now, as she studied the picture in the paper, Cassandra had no doubt that the man she’d noticed months ago was Ryan Tolliver.
Smoothing the wrinkled page, she laid it on the table, then turned to fill the kettle from the water bucket. She had not really known Ryan Tolliver, but the sense of his loss weighed on her spirit. He had seemed so happy that winter evening, so young and strong and vital. Cassandra could well imagine what the Tolliver family must be going through now as they waited for the news that would end all their hopes.
Crumpling a back page from the paper, she stuffed it into the dark belly of the stove, added two sticks of wood and lit a single match. Shadows danced on the moldering walls as the fire flickered to a steady blaze. Cassandra put the kettle on the open burner to heat. Then she turned back toward the open shelf to find the store of chamomile she kept in an old jelly jar.
Only then did she notice the way the fire flickered through the grate, casting a finger of golden light across the low table—a finger of light that pointed straight toward the smiling image of Ryan Tolliver.
Could it be a sign?
Cassandra stared at the picture, the tea forgotten as a plan sprang up in her mind—a plan so audacious and risk-fraught that only a woman in her desperate state would have thought of it.
For the space of a long breath she hesitated, weighing the idea. It was dangerous. Worse, it was dishonest, even cruel. No, she resolved, her grandparents hadn’t raised her to be a cheat and a liar. She simply could not do it. She would live on the street first!
And the street was exactly where she was headed.
Cassandra sagged against the table, her hands clenching into tight fists. Blast Jake Logan anyway! Why had he gone to the saloon on that awful December night? Why had he gotten himself shot in that silly fight over a dance hall floozy instead of just coming home to her?
But then, she’d asked herself that question too many times not to know the answer. She wasn’t beautiful like the women in that painted and perfumed world. She was small and wiry to the point of scrawniness, with a rag-doll mop of cherry-colored curls and freckles that popped out at the barest touch of sunlight on her skin. Worse, she’d never known the right words to say to a man—words that would make him puff up his chest and feel like a hero. She was as blunt and honest as the grandmother who’d raised her, and if more vinegar than honey fell from her tongue, so be it. Pretense was not in her nature.
Maybe that was the reason Jake hadn’t treated her better. When he wanted to, he could be sweet and tender. But sometimes, especially when he’d been drinking, he could be downright mean. Cassandra had hoped the baby would change things. But on the very night she’d planned to share her news, Jake Logan had died. He had died with his pants down in a tawdry upstairs room, never knowing he was to be a father.
Deep in her body Cassandra felt a little flutter kick, then a shifting motion as her baby turned and stretched in its warm, secret world. Wonder flooded her heart as she smoothed the apron over the growing bulge, feeling for the tiny life that pulsed and stirred beneath her hands. Soon she would have a child, a sweet baby all her own to love and care for. Heaven willing, she would never be alone again.
But what could she offer this child? A safe home with food on the table? The closeness and joy of a family? A secure future with the promise of a fine education?
Cassandra choked back a whimper of despair. She had nothing to offer her baby except love. To provide the rest, she would sacrifice anything—her own pride, her own life.
But even in her desperation, she could not imagine carrying out the wild scheme that had lodged in her mind. To take advantage of a grieving family would compromise everything she knew to be right and good. She would never be able to look at her own reflection in the mirror without a spasm of self-loathing.
No, it was out of the question.
All the same, the story of Ryan Tolliver’s disappearance was intriguing. Cassandra could not resist wanting to know more.
The newspaper article lay on the table, begging to be read. Strangely agitated, she rummaged for another match and lit the candle she’d been hoarding. The story took up just two printed columns. She would only need a few minutes of precious light to read it.
Placing the candle where its light would fall on the open page, she finished making the tea. Then, cradling the chipped white cup between her hands, she sank onto a wooden box and began to read.
The room was a blanket of darkness around her, the tea warm and comforting in her belly. By the time she reached the second column of the news article the print had begun to blur. Cassandra’s eyelids drooped lower and lower. She had been up since dawn looking for work, and she was tired. So very tired…
Startled, she jerked awake. The candle had guttered to half its original length. She had dozed off, Cassandra realized groggily. What time was it? What had awakened her?
As she leaned forward to blow out the candle, plunging the room into full darkness, she heard the low metallic click of a key sliding into a lock.
Instantly wide-awake, she sprang to brace the door. It crashed open, knocking her to one side as Seamus Hawkins lurched across the threshold.
“Awright, girlie.” His voice was slurred, and his body stank of cheap whiskey. “I’m back t’ finish what we started. No need t’ fight me, now. You’ll start likin’ it once I git it ’twixt them sweet little legs o’ yours.”
Cassandra had been thrown back against the wall. As he stumbled toward her, she groped for a weapon, anything she could use to defend herself.
Her hand closed on an iron bootjack with a weighted base—a silly extravagance, she’d called it when Jake had brought it home, as if a man couldn’t pull off his boots with his own two hands. It was heavy and solid, but not long enough to keep Seamus at a distance. Her best chance lay in keeping away from him until she could reach the door and flee into the night.
Hoping to confuse him, she picked up a tin cup from the counter and tossed it across the room. It clattered in the darkness, bouncing against a table leg and onto the floor. Distracted, Seamus swung toward the sound, allowing Cassandra a split second to change her position. Not that it made any difference. He still stood between her and the door.
She shrank into a shadowed corner of the tiny cabin. The mica panes on the door of the stove glowed like little red eyes, giving the darkness a hellish cast. And it would be hell if he caught her. Being raped was unspeakable enough, but if he should hurt her baby, her darling…
Cassandra’s grip tightened on the bootjack. She could hear the rasp of breath in her throat—the breath of a hunted, desperate animal.
Seamus must have heard it, too, for he suddenly turned, blocking the light of the stove as he lumbered straight toward her. “I got you cornered now, you little hellcat!” he wheezed. “Now, I won’t mind if you put up a fuss. A good rasslin’ match gits me as hard as a—”
Cassandra flung the bootjack at his head with all her strength. It glanced off his forehead, doing only superficial damage, but the blow was enough to throw him off balance. As he reeled backward, out of control, one foot landed on the tin cup that had rolled to the middle of the floor. For a split second his legs splayed wildly. His arms flailed like berserk windmills. With a shriek, he pitched backward.
Cassandra heard the awful crunch of bone as the back of his head struck a corner
