The Stranger's Secrets Read online

  When she glanced into his eyes, she saw the acceptance in their depths.

  She pulled off her skirt and drawers and lay down on the bed, her heart thumping like a drum in her chest. Let it never be said that Sarah was afraid to take what she wanted. Whitman shucked his pants faster than she could follow, and finally, finally, he was naked against her. Chest to chest, leg to leg, lips to lips.

  His hands traveled up and down her body, touching and teasing, driving her to distraction. His cock was hard against her hip, teasing her with its hardness. His hand landed between her legs and began to caress her nubbin of pleasure until she was even wetter than before.

  “Whitman.”

  She hadn’t realized she’d said the name out loud until his mouth, mere centimeters from hers, tilted into a small smile before he kissed her. Slow, sweet kisses that nearly drowned her in their sensuality. Her nipples peaked against his chest, while a pulse thrummed through her. She wanted, needed, to touch him.

  His tongue swept across her lips, hot and wet, wanting. She accepted the invitation and soon their mouths fused as one. And oh, holy shit, he was hard—granite hard—against her. Not just his chest and his arms, but his cock too. He slowly rotated against her belly, pushing his erection against her softness, just enough to heighten her arousal to near desperation.

  “Now, Whit.” She was surprised to hear her voice actually working, but damn it all, she needed him. Whit slowly climbed onto her and parted her legs. His body was warm, not hot. She felt every hair and callus on his body rub against her and she arched into him.

  Inch by inch, he entered. They fit together like a key in a lock. Snick.

  Stroke by stroke, he drove her insane, making her pant and beg for more. By the time he was settled deep inside, Sarah knew nothing would ever feel this perfect.

  She rose to her peak too quickly, her body pulsing with the heat of a thousand suns. As the waves of ecstasy washed over her, she scratched at his back, holding in the word that threatened to escape in a shout.

  The word would be Whitman.

  Whitman pulled on his clothes and wondered how the hell he kept falling into bed with Sarah. She was beautiful, but he was engaged. Yet there he was again, his body weak, his dick wrung dry, and his conscience beating on him.

  The afternoon sun had dropped, bathing the room in heat. He walked over to the basin, in need of a quick lukewarm wash.

  Sarah lay on the bed watching him. Her silver gaze was almost as sharp as her tongue.

  “Why are you watching me?” He poured the water in the pitcher and picked up the washrag.

  “You’re a fine specimen of a man, Kendrick. I’m admiring the view.” Her playful tone annoyed him.

  “We’re not in a situation where we can be lounging around in bed fucking.” The words rushed out of his mouth so fast he couldn’t snatch them back.

  “Ouch.” She shifted to a sitting position, the sheets covering her bare breasts. He could still see the whisker burn on her neck.

  Did he have no self-respect?

  “You’re throwing some daggers there, Yankee.” She ran a hand through her hair. “There were two of us in this bed.”

  “I realize that.” He lowered his voice, recognizing a loss of control yet again. “Let’s try to focus on finding Mavis’s killer instead of on how many different ways we can break my marriage vows before I speak them.”

  “So that’s what this is about? Little Melissa?” She scoffed. “Her letters are so boring, anything you bring to your marriage bed will be like fireworks to the poor girl.”

  “That’s it!” He swung around, rage spilling through his veins. “This isn’t funny, Sarah. We could go to jail and you’re taking potshots at my fiancée. I’m so tired of the sarcastic shit that spills from your mouth. Maybe I ought to just ride out of town and leave you to face what you’ve done.”

  She stood, the sheet falling from her shoulders. Her body shook with what he could only assume was rage. “I was right about you.”

  He picked up his shirt and punched his arms through the sleeves. “I don’t even care to hear what you were right about.”

  She limped toward him, looking like a warrior queen on the rampage. For just a moment, Whit remembered why he respected her and liked her. Then it was gone, swallowed by his self-pity and anger.

  “Too bad, because you’re going to hear about it anyway. You’re a pompous, self-righteous prig who looks down his nose at the world. You think you’re better than me because you won the war. Let me tell you, Yankee, you’re not.”

  Sarah reached up to slap him but he stopped her arm.

  “Don’t you dare hit me.”

  “Don’t you dare belittle me.”

  “Look who’s talking.” He shook her arm. “You think you know everything about me, but you don’t.”

  “Same here.”

  Whitman knew she was right, but he was so tired of arguing, all he wanted to do was escape. Again.

  As he headed for the door, her cane hooked around his leg, stopping him. “Let me go.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. You’re not running anymore, Kendrick. We are in this together, like it or not.” She pulled him back an inch or two. “We’re partners, whether or not we exercise the right to romp around in the sheets together. You’re stuck with me and I’m stuck with you.”

  Whit felt so completely out of control, his body vibrated with an onslaught of emotion.

  “You can be angry with me all you want, but don’t blame this entire mess on me.” Her voice got huskier as she spoke. “I did nothing to Mavis other than fire her. We need each other.”

  Much as he wanted to deny it, it was true.

  “Fine, so let’s figure out what happened so we can get the hell out of this town and out of each other’s lives.”

  Sarah paused for a few moments before responding. “Agreed.”

  They had gone round and round the same circle since they’d met. Fighting, fucking, fighting, fucking. He realized part of the reason they fought so much was because they were so much alike. The other part of the reason was the undeniable attraction they felt for each other.

  Neither the attraction nor their similarity was encouraging to him. He didn’t want to like her or need her.

  He refused to examine why.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I’m sorry, I don’t remember him.” The freckled desk clerk shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miz Kendrick, I really am.”

  Sarah forced a small smile. “It’s okay, Patrick. I’ll just keep searching.”

  It seemed to be the same story no matter whom they spoke to. Nobody remembered the older man Mavis had cuddled up with on the train. Of course, once Mavis had left the compartment, Sarah had seen the other woman only a couple of times.

  Abernathy could have slipped away after murdering Mavis. But he was an old man, wasn’t he? He couldn’t slip away too fast.

  Sarah wanted to scream in frustration. The last four hours had gotten them nothing but dead ends and lost time.

  Whitman had left to talk to the other passengers, leaving Sarah to stay at the hotel and do the same. However, she’d done nothing but get empty stares and blank looks.

  Dammit to hell.

  The conductor from the train stood near the door, watching her. Sarah decided to turn on the charm and find out what she could about the ten-year railroad man.

  She walked over, emphasizing her limp, with a bright smile on her face. Fortunately, he didn’t run, so she didn’t have to trip him with her cane.

  “Alfred Bannon, right?” She held out her hand. “Sarah Kendrick. It’s nice to finally introduce myself. Will you join me for some coffee?”

  He looked like a rat caught in a trap. She smiled wider.

  “Well, uh, I’m not sure. I am to meet someone for dinner.” He pulled a watch from the pocket in his vest, the chain glittering in the lamplight of the hotel lobby.

  “Oh, it’s at least an hour before dinner. Please join me.” She took his arm, pleased t
o note the slight shaking beneath the chubby exterior.

  “Mrs. Kendrick, I don’t know if I should. The sheriff says you killed that woman.”

  Sarah feigned shock. “That’s a horrible thing to say, Mr. Bannon. I am a good Southern woman with an impeccable reputation. I never thought you’d disparage me.”

  Oh, she was about knee-deep in the horseshit she shoveled at the man.

  Bannon’s jowls shook as his eyes widened. “Mrs. Kendrick, I would never do such a thing.”

  “But you just did. I was trying to be friendly-like and speak to you so you can see I’m not the evil woman you think me to be.” She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “I understand your reluctance. I won’t bother you again.”

  Sarah extricated herself from his arm and did her best to walk away with her back straight in hurt resignation.

  Of course, she was waiting for him to call her back. She didn’t have to wait long.

  “Mrs. Kendrick, please wait.”

  Apparently their suspicious train conductor had a conscience after all. Sarah hid her smile as she turned back.

  Whitman was supposed to be speaking to the other passengers to find out who else had seen Mr. Abernathy. It seemed that the older man was their favorite subject; however, it also seemed the man had disappeared into thin air.

  They were getting nowhere, and after hours of finding nothing, Whitman needed to relieve some of his stress. Back at the barracks—hell, even back in New York—he would’ve boxed. Nothing like a good fight to chase out the demons who were biting at his ass.

  There were no boxing matches or a gym. And no place to find a good fight in this small Kentucky town except a saloon full of men who were armed. Probably not the best choice, considering he didn’t know which one of them might pull a weapon on him.

  He decided to run. Although he wanted to run from town, instead he just did circles around it in the fading afternoon sun. They were running out of time fast.

  The only witness to his mad running were the animals inhabiting the brush around him. The more he ran, the more his blood pumped through him and the more his mistakes over the last week became bigger and bigger in his mind.

  When he realized that Sarah was the woman Booker had likely crippled, he should have left the train right then and there. Whit couldn’t help her. God, he couldn’t even help himself.

  He’d spent the last twenty-one years fighting a ghost, trying to be better than his father, make wiser choices, be a better person, a stronger person. After all, his father had left his family to marry a woman, like a coward, instead of facing down his own father.

  He should have insisted on his family accepting the woman he loved. Instead he chose to become a pauper and live on a farm, scraping by. Whitman didn’t want to make the same choice, ever.

  In his third circle around the town, he felt a scream building somewhere near his feet. It traveled up through his knees, his legs, up to his stomach, which tightened as if he’d been punched. Then through his heart, which ached, and up to his throat until it exploded out of him.

  It was a primal shout of fear, anger, self-pity, and yes, even love. He hadn’t meant it to happen, certainly didn’t want it, but somehow he’d fallen in love with Sarah Spalding.

  When his lungs burned, his muscles screamed, and the sweat soaked his body and clothing, Whitman finally slowed down to a walk. He found a small creek outside town and splashed his face with the cool water.

  By the time he reached the main street, he’d regained control, or at least enough to function. He’d been fighting what he already knew, but he realized he could never confess his love for Sarah or even take that step, or entertain the thought of making her his own.

  He couldn’t because that would mean he’d have to tell her who he really was, what he was, what he had been.

  A Yankee soldier.

  Whit was the enemy of all she held dear in her life. Even worse, he was the man who’d done nothing to save a young woman from the brutal hands of Sergeant Booker.

  As he passed the Purple Posy, a young swarthy man stepped away from the building and walked toward him, hands in his pockets. He couldn’t be older than twenty-one, a puppy in a world of dogs. Fresh faced and nary a scar on him, probably either inside or out.

  The man fell into step beside Whit. “You are Mr. Kendrick?”

  There was a hint of an accent in his voice, probably Italian.

  Living in the Washington, D.C., area the last ten years since the war ended, Whit had occasion to run into people from all areas of the world.

  “Who’s asking?” No matter how young the other man was, Whit didn’t trust him.

  “No one, but I hear that you and your wife, well, are in trouble. I want to help.”

  Whit stopped in his tracks and turned to look at the young man. “You want to help us? Exactly why would you do that? You don’t know me and I sure as hell don’t know you.”

  “I know you did not hurt Miss Ledbetter, and your wife, her name is Sarah, no?”

  Whitman scowled. “You’re not being serious, are you? Were you on the train?”

  “Your wife, please, her name is Sarah? She is your wife?”

  As Whit looked into the young man’s brown eyes, he saw the same demon he himself had been running from outside of town. He didn’t know who the boy was, might never know who he was, but he felt a strange kinship with him.

  “You know Sarah?”

  The other man couldn’t hide the recognition in his gaze. “Maybe, I might. Is she tall, with long hair kissed by the sunset, and silver eyes?”

  Oh, for certain. The stranger had it bad for Sarah. But how? Was he a conquest who had followed her from Virginia? Whitman had been with her most of the journey, and other than the idiot desk clerk who got the carriage for them, she hadn’t had an opportunity to be with another man.

  At least that’s what Whitman thought.

  “How do you know her?” He took a fistful of the stranger’s shirt. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Please, who I am is not important. I just want to help you. I want to help Sarah.” He tried to remove Whit’s fist, but years of army training were on the older man’s side.

  “Then you’re going to tell me who the hell you are, how you know Sarah, and why the hell you want to help us so badly.” He shook the boy like the puppy he was.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you. Please let me go.”

  Whit set him back on his feet and stepped back. “So talk.”

  “My name is Lorenzo and I am Sarah’s…friend from Appleton.”

  “Appleton? What the hell is that?” Whit pulled Lorenzo over to the entrance to the alley, where the sunlight streamed in as it meandered toward the horizon. Now he could get a good look at the boy’s face and determine whether or not he was lying.

  “A town in Virginia. It is where Sarah grew up.”

  Whit vaguely remembered the name of the town, and he did know she was from Virginia. At least it was a start with a kernel of truth. “Does she know you’re following her?”

  Although he wasn’t a hundred percent sure, Whitman thought he saw Lorenzo’s cheeks pinken.

  “No, she does not know and I ask you not to tell her. She would be angry with me.” Lorenzo put his hands together as if in prayer. “I beg you, Mr. Kendrick, don’t tell her.”

  “Depends on how good the rest of your story is. Now talk.” Whitman folded his arms and stared down at the boy with his best captain’s glare.

  Lorenzo began his tale. “Well, the morning Sarah left, I decided to follow her to be sure she arrived at the train safely.”

  Sarah sipped daintily at the tea and tried not to make a face. Lord, she hated hot tea almost as much as she hated Yankee soldiers. However, it was a close race.

  What she really wanted was coffee, hot and black and strong. Her mouth almost watered with the idea. Then she took another sip of tea. He’d ordered it for her and she was being polite, way too polite.

  To cover her grimace, she smiled at t
he conductor. “Ten years? That is a long time to work for the railroad. You must’ve been so young when you began.”

  Bannon smiled in return. “Not so young to not know what I was getting into. The railroad is a tough business, Mrs. Kendrick. There are hooligans everywhere trying to get a free ride.” He shook his head.

  She tutted in sympathy. “That must be very hard for you, Alfred. May I call you Alfred?”

  This time he blushed, she was sure of it. “Why yes, of course you may.”

  “Thank you. Then please call me Sarah.” She put on her most charming smile and lowered her lashes. The man preened like a rooster in a yard of hens.

  “I will. Thank you, Sarah.” He shoveled a biscuit in his mouth followed by a gulp of hot coffee before he even finished chewing.

  Sarah’s intolerance for bad table manners jumped up and down on her head screaming. She had all she could do to not admonish the man.

  “Now, Alfred, I really do need your help. Sheriff Miller is determined to charge me with Miss Ledbetter’s murder, but I didn’t do it. You believe me, don’t you?” She opened her eyes wide enough to make them sting, and right on cue, tears coated them.

  “Wh-why yes, of course I believe you.” His pudgy hand reached out to pat hers. “No one as genteel as a Southern belle such as yourself would ever commit such a heinous act.”

  Sarah dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Thank you, Alfred. Your faith in my innocence is most refreshing.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “I only wish Sheriff Miller recognized my innocence as well.”

  “He’s doing his job, I’m sure. There ain’t many murders in this neck of the woods, especially of strangers from the train.” Another biscuit, another gulp of coffee, another teeth-grinding minute.

  “I’m sure that’s completely true. This appears to be a lovely town with law-abiding citizens. I’m sure the most crimes he’s had to deal with have been drunks and stray cows.” She smiled again. “However, I want to be certain he investigates this crime appropriately. My husband is from New York City and he’s skilled at such investigating. Do you think you could ask the sheriff to allow Whitman to assist him?”