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Her voice stilled his hand. “Caleb?”
The disbelief in that one word told him she hadn’t known him until now. He wasn’t sure if he regretted removing his hat or not. He could have let her take him for a stranger and walked away. She wouldn’t even have known he was here.
He glanced back, and she was shaking her head. But she stepped forward then, and it was her in the sunlight. God, it was Jessica as he’d always known her, and in that second, everything else fell away. After all, he’d spent two years dreaming of that face and only the past few hours imagining that she had betrayed everything.
“Caleb,” she repeated, more certain this time. But the two years must have hit her in that moment too, and she glanced at the woman who now stood beside her. Jessica’s gaze darted between the two of them before settling on Caleb again. “It’s all right, Melisande.” She turned around and called, “It’s fine, Bill.”
Melisande didn’t move. Neither did the dark shadow of Bill in the hall.
“It’s fine,” Jessica repeated, turning back to Caleb. “I know him.”
Melisande walked away. Her shadow joined the man’s, and they both disappeared into the back of the house. Jessica seemed frozen now, her skin fading to the color of snow.
Her blue eyes stood out like sky. And her mouth, so sweet and kissable. “You’re a whore,” Caleb repeated, almost ashamed at the words. Yet they were accurate. She was here. In this whorehouse. Just as he’d been told.
And she was changed. Thinner now. Her full mouth
flatter, her jaw tight beneath it in a way it hadn’t been two years before.
He heard his heart then, beating so hard he could feel the rush of blood in and out of it. In and out. Her eyes were still so blue, but maybe her mouth wasn’t sweet. Maybe it had always been a harlot’s mouth.
“I’m not.” She raised a trembling hand to her temple and laid it there. “It’s not true.”
Fury surged through him again, because he could feel the hope. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to just nod and say, “Of course,” and sweep her into his arms. Of course she wasn’t a whore. He’d been awful to ever consider it.
He ducked his head and put his hat on to hide his face. A man didn’t have to be polite to a prostitute, did he? “Then what are you doing here, Jessica?”
“This is my house.”
“I mean,” he growled, “why is this your house, in the middle of nowhere, with these strangers, and why is the whole town calling you a whore?” When he raised his head he found she’d lost her calm. Her lips parted as if she meant to draw a breath, and her hand clenched in a fist as those blue eyes filled with tears.
Caleb felt like he was watching from far away, feeling the horror of what he’d said. To Jessica. She was the most refined woman he’d ever met. She always had been. He’d loved her from the day her father brought her to town. She’d been twelve and so pale and ethereal and educated, and Caleb’s fifteen-year-old heart had surrendered without a second thought.
He would’ve suffered in silence his whole life, he would’ve never said a word, but for the awful truth that she’d liked him too. She’d smiled when he’d tried to avoid her. She’d blushed when he’d blushed. And on her fourteenth birthday, when he’d dared to kiss that tempting mouth, she’d sighed into him and kissed him back.
But mostly he hadn’t touched her, because she was too good for him, and he’d known it. Her father had been a doctor who’d moved west to open a retreat for wealthy consumptives. Caleb’s stepfather had been part of Dr. Willoughby’s social circle because he was a banker. But Caleb himself? He was the son of a rough marshal who’d read letters only well enough to puzzle out wanted posters and bounty notices.
Caleb looked like him. A face hewn from hard wood and a mouth that appeared cruel if it wasn’t smiling. And sometimes even if it was.
He had the look of an outlaw, which had served him well in the past two years, but the contrast between his rough, sun-dark skin and the pale beauty of Jessica had always made him nervous. He’d idolized her. And she’d sold herself to strangers.
A tear spilled over and traced down her flawless cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Caleb…”
“So it’s true?” He willed her to say no. No. Never.
She turned her head and stared into the small parlor behind her before her gaze fell to her boots. They were rough boots, the leather scarred and faded. He’d never seen her wear the like.
She took a deep breath, her brow furrowing as if she were puzzled. But then she nodded and her eyes rose. She met his gaze head-on, her voice steady, though another tear spilled over her cheek. “Yes. It’s true.”
Oh, holy God. Her words sank into him like knives. No, there was more weight behind them. They were the blows of an ax. He felt the pain. His soul split open, and everything he’d carried inside for her spilled out—his blood and guts and all the soft, sweet feelings he’d never shown anyone, not even her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He couldn’t understand it. How had this happened? Her father had died only seven months before. Caleb hadn’t heard of it until weeks later, but she should have been fine. Her father had owned a pretty house in town, decorated with the finest things. She’d never even written to Caleb to mention her father’s death, much less to say that she might need money. Had she been too proud? Was it possible for a woman like her to be so proud she’d rather sell herself than ask for money?
She raised a hand as if she’d reach for him through the screen door, then seemed to think better of it. “I didn’t think you were coming back.”
“I said I’d come back, didn’t I?”
