Mr. Barrington grunted. “I know the type.”
She shrugged. “Unfortunately, I didn’t. At the time I thought he was the best man in the world. He promised me the moon and I believed him.” She leaned out over the railing and stared at the stars. They’d been the same stars she’d gazed at with Douglas so many years ago. The stars remained constant, while she was nothing like the girl who’d been fooled by a man who whispered words of love in her ear.
“He lied.”
The night chill seeped into her bones. “Yes.”
He was so close she could feel the heat of his body. He raised his hand and she thought for a moment he’d touch her. Instead, he let his hand drop. “You deserve a man who can give you a proper home and children, Abby.”
“Yes, I realize that now.”
A heavy silence rose between them. “I can never be that man.”
“Why not?” The anguish in her voice was palpable.
“I’m used up. There’s no love left in me.”
Pride had her lifting her chin. “Ah, but that’s where you make your mistake. Love is not what I am after. I simply want a place where I belong.”
“Then you best leave here now. Because you don’t belong here.” He turned and strode toward the barn.
Her insides were quaking and for a moment she struggled with tears that welled in her eyes. A moment passed before she took a deep breath and regained control of herself.
Why was she doing this to herself? Why not take his advice and leave? She certainly didn’t love the man.
Love.
She shook her head. No, not love. She’d never fall into that trap again.
Mr. Barrington had left a lantern glowing for her by the door. Picking it up, she returned inside the cabin, kissed each of the sleeping boys on their cheeks then climbed the small ladder up to her loft. Too restless to sleep, she knelt on her pallet. The lantern burned softly as she changed out of her work dress into a nightgown and unpinned her hair. Unbound, it teased the top of her hips.
She picked up her brush from beside her pallet along with a silver mirror that had belonged to her mother. She started to brush her hair, counting out her nightly one hundred strokes.
Abby knew she was a hard worker. She was dependable. Mr. Barrington had already come to rely on her. She’d taken over the morning and evening milking of the cows and he trusted her completely with the boys.
But did he find her attractive?
Her mind drifted to that first picture of Elise. The young girl had exuded feminine charm. It had been her eyes and the slight quirk of her lips.
Abby picked up the silver-backed mirror and glanced at her reflection.
The sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose had always made her look younger, less sophisticated. And she’d never been fond of her nose, far too short and perky.
Abby glanced down her nightgown. Her breasts were large and full, and it had been her experience that men liked large breasts. More than once she’d caught the butler looking at her body. But she wasn’t petite like Elise.
She propped her mirror against the wall and held her hair up in a looser, more fashionable hairstyle.
The style didn’t suit. No amount of fancy hairstyles or perfume would ever make her as pretty as Elise.
She touched her fingertips to her lips, remembering Mr. Barrington’s kiss. In that moment they had seemed to fit together very well, almost as if their bodies had been fashioned with the other in mind.
Frustrated, Abby laid her head against her pillow, then rolled on her side and blew out the lantern. She lay in the dark staring into the utter blackness. Slowly sleep crept through her limbs.
Abby had nearly drifted completely off when she heard the howl of wolves. At first she thought it a dream and rolled on her side away from the door, hugging the blanket close to her chin.
But then she heard Mr. Barrington get out of bed. She’d not imagined the sounds. He’d heard them, too.
She sat up to the sound of him pulling on his pants and boots. Leather rubbed against the bedpost—he’d reached for his gun belt, which always stayed within arm’s reach.
Her fatigue vanished and in an instant her heart hammered against her chest. Where was he going? In the weeks she’d been here, she’d never known him to stir at night.
Steady purposeful steps echoed in the cabin as he moved to the front door. The door opened, then closed.
Abby strained to hear. There was the sound of the boys’ deep even breathing. The distant howl of a coyote.
An unsettled feeling seeped into the marrow of her bones.
Something was wrong.
In the dark, Abby felt around for her boots then slipped them on. Next, she searched for her shawl. When she found it at the base of her pallet, she tossed it over her shoulders.
If she had any sense, she’d have lit a lantern. But Mr. Barrington had not. What she’d heard outside had not been a dream. He’d heard it, too.
Gingerly, she eased down the ladder. She’d spent enough time in this cabin to know its furnishings and layout by heart. To her left was the kitchen and to her right the bed where the boys slept.
Despite her familiarity with the room the night’s utter blackness threw off her senses and she found herself moving more slowly than normal.
She bumped hard into the front door, stubbing her toe.
Pain shot up her leg and tears flooded her eyes. “Blast,” she whispered. Gripping her toe she drew in deep, even breaths until the pain passed.
She eased her weight back down onto her injured toe, testing it, until she was certain she’d not broken it.
Slowly, she lifted the latch and cracked open the front door. Easing outside, she closed the door quietly behind her.
Abby took one step when strong arms clamped over her mouth and banded around her waist. She was dragged against a hard-muscled chest.
Chapter Eleven
Abby should have been afraid, but she wasn’t.
She was mad that someone would come onto her porch and accost her after all the sweat and time she’d invested. With Mr. Barrington nowhere in sight, she wondered if this cretin had ambushed Mr. Barrington, as well.
Fear sliced through her as she pictured him bleeding and injured. Desperate to find him, she did the first thing that came to mind. She drove the heel of her boot into her attacker’s shin.
Save for a soft grunt, her attacker made no sound. Instead, he tightened his hold, and, lifting her off her feet, carried her toward the barn.
Abby struggled, her shawl dropped to the porch, but her efforts accomplished nothing, other than draining her own strength. She tried to
kick her assailant again but each time he was ready for her, sidestepping her attacks easily.
“Stop fighting me, damn it!”
At the sound of Mr. Barrington’s gruff voice, Abby froze. He half drug, half carried her across the yard to the barn. Kicking the barn door open with his foot, he pulled her inside and then closed it. He flipped her around and pressed her back against the door. She stared up into his shadowed face, just inches from hers. His hot breath brushed her cheek.
“Why did you grab me?” she whispered.
“There’s someone or something outside.”
She moistened her lips, which still tasted salty from his hand. With only her nightgown, she was very aware of her nakedness. “Who?”
“I was trying to find out when you came outside.”
She ignored the irritation in his voice. “I heard you get up and leave. I thought there was a problem.”
“There is. Now stay put.”
“Don’t you need a light?”
“No.” He eased his gun from its holster and started to move outside, his actions as graceful and lethal as a mountain lion.
Abby started to follow.
Mr. Barrington stopped. “Stay put.”
“I can help.”
“Stay.” His order sliced through the night air, cutting through any future arguments. When he was certain she’d obey, he disappeared into the night.
In the distance, the howl of wolves echoed in the dark. Abby’s heart slammed against her rib cage.
The boys! Abby remembered the boys were in the cabin alone. What if whoever or whatever was out there doubled back and took the boys? Unable to stay in the barn, Abby fumbled around until her fingers skimmed the handle of a pitchfork. Holding it high, she peeked out of the barn.
At first she didn’t see Mr. Barrington. Then she saw the glitter of moonlight on the barrel of his gun. He moved across the yard, a wraith moving as if he’d been born to roam the night.
Abby’s fingers bit into the handle of the pitchfork. Drawing in a deep breath, she watched him move into the shadows and out of sight.