Page 94 of The Soldier
“In the parlor,” Emmie said, withdrawing her hands. “In the shelves beside the fireplace.”
“Have you the equipment to clean it?”
“It should be in the same case.”
“I’ll fetch it. How about finding us something to eat—anything simple will do.”
He took the lantern from where he’d left it lit by the back door and made his way to the parlor. He examined the shelves from the highest, which was at about his eye level, to the middle, where he found the pistol in its wooden case. He hadn’t been in Emmie’s house enough to know if something was out of place, but in the dimness of the firelit parlor, something didn’tsmellright. Emmie’s environs had always smelled clean and usually better than clean.
But tonight, in the parlor, there was a hint of something musty and unpleasant. He turned slowly, and the lantern light caught the reflection of a pair of shining green eyes several inches above the floor in front of the sofa. His first thought was that some rabid animal had found its way into the warmth, or perhaps he was about the meet the famous Gany, but then the beast attached to the eyes lumbered to its feet and came over to lick his hand.
Relief surged through St. Just as he held the lantern higher and spied the sleeping child on the sofa.
“Good boy.” He patted the dog soundly but spoke quietly. “Very, very good boy.” Scout, status confirmed, ambled back to the spot he’d already warmed by the sofa and resumed his nap.
St. Just turned on silent feet and took the pistol toward the kitchen.
“Emmie.” He took from her hand a knife she was using to cut bread into slices, put the knife down on the counter, and led her to the darkened parlor. “Winnie’s home safe.”
Emmie’s hand went to her mouth, and only St. Just’s fingers around her wrist stopped her from flying to the couch and hugging the breath out of the prodigal child. Instead, she let St. Just take her back to the kitchen, where she fetched up against his chest.
“Thank God,” she whispered. “Oh, thank God, thank God.”
“Shall I be about cleaning that pistol?”
“Yes.” She stepped back and waved a hand. “Go ahead, and just… go ahead.”
While he tended to the gun, Emmie stood in the doorway of the parlor, gazing at Winnie where she snored gently on the couch. Dimly, Emmie heard one shot fired, a pause, and a second shot, then a faint echo of the pattern. St. Just must have walked off a ways with the gun, she reasoned, as his shots were not as loud as they might have been closer to the house.
Such a considerate man, she thought, realizing she hadn’t found a reason to label him barbarian in many weeks. What on earth had she been thinking? He was a good man, not always an easy man, but good.
She would miss him—for the rest of her life.
Emmie tore her eyes from the sight of Winnie curled on the couch and returned to the kitchen.
“If you’re still hungry,” she said, “I can feed you dinner.”
“No need for that,” St. Just said, making no move to take off his damp clothing or boots.
“Shall I waken Winnie?” Emmie asked, trying to mask her disappointment.
“Waken her why?” St. Just seemed genuinely bewildered.
“So she can go home with you to Rosecroft,” Emmie said as levelly as she could. Why was he making this harder?
“Emmie…” His confusion turned to incredulity. “You cannot ignore that Winnie was willing to risk her life to keep you from going. She needs to be with you.”
He’d kept his voice down, and Emmie knew what an effort that was because she herself wanted to shout.
“Surely you realize,” Emmie countered, “that child cannot be made to suffer even one more change, St. Just. Rosecroft is her home, you are her guardian, and you have already assured me you will put every resource available to you at Winnie’s disposal.”
He ran a hand through his hair then pressed the heels of both hands to his eye sockets. “I suppose you’d better put on the teakettle.”
“And you’d best take off your wet things,” Emmie said, still keeping her voice quiet. “We can hang them to dry while you have your tea.” St. Just let Emmie help him out of his overcoat, then unbuttoned his waistcoat, as well, and handed both to her. Emmie moved silently to the parlor and spread the overcoat over the back of a wing chair, and the waistcoat over the arms. Paper crackled in some inner, known-only-to-gentlemen pocket of the waistcoat, so Emmie fished through the material, then drew the documents out and put them on the opposite chair, lest the general damp destroy the writing.
When she returned to the kitchen, it was to find St. Just laying out a pan of cheese toast, completing the task Emmie had started when Winnie had been discovered. They brought the tea tray and cheese toast to the table and took chairs facing each other.
“What is it you would tell me?” Emmie said, wanting to get it over with but not wanting him to ever go.
