“It was just business, Pat.” She stared absently at the brown liquor, letting the aftertaste linger on her tongue.
“If you needed money, ye could have come t’ me.”
“I had to bury Bret. Bury him deep and forever. And not just in the ground. I couldn’t stand the pain, the empty aching hole. I had to punish myself. Abuse myself. And then wall it off. Brick over it with something else.”
She shot him a hard look. “During the war bushwhackers came to our farm in Arkansas, Pat. They killed Maw. They took me, staked me to the ground, and one after another, they raped me for two days. My brother got me out, and a couple of days later I killed the man who took me. I listened to him squeal, looked into his eyes as I cut pieces of him off with a Bowie knife. He’s still one of my nightmares.”
She tossed off the rest of her whiskey and poured another. “I couldn’t stand the way my brother looked at me. And then he brought a friend, and I got a glimpse of what life would be like. Everyone knowing I’d been … So I left, floated. Did what I could and tried to hide my shame. Then I met Bret.
“Hell, Pat, he just kind of worked his way into my soul, loved me, held me. We saved each other. Lived in each other. For that one brief, shining time, he and I loved like you couldn’t believe.” Wistfully she added, “It was a mythical, magic sort of love. The kind the bards would write and sing of.”
“Doesn’t mean—”
She waved him off and poured another glass for O’Reilly. Setting the bottle down, she snapped her fingers. “Like that, Bret’s dead! I’m beaten and raped, Aggie’s mutilated, and her house is gone.”
“It didna mean ye had t’ turn to Nichols.”
“I had to teach myself, one more time, who men are, Pat. What kind of creatures they are. Had to build that wall between Bret and everything we shared. It had to be impregnable. Right down to the cabin. I had to burn it to snuff out every last trace of happiness.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek, and sniffed. “And I did. I put Bret in the ground in a way that he couldn’t come creeping out to stare at me with those loving brown eyes. Couldn’t allow myself to imagine his fingers caressing my cheek.”
“And Nichols did that fer ye?”
She chuckled without humor. “Who? George? You bet he did. I didn’t just have to kill Bret, I had to kill me. George is as cold and unforgiving as a steel drill, and I had to prove to myself I was worth a thousand-dollar fuck.”
She fingered her glass, frowning. “But after that first go? How did I maintain the value once the fruit had been bitten into and tasted? Was I smart enough? Talented enough? Could I keep the honey sweet?” She paused. “I used every bit of ingenuity I could imagine. By the end of the fourth day, you couldn’t have hung a flag from George’s pole, let alone played taps over it.”
“George says…” Pat seemed to think better of it and looked away.
She cocked her head, wondering at the smile that fit so easily on her lips. “Does he say I was worth it?”
“Aye, lassie, he does.” O’Reilly took a breath. “But t’ burn yer cabin?”
“It was tearing me apart. A secure womb of tender love and happiness one second, a prison filled with grief, death, and degradation the next. It had to go. Like cutting the last rope.”
“So, ye’re fixed on yer future?” He lifted the glass in his fingers, eyes thoughtful. “But for a handful of us, yer still Mrs. Anderson. Ye don’t have to do this. You can be a silent partner. Let Aggie run the house. I know you’re grieving, lass, but yer life’s not over. There are those of us who care fer ye.”
“Get to the point, Pat.”
“If ye’d take a while. Grieve fer Bret. There are those of us who’d like to see if we could bring a smile back t’ yer face. Perhaps prove that not all men are like Parmelee and Nichols.” He gave her a level gaze. “I’d like that chance meself.”
“Marry the grieving widow?”
“After ye’d had a chance to foind yerself.”
She reached across the table and took his hand. “You’re a good friend, Pat O’Reilly. A hard man, but a kind one. I would only bring you to ruin. If you want me in your bed, you can have me. But it will cost you a thousand dollars.”
“Sarah…”
“I had my one love. A love of a lifetime, and one the likes of which you and I could never approach. And if we did, God would strike you down as a way to punish me.”
“God? Punish ye?”
She held his gaze. “It was preordained from the moment the war started. I had to watch my home destroyed, be broken of all my dreams and hopes. Become a sullied pariah. God used Parmelee to drive me from Fort Smith all the way to Colorado. God put Bret in my bed so I could learn all the ways a woman can use her body with a man. Aggie showed me how to run a house. I showed her how to make it pay. And then, finally, God sent Parmelee back to give me that last violent slap and humiliation.”
“Lass? To blame God? He’s not—”
“Oh, come on, Pat. As I look back over my life, I can see that God has been driving me toward this house as surely as if He had a whip in one hand and reins in the other. I’m going to call this the Angel’s Lair because this is God’s will. And I’m exactly as He made me.”
87
June 22, 1867
Sarah met Aggie at the door, pulling it open, enjoying the
