by Jo Goodman
"No name?"
"No."
"Age?"
"Somewhere in her early twenties."
"Parents?"
"Father and mother both dead," he said. "The entire matter is complicated by the fact that this young woman has two cousins, Preston and Chandler, who are very much against the investigation. They would rather have their inheritance halved than divided into thirds. I suppose I can understand their position, even sympathize, but their methods of trying to keep people from working for their grandmother are criminal."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't prove it, but I think the attempt on my life in St. Louis was ordered by either Chandler or Preston. Perhaps both."
Brooklyn frowned deeply. She reached forward to touch Ryland's face with her palm. The tips of her fingers brushed the scar at his temple. "Were you hurt?" she asked softly.
Her concern touched him. "No. I wrenched my knee dodging a knife thrust, but that was the extent of my injury."
"And your assailant?"
"Dead," he said succinctly.
Brooklyn shivered. "This case sounds dangerous."
"No more than any of the others," he told her. "Actually, most investigations are extremely boring. And this one won't be any exception. Wait until you and I are buried in mountains of paperwork at the claims office and see if you don't feel the same."
"You'd let me help?"
"At least with that part of the case." He smiled complacently. "Of course, you have to learn to read. You won't be any help at all if you can't do that."
"I'm going to learn," she said, snuggling against him. "You'll see." She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. "I shall be your best student."
Ryland chuckled. "Without a doubt."
"But I'm not going to learn the lineages of the English royalty," she said sleepily.
Brooklyn patted the empty space beside her, searching for Ryland. She groaned softly, realizing that once again he was up before she was. She came completely awake with a start as she remembered it was Christmas Eve morning and she had promised Ryland cookies. Bounding out of bed, she washed and dressed hastily and hurried downstairs.
The first oddity she noticed was the scrap of paper tacked to the front door. There was a one-word message on it. She frowned, wondering what Ryland had been thinking of to leave her a note she couldn't read. She stamped her foot in frustration and spun on her heel. Then Brooklyn began laughing, for everywhere in the main living area there were similar pieces of paper attached to nearly every conceivable object. Wandering about the room she examined the slips of paper and softly pronounced the words, trying to commit the spelling to memory.
"Mantelpiece," she said, and then spelled, "F-i-r-e-p-l-a-c-e."
Ryland stood in the doorway leading from the kitchen, his arms folded across his chest, watching Brook's delight as well as her intensity. "Whoops," he said, crossing the room to her side. "That's fireplace, not mantelpiece."
"Oh."
"There wasn't any other place to tack it," he explained. "You'll catch on quickly once I explain the sounds of the letters."
Brooklyn stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "It's a lovely idea," she said.
Ryland took her hand and led her into the kitchen. "There's more."
"There certainly is," she said, glancing around the room Pieces of paper fluttered in response to their breezy entrance.
Ry picked up a note lying on the table. "Our breakfast menu," he said, handing it to her. He pointed to each item. "Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Toast. Orange juice."
"Sounds delicious. Are you cooking?"
"Definitely not," he said. "And if you ever tasted my cooking you wouldn't pose the question. But I will squeeze the oranges."
Breakfast became a learning lesson. While Ryland squeezed Brook spelled. And spelled. "Enough," she said finally. Sitting down at the table she pushed his plate in front of him. "Here are your e-g-g-s."
Ryland grinned. "How did you learn the alphabet?"
"My mother taught me." She sipped her juice. "Before her addiction took hold she was as I imagine most mothers to be. Kind. Helpful. Interested."
"I'm sure she was," Ryland said gently.
"What about your mother?" she asked, turning the subject quickly away from herself.
Ryland told her about the fateful crossing at Panama that killed his mother and younger brother and left his father a broken man with only the thought of gold to solace him. His story progressed naturally to the manner in which Robert and Louise had taken him in, raising him as if he were their own son.
"I begin to understand the wealth of affection you have for them," she said. It was no small wonder that he had rushed to San Francisco at their bidding. It also confirmed for Brooklyn that Ry's marriage proposal had been made without any consideration to his family's feelings. If she was unacceptable as Andrew's wife then it was equally impossible for her to become Ryland's. The realization depressed her, and she resolutely tucked it away, raising her head and smiling playfully at Ryland. "If you want cookies and a Christmas feast for tomorrow, sir, you'll have to vacate my kitchen."
"All right, but I'm going out in search of a tree, and no matter what you're doing when I return, we're decorating it together."
"Whatever with?"
Ryland shrugged, dropping a kiss on her full mouth. "You'll think of something."
Brooklyn did, though she secretly thought nothing could enhance the scraggly pine Ryland dragged into the study. "It's a trifle bare, isn't it?" she asked, surveying the tree critically. "Perhaps if you turn it a little," she suggested helpfully. "Oh, dear. It's rather the same from all angles."
Ryland put his hands on his hips and arched one brow wickedly. "If you had any concept of what I went through to get this tree, you would not be so quick to find fault."
"It's a lovely tree," she said earnestly.
Ry regarded her eyes steadily and laughed. "Sweet liar," he admonished, kissing her forehead. "But we'll make it lovely. What have you found to decorate it?"
"There," she said, pointing to the couch, which was covered with ribbons and lace and the contents of her jewelry box. Brooklyn sniffed the air. "My cookies," she wailed, running from the room. "I'll be right back, Ryland North," she called over her shoulder. "Don't start without me!"
In the end the tree was astonishingly beautiful. At least they both pronounced it so and meant it. Yards of lace trim that Brook had taken from her shifts and petticoats became their tree's garland. Bright ribbons hung from the branches. Tiny drop earrings, gold, pearl, and silver, gave the tree sparkle. Ryland cut snowflakes from old copies of Virginia City's newspaper, the Territorial Enterprise, and hung them toward the center of the tree. Together they fashioned a star for the top out of cookie dough, and while it baked they drank coffee and laughed like children over their cleverness.
Later that evening they played chess at the foot of the tree, glancing from time to time at their creation, then smiling sillily at one another across the space of the board.
"I wish I had some present for you," Brooklyn said.
Ryland's brows wiggled in a parody of leering desire. "Oh, I imagine I'll think of something you can give me."
"I'm certain you will," she said dryly, smacking Ryland's hand as he tried to take her queen. "I wasn't finished moving."
"Yes, you were. You took your hand off the piece."
"I didn't."
"Did."
"All right," she conceded. "I did. But I really wasn't finished."
"I'm afraid you are. Checkmate."
Brooklyn studied the board, her lip curling in disgust. She flicked her king so that it toppled on its side. "Damn."
"Poor Brooklyn," Ryland said soothingly.
She glanced at him, drawn by the hint of laughter in his tone. "Beast. You enjoy beating me."
Ryland shook his head. "I enjoy winning. There's a difference."
Brooklyn got to her feet hurriedly, eluding Ryland as he feinted to grab her wrist. "W
here is that book you wanted to read?" she asked, standing in front of the cases.
"Down one shelf. To your left. No, too far. The red spine. Yes, that's the one."
Brook plucked it out. "Will you read some of it to me?"
Ryland, who was having serious ideas about retiring early, agreed somewhat reluctantly. "A few chapters." But three chapters were followed by another and another, and Brooklyn, entranced by the story that was unfolding, made certain his glass of wine was filled often to ease his parched throat. Ryland finally closed the book when the last of the three spirits had visited Ebenezer Scrooge.
"Oh, no!" she protested. "What happens? You can't stop now?"
"I have to stop," he said, holding the book out of her reach. "Otherwise I won't be able to talk at all in the morning." He set the book aside. "Come on. Bed for both of us. I'll read you the rest tomorrow evening."
Brooklyn had to be satisfied with that. "All right." She jumped up from the sofa. "My bath first," she called, her skirts rustling as she hurried from the room.
Ryland almost caught her on the stairs, but she was quicker, lifting the hem of her dress out of his reach so that he was left clutching at air. He pounded on the door to the bathroom. "We could share a bath. It's large enough for two, you know."
"I'm indulging myself," she told him through the bolted door.
He laughed, amused by her playfulness. Or nearly amused, he considered as his loins tightened when his thoughts strayed to Brooklyn languishing in the tub. He stripped, crawled under the covers, and warmed the space beside him until she could warm it for herself. If she didn't hurry he was going to have to take himself off to the icy stream that divided the valley. Maybe, just maybe, that would keep him from attacking her when she stepped out of the bathroom.
When the door opened and Brooklyn finally emerged, Ryland's breath, simply caught in his throat. Except for the red satin ribbon that encircled her throat, she wasn't wearing more than a shy smile. Firelight caressed the slender lines of her figure, caught the tiny beads of water that glistened on her naked shoulders and breasts. She stood uncertainly at the door for a moment, then gathered her courage, evident in the straightening of her spine, and crossed to the bed. "Happy Christmas," she said, kneeling on the edge of the bed.
Ryland's eyes rolled heavenward. "God bless us, everyone," he said prayerfully. He looked at Brook again. She was still there, not a figment of his overactive imagination. He swallowed hard. "That's a lovely necklace," he said, his eyes on the ribbon at her throat.
Brooklyn frowned slightly. "It's meant to be a bow. You're supposed to unwrap me."
"Come here."
She slipped under the covers he held up for her and edged closer while he propped himself on one elbow.
"Where does it unfasten?"
"Right here," she said in a small voice, lifting her hair and pointing to the side of her neck where she had made a tiny bow.
"Ah. Very nice." He bent his head and kissed her skin directly below the bow. His lips sucked gently, marking the spot. His teeth caught the ribbon and pulled. He raised his head, teasing her with the end of the ribbon. Brooklyn blew it away, and her breath was soft on his face. He smiled, withdrew the ribbon from his mouth, and sent it sailing over the edge of the bed. His mouth closed over hers, drawing on her senses sweetly.
"Please," she said, whispering against his lips. He was hard, flush to her thigh. "Come into me now."
"But you can't—"
She shook her head, her eyes imploring him. "You won't hurt me," she said softly. Heated color stained her cheeks. "I've been thinking about you," she confessed. "I'm ready for you."
"You're blushing," he said. "I never thought to see you blush."
"I never thought I'd have to beg you.".
"As to that..." Ryland nudged her thighs apart. "You've already convinced me." He slipped inside her and then held himself still. "You like that?"
"Yes." Her arms wrapped around him. "You can't know... you feel so... I never thought it would be so nice."
"Nice?" he growled, nuzzling her ear. He gave a little thrust, driving himself deeper.
"Oh!" Her fingers dipped in the curve at the small of his back. "Nice," she repeated huskily. "So different from the things I saw in the broth—"
Ryland shut her up by slanting his mouth over hers. He wanted to expunge the memory of the things she had seen, the words she had heard. She had been witness to a great deal of coupling and nothing at all of love.
Brooklyn moved beneath him, her hands trailing over his buttocks, touching the backs of his thighs. Her breasts were flattened deliciously against his chest.
The fragrance of her hair was intoxicating, and Ryland breathed deeply. Her skin was fresh and dewy from her bath. Her tiny cries of pleasure urged him on, and he found the sweet echo of her response when she matched her movements to his, returning each touch, each caress, with a fullness that Ryland wanted to believe came from her heart.
Brooklyn bit her lip, holding back the words she thought she could not speak. She would not burden him with words of love, words he had probably heard before from women who meant little or nothing to him. She could not say "I love you," not in the dark, where he might not believe her, nor in the light, where he might see the truth.
Ryland's head rested against her breast, his breathing light and shallow. Her fingertips stroked his hair. "Your gift was dazzling, Brooklyn," he said.
"Better to give than receive," she said wisely. "But I confess I liked the receiving very much indeed."
"Hussy," he teased. As soon as the word was out of his mouth he knew he had made a mistake. Brooklyn stiffened immediately, and the hand that rested on his shoulder became like ice. Ryland lifted his head. "Dear God, Brooklyn, I didn't mean anything by it. I don't think of you that way."
"Why not?" she said frigidly. "It's a mild enough name for what I am. Jade. Prostitute. Whore."
"That's not true," he gritted. "Don't cheapen yourself or me."
"It's what you thought," she reminded him, spoiling for a fight so she wouldn't have to think about loving him. "It's what you always thought."
"It's what you wanted me to believe."
"And you would have kept on believing it if you hadn't—"
"Hadn't what?" he interrupted. "Raped you? Don't you dare say it. What I took you gave freely, and if you were honest with yourself you'd admit that part of your reason for giving anything was to make me feel guilty for believing you in the first place." He shook his head to clear it, wondering if he had made any sense.
"What if I hadn't been a virgin, Ryland?" she asked earnestly. "What if I hadn't come to you untouched?"
"I told you I don't dwell on 'what ifs.'"
"Well, I do. There would have been no starting over then. You would call me worse than a hussy and mean it. It's all very well that you've had other women; even that you've paid for them on occasion. People don't snicker behind your back. But me? No, I am branded as immoral."
"You're speaking of other women now, not of yourself."
"You don't understand," she said crossly.
"What are we arguing about, anyway?" he said, sighing. "I can't change what other people think, Brooklyn. I can only alter my own thinking. And I have. Do you really believe you would be the same person you are now if you had lain with any number of men for some of their coin? I don't. You're not hard or jaded in spite of the air you sometimes affect. I'm sorry if I offended you, but I think you truly know I was teasing. I would not change a single moment of our time together—any of it. All of it was with us in this bed, and what we have is a celebration of our past, our present, and our future."
He undid her, demolished her defenses. "Oh, Ryland," she said softly. "Sometimes I'm so confused. It doesn't seem right that you should be with me... and then it seems that nothing could be more right. I want you and I'm afraid of wanting you."
He smiled in the darkness, turned, and pressed the smile against the curve of her breast. "You should be more afraid
of wanting to get rid of me. You can't, you know. I'm not going anywhere without you for the rest of my life."
The words had a certain poignancy that swelled Brook's heart. God help her, she thought, she wanted to believe him.
Chapter 10
The last days of December simply slipped away from them. Six more inches of snow were added to the valley floor. Brooklyn announced several times that she was going to tunnel out. When she realized that Ryland was taking her seriously, or at least looking at her very oddly, she stopped making the idle threat. On the eve of the New Year Ryland got Brooklyn more than a little tipsy, and they were making love on the floor of the study when the clock on the mantel officially chimed midnight. Privately they each decided it was a good omen.
Brooklyn pretended that she didn't know that Ryland visited the mines regularly. He obviously knew of a way out of the valley that he wasn't about to share with her. His lack of trust bothered her but not enough to take him to task for it. She had her own reasons for not wanting to know the route from the valley. Knowing would give her a choice. She was not prepared to have Ryland believe she stayed in the valley of her own free will. It was better that he continue to think she was a cooperative prisoner rather than irrevocably in love with him.
The subject of marriage was never mentioned between them, allowing Brooklyn to believe either that she had imagined his off-the-cuff proposal or that he had forgotten he made it.
What Ryland had not forgotten was his promise to teach her to read and write. His notes flourished around the house. She found them in her shoes, in the washtub, attached to various articles of clothing, and once, to interesting parts of Ryland's anatomy. For hours in the evening he would patiently listen to her stumble over words while she read aloud from dated newspapers and books he deemed were not too difficult for her fledgling abilities. Her appetite for learning was voracious. She practiced forming letters in the kitchen while bread dough was rising. She carried a slate around the house, making notes to herself about things she was going to do. In bed Ryland would write messages with the tip of his finger on her naked back, and when she correctly guessed what he was spelling her reward was out of all proportion to her accomplishment. Not that she complained.