At first, the Schoolteacher had been shy, and somewhat startled by the attention. But sure as the sun rises, the young woman began to blossom, color prettily, do her hair in elaborate twists instead of the simple braided coil she’d arrived with. She started to glare at Anna, defy her by speaking English to Anette, daring to help the girl with her lessons even after Anna told her not to. But she’d never spoken an impudent word to Anna, until last week.
And then came that dreadful night when she actually caught Gunner up in the attic in his coat and boots, kneeling beside her bed, preparing to take the Schoolteacher—where, exactly? He couldn’t say.
He was a stupid, stupid man.
She’d stopped him, stopped them both that night—the knife she’d started keeping beneath her mattress had done the job, for the most part; she had only to show it. He coaxed her down the stairs, wrested the knife out of her hand; it fell with a clang. She slapped him and threatened to do the same or worse to the Schoolteacher, but he said the right things: He didn’t know what had happened, he’d lost his head, it had to be the cabin fever, being cooped up so long in the bitter cold. He needed her, Anna; he needed his children, his family. His good name.
For a week he didn’t say one word to the Schoolteacher. But that didn’t prevent Anna from taking out her fury on them both—and Anette—at every chance.
Why didn’t the strangers leave? When would the punishing temperatures rise so that they could leave her in peace and give her a chance to breathe, to sit, to think—to plan?
Thank God the weather had cleared this morning, the temperatures warming the little house so that the stove actually seemed to radiate heat. As the Schoolteacher and Anette fled the house, Gunner hadn’t given either of them a glance; he’d only sat at the breakfast table, talking earnestly to Anna, something about the horses, she never truly listened to the words he said. She only needed to know that he was paying attention to her, and her alone.
But now—
“I’m going to get them.”
Gunner stood before her, wearing his heavy coat, carrying a buffalo robe, muffled up to his eyes, but still his words destroyed her complacency, her growing contentment with the storm raging outside while, inside, it was only her family again. Blessedly. No interlopers. No vipers in the nest.
“No, you’re not.” She said it calmly; no blackness overcame her this time. She saw everything clearly, almost too clearly; Gunner’s eyes were too meltingly brown, the china too sparkling, the light from the kerosene lanterns too bright.
The gun in her hand too silver. Too cool, too heavy. She stared at it in surprise; she’d forgotten, until that moment, that she’d retrieved it earlier from the loose brick behind the stove. She’d forgotten that she’d been carrying it all morning as she stirred up the stove fire, set the table for the children, mixed the batter for the flapjacks. It had become part of her, soothing her. Keeping her intact, her mind rational. Her heart beating steadily.
She raised her arm, she aimed the gun right at him—right at his heart.
The heart that could only belong to her.
CHAPTER 11
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“HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, THIS storm.” Gavin peered out the window, like everyone else was doing. As they’d been doing for hours. Watching the weather. Waiting for some kind of movement. Waiting for news to report. Waiting it out, like sensible people.
There was no sign of the sleighing party; they must have holed up over in Council Bluffs. The street was empty save for flying pieces of trash, coming together in the air in a crazy ballet.
“Why is everyone standing around like a damn herd of cattle?” Suddenly Rosewater himself, Mr. Edward Rosewater, publisher and editor in chief of the Omaha Daily Bee, was upon them. Immediately, everyone but Gavin and Dan Forsythe scurried back to their desks, pretending to work.