judging by how you can string words together.â
She gaped at him, totally at a loss for words. How much thinking did it take to realize the man you loved didnât careâno, didnât give a damn about you? Proven when he hit you on the head with his Colt!
She started to throw a punch at that infuriating, handsome, all-too-memorable mouth.
Unfortunately, the door swung open first.
âLowell? Sweet Jesus, you made good time!â Uncle William started to embrace his old friend. But Gareth sidestepped slightly and light from inside poured over Portia in a welcoming flood. Suddenly she wasnât dusty and chafed in her leather breeches and creased bandanna on a rutted street hundreds of miles from anywhere she knew.
She was a breath away from home.
Uncle William froze then leaped onto the threshold and swept her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung, shaking, as if she were a little girl once again, back when she was always safe with her favorite uncle.
âSweet Mother Mary,â he muttered. They held onto each other for what seemed like an infinity, while her body ignored the contrast between itself and fresh clothing and clean skin, before he carried her inside.
âViola, sweetheart,â he crooned, âlook what Lowell brought you for a birthday present.â
He set Portia down carefully on a polished tile floor, covered with brilliant rugs. Soft white plaster walls reflected the golden lamps swinging from the ceiling and the fire crackling in a curved fireplace, until the large room seemed an oasis of warmth and love. Leather chairs and overstuffed sofas offered tempting places to rest.
But none of that mattered, next to the woman struggling to her feet.
âPortia, my love.â Her motherâs younger sister held out her arms, soft shawls falling toward the floor like autumn leaves at winterâs first touch.
âAunt Viola.â Hot speech regarding Garethâs unjust treatment, rehearsed a thousand times over during the past day, died on Portiaâs lips.
Aunt Viola had never been hale and hearty like Aunt Rosalind, someone capable of playing tennis for hours. But her elfin beauty had always glowed with an inner joy, which made most men call her a beauty. Portia had always considered her healthy, although not extremely strong after her second son Brian was born.
But now? She could barely stand unaided and her skin was gray, more ashen than rose-petal. Dear Lord, she looked as if she was still close to death, yet the miscarriage had occurred almost a month ago.
Uncle William lightly squeezed Portiaâs shoulders.
She shook him off. She didnât need the warning to make sure sheâd put her best beloved aunt first, in every way. She dropped her hat onto the nearest table and ran forward.
âDearest, dearest aunt.â
They hugged each other, scalding tears of joy blending on their cheeks.
Portia started to wrap herself closer, the way sheâd always done but alarm rippled across her skin, edging her back. Aunt Viola was so very thin, far thinner than usual.
Portia shifted her grip slightly and held herself a little more cautiously, careful to keep her arms in a cradle rather than crush. She would keep the little hellions called her cousins out of harmâs way, while she was here. That would give Aunt Viola time to rest and heal.
Aunt Viola stroked Portiaâs hair. Despite all her best resolutions, Portia leaned into the maternal reassurance.
Delicate fingers smoothed the lingering sore spot on her scalp. Portia yelped and flinched away.
âWhat happened to your head, dear? Did you take a fall?â Aunt Viola questioned. âDo we need to send for the doctor?â
Portia gritted her teeth, unable to form a polite answer.
âIâm sorry but Iâm afraid I hit her, maâam,â Gareth answered.
âWhy?â Uncle William shot the question at him like a cannonball.
âWe stopped for water at
Learning to Kill: Stories