Thin Moon and Cold Mist: An Historical Romance by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

Author:Kathleen O'Neal Gear [Gear, Kathleen O'Neal]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781639776030
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2022-02-23T00:00:00+00:00

Garrison stood before the window in Mabel’s hotel. All of the tables were set with emerald-green tablecloths and oil lamps and sparkling silverware. The wood floor shone like glass. He felt guilty for tracking mud in, but it couldn’t be helped. Not on a day like today. He clasped his hands behind his back and watched the rain fall. Clouds obscured the mountains, but now and then, a gap would open in the storm and a peak would appear, shining with fresh snow. The filthy streets had cleared of people. Everybody had gone back to work.

He unclasped his hands and brought them around in front to reclasp them. Then he unclasped them altogether and shoved them in his pants pockets. After that, he started pacing.

He’d never had a woman invite him to share a whisky before. He wasn’t quite sure how to act. He’d never known a decent woman who drank whisky. Though he thought the idea was interesting enough.

While he pondered the fact, Mrs. Hale descended the stairs, and he turned to face her. She had changed into a black dress. Her silver earbobs were gone, and she’d removed the tortoiseshell combs from her hair, leaving her face framed in a mass of loose damp black curls. A fringe of tiny curls stuck to her forehead and cheeks. He smiled. She looked softer, more feminine. But pale and drawn.

Garrison balled up the hands in his pockets and tried to smile. “Jeremy asleep?”

“Yes. Finally. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I had to tell him a lot of stories.”

She came across the room and Garrison pulled out a chair for her.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Parker, I’d like to sit in this chair.”

“Don’t mind at all,” he said and pulled out the chair she’d indicated. Just as she had last night, she sat with her back to the wall. Did she have so many enemies?

“I hope you were telling Jeremy happy stories about flying horses and such,” he said as he took the chair beside her. They both faced the window and the storm. The rain had turned slushy, as though it might change to snow before long. Icy drops splatted on the wooden sidewalk. He watched them. She watched them.

“No,” she said, “about his father.”

Garrison absorbed the statement. “He must be mighty proud of his father.”

“Yes, he is. Did you fight in the war, Mr. Parker?”

“Yes, ma’am. I did. Though I think I fought for a different side. Not that it matters.”

“You don’t think it matters?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t. We all fought for what we believed in, and I ain’t never been one to condemn a man for his beliefs—even if I disagreed with him.”

She looked him over, then lowered her gaze.

“Where was your husband killed. Can I ask?”

“In Tennessee.”

Her voice carried no weakness, as he’d imagined it would, but rather a strong wrathful timbre. She gazed out the window at the muddy street, where puddles lay in the hoofprints and buggy tracks. Raindrops dappled the surfaces, sending out colliding silver rings.

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