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“I waited until they were all asleep,” Esmerelda continued, “then I slipped down the back staircase and out of the house, clutching my pathetic little bouquet. When I got to Becky’s house, I could tell there was something terribly wrong. Although it must have been near midnight, every lamp in the house was burning. I could see strangers milling about the parlor. Becky’s mother was crying, and her father was sitting with his face buried in his hands. Before I could duck, he lifted his head and looked right at the window. He didn’t look at me.“ She shivered. ”He looked through me.

“I ran, then, as fast as I could, to the back of the house where Becky’s bedroom was. I could see her through the French windows, laid out on her bed in her prettiest nightgown. An old woman I’d never seen before was napping in a chair in the corner.”

Billy had to clench his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her.

“I slipped into the room and crept toward the bed. Becky was always so pink and jolly. It scared me to see her lying there so still and pale. Then I felt ashamed for being afraid. So I reached up, ever so gently, and touched her cheek. Her skin was like ice. I must have made a sound because the woman in the rocking chair came awake with a start.

“”How did you get in here?“ she shouted. ”Get away from her, you wicked little girl!“

“She frightened me so badly that I dropped the flowers, jumped out the window, and ran all the way home. I threw myself into my bed without even bothering to take off my shoes and pulled the blanket over my head. It took hours for my teeth to stop chattering.” Esmerelda sighed. “I found out later that Becky had died earlier that afternoon. Of cholera.”

Billy lowered his head. He might have been able to stand it if Esmerelda had cried. But her eyes were as dry and barren as a desert that has survived centuries without even the hope of rain.

“I never told Mama and Papa what I’d done. Not even when they lay wracked by chills and soaked in their own sweat. Not when their lips cracked and blood trickled from the corners of their mouths. I nursed them the best I could. No one else would come near the house until the disease had run its course and they were dead.” Her words were edged with all the bitterness and self-loathing that had been festering beneath her composed exterior for thirteen years. “I never suffered so much as a sniffle.”

But she’d been suffering ever since, Billy thought. Suffering because a single moment of willful disobedience had left her spirit crushed like paper flowers beneath the indifferent heel of fate. She’d atoned for her sin by sacrificing her every dream and desire and becoming both mother and father to Bartholomew. Now that he was gone for good, Billy supposed, she wasn’t sure who she was supposed to be.

He rolled the tube of grass between his fingers, choosing his words with deliberate care. “When I was riding with Quantrill and Anderson, we lost more men to disease than we did to Yankee bullets—dysentery, typhoid, influenza… cholera. Almost every one of those sicknesses was spread through contaminated food or drinking water. I don’t believe you could have given your parents cholera by touching a dead girl’s cheek. They most likely just drank from the same -water supply as your friend.”

Esmerelda’s gaze was fierce, as if she wanted desperately to believe him, but wouldn’t allow herself. “You might assume that, but can you prove it? Can you swear with absolute certainty that I didn’t invite that monster into my parents’ house?”

Billy wanted to say yes, but knew she wouldn’t believe him anyway. He reached over to stroke her hair. “You were a child, sweetheart. With a child’s generous heart. Even if your parents had known what you’d done, do you really think they would have blamed you or wanted you to spend the rest of your life blaming yourself?”

Shaking off his caress, Esmerelda sprang to her feet, fury glittering in her dark eyes. “If I won’t accept God’s forgiveness, what makes you think I’d accept yours?”

Growing more wary, Billy climbed to his feet to face her.

She stiffened, looking exactly like the woman who had marched into that saloon and pointed her derringer at his heart. “Since you sent my brother on his merry way with your blessing and Winstead’s money, it seems I’ll no longer be requiring either your pity or your services. You’re dismissed, Mr. Darling.”

Billy had thought being shot in the chest hurt, but that pain was nothing but a sting compared to this. He actually glanced down at his bandage, expecting to find it stained with fresh blood.

Snatching up the dusty skirts of her nightgown as if they were the train of a velvet robe, Esmerelda went marching up the hill toward the house. The only sound he heard through the ringing in his ears was the door slamming in his face one last time.

When Billy returned to the house later that afternoon, he found Esmerelda seated on her trunk by the front door with her gloved hands folded primly in her lap. She’d donned the rumpled traveling costume she’d worn at their very first meeting, wound her hair into a knot so tight she was darn near cross-eyed, and slapped that godawful bonnet over the whole mess. She would have looked no less approachable had she been wearing a full suit of armor.

“If you’re waiting for a stagecoach,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe, “you’d best be prepared to sit a spell.”

She lifted her face to him. Scrubbed free of tearstains, it was as pale and stiff as a piece of porcelain. “I was hoping you would escort me back to Calamity so I could catch the stagecoach there.” Her voice dripped honeyed scorn. “I would think it would be the very least you could do.”

He gave her his nastiest smile. “Oh, I could do a lot less than that. But I won’t.”

He straightened to find his entire family staring at him as if he were some snarling wolf who’d wandered into their midst. Jasper was polishing his boots while Virgil and his ma sat smoking companionably by the hearth. Sam was hunched over the table, picking over the crumbs of an apple pie, and Enos, still wearing his wrinkled red drawers, was submerged up to his bony knees in a round wooden tub.

Billy swept them a look so black it raised even Jasper’s eyebrows. “I’m taking that treasury gold to the bank in Eulalie and wiring its rightful owners. I won’t tolerate any argument on the matter.”

“You won’t get any from us,” Virgil said heartily, casting his mother a timid glance. “Ma taught us better than that. ”Thou shalt not steal.“ Right, Ma?”

Zoe rocked and nodded, taking a particularly self-righteous puff on her pipe. Sadie blinked up at her, drooling in adoration.

Billy strode into the bedroom, emerging a few minutes later wearing his boots and the same shirt he’d arrived in. While he’d been unconscious, Esmerelda had managed to mend the bullet tear and scrub most of the bloodstains out of it. He didn’t care to think about what an effort that must have taken.

She was waiting for him on the porch, having already made her farewells. His stride didn’t slow until he’d almost reached the open door.

“Come, Sadie,” he commanded, swinging around and patting his thigh.

The hound hesitated, shooting his mother a questioning glance.

Billy squatted and stretched out his hand. “Sadie, come!” The words came out sharper than he intended. Sadie cowered against his mother’s skirts.

Billy dropped his head and raked a hand through his hair. Hell, he thought, if Sadie turned on him, too, he might just break down and cry right there in front of God and everybody.

Zoe gently nudged the dog with her toe. “Git on with you, you old mutt. One crotchety old bitch around here is enough.”

Taking that as a blessing, Sadie came waddling over, giving Billy’s hand an affectionate snuffle with her cold, wet nose. Billy scratched behind her ears, absurdly grateful for her loyalty.