You Poked My Heart
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“I’m not going to tell you again,” he said. “Get out.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her toward the door. She stumbled but caught herself on a table. A book tumbled off it as she did so. It landed with a thud on the floor.
The man’s hand clamped down over hers that held the knife in his direction. His fingers tightened around her wrist until she thought they would break. Then he let go of her and stepped back.
She didn’t move for several seconds after he released her. Her heart pounded inside her chest like a drumbeat. What had happened? Had he seen the blade in her hand? Did he know what she intended to do? Was he afraid she might try something else? Or was it because she’d been about to kill him?
He hadn’t even flinched when she raised the knife at him. If anything, he looked more determined than before. She stared into his eyes. They were dark brown, almost black. And cold… colder than ice. There was no emotion there—no fear or anger, only contempt. He turned away from her and walked to the window. With one foot on the sill, he leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “And where is your husband?”
The question surprised her. She hadn’t expected him to ask such a thing. But then, she wasn’t sure why she should expect him to be curious about her whereabouts. He’d already made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with her. So why bother answering him?
“My husband died last year,” she said. “It was an accident.”
His gaze snapped to her face. For a moment, she thought he was going to say something. But he just stood there staring at her. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded flat and lifeless. “So I heard.”
Her stomach churned. That was all he had to say? Nothing about how sorry he felt for her loss? No words of sympathy? Just that single sentence?
She knew better than to think he cared. After all, he’d never once shown any sign of compassion during their entire marriage. Not when he found out she was pregnant; not when he learned she couldn’t have children; not when she told him she was leaving him. All he ever said was, “Do whatever you want.”
But she could see now that he hadn’t meant those words as a final farewell. He had merely been trying to get rid of her. Now that he had her alone, he didn’t seem interested in letting her go. Why should he? She was a stranger to him. He had no reason to care if she lived or died.
With a sigh, she turned away from the window. “I’ve come to take my things,” she said. “That’s all.”
“Take them yourself.” He pointed toward the door.
“Why should I have to go through your house?” She picked up the book that had fallen off the table and set it back in place.
“Because you’re not welcome here.”
“Then I’ll leave.”
He shook his head. “Not until you answer some questions for me. You can either do that or I’ll tie you up and drag you out by your hair.”
A shiver went down her spine. How many times had he done exactly that while they were married? She remembered well the day he tied her to a tree outside their cabin. He’d left her there for hours before coming back. By then, she was covered with ticks. But he hadn’t bothered to untie her. Instead, he took a hatchet from the shed and used it to hack off the ropes.
When she tried to run, he caught her and dragged her back to the cabin. She screamed as he beat her with his fists. Blood trickled down her cheeks. He kicked her repeatedly, knocking her to the ground. As she lay there, unable to breathe, he laughed.
“You deserved this,” he said. “Now you know what it feels like to be treated like dirt. Well, I hope you feel it good enough to make you wish you were dead.”
After that, he threw her belongings into the wagon. She watched as he loaded his own possessions onto it. Then he drove off. The next morning, he returned with two men who carried his bedroll. He tossed it on top of the other items. When she protested, he simply shrugged.
“There’s no room for you,” he said. “Besides, we don’t need someone like you around here anyway.”
The men helped him load the wagon. One of them handed him a bottle of whiskey. He drank from it, then passed it to the other man. They both grinned as they continued loading the wagon.
“Don’t worry,” one of the men said. “We’ll put her somewhere safe so she won’t wander off.”
They finished packing everything except her clothes. She watched as he pushed the wagon forward. It rolled over her suitcase and crushed it to pieces. She gasped at the sight of the broken suitcase lying on the ground.
“Stop!” she cried.
But the wagon kept rolling until it reached the edge of the cliff. She saw it topple backward, sending her belongings tumbling into the canyon below.
“No! Stop!”
She ran after the wagon, but she couldn’t catch up to it. In seconds, it disappeared over the edge. A gust of wind whipped across the valley. She glanced behind her. Was that a cloud of dust rising above the horizon? Did that mean the wagon had crashed? If so, she would never find her belongings again.
As she stared at the spot where the wagon had vanished, she realized she was crying. Tears streamed down her face. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Startled, she turned to see him standing beside the table. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He walked closer. His gaze swept over her. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “Just upset.”
“Well, stop it.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. “This is no time for tears. We’ve got work to do.”
His grip tightened painfully. With each step, his fingers dug deeper into her flesh. “Answer my question.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“Good. Now tell me why you came here.”
“To collect my things.”
“And what else?”
“Nothing important.”
“Tell me or I’ll hit you.”
“All right,” she said. “It was because I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask away.”
“Do you remember when we first met?”
“Of course I do.”
“Remember how you told me to stay away from you?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“So, why did you say that?”
“Because I didn’t want anyone bothering you.”
“How could you possibly think I’d ever marry someone like me?”
“I thought you were pretty.”
“Pretty?” She stared at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re attractive.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m plain.”
“Plain? Not in my book. You have beautiful brown eyes.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Thank you.”
“You should thank me more often. I made you look good.”
“You did?”
“I sure did.” He smiled. “In fact, if I wasn’t already married, I’d take you myself.”
“Why would you want me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I like the way you stand up for yourself. Or maybe because I admire your determination.”
“My determination?”
“Yep. That’s what makes you special.”
She frowned. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Aren’t you proud of anything?”
“I am.”
“Then why don’t you show it?”
“Maybe because I don’t want to brag.”
“Brag?”
“Yes. Brag.”
“What’s bragging?”
“Telling others about yourself.”
“Oh. I get it now.”
“Doesn’t it make you feel better to talk about yourself?”
“Sometimes.”
“When you do, people will listen.”
“Will they?”
“Probably not.”
“Why not?”
“Most folks prefer to hear themselves talk than listening to someone else.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“Now, let me tell you what happened today.”
“Fine.”
“I went to the saloon and found the two men who attacked you last night. They tried to rob me. But I fought back and they fled.”
“Where did you fight them?”
“Right here in this room.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Did you kill them?”
“Nope. Just scared them off.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Not really. I just lost my hat.”
“Lost your hat?”
He laughed. “You must be joking. What kind of man loses his hat?”
“A careless one.”
“Careless? How can you call yourself that when you’re always running around trying to save everyone else?”
“I’m not saving anyone.”
“Yet, you keep coming here. Why?”
“I have nothing else to do.”
“Is that all?”
“No, there’s more.”
“What?”
“I also came to find out why you hired me.”
“Hired you?”
“Yes. To spy on me.”
He studied her for several moments before answering. “I hired you because I wanted to protect you.”
“Protect me from what?”
“From myself.”
***
“But I’m not afraid of you anymore,” she said. “I know you wouldn’t harm me.”
“That’s probably because you’re so stubborn. I never knew a woman quite like you.”
“There’s no need to flatter me.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Who says you can’t?”
“The same person who told me you were hired by a detective agency to watch me.”
“Are you sure he said that?”
“Positive. And I believe him.”
“Why?”
“Because he knows me well enough to know I don’t hire women to spy on me.”
“I see. So, then, why did you hire me?”
“I wanted to meet someone different.”
“Someone different?”
“Yes. Someone I could spend time with without getting bored.”
“And you thought I might be that someone?”
“I hoped you were.”
“Well, I’m glad you gave me another chance. I promise I’ll try harder next time.”
“Next time?”
“To prove that I’m not such an awful person after all.”
“I hope you are.”
“Why?”
“Because I like being around you.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You should be. I’ve never been complimented like that before.”
“So, then, you aren’t as bad as you pretend to be?”
“I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Wait and see? That’s not very encouraging.”
“Sorry. It was meant to be funny.”
“Funny?”
“Yes. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Offend me? Why would I be offended?”
“Because you think I’m terrible.”
“I don’t. I think you’re wonderful.”
“Wonderful?” She stared at him, surprised. “How can you say that?”
“Just because I’m not good-looking doesn’t mean I’m ugly.”
“It does if you don’t know how to dress or put on makeup.”
“I wear the best clothes and use the best cosmetics.”
“Then why—”
“Would you rather I looked like some other woman?”
“No!”
“Good. Then you understand.”
“I do, but—”
“If I had to choose between looking pretty and being smart, I’d pick the latter every time.”
“Smart?”
“Yep. You’re not only beautiful, but you’re also intelligent too.”
“Intelligent? Me?”
“Yep. I bet you even read books.”
“I do.”
“You’re not kidding me? I thought you were just pretending to be stupid.”
“I’m not. I love reading.”
“Me too. I especially like mysteries.”
“You do?”
“Yep. Do you?”
“Sure.”
“Which ones?”
“All of them. I’m always searching for clues to solve a mystery.”
“You sound like you enjoy solving puzzles.”
“I do. But it’s much easier to figure out what happened in a book than in real life.”
“Why is that?”
“Because authors write their stories with all the facts they know about a situation.”
“True. They leave out any information that isn’t needed. Like what color a character’s eyes are or whether he has blue or brown hair.”
“Right. And when we read a story, we fill in the blanks ourselves.”
“Exactly! Now, let’s get back to our discussion. What kind of books did you read?”
“Anything that catches my eye.”
“Like what?”
“Romances, thrillers, historical fiction, biographies—anything that looks interesting.”
“Do you ever read anything that’s not written by a man?”
“Of course. I read a lot of books by women.”
“What are your favorites?”
“I really liked one called The Housekeeper’s Daughter by Margaret Mather. Have you heard of her?”
“Not yet. But I will now. How about you?”
“My favorite author is Agatha Christie. I love her mysteries.”
“Agatha Christie? Never heard of her.”
“She writes murder mysteries. Did you know she wrote more than eighty novels?”
“Really? I guess I haven’t read many.”
“That’s probably because you’re so busy spying on people.”
“Spying?”
“Yes. You’re always watching and listening to others.”
“I am?”
“Yep. When you’re not working, you’re usually sitting somewhere staring off into space.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. You look very serious.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
“About how much I hate this job.”
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me you actually want to quit.”
“Quit? No way. I’m here until I find the right person to hire.”
“But you said you hated it.”
“I do. But I’m not quitting.”
“Okay. Then you must like it enough to stay.”
“I suppose I do.”
“Well, then, I’m glad.”
“Are you?”
“I sure am.” He smiled at her. “In fact, I’m happy.”
“Happy?”
“Yep. Happy as a clam.”
“A clam?”
“Yep. A big fat clamshell.”
“Sounds disgusting.”
“Nope. It tastes delicious. Especially when it’s fried.”
“Fried? Why fry it?”
“To make it crispy.”
“Crispy sounds nasty.”
“It’s not. Trust me. Fried clams taste great.”
“I’ll have to try one someday.”
“You should. In the meantime, why don’t we go inside and eat lunch?”
“Lunch? Where are we going?”
“Inside.”
“How about you come up to the house and meet my family?”
“Your family?”
“Yep. We’re having a picnic in the yard today.”
“I’ve never been to a picnic before.”
“Neither have I. But I think you’ll like it.”
“Will we play games?”
“We might. Or maybe we’ll just talk.”
“Talk?”
“Yep. Talk. That’s what we do best.”
“Then I’d better hurry.” She took a step toward the door but stopped short. “Wait a minute. Are you inviting me to your home?”
“Yeah. I thought you might like that.”
“Why would I like that?”
“Because you can see where I live.”
“See where you live?”
“Yes. Come on.”
He opened the front door and held it open for her. She walked through first. The hallway was dark except for the light shining from the kitchen.
“This is my living room,” he said. “Now, turn around.”
“Huh?”
“Turn around.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Just turn around.”
She turned slowly. “Wow!”
“What?”
“The view is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Me neither. So, what do you think?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks. Now let’s head upstairs.”
“Upstairs? To your bedroom?”
“No. Upstairs to my office.”
“Office? What kind of office?”
“An office. One that’s filled with all sorts of things.”
“Like what?”
“Stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Yes. Like old newspapers and magazines.”
“Old newspapers and magazines? And what else?”
“Lots of other stuff.”
“Other stuff?”
“Yes. Other stuff. Books, too.”
“Books?”
“Yep. Lots of books.”
“Do you write them?”
“Not yet. But I will someday.”
“When?”
“Someday soon.”
“Where do you plan to publish your book?”
“Myself.”
“Who’s going to buy it?”
“Everyone.”
“Really? How many people are there in the world?”
“More than you could ever imagine. More than anyone could count.”
“That’s a lot of people.”
“Yep. It is.”
“So, if everyone buys your book, won’t they be disappointed?”
“Probably. Some of them anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because most of them probably won’t get their hands on a copy.”
“Why not?”
“Because only a few copies were printed.”
“And who did you print them for?”
“For you.”
“Me?”
“Yep. For you.”
“But—”
“Come on. Let’s go back downstairs.”
“Back downstairs?”
“Yep. I want to show you something.”
“Show me something?”
“Yes. Show you.”
“Oh, no! Not again!”
The End