Forever and a Day

She edged back and half nodded. “Yes. Very much.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She half nodded again. “Thank you.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Were you and he ever in Paris? Is that where I may know you from?”

She glanced up at him. Her and Raymond in Paris? Oh, now she’d heard it all. Raymond hated the French about as much as he hated the mayor and his politics. Whilst she? She only knew about Paris from Raymond. About all the gardens the Parisians had, the rows of palaces that once belonged to kings, the way they cobbled their streets and even had churches that were almost as old as God himself. “Raymond had been in Paris on business in his younger years when he still had money. As for me, I’ve never once lived a breath outside of New York. I was born here, and though I’m tryin’ to move west, I’ll most likely die here and be buried with a wooden marker that’ll rot away and make everyone forget I was born a redhead.”

He averted his gaze. “You are far too young to be speaking in such gray tones.”

“Where I live, gray is about the only color one sees. But one gets used to it, especially if it’s all they know.” She focused once again on his waistcoat. “Now hold still.”

She leaned in, working the blade against the threads behind each button. She quickly detached all the buttons, catching them in her palm one by one, until his waistcoat hung open, exposing the whitest and brightest linen shirt she’d ever glimpsed. It was as if it had been snatched right off the tailor’s bench.

She released him, shoving all six buttons into the stitched pocket just beneath her left arm. “There.”

Gathering her calico skirts back up, she slid the blade securely back into the holster and let her skirts drop. She paused, sensing he was staring. Having been surrounded by men since she was nine, shortly after the death of her mum, she’d lost all sense of modesty around those who were used to seeing limbs being bared and rarely stared. But this man made her aware of just how important modesty was. It kept a girl out of trouble when it counted most.

She awkwardly glanced toward him. “You didn’t have to look.”

“I couldn’t very well help it.” His jaw tightened as he met her gaze. “Do you lift your skirts for all the boys?”

She pursed her lips, attempting not to be entirely insulted. “Only the ones I intend to gut. So I suggest you mind your tongue.”

“Don’t you worry. I intend to mind my tongue and my eyes.” He glanced away, jerking his now-open waistcoat against his linen shirt and abdomen. “I must say, the prodigal destruction of a perfectly good waistcoat brings this man to tears.”

She paused. “The prodi-what?”

“Prodigal,” he provided.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Wasteful. Prodigal means wasteful.”

“Oh, does it, now? Well, I never heard of the word.”

“And whose fault is that? Not mine, to be sure. Buy yourself a dictionary, my dear.”

She glared at him for being so rude. “If I could afford one, I would. Though I really wouldn’t be surprised if you just made that word up in some pathetic attempt to impress me.”

He raked a gaze down the length of her and smirked. “I can think of a dozen other ways to go about impressing you, Mrs. Milton, and making up words doesn’t readily come to mind.”

She squinted. “You mean it really is a word?”

“Yes, of course it is a word.”

“Huh.” She eyed him. “I’m confused.”

“About what? The word?”

“No.” She waved toward him. “How is it you remember prodi-whatever but can’t remember much else?”

He paused. “That I don’t know.” He shrugged, averting his gaze. “I just remember words, that is all. I see them. I hear them. I cannot readily explain why, but I do. And as I said, the prodigal destruction of a perfectly good waistcoat brings this man to tears.”

She lowered her chin. “Before your tears flood this room and the city, I ought to point out that a silver button can be pawned for as much as seventy-five cents apiece over at the local junk dealer. Over four dollars was dangling off your chest for the world to see. Never give anyone a reason to fleece you, I say, or they will.” Stepping back, she eyed his appearance again. “You still aren’t rough enough. You shouldn’t have shaved.”

She bit her lip and glanced around, wondering what she could do without altogether ripping the seams of his outfit apart. She supposed she could soil it, but with what?

She paused. Coffee. How fitting.

Glancing toward Dr. Carter’s desk, she plucked up the porcelain cup of coffee he’d left on the desk and dipped her finger into it to ensure it wasn’t hot. It wasn’t. “I don’t think Dr. Carter will mind. Hold still. Here’s a toast to what should have been.” Turning back to him, she flung the entire contents of the dark, gritty liquid onto the front of his linen shirt and open waistcoat.

He sucked in a breath and jumped back, his hands popping up into the air. He frantically swiped at his wet, stained clothing and glared at her, his dark hair falling from its neat, brushed state. “Damn you thrice into the pits of hell, woman.” He gestured rigidly toward himself, his face taut and his eyes ablaze. “Why did you think it necessary to ruin a perfectly fine linen shirt?”

He was certainly prim for a man who thought he was a pirate. He couldn’t even swear right. “We’re improvisin’, is all. No one’s linen shirts look that snowy white where I live.”

He gave her a withering look. “Forgive me for having a clean shirt. Shall I rip the seams a bit for you?”

She heaved out a breath. “If you can’t survive bein’ stripped by a woman and havin’ coffee thrown at you, you most certainly won’t survive where I’m takin’ you. You’re over six feet tall. Act like every inch counts, will you? Be a man.”

He released his shirt and stalked toward her, veering in tauntingly close. “’Tis damn well hard to be a man around you. Damn. Well. Hard.”

She rolled her eyes and huffed on her way out of the office.

Men. They were all so self-righteous no matter what their upbringing or how hard you hit them on the head.

CHAPTER FOUR

Of old there was nothing, nor sand, nor sea, nor

cool waves. No earth, no heaven above. Only the

yawning chasm.

—Saemundar Edda, Codex Regius (early fourteenth century)

ROBINSON INTENTLY WATCHED the shadows of wood buildings as they bobbed and rolled by through the small dirt-streaked window at his elbow, waiting to recognize just one thing. And yet he didn’t. Not the buildings. Not the streets. Not the omni he rode in. Not even the night itself. It was as if he were looking out upon a chasm that meant nothing to him. How much longer would he have to live feeling as if he were seeing everything for the first time?

He tightened his jaw and glanced toward the young woman sitting beside him on the bench. Georgia. Like the state. Who the hell named their daughter after a state? It would be like naming one’s daughter after Paris. It bespoke of too much grandeur with very little to show.

Her sloppily gathered strawberry locks quivered within her frayed, beribboned bonnet with each strong sway of the omni that sent her shoulder bumping into his shoulder. Despite the sways that forced their bodies to touch, she indifferently stared out across the narrow space toward the bench opposite their own, which had long been emptied of passengers.

Something about her was so achingly familiar, but for some reason, it didn’t match any of the erotic images she evoked in his head. He could vividly see pale, freckled limbs and cascading long red hair similar to hers splayed out against linen, but there simply wasn’t a face associated with it. Who was the naked woman in his head if it wasn’t this Georgia? Was it a wife he couldn’t remember? Or a…mistress?

God help him either way.

He dragged in a breath. “What do you know about me?” he eventually inquired above the clattering of the wood wheels.