Now and Forever (82 page)

Which meant that he had another, more personal reason.

Don't flatter yourself, Wylie. He's just never seen anything quite like you before.

Short-haired, tattooed women weren't exactly a dime a dozen around there. She was bound to make an impression. A pair of lips. An almost-kiss. Just because it had made her downright dizzy with excitement was no reason to think it had rocked his world.

You're an idiot, Wylie.
Maybe if she had a few more kisses under her belt and a few less jelly donuts she wouldn't find her head turned by the first bad-tempered Colonial landowner to come along.

The hallway was littered with military gear, everything from rolled-up blankets to muskets to dispatch boxes lined her path. Uniformed soldiers with ramrod straight posture carted firewood and odd pieces of furniture. The beautiful entrance hall had been reduced to an eighteenth-century version of Grand Central Station.

A young soldier nodded at her as she approached the front door. A wicked-looking bayonet was slung across his body. She noted a slight twitch in his left cheek. He probably didn't like that bayonet any more than she did.

"So," said Dakota, smiling, "is it cold enough for you?"

He didn't so much as blink. "Yes, ma'am."

Poor guy didn't get the joke. Give him another couple of hundred years.

Still smiling, she swung open the door.
I have to get out of here,
she thought as she stepped past the guard. Another bad joke and she'd end up on the business end of one of those bayonets. Maybe Cook had been exaggerating. One woman's blizzard was another woman's flurries. Weather didn't faze her. It would take more than a little snow to stop Dakota Wylie.

Still smiling, she stepped out onto the front porch. Her smile faded.

The snow was level with the top step and still falling.

The worst winter of the century was under way.

#

Patrick swore as he paced the length of the library. The bloody beggars were everywhere. The General's men had taken over the two front rooms, plus the servants' quarters on the first floor, and plans were afoot to build an additional kitchen before the arrival of the General's lady. Cook and Joseph had been forced to move their belongings up to a tiny attic room while William was once again relegated to the barn. The other servants slept crowded together in the kitchen and pantry.

He had refused to allow the interlopers access to his library or to the room he now shared with Dakota Wylie but he knew that when the General arrived, the argument would resume.

And then there was the issue of Abigail. Her room afforded a splendid view of the yard and the road beyond it. The General's aide de camp had earmarked it for the General's use but once again Patrick refused to yield. As long as the snow made her departure for Boston impossible, he would not have Abigail banished from her room.

Quite the altruist, Devane. Such concern for the welfare of a child.

The truth was an uncomfortable fit. He wished the child well. He prayed her life would be a long and happy one, but no longer would he allow emotion to determine his fate.

In truth, it served his purpose to allow the child to stay. The child's presence would distract the soldiers from what he was about. There was still much to be accomplished and time was growing short.

Dakota Wylie presented a problem of a different sort. She said she was a widow, who once had disguised herself as a man in order to fight side by side with the man she loved. A noble sentiment, to be sure, and one that would explain the odd manner in which she wore her hair. Torn by grief at her husband's death, routed from her home, she was traveling with friends toward some unknown safe harbor when she was separated from them and thrust into her current circumstances.

He might have believed her story had she not contradicted herself last night upon questioning.

His eye was caught by movement outside the library window. Soldiers, some young enough to be his sons, struggled against the fierce snow and wind as they dragged newly felled trees across the yard. Their uniforms were a pathetic mix of tattered breeches, worn coats, and anything else they could find to protect them from the cold. Half went shoeless. The footprints in the snow were stained red with blood.

All morning he'd heard the muffled thuds of falling trees as the soldiers systematically cut down the finest pines and maples to turn into makeshift shelters while the officers slept peacefully in feather beds. Many of those young men would lie dead before the winter was over.

He turned away from the window and thought again of the woman. Would her heart break at the sight of those hapless young men or did she conspire to send them to their deaths?

#

"Stop it!" Dakota said as she stared out the back door at the steady fall of snow. "Enough's enough."

She turned at the sound of a childish giggle.

"Think it's funny, do you?" she asked Abigail who was sitting near the hearth, her bedraggled rag doll firmly in hand. "I'll bet you never had to shovel the stuff."

"Who were you talking to?" Abigail asked, those big grey eyes of hers wide with curiosity.

"Myself."

Abigail considered her for a moment. "I talk to Lucy."

"Lucy?" She stopped, then nodded. "Your doll."

Abigail hugged the doll close to her narrow chest. "Mama gave her to me."

It was hard to imagine the kind of woman Devane had been married to. "Better be careful," she said, crossing the stone floor to where the girl sat. "Her stuffing's coming out."

Abigail shied away from Dakota.

"I'm not going to hurt her. I want to help."

The child gave her a sidelong look that seemed terribly adult coming from someone so young. "Lucy has a hurt shoulder."

"I know," said Dakota. "I think she needs a Band-Aid."

Abigail's brow puckered. "A Band-Aid?"

Uh oh,
thought Dakota.
Culture shock.
"She needs to be repaired."

"You can do that?" Abigail asked.

"If you can find me a needle and thread, I can."

"Mama had a sewing kit in her room. I can show you where."

"Sounds good to me." She followed the kid to the back staircase, wondering if she'd lost what was left of her mind. She sewed about as well as she sang coloratura. But there was something about the look in the kid's eyes that made her want to help. It felt strangely like maternal instinct and Dakota didn't like it one bit.

They passed three perfectly uniformed officers in the upstairs hallway. The men stepped aside to make way for them, which seemed a polite enough gesture, but Dakota was aware of their intense scrutiny burning a hole in her back.
Take a good look, fellows,
she thought as Abigail pushed open the door to Devane's suite of rooms.
You've seen the future and I'm it.

Not that they'd believe her. In truth, she didn't totally believe the whole thing herself. She'd half expected to wake up this morning in her lumpy sofa bed with the bad spring, serenaded by her mother's voice floating through the answering machine.

"Mama's sewing box is in here," Abigail said, snapping Dakota from her reverie. "She forgot it when she left."

"Smart woman," said Dakota, without thinking. "Why sew if you can buy retail?"

"What's ree-tail?" asked Abigail.

"A new kind of cloth," she said after a moment. These cultural references were going to trip her up sooner or later.

Abigail nodded as if it all made perfect sense and Dakota felt like the rat that she was.

"I know," said Abigail.

Dakota frowned. "Know what?"

"That you feel bad because you're not telling the truth."

Chapter Eleven

If Dakota had had dentures, they would have dropped to the floor. "I—I mean, you don't. . . " She came to a rolling stop. "How did you know?"

The child shrugged her shoulders. "I just did."

Dakota chose her words with care. Her thoughts, however, were beyond her control. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth, Abigail. I should have."

"Abby," the child said. "I'm Abigail but I like Abby better."

Dakota nodded. "Abby," she said. "So how did you know?"

"I hear the words in my head and then I know."

"Of course you hear them," Dakota said easily. "Most grown people talk too loud."

"No." Abigail tapped her temple with a forefinger. "I hear them up here."

"Are their lips moving?" A basic question, but important, given the circumstances.

Abigail shook her head. "But I hear them anyway."

Was it possible she and the kid had more in common than gender? "Can you hear me that way?"

Abigail considered her for a moment. "Sometimes."

"Can you hear me now?"
Row, row, row your boat...

"No," said Abigail.

"So how did you know I wasn't telling the truth?"

"I felt it."

"In your bones," Dakota whispered as a shiver rippled up her spine.

"Yes!" The sorrowful expression in Abigail's grey eyes vanished, replaced by something close to joy. "Way down deep inside."

Dakota had been called crazy, high-strung, a compulsive liar--and that was on the eve of the millennium. She could only imagine how Abigail would be treated less than one hundred years after they'd hunted down would-be witches in Salem. "Have you told anyone?"

"Mama," she said, her gaze never leaving Dakota's face.

"And what did she say?"

"That I was a wicked girl and I should never talk of such things again."

Considering what she'd heard about Mrs. Devane, it was about what Dakota had expected. "And your papa?"

Abigail shook her head. "Not Papa, but I told a governess once and then she screamed and ran away."

"My aunt did that." Impulsively she smoothed the girl's plain brown hair. "Screamed so loud her wig fell off and scared the cat."

Abigail giggled. "You hear things, too?"

"Yes," she said. "At least, I used to."

"You don't hear them anymore?"

"Not in awhile."

"Why don't you hear them?"

"I don't know, Abigail."

"Will I stop hearing them?"

She sighed. "I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that either."

The child thought about that for a moment. "I know lots of things," Abigail said, with that leapfrog kid's logic that never failed to disorient Dakota. "I know where Papa hides special treasures."

This is none of your business, Wylie. You'll only end up getting her in trouble.
If he found her leading Dakota on a scavenger hunt, he'd hit the roof. She opted to change the subject.

"Lucy is looking pretty sad," Dakota said, pointing toward the doll clutched in Abigail's arms. "I think you should get the sewing basket so I can fix her up."

"Here," said Abigail, handing the doll to Dakota. "You hold Lucy."

The doll was as scruffy as her owner, a skinny little thing stuffed with rags and dressed in them, as well. It was painfully obvious that Abigail loved the toy, and Dakota wondered if anyone had ever loved Abigail half as much.

Abigail fixed her with a look. "You're crying."

"No, I'm not."

"Your eyes are red."

"I didn't get much sleep."

"I know that," said Abigail. "You and Papa were talking until very late."

Dakota looked toward the window. She was only two floors up. The snow would cushion her fall. "How do you know that?"

"I could hear you."

"Did you really hear us or did you just feel like you heard us?"