The room grew hotter than yesterday as the day wore on. Even though the louvers allowed some air to flow into and out of the small room, heat collected in the confined space. By the time the shadows on the narrow section of visible dock were at their smallest, Regina was considering removing her remaining garments. It's not as if he's never seen me in my altogether.
Perhaps it was being alone with him, or maybe it was the realization that he could have died. She wasn't sure why her reservations had evaporated, but she was certain that she was never going to let him out of her clutches again. He'd asked her to marry him at least a dozen times. Now she was ready to say yes.
She turned her back to him and removed her undergarments. As her drawers dropped to the floor, she sighed with pleasure at the small, cooling breeze that wafted across her bare thighs. Using the length of linen toweling, she fashioned a short sarong. It barely covered the important parts of her, but she had far more important things to worry about than her maidenly...her modesty.
Besides, her underwear stank!
"I'm crippled, not dead."
"You're not a gentleman, either. If you were, you would avert your eyes." She looked over her shoulder at him. "I have no intention of broiling alive. You'll be ready enough to kick off your covers in an hour or so."
His mouth twisted. "Kick? I doubt it."
"Oh, Gabe--"
He held up a hand as if to warn her off. "Don't--"
Understanding his feelings, she went to the crate on which the small kerosene pressure stove sat. She hated to add more heat to the room, but the hot compresses seemed to be helping reduce the swelling in his knee. At least the infected cuts had begun healing.
When he'd awakened this morning, clear-eyed and demanding the truth, she had breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving. Ever since he'd stared right at her and asked who she was, she'd feared he had forgotten her, had lost all memory of what they had been to each other.
And ever since then, she had been wondering why she had been so adamantly against following him wherever he went.
What if he had died in one of his crazy spy adventures? Would she have congratulated herself for not risking her heart, her love?
"No. I would have never forgiven myself for not taking love when it was offered," she told the greasy sausage she was slicing.
"What are you muttering about?"
She put a wedge of cheese, the chunk of sausage and the heel of the next-to-last loaf of bread on the short board that served them as plate and serving tray. "Nothing. Just thinking aloud."
"I must be getting better," he said when she'd set the tray beside his pallet. "That looks good."
Leaning over, she peered into the tin cup. "You haven't drunk your water. No food until that cup is empty." His kidneys were working this morning, but she was still worried. Yesterday she'd forced broth on him every time he woke, until he'd complained. Today he'd refused the cup she'd offered him until she promised real food for luncheon.
He picked up the cup and drained it. "Turn your back," he said.
She did. Today he'd refused to allow her to help him use the tin can that served as a urinal, even though it clearly hurt him to turn enough to use it without wetting his pallet. Stubborn darned man. But I've know that all my life.
She took the can matter-of-factly, ignoring his scowl. Once she'd emptied it, she carried the wash bowl to him. "Wash your hands," she said as she dipped her own into the scant inch of water. The barrel still held a few gallons, but she was concerned that they would run out if Peter didn't return tomorrow. Perhaps she should have started conserving earlier, but reusing the water she'd bathed him with had never occurred to her. Nor had reusing what she'd wet the compresses with.
Washing her underclothing and the blankets and pads Gabe had laid upon for three days had been an extravagance, but his bedding had been filthy. Now that he was able to control his elimination, he would just have to sleep in sweat-soiled bedding.
Gabe refused the laudanum Regina offered him after their meager luncheon. He was sick and tired of feeling stupid, of remembering events that might never have happened. The pain in his knee had subsided to a constant ache, strong enough to hold his attention, but manageable as long as he held completely still. Even when he moved, it was bearable. Most of the time.
He watched her clear up after their midday meal, wondering if she realized just how the sight of her in that skimpy towel affected him. No, he was not dead, he realized as his cock stirred. Thank God. He deliberately tried to bend his knee, a sure cure for an inconvenient erection.
There was still a gap in his memory, but he knew Heureaux and his gang were responsible for the damage to his leg. He remembered jumping from the wagon carrying the women away from the pickup site. His bad knee had given way slightly, making him land off balance, and he'd used his cane to balance. Alain had not answered his whistle.
That was all. The next memory was of being hauled along a narrow alley between stacks of battered crates, his arm across someone's shoulders, his bad leg dragging, useless. Before they reached a shabby carriage, his bottom lip had been bleeding from his efforts to bite back screams of pain.
That was Dom. I'm sure it was.
Getting him into the carriage had been enough to send him back into unconsciousness.
After that, there had been periods of more pain, of light and dark, and of someone speaking reassuring words. A woman. Gina? Or had there been two women? He couldn't remember.
Alain was there later... Where?
After refilling his cup, Regina had climbed onto the small crate that let her peer out the louvers that gave a view of the river. He'd noticed that she spent a lot of time there, and wondered why. Surely the view wasn't that interesting. It was too early to be watching for Peter, wasn't it?
"I wonder if they will come tomorrow," she said, as if reading his mind.
"If Peter said he would, you can count on it."
"He said that was the earliest he could get back." She turned her head and looked at him. "Gabe, we're short on water, and there's only one loaf of bread. The sausage is going rancid. What if he doesn't--"
"He'll be here." Holding out his hand, he said, "Come talk to me. I'm tired of lying around with nothing to do. Peter should have left us a chessboard."
She stepped down and came to him. Lowering herself gracefully onto the small pad she'd fashioned from a burlap bag, she fanned herself with one hand. "I swear it's hotter than yesterday. Would you like me to uncover you?"
He was naked under the ragged shirt serving as a blanket. "I'm fine."
Her giggle was almost carefree. "Gabe, I've seen all you have to show. Why be modest?"
Why, indeed? "Pride, I guess. A man feels kind of defenseless when his private parts are exposed."
"Afraid I'll attack you?"
He responded in the spirit of her question. "Hoping you will." He thought back to the afternoon in the gazebo at her folks' house in Boise. One of the best--and the worst--days of his life. "I'm not sure it would do you any good yet, though," A lie, for his cock was showing welcome signs of life. Not enough, but he had hopes.
"I've been thinking..." She caught one of the wisps of golden hair that had escaped the untidy knot atop her head. "I may have been wrong when I said I wasn't an adventurer. Ever since those men captured me, I've had the strangest feeling. As if I'm more alive than I've ever been before." Biting her lip, she looked away, hiding her expression from him. "Does that make any sense?"
"It makes every kind of sense," he told her. "Danger is like pepper on mashed potatoes. It gives life flavor. Do you remember when those bully boys showed up at Cherry Vale? They thought they could take over, because there was only one family living there."
"Oh, my, I'd forgotten that. It was the summer Ma and Pa took Katie and Buff East. You were sixteen?"
He nodded.
"Then I was ten, Lulu was eleven, and Micah was eight. And the littles..."
"Were little." He closed his eyes, remembering how scared he'd been when he saw the three ruffians riding up the trail to his parents' cabin. He'd known they weren't paying a neighborly visit, just from their appearance. Papa and Merlin had been out in the far pasture, doctoring a calf a coyote had tried to kill, and Mama was in the cabin. He and the younger children were all in the barn, supposed to be mucking out the milking stalls, but really playing one of their battle games. At least the younger ones were. He remembered feeling grown up and superior and impatient with such childishness.
Until he saw the invaders.
"Into the loft," he'd said to the kids. "Now!"
Lulu, Iris and Rhys scrambled up the ladder immediately. He caught Regina's arm, said, "Take this," and handed her the rifle that was never far from his hand. Living in the wilderness taught children caution early on.
She followed the littles up the ladder. He heard her footsteps going toward the hay door and knew she'd be sitting by it, ready to fire if necessary. He ran through the barn and out the far door. Brush, deliberately left uncut between the foot of the hill and the barn, concealed him as he ran toward the cabin.
His mother had seen the ruffians and was standing beside the closed door, holding his papa's shotgun. She smiled as he tumbled through the window at the back of the kitchen. Gabe pulled the Spencer from its position over the mantel and made sure it was ready to fire. Uncle Emmet had given it to his papa, but it was Gabe who loved its precision. Papa still preferred a spear or a knife.
"Open the door," Mama said when they could hear the creak of saddle leather.
He did, and stepped through, holding the rifle across his waist. "Looking for something?" he said, proud that his voice hadn't quavered.
"Just payin' a visit," the one in front said. "Your folks at home, boy?"
He hated to be called boy worse than anything, particularly in that tone of voice. "Yes."
"I don't reckon they is," the skinny fellow on the right said. "Else they'd be out here to greet us." He made to dismount, but paused when Gabe turned the rifle his way. "You ain't bein' neighborly, boy."
"I'm not feeling neighborly," he said. "You'd best be on your way."
"No nigger kid is tellin' me what to do," the leader said, and dropped a hand to his hip.
Before he could pull his handgun, Gabe shot him.
Mama stepped through the door and caught the skinny one with a barrel full of buckshot. A bullet from the barn sent the last man tumbling from his saddle. The horses reared and stomped, and two ran away before Gabe got the third under control.
Papa came galloping in a few minutes later, having heard the shots. By then both Mama and Regina were crying, hugging onto each other. Lulu and the littles were silent and big-eyed, staring at the three bodies sprawled in the dust in front of the cabin.
Gabe was sitting on the bench against the cabin wall, not sure whether to puke his guts out or to cry like Regina.
Eventually, he had done both, but not until after they'd buried the bodies and caught the horses...
"Remember how you felt afterward? Like you were ten feet tall and covered with hair?" he said.
"I remember I felt sick and scared and so glad you were there to make sure they didn't hurt us. I never, never wanted to have anything like that happen to me again." she buried her face in her hands. "Gabe, I killed that man. I don't think I could do that again."
"Reaching out, he caught her wrist and pulled her hand from her face. "You could, Gina. I pray you'll never have to, but you could do whatever it took to keep the people you love safe."
She shook her head, eyes closed.
"You took care of those girls, didn't you? When you thought you were headed into slavery or worse?"
"Uh-huh."
"Would you have killed to protect them?"
"Of course, but--" Her fingers clenched around his.
"There's your answer. Admit it, Gina. You're no fragile little city girl. No matter how much you try to be something else, you're still Hattie and Emmet Lachlan's daughter."
She shook her head, but he saw a dawning realization in her eyes.