Page 21 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
"I have work to do—gardening, trapping, cutting wood—I am no man of leisure."
"When your work is done, then?"
"Are you begging?"
"I—very well, yes. I am begging you to talk to me, and tell me about yourself, and about this curse under which you suffer."
His hesitation clouded the space between us as he secured fresh bandages. "I am not supposed to speak of it."
"Are you under a spell that keeps you silent on the topic?"
"Not exactly."
"Then tell me anyway." Desperately I scrambled for some reason why he should trust me. "If you have told no one before, you may find that telling another soul is a comfort. And I have no cause to babble your story to anyone else. As far as anyone will ever know, my time was passed in a woodcutter's cottage, under the pious care of his good wife. To speak any other truth would be to condemn myself to a lifetime of gossip and censure."
"True. Any connection with someone like me would certainly be an ill-advised thing." His steps clumped toward the door, scuffing a little slower than usual.
"That is not what I meant—I—Horseman? Absalom? Sir Fiend?"
But if he heard me, he made no response or return.
I lay for hours alone, dozing fitfully. When the Horseman returned with a great thumping and banging, I startled awake with a yelp.
"You take fright easily," he said. "It is only me."
I wished he would lay his palm against my back again to reassure me, but tension laced his tone and I knew better than to push my luck. Strange how I was beginning to know the colors and cadence of his voice.
A chair dragged to my beside and creaked as he settled onto it. "I have been thinking. If you can trust me to care for you and to do only what is best for your health, I can trust you with my past—some of it. If anything should happen—if your connection to me should be revealed—the knowledge might save your life, or at least buy you some time."
My heart fluttered with anticipation. "I have so many questions—"
"And you may or may not get the answers you want. All I ask is that you be quiet, and listen."
"I can do that."
"Are you sure?"
I grinned in response to the wry humor in his voice. "Here." I stretched out my hand. "I will hold your hand as you speak, and when I have a question, I will squeeze it. Then you can choose whether or not to pause your tale and allow the inquiry."
He inhaled, slow and deep, and then his broad palm and thick fingers engulfed my whole hand.
"Your hand is so small," he said in a wondering tone.
"But it is strong."
"It is. Like your spirit."
Palm to palm as we were, I could feel the thrum of his pulse and the heat of his skin, the soft scrape of the calluses on the heel of his hand and on the pads of his fingers. A sudden urge wakened in my heart—to lift that work-worn hand to my lips and soothe it with kisses.
My father complained frequently about the wanton, unpredictable emotions of women. Ever since I arrived at the Horseman's cabin, I seemed to be suffering from them more than ever—yearning for the Horseman one minute, running from him the next. Though perhaps my feelings would have been natural for any human in this confusing situation. After all, the Horseman himself seemed rather conflicted, buffeted by a storm of different emotions whenever he was around me. Usually those emotions ran the gamut from frustration and annoyance to sorrow or sarcastic amusement. In truth, most men I knew could be just as emotional as any woman—some even more so.
"Where to begin?" The Horseman's thumb rubbed a slow circle over the top of my hand. "You wonder why I would have to kill you, if you discovered my identity. It is because I operate under the will of someone else, someone who will protect their identity at all costs. As a dullahan, I am controlled by the magic circlet around my neck."
I squeezed his hand, and he sighed. "Already?"
"When did you receive the circlet? Were you born with it? Did it grow with you, or did you have to get a new one every year?"
"That is more than one question."
