A look of resignation crossed Ruby’s face and she sighed. “So, you’re intent on keeping her here?”
“I am,” Steven said, realizing now he had no other
choice. Glory needed tending. She needed someplace to stay. As far as he knew, she had no other family in town, aside from her brother-in-law, Ned Shaw. But would he doctor and protect her if he suspected she’d killed his brother? Steven doubted that.
Glory lay injured and alone in that bed with nowhere to go and no one but Steven to rely upon. “You’ve got to keep this a secret, Ruby. And make sure the girls know to keep their mouths buttoned up good and tight. You tell them we’re doing this for Lorene as much as for that girl in there. Lorene would want Glory to be tended properly. She’d want her protected.”
“The girls won’t say a word.”
“I intend to keep her safe, Ruby. I owe her that much.”
Ruby smiled then and lifted her red satin gown as she turned to head downstairs. “She’s all yours, Steven.”
Steven stood outside Glory’s door, shaking his head with a frown pulling at his lips. The woman didn’t know him. She wouldn’t
want
to know him. But he saved her from death. And he’d protect her. That’s where it would end.
Ruby had been wrong about Glory.
She wasn’t all his.
Glory Mae Shaw could never be his.
Steven reentered the room. It was almost morning, but he didn’t trust leaving Glory alone for too long. He stood at the foot of his large bed, noting the empty space next to Glory, the inviting sheets calling to him. A fool notion of sleeping next to Glory, just to comfort her cries in the night, crept into his brain. But he
didn’t dare climb in. Glory wasn’t a woman who’d appreciate waking up with a strange man in her bed.
He scratched his head, watching her sleep. Her breathing seemed steadier now, and a bit stronger. Emmie had given him instructions on how to dose the laudanum. She’d said it was sure to ease the pain, allowing the patient to get some rest. And the painkiller seemed to be working.
Steven let go a long sigh, dismissing the comfortable bed. He pulled up the cane-back chair he’d spent most the night in, and planted himself down. Folding his arms across his middle, he slouched a bit, trying for comfort but getting only more of the same, an awkward respite.
But soon, Glory’s whimpers, her low muted cries woke him. He rose and went to her swiftly. She thrashed about with eyes closed, body swaying and her head tossing to and fro wildly. Coming down on the bed, he lifted her gently, taking her into his arms. “Shh. Shh, Glory,” he murmured into her hair. “Shh. Go back to sleep.”
She moaned softly. So pitifully softly that Steven barely heard her.
“Shh. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe now,” he whispered again and again, until she calmed down, her cries quieting. “You’re safe now,” he said once more, lowering his head against the pillow and taking her with him. He held her loosely, her face against his chest. He waited until her ragged breathing steadied once again, then closed his eyes.
Allowing much-needed sleep to claim them both.
Morning dawned too soon and much too bright, fighting through the darkness to bathe the room in
sunlight. Steven grimaced against the light, squinting his eyes open. He didn’t need to turn to know that Glory’s soft body curled up beside him, her rounded curves pressed against him, making his tired bones come alive in a quick flash. He had one arm wrapped around her shoulders, her head on the pillow next to him. She appeared better this morning, her restlessness from the night seeming to have faded into a peaceful sleep.
Steven inched his way off the bed, making certain not to cause a disturbance. He stood over her, as he had so often during the night, watching her sleep.
Good Lord. He’d slept with her.
And the irony seemed far too harsh to lift his spirits this morning. Because in the past, he’d had thoughts of Reverend Caldwell’s daughter, of holding her, of touching her and making her his. But Steven wasn’t a fool. He knew her to be a decent woman, one who’d rather be cast off than take up with the likes of him, a man who’d been raised in a whorehouse, a man who knew the “soiled doves” and considered them, friends.
Steven moved away from Glory and shed his clothes quickly, removing garments that had been layered with ash and smoke from the fire. He splashed water on his face from the gilded pitcher on his dresser, dressed in clean clothes, then combed his dark hair and brushed off his dusty boots before putting them on.
He strode down three flights of stairs, the third floor being designated for Lorene and her family, the second floor leading to the famous Rainbow rooms, each one decorated in a different color, suiting the women
who entertained there. The main floor housed both the kitchen and entertaining parlors.
As he descended the stairs, Steven marveled at the contrast between the deathly still morning and the late-night goings-on at Rainbow House. At any given time during the evening, giddy laughter filled the halls and piano music poured out from the main parlor. The scent of cigar smoke flavored the rooms, along with the distinguishable pungent smell of liquor. Whiskey. Jamaican rum. French wine. Always the finest—always the best. Rainbow House had a reputation for pretty girls and the finest amenities.
As a young boy, Steven had always enjoyed the silence of the morning best. Back then, he could pretend he lived in a real house, with a mother who worked over the cookstove making crescent biscuits and sliced ham for breakfast, and a father who’d take him out for a day of regular chores. Well, he’d gotten that life, deplete of the family, when he’d taken up ranching. Only the mother had been a craggy old “cookie” named Marty who baked the best damn cornbread in ten counties and the father had been a ranch foreman who shouted tall orders from an even taller horse.
“Morning, Mattie,” Steven said to the cook as he entered the large kitchen. Two cast-iron stoves banked one wall, next to a pie safe and a full-sized pantry. The cupboards held dishes and serving pieces from all around the world. A good meal was something Lorene Harding believed in. And the cook she’d chosen for the job had been her latest rescue, a sixteen-year-old girl who’d run away from an orphanage. She’d displayed culinary skills that had simply amazed Lorene.
“Morning, Mr. Harding.” She cast him a shy smile and turned back to her preparations. The ladies usually didn’t rise until noon or later, so Mattie always had time to fix up something mouth watering for supper.
“Mattie, how long have you worked here?”
She whirled around, wiping her hands on her apron. Her slightly freckled face held a perpetual flush of color. Steven presumed the heat of the kitchen caused it. He’d rarely seen her anyplace else but the kitchen. “I’ve been here six months, sir.”
He smiled and kept his tone light. “And how many times have I asked you to call me Steven?”
“Oh,” she said on a giggle. “I’m sorry, sir. Yes, sir. Steven.” She nodded, and the rosy color in her face intensified. She turned around to stir something in a pot. “Are you here for breakfast? I’ve got oatmeal cooking, and I can warm some bread to have with peach preserves.”
Steven poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down at a rectangular table that went nearly the length of the kitchen. “That sounds fine.”
He took a sip of coffee, allowing the steamy liquid to slide down his throat and fill his empty stomach. “I’ll need some broth later on, to take up to our…guest.”
“Yes, sir. Is she…is she going to be all right?” Mattie continued stirring what he knew now to be oatmeal. “I heard about the fire and the…beating.”
Steven’s gut clenched every time he thought about Glory’s injuries. “I think she’ll recover just fine. At least Emmie seems to think so and she’s a good judge of these things. But Mattie, it’s important that you
don’t speak about her to anyone. I’ve asked Ruby to tell the girls the same. I know I can trust all of you.”
“Yes, sir. I won’t tell a soul about her.”
“Good, I appreciate it. And Mattie?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t call me sir.” He chuckled quietly to himself when her face flamed again.
With his belly full, Steven climbed the stairs again, anxious to see if Glory had woken up. She had had no fever last night, which he thought a good sign. But the bruises to her body had been unsightly in the dark and he could only imagine what they looked like in the light of day.
Steven entered his bedroom to find Glory taking peaceful breaths as she continued to sleep. On the bedside table, he found a jar of salve that had been deposited by Emmie, no doubt. She’d told him to wash Glory’s body, then apply the salve to all the bruises. Steven had hoped Emmie would have done the deed herself, leaving him in the clear. But Emmie, like Ruby and all the others, wanted no part of the woman who’d love nothing better than to run them all out of town.
Steven sighed. He couldn’t blame them. Gloria Mae Shaw had made a nuisance out of herself, but he believed she had never posed any real threat to Rainbow House. Lorene hadn’t worried about it, but then his mother wouldn’t find fault with the Reverend’s daughter, no matter what she’d wanted to do.
Steven poured water into a bowl and set it down on the bedside table. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, carefully peeling back the covers. Glory’s long hair covered most of the skin exposed by the
ripped garment she wore. The dark-brown dress, tattered now, had to come off.
Perhaps it was a good thing she was in a deep drugged sleep or he doubted she’d let him come anywhere near her. But her bruises needed tending and Steven was the only one to do it.
He came around to her backside and unbuttoned the dress. With care, he lowered the dress down, exposing her shoulders, and lower yet to uncover most of her back. He slipped the dress off easily after that, deciding to leave the chemise, her cream-colored undergarment, on for her modesty and his own sanity.
Steven’s hands trembled as he lifted the chemise to peer down her back. Thankfully, there were no bruises, only the sight of soft glowing skin that led down to the curve of her spine.
He took a deep swallow.
Doctoring a woman like Glory made his nerves go raw.
Sensations ripped straight through him, but he fought them off. The woman needed help, not his schoolboy gawking.
He knew, judging from the swollen purple marks on her face, that most of Glory’s injuries had occurred facing her attacker. She’d taken the brunt of his abuse head-on. So Steven lifted himself off that side of the bed to come around to Glory’s front. He sat down and gazed at her, noting her skin discolored in many places, the god-awful marks of aggression all over her lovely body.
He took up a cloth, dipped it into the bowl and pressed it to her face first, bathing her with coolness.
She let out a small sigh. Not a cry this time, but a whimper of slight pleasure. Steven let out a breath,
relieved he hadn’t caused her more pain. “Glory, can you hear me?”
She sighed quietly again but her swollen eyes remained closed.
Steven kept the cloth on her face, gently dabbing at her bruises for long minutes. Then he moved the cloth down to cover a bruise on her left shoulder. He dipped and redipped the cloth several times, cleansing and cooling the area all the while his muscles tensed at the unjust brutality the woman had suffered.
He couldn’t fault her if she had killed her husband.
They’d get to the truth eventually, but for now, she needed to heal.
Steven dipped the cloth once more and noted three dark and slightly elevated bruises on her chest. He bathed those as well, allowing the water to seep down under her chemise, keeping her modesty intact, somewhat. But his plan went awry, since the chemise, when wet, lent a view that Steven couldn’t tear his gaze away from. Small, round ripe breasts exposed by wet cotton held his complete attention, nearly knocking the stuffing out of him.
“Lord help me,” he mumbled as he held his breath and continued to bathe her. His groin went tight. His mind rebelled. Rosy peaks pressed against the flimsy fabric outlined Glory’s beautiful form, and try as he might, Steven hadn’t the willpower to shift his attention. He sat there, mesmerized. How on earth was he to rub her skin with salve? Wasn’t that too much to ask of an honorable man?
Steven covered her, then bounded up from the bed. Moving to the window, he glanced out, seeing nothing but the image of Glory, lying in his bed, nearly naked and needing his attention.
“God almighty,” he cursed, willing his body back to normalcy. Steven wasn’t a man to lose control. He wasn’t a man who feared the very sight of a woman.
She made a sound. Not a moan or a cry, but words. She’d mumbled words. Steven whirled around abruptly, her low raspy voice startling him. “Glory?”
Had she spoken? Was that voice hers, or had he imagined those words only in his addled brain?
He moved to her side. “Glory?”
The woman struggled to open her eyes, but didn’t quite achieve her goal. Instead, another whispered sound came forth. “Where…am…I?”
Chapter Two
T
hrough a haze of pain, Gloria heard a man’s voice. She wrestled with the sound, her mind too clouded to recognize who was calling to her. But whomever it was kept calling her Glory.
Glory.
No one ever called her Glory—except her beloved father and then only within the confines of their home. To the outside world ever-prudent Reverend Jonathan Caldwell had used her birth name of Gloria Mae.
Perhaps it was her father calling? Perhaps He was ready to take her and the good Lord saw fit to send her father as messenger.
“Glory.”
The voice called to her again, but it wasn’t her father. This time she was certain. How often had she dreamed of hearing his tone and tenor just once more? But his life had been taken abruptly and far too soon. Sadly she realized she’d never hear her father’s voice again.
Gloria battled to open her eyes, but it was as though clay bricks weighed them down. The effort cost her too much energy so she gave up for now. It
hurt to breathe. Everything ached. And she remembered nothing of what had happened to her. But she felt safe, for some odd reason. And cared for. Even though she didn’t know where she was.