Free Learning to Waltz by Kerryn Reid Page B

He tapped as he entered.
    Mrs. Moore sat against the headboard, one hand cupping Julian’s cheek and the other slack in her lap. She looked dull, limp, spiritless—neat, as usual, but as though she had spent not one unnecessary minute on her appearance. Her shoes lay on the floor by the bed, her hair was pulled back very simply, and she had on the same plain gray gown she’d worn the previous day.
    She gazed directly into his face for some seconds. She said nothing, showed no surprise, no annoyance, nothing at all. Then she returned to her contemplation of Julian’s still form. A slight wheeze as he breathed through dry, cracked lips was the only thing to tell the boy was alive. Evan saw no movement, no perceptible rise and fall of the bedclothes, no fevered muttering as in the past few days.
    Half of him wanted to turn around and walk out again, ride back to Latimer’s, collect Grady and his horses, and drive off somewhere. Most anywhere would do. His other half—the better half, he supposed—made him walk quietly to the side of the bed and lay his hand on the boy’s burning forehead. Why should he care so much about a child he’d known so briefly? A child unrelated to him, whom he had never seen healthy or happy?
    Perhaps that was why. “How is he?”
    “He’s dying.”
    Just that bald statement in a voice like iron, hard and cold. Evan looked sharply at her, but her face was turned from him. Her callousness was appalling, unnatural. Could this be the same woman who’d come running into the inn a week ago with mud past her knees and panic in her eyes?
    He jerked upright and strode angrily about the small room. He wanted to throw something. Surely any woman should demonstrate some emotion when saying such words of her own child! Had he misjudged her so grossly? He was angry with himself, furious with her, and enraged that God could think of stealing this child Evan thought he had saved and delivered into his mother’s care six short days ago.
    He turned back to the bed to find her eyeing him warily, like a cornered fox facing the baying hounds. He spoke through gritted teeth. “You take it mighty calmly, ma’am.”
    Color rushed to her face, suddenly twisted with passion. She thrust forward, her free hand clenched into a fist that dug into her thigh. Julian whimpered, and Evan could see the effort she made to relax. “No doubt I should be wailing and tearing out my hair. Perhaps I should throw myself into the river. But will you permit me to wait until he’s actually dead?”
    It was little more than a whisper for Julian’s sake, yet it throbbed with defiance and sarcasm. And something else bled into her voice. Terror .
    Evan’s anger evaporated, and he moved to her side. He touched his fingers lightly to her cheek. “I’m sorry. I think you must be the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
    She gazed up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. A tremor in her voice sounded almost like laughter. “No, no, surely you have that wrong.”
    He resumed his pacing about the room, fidgeting with one thing and then another. “I don’t mean that you feel less than anyone else. But you don’t run from your difficulties, you just stare them in the face and keep going.” He glanced into the mirror above her dressing table and quickly away again. “I, on the other hand, have made a practice of avoiding anything I don’t want to think about.”
    “Believe me, I’ve done my share of running away.” The hard edge was back in her voice. She looked down and said, more softly, “And you haven’t run from us.”
    “Leaving you all alone in this crisis? I think not!” Yet he had thought about it.
    For shame.
    Mrs. Moore shook her head. “It’s a crisis for me, of course. It need not be for you. We have absolutely no claim on you.”
    Evan picked up her little perfume bottle and cupped it in his palm. “But you do. There is a very sweet attraction at the center of this crisis. I can’t seem to think about anything