‘‘YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS!’’ KORA SAID AS SHE MOVED around the attic room lighting the lamps. During the day she’d brought up several pieces of furniture and three rugs, but the room was far too big to ever be a cozy bedroom.
‘‘I’m dead serious.’’ Winter pulled off his shirt and stepped in front of the washstand. The little bowl had been replaced by a large basin, and a rug now circled the floor within splashing distance. ‘‘What’s wrong with the man?’’
Kora moved behind a screen that blocked off one corner of the room. The panels of thin wood had been painted years ago with flowers that had faded into echoes of their former beauty. ‘‘He’s a gambler!’’ she yelled over the wooden wall separating them.
‘‘Any man who lives in this country is a gambler. If disease doesn’t kill the cattle in the summer, snow freezes them before spring.’’ Winter watched in the mirror as her dress lapped over the screen. ‘‘Had you rather your sister find a farmer? Now, they’re
She was silent for a moment. A white petticoat floated over. ‘‘No,’’ she finally answered.
He could hear her moving as she continued, ‘‘I only want her to be happy. She needs to get away from Dan and me and make a life of her own. You can introduce him and see what happens. If Jamie likes him, then I’ll be happy to see them married.’’
She stepped from her paneled blockade, her cotton gown buttoned to her throat. He stared at her in his mirror. The sleeves of her gown were too long, almost swallowing her hands, but the hem seemed an inch too short, for he could see her feet and ankles.
Winter suddenly felt the need to be interested in lathering the soap. He tried to watch what he was doing, but she kept moving past his line of vision in the mirror. The gown was thick cotton, but it still revealed the line of her body when she moved, as a dress would never do.
It was most distracting having this woman around, he thought. If she didn’t light somewhere, he’d slit his throat trying to shave. Another man in the room never bothered him. He’d shared quarters with sometimes as many as twenty in the bunkhouse. But this woman was different. A fellow could look at a man once a year or so and remember him. But not Kora. Every time he looked at her, she seemed to change. He felt a need to stare just so he could catch her in the act. One minute she was all prim and proper, the next all soft, like now, with her hair down and lace brushing against her throat.
He almost ordered her to stop walking back and forth behind him so he could get on with his shave. But when she crawled up in the center of the bed and tucked her feet beneath her, he found her no less interesting. He shaved slowly as she brushed through her hair and braided it into one thick braid.
When he finally leaned to wipe the soap from his face, he glanced back in the mirror to find her watching him. She’d raised her knees beneath the cotton gown and rested her elbows on them, reminding him of a child.
‘‘Do you always shave at night?’’ she asked.
‘‘Never have,’’ he answered honestly.
‘‘Then why tonight?’’
Winter turned toward her, forcing himself not to react to the sight of a woman sitting in the center of his bed. ‘‘ Logan told me yesterday that a married man always shaves at night. I figured if he knew something like that, him not even being married, then it must be some kind of rule.’’
‘‘But why?’’
‘‘You’re a widow, you must know,’’ he answered as he moved toward the bed.
Kora appeared suddenly nervous. ‘‘Oh, yes.’’ She looked around her as if trying to find something, anything, to focus her attention on besides him. ‘‘But, I mean, there is no need for you to shave at night. Logan must have meant men who are fully married.’’
He didn’t like being reminded of their agreement. He wasn’t likely to forget. ‘‘I thought I’d get in practice,’’ he said roughly, ‘‘for when your mourning time is over.’’
Without another word, he sat on the side of the bed and stripped off his jeans.
Kora moved to the edge as far away from him as she could. ‘‘Don’t you sleep in a nightshirt?’’
‘‘I never have,’’ he answered. ‘‘I usually just sleep in my long drawers in winter. Sometimes an undershirt if it’s really cold.’’
‘‘And in summer?’’ She moved off the bed.
‘‘Nothing,’’ he answered as he slipped beneath the sheet and leaned back. He didn’t pull the covers past his waist. She might as well get used to the look of his bare chest, because he wasn’t wearing one of those lacy nightshirts for the next thirty years.
She grabbed her wrapper. ‘‘I think I’ll go check on Cheyenne to make sure the doctor doesn’t need anything before I go to bed.’’ She glanced at the rafters. ‘‘And I’m not sure I laid out the things Dan will need after his evening walk.’’
‘‘Kora?’’ Winter stopped her with a word.
‘‘Yes?’’ She turned toward him as she tied her wrapper.
‘‘I’m not going to touch you. You can come to bed. Whether I have on a nightshirt or not will make no difference in my keeping my word.’’
‘‘I understand.’’ She moved away. ‘‘I’ll be back as soon as I check on things.’’
Winter closed his eyes and leaned against the pillows. Why had the woman insisted on him sleeping up here if she was still scared to death of him? If he hadn’t been so tired, he would have followed her and tried to talk to her. Maybe he should move back to the couch. He was starting to believe that two floors between them might help him remember his promise.
But the long day caught up with him and Winter fell asleep in his own bed, in his own room, for the first time in his life.
Late into the night, with the moon passing overhead, Winter rolled over and opened his eyes. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was. There were no sounds of other men sleeping nearby in their bunks, and his body was stretched out as it could never be on the couch in the study. Then he saw the stars through the windows and smiled. Kora had been right, it was a grand place to sleep beneath the sky. The cool of the night was around him, but the huge room, with its tall windows, gave him a feeling of sleeping outside while he had all the comforts of a home. Miss Allie’s quilts added color to the room even in shadows. Kora had draped them over chairs and hung several on boards around the room.
He raised to one elbow and looked over to her side of the bed. She wasn’t there. Glancing up, he knew by the look of the sky that it was long past midnight.
For a moment he thought she might be gone, disappearing from his life as quickly as she’d entered. Or she might still be downstairs. Cheyenne could have taken a turn for the worse. Winter grasped a handful of cover and swung his leg from the bed.
Then he saw her. The moonlight danced off the golden rope of her hair. She was curled up on the floor ten feet away. She’d circled a blanket in the moonlight, and huddled in it like a street orphan.
Slowly, soundlessly, Winter moved from the bed. He knelt beside her and gently lifted her in his arms, blanket and all.
She moved in her sleep, but didn’t awaken.
He carried her to the side of the bed and laid her slowly down against the pillows. She looked so fragile as he pulled another blanket over her.
Returning to his side, he tried to sleep, but the woman beside him kept him awake. He could hear her soft breathing and feel her move as she nestled deeply into the covers. She was getting under his skin, he thought. If he didn’t watch himself he’d be caring for her, and he’d learned a long time ago that to care for someone was to invite pain.
• • •
