And that, he couldn’t do. He had nowhere to go, no place to call his own. His real name was safest dead in Denver, and he had no way to know how a husband acted, anyway. The law of two nations made him a marked man, and his conscience too black to clean.
He left Emmett’s overcoat behind like he’d leave all his dreams. The cold morning cleared his head and brought on shivers like the frozen waterfall. The frosty décolleté of the mountains shoved Rebekah right to the front of his mind.
Regret stuck in his throat as he bade farewell to Gethsemane’s closed door. Confession might be good for the soul, but he’d never be able to bear the dreadful look in Lila’s eyes once she knew. She claimed she never judged folks, and he believed her, but that didn’t mean she had to like him, once she knew. Or respect him. Or want to be around him.
Or worse yet, love him.
Love? His heart all but stopped for one full second. Love. Oh, it had crept up on him, inside of him, with footsteps so silent he hadn’t had time to guard against it.
Love. Lila still loved Emmett, no matter her kiss. She’d vowed it. Outside, he petted Miss Frieda’s horse in the same sad rhythm of his thumping heart. Admired the Morgan and the smart trap hooked behind. Recalled Asa advising him to take Lila out on a drive. Watch the aspen turn the world to gold. It could never happen now, and his throat grew too thick to swallow.
Bronx’s spirit thrilled though, at the big shoulders of Mount Massive. Something so majestic, maybe there was a God after all, and like Lila said, one who forgave.
But no. He was bad. She was good. According to all he knew, God forgave. That didn’t mean Lila had to.
Bronx’s mood darkened with the clouds. He was good at smelling weather on the air. Today would bring rain, not a snow shower like Asa had warned yesterday. But either way, Asa might have to call off work, and that would mean less of a wage earned.
The horse whispered in Bronx’s ear, and although he’d not met the bay gelding until now, he took comfort in the advice. First, he might ought to forgive himself. Rebekah had run scared, too, is all. Maybe forgive her, too.
The door opened and Malina hung onto Miss Frieda’s arm. Wondered for a flash should he offer to carry the girl. Lila slammed the door, but her key stayed put in her reticule.
“You need a hand loading her up?”
“Thank you, but—” Lila’s eyes rolled. “Miss Frieda is very determined right now. I fear she would disdain your lifting a hand.”
“Seems rude not to.” He moved to help, but Lila held him back. Just her touch...
“She’s much stronger than I thought.”
“Must be Miz Frieda’s healthful broth.” He smiled.
“I meant Miss Frieda.” Lila laughed out loud, then added. “No, of course, Malina. She’s doing very well.”
“You sure got her wound up like a Navajo papoose.”
“Not much past a papoose.” Lila smiled, too, but not with her eyes. “She just revealed she’s only sixteen.”
Their fingers drifted together. Bronx wanted to be surprised, but he wasn’t, himself an outlaw tried and true by then. “Sometimes folks end up in the only place they can find. But your place, Gethsemane, you don’t lock up?”
“Not often during the daytime. If anyone comes early for Bible study, I keep Bibles and prayer books around.”
His chuckle caught the attention of Miss Frieda and Malina, Malina snug with a rug up to her neck. “Shames me to say, but...on the trail, we used those very words for the papers to roll cigarettes. Bibles. Prayer book.”
“Filthy habit.” Miss Frieda harrumphed, but Malina grinned, being the more worldly of the two. Lila rolled her eyes one more time, and sweetness gleamed from the deep brown depths. Bronx got it, though. Hereabouts in this sorry neighborhood, folks needed the Good Book more than anybody, but at night, womenfolk alone needed the added protection of lock and key.
’Specially since he wouldn’t be spending any more nights inside. Oh, the memory of his head in her lap started his body rumbling in every masculine way possible. He hurried to check Malina in the trap for something to do, hoping nobody noticed.
Lila came to stand next to him in the dirty dirt road and they waved as the trap clopped across Chestnut. Miss Frieda saluted over the reins, and Malina’s smile was more pink than pale.
“Where’s the overcoat?” Lila complained when he offered his arm. Like any gentleman ought. Even though he longed to be more. “I know you must be cold.”
“I’m all right.” He ignored the question, and they started off. Wondered if she suspected why he’d left the coat behind.
It was not a place of much daytime activity, not like the Avenue, with its millionaire row and fine hotels. Smaller storefronts offered dry good and carpets. Books and stationers, groceries and of course, bar rooms. Before the start of day, the falsefronts wore black eyes like the dead holes of skulls.