Page 41 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
Eamon laughed, a full, rich sound straight from his belly. "I love you."
"Of course you do." But my cocky smile faded immediately, and tears gathered in my eyes. "I am so glad you do."
The next day we went down into the valley together. Lucas was the first to see us approaching on Elatha. The open joy in his face brought a smile to mine.
"Miss Katrina." He grinned up at me. "You are alive, after all. Everyone will be glad to hear it. Your mother—she's in a bad way."
I could imagine so, what with her daughter's assumed death closely followed by the death of her best friend. My heart pummeled my ribs as I slid carefully off Elatha into Eamon's arms. Mentally I ran through the story we had rehearsed—as simple and as close to the truth as possible.
"I'll walk her up to the house." Eamon nodded to Lucas. "I can see to the horse myself, if you're busy."
Lucas lifted a brow at the unexpected courtesy. "No trouble, sir. Happy to take care of such a fine animal."
"Thank you." Eamon offered me his arm.
I recognized my father's portly figure when we were still many paces from the house. His arm was lifted, crooked in its customary position when he was indulging in a pipe of tobacco.
"Papa," I breathed, and though we were too far away for him to hear me, I saw him turn toward us, and lower his arm. The next second he was shouting for my mother, and running. My father, Baltus Van Tassel, was running. I had never seen him run.
I could not run without pain, but I walked faster. As we neared each other, my father drew up short, most likely because he had noticed I was wearing a man's clothes.
"Katrina." The joy in his eyes mingled with horror at all the improprieties I was currently committing. If he only knew...
"Papa." I embraced him.
His arms tightened around me briefly before he pushed me to arm's length again. "Where have you been?"
"I was hurt on the bridge, Papa, the night Ichabod was killed. This traveling doctor found me and helped me recover."
"Why did he not send word where you were?"
"I was too injured to be left alone. I nearly died."
"This man—" Papa inspected Eamon from head to toe. Eamon had worn his best clothes, complete with a ruffled shirt, waistcoat, and cravat. He did look fine, and broad, and powerful. Even without a hint of wealth about him—no watch, or hat, or walking stick—he cut an imposing figure. Papa cleared his throat. "Well then—come inside, before people talk. We must get you into some suitable clothes, and call Dr. Burton. Young man, you will stay for dinner."
We had barely reached the porch when my mother came screaming out of the house and flung her arms around me.
"Careful!" I exclaimed. "I am still injured."
"Injured? My darling, who hurt you?" She squinted at Eamon. "Was ityou?"
"No, Mother! He is a doctor. He has a cabin in the hills. He mended my wound, and nursed me back to health."
"Nursed you back to health, did he indeed? Hurry inside. You cannot be seen in this state, with this stranger—there are ruffians about, Katrina. We thought you had been killed, my love! And I must tell you—it will be a terrible shock to you—Anika Van Brunt has been murdered. Some craven thief smashed down the door of her house and strangled her." My mother was shaking and panting, her face pale and clammy.
Eamon reached for her just as she collapsed in a dead faint. He caught her and said to my father, "With your permission?"
Papa nodded, and Eamon carried my mother inside to a sofa.
After that gentlemanly act of his, and the medical attention he provided my mother over the next hour or so, there were no further questions about his honor—at least until I returned from dressing and came to my mother's side. She shooed everyone else out of the room, and with her hands writhing in her handkerchief, she said, "Did he do anything wicked to you, this young doctor?"
Oh yes. He did very wicked things.
"I am still a virgin," I told her.
She released an enormous breath. "Oh my child. Thank God for that. Better to be dead than defiled."
I pinched my lips to keep back a sharp retort about how I would much rather be alive in any case, and how wrong she was to think that my worth as a woman was linked to a particular orifice of my body—but my mother was a woman of rigid opinions, and no amount of talk would sway her, especially on such matters.
