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He opened his mouth again but no words came out.
“And I can get a column out of it, something I still need to write.” She snapped off a piece of toast and swallowed. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re not the only one who has a job.”
He showed her his palms, as if warding off a potential blow. “I’m not saying anything. If you need a column, research a column. I’m sure you have deadlines and the like. I’ll even let you dictate the thing to me since you can’t possibly hold a pen with your hand like that.” He took a big bite of his toast and chewed. “I draw the line at trying any of your tips though. I think my hair is shiny enough without eggs, don’t you?”
Amalia’s heart swelled. He really read them. Not just one but several and he didn’t belittle or criticize or pooh-pooh her deadline. And he offered to help. And if she didn’t want to show him her knickers before, now...well...foot. When exactly was “later”?
Chapter Eleven
Hunterdon, Pennsylvania. Railroad town extraordinaire. The exchange hadn’t been bad. Bedford now waited. The former military post was tucked in the bowl-like valley. Why did the best city in which to lie low for a spell, happen to be the same city in which Amalia’s second husband lived?
David frowned. Elias Armstrong resided in Philadelphia when Amalia married him, but according to the paperwork, he’d returned to run his family’s farm right after the honeymoon, taking his new wife with him.
Amalia. On a farm. That had to have been...interesting. David’s lip curled as wicked images of Little Miss Truitt without a powder puff or vial of perfume or dress shop in sight. If ever she needed rescuing...
Though that couldn’t be possible, could it? There had to be more to Bedford than just hay and cows or she wouldn’t have made it more than a week. Or at least there had to be more to husband number two. She’d never marry someone so dissimilar. How did he have so much information on her yet, her behavior often made so little sense?
He turned to Will. “You ever interact with Armstrong?”
“The major?” Will tapped his chin and wrinkled his nose. “Maybe once. Did you?”
“I don’t even remember seeing him, to tell the truth.” Officers didn’t usually bother with volunteers outside their company, after all. The man had to have been near them on the field, but damned if David could recall what color hair he had. No memories at all, despite Armstrong’s legendary heroics at Laurel Hill.
Though he’d had other things on his mind during that part of the campaign. He’d almost died—twice. David sniffed the air, the thick smoke of the train mimicking the gunpowder in his mind. “Obviously I’ve heard of him.”
“And read every scrap of paper Thad gave you concerning him, no doubt.” Will shoved his elbow into David’s side. Hard enough that his hips swayed. “What’s really bothering you?”
David kneaded the back of his neck. He could really use someone to crack some of the tension from his muscles. “Nothing, it’s just we have no direction. No plan. How do we defeat an enemy with no identity, no motive, no anything?” David kicked the trunk in frustration. Hard. So hard he stubbed his toe. He sank down on top of a trunk and rubbed the throbbing appendage.
He was covering all his bases, as was the agency. Agents had not only been dispatched to Indianapolis and Philadelphia, but to Pittsburgh as well, to keep on the police over the stabbing. Certainly, they were all competent, all doing their jobs and he was just in charge of the muscle. Still...the back of his brain tingled, as if he was missing something, but damned if he knew. “Something feels off.”
“Stop fretting and leave that to the investigators. Concentrate on our part of the mission.” Will cracked his knuckles. “You need to focus on your task, not get distracted. Especially now that Amalia’s giving you hope again.”
“She is not.” He rotated his ankle. “I hardly know her—not then nor now. Certainly not enough to hope for anything.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” Will patted him on the shoulder. “I peeked in on you this morning.”
“And here I thought you’d just been off improving Meg’s mood.” David slid off his boot. Damn. He cracked a nail.
“Not dignifying that. You still want Amalia.” The only reason Will’s tone wasn’t singsong was that his friend was too distinguished for that. “Don’t repeat your mistakes. Ask her for her feelings, let her tell you where you stand instead of endlessly dancing around the subject or denying anything is there.”
“You’re wrong. I’m not dancing around anything. Not one of my skills.” David squeezed his foot, as if the pressure could relieve...everything. “And where I stand with Amalia isn’t the issue right now. The job is. Like you said.”
His toe had long ceased hurting but he kept working the spot, in silence, so only the echoes of his words assaulted him.
His partner though, couldn’t take a hint. “Because those two things aren’t connected at all.” He slid down next to David. “You think she loved him?”
“Who?”
Will gave him a withering glare. “The man who lives here, the man you keep muttering about.”
Damned Armstrong, with his rank and medals and presumably cool, dignified, commanding demeanor, which Amalia probably found attractive. David slapped his hands over his ears to stop his spiraling. He drew in three sharp breaths to calm himself before turning back to Will. “If she didn’t, why would she marry him?” The nonchalant tone he intended came off as glum, but what could he do?
“Tons of reasons. Responsibility, obligation, duty, procreation, building a family.” Will was chipper as he recounted each possibility on a long, slender, finger.
“I think those are my grandfather’s reasons for marrying.” David scowled. “Or more, the reasons I once listed when we discussed matchmaking in my community. How it was about social structure, not love, and thus unnecessary in an ideal modern society.”
Will hummed a little to himself.
