Page 37 of This Haunted Heart

But rarely in my adult life had my troubles brought me, by luck or by grace, to a truly decent man. A person ready and willing to lend a hand without an agenda of their own. I was looking right at him and still had trouble believing he was real.

The backs of my hands started to itch, and I scratched at them anxiously. I lowered my voice. “If I said I needed help, what exactly would you do?”

Mr. Mazibuko tucked up the side of his sack coat, revealing the iron on his hip, a single-action revolver with a long barrel. “You say the word, and I’ll see to it that your husband stays right here. He can hoof it wherever he likes, but you’ll be free of him. I’ll cart you to the next station, or the one after if that’s not far enough for you.”

I swallowed hard, my mind whirling. I could get my money now and be free.

But I was certain Finley would not back down without a fight. What if they fired at each other? What if I caused harm to this unicorn of a man? Weren’t the marks against my soul terrible enough already? And what if . . .

“Stupid sad eyes,” I grumbled under my breath.

“What was that, Mrs. Finley?”

“Oh, nothing.” I rubbed at my brow, frustrated with myself for not wanting to see Finley shot after all he’d done to me. Actually, I wouldn’t mind seeing him shot as long as I knew he’d survive it. A bullet in the ass would do him some good.

But I could not tolerate the thought of him dead or maimed.And I certainly wouldn’t want either fate for Mr. Mazibuko.

And I didn’t want my cash set on fire either. I pictured the entire stage going up in flames and could almost smell the acrid smoke, Finley lighting the mail bags with my life’s savings inside after everything went wrong. Resolve settled in my gut and stiffened my spine.

“I do not require the sort of help you’ve proposed, but if you would be so kind as to post a letter for me . . .” I checked again to make sure Finley was still distracted by straps and pulleys, then I fished out the letter and a ten, and I handed both up to him. “I don’t have smaller bills at the moment.”

He took the letter and waved my cash away. “I’m happy to cover the dime for a stamp. But you’re sure this is all you want?”

My throat bobbed. “I’m sure,” I said, and the words tasted like ash. I wasn’t certain of anything in my life anymore.

* * *

When we reached the wrought iron gates of Nightingale House, the front of which displayed the image of a songbird in flight, the stage could take us no farther. The horses whinnied and stomped their hooves and refused to listen to their reinsman.

They were behaving as though a predator lurked nearby, their tall ears twitching. There were so many trees, I could see only forest, reaching iron peaks, and the blocks of molded sandstone between them. There was no telling what had spooked them. It was unlikely a beast of any size had made it through those bars.

Mr. Mazibuko made his apologies that he could not take usto the door. We would have to disembark there.

Finley did not seem surprised by the behavior of the horses. He climbed out, unlocked the gates and dragged them wide open. The driver struggled with the reins while Finley untethered the trunk.

We made our goodbyes, and the kind reinsman set off with his team in the opposite direction.

I decided that for now I might catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Perhaps I’d get further with my pirate if I attempted to be kind, so after Finley relocked the gates with us inside, I insisted on helping with the luggage. I hoisted up one end of the trunk, and we hefted it down the earthen drive together.

I was starting to feel winded when we finally came to a bend. Wanting to see the rest without the distraction, I set my end of the trunk down. The trees fell away as I padded forward. Grounds of manicured greenery rolled out like fine carpet before Nightingale House. The massive manor was bathed in fading sunlight, backed by dusky clouds. An involuntary noise of wonder slipped past my lips.

What a hauntingly beautiful place.

Built in the style of a chateau, it was all gray stone and pointed spires and towers that reminded me of a fairytale castle. There was something deeply personal about the ornamentation: the sharp arches that framed the doorways, the elaborate decorative cornices, the sash windows of colorful stained glass. The overall effect was as lovely and melancholy as the owner’s eyes.

There was no pinpointing the exact element that displayed grief to me, but that was the emotion the estate immediately inspired. Perhaps it was the weeping willows that flanked thewater gardens or the stone entryway that was the color of storm clouds or the set of balconies that made the face of the house appear to be frowning.

This big, beautiful manor felt like a monument to a broken heart.

It was then I realized how intensely Finley was staring at me. He was doing that thing with his eyes that made him appear “irregular,” as Mr. Mazibuko had put it. A man possessed.

“What do you think of it?” Finley asked softly, almost shyly. The way he stood with one big hand sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck, it reminded me of the first time I’d found him in my room.

I didn’t understand why, but I sensed that my answer was of great importance, and I took a moment to ponder that, chewing on my lip.

“It’s breathtaking,” I told him finally.

“Yes?” His smile stretched wide, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was so broad it chased the sad right out of his gaze. “Built it myself—I mean, not entirely myself, of course. It took 400 men with more talent than I three years to finish it. You like it truly?”

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