Chasing the Sunset

chapter TWO

Clucking and pecking, the chickens moved around Maggie’s feet as she threw the feed out in a wide swath around her. She laughed when one stalwart hen pecked at the leather of her shoe.

"There is no more, you greedy thing," she said, holding the empty basket upside down and shaking out the last bit of feed. "You are fat enough as it is."

She enjoyed taking care of the chickens here at the farm; the chicken coop held more than twenty laying hens, along with a few young roosters destined for the chopping block. There were more than enough eggs for the household, and half of the week’s take went to the general store in Geddes every week. At first, Maggie had been afraid of the chickens. She had been pecked nearly to death when she had tried to gather the eggs every morning, but she had got the knack of it soon enough. Now the hens were used to her, and she rarely got pecked at all anymore.

Maggie put her hands in the small of her back and stretched luxuriously as she went in the back door to the kitchen. She was tired, but it was a good tired. She had been scrubbing the filth of months out of the kitchen and pantry for the last two weeks, and she finally felt as if she had finished. Now all she had to do was maintain. She looked around at the gleaming floors and shiny pots and pans hanging on the clean walls and felt an immense pride in her accomplishment. These rooms had been a mess when she started. Now they were clean and neat, the pantry was organized, as was the smokehouse. Only the garden was left to clean up, and it was not bad because Kathleen had been doing as much as she could to keep it up. This house was big, and Kathleen had been working her fingers to the bone trying to keep up, or so she had informed Maggie bluntly the first day that they had met. Kathleen had studied her coolly, her sky blue eyes enigmatic, then nodded briskly.

“I am glad to see Nick finally got the good sense to get someone in here who can actually help me with this work,” she had said, hands on rounded hips. Kathleen was blond and plump and when a smile crossed her face as it did just then, beautiful.

Maggie smiled to herself with the thought of Kathleen; she was the first friend she’d had in more than three years, the first friend she had been allowed to have. Kathleen was the everlastingly cheerful daughter of a local farmer. The youngest of a brood of seven, she was the only one still at home, and she supplemented her income with her work here. She had told Maggie that her father did not actually approve and that he would rather have had her at home, but that after a lifetime of letting her go her own way, he did not know how to stop now. Her father had plenty of money, she confessed, she just liked to make her own. Plus, she had said with a twinkle in her eye, it helped out Nicholas, the great idiot, who needed her, and got her away from her mother for a few hours a day. And once she, Maggie, had met her mother, she would understand that statement completely. Besides, she had said, it was her mother’s house, and there really was not enough for both of them to do. They just got in each other’s way, and spent the whole day fussing at each other. She had grinned and said she and her mother were much better off if she kept on working for Nick during the day. And it cut down on her father’s drinking, because he went off his feed and went straight for the whiskey when she and her mother were fighting

Kathleen was hardworking and honest, and she had a sly humor that poked fun at everything, even herself. She had noticed immediately that Maggie was nervous at being in a roomful of men, so Kathleen served the men their midday meal, and Maggie heard them teasing her relentlessly. Kathleen gave back as good as she got, though, and Maggie felt a smile curve her lips whenever she thought of how Kathleen had boxed the ears of one man who got too fresh with her. She would have been frozen with fear if a man had grabbed her like that; Kathleen slapped him upside the head so hard, the man’s ears probably rang for a week. She did not hold a grudge, either. When that same man came to apologize, Kathleen had smiled at him sweetly and given him a cold towel for his reddened ear. Laughter came easily and often to Kathleen, and she obviously did not fear even one of the men who worked for Nick Revelle.

Maggie had been astonished the first time she heard a giggle come out of her own mouth. The sound was rusty and muffled because she had not laughed in so long, but laughing was something that came back quickly to a person, she had found out. Just that afternoon, Mr. Revelle had come upon them suddenly in the kitchen while they were both holding their sides, breathless with laughter.

“I heard strange noises coming from the kitchen and had visions of a horrible accident,” he had said, looking at them quizzically. “But I see you are both perfectly fine, if a bit giddy.” He eyed Kathleen with his hands on lean hips. "I see that you have already corrupted my new housekeeper, Kathleen. Next thing I know, she will be trying to tell me what to do, too."

"You need someone to tell you what to do," Kathleen said saucily. "Just look at all the troubles you would have saved yourself if you had listened to even half of my advice all these years that we’ve known each other."

When he had retreated hastily from the kitchen without an answer to that, they both went off into gales of laughter, Maggie almost weeping at the expression on his face.

“Did you see him?” she gasped out. “Oh, lordy, I wish I had a picture of that look!”

Kathleen broke out into loud laughter again, her freckled face alight with humor.

“He needs to laugh like this.” She cast a shrewd glance on Maggie. “From the looks of you, it has been some time since you had any fun, too.”

Maggie felt hot as color rushed into her face. “I . . . I . . . “she began, but Kathleen cut her off.

“You do not have to say anything,” she said kindly. “You can tell me if you want to, but you do not have to. It is not a requirement of our friendship.”

Maggie looked down at the ground, sobered by the realization that she could never tell anybody what had happened to her. It was much too dangerous to have even Uncle Ned know. If anyone ever slipped, and they found her . . . she shuddered in fear.

“No, I have not laughed very much lately,” she said grimly. “I hope to keep on laughing, though. For a long, long time.”

***********************************************

Maggie sat by the stream and trailed her fingers through the cool water. She sighed in sensual pleasure as her fingers flowed through the clear, clean stuff. She had loved growing up in St. Louis, she loved the bustle of the city, but it could not compare to the beauty of these surroundings, not to her way of thinking.

It was just dusk, and she had slipped away after supper, just after Kathleen went home. She had found this spot days ago, and this was the first time that she had felt free to visit it. She had dreamed of it all day in the heat of the kitchen, while the sun beat on her bonneted head as she worked in the garden, while she beat the dust out of rugs so thick with disuse that she nearly choked on the dirt, as she scrubbed the floor of the entrance to the house, as she industriously polished the lustrous wood of the staircase.

Maggie leaned back on her arms with a sigh and looked up at the old gnarled tree that partially blocked the sky above her. The tree had massive branches and contorted limbs; its trunk probably measured ten feet around. Thick foliage shaded her from the setting sun and she could hear birds trill and coo to each other in the leaves. A squirrel jumped from one branch to the other, chattering furiously to its mate, and Maggie smiled dreamily. It was so peaceful here, and she needed the peace and quiet.

Rose and gold began to streak the sky, and Maggie watched the setting sun with a bemused smile on her face. She was content here. No one watched her here, she did not have to fear here. She could do what she wanted, and none could say her nay.

She surveyed the glittering rush of water and listened to its sibilant whisper. The wind carried the damp, fecund smell that lingered around water. It smelled of life, and Maggie breathed it in deeply, enchanted by this place. She glanced around at the small secluded clearing in the midst of woods. The tension that was always with her began to uncurl and float away on the breeze that caressed with its gentle fingers. She rolled her neck around, enjoying the sensation. She had not been this relaxed in years. No one comes here, she thought. I could take off these heavy shoes and stockings and put my feet in the water and no one would know. She smiled wickedly to herself and began to strip them off the minute the thought hit her mind. She moaned loudly as her reddened feet sank into the bone-numbing chill of the water. It feels so good! she thought, and giggled out loud, looking around guiltily. I could even wade out, she thought daringly. It is just so hot. She stood and wobbled as her feet slipped on the rocks on the bottom. Water splashed the hem of her gray dress even as she struggled to hold it up, and she studied its dripping wet fabric in chagrin. She giggled to herself even as she stripped it off in a sudden fit of recklessness and splashed heavily over to an overhanging bush to spread it out to dry. She felt unbelievably free standing there in the water in just her chemise, and she leaned over to splash water on her hot face and all the skin exposed on her arms and chest. Soon she was soaking wet, the chemise transparent, and Maggie just did not care. She sat down abruptly and gave a shout of shock. My, that was freezing! She laughed again, loud and lustily, in cold water up to her breasts. She looked down at the nipples that were clearly visible through the worn cloth of her chemise, and blushed to see herself so. She could see every contour of her body through the wet undergarment; the shape of her limbs, the tautness of her breasts, her small waist, even the shadow between her legs. She giggled again, then turned her head sharply as she heard a noise, and Nick Revelle stepped out from the trees.

Maggie was frozen. Oh God, Oh God, she prayed to herself. Please help me. Please. His eyes burned into hers, and she was helpless to look away. She flushed painfully, feeling a slow, sweet burst of something in the pit of her stomach. Then the memories began to surface. The face of the man across from her began to change, and undiluted panic began to sizzle through her veins. She began to scoot backwards away from him, never breaking eye contact, small sobs coming from her throat. He was coming to get her, he was going to hurt her, oh god, oh god . . The stones of the bottom of the stream cut into her soft skin, but she did not care, she did not care, she just had to get away.

“Maggie,” he said hoarsely. “Stop. Stop.” His voice was rough with emotion. “I come here sometimes in the evenings to swim. I did not know you would be here, and when I did see you . . You were having so much fun, I just watched you. I did not know you would take your clothes off. I did not mean to frighten you. Please, Maggie, please stop.”

Nick’s words began to penetrate her panic, and she stared at him in confusion. He was not rushing to get her, and she was just sitting here in the water. He could get her if he wanted, so why did he not? She began to shiver with the cold and with her fear, her arms wrapped around herself, the breast-deep water chilling her to the bone now that the sun had gone all the way down.

Nick stared at her with a combination of sorrow and lust. She did not see a reasonable man when she looked at him; she saw the same monster that she saw in every man. He had seen the way she flinched away from every male she came into contact with on the farm. Even the fourteen-year-old Tommy unnerved her. She cut the same wide berth around every man, and it hurt him to his soul to see the pain in her beautiful eyes.

“Please,” he said softly, in the same low, soothing voice that Maggie had heard him use one day on a skittish bay mare. “I promise I will not come any nearer. I will give you my shirt to dry on, and while I turn my back, you can get dressed. I will not hurt you. I will not hurt you, Maggie.”

Slowly, never taking his eyes from hers, he unbuttoned his cotton shirt and laid it on the ground in front of him. Her wide eyes stared at his naked chest in fascination, at the curly pelt of hair that grew riotously all over it and arrowed down into his pants. Maggie felt a flutter in her chest as he turned away and moved forward a couple of feet.

“Go ahead, get out and dry off,” he said gently. “I will not turn back around until you say.”

She crept slowly, hesitantly, toward the shore, each step a gift of her trust, her wet hem slapping against her bare calves. Maggie felt hot all over as she thought about how she had been behaving. Like a wanton, like a whore, she thought in self-loathing. He will make me leave now, he will. Oh god, what will I do? Trembling, she reached for the shirt and began to dry herself, never taking her eyes from the strong muscles of his back. The cloth of the shirt was still warm from his body, and a musky, pleasant scent clung to it. She put it to her nose, and smelled deeply. It was his scent, the smell of his body, and she trembled again, suddenly weak. The pit of her stomach felt funny, heavier somehow, and it scared her. She fumbled for her dress and pulled it over her head recklessly, with no heed for fastenings or her tangled hair. Maggie bit back her cry as she backed slowly away from him, moving toward the wood. Where were her shoes? she thought in panic. She could do without the stockings, but those were her only shoes.

“Maggie,” he called. “Don’t run away. I can hear you. I want to talk to you. Please do not leave.”

Her heart started to race. She clutched his shirt against her chest and tried to think. He was her employer. If he told her to stay, then stay she must.

“What . . .” she started, then stopped when her voice broke. She shivered again and looked around. The clearing which had seemed so serene and welcoming before was sinister to her now. The old tree seemed twisted and grotesque to her now, threatening and frightening. The green branches were black in the absence of light and they no longer whispered to her, they hissed malevolently. She could not seem to stop shaking.

Nick was facing her now, and she started violently when he took a step forward.

“No!” she whimpered when he reached out a hand to her. “Please, please, I will go back to the house, I will do whatever you want, I promise!”

“Oh, Maggie,” he breathed. “You can do whatever you want in the evenings.” His dark eyes glittered at her in the moonlight. He seemed struck with some fierce emotion. “I am not going to hurt you.” His voice dropped an octave. “I want to escort you home. You need to get warm. I won’t touch you, I will just point out the way. I will get Ned for you, if you feel more comfortable with him.”

He was holding out his hand to her, his strong, brown, capable hand that could hurt her so easily. Maggie ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips. She saw him take a step nearer, and she was frozen in place. She sucked in a breath, and he stopped moving, making no effort to mask his sorrow from her.

“Whatever it is, I did not cause it, Maggie.” He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw that she had just gone beyond listening. Her pupils were fixed and dilated, and she was breathing as if she had run a race.

“I want you to go home,” he said distinctly. “You are cold and wet, and you have had a fright. Come home now, Maggie.”

She still stared at him. He let out a sigh. She was going to hate this. He reached for her hand and pulled her close in one swift motion. She struggled feebly.

“Stop that,” he said sternly, and she quit struggling immediately and stood quiescent beside him.

Nick picked up her shoes, then set off through the forest at a fast pace, holding fast to her hand and pulling her along with him, dodging branches, moving around obstacles, and all the while she followed him quietly. He deliberately did not go near the stables so as not to run into anyone, and he breathed a sigh of relief when she finally stood in her own chamber. He grabbed a linen cloth and handed it to her.

“Dry yourself and get into something else,” he told her gruffly. “I will be right back.”

By the time he returned, she was in a faded dressing gown, sitting down and brushing her hair. He handed her a glass silently and she took it just as silently and drank the whiskey without complaint. He smiled faintly when she made a face and choked on the harsh alcohol, but she could feel much needed warmth spreading up from her stomach after she drank it.

He hunkered down in front of her and felt it like a blow when she cowered back.

“Maggie,” he said gently, and took her cold resisting fingers into his. “You are safe here, and no one will hurt you. You can go to the clearing and swim whenever you want, and I will not bother you. I promise you that.”

She looked at him suspiciously and did not say a word. He bit back a sigh and felt an urge to touch her face that he resisted. She would not welcome any contact from him.

“Go to bed,” he said softly. “Rest. Tomorrow will be here soon.”

He stood for a moment outside her door, head resting against the frame, palms flat against the cool wood. Then he walked slowly to the stairs above the stables and Ned’s room. He pounded fiercely until Ned answered the door, disheveled, obviously ready for bed despite the early hour. He had been up all night the evening before with a mare ready to foal for the first time, and Nick had sent him off hours before with orders to sleep for a while. His white hair stood up in spikes all over his head, and there was a crease on his face from the bedcovers.

“What is it? Is it the mare? Why did Tommy not wake me?”

“I want to talk to you about your niece,” he said heavily, and Ned’s face fell.

“I have been expecting you,” he said heavily. “Come on in.”



When Maggie awakened before dawn as she did every morning, she had a feeling that something was wrong. When she opened her eyes, the events of the night before came flooding back. She curled up in a tight ball in the middle of the bed, for she felt as if she were flying apart. She pressed a fist against her temple with a force that was sure to bruise later, but she needed the physical pain to distract her from the turmoil that thrummed inside her head. What was she going to do? She had no place to go, no money to speak of, no one else to turn to if he decided to make her leave. She would just . . . she would just die. Maybe she could give him what he wanted, what she saw in his eyes that he desired, and maybe then he would let her stay.

Her heart trebled its rate at just the thought. Her mouth trembled, and she put a shaking hand up to it. No, she could not do it. No. She lay for a moment in her warm bed, underneath her soft sheets, and thought about what had brought her to this point. She could remember a time, vaguely, when she had not been afraid and she wanted that feeling back again . . . she wanted it so badly.

She rose from the bed to stand at the window and stare out. The sky was just beginning to lighten with a rosy hint of dawn, and she watched the rising of the sun with eyes gone bleak and hopeless. When had it happened? How long had it taken to turn her into this spineless creature, the one who feared every touch, even obviously kind ones? When had she become the person who could not stop being afraid, the one who could not even live her own life anymore? She did not want to be this way, that part of her life was over, but she still relived it day by day and it seemed she had not escaped it after all. Once, and it seemed like such a long time ago, the world had been such a joyous, exciting place, full of grand adventures and shimmering surprises. She had met each day with a smile on her face, unafraid to walk in the sunshine, desperate to seek out new experiences.

She wanted to be like that again, for what was the point of all of this if she lived this half life, cowering in her room and afraid of every shadow? She might as well have died in that place, but she was alive, alive, and she meant to live the rest of her life, not wallow in bad memories and self-pity.

She would be that girl again, she would, and if Nick Revelle wanted her to leave then she would just beg him to let her stay. She would go down on her knees and kiss his feet if she had to. He was not like him, she knew that he was not. She could feel it all the way to the depths of her soul. He would not hurt her, or force her to do what he so clearly wanted to do. He had come upon her nearly naked, and he had put not one hand wrong upon her. He had been nothing but the soul of kindness and he did not deserve this distrust.

She would do whatever it took, whatever was necessary, because she felt clearly in her own heart that this was her last chance. If she was forced to leave, if she ran from this place, there would be no more chances for her. She would fall down into that dark hole of memory that was waiting for her and she would never fight her way to the top. She would live in fear forever.

Maggie firmed her chin. She was not a coward, and she could do this thing. With this decision came resolution and she dressed and made her way to the kitchens with a firm step, not faltering until she put her hand on the door.

He was in there. She could feel him. Maggie took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Nick sat with his back to her, at the table. His broad shoulders were slumped, his posture that of a defeated man. His face when he turned toward her made her gasp, for she had never seen such a maelstrom of emotion so clearly visible to the eye. His every thought was available to her, and she felt as if he had suddenly risen and stripped off every piece of his clothing. She saw

anger, and pity, and confusion, and desire, all jumbled together. He was naked to her for mere moments, and then he broke eye contact by turning away. When he turned back, a film had dropped over his magnificent eyes, and it was as if that moment of unity had never happened.

“I have made coffee,” he said quietly. “All I require this morning is a light breakfast, perhaps some toast and an egg. Oh, and Tommy will be moving into an upstairs bedroom today. Will you get one ready for him, please?”

Maggie stood and looked at him, then crossed the kitchen and poured herself a cup of the black, steaming coffee, breathing appreciatively of its comforting fragrance. She went to stand behind his chair, deliberately touching his shoulder with a trembling hand. She felt him stiffen beneath her touch, and she began.

“My parents died when I was fifteen, in a carriage accident,” she said. “They were coming home from a party at a friend’s house. They were very happy, and always laughing. It made others happy to be around them; they had lots of friends. My father’s name was Patrick, my mother’s was Suisan.”

His hand came up to cover hers and his head bowed. He knew how much courage it had taken for her to close the gap between them and lay that hand upon his shoulder, and his heart twisted in his chest. What did it cost her to do so? How excruciating was it for her to search so deeply inside herself for the mettle that she needed to do this? Her fear was glaring and tangible; it touched every aspect of her life, and it forced her to see all the ugliness that resided in the world, to see it without the filter of magic or dreams or even charm. And it was not because it was her nature to see it that way, but because circumstances had forced her to view it thus in order to survive. He wanted to hold her and tell her that from now on everything would be all right. But he didn’t dare.

“You do not have to,” he whispered. “I talked to Ned, and he told me what he knows.”

“Yes,” Maggie said. “Yes, I do have to. I have gone much too long without saying it, kept it locked up inside me for far too long. It is a poison inside me that is eating me up and killing me a little more every day. You have already done so much for me, Nick, and now I must do something for you, by trusting you. You have given me faith in someone again. You have shown me that the world is not all oppression and greed, that it is not all about neglect and cruelty to others. You have given me hope, and you must forgive me for not recognizing it right away. It has been so long since I felt that emotion, you see. So let me tell you this story, both for you and for me."”

Nick tightened his grip on her hand, and guided her to the chair in front of him. Maggie sat her coffee down and studied the grain of the wood table, unable to meet the pity she knew would be in his eyes.

“My mother was an artist, a painter. A very good one, and very much sought after in St. Louis and elsewhere. She even got commissions for portraits all the way in New York, and in Boston. My father was always chasing rainbows, full of dreams. My mother and I sometimes tried to bring him down from the clouds, but my father’s world was so beguiling that we always ended up believing in his schemes.”

A smile etched her mouth. Her face was soft with memories, and Nick wanted to trace the dreamy smile on her full lips. He wanted to touch her face with his fingers, softly, and teach her that all men were not bad, that they all did not hurt others for their own perverted pleasure.

“It always came out right in the end. We had the income from my mother’s paintings, and we were a family. We loved each other. I had the best childhood, the absolute best.” Maggie’s lower lip trembled just a bit, and a finger began to trace a pattern on the cup in front of her. The luminous glow in her emerald eyes began to dim.

“After they died, a solicitor came to visit me. He told me that his name was David, and he seemed very kind. He told me that my father had made foolish investments, which was certainly no surprise to me. But everything else he had told me was a surprise, for I never once thought that my mother and father would leave me without the means to take care of myself. But this solicitor, David, told me that he had just received word that my Uncle Ned was dead, that I had no other living relatives, and that my house and all its contents had to be sold in order to meet my father’s debts. He would, however, allow me to stay in his lodgings, fully chaperoned of course, until I found some other place to go or he could make arrangements for me.”

Maggie laughed, a bitter harsh bark so unlike her usual musical voice that it made Nick shift in his chair. “I was so grateful. I knew, of course, what my father was like, and it all seemed very possible, though my mother had told me that I had some money in trust. But I just supposed that my father had talked her into letting him spend it on one of his schemes. I was too shocked to make any decisions on my own and I was also too young to realize what that look in his eyes meant and I said yes . . . I went to live in his house and he treated me so gently, so carefully. Two months later he offered to marry me. I was so pathetically glad that I had somewhere to stay, I wanted so much to have a family again . . . and so I said yes and my days in hell began. He beat me into unconsciousness on our wedding night and told me that it was for my own good, and he smiled the whole time that he beat me.”

A shudder racked her whole body, and Nick tightened his grasp upon her hand. “I was not allowed to be alone, ever. If I smiled at someone in the street, he beat me for flirting. Once, he nearly horsewhipped a young boy to death for winking at me, and then he beat me for intervening. I was forced to work like a drudge in my own household, and the help were paid extra to spy on me. They all soon found out there was money to be made that way, so if there was nothing to report, why, they made it up, and I paid the price for it. I was allowed to have no friends, and if any of the servants were caught being too friendly to me, or got caught covering up for me, he turned them out without a reference."

She smiled a crooked smile that made Nick’s heart turn over in his breast. “I had no allies that way, you see. He locked me in my room for days on end with only a pitcher of water, no food, for any imagined wrongdoing. To teach me a lesson, he said. Then he would come at night to torture me. I slept under my bed some nights, wedged in the corner, waiting for him to come. He always dragged me out, though. I never got away from him.”

“I am so sorry,” Nick whispered. “Maggie, I . . . I am so sorry.”

Maggie smiled at him tremulously, and her free hand sketched an airy gesture. Her pointed chin rose almost defiantly.

“It is over now . . . and I lived through it.” She smiled grimly. “That bastard could not kill me, or my spirit, though he tried.” She hesitated, and looked down at the scarred wooden table. Her brows drew together in a frown.

“After . . . after he died, I found all the letters my Uncle Ned had written to me, and I realized that he had lied to me. He probably lied about the other things, too, the money and such, but it was too late to retrieve my parents’ possessions. I took the household money and left. I did not want any of his things. It would have made me feel . . . dirty. I felt dirty enough already.” Her gaze met his fleetingly, and then she bowed her head again. “I went to find Uncle Ned. It took me almost four months to get enough money to get here. I was lucky enough to find a kindly widow who let me stay with her for a while, and she paid me a pittance each week that I saved along with the money that I had taken. You know the rest. I had been here about a week when you hired me.”

Nick sat silently and stared down at Maggie’s small hand inside his own large one. Her fingers were delicate, the tiny palm callused. It made him feel sick to his stomach, to think of Maggie hurt, and bleeding, and no-one there to help her.

“I do not want to be afraid,” she said suddenly. She lifted her face to stare directly into his eyes. Nick fell down into the bottomless pit of swirling green, all the way down into her confusion and fright. He felt unprotected, as if he had lost a layer of skin. He wondered if she felt this way all the time, and if she did, how she could stand it.

“I ... I do not want to be like this any more. Will you help me?”

She turned her hand to curl her fingers trustingly around his, and his guilt flayed him raw. In answer, he squeezed her hand tighter, and made a silent promise to himself. This girl was too vulnerable, too hurt, for him to have the kind of relationship with her that he had in mind. She had given him something much more precious than her body in his bed, she had given him her trust, and he had never met anyone who needed a friend so very much. She needed him to be her friend, not her lover. He would just have to stop thinking of her that way . . . no matter how pretty her breasts were.

"Maggie," Nick said hoarsely. "You are safe here. I promise you that. I want you to know that you have a home here as long as you wish it."

As for Maggie, she stared at Nick and wondered what he would do if she told him the part of the story that she had left out, if he would still offer her a home. The part where she had killed her husband, and that she was sure to be hanged for his murder if they found her.