Cinnamon and Roses

by Heidi Betts

  Megan came into the room with a warm, damp wash-rag, and he gently wiped Rebecca's fingers, careful to get every spot of blood off. Then he cleaned his own hands and balled up the cloth, sure to fold the dark stains on the inside. He handed it back to his sister, who held it away from her with thumb and forefinger, a frown of distaste drawing down her mouth as she raced toward the kitchen. She returned a moment later with a cup of hurriedly brewed tea in her hands. Caleb took it and urged Rebecca to drink.

  She sat up straighter and swallowed the entire serving before pushing the cup and saucer away. “I'm fine now. Truly."

  He could still feel her body shaking and knew she wasn't completely recovered from the shock. But he sat back and held her gaze.

  "Do you have any idea how it got in there?” He refrained from actually naming what she'd found.

  She shook her head. “It wasn't there when you took the basket out to the carriage."

  "Then someone must have thrown it in when we were at the Express,” Megan said, eager to help.

  But who? That was what Caleb wanted to know. Who would have done something like that to Rebecca? She had never harmed anyone in her life, he was certain. So who would want to hurt her?

  Jesus! Caleb thought suddenly. What if the person who had thrown the bird into Rebecca's basket was the same person who had destroyed her house four months ago? What if that person decided to try to hurt Rebecca directly next time?

  And what if Megan's accident had nothing at all to do with Megan? Or with him or Holbrook? What if that bullet had been meant for Rebecca?

  His heart lurched at the thought. No, surely he was imagining things. Surely all these things were purely coincidental.

  "Would you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes?” he said to his family. Their concern was obvious, but reluctantly they shuffled out, closing the doors behind them.

  He turned back to Rebecca, trying to think of the best way to broach the subject of who might want to see harm befall her.

  He took her hand and began rubbing his thumb in lazy circles over her palm. “Rebecca, I don't want to scare you, but—"

  "You think this has something to do with my cabin, don't you?"

  Her eyes were wide and tinged with just a hint of fear. “Why would you say that?” he asked, feeling her out.

  "Whoever was in my house wanted to hurt me. If not physically, at least emotionally. Otherwise they would have simply stolen my things, perhaps tried to sell them. But this person destroyed everything. They went through every cupboard, every dresser drawer, every nook and cranny of that place."

  He nodded in agreement.

  "And whoever put that poor baby bird in my sewing basket wanted to hurt me, too. Or at least scare me half to death. They knew the basket was mine and that I would probably be the only one to get into it. I would be the one to find the bird.

  "But it doesn't make any sense, Caleb. I don't have any enemies. I've never done anything to make someone mad enough to do this kind of thing. Except..."

  "Except? Except what?” he urged.

  "Well, the other day, Anabelle Archer came with her mother and the others.” She hesitated.

  "And?"

  "She sat in the corner and sulked. I knew she'd been upset when we married, but I didn't think much of it."

  "Why would she be upset?” he asked, completely confused.

  "Oh, Caleb, surely you knew she was in love with you."

  His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “No, I didn't know. I only ever talked to the girl once."

  "Yes, but she's sixteen years old. Sixteen-year-old girls fall in love very quickly. And she wanted you to love her back. When she found out about the wedding, she was crushed."

  "I still don't see what this has to do with anything."

  "Well, Anabelle just sat there sulking the whole time. I figured her mother had forced her to come and she was pouting because she really didn't want to be here. But when we began talking about the baby, she suddenly blew up. She started screaming that she hated me and that I'd ruined her life."

  Rebecca lowered her eyes, a little embarrassed at repeating the story.

  "And you didn't see fit to tell me this before now?"

  "I didn't take the words to heart, Caleb. My goodness, she's just a distraught young girl, trying to get someone to believe that her feelings are as strong as she claims."

  "Do you think she could have had anything to do with the bird?"

  "Anabelle? Risk getting blood on her dress? You must be joking."

  "It sounds like she was awfully mad. She could be the one who was in your cabin. And she could have gotten someone else to kill the bird and throw it in there."

  "I suppose that's possible, but—"

  "We'll talk to Anabelle and see what she has to say, but until we get to the bottom of this, I don't want you going out of the house unless I'm with you, all right?"

  "Caleb, it was only a dead bird. I—"

  "I don't want you going out by yourself, Rebecca. I mean it. What if it's not just some stranger who broke into your house, or some angry teenager who wanted to frighten you with the bird as some kind of sick revenge?” He gave her fingers a light squeeze. “What if the person who did those things is the same person who shot Megan?"

  She gasped. “No! That can't be. Why—"

  "I've spent months trying to figure out who shot at us. I can't think of anyone. Can you?"

  "No, of course not. I can't think of a soul who would want to hurt Megan."

  "Right. And I'd like to think that anyone who wanted to hurt me or my father would do it face-to-face. That leaves you."

  "Oh, Caleb, that's ridiculous."

  Her words dismissed the possibility, but her brow knit, and he knew the idea frightened her. He wanted her to be afraid. At least enough to listen to him when he told her to keep to the house.

  "I don't think so. I think you're in danger. Rebecca, and I don't want to take any chances."

  "But why would someone shoot Megan if they were after me?"

  "Maybe they thought it was you in the wagon. The sun was bright. Megan had her hand up to shade her eyes. Maybe her face was covered. Or maybe the shooter was too far away and simply assumed it was you. Hell, Rebecca, I don't know."

  He got to his feet and went to the window, pulling aside the draperies to look out. “I don't know what the hell is going on or who would want to hurt you."

  Turning back to her, he fixed her with a stern glare. “What I do know is that I'm not going to stand by and do nothing while some son of a bitch kills my wife. Do you understand?"

  She nodded.

  "Good. Then from now on you stay in the house. If you need anything, I'll bring it home from town or take you in for it in the evening."

  "All right, but—"

  Caleb reached her in three long, purposeful strides and gripped her shoulders, bringing her off the sofa. “No buts, dammit. I don't intend to lose you to some lunatic."

  Rebecca stared at him, and her heart did a little somersault. His eyes were dark with concern, the lines of his face more pronounced from fear. He'd never said he loved her, but he did seem to care a little.

  She smiled and put a hand to his cheek. “I was only going to say that I want you to be careful, too. If there really is someone out there intent on doing harm, he may not be too particular about his victims."

  Rebecca shifted her position on the hard pew. Caleb could tell her back was bothering her. If Reverend Patterson didn't soon conclude his sermon, he imagined his wife would curl up and fall asleep. That ought to show the reverend how riveting his sermons were.

  He nudged her arm and mouthed the words, “Wake up."

  She gave him a dirty look before turning to face the front of the church once again.

  After another half hour of fire and brimstone, mixed with pleas to follow the Lord's word to the letter, the reverend finally brought the service to a close and blessed the congregation for another week.

  Caleb helped Rebecca
stand and tucked her arm through his to lead her out of the church. The procession moved slowly while everyone stopped to shake Reverend Patterson's hand and compliment him on his wise words.

  "Do you see the Archers?” Caleb asked above Rebecca's ear.

  She looked around for a moment and tilted her head toward where Mary Archer stood talking with Thelma Wilkes. Then she pointed across the churchyard to Anabelle, who was digging at the dirt with the heel of her shoe. They started in her direction.

  "Anabelle,” Caleb said.

  The girl lifted her head. A smile lit her face—until she saw Rebecca at his side. Her smile turned upside down.

  "Anabelle,” Caleb repeated. “I'd like to speak with you."

  He let go of Rebecca's arm and took a step closer to the girl, lowering his voice so only the three of them would be privy to the conversation. “I have a couple of questions to ask you, Anabelle, and I'd like you to answer me honestly, all right?"

  She remained silent.

  "I want the truth, Anabelle.” His voice was calm but firm. “Do you know anything about the break-in at Rebecca's cabin?"

  She shook her head quickly. Too quickly.

  Caleb narrowed his eyes. “All right, then. Do you know anything about what we found in Rebecca's sewing basket?"

  Her eyes grew round, and she began to tremble.

  "You put it there, didn't you?” Caleb said grimly.

  "I didn't kill it, I swear. It must have fallen out of its nest or something."

  "But you put the bird in there?"

  "Yes.” Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes. “I waited until no one was looking, and I threw it in. I wanted to scare her."

  Anabelle's mother had come up behind her daughter, catching the direction of the conversation.

  "What about all the ripped fabrics and broken china at the cabin?” Caleb asked.

  Anabelle finally nodded. “I was so angry,” she said, an edge to her voice. “After you danced with me at the festival, I thought for sure you liked me a little. And then you went and married her."

  "You destroyed my house?” Rebecca asked. “Oh, Anabelle, how could you do such a thing?"

  "I'm sorry.” Two fat, wet tears rolled down her cheeks. “I didn't really mean to hurt you, Rebecca. I didn't even mean to ruin your cabin. I was just mad at you, and I sneaked in to look around, and I guess ... I guess I got carried away."

  Mary put a shaking hand on Anabelle's shoulder, her face flushed with mortification. “How could you do this?” she whispered harshly.

  Anabelle didn't answer. She kept her head down, the front of her dress becoming wet and splotched with her flood of tears.

  "I am so sorry, Rebecca,” Mary said, clasping Rebecca's hand. Her own eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I had no idea Anabelle had done those things. I would never have thought her capable. Of course we'll make good on all the damage she's done."

  "It's all right, Mary. You're not to blame."

  "Yes. Yes, I am. I should have been stricter with her when she was a child. Her father and I have been much too lenient. I should have—"

  "There's no sense dwelling on the past, Mary. It's the present I think you should worry about."

  "Yes, you're right.” She straightened her spine and took a firm hold on her daughter's arm. “We're going home, young lady. And don't think you'll be hearing the end of this any time soon."

  Caleb let Mary and Anabelle go, even though doubt niggled at his conscience. Something just didn't add up.

  Rebecca turned to him, eyes narrowed. “What is it?” she asked. “You got the answer you were looking for."

  He shook his head. “Later” was all he said as he guided her to the surrey.

  When they arrived home, they all sat down to a quiet dinner. After the meal, Rebecca pleaded exhaustion and escaped to her room.

  Caleb followed her several minutes later. The door clicked closed behind him, and Rebecca raised her head.

  "Tired?” he asked.

  "A little."

  "It's been quite a day."

  "What is it, Caleb?” She sat up a bit. “Something's been bothering you all afternoon."

  "I don't know,” he answered honestly, removing his suit coat and loosening his tie. “I just have a feeling this isn't over yet."

  "Anabelle won't be playing any more horrible tricks, that's for sure,” she said, lying back once again. “I'd be surprised if Mary didn't cane her to within an inch of her life."

  Caleb couldn't argue with that. Mary Archer had been furious. But something still didn't add up.

  "Okay,” he said. “So Anabelle put the dead bird in your basket and tore your house apart. But I have a hard time believing she would want revenge badly enough to shoot at someone."

  "Caleb,” Rebecca said with a sigh. “Anabelle admitted that she's responsible for the other events, no one has tried again to shoot anyone, and that's good enough for me. Maybe what happened to Megan was an accident. Maybe someone was hunting too close to the road, and a bullet went wild."

  "Is that what you think?” he asked, a hard edge to his voice.

  "I don't know,” she admitted, plumping the pillow beneath her head. “But I think that if someone wanted to hurt me—or Megan, or you, or anyone else—they would be a little more forward about it. It's been months since Megan was shot. Do you really think that if the bullet was meant to kill her—or me, as you suspect—the person would let me live this much longer without trying something else?"

  She snuggled farther under the bedspread and covered a yawn with the back of her hand. “I think you're reading more into it than there is. Can't we just forget about it?"

  Caleb tossed his boots aside and came to the bed, staying above the covers. “You really think that's all there is to it, hm?"

  "Mm-hmm."

  Her eyelashes fluttered and grew heavy.

  "All right,” he said quietly. “Then I'll let it go. But if anything else happens...” His words trailed off, and he rolled to his side, wrapping an arm around Rebecca. He held her tightly until sleep claimed his worried mind.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "I have good news,” Caleb said with a smile, closing the bedroom door behind him.

  Rebecca sat up, stretching after her long afternoon nap.

  "Mother has agreed to let Megan stay."

  Her eyes widened. To her knowledge, Holbrook had sent his letter only a little over a week ago. “You heard back from her already? So soon?” she asked, holding the covers over her breasts, though she still wore her camisole and stockings.

  He nodded, loosening his black string tie and the top button of his shirt. “We got a wire from New York this morning."

  "Well, what did she say?” Rebecca asked, shimmying to the edge of the bed.

  "She's not happy, but she agreed to Dad's suggestion of letting Megan stay until spring. She'll want her back in time for school in the fall, but Dad says we can cross that bridge when we come to it."

  "Oh, Caleb, that's wonderful.” Her eyes burned with the threat of tears as she moved to give him a hug. “Have you told Megan yet?"

  "Dad wanted to do the honors.” His arms came around her waist. “He's talking to her now."

  "I think we should celebrate,” she said, tipping her head back to meet his eyes. “Help me dress for dinner."

  She searched the wardrobe for a proper dress, then held the bodice of the gown to her chest while Caleb finished closing the row of hooks at the back. The fit wasn't quite perfect, but it would do.

  "There,” he said. He pressed his lips to the side of her neck. “I think I like being a ladies’ maid."

  "Oh, really? Then how would you like to arrange my hair?"

  He gave a chuckle. “I don't think I'm up to that. But call me when you want out of this thing.” He tugged at the back of her dress and gave her a lascivious grin. “I'd be happy to help."

  He took one last look in the mirror, rearranged his tie and collar, and moved to the door. “Are you ready to go
down?"

  "I'll be along in a minute,” she said, sitting down at her dressing table and reaching for her toiletries. “Go congratulate Megan."

  "All right. See you downstairs."

  Rebecca lifted the brush and ran it through her hair. When she raised an arm over her head to stroke the hair back from her other temple, though, a wave of dizziness washed over her. She dropped the brush and gripped the edge of the table, keeping her eyes closed until the sensation passed.

  She took a deep breath and watched her reflection in the mirror. Her hair looked a duller brown than usual, and her skin was a bit pale. But that was to be expected when one had been nauseated for the past two weeks.

  What did worry her was the cramping she'd begun to feel in her belly. Not the stabs of pain she expected would alert her to labor—though she wasn't due for more than two months—but long, throbbing spasms that wrapped around her abdomen.

  She supposed she should have told someone. Caleb, perhaps. Or maybe it would have been a good idea to stop in at Doc Meade's one day while she was in town. But she hadn't done either yet, and she was beginning to regret it.

  She ran the brush quickly through the rest of her hair and tied a wide emerald ribbon in a bow at the top of her head.

  The illness would pass, she told herself for the hundredth time. Surely any number of women had suffered the same annoying sickness while with child. She simply wasn't sure. She'd seen too many females in the act of making babies and too few actually having them.

  She got up, leaning against the dresser for a moment to allow her queasy stomach to settle. Then she made her way across the room and into the hall, keeping a hand to the wall to guide her heavy footsteps.

  Was the house exceptionally hot this evening, or was it her? And why had she never before noticed how long this hallway was? It seemed to take her forever to reach the staircase and slowly falter her way down the difficult decline.

  Once she reached the parlor, she took one last second to gain her equilibrium and entered the room where everyone was gathered for a drink before dinner.

  "Here she is,” Caleb said and came over to her. He kissed her forehead and handed her a sherry, then returned to his father's side.