“You,” he’d said, coming close and reaching inside the neckline of her blouse to slip her bra strap down her arm, “are trouble.”
Nell: Apologies. Wasn’t ignoring. Work is insane. I’m supposed to believe this phantom underwear was a ruse to get me to pay attention to you? You could also be covering your ass. Confusing me with that other person, the one who can’t remember to put on her clothes.
Louis: There’s no one else, silly. And I’m not using lady things to cover my ass. Not my type of thing. No judgment on dudes who are into that. After your last night here, you should know what I’m into. I can’t stop thinking about it or you. When are you coming back?
He’d been silly and sly that night before she’d left, with an appealing gleam in his eye. She’d like to see him again.
Nell: Might be coming back soon, given the letter. Would be lovely to see you.
Louis: Lovely? What every man wants to hear. I think it’d be a little more than lovely. Shall I come out there first? Exchange upcoming Cleveland snow for rain. In this case, I’ll take the swap. Also, I have info for you on duties. Good news is—no prison for you. Bad news is—I’ve always wanted to hike Mt. Rainier. Even in the rain.
Nell smiles at this. She’s already done enough of her own preliminary research to know that until the Moon is verified and authenticated she has very few worries about legalities.
Nell: Top of Rainier is a technical climb involving crampons and ice axes, but by all means lace up your Adidas and grab a water bottle. I’ll be working. The case I’m on does not appear to be settling.
Louis: Is your stiff-arming serious? Or do you like a little chase?
He’d been straightforward that night, too.
“I’m not drunk,” he’d said. “But if you are . . .”
“No,” she’d said. “I know what I’m doing.”
He’d waited then—appealing and desirous, but never forcing. When she’d reached forward for a belt loop, pulling him close, that had been all the confirmation he’d needed.
Nell: Apologies. You’re lovely. I don’t mean to stiff-arm at all. I’m just unused to this.
Louis: No more apologies. And no more with the “lovely.” I don’t have time to mess around. I like you. When I like something I go right after it.
Nell: I’m an it? How about handsome?
Louis: Better. Don’t forget virile, strong, smart, and good at chess, both literal and metaphorical. You could never be an “it,” so don’t pretend like I’m making you out to be a thing.
Nell: So bossy.
Louis: Seriously, I don’t want to tip the scales over into pest, and lovely is rather wan.
Nell: But you really are. Lovely that is. You’re a man who uses the word wan. If you come right now, I won’t have time to see you. But hold please, for further updates.
Louis: Fine. We can do this the old-fashioned way—letters/texts/whatever. Carrier pigeon, I don’t care. I don’t know if you know, but I’m very charming.
Nell: Yes, I’m aware.
Louis: And determined.
Nell: Clearly.
THE RAGMAN
Ambrose thought of following Ethan and O’Brennan, of ordering a car to take him to the train station, of not letting them shut him out again, of not letting them close another door in his face. But that was the weak move, wasn’t it? Trailing after them like a puppy?
His neck started to itch, close to the surface under his chin where he’d nicked himself shaving, and around the back toward his hairline.
Some movement was needed, some sort of action. After a quick change out of the traveling clothes he’d put on anticipating a train ride, he was out the front door. He crunched down the gravel lane between the high summer grass soon to be baled and headed for Ethan’s stables—a large complex of shingled barns a good half mile from the house. His itchiness subsided as he strode.
Ambrose stomped into the barn, but the scent of horse manure and hay mixed with leather soap and liniment transported him out of his thoughts with the promise of exercise, motion, and fresh air. He consciously calmed himself when the stable hand, not more than a boy, led the Ragman to him. The horse was wary, and reading Ambrose’s energy, the animal shied. Poor beast, none of this was his fault. Though he had a pitiable name, the Ragman was a black nearly eighteen hands. Some lineage from Holland, Ambrose had been told the day at the auction. Ambrose ordered a black saddle and black tack along with his own black britches and boots. He figured if he was going to be the ne’er-do-well brother, he might as well go all the way.
He was looking forward to his ride now. But the stableboy wouldn’t meet his eye, and paranoid thoughts raced through Ambrose’s mind—some help in the house had overheard him and May, someone had seen Ethan and O’Brennan leave him behind—everyone knew how servants talked.
“I hear Mr. Van Alstyne is up on the mountain,” the boy said shyly. Ambrose adjusted his thoughts. The boy was just a young farmhand, deferential to the owner’s brother. “New horse, too. Thoroughbred, so I’ve heard. Fast.” Ambrose looked forward to seeing his contented friend Van Alstyne. No surprise he’d be riding a racehorse off track. He had a penchant for horses he could hardly handle. “But fragile in the legs, I’m told,” the boy said.
Ambrose approached the mounting block.
“My sister works over there,” the hand explained as Ambrose threw a leg over. “At the Van Alstyne place.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him,” Ambrose said, and clicked his tongue to get the Ragman moving.
The boy tipped his cap.
Ambrose guided the horse up the small trail to the side of the “mountain,” really not more than a tree-covered hill. The stable smell gave way to dirt and leaf mold and a carpet of green ferns. A slight wind at the tops of the trees frothed everything up, including his spirits. Cured from this morning’s mess, and filled with pure air, Ambrose started to feel solid again, clear and vital.
He was nearing the top of the hill when he heard the dull, thudding hooves of another rider and saw a chestnut streak moving through the trees. The rider took a jump over three neatly stacked logs wedged in between a locust and a tulip tree. After a sound landing, the horse slowed and pranced, dancing back toward the beginning of the run-up, wanting more. It was then that Van Alstyne turned and raised a hand.
He dismounted, throwing the reins loosely over his arm like a cloak, and walked over to Ambrose with the other hand outstretched. Ambrose had the feeling then that Van Alstyne had timed the jump for maximum effect.
“Ambrose, my boy.” He was only a few years Ambrose’s senior, and this avuncular tone was new. Ambrose made the man reach up to shake hands, leaning over only as far as was polite.
“Get down off that beast and help me put another log on this jump,” Van Alstyne ordered.
Ambrose dismounted and tied the Ragman’s reins to a nearby maple sapling. The horse didn’t need to be fully restrained, just needed to think he was.