“Miss Burton, ma’am...you—you—”
“Mr. Barclay. Um—no, I do believe it’s Mr. Forrester. Yes?” After her fervent response to his overtures, how could she possibly look up at him from under her lashes so demurely, now, like a proper southern maiden?
“You sit—here.” Gently he pushed her down onto the wooden seat of the swing, hung from the thick branch of a hundred-year-old maple, and took a wary pace or two away. But he couldn’t help watching with interest and delight while she straightened the rosebuds he had displaced and the bodice he had disarranged.
“There.” She flashed her dimples. “Do I look properly virtuous again, in case someone should unexpectedly stop by?”
He cleared his throat. “Darlin’, I can’t begin to tell you what you look like. I only know I gotta stay far enough so I don’t put my hands on you.”
And so he did. Stay far enough away, that is. Almost.
Plopping down into the tangled grass at her feet, he stretched out his long legs and leaned back against the tree’s smooth trunk. “This is what happened,” he began.
Letitia sat quietly, listening without interruption as he related the chain of events, once again, that had led to the place where he was today. She moved occasionally, or frowned, or caught her breath, or bit her full lower lip, or let out a little sound of dismay. But she let him talk on, just as he had in the sheriff’s office, earlier.
At one point, Reese leaned forward to wrap his fingers around her stockinged ankle, as if he needed grounding and only touch would do. Particularly concerning one dance hall girl named Theodosia. If he deliberately glossed over that part, out of respect for Letty’s feelings, his oversight could be forgiven.
But Letty was no fool. She could read between the lines just as easily as anyone else. However, she let it go without question or comment. The traumatic incident was more than four years in the past. Reese might retain fond memories of his former female companion, of course; and she had saved his life at the cost of her own. So Letty, logical, reasonable Letty, was not about to cause a ruckus over some bit of history that could not be altered.
He also, of necessity, held back somewhat when it came to the wanted poster, the reward being offered, and the bounty hunters on his trail. No use dragging her into something so chancey, or to frighten her beyond what she could bear—not if she got to be too fearful to let him out the door. There, again, he underestimated his lady love. She was more aware of the dangers pressed upon the average citizen by the real world than he, who wanted only to shelter her, realized.
It was as he spoke fleetingly of finally escaping the cloud under which he had lived so long, that she could feel his clasp absently migrating north, up the contour of her calf to the firm hard knot of her knee, around which his fingers tightened. Or was it so absent, in fact?
With just a soft sigh, he had finished his recitation.
So she was able to reprove him with a, “Down, Mr. Forrester,” and gently remove his hand.
He looked up with the half-smile that had first won her heart. “Can’t blame a man for tryin’. So.”
Another sigh, this one of relief that so much, at least, had been shared. “There you have it.”
Leaning forward from her perch, Letty curved her palm along the puckered scar of his cheek. “I’m so sorry for everything that happened to you, Reese. And yet, I can’t be too sorry, because it brought you here to me. And this, all of this—was what you were dreading to tell me?”
“That’s about it. And it’s been hangin’ heavy over my head.”
“Oh, my dear Reese,” she whispered, with warmth and compassion. “It’s over now. You’re done. But I’m wondering just where that leaves us?”
“Where it leaves us,” he admitted ruefully, “is in limbo. Gotta get everything squared away, and come outa this a free man, b’fore I can face you again.”
Briefly he explained about Paul’s telegram to San Francisco, and the seeking of information there. He didn’t mention his brother’s alarm over the whole situation, or his wish that Reese would somehow find himself some kind of well-armed guardian until the crime had been solved.
“Limbo.”
He lifted his own right hand to cover hers, still resting with such tenderness along the side of his face. “You’re my intended, Tish. I want you for my wife. For sure, we’re gonna get married. Limbo means I just can’t say for sure when.”
“But, I—”
“This is an ugly thing, come forward outa the past. It’s shadowed my life for too long; I ain’t about to have it shadow yours, too. Please tell me you understand, darlin’,” he implored, “and that you’ll abide by what I ask.”
“You awful man.” She sniffed back another welling of tears. “Yes. I understand. I will abide by what you ask. But I won’t like it.”
That slow crooked smile again, as he looked up at her with a great surge of emotion almost choking off his words. “Well, I never expected you might be wantin’ to turn cartwheels. But this is a decision I’ve had to make for our future. We’ll get through this somehow, Letty. We’ll work it out, and things will be okay.”
“Oh, ho, so this is where you two have gotten to.”
Startled enough that she nearly toppled headfirst from the swing, both looked up with guilty expressions—although, thinking back on the moment later, Letitia saw no reason why either should have felt guilty. This had been a perfectly innocent meeting, hadn’t it? Or had it?
A pleasant dusk was stealing in, putting the sun to bed with stripey clouds of mauve and buttercup and azure, sending long purple shadows slowly but inexorably across what passed for a back yard. Fireflies were beginning to light their miniscule lamps here and there, and turtle doves were fluttering and cooing as they settled in for the night.