Chapter 6
But the voice beyond the door had drained the color from her face.
I lowered my voice.
“Name.”
She hesitated.
“Elias Vane.”
“What does he want?”
“Me.”
“That much I gathered.”
Outside, Vane called, “You cannot hide forever.”
My grip tightened on the Winchester.
Cora raised one finger to her lips.
I did not appreciate being ordered to silence in my own cabin, but I understood the reasoning.
Vane did not know what he had walked into.
That was one advantage we still possessed.
I moved toward the window.
Cora caught my sleeve.
“No.”
“I need to see where he is.”
“He wants you near the glass.”
That stopped me.
“How do you know?”
“Because that is what I would want.”
Again, not the answer a helpless bride ought to know.
A bitter thought entered my mind.
Maybe she had chosen me because I was isolated.
Maybe because there were no neighbors to ask questions.
Maybe because a lonely cripple in the mountains made a convenient shield.
I hated myself for thinking it.
I hated her a little for giving me reason.
“Wyatt,” she whispered.
I looked at her.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Before or after someone shot through my window?”
Her jaw tightened.
Outside, Vane spoke again.
“Mr. Mercer.”
My blood went cold.
He knew my name too.
Cora closed her eyes briefly.
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Vane continued, his voice calm, educated, almost courteous. “The woman inside your house has caused a considerable amount of trouble. Send her out, and that trouble leaves with her.”
I stepped toward the door.
Cora blocked me.
My anger flashed.
“Move.”
“No.”
“He knows my name.”
“Yes.”
“He knows where I live.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still planning to tell me nothing?”
Her expression changed.
Not fear this time.
Shame.
“I did not think he could find me.”
“You were wrong.”
“I know.”
Those two words sounded so small that my anger lost some of its heat.
Outside, Vane said, “Cora, this is childish.”
She turned toward the door.
Something in her face hardened.
“He always says that when someone disobeys him.”
That told me more than she probably intended.
I lifted the Winchester.
“What happens if I open the door?”
“He will try to take me.”
“Will he shoot?”
“If he thinks he has to.”
“Then we don’t open it.”
She stared at me.
“You don’t understand.”