Betina Krahn (29 page)

How could he go through all that again? Caring … losing … hurting … He halted, took another step, then halted again.

And if he didn’t go? Could he really just turn his head and let her step off the cliff on which she was unknowingly poised?

He thought again of the softness of her heart, the stubborn determination of her optimism, her hope, and her need to give. The world needed a few self-sacrificing souls to keep human life and society bearable. He thought again of the delectable responsiveness of her mouth, the welcoming warmth of her body against his, and how together they seemed to fill some cold, empty region inside him. The hell with the world—he needed something to make
his
life bearable.

“Damn you, old man,” he muttered, lurching into motion. “You knew this would happen …” Within three steps he was running too.

Algy looked after them with a doleful expression, then sank down on the nearest pile of dirt and wiped his nose. “Roscoe, I think we gone an’ made her cry.”

Roscoe sat down with a thud beside his cohort, clutching his chest above his heart. But the discomfort in his chest was far more serious than the physical ailment he feared it to be. He was suffering an unprecedented pang of conscience.

“We got to make it right, Alg,” he said when that brief sharp pain subsided. “We got to find a way to get rid o’ that rock and give Miz Duncan back ’er garden.”

“What’ll we do, Roscoe?”

Roscoe rubbed his face and thought on it. When it came to him, he brightened. “We’ll do jus’ what ’is lordship said.
Blast it.
”

With his long stride, Cole caught up with Madeline at the kitchen door. He caught her arm.

“L-let me go—what are you—” She twisted in his grip and tried to resist being pulled down the steps … to no avail.

“Come with me, Madeline Duncan.” He wrapped an arm around her and all but dragged her around the side of the house.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, averting her face so he wouldn’t see her eyes as she wiped them.

“Somewhere—anywhere—as long as it’s away from this bloody place for a while,” he declared hotly, propelling her around the house and toward Netter’s Tavern.

“You can’t just
abduct me,
” she insisted in a choked voice.

“I’m your court-appointed nanny. That
is
what you call me behind my back, is it not? As your nanny, I can do whatever I believe is in your best interest. If I say you need to get away from this place, then—by damn—you’ll get away for a while!”

He led her into the shed at the rear of Netter’s Tavern and warned her not to move as he saddled his horse. She was in such inner turmoil that it didn’t occur to her to run out while he was occupied. By the time she thought of it, he had the reins in one hand and her in the other, leading both her and his horse outside. Seizing her by the waist, he told her to jump and succeeded in hoisting her up onto the pommel of the saddle. Then he managed to climb on behind and pulled her back against him.

They rode straight out of the village and over hills and through valleys, following the road that had brought him to St. Crispin. Exactly how long they rode, neither could be sure, but it was long enough for both Madeline and the horse to begin to tire.

Spotting a stream with banks lined with trees, he headed for it, riding under tall, arching elms and white oaks along the way. There were grassy slopes descending toward the stream, and as they neared the water, they could hear it gurgling over rocks. There they finally dismounted.

“All right, go ahead,” he said, looking at her with his hands on his hips.

“Go ahead and what?” she demanded.

“Get it out of your system.”

She huddled back with her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. “What?”

“The anger, the disappointment … the sadness.”

“I’m not angry or disappointed or—”

“The hell you’re not,” he declared, advancing on her until he was within arm’s reach. His eyes were blazing. “Those idiots have torn the hell out of your garden and anyone in their right mind would be bloody, pitching furious about it. Now, unless you truly are
Mad Madeline,
I suggest you get it out of your system. You can’t keep it locked up inside forever.”

She stared helplessly at him, her emotion too tightly bottled
within for her to be able to follow his suggestion. He shook his head.

“Do you even know a single curse word?” he asked in disgust.

“I … don’t think it necessary to resort to—” Her voice was small and choked.

“Very well, then.
The bloody bastards,
” he declared, shoving his face into hers. “Say it.”

“What?”

“Say it,” he demanded.
“The bloody bastards!”

She blinked and turned her face away, but he took her chin in his fingers and forced her to look at him.

“The bastards,” she mumbled through tightly clenched jaws.

He winced. “Louder.”

“The bloody bastards.” It was only a tiny bit louder.

He groaned. “You’re supposed to shout it, sneer it, or roar it,” he declared. “Blow my ears back. Deafen me.” When he saw panic rising in her eyes, he seized her by the shoulders. “Sweetheart, if you haven’t got guts enough to blue the air a bit, you haven’t got the guts to run a factory or build a village.”

She inhaled but couldn’t seem to expel her breath. Days—weeks—of draining work and worry and determination had left a pile of promissory notes inside her, one for each withdrawal made on her emotional reserves. Suddenly that emptiness began to fill with hot, churning emotions … rising, swelling, billowing frighteningly within her.

He released her and backed a step, looking her over with deliberate disdain. “Then pack it up, angel. Just call it quits and save us both a lot of time and trouble. The place is a shambles anyway, and your workers are nothing but a bunch of lousy, shiftless, stupid clods. You never had a chance anyway.” He crossed his arms and snorted. “All those lovely ideals, St. Madeline. And look where they got you.”

“Bastard,” she said in a raspy voice.

“What?” His eyes glinted as he cocked his head. “I don’t believe I quite caught that. Blasted? Blazes? Blamnation?”

“
Bastards,
” she said with significantly more heat and volume.
“Bloody bastards!”

“Why, Miss Duncan”—he stepped back and pressed his hand to his chest—“that sounds almost
peevish.
”

“Those idiots!” she shouted, flushing hot and trembling, feeling as if she’d burst if she didn’t get it out. “Fools—dolts—oafs—dunces—they haven’t got half a brain between them!” She paced back and forth and shook her fists. “They tore the living thunder out of my garden—and had the brass to stand there and lecture me on bloody horticulture! Roots, they say, ’
plants gots to ’ave a bit o’ root.
’ Roots be blamed! Who gives an infernal damn about
roots
when the entire place looks like a battlefield on the day after!” She kicked a stone and sent it skittering. “Stupid clods—don’t have the sense God gave an onion—”

While she was busy raving, he cast about for a small branch and now handed it to her, pointing her to a nearby oak. “Give it a few good whacks. Go on, you won’t kill it.” When she glowered at him, he suggested: “Think of it as a proxy for Roscoe and Algy.”

Bark and twigs went flying off the dry branch, and satisfying thwacks resounded along the streambank. She wielded the branch so hard between virulent epithets that Cole began to feel sorry for the tree. She must have felt it too, for, after a time, when her fury was mostly spent, she halted and lowered the bough.

“Numskulls.” Her voice was once more choked with emotion, but when she raised her head he could see it wasn’t anger. “Why would they do that to my garden?” Tears finally began to roll.

She felt his arms wrapping around her and tried to push away, desperate to regain control, horrified that he would see her cry.

“No, no, no.” He overcame her resistance and pulled
her against him, shoving her face into his lapel. “Don’t fight it. Let it come. Bawl it out. No mewling or whimpering, now—make those big, obnoxious snuffling noises. The louder the better. Make sure your nose runs and your eyes get good and swollen. Hiccups are always good, if you can manage—”

She smacked him on the chest with her fist, and he stopped. Then his arms tightened around her and she felt his chin settling on her head and his chest move in a quiet sigh.

It was like being enveloped in a living oak. He was warm and hard and smelled faintly of starched linen, wool, and a woody male aura that was oddly reminiscent of the scent of new lumber. In that firm embrace she felt sheltered and valued and wanted in a way that had nothing to do with philanthropic ideals. Pressed against his body, wetting his shirt with her accumulated tensions and fears and disappointments, she was just Madeline. Not factory superintendent Duncan. Not Saint Madeline. Not anyone’s guardian angel. Just a woman, being held by a man.

For the first time in days the tightly wound coil of determination in her gave way. Out poured dissatisfactions and setbacks, swallowed insults and small regrets. Tears spilled by the buckets, duly accompanied by jerky gasps and the required runny nose. He slipped a handkerchief between them and she drew back just enough to use it. Eventually, a few deep, shuddering breaths signaled that the worst of the storm was past.

“There … that’s better.” He lifted her chin and smiled at her reddened nose and eyes. “Nothing like a good bawl when you need one. Come, have a seat.”

“I … I think we ought to get back now.”

“Nanny says come and have a damned seat,” he said sternly.

She gave her nose another wipe. “You don’t talk like a nanny.”

“How would you know? You never had one. Until now.”

He had her there. And moments later he had her on the ground as well, sitting beside him and leaning against the trunk of a gnarled old oak. After a few blessedly restoring moments of quiet, he reached for her and began dragging her onto his lap.

“What are you—”

“Come sit on Nanny’s lap, sweetness, and—”

“Don’t be silly—” She tried to fend him off and keep her seat.

“Maddy Duncan,” he said quietly, “do you know what Nanny does to stubborn little girls?” He caught her gaze in his and raised his eyebrows in a deliciously complicated threat. For a moment she was tempted to call him on it. But she rolled her eyes instead, and let him pull her onto his lap. Once there, she resisted his efforts to resettle her closer and pull her head down onto his shoulder. After a brief and futile struggle, she heaved a sigh of surrender and relaxed against him.

I had to, Your Honor, he threatened to “nanny” me severely if I didn’t
.

“That’s better,” he murmured against her hair.

It was better. So much better that she wanted to never move again.

“Is that what you do when you need to let off steam?” she asked. “Curse and bash things?”

She felt more than heard his chuckle.

“Not quite. My method usually involves about a half dozen bottles of Scotch and a three-day stay in a—” He stopped. “Believe me, this way is better. You won’t have a three-day headache afterward.”

They sat for a while without speaking, her in his arms, listening to the gurgling stream, the shushing of the leaves moving overhead, and the sounds of calling birds.

“Now, are you ready for your lessons?” he said, shifting beneath her and sitting her up on his lap.

“Lessons?”

“Nanny has a few things to teach you.” He held up a pedagogical finger. “Listen carefully. The first is a science lesson.” She nodded, watching the glint in his wickedly warm golden eyes. “A body at rest tends to stay at rest unless acted upon by some outside force. Basically, that means that a box or a barrel will just sit there, in one place, unless something comes along to move it. That’s a law of physics. That’s also a law of human nature. A lot of people are just like barrels, some outside force has to come along and kick them in the bum-bags before they decide to move.”

“How … 
illuminating.
” She frowned.

“My point is, it takes a good bit of energy to pick up a barrel or kick a bum-bag. And you’ve been hefting and kicking quite a bit of late. You can’t go on indefinitely supplying the energy needed to move two or three dozen shiftless, uninspired dolts and run an entire factory—no matter how much you want to do so. The laws of science won’t permit it.” He reached up to stroke her hair and the side of her cheek. “As strong as you are, angel, you still can’t bend laws of science.”

She looked away, knowing he was right. The explosion of emotion she had just experienced probably came from being so overextended … going without sleep and eating poorly … worrying about and checking every little detail … and finding problems where she hadn’t expected them. “But they’re learning. I have to give them some time to begin to feel some pride and ownership in the place.”

He opened his mouth to say something, then paused, thinking better of whatever it was. “All right. Your second lesson of the day. Mathematics. If you have a dozen eggs in a basket, and you put in a second dozen, what do you have?”