The Indiscretion (6 page)

"
Dartmoor
ponies,"
she said as he came up. "Two came close enough for me to see them
better."

He began his litany. "I'm sorry. I should've known they
weren't the right ones. I should've—"

She interrupted. "You should have what? They were far away.
How could anyone tell from a mile off?"

"Their proportions were wrong. They—"

"We wanted them to be the horses, and the light was poor. We
weren't expecting any other horses but ours—"

Her excuses made him mad. "Listen, you don't have to be nice
to me—"

"Yes, I do. I have to be nice to myself – I mistook them too.
It was an understandable mistake."

"It wasn't. I should've realized—"

"How? Magic? Or are you just God? You know everything?"

Yeah, he liked to think he did. About horses anyway. He glowered,
trying to see her expression in a face so shadowed by evening he could barely
make out her features. When it got dark in this neck of the woods, he was
guessing, it would get real dark. He doubted they'd be able to see their hands
in front of their faces in a few minutes.

Sam exhaled a long sigh and pushed his hat back on his head.
"So it's okay with you that we walked for God knows how far, away from the
road, in the wrong direction?"

"No, I wish we hadn't. But what can we do?"

"Nothin'."

"I wonder where
our
horses are."

He frowned, looking along the dim horizon as if he might see them.
"Long gone," he said. It was information that should have depressed
him more, but he sighed again and realized, no: The heavy blue feeling that had
walked with him all the way back, like an old familiar companion, had stepped
away from him, fading.

After a second she asked, "Would you be hungry?"

"Starved," he said, surprised to realize it. Though he
couldn't think what the hell he'd feed them.

Immediately Sam started to think: He could build a fire, see if he
could find rabbit trails in the bushes. That shouldn't be impossible, even in
the dark; there weren't that many bushes. He could set snares or traps on the
most likely paths. Why, by morning, they might have—

"I have two sandwiches," she said and laughed. Like a
little joke, she continued in her meticulously articulated syllables, "One
cucumber, one chutney and cheese. I don't know why precisely, but I do believe
you will hate them both." She laughed again, that delightful, burbly
sound, so feminine, so merry.

He couldn't figure her out. She could be mean, argumentative,
skittish, but she was … kind: possessed of a genuine kindness, a sensitivity
mixed with good intentions that felt just plain good to stand next to, to be
around. It was at her core.

"Cucumbers?" he asked. "You make sandwiches out of
cucumbers?" It didn't sound terrible so much as it sounded like nothing to
eat. Like sandwiches made out of water or air. "You eat the
sandwiches," he told her. "I'll set up some traps, see if we can't
snag something bigger for breakfast. Then I'll build a fire, make us
comfortable."

"No, no. We'll share."

She bent over, a wonderful bottom-up shadow in the growing dark as
she unlatched a corner of the mysterious long satchel at her feet and dug her
hand down inside. He twisted his mouth, thinking he should go through that
thing, whether she liked it or not, to see what else it might hold for them.

And to see better what Liddy Brown was all about.

She brought out a package wrapped in butcher paper. It crinkled
loudly in the stillness as she unfolded it, the pale paper flashing in the
dimness. Open, she held the packet out. He bent his head over the edges,
sniffed – something smelled odd, like bay rum – then grunted,
ugh.

Which made her burst into light, little peals of laughter, openly
relishing his displeasure. "Do you want the cucumber or the chutney and
cheese?" she asked.

He was stymied for an instant by the choice. Or lack of it.

"We'll split them both," she announced.

He frowned down at the dainty bread she handed him, its crusts cut
off. He offered it back. "No, you have it. You could use it."

"Certainly not. You need to eat, too."

"I don't need to as much as you do." He was being
gentlemanly.

She huffed. "You think I'm too skinny?"

"No," he told her honestly, "I think you're as
pretty as – as a pie supper." Given how hungry he was, it was a high
compliment.

Her head raised to look toward him. It tilted; she was trying to
assess him through the dark. After a suspicious moment she said, "You mean
that nicely, don't you?"

"Yeah." He laughed.

She nodded, seeming to debate herself whether or not to be
flattered.

He explained, "A pie supper. Can't you imagine how pretty
that'd be? Nothing but pie to eat?" Then he asked, "You hungry?
'Cause if you really don't care, I'll take half those sandwiches, now that I
think of it." He teased her.

"You're too fat anyway."

"I'm not."

He laughed harder. There was no predicting what she would or would
not quarrel over, this woman. She'd argue over nothing.

Or hand him sweet grace on a platter, right when he was ready to
chew himself up alive.

*

The
expression
Night fell
was never more appropriate. When the last inch of
sun sank out of sight, the moor became so lightless, it was eerie. The cloud
cover was thick. Not the faintest star twinkled overhead. There was not the
first light of civilization in any direction. Only a murky, fuzzy sliver of
moon, dimly haloed, peeped now and then from the occasional passing hole in the
clouds.

Lydia could see Mr. Cody's movement – that was about all – as she
helped him gather sticks from bushes and shrubs around the perimeter of where
they were setting up for the night. They'd decided to camp against the granite
outcrop that had hidden the ponies, since one wall of haven seemed better than
none. They piled their few things near it – her satchel, the gin and clothes –
then set off for the far bushes in search of the makings for a fire.

Though she eventually carried a skirtful of twigs,
Lydia
didn't think
she was worth much as a partner in fire-starting. Mostly, she just trailed
after Mr. Cody, afraid to let him get too far away.

"It's so dark," she murmured.

"Dark as a pocket."

"You make it sound cozy. It's not –
yike!"
Her
skirt caught on something that grabbed at her, not allowing her to follow for
an instant, so that her words came out more alarmed than she'd meant. She tried
to laugh away her unease. "I've not been in such pitch black since my
brother locked me in my mother's wardrobe as a joke, then threw the key out the
window."

Mr. Cody's shadow stooped and helped with her dress. "Nice
brother."

"He is, mostly. And I was the one who got in trouble. I
screamed and beat on the door so hard I literally broke my way out – my mother
was not happy that I destroyed her wardrobe."

"Well, we have what we need to break out of this dark."
He reached and caught her hand, his dry palm pressing to hers as his fingers
wrapped around the backs of her fingers. "Come on. It won't be so hard as
that. We'll start a fire."

His hand and words calmed her. She let him lead her.

Just out from their roofless, one-walled shelter, Lydia dumped her
skirtful of branches and twigs, then, squatting, watched Mr. Cody's vague
shadow stoop over the wood. He began to arrange it, though she couldn't see
well enough to say how. It didn't matter. A fire. Oh, glory.
Lydia
was impressed
that he was going to be able to start one – she'd heard the American Indians
could do it by rubbing sticks together.

She watched his obscure movements intently, trying to determine
what he was doing, her hands in the squatting lap of her skirts. Finally,
frustrated, she couldn't resist asking, "How are you going to light it?
What do you do?"

A little pass of clouds revealed his silhouette in slightly better
definition, a man with one knee on the ground, his other foot under him, his
chest pressed against his thigh as he bent over their sticks. This shadow turned
its head toward her. "You reach in your pocket," he said as he
shifted his weight, "and pull out some matches." He let out a snort
of humor as he struck a tiny flame into existence.

"You had matches," she said flatly, disappointed. And
annoyed.

His face, over the tiny match, came alive for a moment: golden,
shadowed, lit faintly – devilishly – from beneath. But familiar and a relief to
see, even if he made fun. He threw her his teasing half-smile as he cupped his
hand around the flame, then disappeared back into shadow as he held it low,
applying it to the twigs beneath the heavier wood.

Some kindling lit. She watched the brighter light dance up into
his visage as he bent over their small fire. Under the brim of his hat, his
face drew sharp-planed, the injured side hidden by angle and darkness. She was
taken aback to realize how handsome he was. Had she known this? That, without
the distraction of bruises, cuts, and swelling, his features assembled in
mature, masculine good looks. It was in the flare of his nostrils, the width
and muscle of his jaw, the ridge and cut of his cheek.

She would guess he was in his mid-thirties, though his face seemed
older – from too much sun and perhaps, she thought somehow, too much sorrow. It
wasn't a youthful face. Even by firelight, lines fanned out at the sides of his
eyes, crinkles – they weren't from smiling. His were the lines of a furrowed
brow, of squinting and frowning into the sun. It came to her: He never smiled
from happiness, only from glee when he teased, when he tormented with his
quirky humor. His smile was ironic, sarcastic, faintly sadistic in a tame way.
As if the closest thing he knew to joy was a sort of mirthless confirmation
that, yes, life was as absurdly bleak as he'd always thought, so much so as to
be ridiculous, funny.

Speaking over the small fire, he said, "Besides matches, I
also have half a dozen cheroots in my pocket, mostly broken, but two, I think,
still whole. You'll pardon if I have one."

She was uncomfortable having to say, "I'd rather you wouldn't."

He glanced at her with a derisive lift of one brow. "I wasn't
really asking permission."

"A lot of smoke gives me asthma."

"Then this fire'll kill you." He didn't hide his
belligerence.

"Do you always do this? Get angry over everything?"

He turned to look at her fully, as if pondering the question, then
said, "Yes. Pretty much."

"Well, we have to have the fire for light and warmth, but I
don't have to have the cheroot smoke, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't make
any. Or, if you do, that you make it far from me, so I can breathe
easier."

He said nothing, returning his attention theoretically to the job
of lighting more sticks, spreading the ones that had caught to places where
they would best catch the rest. Until he said quietly, "All right."
He nodded, then added, "And I'm sorry. That was a jackass thing to say –
to make you into a priss for not wanting the extra smoke, whether you have
asthma or not." He glanced at her and offered his faint sideways smile.
"You are a priss, but not because of the cigars. I don't have to smoke
'em."

"Thank you."

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded. "You're welcome."

He got the fire going to a nice, crackling blaze, and their little
campsite opened up with warm light that cast their shadows onto the rock wall.
They sat against it, him whittling on more sticks. Once sharp, he'd set them
down.

"What are they for?" she asked.

"Rabbit traps."

"I haven't seen any rabbits." She knew there were some.
She just hated the idea of his leaving her, wandering off into the dark to set
up sticks that probably wouldn't catch rabbits anyway – in Yorkshire, they shot
them with guns.

"Oh, no, there're rabbits here. Or foxes or gophers." He
let out a single syllable of humor. "Maybe a prairie dog. It doesn't
matter. Whatever we catch is our breakfast tomorrow." Gathering up his
pile of sharp sticks, he sprang to his feet.

"It's a waste of time—"

"You got some other way to spend the evening?"

She frowned, but took his point. "Wilderness man," she
muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

Something in him actually
liked
being out here on his own,
she realized, and she couldn't help but resent his liking what terrorized her.
She tried to be more generous, more rational. So he enjoyed being part of the
rugged outdoors, enjoyed being without any convenience but what he could
invent. It was probably nothing for a man like him to live outside. If she had
to be stranded out in the middle of nowhere, wasn't Wild West Wilderness Man
the perfect partner for it?