She smiled at that, remembering the last time she’d seen her brother—a dashing lieutenant on a warhorse, riding at the head of a detachment of cavalry. God, had it been so long?
And what would he think of his sister the whore?
Ex-whore?
Could one ever really be an ex-whore?
Butler had been the epitome of a Southern officer. Would there be censure in his eyes—that aloof distance spun of moral superiority? God, it would wound her if there was. She’d always admired Butler and his well-read knowledge. Looked up to him beyond all of her other brothers.
Damn, she wished she could have ten minutes alone with Philip before they arrived. A chance to ask, “What does he think of me?”
“Sarah, what the hell does it matter?” she asked herself. “After everything you’ve been through, you’re worried about the look in your crazy brother’s eyes?” She laughed at herself.
No matter, she would be gracious, proud. If she had learned nothing else, it was how to put up a façade and hide the real Sarah.
“Mrs. Anderson?” the last of the workmen called. “We’re leaving. Good night, ma’am.”
“Thank you!” She shifted, glancing around the room as the front door closed authoritatively. She’d have to clean up a little. At least sweep up the sawdust in the dining room and wipe down the chairs so fine powder didn’t stick to their clothes.
In the kitchen she poured water onto a rag from the keg she had delivered every other day, and attacked the worst of the mess. Nothing much could be done about the rest of the house. She’d give the tour, of course, but construction was construction, and Butler would just have to understand.
She thought back to the Butler she’d known in Arkansas. His distant gaze as he’d worked cutting tobacco and doing chores; all the while his thoughts had been focused on Romans and Greeks and ancient kings. That dreamy smile that would animate his lips as he told her of history and literature.
How changed he had been the last time she saw him; his once sensitive eyes had betrayed a wounded soul. She could still see the waver in his eyes, how his hands had twitched when the subject turned to war and battle.
“People born to be saints shouldn’t be trying to stuff themselves into a soldier’s uniform, brother. The cut and angles are all wrong.”
She climbed the stairs, being careful of the lack of railing—although the dowels had been delivered and piled in the hallway just beyond her door.
She opened the door to her bedroom wide. She kept it closed during the day to keep out the dust, and because the workmen needn’t be speculating on her big, plush bed.
She stepped toward her wardrobe, thinking that the light gray poplin would …
The floor creaked behind her.
She whirled and froze.
“Well, well,” he said, stepping out from behind the bedroom door. “You’ve become quite the lady, haven’t you?”
Parmelee shook his head, grinning. He wore sawdust-stained trousers stuffed into rider’s boots. His shirt was in need of a wash, and his beard looked like it had been trimmed with a knife. His oily blond hair curled where it had been sweat-soaked by a tight hat. The grin on his lips, however, was predatory; his blue eyes deadly with threat.
“How did you get in here?” She struggled to sound in control. God, she hated being afraid.
“Passed myself off as a workman. They didn’t look twice at the fella carrying them turned pieces up the stairs. Gonna be a fancy hand railing. But you ain’t gonna see it finished.”
She backed toward the bed, heart hammering against her chest. “You know they’ll kill you.”
“Gotta catch me first. I hear you turned into quite the whore. The Goddess? How’s that for ripe? Washerwoman to Goddess. Talk about a fairy tale. I like to think I gave you your start. That having a real man inside showed you what you were missing. ’Specially after that milksop of a deserter.”
“Bret was five times the man you’ll ever be,” she told him, stepping back to the headboard, slipping her right arm behind her.
“Go on,” he told her. “Try for it.”
A hand of ice might have taken her by the heart. “Try for what?”
“That big pistol you hung behind the headboard.” He waggled a finger at her. “I put it somewhere safe.”
With his left hand he pulled out a wad of stout cord, his right slipped a Bowie from its sheath. “I’m gonna have to tie you again. Don’t want you fighting or screaming. You understand, don’t you?”
He paused. “Hope it’s still tight after you been riding so many cocks. I’d be damn disappointed if it ain’t.”
Sarah took a deep breath. “I don’t suppose there’s any other way? Like I could just promise to lay back, give you the best I could, and you’d be on your way?”
He barely cracked a smile. “Sometimes a thing’s got to be done just so. It’s putting you in your place … causing pain and fear. Knowing you’re hating my cock hammering away, but praying it’ll last ’cause when I ride you that last bit, you’re gonna die. That’s what makes it so good.”
“You’re a sick pile of shit, did you know that?”
“So I’ve been told. Now, you can turn around and let me tie you easy, or we can start with a beating.” He flicked the knife back and forth, as if teasing. Then he started forward. She could see his nostrils flaring with each breath.
Sarah’s chest felt as if it would explode, her limbs charged and trembling.
Now or never.
122
June 29, 1868
“This damn thing looks like a castle,” Billy noted as they rode past the big house on Grant Street. The sun sat at an angle, dipping toward the distant Rockies. It shot bars of light through the smattering of clouds that seemed to glow above the city’s smoky air.
“Guess she poured all the money she got from the Angel’s Lair into this monstrosity,” George said through a growl as he reined his horse up,
