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  “Oh…” I whispered weakly.

  Cole made a half-turn, almost like he was about to look up at the window and spy us spying on them, and Patricia and I dropped to all fours and out of sight. Patricia hung her head, both of us overcome by breathless laughter.

  “I’m naked!” I gasped.

  “I’m nearly naked!” she responded.

  A light knock on the closed door sent us scurrying like mice across the floor to the side of the bed farthest from the sound, curling over our bent legs as though this would prevent anyone from seeing us.

  “What if…what if…it’s them…” Patricia could hardly speak, overtaken in mirth.

  “Patricia? Ruthann?” It was Birdie. “Is there anything you require before dinner, my dears?”

  I managed to respond, “No, thank you!”

  After Birdie’s footsteps retreated, Patricia elbowed my waist and whispered, “There is something I require…”

  “What’s that?”

  She collapsed, rolling to her back on the wooden floorboards, covering her eyes with both forearms, her breasts plainly visible through the thin material of the chemise. “I am utterly shocked by my own thoughts. I fear my answer would only shock you.”

  I poked her ribs with my toes and she curled up, giggling.

  “I think I can guess.”

  “No, surely you are too much a lady. As I said, I am shocked…”

  I opened my mouth to respond when new footsteps sounded in the hallway and a familiar male voice at the door inquired, “Ladies? Can I escort you to dinner?”

  “Of course!” I called, but unfortunately Axton took this as an invitation to come right in, which he did. Though not one prone to drama, I shrieked as the bedroom door swung inward, dropping flat to my naked front side, while Patricia nearly died with laughter. Maybe it was simple stress relief, but it seemed we could not laugh enough to satisfy the urge. She flipped to her belly, the chemise hiking up around her bare thighs.

  “What in the world?” Axton sounded truly confounded; before we could blink he took the three steps into the room required to see us, huddled on the far side of the bed. He immediately said, “Oh –” in a strangled voice, and then retreated, stepping backward and proceeding to stumble over a low footstool, landing with a wall-rattling thunk, arms flailing and boots widespread.

  Patricia laughed so hard she cried.

  More boots then, pounding up the wooden steps. Miles appeared in the doorway, I could see the top third of him from my position on the floor. I buried my burning face against the backs of my hands, arms bent like someone sunbathing. His expression, based on the brief glimpse I caught of it, was of complete stun, black eyebrows lofted high. He wore a clean shirt, his damp hair hanging loose.

  “I swear…” Axton tried to say but by now he was also laughing, supine on the floor.

  “Ruthann…is…naked,” Patricia wheezed.

  “I am not,” I retorted, daring to lift my face to contradict this statement, keeping my chest against the floorboards. My skin prickled with goosebumps, my hair falling across my back and shoulders. Miles looked as though he couldn’t decide whether to be shocked or amused, though amusement was winning the upper hand. He held my gaze with his dark eyes, which crinkled at the outside corners as a slow grin spread over his mouth.

  “Near enough,” he teased, his deep voice with a hint of heat, the first he’d ever allowed when speaking to me; his gaze flickered in the direction of my breasts as though he could not help it and I saw his chest expand with an indrawn breath.

  My heart thrust violently.

  “I swear I only asked if I could escort them to dinner, I didn’t know anyone was naked in here,” Axton said, almost choking on the word. “And then I tripped…”

  Patricia gained enough control to confirm, “This unfortunate situation is simply a misunderstanding,” but then Cole, also clad in a clean shirt, filled the doorway and she fell to laughing again.

  Cole took one look at the scene before him and said, “Dang, you-all.”

  I hid my face for the second time, feeling a flush expand from my ears straight down to the soles of my feet.

  “Out, all of you scoundrels!” Birdie suddenly appeared behind Cole, peering under his arm, which he’d braced on the doorframe. She demanded, “What is the matter with you men? Haven’t you the courtesy to leave the presence of unclothed women?!”

  But even I had to laugh at this ridiculous question, keeping my face to the floor, not daring to insult Birdie.

  Cole said innocently, “Birdie-honey, life just wouldn’t be worth living if we were forced to leave the presence of unclothed women, and I know Grant feels similarly regarding this matter…”

  Birdie smacked Cole’s arm just as Axton asked, sounding truly perplexed, “But what were the two of you doing over there, in the first place? Unclothed, that is?”

  Miles turned from Birdie to hide his grin, reaching to haul Axton to his feet, and Cole grabbed the quilt from the bed, draping it over Patricia and me with the air of a showman. Just before the whiteness settled over us I caught Miles’s gaze and he winked, still grinning.

  Needless to say, Patricia and I were late to dinner.

  Miles, Cole, Grant, and another man named Stadlar, who was employed as Grant’s foreman, made music that night until the moon was high in the sky. Grant dug out fiddles for both Miles and Cole while Stadlar played a tin whistle; the music was haunting and mournful, jubilant and uplifting, by turns. Their combined talent sent repeated shivers climbing the individual bones of my spine. I snuggled under a blanket with Patricia; Axton, who’d apologized three times for his earlier blunder, sat on Patricia’s far side. Patricia could not tear her eyes from Cole any more than I could tear mine from Miles.

  “I love watching them play,” Patricia whispered. “The intensity of their joy is truly astounding.”

  She was right and I found myself reflecting on the abundant joy found in the making of music; it was something that carried over from generation to generation, from one life to the next, in essence never dying, lasting through all time…

  Time…

  A shiver unrelated to my love of their music clutched at my gut.

  The leaping bonfire was surrounded by every person who lived on the ranch – Birdie and her boys, the young men who worked for Grant as cattle hands, the cook, and the cook’s son, a boy about five years old. There didn’t seem to be a mother, but I didn’t ask. The men passed a jug that reminded me of the one Branch used for whiskey, which I studiously avoided. The mood grew rowdier as the booze made the rounds, the musicians imbibing as much as everyone else.

  The Spoke’s bumping tonight, I heard someone say in my head, and then blinked at the strangeness of the thought.

  Birdie held her youngest in her arms while her older son roved from lap to lap; Patricia and I took turns cuddling him. Even Ax held him for a spell while the men played a ballad, resting his chin on the boy’s soft curls; he would be such a good father, just as I’d sensed on the journey here. I thought of how Celia once said I should marry Axton. Dear Celia, who meant to help me just as I meant to help her; and yet Celia was the one carrying Miles’s baby, left behind in a saloon many dozens of miles east while I sat at a fire within a few yards of him, entertaining thoughts of us making love until dawn. At least Celia had been given that privilege, repeatedly.

  Punishing myself, I recalled the night I’d first learned of her pregnancy.

  I was half in love with him, Celia had said, and I hated myself for the possessive jealousy burning in my chest at the remembrance.

  You selfish bitch, Ruthann. You complete hypocrite. Of course Celia meant she was totally in love with him and still is. Don’t pretend you don’t know it.

  I had always known this truth, even if it was the last thing I wanted to acknowledge. Pride had motivated Celia’s decision to order Miles to leave her alone, and her continued work as a prostitute was based on pure survival; she intended to send her illegitimate child east
to a better life, with no pleading, no hope of keeping her baby. Celia was a thousand times stronger and nobler than me.

  I deserved to be slapped across the face.

  The song ended, its mournful notes falling into stillness, and Axton murmured, “That was pretty, weren’t it?” to Birdie’s little boy, who nodded and shifted his head, resting it against Axton’s chest.

  “Daddy ain’t played my favorite song yet,” the boy said, drumming his heels on the ground.

  “What’s your favorite song?” Patricia asked gamely, smiling at the boy. Her merry eyes lifted to Axton’s and he was careful not to study her too intently – but I saw his expression in the glow of the fire and would have known then, if I hadn’t already, just how strongly he felt for her. He swallowed, throat bobbing, and tore his gaze away as Patricia continued chatting with the little boy on his lap.

  A movement caught my eye and I looked up to spy Miles headed our way, a cigar between his teeth, carrying a borrowed fiddle by its long neck. He came to a halt near my bent knees, grinning down at me in the firelight; my heart was all jacked up, my blood humming, unable to keep from responding to him no matter how badly I wished it otherwise. I felt like a lowdown, dirty traitor. Celia deserved so much better.

  “Are you enjoying the music?” he asked, removing the cigar. “I came to see if perhaps you had a request.”

  “I love all of it,” I replied truthfully, unable to look away. Even what sounded like a minor commotion on the opposite side of the fire did not pull our gazes from each other.

  “However, Ruthann only just mentioned she particularly enjoys the waltzes,” Patricia said, nudging me with her shoulder.

  “Then we will kindly oblige.” Miles appeared downright naughty, there was no denying, as if he were entertaining a number of impure thoughts; my suspicions were confirmed when he asked, with feigned innocence, “You didn’t get any splinters, did you? Earlier, that is…”

  “Are you teasing me?” I fired back. “Was that a joke?”

  “I am only concerned for your wellbeing,” Miles said calmly, shifting the fiddle to the opposite hand, balancing the cigar between forefinger and thumb and then tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear; in the night, it was black as an ink spill. He had not tied back its length as he usually did; combined with his mustache and the scruff on his unshaven jaws, he looked like a pirate. He murmured, “That would be a painful place for a splinter.”

  Axton snorted restraining laughter.

  Matching Miles’s nonchalant tone, I agreed, “Yes, and digging it out with a needle would be especially painful.”

  “Well, if I am able to be of any – and I mean any – assistance…” Miles let his voice trail to silence. His wide, wicked grin sent shockwaves of heat straight to the juncture of my thighs. I shifted position, blazing with arousal and guilt, in almost equal measures.

  Axton and Patricia were laughing, Patricia rocking sideways and taking the edge of the blanket with her.

  “You just let me know,” Miles finished.

  “How about you play me a waltz and we’ll call it good?” It was loud enough around the fire that my breathlessness was not obvious.

  “Smitten,” Patricia exhaled in my ear, as Miles rejoined Cole and Grant.

  Eventually the late hour began to take casualties. Birdie kissed her husband, bade us all good-night, collected her boys, and headed indoors. Some of the men stretched out near the fire, intending to sleep there, and because Birdie, the only other woman present, had retired, Patricia and I decided to do the same. Grant and Stadlar continued playing, a slow, wistful tune in keeping with the quieting night. Miles and Cole excused themselves and skirted the fire on the opposite side when they saw Patricia and me preparing to go inside.

  “Good-night, Ax.” I bent to hug him around the neck, from behind. I planted a kiss on his cheek, which was rough with stubble.

  “G’night,” he murmured, catching my forearms in his hands and squeezing, in this way reciprocating my hug.

  When I straightened, Miles was there to offer his arm.

  “Did you enjoy the waltz?”

  “I loved it.” I tucked my hand around his hard, warm bicep and could not help but picture how he’d looked washing up at the pump; undiluted lust had flooded me at the sight of him, I could not deny. And yet to define my feelings for him as simple lust was indescribably wrong – there was so much more than that boiling inside me. We walked to the house, well away from the fire. The pure, sweet notes of the fiddle reminded me of a tinkling music box. Miles paused and turned to face me.

  “It brings me great pleasure to make music for you.” He studied me in the dimness. “Sleep well, sweet Ruthann.”

  I was desperate to keep him a moment longer, even as thoughts of Celia loomed in the back of my mind, armed with sharp claws. “Thank you for bringing me here to this place with you. Your family is wonderful. It’s such a gift.”

  “I would give you many gifts, were I able,” he said, and my heart ached at his sincerity.

  “I know you would,” I whispered. I’d stepped closer to him, or maybe he’d drawn me closer. “You have been so good to me, Miles.”

  “Nothing has ever felt more natural.” He touched my hair with his free hand, stroking with great care, as if afraid I might bolt; when I did not, his touch grew bolder, long fingers twining into my curls. “I have treasured this time with you. It is a gift just to be near you.”

  Tears welled and I was glad it was too dark for him to notice. I could hardly bear such a heartfelt compliment. “Thank you, Miles. I don’t deserve that…”

  “That is untrue. You deserve so much more. So much more than I could give you.” He cupped my jaw and traced my lower lip with his thumb. I struggled to breathe. He was so near and I hurt so badly; the sadness inside of me threatened to crest like a wave that would take us both under. I wanted Miles to kiss me and yet I was terrified he would, all at once. He was no more than a few inches away and I was about to explode with keen-edged, desirous tension.

  “Ruthann,” he whispered intently, cradling my face, leaning closer…our mouths were a breath apart when I turned coward and broke away.

  “Good-night,” I stammered, and retreated inside before he could say another word.

  In the darkness of our room, Patricia and I lay beneath our quilt, backs touching as we snuggled together for warmth and comfort. She whispered and I tried to listen, curled with knees to chest, trembling, plagued by the sweet words Miles had spoken to me. He would have kissed me if I hadn’t fled. Guilt wrapped heavy fingers around my heart; I couldn’t even admit to Patricia how much I wanted him.

  Oh God, Miles…

  I finally realized Patricia lay in silence.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. Outside, the music had ceased. A few men remained around the fire; their low, murmuring voices drifted through the window glass to our ears.

  “Whatever for?” she asked softly, and I felt the mattress shift as she turned toward me, smoothing a hand over my hair, spread across the pillow.

  “I wasn’t listening.”

  “You are lost in thought.” She paused. “You believe you were married before now, do you not, before your loss of memory?”

  I pressed the base of both palms to my closed eyes and nodded. The pain banding my center was so terrible I felt attacked.

  “And that you may still be married?”

  “I want to believe he’s out there, looking for me…”

  My voice seized and Patricia scooted closer, slipping an arm about my waist and squeezing. “Then you cannot give up hope, dear Ruthann.”

  “But what if…”

  “Hush,” she soothed as I began weeping, assaulted by choking sobs. I tried to speak but could not; I was too depleted.

  I know he’s out there.

  But what if he doesn’t come for me?

  What if there’s no one and I really am crazy?

  And what about poor Celia and the baby?

  Oh God, pleas
e let me remember who I am…

  “We shall not speak of it again this night,” Patricia said firmly.

  I reached to lace together our fingers and brought our joined hands to my heart.

  Chapter Eighteen

  BETWEEN BIRDIE AND PATRICIA, I’D LEARNED TO STITCH a hem, attach a sleeve to a shirt, churn butter, and mix up bread dough, skills I did not remember ever learning. Birdie had been horrified by our overall lack of proper clothing; I possessed little enough to begin with and Patricia’s expensive belongings were, by necessity, left behind in the train car, so Birdie took it upon herself to make us each a new dress and two new underskirts, and was currently knitting woolen shawls. I helped with the weekly laundry, glad I had at least one household skill to put to use. My time at Rilla’s seemed like a fading nightmare – I clung only to thoughts of Celia, who was always at the back of my remorseful mind. Nightly I prayed she was doing well, that she was caring for herself and the unborn child as best she could.

  I could never hope to repay Birdie’s dear, welcoming kindness. Patricia and I had been guests at the homestead for nearly a month; there was a chill in the air not present when we’d arrived in early September, and a heavy new quilt on our bed. Miles had spent the evening following our arrival explaining to his brother and Birdie the events leading up to our flight from Howardsville; overcome by anxiety, I’d feared the worst – that they would summarily insist we be removed from their home. But the trust between Miles and Grant ran deeper than I’d understood, and no orders to seek refuge elsewhere were issued. Miles took care to relate the details of the conversation to Cole, Patricia, Axton, and me later that same night.