by Jo Goodman
"Indeed we are," the clerk said. He adjusted the glasses on the tip of his nose and looked over the rims at the new guests. "I didn't think you'd remember me, Mr. McKay. It's been a long time."
"A few years, Doc."
Doc Stanley was not a doctor at all, and he had never professed to be one, but in his years at the Monarch he had often functioned as the house medical expert, pulling teeth when he had to, bandaging an injury, or setting a fracture. One guest had used the title in a half-joking manner, and it had stuck for the better part of forty years. Most people didn't know his Christian name any longer. Doc turned the registry around, flipped through it quickly, and pointed to a line halfway down the page. "Three years and four months," he said. "There you have it. Not so long ago after all."
Ryder looked at Mary. "As you can see, Doc Stanley's memory is longer than mine. He remembers everything and everyone, and if he were the profiteering kind, he'd be a very rich man from what he knows."
The clerk shrugged, scratching behind his ear. "If I started blackmailing my boarders, who'd come around anymore? A man's got to have principles."
"Of course." Ryder reached in his pocket. "How much to be certain Senator Stillwell can't find me here if he learns I'm in town?"
"Twenty dollars."
Ignoring Mary's small gasp of outrage, Ryder gave it over.
"Room three hundred," Doc Stanley said, palming the gold piece. He pointed to the stairs. "Your bags and trunk will be right behind you." He gave Ryder the key to the room. "Hope you and—" The clerk hesitated, looking from Ryder to Mary to Ryder again.
"She's my wife," Ryder said dryly. He pointed to his notation in the registry. "Mr. and Mrs. McKay."
Doc's cheeks reddened, but he didn't apologize to Mary for his mistake. It wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to pass off a lady friend as a wife. "Well, I hope you and the missus enjoy your stay."
Ryder linked his arm in Mary's and moved her out of the lobby before she gave the clerk the cutting edge of her sharp tongue. "You really don't want to cause a scene."
"That man thought I was a whore."
"More likely he thought you were my mistress."
"That hardly makes it more palatable."
"It's not so terribly uncommon here." When Mary didn't reply, Ryder glanced at her and saw she was studying her left hand, turning it this way and that. When she became aware of his attention she let her hand drop quickly to her side and didn't offer an explanation of her actions or what she had been thinking. They were already at the landing on the third floor so Ryder let it pass. He opened the door to their small suite of rooms and ushered Mary inside. "Why don't you lie down and rest?" he suggested. "I'll take care of our things when Doc brings them up. After that I need to go out and get a Washington paper and make a few inquiries."
Mary frowned. A nap sounded wonderful, but she was worried about Ryder's plan. "Shouldn't I do that?" she asked. "You're known in Washington. Doc Stanley recognized you after more than three years. He must be aware you're a wanted man. Your escape from Fort Union would have made the papers here, especially with your connection to Senator Stillwell."
Ryder was not concerned. "Doc won't say anything. He's close mouthed about what goes on here."
"You bought his silence for twenty dollars. A man like that can be encouraged to speak for twenty more."
"You're wrong. No matter how it sounded, it was a gift, not a bribe. Doc has much more to lose by speaking out than he does to gain." Ryder cupped Mary's face and kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Trust me on this. It's something I know."
After a moment's thought Mary nodded. She was used to trusting family, but she found it more difficult to extend that same level of confidence to outsiders. Ryder's experience was almost completely the opposite. "Very well," she agreed. "I'm out of my element."
"I doubt that," he said, grinning. He turned her around and gave her a little push toward the bedroom. There was a knock at the door at the same time. "Go on. That'll be Doc with our bags and trunk."
Mary disappeared in the bedroom. The four-poster bed took up most of the space. A wardrobe was crowded diagonally into one corner and a chest of drawers occupied another. Mary had to turn sideways to slip past the large armchair and cheval glass to get to the French doors. She tried the handle and discovered the doors were nailed shut. Pressing her face close to the rain-streaked windowpanes, Mary could make out a small balcony in a state of disrepair. The stone balustrade was chipped and the balcony floor itself was crumbling. Mary sighed. The French doors were going to remain closed to her as long as the balcony was unsafe.
She drew the curtains, blocking out the gray skies and muffling the incessant tapping of the rain. After turning up the gas lamps, Mary removed her cape and unfastened her gown. She was hanging both these items in the wardrobe when Ryder entered with their valises.
"Is it satisfactory?" he asked, gesturing to the room at large.
"Yes, of course it is." She smiled a little at his desire to please her with the accommodations. "Ryder, I don't know what you think I'm used to, but our chamber in the Cavern of Lost Souls was an improvement over my cell at the convent."
He hadn't thought of it that way. He had been recalling her family's summer home on the Hudson and the private railroad cars that were available to all family members for travel anywhere in the country. Ryder had never seen the Worth mansion in New York, but he had no difficulty imagining its grandeur.
Mary shut the wardrobe doors and sat on the edge of the bed. Raising one foot on a faded brocade stool, she began to remove her shoe. "I'll be quite content here," she said. "As long as it's safe for you."
"I don't know that I'll ever get used to it," he said. "That you come from so much and accept so little."
"You're speaking of material things," she said. "And those aren't so important to me. But my home was filled with love and laughter and lively conversation. So was the convent. If you think I can live with less than that, you're mistaken."
Yes, Ryder thought, Mary's spirit had to embrace all those things. He saw she was struggling with the buttons on her shoe. He knelt at her feet and undid them himself, removing the shoes. "It might be easier if you only wanted a life of luxury," he said. "I'd just find a gold mine."
She chuckled. "See, you've made me laugh. It won't be so difficult for you to satisfy my every whim."
He tickled the bottom of her foot until she managed to get it out of his grasp. Promising to be more respectful of the other foot, he removed the shoe when she finally allowed it. Ryder turned down the bed while Mary slipped off her stockings. He stayed around to tuck her in, pressing a brief kiss to her soft mouth.
She was sleeping by the time he let himself out.
* * *
The first thing Ryder did was stop at the front desk and talk to Doc Stanley. While Doc would have cut off his own arm before giving up information on any boarder at the Monarch, he was free with whatever he considered common knowledge in the town. For Doc, common knowledge was rarely what was reported in the papers. He dealt more in rumor.
Ryder listened to the report without asking many questions. He did not want Doc to speculate concerning his own purpose in returning to Washington. After thirty minutes, he had heard enough to know where he wanted to begin.
By the time Ryder walked from the Monarch to the library he was soaked. Droplets of water splattered noisily on the marble floor as he removed his coat. He made less commotion walking over fallen, dried leaves in a forest than he did walking from the entrance hall to the librarian's desk. His waterlogged shoes squeaked on the cold, green-veined Vermont marble.
After that initial disruption, the librarian was not particularly disposed to help Ryder. She brought him what he wanted, but her expression was frozen in disapproval. Ryder did not attempt to win her over, as there was nothing to be gained by it. She looked at everyone that way, treating the library as if it were her private domain and each patron was an intruder. She would have been happier i
f the stone lions on the steps outside the building had actually been guard dogs.
Ryder sat alone at a long reading table. The library was not crowded, and as near to closing time as it was, more people were leaving than coming in. The newspapers stacked around him accounted for most of what had been written in the Eastern papers about the Colter Canyon raid, the trial, and the escape. Ryder read the stories as objectively as he could, trying not to react to every misinterpretation of the facts as though it were intentional. Ignorance explained more of the mistakes in the reports than any deliberate twisting of the facts.
There was a general lack of understanding about the differences among the Apache tribes. Everyone was painted with the same brush, and much was made of Ryder's connection to the Apache as a whole rather then the Chiricahua specifically. The reports did not know quite what to make of Ryder McKay. He was an enigma: a white man who turned his back on his upbringing to live among his captors and then turned his back on the people who had adopted him to begin hunting them down. There was still another twist as he was found guilty for aiding the enemy at Colter Canyon.
Out of town papers printed a few lines about his alleged assault on Anna Leigh Hamilton. She was only referred to as the daughter of a Washington politician. In the Washington papers she wasn't referred to at all—at least not in association with his trial.
Anna Leigh Hamilton was quite frequently mentioned in the society pages. She hosted large gatherings for her father's friends and small, intimate dinners for his cronies. Accompanying her father, she was invited to every important function in Washington, and from Ryder's quick perusal, it seemed there was something deemed an important function almost every night of the week.
Ryder read what he could until closing time, then scribbled a few notes about things he had yet to look at or wanted to come back to. He and the dour-faced librarian left the vaulted building at the same time.
The offices of the War Department were closed, but Ryder was well aware he couldn't simply walk in there and ask to look at their files. His face was known to too many people, most of whom would consider it their duty to arrest him or find someone who would. He mulled over that problem on his way back to the boarding house.
Overcast skies brought night on early. Gaslight was reflected in pools of water on the sidewalks and cobblestone streets. Ryder walked quickly with his head down, paying scant attention to the traffic or the pedestrians. He had learned that the easiest way not to be noticed in the open was not to openly notice others.
When he returned to the Monarch, Ryder paused long enough at the front desk to ask Doc to have dinner sent to their room. The boarding house had a large dining area on the second floor to accommodate guests in a family-style setting, but Ryder wanted no part of something so public. When Doc assured him all would be taken care of, Ryder bounded up the steps, anxious to talk to Mary about his plans.
She was in the bathing room that adjoined their bedroom. He knocked politely, and the door, which had not been latched, swung open wide enough for him to poke his head through.
It was clear Mary hadn't heard him. She was sitting in a copper hipbath, her head tilted back and resting against a folded washcloth. Her eyes were closed and her complexion glowed with the sheen of steamy water.
Ryder stepped inside the room and began to shrug out of his coat. He might have made it to the bath without her hearing him if he'd only thought to remove his shoes. Water squished between the leather sole and welt as loudly in the tiled bathing room as it had in the marble library. When Mary turned on him, her eyes narrowed with annoyance, he was reminded that the librarian still had something to learn about expressing disapproval.
"I take it you're not inviting me in," he said.
It was so obviously the truth that Mary had to laugh. She flicked water at him though she could see it had no impact. He was already wet. "Have you been walking all this time?" she asked, concerned. "You'll catch your death. Why didn't you take a hack wherever you went?"
"We have limited funds."
"I'll wire New York for money."
"No. We'll do fine. I don't want to borrow more from your family."
"It's my money," she said. "Jay Mac set up a trust fund for me years ago. He only stipulated that I couldn't turn the money over to the church. As a consequence, I've never touched it. Now, are you going to be stubborn about it?"
He sat on a small, three-legged stool and removed his shoes and socks. "I don't suppose there's any sense in it," he said at last.
"That's right." She smiled. "Come here. I'm feeling very generous." Too late she realized what he was going to do. She only had time to cry out his name, half in shock, half in laughter, as he stepped into her bath wearing everything but his shoes and socks. Water sloshed on the floor and ran in thin rivers between the tiles. The towel Mary had set nearby soaked up some of the spillover but not nearly all of it. "I don't know that I was feeling this generous," she said, trying to be stern. "What are you doing?"
Since Ryder was picking up the soap, he thought the answer was obvious. He ran the bar across the sleeve of his jacket from shoulder to cuff, then across his chest, paying special attention to the pleats in his white, tailored shirt.
Mary could never have predicted he was capable of something so spontaneous or ridiculous. She found the well of love she had for this man was capable of deepening. Leaning forward, careless of the water she splashed over the sides with her movement, she took the bar of soap from his hand and let it float away. "Let me help."
She undid him as much with her husky voice as she did with her fingers. Ryder only helped by lifting his hips so she could get him out of his trousers and drawers.
Intent as they were on touching and teasing it was not immediately apparent that they could not make love in the hipbath. The cramp in Mary's foot and the one in Ryder's calf made that clear. Slick as seals, they slipped out of the tub and onto the floor. Their legs tangled as they rolled. Mary lost the tussle and ended up on her belly beneath Ryder. He moved the red-gold hair aside at her nape and kissed her damp neck.
The playful aspects of their lovemaking faded, as desire became hunger and the hunger became urgent. Ryder reared up behind Mary, pulling her with him, his hands on her breasts and his mouth on her shoulder. His breathing was harsh and uneven. He stroked her skin with his palms. Her breasts swelled and her nipples hardened. She arched, pliant as he molded her. His hands slid over her hips and caressed her thighs. His fingers dipped between her legs. His exploration was intimate and demanding, and Mary let him touch her in any manner he wanted because it was what she wanted, too.
He pushed her forward, lifting her hips, and entered her from behind, driving into her with enough force to make her gasp. On the next thrust she pushed back against him and seemed to take him rather than his taking her.
The rhythm was primal. Blood roared in Mary's ears and had the sound and pulsing beat of ancient drums. She responded to his every touch, to everything he did to her. Her skin was all nerve endings and sensation. She had no clear thoughts; she was all feeling.
Mary's climax rocked her forward, arching her body like a bow. Ryder came into her, held her, and shuddered with his own release. They went limp together, easing themselves down on the wet tile.
Mary hid her face in the curve of her elbow. When she felt Ryder tap her lightly on the shoulder she turned her head and gave him the benefit of one open eye and a single raised brow. "Don't ever interrupt my bath again," she said, weary with pleasure. "I won't survive it."
"May I take that as a compliment?"
She nodded and closed her eye. "This floor's cold." Still, she made no move to get up. Ryder helped her a little later, after he found dry towels in the washstand. He sent her off to the bedroom and cleaned up the mess they'd made.
"Someone's knocking at the door," she called in to him. "Are you expecting anyone?"
"It's our dinner," he said. "I'll get it. You're not decent."
"I'm decent," she mumbled. "I'
m just not dressed." Mary flopped back on the bed. The towel unraveled at her breasts, and she was tugging it closed as Ryder came into the room. She regarded him skeptically. "You're not precisely prepared to receive company either."
In short order Ryder pulled on a dry shirt and clean trousers. He was tucking in the shirt, on his way to the door, when he called back to her. "Get dressed. When we're done eating, we're going out."
"Out?"
Ryder didn't reply. He opened the door. Doc was standing on the threshold with a large tray of covered dishes. Ryder took the tray.
"I don't do this for just anyone," Doc said.
"I didn't expect personal service." Ryder balanced the tray in one hand and began searching his pocket for money for a tip.
Doc shook his head. "Don't trouble yourself. I came on another matter, too."
"Oh?"
"Mrs. Anderson—she's the boarder below you—came to me with a complaint. Seems there's a regular waterfall coming from your suite into hers. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
Ryder's expression didn't change. "My wife was taking a bath," he said. "I'll have to ask her."
Doc looked at Ryder's wet hair and the shirt that was clinging damply to his chest and drew his own conclusions. He cleared his throat, hiding his smile, and said, "You do that."
Ryder shut the door and carried the tray to the table by the window of their sitting room. He lifted the lids and waved some of the fragrance of their hot meal in the direction of the bedroom. "Can you smell that?" he asked. "Dinner's ready."
"I heard everything that man said," she called back. "I'm never coming out."
Ryder smiled. "Suit yourself."
He arranged the dishes on the table and sat down. He hadn't finished unfolding the napkin in his lap when Mary joined him.