An Outlaw in Wonderland (13 page)

He could have sworn the material was still warm from her skin, which was just foolish.
It was the tail end of summer in Kansas. What wasn’t warm?

But the damn thing smelled like her. Also foolish. She’d been riding for days, weeks . . .
who knew? She had smelled—of horse, sweat, and that disgusting old hat she’d pulled
over her exquisite hair. So why, then, did he drift into the deepest sleep he’d enjoyed
since she’d left with the scent of lavender soap filling his nose?

Because he was crazy. But he’d known that for a long time.

“Ethan!”

Her voice was further proof of his insanity, because he heard her calling his name
as if she were right in the room. He swore she shook his arm, but that couldn’t be.
He’d locked the door. Therefore he was dreaming again.

And since he was, he reached for her, tangling his fingers in her hair, cupping the
back of her head with his palm, tugging her lips ever closer to his. He caught the
scent of mint—she’d often chewed the leaves to freshen her breath, not that he’d ever
found it anything but sweet.

She resisted at first; she always did. She’d left him; she hated him. But no matter
the hate, the pain, the past, they’d always had this.

Their lips met, and she gasped, the reaction opening her mouth to his tongue, rubbing
her breasts—no corset, how odd—along his chest. The friction—her clothes, his, nothing
more—caused her nipples to harden. He tilted her head, delved deeper, and after an
instant when he thought she might pull away—something that never, ever happened in
a dream and therefore did not happen now—she kissed him back.

She tasted the same—the flare of whiskey in the dead of winter, mint juleps at the
height of summer, intoxication of the very best kind.

The buttons of her bodice opened with barely a touch, and he slipped within. Cupping
the warm, familiar weight, he ran a thumb across the tip. Ripe, round, and rigid,
she groaned as he rolled the bud, the sound vibrating against his mouth, his chest,
making him ache. She wasn’t the only one ripe and rigid right now.

In all his dreams, she’d been young, the way she’d been at Chimborazo, wearing a drab
dress, a stained apron, and a horrid cap over her incredible hair.

He’d never seen anything quite like Annabeth Phelan’s hair. Not red, not really. Not
orange either. But a brilliant hue in between that should have been unfortunate but
wasn’t.

“Ahem!”

Ethan kissed his wife more thoroughly, running his hand from her neck, down her back
to her buttocks, pressing her tightly against his larger-than-lately erection.

“Ethan,” she murmured.

“Beth,” he returned.

“Dr. Walsh?” someone said.

He opened his eyes at the same time Annabeth opened hers. For an instant he saw the
self he wished he still was reflected there. Doctor. Husband. Lover. The man she’d
believed him to be, because he’d pretended so well. Then he remembered the bottle
in his pocket, the spare room nearby, and the reasons for what he kept in both.

He yanked his hand from her bodice. Something tore; a button came loose and hit him
in the eye. That small pain was nothing compared to the shock when she scrambled off
of him, sliding a knee down his manhood with just enough pressure to make him gasp.

He took one look at her face and understood it hadn’t been an accident. Annabeth knew
exactly what she was doing. Always. So why in hell had she been kissing him?

He struggled to his feet, and a second bout of throat clearing had him spinning toward
the door through which Sadie Cantrell peeked. “How did you get that open?”

Sadie pointed at Annabeth, who was trying, to no avail, to button a bodice sadly lacking
a button right where a button was needed the most. The pale, beautiful curve of her
breasts taunted him.

“It was locked,” he said.

Annabeth rolled her eyes. “Please.”

What did that mean? He nearly asked, but Sadie butted in. “Doc, ye gotta come quick.
Thought yer wife was gonna bring ye.”

“Come where?” he asked, though he was already following Sadie toward the stairs—slower
than usual, with more of a limp than he liked, but he was following.

“Miz Lewis’s place.”

He froze. “What happened?”

“Cora done fainted dead away.”

Ethan got a very bad feeling. “What does my wife have to do with it?”

“They was talkin’. Then Miz Walsh said her name, and Miz Lewis swooned.”

A helpless, frustrated sensation swamped him. He should have done something to prevent
this. But what? If he’d told Annabeth not to go to Cora’s shop, she’d have gone there
straightaway.

He glanced at his wife. “Why did you—”

“I needed clothes.” She stopped fussing with the rent bodice and threw up her hands,
casting Sadie an exasperated glance. “He burned mine.”

Sadie’s white eyebrows shot toward what remained of her white hair.

“I was going to ask why you came for me,” Ethan said. “You’re perfectly capable of
handling a fainting spell on your own.” She’d handled far worse.

“I wanted to give you this.” She crossed the floor in three quick steps and punched
him in the stomach.

He doubled over. On the way down, he saw a movement and twisted his head to the left,
narrowly avoiding a knee to the nose.

One girl, five boys? Annabeth Phelan had learned young to fight dirty.

He could have sworn Sadie laughed, or maybe she choked. Although, when he glanced
her way—after he made certain Annabeth wasn’t going to hit him again—the old woman’s
face held only concern. “Ye all right, Doc?”

He nodded, rubbing his gut. “What the hell, Beth?”

“You slept with that woman.” He blinked. “In our bed!”

“Did she tell you that?” He couldn’t imagine Cora discussing such a thing with anyone.
Ever.

“She didn’t have to.” Annabeth snatched a pillow off the floor. “You could have at
least laundered the sheets, Ethan.” He frowned, confused, and she made a disgusted,
infuriated sound before she threw the pillow at him. It bounced off his chest and
fell to the floor. “The thing reeks of her.”

He glanced at Sadie. “We should probably have this discussion later. Cora needs—”

“She done woke up just after yer missus left,” Sadie interrupted. “But she does wanna
talk t’ ye.”

“No doubt,” Annabeth muttered.

Ethan ignored her. “Would you tell Mrs. Lewis I’ll be along directly?”

Sadie nodded and, after a curious glance at his wife, left.

“What did you think would happen?” Ethan lifted his gaze from the pillow that lay
next to his foot. Annabeth still appeared furious, but now he was, too. “Did you think
you could disappear for five years, then return, and I’d be sitting right where you’d
left me?”

“You are where I left you.”

She was more correct in that statement than she knew. He was exactly where she’d left
him in every way. Same house, same job, same town—in agony, full of hate, afraid of
love, trusting no one.

Especially her.

“You mean to tell me no other man has touched you since you left?”

She turned toward the window, and his belly burned. He’d asked her what she’d expected,
but what had he? From the first, everything between them had been a lie. Unfortunately,
he hadn’t discovered that until after he’d married her.

“Why did you come back?” he asked.

“Why do you think?” She continued to stare outside.

“Honestly, Beth, I have no idea.”

“Neither do I.”

A
nnabeth started when a door closed downstairs. Ethan appeared on the street below,
carrying his medical bag, hurrying toward Lewis’s Sewing and Sundry. Annabeth hadn’t
heard him leave the room. She hadn’t even heard him on the stairs. She was slipping.

But Ethan had always known how to move without making a sound; he was very good at
sneaking, lying, spying. The only reason he’d ever been caught was her.

He went into the shop; Sadie came out. Annabeth’s lips tightened. Was Ethan kissing
the tiny, blond, perfect Cora? Had he told her he was sorry? That everything would
be all right?

How could it be? His dead wife wasn’t quite so dead.

Annabeth turned away. Why torment herself? As Ethan had asked:
What did you expect?

Strangely, she hadn’t expected this.

She retrieved her saddlebags, her gun. But before she could sling them over her shoulder,
she remembered her torn dress.

She drew out the clothes she’d been wearing last night. They were filthy; they smelled.
She tossed them onto the floor; they were all she had, thanks to Ethan’s pyre.

She considered going to the Sewing and Sundry and taking the dress she’d been promised.
She could wear a skirt that was a bit short. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t done so before.
All her life she’d outgrown clothes faster than her mother could sew them or her father
could pay for them. At least her breasts wouldn’t be showing and she wouldn’t smell
like a pig in wallow.

However, she might do something she’d regret—like gouge out her own eyes, or perhaps
Cora’s—if she walked in on Ethan and the lovely Mrs. Lewis tangled in each other’s
arms. Instead she stepped to the armoire, selected one of Ethan’s shirts. While she
was there, she stole a pair of his trousers and one of his coats, too. Wasn’t the
first time.

As she walked toward the livery, folks stared and pointed. It would just be her luck
that dressing as a man would get her thrown in jail when riding with outlaws hadn’t.
Then she heard the whispers.

“Where’s she been?”

“Thought she was dead.”

“Poor Miz Lewis.”

“Poor Doc. Woman’s a giant and that hair . . .”

Annabeth’s fingers clenched.

“They were gonna be married.”

Married?

“Uh-oh.”

The last was uttered in a cacophony of voices when she stalked to the door of the
shop and went in.

•   •   •

Ethan held Cora’s hand. He wasn’t certain what else to do. She kept crying, and nothing
he could say would stop her. He’d never been much good with crying women. Probably
because he hadn’t known very many.

His mother had died giving birth to his brother. He had no sisters. His wife was not
the crying type. He’d never seen Annabeth shed a single tear during the war. Certainly,
at the worst point of their lives, there’d been tears. But, mostly, they’d been his.

He patted Cora’s hand, making noncommittal noises as she continued to sob. How long
did such outbursts last?

“Y-y-your w-wife,” Cora stammered.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“She’s n-n-n—” Cora paused, breath hitching, large blue eyes beseeching Ethan for
help. The only word he could think to suggest was “nice,” and he was fairly certain
that wasn’t it. So he made more noises and patted faster.

“Not,” Cora finally managed. “Not dead.”

“No,” he agreed. Really, what more could he say about that?

“You said she was dead.”

Had he? His recollections since returning from Scotland had been fuzzy at best.

As time passed, he’d started to tell people she was “gone.” Everyone assumed “gone”
meant “dead,” and as more years passed, he had begun to believe it, at least in the
light of day. In the night, when he was alone, he’d known she was out there somewhere.

Out there choosing not to be with him. Which had led to the empty blue bottles.

“Ethan!”

He couldn’t recall Cora ever being so shrill before. Until now, her voice had brought
to mind fog and smoke, not skinned cats. Of course, she hadn’t been committing adultery
before.

Well, she had been. She just hadn’t known it.

“Yes?” he managed, though his head had begun to ache and his mouth was so damn dry.

“What are you going to do?”

“Do?”

Her bottom lip pouted. “About her?”

“I don’t understand.” Annabeth was his wife—for better or worse—and though there’d
been so much more worse than there’d been better, he didn’t really see how that mattered.

“Aren’t you going to . . . ?”

He waited, once again trying to fill in the blank and coming up short. Cora’s expectant
smile gave way to annoyance, and she let out a huff. “Divorce her!”

The thought had never occurred to him.

“She abandoned you, Ethan. She can’t just walk back into town and become Mrs. Walsh
again.”

“She doesn’t have to become Mrs. Walsh; she is.” Although Ethan didn’t think that
she wanted to be.

Maybe divorce was the reason Annabeth had returned. But if she’d wanted to be free
of him, she should have just stayed . . . free.

“What about us?” Cora whispered.

Ethan brought his attention back to the woman before him. He cared for her. How could
he not? She’d given herself to him when he was desperately in need of something, someone,
to hold on to. She’d believed they would marry; he had heard enough hints to that
effect both from her and from the folks of Freedom. He hadn’t discouraged those expectations.
It had felt too good knowing someone loved him, someone wanted him, when the only
woman he loved and wanted didn’t.

Would he have married Cora eventually? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that he couldn’t
now. She needed to know that, too.

Ethan took Cora’s small, soft hands in his. “My wife isn’t dead. I don’t know where
she’s been, or why she was gone for so long, but she’s back.” He kissed her knuckles.

When he lifted his head, she wasn’t looking at him but behind him. She wasn’t crying;
she didn’t appear ready to scream. Instead, her face had turned white; her rosy lips
had taken on a hint of blue. Alarmed, Ethan tightened his grip, and her gaze flicked
to his.

“I’m with child,” she said.

The whole world shimmied. He couldn’t speak; he couldn’t breathe. Someone behind him
choked.

Ethan spun. His wife stood in the doorway. “Beth,” he began. “I—”

She ran.

Ethan’s skin went clammy; sweat beaded his brow. He swallowed several times and managed
to keep himself from puking. Could life get any worse?

He took one step toward the gaping door, and Cora cried out. He glanced at her just
in time to see her eyes flutter; he caught her before she hit the floor.

“Jesus,” he muttered, gaze flicking to the exit and then back to her. He wanted so
badly to follow Annabeth, but what would he say?

Oops?

The laugh that escaped sounded slightly hysterical. Ethan pursed his lips. If he continued
to laugh like that, he might not stop. Instead, he concentrated on the only thing
he’d ever been good at. Doctoring. He certainly wasn’t much of a man.

Not true. By any “man’s” standards, he was quite the specimen. How many women would
he impregnate before he was through?

Ethan retrieved his bag, dug inside, and found the smelling salts. One wave beneath
her nose and Cora choked, then opened her eyes. She shoved the bottle away. “What
are you trying to do to me?”

“Hasn’t anyone ever used smelling salts when you fainted?”

“I’ve never fainted.” She set her hand on her stomach. “Must be the baby.”

Ethan glanced toward the still-open doorway and sighed. “Must be.”

“Aren’t you happy?”

Ethan was a lot of things, but happy wasn’t one of them. Happy hadn’t been one of
them for so long, he couldn’t recall what happy felt like.

He returned his gaze to Cora. “Can you sit up?”

“If you help me.” He helped; she clung. “Tell me that you love me.” Her indrawn breath
quavered, jiggling her breasts against his arm. Ethan wanted to tear away, to get
away. “That you love
us
.”

Should he lie? Or should he break her heart?

The impossible choice was postponed when Sadie reappeared. “Doc!” Cora released an
annoyed huff, and her fingers tightened on Ethan’s arm. “Yer wife.”

Ethan stood, the movement tearing Cora’s hold free. “What’s wrong?”

“You should probably run,” Sadie said.

•   •   •

Folks continued to stare and mutter as Annabeth stumbled up the street. She ignored
them as she headed for the livery. She’d been on her way out of town. She wished she’d
just left and not decided to confront her husband and his mistress about their bigamous
plans. Now she had a new painful memory to add to the old.

I’m with child.

She leaned against the corner of the nearest building; her chest rebelled at the lack
of air. She took another gulp, which sounded too much like a sob. She hadn’t cried
since she’d left Freedom; she wasn’t going to start again now.

Annabeth glanced behind her, afraid Ethan might have followed. But why would he? He’d
just been given everything he’d ever wanted.

Her fingers curled until her nails bit into her palms. The tiny, sharp pain brought
some clarity. She couldn’t leave. Not quite yet.

She retraced her steps to the office. No one spoke; everyone moved out of the way.
Shoving open the front door so hard, it banged against the wall, her gaze circled
the room. Cold stove, nearly empty wood box.

An ax.

Her fingers closed around the handle. Slowly, she climbed the stairs and went into
the spare room. What had seemed like a good idea five minutes ago didn’t any longer.
She couldn’t lift the ax; she wanted to sink onto the floor and die.

The footsteps pounding up the stairs caused her to tighten her grip. The sound of
her name being called in a desperate, frightened voice made her want to laugh. What
did Ethan think she was going to do?

He appeared in the doorway, his face as white as it had been at Cora’s. He was sweating;
he appeared ready to vomit. That made two of them.

Make that three. Or would it be four? She was fairly certain Cora wanted to vomit
right now as well, and did she count as one person, or two? Annabeth shook her head.
Was she losing her mind? It wasn’t the first time she’d wondered.

“Beth?” Ethan stepped into the room. Hands open to show he held nothing in them, he
stared at her as if she were a wild thing. “What are you doing?”

“What you should have done.” She tightened her grip. “Long ago.”

“Honey,” he began.

“Shut. Up.” Annabeth swung the ax.

The crib shattered into several large chunks. She continued to hack away at it until
the thing lay in several dozen small ones. When she finished, she tossed the blade
in the center of the room and peered out the window. She needed to leave—this room,
this house, this town, this life—but right now it was all she could do to stay on
her feet.

“Why did you keep it?” she whispered.

“I . . .” he began, then sighed. “I don’t know.”

On the street below, a few people still paused and pointed, but most of Freedom had
gone about their business. No doubt the doctor and his no-longer-dead wife would be
a topic of conversation on street corners for weeks to come, but folks had work to
do and only so much time in which to do it.

Annabeth’s gaze went to Lewis’s Sewing and Sundry. At least Cora had the sense not
to stand outside and stare, although she might have been doing just that behind the
windows. The sun glanced off of them bright enough to blind.

Ethan came up beside her. He didn’t speak; she had told him to shut up. Annabeth still
couldn’t look at him.

“Why?” he murmured. She wasn’t sure which “why” he meant. Why was she here? Why had
she left? Why had she lied, spied? Why had they even tried?

Or maybe just why had she used his ax on their dead child’s crib? At least for that
question she had an answer.

“You might have put Cora Lewis in our bed,” she said, “but you aren’t putting her
child in the one you made for ours.”

“I wouldn’t,” he began.

She had no idea anymore what he would or wouldn’t do, but she knew one thing for certain.
“Now you can’t.”

They continued to peer outside. Did Ethan see the streets, the buildings, the people?
Or had his vision blurred with memories, too?

Standing in this room all those years ago, the town below them dustier and smaller—but
back then wasn’t everything? Laughing together, her belly round and taut. When he’d
laid his palm against it, everything in the world had seemed so right. How could it
have gone so quickly, and so totally, wrong?

Lies.

His. Hers. She still wasn’t sure where one began and the other ended. She probably
never would be.

A flash of light drew Annabeth’s attention to the sewing shop; the sun had moved just
enough to take the bright flare off the windows and reveal that Cora was not standing
behind the glass.

The sparkle came again farther down, near the edge of town. She’d seen sparkles like
it before.

Annabeth shoved Ethan aside as the window shattered all over them. They bounced off
the wall, landing on the floor in a heap of limbs and glass and crib chunks as the
echo of a gunshot rang in her ears.

Ignoring the spike of glass and wood against her knees and palms, the tiny cuts across
her face and throat, Annabeth crawled to the door where she’d dropped her possessions.
She slid her Colt from the holster, muttering a few curses that she’d left the rifle
in her saddle’s scabbard. A pistol was going to be of no use unless whoever was shooting
at them decided to approach the house. And if they were going to do that, they would
have done it in the first place rather than snipe at them from afar.

Annabeth thought about what she’d seen in that instant before she’d pushed Ethan out
of the way. A glint of sun off metal at the edge of Freedom, where few people roamed,
in a place where whoever wanted them dead could slip back into town during the commotion,
or jump on a horse and disappear during the same. Although, around here, there wasn’t
much cover.