Now it was Annie’s turn to reach for him. “I am so sorry,” she said quietly, putting her hand on his. “I know how hard this must be for you, Adam. Delia is the mother of your daughter. In some ways, you must love her still. But are you sure you know what’s going on? Perhaps . . . perhaps this thing with Mr. Simpson is just a casual friendship.” She retrieved her hand and turned her head, but he had seen the tears brimming in her eyes. “And after all, you and I are hardly the pots to call the kettle black, are we?”
He heard her tender affection and knew that she was trying to make him feel better, which of course made him feel worse. “You’re right,” he confessed. “I don’t know anything for certain. I’m only guessing. I’m not being fair to Delia. And I’m certainly not being fair to you.” He pushed his chair back. “I’m sorry, Annie. I think I’d better go.”
She nodded, silently. Her head was bent, her fingers twisted together.
He looked down at her, loving her, desiring her, but knowing what he had to do. “I can’t come back, my love. From now on, I’ll slip the stable rent under your door. If you need anything—repairs or the like—send me a note at the store. I’ll arrange for someone to help you.”
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose that’s best.” She lifted her eyes to his and he saw that her cheeks were wet with tears. “Whatever happens, Adam, please know that I love you. Very much.”
“I wish I deserved that,” he said wretchedly, and left.
He stood outside for a long moment, hesitating. Then, rather than go home to Delia, he went into the stable. He was greeted by his horses and Caroline’s fat pony, whickering softly in the dusky interior of the stable. He took a deep breath of sweet, newly cured hay and warm horseflesh. His throat burned with his own unshed tears as he thought of Annie and their impossible dilemma. He took the stable buckets out to the water pump to refill them, then brought them back to the stalls. As he set the last one down, he heard the low, husky voice.
“Hello.”
He straightened, blinking into the dusty dimness. “Greta? Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me, sir,” she said, stepping out of a shadowed corner. She was wearing a dark dress and a shawl flung over her head and shoulders. “I found somethin’ I thought you might oughtta see. After what happened the other day, I didn’t want to show it to you in the house.”
“You found . . . something?” He was nervously aware that the two of them ought not to be alone here in the barn. If Delia should happen to come out, she would assume that they—
“Yessir.” She cleared her throat. “It’s the letter that feller gave Miz Delia the other day. The feller who brought the candy. He’s got a room at the hotel an’—”
“I know the man you mean,” Adam broke in gruffly, remembering the blue letter Delia had been quick to tuck in her sleeve. “But it’s Mrs. Hunt’s letter. How did you come by it?”
The girl came toward him. Her shawl fell back and he noticed that she was wearing a red ribbon and some sort of cheap flowery perfume, so strong that it overwhelmed the other scents in the stable. “I found it,” she said. “In the wastebasket in her bedroom. She must not’ve wanted it no more, so she was throwin’ it away.” She took another step closer, and there was a provocative note in her voice. “You’ve been so nice to me, Mr. Hunt, and I appreciate it. I figgered you might want to have it.”
Whatever was in the letter, Adam didn’t believe for a minute that Delia had thrown it away. The girl must have stolen it out of a drawer or a jewelry box. He had no right to his wife’s private correspondence, but he had to make sure Greta didn’t keep it. There was no predicting how she might use it. With an effort, he managed what he hoped she would see as a conspiratorial smile.
“Very good, Greta.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take it, then, with my thanks.”
“Just thanks?” Greta smiled coyly, both hands behind her back, her head tilted on one side. In the dusky half light, Adam saw that her posture was obviously meant to be tempting. Her shawl had fallen away and he could see that several buttons of her bodice were undone, revealing mounds of swelling white flesh. “Don’t you think you ought to give me somethin’ more than words for it?” She came a little closer, her voice seductive, and held up the letter. “What’ll it be, sir?”
He took a breath, understanding that she was offering what he could not, would not take. But he wasn’t sure how to reject her obvious proposal without making her angry—and he could hardly wrestle the letter from her.
“I believe you have my best interests at heart, Greta.” He gave her a long, grave look. “You do, don’t you?”
She seemed to take that seriously. “Oh, yes, sir,” she said, with a quick nod. “I do, sir. With all my heart, I promise you.”
“And I have yours, believe me.” He swallowed uncomfortably. “My dear.”
She gave him a smile and he thought she was touched by the endearment. “Well, then,” she said suggestively, but she kept her hands—and the letter—behind her back.
“How can I know what you have unless you let me see it? Give it to me, and then we can talk about when and what else we might . . .” He let his voice trail off in what he hoped was a tantalizing way.
Later, he was ashamed to think that the girl—who couldn’t be much more than nineteen—was taken in
