Whitman had no idea how she knew that, but it was more than true. He had spent too many years denying his family, his mother, his heritage, hell, even his responsibility to them. The army had become his family. Then, at the age of thirty-three, he realized his life was empty. There was nothing for him but an empty room and an empty heart.
He looked for a wife to fill that hole in his life and found Melissa through a newspaper advertisement. Little did he know the careful life he’d constructed would become nothing more than feathers in the wind.
The wind’s name was Sarah.
The next time Sarah woke it was full dark. The carriage lumbered on, like a horse-drawn boat on the river Styx.
Whitman held her gently. She was still surprised how comfortable he was for being a big, muscular man. “You awake?”
She sighed, careful not to move too much. “Unfortunately.”
He chuckled. “It’s a hell of a lot less comfortable than the train, and that’s not saying much, is it?”
“At least the food’s good.”
Her sense of humor had survived, which was good.
“How about you tell me a story?” He shifted lower in the seat until she was nearly lying on top of him.
“What?”
“I told you a story, now it’s your turn.”
“I don’t have any stories.” She didn’t want to relive much of her life, especially with Whitman.
“That’s not fair, Sarah. You owe me a story.” He sounded almost as stubborn as she was. “The one person I haven’t heard about is your mother.”
Sarah’s stomach dropped. The one person he wanted to hear about was the person who almost destroyed her.
“I can’t.”
He stroked her hair, the warmth from his touch both foreign and welcome. Whitman had a way of putting her at ease, a talent no one had used successfully on Sarah Spalding.
“Please.”
She sighed and snuggled closer. To be certain, she couldn’t look him in the eye. “She was a true Southern belle, a woman who prided herself on how she, her house, her husband, and her children looked. Vain is a kind word; selfish would be accurate. She probably never would have become a mother if it hadn’t been for the servants who took care of us.”
The faces of the women and men who helped raise her flashed through her mind, all gone now, leaving the selfish Spaldings behind. Sarah hadn’t blamed them—she would have left too if she could have.
“There were just two of you? You and Micah?” he prompted.
“Yes, Micah was planned, of course. Every man wants an heir, but I was a mistake.” The word left a bad taste in her mouth, now so many years after hearing it.
“I don’t think so.”
She sucked in a whiff of his scent, and it calmed her. “After the war began and my father died, she began to change for the worse. By the time it ended, she had done unspeakable things to survive, including selling her body and nearly killing Micah.”
That bloody day would be forever in Sarah’s nightmares. The screaming, the accusations, the former friend of Micah’s who dared to buy their mother’s flesh for an hour. Micah had survived, with some poor stitching by Sarah to close the saber wound in his face.
“I can’t talk about what happened, but we all survived somehow. My mother, however, never forgave me for helping Micah. In her mind, he was dead, and since I’d helped him, I was worse than dead. I was a viper in her house, and treated as such.”
Then there was the attack on Sarah, and the way her mother simply gave her over to the soldiers who invaded the house. There was no way in hell she was ready to tell Whit that story. Just thinking about it made her hand itch where the little finger had been cut off.
“Toward the end, after the war was over, I think she lost her mind completely. She thought life was exactly the way it had been, with the parties and the beautiful people. But we were dirty, hungry, and scrambling to survive.” Sarah closed her eyes against the prick of tears. She would not cry for her mother again. Ever.
“What happened to her?”
Sarah shook her head against the image of her mother’s death. “My mother took the coward’s way out and hung herself from the banister in the great hall. After I buried her, I opened my house to women who were orphaned or widowed by the war.”
Whitman continued to stroke her hair, absorbing the painful memories. Amazingly enough, Sarah actually felt better after telling him about her mother. Vivian Spalding had been a horrible person, one who had shaped her children’s lives into the misshapen messes they were.
“I’m sorry, Sarah.”
The sincerity in Whitman’s voice nearly sent her self-control packing. Sarah, however, held on with both hands.
“Nothing for you to be sorry for. Say thank you that I told you a story.” She could always be counted on for her sharp tongue.
He kissed her forehead, ruining the sarcasm, and making Sarah’s heart thump once, hard. “Thank you for telling me your story.”
Right then and there, Sarah knew it was too late. She was already half in love with the big Yankee.
Lord help both of them.
Chapter Eight
By the time they pulled into the small Kentucky town in the inky darkness, Sarah had never felt so tired. That was saying a lot since she’d worked for the many calluses on her hands. Yet the fighting, the sex, and the emotion of being with Whitman drained her energy down to nothing.
She’d given up the fight and slept against him the last two hours. He’d woken her when he’d seen the lights of the town in the distance. Sarah had no idea what time it was, but since it was still dark, they hadn’t missed the train.
“We should go straight to the train station.” His voice was as rusty as she felt. “I think it’s about an hour from dawn and we don’t want to miss the train again.”
Sarah grunted in response. Apparently it was the best she could do because when she tried to sit up, she fell back against him. Her muscles screamed in agony and the memory of straddling Whit while he plunged inside her whipped through her brain.
“What’s wrong?”
She let out a big sigh. “I think I might have hurt myself.” The admission cost her dearly; he had no idea how much. But considering she couldn’t even sit up, she had to tell him of her weakness.
“Well then, you probably shouldn’t have jumped on my lap before.” He at least hadn’t stooped to pity again.
Sarah managed a chuckle. “I had to work out some anger and you were convenient.”
He sucked a breath through his teeth. “Are you saying you used me?”
“Of course I did. Just as you did me. That’s what adults do, Whit.” She tried to ignore his fantastic scent and the delicious memory of how his skin tasted on her tongue.
“Funny, I hadn’t considered you an adult,” he responded. “You act more like a spoiled child, the way you push me away.”
“I only do what I must to survive.” That summed up quite a bit about Sarah Spalding.
“Well, I don’t believe you for a minute, you know. You did not use me in this carriage. There was a hell of a lot more going on there.”
Sarah wanted to continue arguing with him, but the carriage finally stopped and she nearly fell off the seat. Whitman picked her up and held her close to his chest. The steady thrum of his heart echoed through her, made her feel safe, an unusual feeling, to be sure.
“Be nice and I won’t drop you on your head.” He stepped out through the door and groaned when his feet hit the ground. The bags swayed against her leg. She had no idea how he managed to carry all of it. “I think I may have a few aches and pains myself.”
Sarah bit at his neck. “Mm, you taste good.” Her arousal was ill timed and downright stupid, but she couldn’t seem to stop it.
“Jesus, woman.” He shifted her weight, and pain shot through her legs and up her spine.
Sarah gasped for air as she tried to control the urge to cry. It had been too long since she’d allowed a tear to fall from her ey
e. There was no way in hell she’d do it in front of Whitman.
“God, I’m sorry, Sarah. My arms are sore and I needed to move you just a bit.” He walked so slowly she thought he might have stopped.
“I’m not a piece of china, just a crippled woman who’s been fooling around too much.” She could hear the pain as it took hold of her. Too bad Vickie wasn’t around to rub the liniment into Sarah’s leg. She’d been the medic in the group and had discovered horse liniment worked wonders on Sarah’s emaciated muscles.
She was headed toward a full day of lying in bed in agony and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Sometimes Sarah wished she could find the soldier who’d done his best to saw off her legs. She would never allow the knife to leave her hand again.
“Don’t lie to me, Sarah. I think after being with you so much, I can tell when you’re not being entirely honest. Believe me, I’ve had my ears blistered enough.” He slowly ascended the steps to the platform. Each movement felt like someone was poking her with a burning stick.
She opened her eyes wide enough to see Whitman’s face as he carried her into the train depot. Shock rippled through her to recognize worry and concern. This man, this upright Yankee, whom she’d treated as if he were a stable hand, was worried about her.
Sarah hadn’t expected it and it hit her with the force of a blow. As she tried to suck in a breath, she twisted and the pain screamed through her with razor-sharp teeth.
Just before she blacked out, she swore tears had leaked from her eyes. Impossible, of course, because Sarah never cried anymore.
She had run out of tears.
Whitman wondered if he’d stumbled into his own personal version of hell. Not only was he tired, grumpy, and sore as hell, but now Sarah had just passed out in his arms, after screaming and crying in pain.
He frantically searched for someone to help him, but the depot was deserted. Thankfully there were benches, albeit wooden ones, he could lay Sarah down on. The tough, no-nonsense Southern belle had surprised the pants off him when she broke down.
Honestly, he wouldn’t have believed it unless he’d been there to see it. And he had. Unfortunately.
Her skin was pale as milk, allowing hidden freckles to pop out on her nose and cheekbones like cinnamon treasures. Her lashes seemed absurdly long against the whitened cheeks. The good news was, she was breathing.
The bad news was, her face was wet with tears, and whatever they’d done, or hadn’t done, in the ancient carriage had reduced her to her current state. If Whitman had just listened to his head and not his dick, none of it would have happened.
Sarah was a strong-willed woman and might have pushed him to get her way, but Whitman had a brain, a rather large dose of common sense, and free will. He should’ve chosen the higher road, but he’d instead chosen the path of the flesh.
And oh what amazing flesh it was.
Whitman nearly slapped himself for his train of thought. Jesus please us, what was he thinking? She was unconscious, for God’s sake. He had no right to even remember what her flesh felt like beneath his hands, much less crave it when she lay prone on a wooden train depot bench.
No doubt his grandmother or his mother would gladly slap him silly for it.
Without any water or supplies to help her, Whit felt helpless to do anything. However, he could do a few things. There was a gas lantern with matches near the door. After lighting it, he made a pillow from his jacket and tucked it under her head and sat on the floor beside her holding her hand.
Over the next ten minutes, he thought about all the reasons he should never touch her again, and then she began to stir. He leaned over and gently patted her cheek.
“Sarah?”
He picked up her hand again. So much for not touching her—he couldn’t even leave her alone for ten minutes.
“Sarah?”
Her eyelids fluttered and those silver orbs locked in on Whitman. He smiled right before her right hook caught him in the jaw.
Whit fell backward in pain and shock, landing on his ass on the dusty wooden floor. His face throbbed at the sheer force behind her punch while he tried to figure out if all his teeth were still in place.
“Don’t touch me.” Her deadly tone sent a skitter across Whit’s skin. He hadn’t heard such a murderous tone since the war. The idea it came from a woman was astonishing to him.
“Sarah, it’s me, Whitman.” He gingerly touched his jaw. “You didn’t have to hit me.”
She tried to sit up and howled in pain. “God fucking dammit!”
Whit got to his feet and dusted his trousers off. “If you promise not to punch me again, I’ll help you to a sitting position.”
Sarah’s cloudy expression began to focus and she looked around her, then at him. “Whit, I hit you? Where the hell are we?”
“Yes, you hit me. And I’ll have you know your punch nearly knocked out a few teeth. Woman, you have a hell of a right hook.” He sat down near her feet. “You are in the train depot at whatever town we’re in, in Kentucky.”
“How did I get here?” Perspiration broke out across her brow as she struggled to move.
Whitman had to sit on his hands to keep from helping her, from touching her. “I carried you, as I have each night since we left Virginia. Unfortunately, this time the ride in the ancient carriage caused you undue harm and you fainted.”
She stopped moving and scowled at him. “I don’t faint.”
“Yes, you did, regardless of whether or not you believe it.” He peered at her eyes. “Do you remember me now?”
Sarah frowned. “Sorry, Whit. It was the Yankee accent that threw me. Don’t pay me no never mind on that punch. You understand I was protecting myself.” Her drawl grew deep as she struggled to get control of her obviously pain-filled body. “I didn’t mean no harm.”
“You didn’t hurt me.” Liar. “I understand you were confused and just waking from a faint.”
“I don’t faint. If you don’t quit saying that I’m going to punch you again.”
He managed a small grin. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
This time he saw a glimpse of amusement in her gaze. “Bastard. You know without my cane, I can’t catch anyone.” She glanced around. “I need my liniment. Where’re my bags?”
“Oh hell.” Whitman ran outside and across the platform, praying the bags were where he dropped them. He’d been in such a hurry to get help for Sarah, he hadn’t even thought of their bags.
Fortunately, they lay in the semidarkness where he’d dropped them. It was a good thing dawn was just hinting at the horizon or everything they had would likely have been gone already. Folks in most of these small towns didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth if someone decided to leave a pile of goods to pilfer.
He scooped everything up, including Sarah’s cane, and carried it toward the depot. The cane began to slip through his sweaty hands, and when it slid toward the ground, he took hold of the crook.
Only to discover he held a very lethal-looking blade in his hand instead.
Apparently Sarah had a cane made with a weapon in the top. Very clever, and very much like her. A whole lot of force encased in a sleek exterior.
Whitman shook his head and put the cane back together and headed back toward the depot. The first thing he noticed when he walked in was Sarah staring at her hands; the second was that she looked as if she’d been poleaxed.
“Why is my face wet?”
She looked so confused, Whitman couldn’t tell her the truth, so he lied. Again.
“You were sweating, sorry to say. For a woman, you definitely can perspire with the best of them.” He set the bags down and waited for the smart-ass response.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“How kind of you to notice. Now bring me the damn bag so I can get my liniment out. Took you long enough, by the way.” She sounded as pushy as she always was, but beneath it, low and deep in her voice, he heard the agony. She was probably trying to distract him and herself.
Sarah was stronger than he estimated, which was saying a lot. Her pain threshold was obviously very high and she’d reached the limit. The crying was so out of character she couldn’t understand why her face was wet.
What else had the war taken from her?
Whitman forced himself to stop thinking about Sarah and how she’d been scarred inside and out. Whatever liniment she wanted was obviously what she needed. He shouldn’t be selfishly mooning over Sarah’s problems. Although deep down, he secretly wished there was a way he could take her pain away.
Permanently.
When he brought the bags to her, she waved away the heavy blue one. “Not that one. It’s got books in it. I need liniment, not prose. Open the green one.”
Whitman kept his patience while he obeyed her terse commands and opened her bag for her. She rummaged around until she found a tin, then held it up.
“Thank you, Vic.”
He had the awful thought of finding out who exactly Vic was and where he was. What the hell was wrong with him?
“I need to put some of this on my legs, so you’re going to have to either turn your back or get the hell out.” She set the tin on her belly and again tried to sit up.
“You’re joking with me, right?” He scowled. “Do you honestly think I’d leave you to do that yourself?”
“Excuse me?”
“Climb off your high horse, Sarah. We’re in this together and if you don’t like me helping you, that’s too damn bad, because there’s nothing you can do about it.”
He wasn’t normally so pushy and bossy with women. However, he’d had plenty of practice with the men under him in the army. Sarah made it easy to remember how to be a captain and give orders.
Whitman snatched the liniment off her belly and tucked it in his pocket. While she sputtered at him, he pulled up her skirts to her hips.
“You’re on dangerous ground, Kendrick.”
She hissed in a breath and her eyes grew wet with unshed tears of pain.
“Sit still, Sarah. I’m not trying to hurt you, believe it or not.” He gentled his touch. “Let me help you.”
She swallowed hard, then blew out two breaths before she nodded almost imperceptibly.
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