Chapter Six

From the other side of her unmade bed, Taylor warily watched the heavyset and gray-haired old grandmother as the disapproving woman wrenched straight the unkempt covers of Taylor’s bed. She then set about putting package after package atop her handiwork. As she unwrapped each one, revealing a breathtaking array of beautifully tailored clothing in every imaginable color and fabric—but none of which Taylor intended to wear—the older woman took great care to announce to Taylor, in a loud and stern voice, what each item was and how and when to wear it.

How rude of her to assume that Taylor would not know how to wear “proper clothes,” as she’d called them. And even ruder to assume that Taylor didn’t speak or understand English. Not only did she speak it; she could even read and write in it, her second language. Taylor wondered if Mrs. Scott could lay claim to the same accomplishment. Still, in the Cherokee way, Taylor said nothing, not even when the woman spoke loudly to her. Taylor was fairly certain that if one did not understand a language, one wouldn’t magically understand it if it were yelled at one.

Beyond that, the woman could have smiled and been kind. She behaved as did the white missionary women who came to the Nation—the reservation, as they called it—with their God and their judgmental ways, intent on civilizing the savages and destroying The People’s way of life. With all that fueling her rising temper, Taylor became less and less patient with the woman’s useless chatter.

“And this, young lady…” Mrs. Scott held up a corset. “Are you listening to me?” With an ugly expression on her face, she shook the heavy garment in the air, as if trying to get a response from Taylor. “Do you understand anything at all of what I’m saying, you little savage?”

Taylor’s eyes narrowed. She had heard enough. She spoke for the first time in the woman’s presence. “I understand you. And yes, I am listening. That”—she pointed to the pretty be-ribboned garment the shocked and paling woman held in her grip—“is a corset. I do not intend to wear it because I do not need it. But if you continue to yell at me, I do intend to wrap that corset around your head and pull the strings as tight as possible and hold them that way … until you stop breathing.” Taylor finished with a smile. “Do you understand me, yan-sa? In my language, that word is ‘buffalo.’”

The buffalo called Mrs. Scott dropped the corset onto the bed and ran shrieking from the room. Her waddling gait jiggled her large bottom unattractively under her brown skirt.

With barely a raised eyebrow, Taylor marked the woman’s retreat. The door to the hallway slammed behind her. Taylor listened.… There was no sound of a key turning in the lock. This was good. It would only slow her down more to pick it open with her knife, and she didn’t have a lot of time. Nor did she believe that the mean and very rude Mrs. Scott would come back soon to bother her. That was exactly as Taylor wished. She meant to make her secretive way downstairs, remain out of sight, and listen in, if she could, to see why Mr. Talbott had said, “Son of a bitch,” an insult to himself as well as to his mother, when he’d learned she was here.

Ignoring the clothes spread over her bed, Taylor sidled around the four-poster and made her barefoot way toward the closed door that opened onto an upstairs hall. Before she reached it, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. A flash of white. Gasping, she stopped and looked. She slumped in relief. It was only her. Or her reflection in a cheval glass. Taylor thought to bypass it … but something about the way she looked to herself stopped her. She stood in front of the glass, tilting the oval mirror up until her image was framed full-length. She tugged and picked at her nightgown. She frowned, pulled her hair back. In this gown, she looked like a child. And she had been treated as such—a young girl to be sent to her room while Mr. Talbott left to go speak with his mother.

Taylor grimaced in frustration. She hated to admit it, but she had to change her clothing to that of the white woman. Not yet ready to admit to herself that Mr. Talbott was right, Taylor convinced herself that it was the smart thing to do. One wore the clothing that would protect one from danger. It was that simple. In this place, she would wear the hated gowns and dresses that would keep her safe. She did not need to stand out now, to be noticed. She needed to blend with her surroundings, like the fawn did in the woods, like the bird did in the tree. She needed not to be seen by her enemies, so she would wear their coloration in order to move about among them.

Not be noticed? Taylor put a hand to her cheek and watched her reflection do the same. With her high cheekbones and long, straight hair of black? And her skin, normally pale—thanks to her white father’s legacy—now tanned to a light gold on her face and neck and arms from the journey here? How could she not be noticed? She looked herself in the eye, seeing the blue of the sky reflected there. The color in them startled her. Sometimes she forgot about them. But her eyes, like her skin, told their own tale. A white father. Half-breed. Because of her eyes, her own people had shunned her in The Nation. And here, among the people of her father, they would do the same … not because of her blue eyes, but because of her Tsalagi features given her by her mother. And because of the way she spoke. She knew her sometimes halting use of the white man’s language alone would cause her to stand out.

Taylor tried to tell herself that the white people’s rejection of her wouldn’t matter to her. She had no need to belong. She was whole within herself. And proud of who she was. She raised her chin, glared at her reflection … and knew that wasn’t true. She wasn’t proud, and it did matter. She hated who she was, hated the blood that made her an outcast. A sudden and horrible anger invaded Taylor’s soul … an anger that cried out to be heard, saying it did matter. It mattered because she’d already had a lifetime of being different, no matter where she went. A lifetime of being called names, of being spit upon, of being thought of as less than people of a whole blood. It did matter.

The anger that she refused to call hurt erupted inside Taylor.

With jerking, slashing movements, she tore at the nightgown she wore, somehow fighting the white father who had abandoned her. Anger at Hammer for having taken her love and then abandoning her and for leaving her no choice but to now be among the white people fueled her jerking and tearing of the virginal cloth. Anger at her mother for sending her here had her stripping away every bit of fragile and delicate lacy trim across the bosom. Anger at Mr. Talbott for … everything—for stopping her last night, for bringing her here, for taking away her buckskins, which forced her into these clothes of a weak woman, had her heaving the innocent and now irreparably damaged garment over her head and tossing it away from her. It billowed brokenly and fell to the carpet in a lifeless heap of tattered cotton.

Dry-eyed, proud, and naked, Taylor stood in the middle of the room, her hands to her waist, each breath a heaving one, her hair wildly disarrayed about her. Only its silky length, its tickling of her bare skin, its lying smoothly against her skin, like a caress, comforted her. She again caught her reflection in the mirror … and assessed her naked appearance now. What she saw surprised her. It was as if … it weren’t really her. This was no defeated girl looking back at her. No, this was a proud and mighty warrior woman watching her from the glass. She liked that. Taylor grinned. The warrior grinned back. Taylor cocked her head, eyeing this being. She knew it was her … but the woman did not look like her. She was thinner, harder … and still paler than Taylor had believed she was.

She should go downstairs like this. Taylor considered it, eyeing the door, then looking back to the bed and the waiting garments. No. She’d have no place to conceal her knife. Luckily she’d hid it under her pillow last night, or it would have been discovered when her clothes were stolen. Still, Taylor wondered what Mr. Talbott would do if she did go downstairs as she was now. Her nipples puckered, beading up to hard little nubs. A sudden tingling at the vee of her legs should have surprised her … but didn’t. This wasn’t the first time she’d had a reaction to this man. Last night, in his carriage and on the way here, she had watched him and had seen his appeal, the way he looked at her. And she’d known the craving again this morning when she stood in his bedroom and saw his bared chest and his muscled legs encased in his trousers.

Mr. Talbott was a handsome, well-built man. A mighty warrior himself. Muscled, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and imposing. Taylor tried to tell herself it was only natural to have these feelings for such a man. Any woman would.

But the truth was … she knew a moment of real shame. Not for thinking of appearing downstairs naked, but for her awareness of Mr. Talbott. How could it be that a white man would make her feel desire? She had no reason to feel anything for him, or any of his kind, except hatred. He was the enemy, a friend of her father. Taylor suddenly felt the vulnerability of her nakedness. She smoothed her waist-length hair over her breasts, as if she could hide her shame and her wanting from herself. Never would she give in to this hunger. Never. She would show him only her bad nature … and not the womanly side, not the soft and yielding side that Hammer had known. No, for this white man, he would see only the wild side of her that had got her thrown in prison and sentenced to hang.

Her head up, her bearing proud, Taylor turned away from the mirror and took the few steps necessary to put her again at bedside. Once there, she sorted through the packages, snatching up those items that best suited her needs. She chose only the most serviceable of the decidedly feminine pieces, those that she could fasten herself, those that she felt would allow her the greatest freedom of movement … and those that didn’t look like they would itch.

*   *   *

“Smirk all you wish, Greyson. I don’t think it’s the least bit funny, the way you insulted Mr. Harnison and Miss Chalmers last night. And poor Charles. He hosted such a nice gathering for your brother and Amanda. And here you didn’t even stay for the official announcement of their engagement. Once again, I had to make your excuses. It’s just too much. If you’re not going to behave, my dear, then why bother showing up? I am so embarrassed that I hardly dare show my face in public today.”

Grey’s smirk broadened into a grin. “And yet bravely you did so in order to come here, Mother. And practically at first light.”

Augusta Talbott pulled back, looking offended. “First light? It’s ten-thirty, Greyson. And I did not show my face in public. I came in the enclosed brougham.”

“How clever of you.”

“How hot and stuffy of me, you mean. I nearly suffocated with the windows up and the curtains drawn. Do you see to what lengths you reduce me? You should be ashamed.”

“And yet I’m not.” Grey grinned as he looked into his mother’s brown eyes. Steel-spined in public she may be, but she unbent a bit around him and Franklin. She could even approach warm and loving—as long as everything was going her way. Which, Grey also knew, wouldn’t be true for long … not given whom he had secreted upstairs.

Seated next to her on the medallion-back sofa and holding her white and slender hand, Grey raised it to his lips and kissed it soundly. “Admit it, Mother. You love me for being such a scoundrel, don’t you?”

Her chin came up. She withdrew her hand from his. “Of course I do not.” She frowned. “I mean, of course I do love you. You are my firstborn. But I do wish that you could—”

“Allow me, Mother. You wish I could be more like my younger brother.” Grey quirked his mouth irritably. “Be more involved in the family businesses and trusts and boards. Take a more active leadership role in the community and its government. Do more than sign whatever papers Franklin pushes in front of my face. Behave like the elder son and settle down with a good woman and raise a large family. Be more responsible and less of the profligate.”

His mother raised her chin and met his accusing gaze. “I see I’ve mentioned the subject before.”

Shrugging, Grey forgave her. “Maybe once or twice. But it’s all right. You are just being a mother, and trying to save your firstborn from himself.”

Her manner became imploring. “Greyson, you’re a wonderful man. Don’t think otherwise. I just feel you—how shall I put this? Ah, I have it. You need a challenge in your life. Something to stir you, to make your blood race. I don’t believe anything has ever moved you, Greyson. You’re too intelligent and too complacent. That’s an awful combination.”

Thinking of the death-defying challenge housed this very moment upstairs in his home, Grey grinned at his mother, noting the porcelainlike beauty of her face … and the worry lines he’d no doubt put there. “A challenge, is it? How about if you disown me, Mother? Just cut me out of the will. That would certainly challenge me, don’t you think?”

“Greyson, do be serious. I simply want you to be happy.”

“On your terms, though. Admit it.”

She pursed her lips, became defensive. “Not mine, but polite society’s.”

“Oh, hang society, Mother, polite or otherwise. I don’t give a fig for what society or even convention says I must do. I will do—” He couldn’t say what he’d do … because he had no idea what would transpire with the enigmatic Miss James.

“Well, there, you see? You can’t think of a thing you’ll do, now can you?” His mother’s finely arched eyebrows rose in triumph.

Grey chuckled, allowing her to believe she’d bested him. “Apparently, all I’m capable of doing is making your point for you. Evidently there’s nothing I want to do.”

Of course, he wanted very much to clear up the mystery and the dilemma that resided upstairs in the form of one maddening and unpredictable half-breed young woman who had every nerve ending in his body on edge. But he just couldn’t think how to bring up the subject of Taylor Christie James to his mother. Earlier, he’d been burning with the desire to question her. But now he was no longer so sure he wanted to know any answers his mother may have regarding Miss James and her father. He feared the answers would have unforeseen ramifications for him and his family. It was a steadfast and even unreasonable feeling, one not based on any evidence he could point to … but one, nonetheless, he couldn’t shake. It remained a truth in his mind and in his bones that whatever had happened in the James family, his own family had been involved in some way or another. Some unhappy way.

His mother heaved a sigh, managing to make it sound long-suffering. “Well, at any rate, I’m just glad that we have Franklin to fend for us.”

A chuckle escaped Grey. Here was the subject he needed to deflect the talk away from himself. “Oh, admit it, Mother. You think Franklin a big bore.”

She pulled back, her eyes wide. “Greyson Howard Talbott, do not put words in my mouth. I do not think Franklin a bore.” She paused. Grey smirked. She fought a grin. “All right, I do. He is a terrible bore. Poor Amanda. But you … I truly think you’re awful. You’re a huge embarrassment to your mother.”

Grey laughed. “I am not. I’m a disappointment, remember? I’m the profligate, the eternal bachelor, the man-about-town, never settling down, living only to gamble away my inheritance and drink and womanize—well, never mind on that score. But, tell me, what would your reaction be if I said I was thinking of becoming respectable and settling down to marry?”

He was thinking of his supposed ruse with Taylor, about presenting her as his affianced. The very notion excited him … and surprised him that it would.

His mother sent him an arch look. “Why, I’d think I was dying and you were saying anything you could to cheer me up. Now, don’t tease me. Out with it, my son. What’s this about, this sudden talk of your marrying and settling down? Have you actually met someone, and has she stolen your heart? Or have you gotten some society miss in a … well, family way … and I can expect her angry father at any moment at your door, armed with a shotgun and a preacher?”

“A charming scenario, Mother. One that does me great credit. But no, I’m more careful than that. And I don’t dally with society misses. They’re a singularly idiotic lot, if you ask me. Except for Amanda, of course. She’s a rare gem.”

Instantly troubled lines bracketed his mother’s mouth. She glanced down at her hands folded together in her lap. Grey’s suspicions grew. She was honestly distressed by Franklin’s upcoming marriage to Amanda James, a brilliant union, politically and socially, that would blend the Talbott and the James families. His mother’s precious society set was agog with the excitement—and she was upset. Grey’s heart thumped heavily in his chest. She acted as if Franklin and Amanda’s love for each other were about to trigger a bloodletting. Grey hated seeing his mother like this. He knew his behavior did no more than exasperate her. But this, what she was truly feeling now, appeared to be heartfelt worry. He opened his mouth, preparatory to asking her what was wrong, what lay at the basis of all this unhappiness, but she spoke first.

“Yes, Amanda is a gem. She is.” She said it with such determination, as if she needed to defend Amanda from a detractor. “Amanda is a darling girl. She will make Franklin a wonderful wife. But I just cannot believe—well, never mind.” She took a deep breath and turned a forced smile Grey’s way. “Tell me about this young woman who has stolen your heart.”

Grey allowed the change in subject … mostly because a pair of deep blue eyes set in an oval face with high cheekbones and a stubborn mouth burst into his consciousness. Stolen his heart? He chuckled, stretching his arm out across the back of the sofa. “Well, if the young woman has stolen my heart, it is so she can cut it out and eat it. But it’s more likely it’s my scalp she’s after.”

“Your scalp? Oh, Greyson, not more trouble? Not on top of everything else?”

Grey’s eyes narrowed. “On top of what ‘everything else,’ Mother? Why aren’t you happy over Franklin’s engagement to Amanda? They love each other to an embarrassing degree. Her mother is your best friend. And politically, this wedding will assure Franklin of the mayoralty. And you’re not happy. Why?”

She firmed her lips. “I am happy.”

“You are not.”

“I am if I say I am.” Her tone of voice approached shrill.

Suspicion turned fearful in Grey’s chest. “Of course you are,” he said quietly.

His mother practically glared at him. “We were talking about your trouble and not about Camilla James being my friend or not.”

Or not? That got his attention. Camilla not her friend? Since when? Still, Grey nodded and went on with the conversation at hand. “Yes. My trouble. Let me begin this way. Have you noticed anything, well, peculiar here today, Mother?”

As if defeated, she put a hand to her brow, rubbing there as she shook her head. Then she met his waiting gaze. “You’ll have to be more specific. Peculiar is the normal state of affairs in your household.”

Grey ducked his head regally, as if acknowledging an accolade. “Thank you, Mother. All right, to be specific, I have barely a servant left today. Bentley, Cook, and Mrs. Scott, to name a few, are still here. But I haven’t completely assessed the tattered reduction-in-ranks to my chambermaid situation.”

His mother sat up, straightening her spine. A look of reproval claimed her fair features. “The chambermaids? I have told you before that a gentleman does not … dabble among his employees, Greyson—”

“For God’s sake, Mother, not that.” He pulled back and stared at her. Her dark yet graying hair was impeccably coifed, her midnight blue day gown of the latest fashion, her mannerisms elegant. Somehow, he couldn’t see Miss James surviving among women such as his mother. A sudden surge of protectiveness toward the Cherokee girl upstairs assailed him. He turned the unwelcome feeling into vexation with his mother. “You do think the worst of me, don’t you?”

His mother clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “Of course I do not. Your father, God rest his soul, and I raised you to be a wonderful man. And I know that, underneath it all, you are. Only, Greyson, I do hear the rumors.”

Grey was sulking now. He slouched down on the sofa cushions, his legs crossed, his hands in his pants pockets. He stared at his shoes. “They’re not rumors, Mother. The stories are true. All of them.”

His mother sat back. “I don’t doubt it. All that’s left, then, is for you to take up residence with riffraff. Don’t look at me that way. Now, tell me why you don’t have any maids.” Her tone of voice warned that compliance was expected immediately.

Grey turned his head to look at her. “Where are my manners? Would you like some tea or coffee, Mother? Or breakfast? I could have Bentley—”

“I have had my morning meal. And you’re already past rude in not having offered before now. I swear, Son, you need the deft touch of a woman to run your life.”

“You mean ruin it.”

“I mean run it. You’re sinking into a dissolute mess right before my eyes. Now sit up and tell me about the maids, Greyson. I warn you, I won’t leave until you do. Why have they fled?”

Here it was, the moment to begin his long tale of woe that had begun last night following his departure in disgrace from Charles’s. And the devil hang the consequences. Grey exhaled, sat up—and caught a furtive movement out in the hall. A hem of a skirt, maybe. A flash of color. Just beyond the open door to this room. Someone was eavesdropping. Someone who had changed out of her white nightgown and into a white woman’s clothes. This could be nothing but a disaster. Grey frowned.

“What is it, Son? You’re frowning horribly.”

He stood up, thankful for the footstep-muffling carpet under his feet. He was going to need it. He put a finger to his lips, signaling quiet … so he could whisper, “Keep talking.”

His mother sent him a look of outrage. “What did you say? Keep talking? Greyson, I insist you tell me what is going on here. If you do not, I will have a word with your household staff myself—or with what remains of them.”

“Nothing is going on here, Mother,” he replied in a normal pitch. Then he whispered again, “Keep talking.” He pointed toward the room’s open door. “There’s someone out in the hall.”

Frowning, clearly confused, she looked from him to the doorway and back to him … and began ranting. “No one is there, Greyson. I have no idea what to make of your continued shenanigans. I came over here this morning out of motherly concern for you. I have already had a visit this day from that hateful old baggage Mrs. Stanhope. She tells me that her lady’s maid told her that your housekeeper was in Miss Aldridge’s Dress Shop at practically dawn this morning. She said Mrs. Scott was hurriedly buying every piece of ready-made apparel on the premises and spouting a tale of such nonsense that no sane person could give an ounce of credence to anything she said.…”

And so on. Her diatribe did an admirable job of covering Grey’s stealthy progress toward the door. But with every word she uttered, Grey’s stomach knotted more. He had to catch the eavesdropper. This certainly wasn’t the way he’d planned on introducing Miss James to his mother. He hadn’t even had time to come up with a false story of how he and Miss James—whom he also had to give another name—had met, when they had, why he’d kept her secret, what she was doing here in his home, things like that. But now it seemed that only the startling sight of her could stop his mother’s tirade—if not her heart, when he suddenly yanked an Indian maiden into the room.

At this point, Grey was to the door and sidling along the wall, intent on leaping out and grabbing a hold of his guest, when …

… into the room she strolled, her long hair braided and pinned in a coil atop her head. She was dressed impeccably in a snowy-white shirtwaist blouse and simple skirt of garnet satin. She was magnificent. To the accompaniment of his mother’s gasp, Miss James stopped short and pivoted to face him … plastered there along the wall, his hands flattened against its wallpapered surface, and him every inch the picture of a large insect adhered to it.

Trapped, embarrassed, Grey immediately straightened up and dusted at a tabletop, as if that had been his intent all along. He cleared his throat and tried to act nonchalant. “Oh, there you are, uh, Spotted Fawn. I was just telling Mother about you”—Miss James opened her mouth, no doubt to protest; Grey rushed on, vigorously shaking his head no—“and how you don’t speak our language.”

Spotted Fawn, formerly Miss James, closed her mouth so abruptly Grey was surprised he hadn’t heard her lips slam shut. She glared at him.

As did his mother, who was now standing and who was not happy. “Greyson, who is this young … woman? What is she doing here unchaperoned? And don’t think for a moment that I believe that such a lovely girl is named Spotted Fawn.” She disgustedly spit the name out. “And if she doesn’t speak our language, then how do you expect her to know what you just said to her? Are you lying to me?”

“That’s not bad for a first guess, Mother.” Grey exhaled on a sigh. He couldn’t think how this scene could get more ridiculous … or worse, for that matter.

That is, until Bentley appeared in the doorway, bowing all around. “Excuse me, Mr. Talbott, Mrs. Talbott, and Miss … uh, Fawn.” Obviously Miss Fawn hadn’t been the only eavesdropper in the hallway. Grey raised an eyebrow, but the butler, who now faced his employer, maintained an inscrutable countenance. “I’ve only just put Mr. Charles James in the library, sir. He is in a state of acute distress, and says he has a matter of some urgency and delicacy he must discuss with you in private. What shall I tell him, sir?”

“Tell him?” Grey was certain he would explode into a thousand pieces. For as long as he lived he would kick himself soundly in the seat of the pants for ever stopping Miss James from announcing herself to her father last evening. “Tell Mr. James that I seem to have strayed into a French farce, Bentley. And that as soon as I can separate the players one from another, I’ll be right with him.”

Bentley’s eyes rounded. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Oh, for the—tell him to have a drink. A stiff one. And that I’ll be right there. Tell him to pour me one, too.”

*   *   *

Her father was here. Taylor’s breath caught, her heart felt squeezed into her chest. Surprising her was the realization that she didn’t want to see him. Not this minute. Not this way. Not with Mr. Talbott and his disapproving mother watching. Abruptly, before anyone else could move, as Bentley the man-bird turned and left the room, Taylor did the same thing. She marched out behind him, her spirit guide and protector.

Following her was Mrs. Talbott’s plaintive cry of, “Grey, what is going on?” And his response of, “Stay where you are, Mother. Please. I’ll be right back.”

Behind Taylor, a door closed. In the next heartbeat, her arm was grabbed. She jerked her gaze up. Mr. Talbott had a hold of her. “Oh no, you don’t. Not just yet. Not until I know what is upsetting Charles.”

While Bentley proceeded on his mission across the hall, Mr. Talbott abruptly turned her to the right. He walked her toward the long hallway that paralleled the staircase to the second floor and led—she knew from her entrance through it last night—out to the coach yard. Taylor made a darting look over her shoulder. The man-bird Bentley opened the door, disappearing inside the room … where her father was.

Taylor looked up at her tormentor. “Where are you taking me?”

Mr. Talbott stopped, looking suddenly lost. “Actually, I don’t have the foggiest idea, Taylor.”

He’d called her Taylor. Momentary surprise quieted her. She’d given no such permission. But at the moment, his familiar use of her name was a distant concern. Too much else here was wrong. Not giving him the benefit of her thinking, not telling him that she had no wish to confront her father right now, she made a simple announcement. “I wish to see Red Sky.”

Mr. Talbott bent his head down to her, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “I beg your pardon? You want to see a red sky? As in a sunset?”

Such nearness to him had Taylor swallowing and hating her weakness toward him. His clean and masculine scent was not the least bit unpleasant. That unsettled her and had her hissing, “No. My horse. His name is Red Sky. I wish to see him—unless you have had him taken away as you did my clothes.”

Mr. Talbott managed to look sheepish, but his expression cleared. “Oh. Your horse. No, I haven’t had anything done to him. He’s out in the barn, and I’m sure he’s fine. Go see him. In fact, stay out there until I come for you. Will you do that, Taylor?”

That was twice. She exhaled angrily. “I tell you this now—you do not have my permission to call me Taylor. And I will not go by the name of Spotted Fawn.” Taylor wrenched her arm from his grasp. “I will go now to see my horse. And I will stay there or come back inside as I see fit, and not as you say. I may choose to ride him away from here, from this house of crazy people. I was wrong to come here. I do not belong.”

With that, and giving him no chance to reply, she spun on her heel and started toward the back door. Expecting any moment to be stopped, she stuck her hand in her pocket, fumbling to loosen her—

“Tay—I mean, Miss James? Wait.”

She pivoted around to face Mr. Talbott. This time her knife, which she had sheathed in a deep pocket of the skirt, was in her hand. She held it up threateningly, making sure he saw it. “Yes?”

He jerked back as if he’d been slapped. His breath left him in a hiss. “Damnation.” He divided his attention between her and her blade. Then his dark eyes met hers … and held. “Don’t leave. Please. I don’t know how I know it, but I do know that you belong here … Taylor. You do.”

Taylor pulled herself up to her full height and, with sure movements that didn’t require her looking away from him, deftly sheathed and pocketed her knife. “I belong nowhere.” Then, for some reason, and not quite sure she wasn’t trying to convince only him, she added, “And to no man.”

Again she turned her back to him and pushed on for the few steps it took her to reach the back door. Her booted feet on the hardwood floor made a final statement of each step. Grabbing the doorknob as if it were someone’s neck, she wrenched it hard and opened the door. She crossed the threshold and found her feet on crunchy gravel and her senses assailed by warm spring air, ample sunshine, and chirping birds. With no small amount of relief and sense of freedom, she inhaled gratefully of the fresh air, just as she’d done when she’d left the penitentiary weeks ago.

But before she could close the door, something compelled her to look back inside, down the hall she’d just traveled. Mr. Talbott was not there. The space where he’d stood was empty, as if he’d simply vanished. Taylor ignored the disappointment that ate at her, focusing instead on his absence itself. Was he also magical, as was her man-bird? Because he hadn’t had time, she didn’t believe, to get back to the library door and go inside before she’d looked just now.

Could it be that Mr. Talbott was also a spirit creature, here to guide her on her way, here to intercede for her, instead of to interfere with her? Was he her sign that her old guard Rube had told her to watch for? Standing there, staring down the hall’s empty length, with her hand still on the doorknob, Taylor entertained those questions, seeking answers. But only another question came to her. Could it be that she simply wanted it to be true, for Mr. Talbott to be her guide?

Taylor shook her head in an emphatic no to herself. It wasn’t true. He was a rude white man who didn’t know how to mind his own business and who felt he knew better than she did how to attend to her business. And that was all. Taylor instantly felt better and made a motion to close the door.

Just as she did, someone stepped into view at the other end of the hall. Taylor’s breath caught, her heart picked up its rhythm. But it wasn’t whom she’d thought … Mr. Talbott. Nor was it the other man, a virtual stranger to her but one she felt certain she would nevertheless recognize … her father. It wasn’t even Bentley. Instead, it was a woman. Facing her was Mrs. Talbott. The elegant older woman … slender, not as tall as Taylor, with her hands held in front of her at waist level … fixed her gaze on Taylor. She had no need of words. Taylor believed the other woman’s icy expression spoke the words of hate for Taylor’s kind in her heart.

An aching hurt centered itself deep in Taylor’s chest. Would it ever, in her life, be any different? With her lips threatening to tremble, Taylor managed to get her chin up a proud notch. Then, not looking away from the woman, Taylor closed the door in the face of this new enemy.