Kit nodded, slowly processing.
I’m going to be a mother.
She’d had two and lost both. Tears streaked her face.
He pulled her onto his lap, pressing her head against his chest. “I’m going to be a father.”
“I’m scared.” She imagined herself hanging by a frayed rope on the rotted board side of a bridge, swinging precipitously over a dangerous ravine.
“Women birth babies every day.”
“I’m not afraid of birthing. I’m afraid of the next thousand miles. I’m afraid of the decisions we have to make. I’m afraid I’ll not be strong enough to carry the baby and will miscarry like Sarah. I’m afraid I’ll be forced to make a decision like my birth mother.”
“You’re not alone in this venture. I can’t guarantee everything will be as you want, but I will give my life to see that you and our son arrive safely in San Francisco.”
Our son?
Time stopped for a moment. A baby, a brooch, and now another baby. She felt like she’d been cast in a play without a script. She wasn’t even sure which role she was supposed to play.
Chapter Thirty-One
BRAHAM WALKED ALONG the bank of the Bear River at the Hudspeth Cutoff at a slow, uneasy pace. The wind sighed through the trees and underbrush carrying the scent of pine. Dark thoughts swirled in his mind and mirrored the gloomy overcast evening that limited visibility to shadowy outlines of the opposite bank and the rugged land beyond. A damp chill cooled the air. By morning, the weight of icy dewdrops would bend the grass—but not his decision. He would be gone by then, following the gossamer stillness across the desert to California.
His farewell supper had lasted through two desserts while Kit sang his favorite songs:
Meet Me by Moonlight
and
Do You Think I Can Forget.
Her voice, tuned to musical perfection, whispered over his skin like a sultry breeze, and he had squirmed in his chair like a sinner in church.
He tossed his last rock into the river, and it skipped twice before it sank.
Plop.
Nothing he did assuaged his guilt or silenced its incessant chatter.
Do not leave your friends. Do not.
He let out a long, deflated breath. Who would protect them once he was gone? Cullen would protect Kit, but who would protect Cullen? The killers posed a threat to everyone on the trail. If the wagon train met up with them, Cullen and Henry would need his gun.
An irritating tingle stole over him. Maybe he should stay with the wagon train until it reached Oregon. Damn. For someone who prided himself on his decision-making skills, he’d done a lousy job on this trip.
He considered his commitments. A conflict grew inside him like an intense and powerful heat. He had promised Mr. Phillips he would be in San Francisco by mid-July, and he had promised Cullen he would offer condolences to Phillips. Braham didn’t want to leave. He pounded his fist into his palm. Should an injury befall either Kit or Cullen, or God forbid, one of them be killed, he would never forgive himself.
Braham’s preternatural hearing picked up sounds of nocturnal animals rustling in the foliage and footsteps passing gingerly through the grass. He pivoted toward the approaching sound. His hand hovered over his holster, and his eyes grew wide and alert. Then at the sight of golden hair glimmering in a tiny sliver of moonlight, his trigger finger relaxed.
Kit paused in the near darkness. “Only a few weeks ago you were trying to solve the problem of world hunger. You must have found a solution and moved on to the next problem on your list.”
“You’re wandering about rather late, Mrs. Montgomery.”
“I’ve lost Cullen. Have you seen him?”
“Not since dinner, but I’ll help you find him.”
She pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders and looped the fringed ends through her apron strings. “I brought you a gift.”
“I don’t need a gift.”
“I want to give you one anyway. But you have to choose.”
“What are my choices?”
“Whether you want to look far into the present or far into the future.”
He rested his thumb under his chin and poked at his upper lip with his index finger. “Michael Abraham McCabe doesn’t need to glance into the future. However, seeing far in the present would be an advantage.”
“You’ve made a wise decision, Major McCabe.”
“Major?”
She sucked in a long breath between her teeth. “I…I didn’t mean to say that.”
“What’d you intend to say?”
She handed him a pair of binoculars.
He lifted them to his eyes. “To see far into the present?” His tone was a mixture of appreciation and curiosity. “What’s the gift for the future?”
“A book.”
Braham noted a flash of nervousness in her hesitation.
“
American History From 1776 Through the Inauguration of the Forty-fourth President
.”
“Does it mention a Major McCabe?”
She shrugged.
“Why’d you call me a Major?”
“You said you didn’t want to see into the future.”
“I’ve reconsidered.” While inspecting the binoculars he watched her from the corner of his eye. She wore a puzzled expression that reminded him of his grandmother McCabe.
“Did Cullen tell you I’m pregnant?”
Twigs snapped to the left. “Not yet,” Cullen said, striding down the path toward them. “John said you were looking for me.”
She brought her forearm up in front of face as if reading the time on the special watch Braham had seen on her wrist before. “Um…an hour ago.”
Cullen kissed her. “Adam and I were discussing—”
“Let me guess.” She tapped her toe. “He’s into the comedies this week.
Tempest?
No.
Twelth Night?
No, that’s not it
. Much Ado about Nothing.”
Cullen chuckled. “You, my lass, have become a Shakespeare devotee. I’d say you know exactly what he’s reading because you finished
Much Ado about Nothing
last week and encouraged him to read it next.”
“Do you know all my secrets?”
Cullen whispered into her ear. There wasn’t enough light for Braham to see well, but he believed she blushed. He felt a lump rise in his throat. His friend was a lucky man. He had an intelligent, beautiful woman to love and a baby on the way. He didn’t want to begrudge Cullen’s blessings, but down deep, he did.
“If you’re through jabbering about Shakespeare, I believe you mentioned something about a baby. I’ll accept the role of cousin, uncle, or godfather.”
“Uncle Braham?” Cullen laughed with an ease Braham hadn’t heard in his friend’s voice for a very long time. “Consider yourself asked.” He retrieved the book from Kit’s hand. “Braham didn’t want this?”
He snatched the book from Cullen. “If this mentions me, I do want it.”
“I didn’t say you were in the book.” Kit tried to grab it, but Braham held the book over his head. She jumped, laughing, caught in a game of keep-away.
Cullen placed his hands around her waist. “Settle down, lass, and tell me why he believes he’s in your history book?”
She grabbed Braham’s arm and tugged on it. “I called him Major McCabe.”
Cullen grabbed the book and gave it to Kit. “Who’s Major McCabe?”
“Secret agent to President Abraham Lincoln.”
“The lawyer from Illinois? What’s he President of?”
“The country.”
Braham pulled two cigars out of his pocket, offered one to Cullen. He declined. “Will I be a major in the cavalry?”
“Does it matter?” she asked.
“Of course it matters. Who wants to be in the infantry?”
“You really want me to tell you?”
Braham thought a moment. What harm could it do? “Yes.”
“According to historical resources, Major Michael Abraham McCabe served in the United States Cavalry on special assignment to President Lincoln from 1863 to 1865.”
“Why will the President need a special agent?” Cullen asked.
Braham lit his cigar. “That sounds like a fair question.”
Kit fanned the smoke. “I’ve already told you more than you wanted to know.”
“I changed my mind.”
“If Braham wants the information, tell him,” Cullen said.
“If I give you a picture of the man in the portrait will you try to find him?” she asked.
“If you’ll tell me why I’m assigned to the President.”
“That’s not fair.”
Cullen chuckled again.
She elbowed him in the gut.
“Ouch.”
Her fingers flittered against her chin, and her eyes glanced upward. “A war starts in 1861, and no one knows for sure how or why you become involved. You live in California when it starts. Historians say it’s because of an old relationship with General Sherman. Others say it’s your northern sympathies.”
He’d never met Sherman, although Cullen had mentioned him, and Braham didn’t think he had particularly northern or southern sympathies. “How do you know?”
“The MacKlennas have a chess set that was made in the late 1860s. All the pieces are Civil War generals, except for one black knight—Major Michael Abraham McCabe. The chest set is one-of-a-kind. There’s no legend, no story, no family history, no information as to why the black knight is included. ”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Cullen asked.
“I never knew Braham’s full name until now, and the black knight has a beard. I didn’t make the connection. But I’ll tell you this—there’s something special about the chest set, and there’s something special about the black knight.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
THE WAGON TRAIN followed a difficult stretch of trail over a rocky road and seven miles of deep sand before arriving at Fort Hall on the Snake River. The trip had worn Kit out, as well as everyone else. Dust covered her hair and clothes and left a gritty, disgusting taste in her mouth.
July 12, 1852. Nothing special about the date other than it marked the seventh week of pregnancy and her first serious bout of morning sickness—at six o’clock in the afternoon. She wanted to be home in her own bed with her own toilet to throw up in, and her own shower to wash off the filth, and her own sink to brush her teeth.
“How can I help you?” Cullen’s furrowed brow conveyed his empathy, which she didn’t want.
“Leave me alone. Don’t touch me. This is your fault. Go away.” She collapsed on her bed as if someone had pushed her. After twelve hundred miles, her reserves were empty. Time to wave the white flag.
“Walk to the fort with me?” he said.
“It’s a misnomer to call that collection of adobe buildings a fort.”
Cullen squeezed his lips between his thumb and the crook of his index finger in an attempt to downgrade a laugh to a mere chuckle.
She huffed. “You’re laughing at me. I can tell. Your shoulders are shaking.”
He stilled himself, posture erect. “I’ll work on my acting skills.” His lulling voice was both calming and reassuring.
“Adam is developing into quite a thespian. I’m sure he’ll be glad to help you.” The sarcastic bite in her tone of voice distressed her and gave her another reason to refer to herself as a shrew.
“I’m sorry you’re sick. Do you have any medicine?” Cullen sat next to her, his bright eyes teasing and mischievous.
She sank her elbow into his rib cage.
“Ouch.”
“Stop laughing at me.” She’d take a sprained wrist, a broken bone, anything but a queasy stomach and huge, swollen boobs. The misery shaved off a layer of her resolve to stay in the nineteenth century. “Tums will help my stomach, but not these,”
she said, cupping her breasts. “They’re so sore.”
“Tylenol will make you feel better.” He sounded like a damned commercial. Johnson & Johnson would probably hire him on the spot to pitch their product. He kissed her cleavage. His warm breath tickled, and she shivered, not because she was cold. She tilted her head, peeked at him through lowered lashes, found him gazing not at her, but inwardly as if watching and listening to a silent voice. He leaned back on the bed and pulled her into his arms. “You want to go home, don’t you, lass?”
There was a moment of utter stillness. She bowed her head, feeling defeated. “In weak moments, yes.”
He pulled pins from her hair, massaged her scalp. “This is a weak moment. Your eyes are filled with doubt.” The circular pressure relieved tension in her head and shoulders but increased it in her breasts and between her legs.
She rolled her head in circles matching the movement of his fingers. With each rotation, her respiration increased. “You know what your massages do to me.”
“I thought you needed relief.” His voice was a sexy rumble.
He slid her dress up over her thighs. “Your stomach may feel poorly but the rest of you…” He flashed his dimples as he unbuttoned his trousers. His erection jutted from a mass of dark, wiry hair. Atremble with anticipation and too anxious to delay, she straddled his legs, slid down the length of him, pulled him deep into her body. She forgot about her stomach and the dust and dirt. His arousing scent hypnotized her. She lost herself in her need for him and in the blue eyes that gazed up at her, saying I love you.
Frantically, she tossed off her blouse and jerked down her chemise. The fabric crumpled into a thin ring around her waist. She leaned over, letting her breasts sway inches from his face. He swirled the tip of his tongue around her right nipple.
A hiss slipped between her lips as she dissolved into the pleasure he gave her.
His rapid breath mingled with hers. She moistened her lips with a flick of her tongue as each nibble took her another step in her search for completion. She wanted him, needed him, her life would stop without him.
He teased her to the edge of climax, mumbling erotic words in a language she couldn’t understand. A gripping sensation began at her core and spread outward like a ferocious wave, pulling everything in its wake, unstoppable, unquenchable, and unfathomable.
They clung together in a pulsing rhythm of release, tied by an invisible cord binding them in their love, together for all time.