The Stranger's Secrets (4 page)

Damn Mavis Ledbetter. The woman was over by the window with that same gentleman, completely ignoring the fact she’d been paid to take care of Sarah. Whit had been right—she was going to fire Mavis and leave her in whatever town this was.

“She looks to be a spinster.” Whit followed Sarah’s gaze. “Looks as if she hasn’t given up the quest for a husband, though.”

“She spent so much time declaring she was a spinster, she kept most men away from her.” Sarah frowned at Mavis. “Nobody in town wanted anything to do with her because of her reputation.”

“You’re from the same town then?”

His question was one anyone in polite company would ask, but Sarah found herself unwilling to answer any personal questions. So she decided to insult him to keep him disliking her. “You’re nosy.”

“You’re rude.”

“You’re pushy.”

He barked a laugh. “And you’re refreshingly honest.”

Sarah found herself holding back a chuckle. What was it about this annoying Yankee that set her on her head? Aside from being handsome, there wasn’t anything else remarkable about him. She needed to figure out his appeal so she could combat it and keep her distance, at least as much as she could, considering they were going to be stuck in a train compartment together for fifteen hundred miles.

“Then you won’t mind if I continue being honest.”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t expect any less.”

Why in the hell did that make Sarah’s heart thump like a bass drum? Back home, when she ate a meal, it was with her friends, a group where everyone chatted and relaxed. Sitting with Whit made her feel jumpy and awkward—a condition Sarah was definitely not used to.

“You make me uncomfortable,” she blurted.

His eyebrows went up. “I do?”

Now that she’d gone down that path, she had to finish her thought. “I’m sure you’ve heard the song before, Mr. Kendrick, but Yankees aren’t high on my list of favorite folks, much less one I have to rely on. It’s going to take some time for me to, ah, adjust, so if you can, be patient with me.”

Whit nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

She didn’t want to demand anything from the man. After all, there was no reason for him to help her. His actions told her more than anything that he was a gentleman. “When life kicks you once, you get back up and move on. When life kicks you a dozen times, you’re less willing to forgive and trust.” That was as far as she planned on going with that train of thought. He seemed like a sharp guy and could likely understand why she felt uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry. I won’t give you any cause to kick me back. I promise.” The sincerity in his gaze made her want to believe him.

Ridiculous, of course. Why should she trust a stranger? She had to rely on him to be her companion, however that would turn out. Yet expecting him to carry her bags was a far cry from trusting him with her life. Sarah could take care of herself, for the most part anyway, and she regretted the fact she couldn’t do it all the time.

“Good, because I bite when I kick.” She fought back a grin.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me in the least.” He smiled at the waitress as she approached the table.

The young blond thing sparkled like a new penny when she caught sight of Whitman. Sarah wanted to trip her with the cane.

“Good evening, sir. Can I fetch you something to drink? Or an order of meatloaf? It’s the best in the county.” The young woman smiled while her face flushed.

Sarah harrumphed at the obvious tactics the girl used. “I’d like some of that meatloaf and hot coffee.”

The girl looked surprised to see Sarah sitting there.

“I’m sure Mr. Kendrick here will have the same thing.” Sarah shot Whitman a challenging look, daring him to contradict her.

“Meatloaf and coffee would be lovely. Thank you, miss.” He graced the girl with another smile, sending her scurrying to the kitchen.

At least the food would arrive quickly considering the girl was already enamored of Whitman.

“Are you always this honest?” Whit picked up the spoon in front of him.

“Yes, I am. Does it bother you?” Sarah was ready to show him just how forceful she could be with her words.

“Not at all.” He breathed on the spoon and stuck it on the end of his nose. Sarah almost choked on her spit as she watched a grown man play at a child’s trick. What the hell was he doing?

When he smiled, the force of it snatched Sarah’s breath. She could do nothing but look at the grin behind the spoon and wonder if she’d stepped into a dream of her own twisted mind. He was beautiful, a Yankee, and charming as all hell.

Sarah was afraid she’d lose more than her spoon to Whitman Kendrick.

W
hitman was torn between being amused and fascinated by Sarah. She was unlike most people he knew, male or female. Something about her drew Whit in, made him fascinated like a moth to a flame on a summer night.

When Sarah tugged off her gloves, Whit’s world turned upside down. The small finger on her left hand was missing.

His heart thumped heavily as memories of his early days in the army washed over him. The sergeant who thought he was God and the regiment who had to bow down to him. Bile coated the back of his throat as he remembered exactly where he’d seen a woman’s small finger.

“That little bitch thought she could best me in a knife fight. Ha! Had a little blade tucked up her sleeve ’n’ everythin’.” Booker snorted a laugh. “Ain’t no woman can stand up to me.”

The big sergeant grinned his gap-toothed smile and continued eating his beans. Whitman simply stared at him.

“What did you do?”

“I taught her a lesson.” He reached into his shirt and pulled out a crude necklace made of a leather strip. Dangling on the end was a tiny, desiccated finger, the nail too small to be a man’s.

Whitman stared at the digit in disbelief, wondering what poor soul had previously owned it. His sergeant had likely
raped, mutilated, and tortured a young woman. What was Whit to do about it? He was just a brand new corporal, a soldier with no power to stop the bullying or the pillaging.

“Did you kill her?” Whit tried to keep his voice steady, but it was hard, damn hard.

Booker shrugged. “Dunno. She tried to come after me and I cut her leg so she couldn’t walk no more. Her mama might’ve saved her, but I doubt it. She didn’t seem worried about no one but her own ass.” He narrowed his gaze. “Why you askin’ so many questions, Kendrick?”

“No reason. Just wonderin’ how the story ended.” With more self-control than he thought he possessed, Whit took a bite of his cold meal by the fire. The warm Virginia night air caressed his sweaty face as he wondered who the nameless, faceless girl was who’d had the misfortune of crossing Booker’s path.

Whit should’ve told the captain, should’ve told someone, but he kept quiet. He’d been taught to follow orders, not question a superior. Who even knew if Booker was telling the truth?

No, Corporal Kendrick did nothing but listen to the crickets and try to put the image of the finger trophy out of his mind.

Until today.

Jesus Christ.

He stared at her hand long enough for her to notice. She cleared her throat.

“You know, it’s not polite to stare at someone’s crippled hand.” She tucked it into her lap. “I hope you got a good look.”

Whit felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He wanted—needed—to ask her if she was the unfortunate victim Booker took his sadistic pleasure with. Of course, he couldn’t. God only knew what she’d do if she knew he’d been part of the regiment of soldiers whose sergeant had taken her finger, and possibly much more.

Certainly, there’d be no question of continuing their journey together. Sarah would “fire” him and then be alone, vulnerable and stubbornly independent, likely refusing any help. Whit couldn’t do that no matter what. Perhaps it was cowardly that he didn’t want her to know, or maybe
he
didn’t want to know.

For a reason he couldn’t quite explain to himself, Whit didn’t want his time with Sarah to end with acrimony or so quickly. He thought the journey to Kansas City would be long and boring, but Sarah had already made it more interesting just by being herself.

Whit didn’t want to lose that spark, nor did he want to lose her company. He again took the easy route and said nothing about her finger.

“Oh, uh, sorry about that. I, um, didn’t mean to pry.” He stumbled over his words, saved by the timely arrival of the waitress.

With a wide-eyed stare at Whitman, she put the steaming plates of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans in front of them. When she darted off, assumingly to get the coffee, Whit wasn’t surprised to hear Sarah chuckle softly.

“Something funny?”

Sarah raised one brow. “No, just amused. That young thing is mighty interested in you.”

As he tucked into his meatloaf, Whit realized Sarah was right. “You probably shouldn’t mention it in polite company.”

This time Sarah smiled. “Whoever said I was polite?”

It was Whitman’s turn to swallow a chuckle. Sarah simply told everyone what was on her mind. It wasn’t a skill most women had mastered or cared to exercise in many cases. It startled him to think his mother had a tendency to do the same thing.

If Sarah was the girl Booker had maimed, Whit took comfort in knowing she hadn’t died, nor had she curled up into a ball of self-pity. In fact, she was the strongest woman he’d met in his life. God knew his mother was more stubborn than any iron bar. He hoped his intended bride was half as strong as Sarah. Then he’d be a lucky man for certain.

Of course, the idea his future wife could be as strong as his traveling companion had never entered his mind.

They finished dinner with a delicious slice of peach pie. Whit was surprised by how good the meal was, considering the rough-hewn floors and the size of the town and hotel. It was no big city, just a small community that depended on the money from the train passengers to survive.

“It’s good.” He licked a stray bit of cream from his fork. “Really good.”

“I thought perhaps you were going to start gnawing on the tablecloth. Do you have a second stomach I don’t know about?” Sarah shot him a teasing glance from behind her lashes.

Whit’s embarrassment flared again. “I was hungry and the food was really good. I’ve been eating arm—” He stopped himself before he revealed the fact he’d been in the army for fifteen years, nearly a career officer. “I’ve never been married so I count on restaurants for good eating. This food was exceptionally good.”

Sarah raised both eyebrows. “Interesting. I’m surprised to find out a man as good-looking as you hasn’t been married before. You must’ve had to beat the women off with a stick.” After her surprising comments about his looks, she looked around and spotted Mavis leaving the dining room with her new friend. “Not so fast.”

She struggled to rise, but the chair had been pushed in too far for her to maneuver well. Whit wanted to help her up but knew she’d refuse him if he did. Instead he did the next best thing: he stopped Mavis from leaving.

Whit touched the older woman’s shoulder, then gestured toward Sarah. “Miss Spalding would like to speak to you, Miss Ledbetter.”

Although he could see the flush creeping up her face, the older woman simply nodded and started toward Sarah. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back, Mr. Abernathy.”

The older man waved a hand as he shuffled toward the lobby. He obviously wasn’t as enamored of her as she was of him. No doubt her grating personality was wearing thin after eight hours.

Whit looked back toward Sarah and saw her jaw tighten in anger as Mavis waved her hands in the air and shouted. As he got closer, he could hear every blessed word she spoke.

“You think because you hired me you have any right to say what I do or who I socialize with? You’re nothing but a whore who ran a whorehouse for ten years. Filth under my feet. I’m glad to be rid of you, but don’t think for a moment I’m giving you my train ticket.” Mavis stood, her gaze full of spite and malice. “You’ll regret firing me, I guarantee it.”

Mavis turned toward Whit. “And now you can do your nasty business with your newest customer.” She snarled at him as she passed. “Make sure you check her for diseases.”

Surprise mixed with anger and fury over the way Mavis had treated Sarah. She sat there clenching the cane with whitened knuckles as she sucked in air like a bellows.

He sat down and decided the wisest course of action was to wait until she was ready to talk. Whit knew what rage felt like when it was coursing through his veins. Sarah looked as if she’d been in a prizefight and lost, but was ready for a rematch.

“I should’ve listened to my friend. She was right about Mavis. God, I can’t believe that just happened.” She met Whit’s gaze, and in the depths of her silver eyes, he saw ancient pain howling in victory. In a flash it was gone, replaced by anger.

“That woman obviously is unhinged and needs to climb back under the rock she came out from.” Whit wasn’t saying it to make Sarah feel better. He meant it—no one deserved to be treated so badly.

“Don’t patronize me.” She slammed the cane into the floor. “I won’t accept it.”

“I’m not patronizing you. I spent all day listening to her prattle on about herself. Then as a paid companion she abandons you at the train station. To make it worse, she insulted you not once, but twice, and viciously, I might add. I am human, Sarah, and I can feel and empathize.” Although he’d been burying his emotions for years, they roared back at the situation. Too many times the weak had fallen victim to the strong, or the kind to the mean. He’d become somewhat immune, or perhaps forced himself to be, until he met the hissing cat who was currently getting under his skin.

“Well, then okay. I believe you.” She glanced down at her half-eaten pie. “I don’t think I’m going to finish this.”

He waited while she pushed her chair back and got to her feet. After a few unsteady moments, she seemed to get her balance and started walking. As before, Whit walked by her side at her speed.

When they reached the stairs, Sarah looked up and grimaced. Her lips were pinched and a sheen of perspiration coated her forehead, where wisps of her wavy hair stuck to her skin. She was exhausted yet she didn’t ask for help as she started up the steps. Her right leg seemed to give her the most pain since she grunted each time she had to put her weight on it.

By the fifth step, Whit couldn’t stand it anymore. He knew she’d fuss at him, but he didn’t care. There was no way he’d allow her to endure any more pain that evening if he could stop it.

When he scooped her into his arms, she screeched and dropped the cane. It clattered down the stairs behind them, but Whit ignored it. He would go back for it in a few minutes.

“What the hell are you doing?” she whispered furiously. “We’re not going to the bridal suite.”

He chuckled at the thought. “No, that’s for sure. I’m helping you. Now just shut up and let me.”

“You’re taking liberties, Kendrick.”

“I’m helping. Nothing more.” Recognizing he was lying didn’t help matters much, particularly when he realized the shape of the woman in his arms was far from what he expected.

She was tall, but curvy, with round hips and plump breasts that rested just beneath his arm. Her legs seemed to be a mile long and the right one was smaller than the left. She smelled of soap and woman, and a smidge of fury.

“Well, you’re still carrying me without my permission.” She didn’t sound upset. In fact, she sounded as breathless as he felt.

As he carried her to his room, he couldn’t help but remember she’d called him handsome. Damn, they were both in trouble.

Sleep eluded Sarah. She lay in her bed silently cursing her overactive mind for not allowing her to rest. Her brain kept going over and over her evening with Whitman, minute by minute. She normally wasn’t enamored of anyone, least of all one day after meeting a person, but Whitman was apparently an exception to that rule.

When she finally fell asleep, her dreams quickly took a dive into nightmares. Sarah was back in the root cellar of the house, impossible, of course, since she’d had it filled in with dirt and the door sealed shut.

Yet there she was again, in the corner with cobwebs and spiders covering her. Then she was fighting for her life, the familiar tang of fear on her tongue and cold steel in her hand. Her heart thundered as she faced her attacker for the thousandth time.

Yet something was different. She glanced around at the root cellar. The canned fruit and vegetables on the shelf, the potatoes and onions in sacks on the floor, even the broken cane chair were exactly the same.

Something, however, wasn’t.

The dream Sarah circled around the greasy-haired, gap-toothed man while he tried to take her knife away. The predictable dance between them continued, as it always had, until he kicked her in the knee and she went down hard.

As they wrestled with the knife, another man appeared on the stairs. He’d been tall and blond, yet skinny. This time he was tall and dark haired with a hint of whiskers beneath the dirt on his face.

Whitman Kendrick.

Sarah woke up with a shout, the recurring nightmare fading away as she recognized her surroundings. The hotel room in the small town of Tobias, Virginia, was shabby but welcome. Her nightdress was soaked in sweat, as was her hair.

She went over the dream in her head, this time with intent. The dream had been different because Whitman had been substituted for the blond on the steps. What did that mean? Perhaps because he was a Yankee, with a distinctive voice, she’d made him part of her living nightmare.

It made sense, but it still bothered her. A lot. It had been a long time since the dream had been so vivid. She could almost feel the cobwebs still tickling her neck. She’d inserted Whitman into her past. The question was, why?