And resulted in so much being resolved.
In actions, at least-intentions declared but not stated. He understood what Phyllida had meant to tell him-at least, he thought he did. What he was far less sure about was why she'd made her decision.
Who knew what went on in the minds of women?
After all these years, he really ought to have a clue.
She'd asked whether he knew what love was. He knew what he felt for her-the compelling need to know she was well, safe, and happy, the joy he felt when she laughed, when she smiled. He knew how his gut knotted when she was in danger and how his nerves flickered when she was away from his side. He knew the pride that warmed him as he watched her going about her daily round, so competent, so caring, so giving in that managing yet selfless way that was so uniquely hers. Knew, too, the overwhelming impulse to cosset her, to protect her emotionally and physically, to care for her. To meet her every need, to give her all she could ever desire.
So, yes, he knew about love. He loved her and always would. She loved him, too, but didn't know it-couldn't see it-even though she wanted to see, to know.
Could he teach her what love was?
He could hear fate cackling in the wings, but he shut his ears and set his jaw. If that was what Phyllida wanted, someone to show her, to point out the truth in such a way that she could see it, too, then… if he wanted their marriage to be what it could be, it behooved him to do it.
Decision made-simple, easy. She wasn't the only one who could act decisively.
He emerged from the last copse and looked up; the blackened ruin of the cottage stood on the crest, still smoking, charred timbers listing crazily against the summer sky. He heard a grunt and saw Thompson grappling with a crowbar at one side of the shell. An instant later, Oscar joined him.
Lucifer strolled up the path and around to where they worked on the one wall still standing. They both stopped and nodded, leaning on their tools.
"Miss Phyllida?" Oscar asked.
"She's well. Still resting, but I doubt there'll be any lingering effects."
"Best not be," Thompson growled. "But we've got to find this maniac. Doesn't look like he's about to stop."
"I came up to take a look around." Lucifer looked at the half-collapsed wall. "Do you need a hand?"
"Nah." Thompson turned back to the wall. "We'll have this down soon enough. If we left it standing, sure as the sky is blue, some of the tykes would come up to play, and then we'd have an accident."
He leaned on his crowbar and a burned log split.
Lucifer stepped back. "I'll leave you to it." He glanced around, then walked down the overgrown track toward Dottswood, the way most of the locals had come running yesterday. A little way down, he stopped and turned; eyes narrowed, he surveyed the cottage. If he'd been the murderer…
Two minutes later, he started back up the slope, then cut around, away from the front of the cottage, circling through the overgrown trees and shrubs at its rear.
He found what he'd been certain he would-and just a little more-in a small clearing tucked away behind a stand of rhododendrons run wild. He stared, then hunkered down and looked more closely, hardly daring to believe their luck. Then he stood and went to fetch Thompson.
Thompson came; Oscar followed. The three of them stood behind the rhododendrons and stared down at the clear impression of a horse's hooves-all four of them.
"Ordinary-sized beast, but well set up." Thompson knelt to inspect the indentations. He traced one with a broad fingertip. "Better yet-it's my own work, that is."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure." With a grunt, Thompson got to his feet. "I'm the only one hereabouts who uses those particular nails. See the odd-shaped heads?"
Both Lucifer and Oscar looked, and nodded.
"And that left back shoe?" Lucifer asked.
"Gets better'n better, it does. I haven't seen this horse recently, but I'm going to soon, and then we'll have our man." Thompson nodded at the left back hoofprint. "That shoe's going to come off any day."
Lucifer had to wait until later that evening when Sweetie retired and he and Phyllida were finally alone in the library before he could tell her the news.
"Don't mention it to anyone," he warned. "Thompson has customers from beyond Lyme Regis, so it's not possible to search for the horse. We have to wait for the shoe to fall and the animal to be brought in. Only you, me, Thompson, and Oscar know of it-we've agreed to say nothing, so there's no possibility the murderer will realize and take the horse somewhere else."
Phyllida sat in the armchair by the desk, her face, for once, awash with emotions. "Soon, Thompson said?"