipment from the station.
Nope, Micah had gotten home and collapsed into bed without seeing anyone. And then this morning Rojita had screamed when she’d seen him, which brought young Tom and the twins running, and told Micah just how bad he looked.
Luckily, Pea had cleaned him up a little on the train, so Rojita didn’t have to deal with all the blood. But the bruising and the rope burn around his neck were bad enough. His brother-in-law had taken one look at that—of course Hank would notice the rope burn—and had raised his brow at Rojita.
“You get the story, Red,” he’d said as he’d taken his hat off the peg by the door. “I’m going to check on everything with Nottingham before we leave. The luggage is already at the station.”
And that’s why Micah was doing his best to shoo his sister out the door. “You and Hank deserve a honeymoon—even if it’s two years too late. He’s got everything planned out in San Francisco, and I won’t forgive you if you miss that train because you were busy fussing over me when I don’t need it.”
“But you do need it! You’re all—”
“Listen, Rojita.” He caught her hand in his free one. “You’re good at fussing over us. But since Abuela died, you haven’t taken any time for yourself, and we notice. This”—he used the wet cloth to gesture to his bruised jaw—“was just a case of mistaken identity.”
“Really?” She wasn’t doubting him; the way she chewed on her lower lip told him she was genuinely concerned.
“Really. Those yahoos thought I was some bounty hunter who happens to have a messed-up face too.” He managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice, because he never wanted his sister to feel guilty about what had happened years ago. Guiltier than she did already, at least. “It didn’t have anything to do with Abuelo’s gold.”
His sister sighed in what was probably relief. “Promise?”
“Swear to God.”
She rolled her eyes and pulled her hand away. “I wish you wouldn’t. The other day I heard Jack say— Well, he said a word I don’t want him knowing.”
“He’s twelve, Rojita, and is apprenticing with a blacksmith. The kid’s going to learn all sorts of words.” He should know; Micah was the one who’d taught him how to curse in Spanish last summer when the boy had requested it. “Besides, Abuelo used worse words all the time.”
“I know. I just want to do the best I can by them, you know?”
“I understand.”
He did understand. Since the Zapatos—the elderly couple who’d founded the orphanage, who’d taken them in and made them a family—had passed away, Rojita and Micah had taken on the responsibility of the children. She and Hank had moved into the rickety third floor bedroom, because it was the largest, and Rojita made sure they were all well-fed and clean. Micah had learned the leather-working trade on his grandfather’s knee, and had taken over the shoe-shop from Abuelo several years before. These days it was the saddle and tack the local ranches needed which paid their bills at Crowne’s Dry Goods, but thanks to a family secret, they’d never starve.
Years before, Abuelo had hidden a fortune he’d inherited from his father. Knowing wealth begat jealousy, he’d insisted the orphanage live frugally, and it had worked. Neither Micah nor Rojita had known about it until Hank had come into their lives. It was the show-down between Hank and El Lobo, the gunslinger after the money and Rojita, which had given Micah the scar he wore over his right eye.
In the last two years, they’d depleted a lot of that money sending Mary Contrary off
to school in Salt Lake City, and paying for all sorts of medicines and doctors to try to save Abuela. She’d finally insisted they stop and let her die in peace. The remaining gold was still buried on the property, because Micah and Rojita had agreed with Abuelo’s original reasoning: others knowing they had money would only lead to discontent.
So Micah and Rojita and Hank were the three keeping the orphanage afloat. The roof needed work before the winter, and one entire wall of the shoe-shop had been shored up with timbers. Skipper King had been after Micah to let him and his partner rebuild, but they’d been putting it off. With the five kids left at the orphanage, and Mary in Salt Lake, they had enough bills.
To his relief, Rojita had quit hovering over him and poking his already-healing cuts from the lynch mob’s boots, and was now focusing on the remaining breakfast dishes. She also hadn’t had the time to bug him into telling her why he’d been beaten six ways to Sunday, and that little blessing was why he was so desperate to get her on the train for her long-delayed honeymoon with her husband.
“So did your friend ever find you?”
Apparently, he wasn’t going to get out of talking about this after all. He tossed the damp cloth down on the tabletop. “What friend?”
“Penelope Greene.” Her back was to him as she scrubbed the bacon pan, but he heard the teasing note in her voice. “She was very curious about you, you know. And very, very beautiful.”
Micah sighed. “I know.” It wasn’t until he’d said it that he realized what it sounded like, and he stiffened until he saw his sister wasn’t going to tease him any further about it.
“She said she knew you back when you lived in New York. You must’ve been just a little kid?”
“We were friends at the first orphanage I went to.” A dull ache built behind his eyes at the thought. “She helped me figure out who I should be.” Since he couldn’t figure out who he’d been. Pea had given him the name he went by now, and they’d talked a lot about the future.