by Jo Goodman
Ryland simply stared at Brooklyn as her words penetrated. She had never had his money, yet she had accepted the debt because of some loyalty she still felt to Phillip Sumner. "That explains why you kept Sumner's letter," he said quietly, speaking more to himself than to her. "But why did you never read it?"
"Because I can't read!" she fairly shouted. With effort she calmed herself. "I can't read his letter. I can't read your stupid note that explains you're in town. I can't read your damn Christmas book. Is that clear enough? I'd spell it out, but I can't do that either." She began to sob jerkily, and because she couldn't bear him to see her, Brook hid her face in her hands. "I c-can't... even... write my... own n-name."
Ryland was stunned. Her explanation had come full circle, beginning and ending with the book. What he had thought would give her pleasure, what he had hoped would be an innocent diversion, had only stripped bare an unhealed wound. And heaven help her, she was still bleeding. His words of last night haunted him now. What had he said about the woman he would marry? Accomplished? Well-educated? She hadn't laughed at him for desiring those things. Not Brooklyn. She would have looked inward and found herself wanting.
Her tears undid Ry. He had held her so often while she slept, but now what good would his arms and endearments do? Still, he approached her and folded his arms loosely around Brooklyn's back. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'll make it up to you, Brooklyn. We have until spring." He felt her shudder, but she did not try to pull away. He continued gently and firmly. "I'll teach you to read and I'll teach you to write." Her hands came away from her face and she continued to weep into his soft chambray shirt. Ryland wanted to make it all up to her. He wanted to take away her pain, her hurt. If it had been in his power he would have offered her a different past, one without brothels and drugs, weapons and dead men in alleys. But it wasn't possible. The only thing Ryland could offer was the present and a different future. It was time for the mermaid to stop clinging and find her land legs. "And the first thing you can sign your name to is our marriage certificate."
"You f-feel s-sorry for me," she said, tilting her head back to look up at him. "Just because I gave you m-my v-virginity and because I'm s-so stupid." She sniffed inelegantly. "I don't want to m-marry you. I st-still hate you."
Ryland was not put off. "As I said, we have until spring. Perhaps you'll change your mind about hating me by then. As for marrying me, I don't think I'm going to give you a choice, and, for the record, I don't feel at all sorry for you. I don't feel honor bound to marry you because I am the only man you were ever intimate with. And I never, never, thought you were stupid." He regarded her steadily, meeting the unwavering stare of her tear-washed eyes. "There are things we can never change, Brooklyn, things each of us is forced to accept. But there are also things in our control. Matters which can and ought to be set on a different course. I think you know which side of the coin holds your past and which side gives you the opportunity to learn." He stepped back and took her hand in his, drawing her onto his lap as he sat in the leather armchair. "Now what are you going to do?" He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket. "Besides blow your nose and dry your eyes, that is."
Brooklyn took the handkerchief and did both before she answered him. How easily he accepted everything, catalogued it, and began on a course of action. He didn't give her a moment to dwell on her confession or to regret what she had told him. "You won't mind teaching me?" She tucked the cotton square in the sleeve of her dress.
"If I minded I wouldn't have offered. Unlike Sumner, I have nothing to gain by keeping you ignorant." He saw she was ready to object, and he cut her off. "It's true, Brooklyn, and you would have realized it if you hadn't been blinded by your own gratitude and loyalty to him. I'm not saying you don't have cause to feel those things, but he also made you dependent on him, and you shouldn't thank him for that. When he discovered how quick you were with cards and numbers he should have helped you learn to read. But he didn't. He was afraid that with your incredible mind, you would no longer be satisfied with the life he gave you. God forbid that books and newspapers should expose you to something more than gambling and gamblers. Didn't you ever want to read your own menu in a restaurant? Find out what was happening in the city by reading your own paper?"
"Of course I did," she admitted. "But Phillip said it wasn't..."
"Wasn't what?"
"Important," she said, sighing. "He said it wasn't important that I couldn't read as long as I stayed with him."
Ryland whistled softly. "You had a lot of nerve to leave him. Your arrangement with William Maine? How did that come about?"
Brook told him. "We shook on our deal," she said. "He drew up a contract but I didn't sign it and I didn't let on that I couldn't sign it. He might have been tempted to cheat me if he had known how ignorant I am."
"How do you know he didn't?"
"I checked his books."
Ryland shook his head. "I'd almost forgotten. How in the hell did you ever go over my accounts yesterday and not miss a thing?"
"Numbers. They're easy, I told you. I learned to add playing blackjack and counting money. Phillip taught me the other functions. Sometimes he would check the books at the houses he worked in, secretly of course, but he had to be certain he wasn't being cheated. He taught me what to look for. Accounts are generally set up in a similar pattern. When I saw your books I knew what the columns were for and I made the entries."
"Yes, but you did more than that. You organized my papers and receipts."
"I wasn't reading," she explained. "I was matching words. It would have become more difficult later on, perhaps impossible to keep it from you. That's why I hesitated about taking the job. I would have had to keep pretending that I couldn't make out the writing on a particular receipt, rather than explain I simply couldn't read it. I wouldn't have been able to answer your questions. Remember, I didn't know how much your previous accountant made. You had to find the right line for me."
"And you studied it," he said slowly. "I was beginning to believe you thought I was trying to cheat you."
"I was learning the word so I would be able to recognize it later."
"Amazing." Ryland could hardly take it in. "Why do you think Sumner wrote you a letter?"
"I expect he had things to say that even he couldn't say to my face. He told me that when I found someone I could trust I should have them read it to me. And when that happened I would be coming back to him and he would be waiting for me." She gave her head a proud toss. "His first mistake was in supposing I would ever trust another soul; his second, thinking that anything he had to say would make me return to him."
"But you kept the letter."
"Of course I did. As a reminder of all that he had done for me and as a reminder of all that I had done since leaving him."
"Aren't you curious about the letter?"
"No."
That was certainly clear enough, Ryland thought. He wished he felt the same way. Then he decided perhaps Brook's idea was better. Sumner was not a man to make idle threats. If he told Brook that the contents of the letter would bring her back to him, he meant it. Above all else, Ryland didn't want Brooklyn returning to her erstwhile protector. Ryland sighed, leaning his head back. There was still something else, something that had been tugging at his memory. If only he could remem—"The note that William Maine found, the one that said you were going with Andrew—you couldn't have written it."
Brooklyn's brows drew together. "Dear Lord, Ryland," she said, exasperated by his persistence. "Can you never let a thing rest? Must you worry it to death?"
Ry knew he had not only struck a nerve but that he had stumbled onto another of her lies. "Andrew wrote it," he said slowly, pulling his thoughts together.
"Yes, Andrew wrote it."
She wasn't giving an inch. "Did you tell him to write it?"
"What do you think?" she said carelessly.
"I think I want a straight answer." Her responses had more curves that her body.
"
Yes, I told him to write it."
"You're lying." Ryland laughed happily. He picked up her hands and intertwined their fingers. "I know. I finally know when you're lying. And don't ask me how I know because I'm not going to tell you. You'd set about changing it as if it were a fatal flaw." Ry gave her hands a little push so that she began to slip off his lap. "And it's not." He hauled her back quickly, dropping her hands and placing his around her waist. "So... Andrew wrote the note and you didn't tell him to write it. What did happen?"
She told him the truth because it was so outrageous that he couldn't possibly believe her. "He abducted me."
He nodded. "Now we're getting somewhere. Andrew must have had help," he said seriously. "How many men did it take to get your gun away?"
"Four," she lied.
Ryland smiled, shaking his head. "No. How many?"
She pursed her lips together in disgust. How did he know? "Two."
"That's better. Tell me the rest."
His grin was absolutely unsettling. The beast. He was actually enjoying his little inquisition. Brooklyn couldn't think of what she was doing that made him so sure he knew when she was lying and when she wasn't. "There isn't much to tell. Andrew refused to accept the fact that I had no intention of marrying him. He continued to blame you for interfering in some way."
"That doesn't surprise me. It's what I thought he would do, in spite of your efforts to make him think otherwise."
"I despise people who say 'I told you so.'"
Ryland saw that was the truth. He made a mental note not to say it subtly or otherwise in the future. "And then..." he prompted her.
"Andrew hired two thu—two men, I mean—" He was eyeing her again. "Oh, very well. They were thugs as far as I was concerned. They caught me unaware while I was riding in the park... disarmed me rather quickly, I'm afraid, and used a rag soaked in chloroform to put me to sleep. When I woke up I was on a train bound, literally, for Virginia City, sharing a private compartment with Andrew and everything I owned. I railed at him when he told me about the note he left in my name. I think I wanted to pitch him off the train."
"I'm surprised you didn't."
"So am I, really. But I had the final say. I warned him there was no way he could force me to marry him, that I would shame not only him, but his family as well if he so much as looked at a preacher. He obviously believed me, because I was chloroformed again on the train while I slept. I woke on the journey up here. Andrew and I were on the same horse, and I was so furious that I caused the mare to rear."
"That's how Drew was unseated."
She nodded. "I was going to leave him."
"You should have."
"Perhaps, but I couldn't. He had broken his arm."
"So you brought him here."
"Mm-hmm. We were closer to this house by then than the town. It seemed reasonable. I told him I would stay with him until you came, that then I was leaving, and that under no circumstances was I ever going to marry him. I also told him that if he tried to touch me I would break his other arm."
Ryland chuckled, certain she would have done it. As far as he was concerned, Andrew wasn't safe from that happening yet. His fingers itched to get around his young cousin's neck. "You were so sure I was going to come?" he asked and found he rather liked the idea that she knew him so well.
"I thought you would realize I was gone because of the money I owed you and that you would find me because of that idiotic note Andrew left for Bill."
"I'm frighteningly predictable."
"Not always," she said quietly, looking away. "I didn't think you'd keep me here."
"Do you regret it?" he asked, tipping her face toward him with the back of his hand.
Brooklyn looked at him steadily. "No. Not very often."
Her answer was more than Ry had hoped for, much more than he thought he had any right to expect. His throat felt very tight, too small for the lump wedged against his larynx. When he spoke his voice was husky. "Would I seem completely lacking in conscience if I told you I don't regret keeping you here either?"
She smiled faintly and leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He infuriated her, angered her beyond reason at times, but it was an inescapable truth that Brooklyn was drawn to his implacable strength. "No. I know you have a conscience. But I still hate you, Ryland... sometimes."
With her face below his, hidden partially by the curve of his neck, Ryland didn't know if she was telling the truth or not. But he was inclined to believe she was.
Brooklyn slipped into bed wearing her flannel nightgown. Ryland chuckled as she cuddled against him, her back against his chest, her hips cradled by his thighs. She rubbed the soles of her feet back and forth along the length of Ry's legs and reached behind her, pulling his arm around her waist.
"Are you warm enough yet?" he asked.
"Mm-hmm. You?"
"My temperature rose several degrees the moment you put on that silly nightgown," he said dryly.
Brooklyn glanced over her shoulder, her brows drawing together. She had put on the gown for exactly the opposite effect, hoping he wouldn't be interested in her tonight. She was tired, physically exhausted and emotionally drained. All Brooklyn wanted was to be held. That she wanted to be held by Ry did not strike her as odd. He might have brought her pain to the forefront, forced her to remember things she thought were best forgotten, but he also provided the balm to heal her wounds. He hadn't deserted her or thought less of her. He even denied feeling sorry for her. "Ryland... I don't want..." Her voice trailed off as Ry gave her shoulder a tiny shake.
"I know," he said gently. "And I understand. You can always say no, Brooklyn. So can I for that matter." Actually, Ryland couldn't imagine ever saying no, but he wasn't going to tell her that. "Besides, I like holding you. I always have."
"I like it, too," she admitted. "No one has ever..."
"Not Phillip?" he asked, trying to keep the jealousy niggling at him at bay.
"Not Phillip. At least not the way you do." She smiled. "Phillip was more likely to pat me on the head and ruffle my hair. I think he was the tiniest bit afraid of me. Incredible, isn't it?"
"Not at all. You're rather formidable, you know. Any woman who keeps a derringer under her skirts gives a man pause. I know it certainly stopped me in my tracks a time or two."
Brooklyn laughed. "You were... you are incredibly persistent."
"Comes with the territory, I suppose."
"What exactly do you do?" she asked curiously.
"I thought you were tired."
"I am." But never of the sound of your voice, she added silently. "Tell me about your work. Not the mines. Tell me about this other thing you do, the one that makes you ask so many questions."
Ryland's arm slid a little higher so that he cupped the underside of her breasts. She snuggled into him, comfortable and relaxed, and placed her arm over his. Her fingers smoothed the light hairs on the back of his hand. Very lightly, Ryland kissed the nape of Brook's neck. "I investigate things for people."
"A Pinkerton agent?"
"No. Not anymore. I was with the detective agency for a few years after the war; then I went my own way. After I complete my current case I plan to pack it all in and set down roots here. I never thought I would tire of the travel or the continuous change in routine, but I've been restless for permanency—if that's possible—for a number of years now."
So he really had been thinking about marriage and family. Brooklyn didn't want to dwell on that now, nor on the offer he had made. She would wait until spring, and if he were still thinking in the same manner, then she would give his proposal serious consideration. There remained a large question in her mind as to why he had asked her to marry him. Certainly there had been no mention of love; his feelings didn't seem to be engaged. "What sort of case are you working on now?"
Ryland enjoyed Brook's questioning. She had never inquired about anything remotely personal before. He had thought at one time she simply wasn't interested. Today he had reali
zed the truth. Asking questions of him would have made her feel vulnerable, and Brooklyn had a strong need to protect herself and guard her privacy. She would have been afraid that he would have twisted her interest and demanded that she share in return. "It's a missing person case," he explained. "I'm committed to helping a woman find her granddaughter."
"Really?" She turned on her side, facing him now, and laid her head on her arm. "How do you go about doing that?"
Ryland's mouth lifted to one side. "At the moment I'm not sure. It's rather impossible to do anything from here. I sent Mrs. Gordon a wire when I went to town the other day and told her the investigation was going to be delayed. She'll understand. She always knew that my personal business in San Francisco was priority."
"What personal business?" she asked.
"Brooklyn," he said dryly, his tone rife with disbelief that she could even ask.
"Oh. You mean me, don't you?"
"Well, precisely my business had to do with Andrew and his impending marriage. That you turned out to be Drew's interest was very much a surprise." His head swooped and he stole a quick kiss. "A pleasant one, all things considered."
Brooklyn's smile was derisive. "It didn't seem so at first. You can be singularly unbearable, you know." She realized his kiss had successfully sidetracked her. "So... how will you go about finding this woman's granddaughter?" she asked, trying to ignore his hand as it absently stroked the curve of her waist and hip.
"My one lead was an account at the Bank of California. That didn't pan out. I'm going to have to go to the mining offices and search through old claims now. Not a task I particularly relish, especially since there have been a number of fires and some of the records may be lost. The mining claim is all I have left as a clue to the granddaughter's identity."