She touched her wildly mussed mane of golden hair, glanced dazedly around them, and said, “I—you—oh, my . . .”
It wasn’t exactly what Swift had expected, but at least it wasn’t accusatory. “Are you okay?”
She looked at him as if she didn’t believe anything would ever be okay again and pressed a hand over her bodice. Even in moonlight, he could see the painful flush creeping up her neck.
“Amy . . .” He looped an arm around her and, shifting his position, drew her across his lap. Pressing her head to his shoulder, he brushed a light kiss across her forehead. “It’s all right, honey. Trust me, it’ll be all right.”
“No,” she whispered. “Don’t you see that it can’t?”
He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of her hair, flyaway tendrils of which tickled his nostrils. “Did you hate it?”
He felt her start to shake, a horrible, palsied shaking. Fear lanced through him. “Y-yes! Of course I hated it.”
He hunched his shoulders around her, touching his lips to her ear. “Do you remember when I used to hold you like this?”
Amy did, and the memories brought tears to her eyes. “Yes.” She bit her lip, struggling to stop the horrible shaking that had taken hold of her body. Oh, God, he had won. She had melted under his mouth, quivering and begging. She had betrayed herself, condemned herself. He’d insist she marry him now. How could she have been so stupid as to accept his challenge and kiss him? She should have known he felt confident of winning the wager, or he never would have made the offer. And she, like a brainless ninny, had put herself into a position where he could push past her defenses.
“I’d really like to go home now, Swift.”
Swift ran a hand up her slender arm, wishing he knew what to say to her. “If you want to go, I’ll take you.”
She fastened wide blue eyes on him—eyes that reflected an entirely new kind of fear, not just of him any longer, but of herself as well. Swift couldn’t understand or comprehend, but it was there all the same. Amy had just come face-to-face with her own passion, and for some reason completely beyond him, that seemed to make her feel even more vulnerable than she had before.
Chapter 13
EN ROUTE BACK TO TOWN, SWIFT HAD ONE thought. Amy had lied to him about hating their kiss, flat-out lied. He circled that realization, trying to come to grips with it and understand it. She had never been one to lie, not about something important. Little things, maybe, in the heat of anger or when she felt threatened. But never about something like this.
He didn’t know how to confront her or if he even wanted to. She looked so damned scared, a trembling, heart-slamming scared. He wasn’t certain why. All along he’d been convinced it was the thought of sex that terrified her. Now he realized though her fears might center around that, they went far deeper, encompassing other issues as well, issues he hadn’t considered and that he might not even be capable of comprehending.
As they neared her house, she turned on him. “I suppose you’re going to be the typical, arrogant male and insist I liked what you did back there.”
Off balance, he stared down at her, not sure what to say. “You’ve never lied to me about anything important, Amy. If I had to choose the one thing in this world I knew I could count on, it’d be your word.”
She stiffened and averted her face as if he’d struck her. Swift knew by her reaction that he’d pricked her conscience. Closing her eyes, she breathed raggedly through her nose, her small nostrils flaring. He glanced down and saw that her hands were clenched into fists. After a moment she cried, “You think you’re so smart. You’ll appeal to my honor and make me admit I liked it, right? Think again. I’ll never admit it, never.”
“Amy, I’m not trying to—”
“Don’t lie.” She riveted anguished eyes on him. “You think you’ve won with one little kiss. We’re back to the betrothal. You’ll insist I marry you. I know you—don’t think I don’t.”
Swift clenched his teeth.
“You see? You can’t deny it, can you? You men are all the same. You want control, and one way or another, you get it. You knew what would happen. And you tricked me, saying you’d release me from the promise, knowing I’d go for the bait. You knew you’d win before you ever posed the challenge.”
Swift didn’t point out that she had just as much as admitted that she had enjoyed the kiss. “Amy, that’s insane. Why would I trick you?”
“Why?” She leaned toward him and jabbed a finger at his chest. “Understand something. This is one woman who will never kiss your boots. Never!”
Swift swallowed. “My boots? Amy, when have I ever—”
“I’ve done all the groveling I’m going to do. No one’s ever going to have that kind of power over me again. No one!”
With that, she whirled and ran across the yard, tripped on an exposed tree root, stumbled up the steps, and wrestled with the door, as if she thought he rode her heels. He watched her, afraid to press her when she was so upset. “Good night, Mr. Lopez, and good riddance,” she snapped over her shoulder.
She escaped inside and slammed the door. An instant later he heard glass breaking, then a broken, sobbing “Damnation!” that made his heart catch. He moved closer, cocking an ear to listen.
“Amy, are you okay?”
“I’ll be okay just as soon as you get off my place.”
He heard a thud and an “Ouch!” that made him cringe. An instant later, light flared. Swift leaned against the tree in her yard, trying to decide whether he should have this out with her now. She was more likely to confess what was bothering her while upset. But a confrontation now would be unavoidably nasty.
While he mulled over his options, Amy came to the sitting room window and cupped her hands to the glass, peering out into the darkness. She looked straight at him, then sagged with relief, which told him she hadn’t seen him and thought he had gone. His mouth tipped in a tender smile.
The lantern light moved from the sitting room to her bedroom. Through lace curtains, Swift could see her too well and knew a white man would probably leave. A gentleman would, at any rate. He had been in her bedroom at night, and her curtains looked far more concealing from the inside.
She twisted to unfasten the blue silk dress. His throat tightened as she slid the sleeves down her slender arms—as he had imagined doing. She bent to untie the laces on the back of the corset and tossed the garment aside. As she walked to her bureau, she kicked off her pantalets and petticoat en route.
Laying a nightdress on the bureau, she tugged her chemise off over her head. Swift braced himself as she flung the garment away from her. His mouth went as dry as dust.
She was so beautiful, so damned beautiful.
Her body seemed to undulate behind the film of lace, a shimmer of delicious white, her narrow back dipping to a tiny waist, then flaring out into the nicest behind he’d ever seen. His woman. White society might frown upon him for standing out here gaping, but the way Swift saw it, he was making a big concession. If looking was a sin, he’d go to hell smiling.
And then he saw them. Scars. Faded to white, but there, a network of white ridges crisscrossing her back and bottom. He felt as though a horse had kicked him in the guts. The ground disappeared from under his feet. If it hadn’t been for the tree, he would have fallen. Someone had whipped her. Not Santos. Once, years ago, Swift had seen Amy’s back while she was swimming, and she had borne no whip marks after her ordeal with the comancheros. Nausea surged up his throat.
The little girl grew up, and she found out the hard way. You know how dreams are. Sometimes they don’t make any sense. Her voice echoed in his mind, deceptively gay to hide the pain. And then his own words came back to haunt him as well, nearly breaking his heart because he had said them. You haven’t got enough guts left in you to make a smear if someone smashed you. What happened to you, Amy? Have you ever wondered that? She had looked at him with those huge, luminous eyes, without rancor, without accusation. I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment t
o you. I survived and kept my sanity, Swift. Isn’t that enough?
Tears ran down his cheeks, tears of helpless, impotent rage. I’ve done all the groveling I’m going to do. No one’s ever going to have that kind of power over me again. No one! Swift clamped an arm to his middle and slid down the tree until he sat on the ground. Why didn’t you wait for me in Texas, Amy, like we agreed?
There, alone in the darkness, he wept—with shame because she had waited for him there on that dusty farm, believing he would come, as he had promised— with regret because he had been too blind to see that the courageous, glorious girl he had known was still just as courageous and glorious, only in a different way. You want to hit me, Amy? Or are you too yellow? I’ll give you one free shot. And bless her heart, she had taken up the challenge and done it, even though she must have been terrified.
Every memory cut through him. He had been so cruel to her without realizing it. I could just throw you over my horse. He cupped a hand over his eyes. No, that’s life, sweetheart. You don’t have a choice! You’re mine! I’m here, I’m staying, and you’d better damned well figure out a way to deal with it.
Time became meaningless to Swift. The lantern went out, casting a fading glow through the bedroom. The wind shifted, blowing his hair, cutting through his shirt. And still he just sat there, staring, punishing himself over every thoughtless word he had uttered to her since his arrival in Wolf’s Landing.
Amy saw him the moment she got out of bed the next morning. Just sitting out there beneath her pine tree, not wearing a coat, his blue shirt dirt-streaked, her dinner basket and shawl beside him. She inched closer to the window, peering through the lace at him. He looked stricken, as he might if someone had died.
Fear clutched her. She raced to the door. The chill morning air cut through her gown, making her shiver.
“Swift? Oh, God, what’s happened?”
Her first thought was Loretta’s family, that one of them had been hurt, and he had been sent to tell her. He certainly looked haunted enough for that to be the case. She scurried down the steps and out into the yard.
“Swift? Wh-what’s happened?”
“Nothing, Amy. I’ve just been sitting here, thinking.”
“Thinking?” she repeated. “Have you been here all night?”
“Yes. I have to talk to you.”
“Oh.” She straightened, suddenly uneasy. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I could use a cup of hot coffee.”
“I’m sure Loretta has the pot on.”
“I want a cup of your coffee. Can I come inside?”
“Well . . .” Amy glanced uneasily toward town. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Us. A lot of things.”
“Let me get dressed.”
He glanced at her nightdress. “You’re fine like you are.”
“Nonsense.”
Gathering her things, he pushed up from the tree, stiff and slow. “No nonsense to it. Let’s get some coffee on the stove.”
With that, he strode unsteadily past her to the house. Glancing down at herself, she followed him inside warily. She could already hear him clanging around in her kitchen.
“I’ll be right with you.”
He poked his head around the door frame. “Amy, you’re covered from chin to toe. Come in here by the stove, honey. You’re shivering. There are hot coals, and I already put in some wood. Here in a couple of minutes, we’ll have a fire.”
She stood rooted, uncertain whether she wanted to get near him or not. After last night, what was he thinking?
“Amy . . .”
She moved toward the doorway, every step a decision. He glanced up from the coffeepot when she appeared in the doorway. Motioning her toward a chair, he said, “Have a seat. It’s time we had a long talk.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. “Will I ever have peace and quiet in my own home again?”
“Maybe sooner than you think.”
Amy slid onto a chair, tucking her nightgown around her knees and plucking nervously at the bodice, afraid he might be able to see through the cotton.
“Relax. I saw more than that last night, and I didn’t kick the door down. I think I can stay civilized now.”
He turned a chair and straddled it, sitting down with a tired sigh. Amy turned over his words, examining them.
As if he knew what she was wondering, he said, “I stood under the tree last night and watched you undress.”
Indignation washed over her in a scalding wave. “You what?”
“I—” He broke off. “You heard what I said.”
“How dare you!”
“I’m a low-down skunk.”
“You most certainly are.”
He folded his arms on the chair back and rested his forehead on his wrists. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not worth much, but I’m sorry. In a way, at any rate. In another, I’m glad I did it.”
“I’m to accept an apology when you’re not really sorry?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He lifted his head, planting a hand over his face. “Hell, nothing matters anymore.”
Amy had never seen him like this. “Swift?”
“I’m leaving,” he said softly.
“Leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Wh-when?”
“Today.” He heaved another sigh. “You’ve finally won, Amy. I’m not going to hold you to the betrothal. You’re free.”
Amy couldn’t credit her ears. “Because of last night?”
He moved his hand up his face and over his wind-tossed hair. His weary eyes settled on her. “Yes, but not for the reason you’re thinking.” His mouth twisted in a tender smile. “I didn’t lose that wager, and you know it. You didn’t hate what happened, you hated the position it put you in. The betrothal promise is gone on the wind—over. You can be honest now.”
Her cheeks felt hot. “Is this a trick?”
He laughed softly. “I don’t need tricks. If I wanted to be an ass, I’d just be an ass. Carry you to the bedroom, rip off your clothes, and lay my claim.” He cocked an eyebrow, as if he waited for her reaction. “And don’t take that as a threat. I’m just stating fact. Why would I bother with tricks?”
Amy didn’t know. “Then why—why are you leaving?”
“Because I’m making your life miserable, and I know why, and I don’t blame you a damn bit.” He stared into her eyes, tears filling his own. His throat worked. “I saw the scars, Amy.”
Amy froze on the chair. Her senses sharpened. She could hear the fire snapping, the clock ticking, the wind whispering outside. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t drag her gaze from his.
“I’m not asking you to talk about it,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not now, and I never will. I don’t think you’ve ever told anyone, have you?” Met with her telling silence, he continued. “How did you keep Loretta from seeing your back?”
Amy’s mouth felt powdery. “I bathed in my room.”
He nodded. “So it’s been your secret. That’s a powerful lot to pack around, isn’t it? Especially when you’re only nineteen years old and scared to death.”
“I’ve never feared Hunter. And it wasn’t a lot to pack around. It was a lot to explain. So I didn’t.”
Swift considered that. “Because you were ashamed.”
“It’s nothing to be proud of.”
His eyes delved into hers. She had the horrible feeling he could see too much, read her too well, that she had no secrets left. He knew Henry had done far more than just beat her.
“Last night, when you said you’d never kiss my boots, I thought it was just a figure of speech, but it wasn’t, was it? The bastard really made you do it, didn’t he?”
Amy’s stomach knotted. A hundred lies sprang to mind, but she knew before she uttered a word that lying to Swift was as impossible as lying to herself. So she said nothing.
Swift tightened his grip on the chair back, watching her as she lifted her head a notch higher, her eyes brilliant with sh
attered pride. “Amy, sometimes life gets bigger than we are, and we do things we never dreamed we could just to survive. There’s no shame in that. If you think you’re the only person who’s ever been brought to his knees, you’re dead wrong.”
Amy felt naked and so ashamed she wanted to die. You were glorious. He would never think her glorious again. More tears rushed to her eyes, and she blinked, trying to hold them back.
“Amy . . .”
The tears overflowed onto her cheeks, hot and ticklish. “I don’t want Hunter and Loretta to know,” she said shakily.
“I won’t tell them. You have my word on that.” He muttered something under his breath, gazed at the ceiling a moment, then riveted those all-seeing brown eyes on her again. “One question. Loretta said you wrote her letters, saying everything was fine. Why, for God’s sake? Did you doubt for a second that Hunter would come? He’d have walked the whole way if he’d had to.”
Amy gulped, then found her voice. “I, um, Henry stood over me and told me what to write. Until the last mule died, he took the letters to a neighbor’s and had him post them. I couldn’t write myself without him knowing.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, then stared at him, words deserting her for a moment. “Wh-when did you say you were leaving?”
“Today. You anxious to see my dust settle?”
Amy saw the hurt in his expression. She folded her hands in her lap, swallowing back a denial.
“I wish you had leveled with me,” he whispered. “When I think back on everything I’ve said and done, I—” He broke off and moved the coffeepot off the direct heat so it wouldn’t boil over. “I might have understood you a lot better.”
She bent her head, gazing at the cracks in her bleached floor. The bloodstain by the stove still discolored the wood. “I don’t need to be understood. I just need to be left alone.”
“I realize that now.” He heaved another sigh. “About last night—”
“I lied.” She looked up, and their gazes locked. Silence stretched taut between them. “I lied because I was afraid.”
“I know.”