Pawing her breast, he slammed filthy lips onto hers. A quick twist of her neck interrupted the assault but left a fierce cramp.
Chuckling deep in his throat, the cad clutched her tighter, squeezing air from her lungs until bright pinpricks danced through her vision.
He clamped her chin and forced her to meet a mud-brown leer. “I like me Reb bitches who’ll put up a fight.”
A bell’s jangle, far away, clipped through gathering fog. The brute’s grip abruptly vanished. Stripped of his grasp, she struggled for balance as her senses returned in a painful rush. Boot steps. A hollow, wood-on-wood clatter. A heavy thud.
Rapid blinks brought the café into focus.
The star on Roy Halverson’s vest glittered as he stalked around the table and slipped an arm about her waist. A growling drawl slid through his thinned lips. “Howdy, boys.”
Her attacker crawled from the floor and righted his chair, slamming the feet onto polished boards. “Well, looky here. If it ain’t Cap’n Dunleavy’s pet grayback.”
“This pet bites. Get yourselves out of here.” Not a man moved. “Now.”
Wearing matching smirks, the Yanks dawdled to their feet. The ruffian snatched his cap. “We’ll come a-courtin’ another day…” He winked. “…honey.”
****
Winnie wriggled from Roy’s protective embrace, planted one palm on the kitchen’s work table, and massaged the cramp in her neck with the other.
A whiff of scorched stew sent her stomach surging upward. She glanced at the mishmash boiling over on the stove. If only she could add the mudsill soldiers to the pot. The devils weren’t “reconstructing” anything. Citizen by citizen, life by life, they dismantled the town.
Roy loomed at her side. Like a quilt too warm for the weather, his presence draped her with a smothering heat. She dragged the back of a wrist across her forehead.
“I’ve asked you to close this place.” His gentle tone did little to disguise reprimand. “Now, I’m telling you.”
She’d not trade threats from three bullies in blue for demands from a rescuer who’d worn gray. “When I close the café, it’ll be for good.”
“Have you found us a place to go?”
She hadn’t found them a place to do anything, but she’d not get far on her own. She shook her head.
“Neither have I, but I will—very soon.”
Very soon might not be soon enough. Each passing day increased the risk the army would uncover the truth about her late husband.
And then they’d come looking for her.
She rubbed her temples in a vain attempt to banish a growing throb.
“Honey—”
She twisted away before Roy’s touch reached her cheek. “I’ve asked you not to call me that.”
A muscle bunched at the corner of his jaw. “I won’t let them take either of us, but the moment we disappear, we’ll attract their suspicion. When we leave, we have to get as far as we can as fast as we can.”
“And in the meantime, you cozy up to that Federal trash.”
“Because I need to know what they know.” A sniff wrinkled his nose. “Something burning?”
The bread!
She whirled for the cast-iron hulk against the wall, whipped towels from a peg, and threw open the baking chamber’s door. Smoke billowed out. A few swipes at the air dispersed the cloud…leaving an excellent view of charred crust.
So much for Mrs. McPherson’s good graces. Everyone within six blocks would hear the dressing-down she’d give Henry.
And the old dear would stand there, head bowed, and absorb every word.
Winnie marched to the table and snatched up a mass of resting dough. When she slammed the blob back onto the surface, flour leapt into the air. A shorter-than-usual second rise would produce less-tender bread, but perhaps Mrs. McPherson wouldn’t notice.
“That your secret?” Grinning, Roy ambled to the sideboard and snagged a biscuit from a platter. “You beat your baking into submission?” As he drizzled the treat with honey, a dollop dripped onto the floor.
She blinked stinging eyes to no avail. The tears migrated to her voice. “I’ve no time for conversation.”
He nibbled the biscuit while he crossed the room. After setting the treat aside, he drew her into his arms. When she propped clenched fists on his chest, white powder sprinkled a trail down black leather.
“There’s a quicker way out of this, you know.” He rested his forehead against hers. “By the time the Yanks realize we’re not coming back from a honeymoon trip—”
“Don’t.” She pushed from his grasp. He tried to catch her elbow. She swatted his hand.
His shoulders slumped on a gusty exhale. “Would it be so bad to marry me?”
“Stop asking. You and Mark—”