Page 15 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
I obeyed him, trying not to tremble as his hands slid quickly under my shift, all the way up to my hips, and then down again.
"Lift your foot. Now the other. Good. I will return in a few moments. If you need me, call out."
"What should I call you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Should I call you 'Horseman'? You have a name, surely?"
"Not one I am stupid enough to give you."
"But I will give you mine. I am Katrina Van Tassel, only daughter of Baltus Van Tassel." I waited for his response. When he did not reply, I urged, "You have heard of my family, yes?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"And I know that you are a shameless coquette who plays men against each other—a game which apparently results in death."
Until now, my situation had distracted me. I had not let myself think for more than a second about Ichabod. But at the Horseman's words, a wave of grief crashed over me.
"It was an accident," I whispered, clutching the chair for support. "And I did not play them against each other on purpose—they did most of it themselves. What is a woman to do when so many men want her and she wants none of them?"
"None of them? You must be very difficult to please."
"Perhaps." Tears oozed from beneath my lashes, soaking the blindfold. "Perhaps it is all my fault that a woman's youth and beauty turns men into idiots. All my fault that I was expected to select either the foolish schoolteacher who loved my land or the boorish rake who loved my body. Perhaps it was my fault that when I tried to comfort one of them, the other decided to beat him senseless. My fault, too, that the same ill-fated branch that harmed me should be the accidental cause of a good man's death. You are right. I amverydifficult to please, and everything is my fault. Now if you will leave the room, perhaps I can at least relieve myself and change clothes with a little dignity."
With a shuffle of chastened steps, the Horseman left the room.
I took care of my needs first. Then I shrugged out of the shift and slid the Horseman's tunic over my head. It was made of cotton, worn soft, and it smelled of fresh soil and mountain streams and lye soap. Unlaced and worn backwards, it was very loose around the neck, and kept sliding off my shoulder, while the hem fell nearly to my knees. Without trying to put on the drawers, I eased myself back onto the bed, lying carefully on my left side.
Should I stay in this bed and recover, or try to leave? I did not think the Horseman would stop me if I truly wished to go home, but I could not be sure. The dizziness in my head and the weak tremor of my muscles made my decision for me, at least for the moment. My body had been through terror and trauma, and I must give it time.
Soon the Horseman returned, collected the pan and the bloodied clothes, and carried them away. When he came back, he dragged the chair close to my bedside. "Sit up a little, so you do not choke on your food. And open your mouth."
With no strength left to question or wonder, I propped myself on one elbow; and although my wound tugged, it did not hurt too badly in that position. I opened my lips, and he set a cup against them and helped me drink. When I pulled away, he pressed me to take the rest of the water. "Keeping the body filled with liquids is a vital part of healing."
Once I had drunk all the water, he placed a morsel of bread and soft cheese on my tongue. When the Horseman gave me the next bite, my lips brushed over his thick fingers. He jerked his hand away so fast I barely got the morsel of food.
"You do not have to feed me," I said. "I can eat it myself."
He shoved something onto the bed beside me and plopped my hand onto it. My fingertips wandered over rough bread, squishy cheese, and strips of something cold—possibly ham. "Feed yourself. I need to sleep anyway."
Of course. He hadn't slept all night.
"Where will you sleep?" This room seemed to serve multiple purposes—I wasn't sure if he had another bedroom or not.
"On the floor," he answered. "Now hush."
"What is to stop me from taking off my blindfold while you sleep?"
"Your desire to keep your head on your shoulders. If you saw my face, even if you did not recognize me yourself, you could describe me to others. Or you might encounter me in town and let slip who I am."
His words brought to life a dozen or more questions in my mind. Slowly I chewed, ranking the questions by order of importance. This man, with the careful hands and the deep voice—could he really be the terrifying Horseman, the one whom every soul in Sleepy Hollow feared?
"How many have you killed?" I asked.
"That is a cruel question."
