The Stranger's Secrets (18 page)

T
he morning sunlight pricked Sarah’s eyelids, making her roll over to avoid the bright rays. She felt a stinging on her cheek and reached up to find a wound.

The day before came at her in a rush and she gasped at the enormity of it all.

Then she looked at her hands and realized she had dried blood, horse shit, and dirt all over her. There was even hay in the bed, and she’d slept in her wrinkled, dirty clothes.

Sarah wanted to pull the covers over her head and hide, but her own smell was enough to drive her from the bed. With a groan, she sat up and got her bearings.

She blinked and looked again. There in the middle of the room was a tub, with wisps of steam rising from the water.

Somehow they’d not only brought in a tub, but filled it without waking her. Sarah wondered if it was Whitman’s doing, then stepped on the thought.

Her supposed husband was gone from her life from now on. She would no longer pretend to be married to a Yankee soldier.

After she peeled off her filthy clothes, she tried to climb in the tub but found she didn’t have the strength. That’s when she spotted the step stool.

Tears pricked her eyes again, this time for the thoughtfulness of whoever had left the step stool. Her legs ached so badly, she could hardly walk, much less climb.

With the most ungraceful gait known to man, Sarah got into the hot water and sank in up to her neck. It was sheer bliss.

Her aching, tired body trembled with the pleasure of the hot bath. It was exactly what she needed.

The door opened and closed behind her, but she ignored it. It didn’t matter who saw her, as long as she could stay in the tub.

Strong hands rubbed her scalp, easing the ache in her head. Then he lathered up her hair and rinsed it gently, easing through the tangles as a mother would a child.

He handed her a cloth and soap, then left the room.

Sarah wondered if Whitman would ever speak to her again.

Then wanted to kick herself for hoping he would.

Whit stood outside the room and tried to calm his racing heart. The sight of Sarah naked in the water, beneath his hands, was enough to turn his dick into a steel bar.

He wanted to make love to her, to show her how much she meant to him. Her silence, however, let him know exactly how she felt about him. He needed to make her understand why he didn’t tell her.

First he needed to see to her comfort. The train was leaving in an hour, later than normal per Alfred Bannon’s orders. It seemed every man in town loved Sarah.

She had no idea how much faith and love she engendered in people around her. The sarcastic wit, the sharp tongue, and the cane were her defense mechanisms, but they couldn’t hide the real Sarah Spalding.

Everyone else saw her and embraced her. Whitman had had the good sense to fall in love with her.

Now he needed to tell her the entire truth and hope like hell she would understand.

He headed for the restaurant to order breakfast.

Sarah lay in the tub clean and replete. The bath had been wonderful, but the water was cooling quickly. She had to get out, but the relaxing hot water had stolen her strength.

She tried to stand, but couldn’t. Her pride prevented her from calling out to Whitman, so she sat there and tried to figure out how to use the towel and the bedpost to pull her from the tub.

The door opened and Whitman stepped in carrying a tray of food with a mouth-watering aroma. He displayed the same incredible masculinity that had called to her the first time she’d seen him.

“What do you want?”

He picked up a towel from the bed. “To help you get out of the tub.”

“You are never touching my body again, soldier,” she hissed, her hurt overriding her good sense.

“Too bad you can’t stop me.”

Before she could even tell him to leave the room, he scooped her up and deposited her on the bed, then handed her the towel.

“After you dry off, I want to rub some liniment into your legs. That ordeal with Abernathy yesterday probably caused serious pain.” He spoke calmly as if there weren’t a river of anger and pain flowing between them.

It didn’t matter that he was right about her leg.

“Get out.”

“I can’t do that, and you know it. Your friend Bannon is holding the train until nine. That leaves us thirty minutes to get you ready and to the depot. I’m sure they won’t leave without you, so let’s get busy.” He rummaged through her bag and she threw a pillow at him.

“I said get out.”

He met her gaze, the green depths of his eyes reflecting as much raw emotion as she was feeling. “Let’s just get this over with, okay? I want to help you, so let me. Then you can kick me out of your life for good.”

He held up the liniment and walked toward her. Sarah had so many things she wanted to say to him, but she didn’t speak again. His hands worked magic as he rubbed the horse liniment into her legs.

The bath had softened some of the stiffness, but he dug in, finding the knots that refused to go away. Whitman was like a maestro making her flesh sing for him. Sarah closed her eyes and tried to pretend it wasn’t him touching her.

It didn’t work.

When his hands left her legs, Sarah couldn’t stop the sigh from escaping. Whitman, always the gentleman, was kind enough not to mention it. After all, she hated him and everything he stood for. A massage shouldn’t change that.

She refused to allow it to.

Before she knew it, he began pulling on her underclothes, and she lay there and let him. Sarah wanted to tell him to stop, to get away from her, but she didn’t. She would in just a minute or two.

In the meantime, he dressed her as he would a doll. His touch was as gentle as it was silent. Whitman didn’t speak a word as he worked, allowing Sarah to control the situation.

He set her in the chair in the corner and gathered up all her things, putting them in her traveling bags. When he stood by the door, she noticed he’d placed her cane beside her.

Sarah wanted to wail at the heavens for allowing her to love such a man.

“There’re a few things you don’t know. I want to tell you everything before we leave the hotel.” He took a breath and leaned against the door. “I was in the army for fifteen years.”

She sucked in a breath. Although she knew he’d been a soldier, hearing his admission was enough to shock her. Again.

“The army shaped me into a man, something my mother and her family were unable to do. They tried to make me into something I wasn’t with their money, into a banker who spent his days behind a desk playing with other people’s money.”

Whitman put his hands in his pockets, his gaze never meeting hers as he spoke. She knew whatever it was he had to say, it was worse than his admission of being a soldier.

“At eighteen, I left home and joined the army, against everyone’s wishes. For the first time in my life, I felt as if I was making all the decisions instead of following everyone else’s. It was liberating.”

She knew what he was talking about, understood it at the deepest level. When she’d finally shaken free of her mother’s ghost and opened the boardinghouse, she’d felt that freedom.

“I joined the army as a private, the lowest of low. I had to do whatever my commanding officers told me, no matter who they were or how crazy the orders were.” He shook his head. “There wasn’t much time for fun, but they still took some time to show me how low on the chain of command I was.”

Whitman walked over to the window and looked out. “During the war, I did things I never want to remember, but can’t ever forget. It turns men into animals, into base creatures intent on surviving no matter what they have to do.” He blew out a shaky breath and Sarah knew the worst was coming. “We were stationed in Virginia, a hundred miles south of Washington, D.C. By then I was a corporal and was responsible for half a dozen men. Sergeant Booker found a plantation he wanted to use as a base.”

Sarah’s throat began to close up even as her heart pounded hard against her ribs.

Oh, God, no, please no
.

“I pitched my tent outside and waited for orders. Booker went into the house with his three corporals and left the rest of us to fend for ourselves. That night at the campfire, he came back a bit bloody, talking of how he’d found a young girl to slake his thirst. Said he’d taught her a lesson.”

Whitman finally met her gaze, and in the green depths, she saw the truth. Sarah couldn’t breathe for the pain that roared through her. She didn’t remember getting to her feet, but she was in front of him hitting and pounding on him as she screamed.

She didn’t know how long she’d been hitting him, but she finally stopped and stared. His cheeks were red, his right eye was already beginning to swell, and his lip was split.

He accepted her hatred, her anger, and her rage without a word. She slapped him so hard, she broke blood vessels in her hand. Whitman still simply stared at her, then picked up her hand and kissed it where the finger was missing.

“I hate you.”

“I know.” He reached for her cane and handed it to her. “We’ve got a train to catch.”

Sarah took a deep breath and tried to rein in her emotions. She accepted the cane, cursing the fact her hand shook—hell, her entire body shook. Whitman had taken every bit of her heart and left her with nothing but anger and regret.

Two tastes that did not go down easy.

Whitman felt like an empty shell, a man who had lost his soul and his heart. He knew telling Sarah would be hard, but he didn’t know how hard.

Her rage had hurt, but the devastation in her eyes was even more damaging. His admission had cost them both dearly. It had cost them a future together, and every shred of love between them.

When they walked into the hotel lobby, Patrick was there with a big smile on his face. The freckle-faced young man handed Whitman a basket.

“Some breakfast for you.” He held out a hand to Sarah. “We’ll miss you, Miz Kendrick.”

She took his hand and managed a smile. “Sarah, please call me Sarah. And thank you, Patrick, for everything.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. I’m glad we were able to help.” He nodded at Whitman. “Mr. Kendrick, take good care of her.”

“She’ll be in good hands, I promise.” Whitman nearly choked on the words.

They wouldn’t be his hands.

“Sheriff Miller is outside waiting.” Patrick left them with one last good-bye for Sarah.

Whitman let her set the pace, knowing she was recovering from so much and not wanting her to suffer any more than she already had.

The door to the hotel opened and Sam Miller stood on the other side, a half grin on his face. “Thought I might have to keep the train in town another day.”

“I’m sorry, Sheriff, it’s my fault.” Sarah stepped outside and murmured her thanks.

The sheriff met Whitman’s gaze with a frown. “Everything okay, Kendrick?”

“Probably not, but we’re more than ready to head out of town.” Whitman couldn’t summon a smile. “You speak to the sheriff from Belleville?”

“I did and it turns out the deputy who grabbed your wife was drunk. He didn’t want to get in trouble so he made up a story for the sheriff.” Miller shook his head as he walked beside Whitman and Sarah to the train depot. “Never considered the man was lying.”

“People lie every day, Sheriff. It’s an unfortunate fact of life,” Whitman said. The passengers milling around the platform all stopped as they approached.

Whitman didn’t know what was happening and apparently neither did Miller. “What’s happening?” Whitman asked.

“I dunno. Let’s see if Bannon knows.” The sheriff ran ahead and onto the platform, pushing his way through the crowd.

As if Sarah didn’t realize what she was doing, her arm slipped easily into his. He supposed the enemy she knew was better than the enemy she didn’t.

The clapping started somewhere in the back, then built up through the crowd until it turned into a thunderous sound. Whitman wasn’t expecting the greeting and obviously neither was Sarah.

Her hand tightened on his arm and she sucked in a breath.

Alfred Bannon appeared from the middle of the crowd with Miller at his side. Both men were clapping. “We just wanted to thank you for helping us solve a murder and get the train moving again.” Alfred beamed at them.

They walked up the steps, Sarah moving slower than Whitman had ever seen her. He knew he was the cause and wanted to take her pain away, but he had no idea how.

By the time they made it to the train car, the other passengers had begun getting on the train. Alfred was waiting for them.

Surprisingly, he gave Sarah a hug and Whitman a hearty slap on the back and a handshake. “You two have made my life more interesting. I’ll be keeping an eye on you the rest of the trip.”

“Thank you, Alfred.” Sarah nodded to him, her face pale.

“Let’s get Sarah on board so she can rest. She’s been through so much.” Whitman set the bags down.

“Oh, of course, of course.” The conductor moved aside with a smile. “Your compartment is cleaned and ready.”

Knowing she’d protest, Whitman scooped her up in his arms for the last time and carried her onto the train. Sarah’s scent washed over him, reminding him of what he’d already lost. He gritted his teeth against the wash of emotions.

When he set her on the seat, she grabbed his arm. Whitman met her gaze and saw what he didn’t want to see.

A good-bye.

Sarah watched as Whitman stored her bags, then bowed to her as a gentleman.

“I’ll be in the public car if you need me.” He left without another word, leaving Sarah in a pool of misery.

Why did Whitman have to be a Yankee? A soldier? A member of the very platoon that had left her crippled?

She curled up on the seat and hugged her knees, rocking back and forth. Her mother had predicted what would happen. Told young Sarah time and time again about how unattractive, gangly, stupid, and so on she was. No man would want Sarah Spalding.

It was a blessing the soldier had crippled her, of course. Then she could have a valid excuse as to why she never married. It never occurred to Vivian Spalding that a man might want to marry Sarah because he loved her.