Dance Hall Road Page 8

  “Kurt thought me beautiful. He used me to advertise himself. I know now his words of love were the tools he used to get at my father’s money. When my trust ran dry, the truth of his regard for me emerged. He let me know where I stood, a half-breed, an ugly half-breed bitch, a bitch he’d never intended to wed. I would never be good enough to be his wife.”

  Her voice growing thin and raspy, the tears streamed down her pale cheeks. “Kurt never really saw me, he saw the money.”

  With a toss of her head, her hair rippled over one shoulder and down her back. She put her nose in the air and sniffed back her hurt.

  With her hand rapidly patting her son’s back, Buck figured what Petra said next she said in an attempt to convince herself, “I no longer care what I look like. My appearance no longer interests me.”

  With Gabriel in her arms, she turned her back on him and proudly strode from the room.

  “That’s a damned lie,” Buck said to the empty room, hearing her light-footed steps on the stairs as she retreated to the solitude of her room.

  Chapter Eight

  Refusing to latch on to her breast to nurse, Gabriel squirmed, his face red, puckered up, legs kicking. Angry and tense, Petra told herself to calm down. Cursing Mr. Hoyt and his probing questions opening all manner of sores, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  Growing up, she took for granted she’d have servants, jewels, gowns, and a fancy home. Therefore, it followed she would also have a handsome, adoring husband to keep her in the style to which she’d been born. To find herself heart-heavy, her soul in tatters, her body and mind scarred, marking her as an arrogant fool, she couldn’t see she had much to live for other than her son. It didn’t help to know she’d sabotaged herself. She had no one else to blame, not even Kurt Laski.

  A pulsing, sharp ache over her eyes made her pull in her breath and hold it. In the last hour, a worrisome pain had spread out over her skull like searing hot wax, oozing down behind her ears to encase her head, neck and shoulders in a rigid, invisible mold. The pressure at the base of her neck had pooled as floodwater against a dam, a dam threatening to split wide open.

  Seated on the edge of the bed, she stopped rocking and consciously relaxed her grip on the baby in her arms. With her head down, her tears fell on her exposed bosom, and Gabriel’s forehead. He quieted, his mouth seeking her nipple. Hungry, he at last found what he craved and began to suckle.

  “You have a fool for a mother. I wish I could go back in time. Not that I regret having you.” On a deep sigh, with her thumb brushing his cheek, Petra admitted aloud, “But I really did enjoy my frippery life. Just a year ago—one year, that’s all. It seems like a long time. Back then, I never gave a thought to anyone but myself—carefree, no decisions to make. Well…other than what gown to wear, what jewels to wear with it. Deluded, I thought Kurt cherished…loved, desired me.”

  A disdainful chuckle escaped her lips, startling Gabriel, who took exception to her outburst and detached himself from her breast to give protest. His mouth opened and his little eyes squeezed shut—definitely displeased. Scooting back, she settled against her pillow, then adjusted her body and her shirt to better accommodate her son. After a bit of careful encouragement, he settled and went back to his meal.

  “We have nothing but the rags Mr. Hoyt gave us,” she said, and rolled her shoulders back, thinking to relieve some of the pressure on her neck. With her head tilted to the side, she watched Gabriel, his rosy cheeks working to extract her milk.

  “You’d never know it to look at your mother, Gabriel, but I used to own thirty dresses, fifteen petticoats and a dozen pair of fine silk under-drawers. And shoes, lots of shoes. Not to mention parasols, bonnets and soft-as-your-bottom kid gloves.”

  Putting her head back, she closed her eyes, wishing the pain away. “We have no home, Gabriel…nothing we can call our own. I had a house, a lovely house in Baker City. You would’ve liked it. It had a big back yard with a tree for you to climb. I had a room ready for you.”

  Her words tumbling around in her head, Petra didn’t know if she spoke them aloud or if they were empty thoughts. “I wonder if the wallpaper I ordered from the catalog arrived? It had red and white stripes, with sailboats drifting on a blue ocean all around the border at the top. I had a red flannel blanket picked out for your bed. You’d be warm and snug under that blanket.”

  A great wrenching sob erupted unbidden from her throat. Feeling the sharp searing sting of it, she jerked in response, eyes flying open, then snapping shut.

  In her head, she heard a pitiful voice cry out in distress and shame. “Everything I had, I gave away. I gave myself away. But I won’t give you up…never, Gabriel, I won’t.”

  Shoulders racked with pain, her entire body shaking, Petra broke down and wept. Finally, exhausted, Gabriel fell asleep in the middle of his supper. When Petra got her runaway emotions under control, and her despair pushed aside, she jostled him awake, and switched breasts.

  To keep her mind off her predicament, she turned her thoughts to the man downstairs. He thought her beautiful. Acutely aware she looked like something out of the rag-bin, Petra found his statement ridiculous, and another lie.

  She didn’t know what to make of Mr. Hoyt and his new look. She’d adjusted to the wooly, gruff Mr. Hoyt. Now she would have to adjust to the chiseled good looks of the clean-shaven Mr. Hoyt. With his whiskers gone, he appeared so much younger, virile…manly. Without his whiskers to hide behind, he appeared a very impressive male specimen. Her scrutiny had made him nervous. She wondered why he should feel vulnerable without his hair.

  A white cloud of snow swirled down from the roof above her window. Looking for anything to take her mind off her headache, Petra tried to recall how the wind sounded in a blizzard, but the pain blocked her attempt. Shivering in the near dark, she pulled the covers up around her arms, wanting to burrow in and hide even though she knew feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t change a thing.

  Huddled in the cold, she tried to convince herself she had more riches now than she ever had. By the grace of God, she’d escaped starvation, torture. She should be grateful. But deep down there still lurked within her the spoiled brat who longed for a feather bed, and servants to see to it she had every wish and whim fulfilled.

  Her inclination was to stomp and scream, rail against the injustice she’d been served. She yearned to hear her father’s voice. Hear him call her his “pretty Pet,” tell her she was beautiful, assure her she didn’t have anything to worry about. But her father’s pretty Pet had died, that silly child would never return.

  With a sad smile trembling on her lips, Petra thought of her Aunt Jean—she’d approve of Mr. Hoyt. Beneath his crusty exterior lay a thoughtful, big-hearted, stoic man. Aunt Jean would call him a noble warrior.

  Which made Petra wonder why she’d fallen for a louse like Kurt. The simple answer—she didn’t know anything about love, not real love—never had. She’d fallen in love with the idea of love, the dream she’d concocted in her head of what love should be. With a tilt of her head, she reckoned the former willful Pet had felt love, adoration, her due.

  At eleven years of age, she’d made Kurt the prince of her dreams, fair-haired, charming—even playful when he wanted something. But he’d proven to be a monster. He’d become her worst nightmare.

  Mr. Hoyt certainly wasn’t a prince, nothing like her idea of what a prince should be. In her fairytale, Mr. Hoyt the giant had come to her rescue. There, she’d done it again, put Mr. Hoyt into a fantasy, made him into a giant when she knew him as a real solid, generous man, not a fantasy.

  He didn’t say much, but Petra enjoyed being in the same room with him, sitting on his bed while reading his books or thumbing through his periodicals while Gabriel slept.

  She knew he wrote stories. She’d found two of them and brought them up to her room to read, then surreptitiously returned them, hopefully without his notice. His stories were full of misunderstood villains, big-hearted harlots, and silly, frippery fe
males. He had a way with words. She liked his stories. She wondered if he’d ever sold any of them.

  He liked to cook, but sometimes, like today, he gave her free run of his kitchen. He no longer hovered around her to be sure she didn’t damage his stove or abuse his pots and pans.

  But he’d certainly surprised her today. The change in his appearance had startled her. He looked nothing like the grizzly bear she’d come to accept. Giving it some thought, she decided his new look made her uneasy.

  His good looks certainly put the Laski brothers to shame—they were boys by comparison. Runts. Not only that, compared to Mr. Hoyt the Laski brothers were illiterate and uncouth. Mr. Hoyt had read every one of the books on his bookshelf. She doubted the Laski brothers had read a book since leaving school at fourteen to work in the mines.

  She cringed in shame for the way she’d reacted, curling up on the floor like a dog. A clumsy bitch, Kurt would’ve declared, ruining a pie, making a mess on the floor. She’d anticipated Kurt’s rage, she realized now—it wasn’t Mr. Hoyt’s boot that would serve the punishment she deserved, but Kurt’s boot. What a stupid, ignorant piece of trash Mr. Hoyt must think her—trash, and a slut.

  The lessons Kurt had taught her were simple: never sass, stay clear of him when he drank, give him what he wanted when he asked for it, which included his right to use her body how he wanted. Even knowing all the rules, Kurt had often struck her without warning or provocation. Obviously, she’d learned her lessons well, too well.

  Thoughts of Mr. Hoyt brought a wistful smile to her lips. Even though she couldn’t hear his voice, she knew he hadn’t yelled at her for ruining the pie. He hadn’t even cared. He’d cleaned up the mess, and he’d cleaned the custard off her hands and from her hair before he’d left her to go back outside.

  Now, she noticed, the light in her room had surrendered to the darkness, daylight fading. The snow pelted her window. She stared, hypnotized, as the shadows of the flakes fell on the far wall. With a shake of her head, she tried to relax her arms as Gabriel’s lips stayed on her breast, warm and wet, but no longer suckling.

  With Mr. Hoyt on her mind, she recalled the very first day, how he’d effortlessly carried her down the side of the canyon and tossed her up into the saddle. No one, no woman, could miss the size of the man. Petra giggled, then reminded herself she’d made a fool of herself over one man, and her judgment where men were concerned couldn’t be trusted. She had no right to be thinking about Mr. Hoyt’s broad shoulders, deep chest, his narrow hips, powerful arms and long legs.

  She must be some kind of sick wanton sex addict, she decided, to be thinking of what he would look like with his shirt off, of what his muscular arms would feel like beneath her hands.

  Groaning in mortification, she asked herself how she could be thinking that about Mr. Hoyt? It was wrong. She was a mother, but an idiot where men were concerned. She didn’t know anything about Mr. Hoyt, didn’t want to know anything about him—she couldn’t afford to let a man take over her life again. Gabriel. She had to take care of him, take care of herself. She would rely on no one but herself, ever again.

  As to that, she didn’t need anyone. Mr. Hoyt had—to this point—been good to her, a miracle. But she wasn’t staying. Mr. Hoyt had made no secret of it; he wanted her gone as soon as possible. She reminded herself that the threat of Kurt finding her, taking Gabriel from her, put Mr. Hoyt in danger. She shouldn’t be thinking fanciful, silly, twitchy thoughts about any man, especially Mr. Hoyt.

  Gabriel had fallen asleep, and she laid him down in the drawer beside her on the bed. With her pillow propped up behind her shoulders, her head resting against the wall, Petra closed her eyes and dozed for a while.

  She awoke, neck stiff, headache raging, nauseous, clammy and feeling weak. She had to use the privy, but she didn’t want to wake the baby. She couldn’t take him out in this weather. Quietly, she slid off the bed and whispered a promise, “I won’t be gone long.”

  Petra tiptoed past his door on her way outside. Mr. Hoyt still sat in his rocking chair, reading. Even with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders for protection, the snow and wind hit her in the face like a fist. The force of the blow shot a bolt of pain right between her eyes, forcing her to lower her head as she picked her way around the house to the privy. She threw an arm across her forehead, but it didn’t help.

  Inside the privy, cold, dark and dank, she pulled the blanket up around her head and ears. With her teeth chattering, she fumbled with her clothes, afraid she’d soil herself…afraid she’d freeze to death before she got the job done.

  With her needs taken care of, she opened the outhouse door to find Mr. Hoyt waiting for her. She couldn’t see his face, just the outline of his broad chest. He folded her into his side, his arm coming around her shoulders. Grateful, she allowed him to guide her back to the front of the house. They entered with a gust of wind, the wind snatching the door out of Mr. Hoyt’s hand and throwing it back against the wall.

  With a searing, high-pitched screech whirring inside her head, Petra put her hands to her ears. She opened her eyes, but the walls swirled, sloshed up and around, dipping out of focus. When she pitched forward, a wave of nausea rushed up from her stomach and she doubled over. Knees weak, she fell back, her hips against the wall. Still on her feet, she heaved up her dinner.

  Feeling ashamed and embarrassed to have made a mess on the floor once again, she glanced up through her eyelashes to Mr. Hoyt. His lips moved. Afraid to let go of her ears for fear hot lava might erupt out of them, she teetered back and forth. Woozy and uncertain, she didn’t know if she’d vocalized her plea for help or if the words had stayed in her head. Her throat constricting, she tasted bitter bile and the salt of her tears.

  When his arms came around her waist, and he lifted her off her feet, she put her head on his chest and closed her eyes. He carried her up the stairs, his warm breath landing on her cheek. Mr. Hoyt would take care of her. But when he laid her on her bed, then pulled the covers up around her chin and turned to leave, she felt abandoned, alone to deal with whatever fate had in store for her, and time slipped away from her.

  She felt the mattress dip, and peered through half-closed eyes, sensing him, rather than actually seeing him. He took his place beside her on the bed. She moaned with gratitude, when his rough, warm hand slipped behind her head to help her sit up and take a sip of the hot, minty tea he’d made for her. With his arm around her, he gave her a reassuring squeeze.

  Opening one eye, she saw he had a small envelope of white powder in his hand, urging her to take it. She shook her head, pressing her lips together, and regretting the painful movement.

  By the set of his jaw, and the determined, steely glint in his eyes, she didn’t think he would take no for an answer. Obediently, she opened her mouth, squeezed her eyes shut and accepted the bitter powder, praying for a quick poison. She washed it down with more tea, curled up in a ball, believing tonight to be the night she would die.

  “Take care of Gabriel for me.”

  »»•««

  She awoke to a pitch-black room. Her hand shaking, she reached out for Gabriel. In the dark, she felt the warmth of his body, his abdomen rising and falling beneath her fingers, and relief swept through her. She wasn’t dead, not yet.

  The noise in her ears swished like the pounding of the surf as it shifted in and out with the tide. She smiled at the fanciful thought. She’d only seen the Pacific Ocean once as a little girl when she and her mother had accompanied her father on a business trip to Astoria.

  The hint of a headache remained behind her eyes, her shirt felt damp with perspiration, her skin cool and moist. Lying back, she gazed out the window and thought she heard the wind rattle the windowpane. At first, she accepted the sounds of the wind and the imagined surf.

  Feeling drowsy, lethargic, she presumed to be the aftereffects of the sleeping powder Mr. Hoyt had given her. The strange noise in her head reminded her of her father—how he used to fall asleep in the evenings in his big ch
air, and how he could snore loud enough to bring the roof down.

  Her body felt heavy and awkward when she tried to sit up. The snoring sound wasn’t in her head, but in the room with her, right beside the bed. Rolling over onto her side, she looked down to the floor. Mr. Hoyt lay on the floor, fast asleep, with a quilt over him, his big arms folded across his chest, laid out on the floor like a dead man.

  Sickened by the taste of the bitter powder still on her tongue, she rolled onto her back, her mouth dry she tried to swallow. Pulling herself back onto her side, her body aching, she reached down to touch his stubbly jaw. “Mr. Hoyt.”

  It was her voice. She’d heard her own voice.

  While Petra tried to absorb the fact she could hear again, Mr. Hoyt gave forth a snort, batting her hand away, eyes blinking, and came awake. Feeling giddy with joy and gratitude, she told him, “You were snoring, Mr. Hoyt.”

  “Petra? What?” He held up his hand and, still groggy, reached for the slate and chalk he had at his side.

  “You feeling better?” he asked, writing out the question while speaking the words.

  Petra laid back, her laughter music to her ears, tears running from her eyes, to her temples, running down into her ears, warm and soothing.

  Mr. Hoyt’s voice, just as she’d imagined it, rich, full-bodied, came from deep down in his chest and rumbled to the surface like distant thunder.

  Her voice thick with emotion, she struggled to tell him, unable to focus on his face with her tears in the way, “I can hear, Mr. Hoyt. I hear you.”

  “What? What the hell?”

  Petra heard a squeak from behind her. Then a little mew soon erupted into a strong, ear-splitting cry.

  Her son. She could hear her son.

  “Gabriel. Oh, God. Shhh, I hear you. Mama can hear you.”

  Crying, weeping, she picked him up and held him close to her heart.

  Mr. Hoyt sat next to her, holding her. She leaned back against him, her head turned into his strong solid chest.