by Kris Tualla
Rickard sank in a nearby chair. “Our mystery woman?”
“Who the helvete else, Rick?” Nicolas yanked the leather thong from his hair and dragged his hand through its tangles. “Skitt!” he griped again. “What am I supposed to do with her now?”
Rickard’s eyes narrowed. “What occurred up there?”
Nicolas swallowed again from the flask. The brandy’s familiar burn heated his chest and curled through his belly. It took a moment to force the words.
“That Gud forbanner busybody dressed her in Lara’s night dress.”
“Oh.” Rickard slumped deeper in his chair.
Nicolas pressed the backs of his thighs against the sturdy desk. He stroked the cool pewter flask with his thumb, warming the smooth metal.
Rickard’s low voice held a determined edge. “It’s more than five years now.”
His words lit the fuse that Lara’s nightgown had set and the brandy had fueled; Nicolas felt like a cannonball about to fire. “And what? Gud forbanner det! Do you expect me to forget?”
Rickard rose and faced him; they were nearly the same height, and Rick was apparently unfazed by furious Norse cannons. “Of course not! She was my sister, remember.”
Nicolas turned away from his friend’s fearless stare. “What’s your point?” he snarled.
Rickard gripped his shoulders. He swung his gaze back to Rick’s, the set of his jaw deliberately defiant. His eyes narrowed, daring with an unsubtle threat.
Rick’s words were sharp steel sliding between his ribs. “Don’t you see? If you won’t put her to rest, then I cannot put her to rest, either?”
Nicolas swayed at that cruelest of cuts as his last ally finally turned from him. Rickard pushed him into a chair. Pulling up an ottoman, Rick sat and leaned into his face.
“We need to move forward, Nick. It’s past time.”
Nicolas’s hand tightened around the pewter flask. He glared at Rick and refused to surrender.
Rickard shook his head and reached for the flagon, saving it from strangulation. He took a long drink and capped the flask.
“Well, if she doesn’t remember, then what do you reckon happened to her?” he asked. “How did she end up in your creek?”
Nicolas knew his friend well enough to understand his maneuvering. For now, he said, “I don’t know, but I don’t believe it was an accident.”
“Because no one came after her?”
“Exactly.”
Rickard straightened and stretched his arms overhead. “If you’ve no objection, I believe I’ll pay our resident stranger a visit,” he offered.
Nicolas rasped his palms over a couple days’ worth of stubble. He smelled the manure on his boots and decided to go outside to clean them.
“Do what you want,” he grumbled. He looked up only when Rickard didn’t leave.
“I’m curious, Nick. After Addie got her cleaned up, did she turn out to be pretty?”
Nicolas snorted and rolled his eyes. Only Rick.
He shrugged; he truly had not paid any attention. “She may be passable. After the bruises have faded.”
“Good candlelighting, madam…”
With a telltale rattle of her china teacup, she turned toward the unfamiliar masculine voice. Addie was not in sight so the man in the doorway obviously took it upon himself to make his own introduction.
“May I help you?” She realized it was a silly thing to say, but it was the first coherent thought that struggled beyond her oppressive headache. The second involved the enormous improbability that more than one very tall, very beautiful man lived in this house.
“I’ve come to meet the mystery woman.” He smiled as he approached her bed, all wavy auburn hair and sparkling light-hazel eyes. “I’m gratified to see that you’re in much better condition than when we fished you out of the creek!”
She regarded him curiously. “We?”
“Nicolas and myself. I’m Rickard Atherton. My land lies to the south, along the Hansen estate.” Rickard gestured in what she presumed must be a southerly direction.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said in a hoarse whisper and extended the hand that didn’t grip the teacup.
Rickard accepted it with long, warm fingers and raised it to his lips. His fascinating eyes never left hers, and curvy locks of hair fell forward over his aristocratic brow. He gave her a sultry smile that warmed her deep inside.
“I-I wish I could introduce myself to you,” she began. Unwelcome tears threatened at the thought, but she batted them back. “Mr. Hansen didn’t explain how you came to find me. Would you be so kind?”
“Of course! May I?” At her nod of assent, Rickard pulled the oak rocker closer to the bed.
With her freed hand she tugged the edge of the blankets over her chest. Entertaining a man in her bedroom wasn’t exactly acceptable, but her current circumstance was unorthodox at best. Besides, the door stood wide open and Addie would return at any moment. At least the gown she wore was modestly cut in spite of its delicate beauty.
“Go on then,” she encouraged. Rickard smiled at her again and her heart thumped.
“Well, Nick and I were out hunting when my hounds caught your scent. I thought they were merely distracted, so I whistled for them to come back. When they wouldn’t, we had no choice but to follow. Nick reached you first, on the edge of the creek. When he turned you over, you moaned. Then we knew you were alive.”
“You thought otherwise?” she whispered.
Rickard nodded, his expression grown solemn. “Nick brought you here. Then Addie took full charge of you.”
Her thumb traced the curlicued handle of the teacup while she struggled to make sense of why she would have ended up in such a place and in such a condition. But no light shined, no door cracked open; she was still lost in the dark.
“How long—I mean, when did you find me?”
“Yesterday, late in the afternoon.”
“And where are we?”
Rickard paled a bit. “Cheltenham. In the Missouri Territory.”
She silently scrutinized her gut’s reaction to that statement. It didn’t seem quite right, somehow. But she had no other recollection to align it with.
“You have very beautiful eyes,” he said.
The empty teacup clattered in her lap.
“Do I?” She skimmed her fingers over her face, their weightless touch cataloging the cuts and swelling. “I must look dreadful! Might there be a mirror?”
Rickard shifted awkwardly. His gaze dropped aside, and then returned to hers. “I’ll find you one on the morrow,” he promised. “When the light’s better.”
At that, they both glanced at the oil lamp, still faithfully banishing shadows from the room, and she realized that she must look truly horrible, indeed.
Chapter Three
April 3, 1819
She scowled as the room brightened, glowing red inside her eyelids. Through one squinted eye, she watched Addie open the window. Bright sun splashed onto the floor as dust motes danced to the beginning of a new day.
Her knees felt like rusted hinges bolted to heavy planks, and her arms were supple as dried twigs. Her bruised ribs held her nearly immobile, like thick tree bark. She was surprised her body didn’t audibly creak and crackle when she carefully stretched her healing limbs.
“Good morning, dearie!” Addie chirped, approaching the bed. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Stiff,” she answered, her voice thick with sleep. Her belly rumbled. “And hungry.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! It truly is! I’ll go downstairs right quick and make you a bite. Not too much, mind you, you haven’t eaten solid in a while.” Addie reached under the bed and lifted a blue and white enameled container.
“Might you need to use the chamber pot? And if I help you to the chair, do you feel you can manage on your own?”
“Yes, thank you.” She had no idea if she could.
Maribeth, wearing what seemed to be the same dark
gray dress but with a clean apron, carried in a ewer of hot water, a basin, and a towel, all of which she set on the bedside table.
With the women’s support she eased herself from the bed, putting weight gingerly on one leg, then the other. It made her dizzy, but the pounding in her head had lessened. Once she was settled in the slat-backed rocker, Addie and Maribeth left her alone.
Curious, she lifted the hem of the nightgown and gaped in stunned disbelief. Her pale legs were splotched with maroon and purple bruises. She pushed back her lace-edged sleeves to reveal more of the same on her arms. The extent of her injuries alarmed her. She had never seen a body so beaten that still lived.
“Father God,” she breathed. “Thank You for my life.”
Her chest tightened with a dreadful consideration. There was no way around it but to discern the answer for herself; Lord knows, she didn’t want anyone else to do it! She slid tentative fingers under the gown and up the length of her legs to the cleft between her thighs. She pressed, tested, explored. She found no swelling or tenderness there.
Dammed breath left her in a gush of relief. At the least, she wasn’t violated.
By the time Addie returned with a tray of food, her toilette was complete. She sat straight in the chair, the nightgown tucked protectively around her legs. Breakfast was a small bowl of oatmeal, a poached egg and a pot of hot tea. When the aroma of the food reached her, her mouth began to water and her stomach growled again, loudly.
“We’ll get you all fixed up right quick,” Addie approved. “There’s nothing like a healthy appetite to encourage a body to mend!” She set the tray on the table. “Eat up now! I’ve some things to attend to, but I’ll be back presently.”
The food, though simple, tasted better than any banquet she could imagine. In the silent room, sun spilling everywhere, her skin caressed by the exquisite cotton nightgown, she was briefly content in spite of her confusion.
More than halfway through her meal, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Turning to the door, she saw half-a-head of tousled auburn hair, one shoulder, and a small fist clutching the edge of the door frame. And whose child might this be?
“Hello, there,” she murmured.
The auburn hair moved sideways until one bright blue eye appeared. Rickard’s hair. Nicolas’s eyes. No help there.
“Do you want to come in and meet me?” she asked.
The hair bounced up and down in a shy nod.
“Well come on, then,” she coaxed. “I fear I don’t look very friendly right now, but I promise that I am.”
At that, both blue eyes emerged. A young boy moved into the room, methodically placing one heel in line with the opposite foot’s toes. His wide gaze was nailed to hers.
“How old are you?” she asked him.
He spoke quietly and held up a fistful of splayed fingers. “Five.”
That was surprising; she would have reckoned him to be seven by his height.
He brushed his hair from his eyes with the heel of one hand. “The white cat had six kittens yesterday.”
She was charmed. “Really?”
He nodded emphatically and his hair flopped back in his eyes. He traced a finger along the worn side of the rocking chair.
“She was in the stable and I watch’t her. John told me not to touch her or the kittens ‘cause she might bite. The cat lick’t them all clean and then they started drinking her milk. ‘Cept for one, it was real teeny.” He held up two pointer fingers close together to illustrate. “She lick’t it and lick’t it, but it didn’t breathe.”
An unexplained stone lodged low in her belly and her brow twitched. “I—I’m sorry to hear that.”
“John and I dug a grave and buried her. I made a cross with sticks.” The boy’s hands dropped to the rocker’s arm and squeezed the wood in an awkward massage.
She pressed ahead with her questions, and her breakfast, ignoring the presence of the stone.
“That was very thoughtful of you. Who is John?”
“He’s married to Addie. He doesn’t talk much ‘cause he says she does ‘nuff talking for both of ‘em.”
She gave him a small smile, careful of her broken lip, and nodded her understanding. They were quiet for a moment, and then she needed to ask. It was not the first time—and didn’t look to be the last—that she must face her odd situation. She drew a bracing breath.
“What’s your name?”
Beneath the unruly canopy of auburn curls, his summer-sky eyes glowed in the morning sun. “Stefan.”
And after the expected pause came, “What’s yours?”
Seizing on a sudden inspiration she suggested, “How about if you try and guess?”
Stefan’s brow furrowed. His fingers gripped the wide arm of the oak rocker as he tried to drill one foot into the wood floor.
“Go ahead,” she encouraged. “I’ll finish my breakfast, while you try to guess my name.” She spooned her last bite of oatmeal and leaned back in the chair.
“Stefan! What are you doing in here? Have you had your breakfast?”
Nicolas ducked through the doorway. His booming bass voice had substance and it pressed against her chest.
Stefan shrank under its weight. “Yes, Pappa.”
“Have you done your chores?”
His chin dropped. “No, Pappa.”
“Well, go! Get on with them, then.”
Without a backward glance, Stefan ran past Nicolas and out the door.
Pappa. So the boy was his. Curious, she looked up at Nicolas.
“I apologize for that. Was he bothering you?” Nicolas didn’t seem to notice that she was out of the bed and eating solid food. Almost.
“No. I heard about the kittens born in the stable yesterday. One died.”
Nicolas nodded, but she didn’t believe he was really listening. She tried a new tack. “I owe you an apology.”
Nicolas did look at her now, his navy eyes wide. They were Stefan’s eyes. “For what?”
“I didn’t thank you for saving my life.”
“Oh, that. Well.” Nicolas shrugged.
“Rickard told me the story last night. It’s clear I owe my life to you. And you’ve been so kind to provide for me here. I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”
“You’re quite welcome, madam.”
She did not know what else needed saying. Silently she pleated the fabric of the nightgown between her fingers and wondered how he got the scar on his cheek.
He rocked on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. “Do you know yourself today?”
Defeated, her shoulders collapsed and her gaze dropped to her fidgeting fingers. She shook her head cautiously, not wishing to prompt a recurrence of yesterday’s pain.
Nicolas cleared his throat. “You’ve need of a name then. We must call you something. Have you any ideas?”
“Well… when Stefan told me his name, something about it seemed familiar,” she offered, grateful for the distraction. “I believe it’s possible that my name begins with an ‘S’ as well.”
Nicolas didn’t speak. One brow arched, the other dipped.
Unsettled by his severe and intensely focused attention, she picked up the cooled cup of tea, and pressed it against her chest to keep her hands from shaking. She pulled her feet deeper under the nightgown, resting them on a higher rung of the rocker. Why was he staring at her like that?
“You’re not a Sarah,” he declared suddenly and with some certainty. “Nor a Susan, I don’t believe… Sybil?”
She wrinkled her possibly broken nose, regretting it immediately. “No.”
“Sabrina? Sigrid? Sophie?”
Easing her grip on the cup, she slid two fingers over her nose and explored the injury. “I don’t believe so. Do you?”
“I suppose not.” His long arms swung out from behind his back and folded over his broad chest creating a formidable barrier as he considered her. “There’s always the obvious choice, of course. Could it be Stefanie?”
“
I confess I thought of that straight away, but it didn’t feel right. Besides, if I bide here for any length of time—” Horrified, she stopped. The skin of her cheeks tightened, burnt by the rigor of her humiliation.
Nicolas scrubbed his blond-bristled jaw with both hands as if to erase any sign of his reaction. After an eternity, he spoke again. “Stefan and Stefanie in the same household could be bothersome.”
“Thank you,” she breathed. Her relief was so strong that her hands tingled.
Though Nicolas stood before her, his mind was clearly elsewhere; his unblinking blue eyes looked right through her. Even so, she felt herself sinking into their ocean depths.
Then he spread his hands wide and tilted his head.
“Sydney.”
“Sydney?” Surprised, she rolled the possibility around in her mind. Finding no objection, she tried it again. “Sydney. It’s unusual. But I can bide.”
“Alright, then. Until we know better, you shall be called Sydney.” Nicolas appeared quite pleased with himself. And quite unburdened. “Well, Sydney, I must go now. Rickard and I have work to do. I expect I’ll see you later, around candlelighting.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Hansen, for your kindness and hospitality.”
Nicolas waved his hand. “You may call me Nicolas.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Nicolas.”
He turned to leave and was at the door when she remembered and called out to him. “I nearly forgot! Your wife, Stefan’s mother; is her name Lara? I’ve not yet met her, and I want to thank her for loaning me her nightgown.”
Nicolas turned halfway toward her, his ruddy cheeks stiff and his ocean eyes now devoid of light. Then he disappeared through the doorway without a word.
True to his promise, Rickard arrived at Sydney’s room later with mirror in hand. When she saw it, apprehension tempered her welcome. Rickard sat on the rocker and laid the ornate accessory on the bedside table. It silently screamed at her, pick me up and look.
“Nick informs me that you have a name,” he began.