Marshall sat up, the sheet draping his hips, and engulfed me in his embrace. Compounding our stress was the continued lack of word from Malcolm, Cole, and Patricia. Even allowing for a generous margin of time they should have reached Landon by now, and therefore been able to send a letter. Something had happened to prevent this, it was growing harder to deny. Tomorrow was the first day of July and we’d parted ways in Iowa weeks ago; the only confirmation of their progress we’d received had been a letter tucked in a package mailed to Birdie and Grant by Grant’s mother, Fannie Rawley; they had spent one night in the company of the Rawley family.
Somewhere in the depths of my mind, where dark what-ifs and restless memories and aching guilt hunkered, I considered how this selfsame woman, Fannie, might have been my mother-in-law; had fate taken a different direction and I’d become Miles’s wife. I bit down on my lower lip. I did my best not to think about Miles in that context; Miles, who had spent his last night of life holding me close in the very bed I now shared with Marshall.
“I know we can’t just stay here at Grant’s indefinitely, but for now it’s the safest place.” Marshall roughed up his hair, then passed a hand over his unshaven face. “I’ll telegraph the Rawleys once we get to Howardsville later today, tomorrow at the latest. Ax said we’d be there by evening if we set out pretty quick here. I best get my ass in gear…” So saying, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat forward, knuckling sleep from his eyes.
The reminder of his trip to Howardsville sent a shard of fear through my heart. To an increasingly obsessive degree I hated letting him out of my sight.
“Let me come,” I begged, knowing it was a futile request. Howardsville was a hard day’s ride by horseback, a journey made considerably longer in the ponderous wagon; and I’d be forced to ride as a passenger in the flatbed, I knew. A pregnant woman couldn’t very well be saddling up and withstanding a horse’s cantering gait across dozens of miles. But I pleaded my case nonetheless. “Please, Marsh, please don’t make me stay here without you.”
We hadn’t been apart for more than a few minutes since being reunited here in 1882 and I knew it pained him to consider it, even when the separation was brief and necessary; at my insistence, Marshall had agreed to relinquish the marshal position he’d assumed last fall. A new candidate had been found and was due in Howardsville in the next day; word had arrived in the form of a telegram, along with a request that Marshall be there to greet him and offer a tour of town and the law offices. A separate and official document had arrived for Marshall, releasing him from the position, much to my overwhelming relief. In the month since we’d found each other there had been no hint or sign of the Yancys’ presence in town, and I attempted to derive a measure of relief from this fact.
“Aw, angel, don’t do this to me. You know I hate to leave you here but you can’t make a long trip like that on Blade, not anymore. Not in your condition.” He remained sitting on the edge of the bed, palms braced against the mattress, regarding me over his left shoulder. His back was lean and muscular, darkly tanned and so very familiar; I knew by heart the pattern of moles along his skin, and could have traced the paths between them with my eyes closed.
“I’ll ride in the wagon,” I insisted, already losing ground, frustrated by my lack of choice. We’d already hashed out this line of conversation a few days ago, when it became clear that Marshall would be required to travel to Howardsville. Part of the discussion included the fact that if we were, indeed, fated to remain in this century we both had to accept certain duties and conform to certain expectations; for example, as the rational part of me understood, we could not hope to get by forever without interacting with the greater world. And this meant perhaps an occasional parting.
“Angel.” The single word was infused with an entire host of tones, running the full gamut between endearment and exasperation.
I wrapped both arms around my bent knees and glared at him.
Marshall knew there was no point arguing and took the lofty ground; rather than lock horns with his pregnant wife he calmly stood, bending his arms, fists near his ears as he engaged in a quivering, all-over stretch, with an elongated, growling groan.
“You know what that does to me,” I complained, instantly wet and aroused, which only further infuriated me this early morning. He was so gorgeous, pretending innocence as our gazes held; all innocence dissolved as he grinned, wide and wicked.
“Then my evil plan worked.”
I rolled to my knees, unable to resist reaching for him, and he issued another low groan, this one of pure appreciation. He closed the distance between us in less than a heartbeat, scooping my heavy, tangled hair upward from my nape in one lithe hand, tilting my head to close his teeth over my earlobe. A shiver electrocuted the entire left side of my bare body.
He nipped a second time, his hands everywhere at once, lips brushing my skin as he whispered, “I didn’t kiss you good morning yet, angel.” And without another word he pressed my shoulder blades gently to the mattress and knelt alongside the bed, as if about to pray, spreading my thighs in one effortless motion before lowering his head.
No matter how much we rebelled against it, occasional leave-taking could not be avoided. I clung to the knowledge that Marshall, accompanied by Axton, rode a strong, capable horse accustomed to swift
