There was a sound—Adam was certain and he sat up and strained to listen. He remembered bolting the front door after Ian Clancy had left but wasn't sure if he had the kitchen door that lead out to the beach and the ocean. Adam reached for his gun but remembered that he had left it on the desk by the front door. Then he heard another sound—someone was in the house.
Adam pushed off the warm down coverlet. The cold air was a slight shock after having been so warm. He pulled on his trousers he had thrown on a nearby chair. The embers were still red in the fireplace but gave little light so being careful not to make any noise in the unfamiliar room, Adam reached for a split log from the firebox on the brick hearth, hoping that no spider was hiding inside. Holding the log like a club and ready to split the skull of the intruder if need be, he opened the door and stood. The sounds were louder out in the hall—as if someone was searching for something and they were coming from the parlor. Adam briefly considered that Ian Clancy had returned to look for a memento of Elizabeth but then, why would Clancy do it tonight after all the time the house had been empty? Adam slowly descended the stairs, carefully feeling his way with his bare feet, and once he was at the bottom, he glanced around and saw movement to his right. The desk with his gun was still a distance from him and he crept silently to it. Adam placed the log on the desk and pulled the gun from its holster. Adam could see an almost indiscernible form moving about and he called out, "Hold it right there. Don't make another move or it'll be your last." Adam picked up the log again. He would rather strike someone with it than shoot someone.
In the darkness with the only light coming from the front window, he saw what looked to be a human form crouching against the wall; its skin glistened palely in the moonlight, white as a pearl. Adam made his way to a lamp, the one with the cup of matches beside it. He hesitantly placed his gun on the table top along with the log and lit the lamp. He raised the wick and heard a muffled cry as of terror at the sudden light and exposure. He grabbed up the heavy stick of wood and his gun and approached the person.
He raised the club, ready to strike and then sucked in his breath. "What the hell?" A young woman was crouching against the wall, pressing herself against it and she was naked. Only her long, wavy black hair fell over her white shoulders and to her waist as cover. She was shivering and had curled herself up to be as small as possible.
Adam recovered himself and considered what to do. The woman or girl, he couldn't be certain of her years, looked up at him with fear in her large, dark eyes. There was an afghan on the settee, more than likely knitted by his grandmother from its state of wear but it would suffice. He stepped back, placed his gun on the table, and grabbed the afghan with one hand and then approaching her again, he kneeled down in front of her. Adam noticed that she was staring with fear not so much at him but at the heavy piece of wood in his hand. Suddenly his mind went back to the image of the sailors in San Francisco smashing the seals' heads with wooden clubs. He placed it on the floor and pushed it away. The woman, a young thing, he decided, looked at him with gratitude. "Here," he said, placing the afghan around her shoulders. "You must be freezing. Let me start the fire."
She sat and said nothing, just watched him as he moved about the room and pulled the afghan closer about herself. Adam noticed that her eyes were dark, much darker than his own father's deep-brown eyes—almost a liquid black-and full of wonder. He glanced at her while he put fresh logs and a few pieces of fat lighter on the grate and lit it. The flames began and the fire was soon casting dancing shadows about the room.
Adam crouched down beside the woman again and she shrunk away. He decided she must be in her early twenties, her skin pale and dewy but it was her eyes that held him.
"My name is Adam, Adam Cartwright." She pressed herself against the wall as he put out his hand. "I won't hurt you. What happened to you—your clothes and such? Did someone hurt you? Attack you? Do you need a doctor?"
He waited but she said nothing. "What's your name?" he asked. She stayed silent. "You must have a name." Adam considered that she might have escaped from a mental institution but he could think of none close by. In the morning, he would take her to the constable; someone would have noticed she was gone, that such an enchanting young woman was missing. Her husband, her family, her friends or the authorities-someone had to be searching for her. "You can sleep here tonight. You'll be safe and warm." He thought of the clothing still in his mother's bureau; his grandfather had left all his daughter's possessions alone and Adam had noticed that the room still looked as if a young woman lived there; Abel Stoddard had disposed of nothing of his daughter's. Adam had felt a bit foolish sleeping in such a room but it made him feel closer to his mother somehow. "I'll bring you something warm to wear—and there's a bed upstairs you can sleep in. Just wait for me. Don't leave—just wait here."
Adam bounded up the stairs. He lit the lamp in the bedroom and pulled open the drawer until he found a night gown. It was of soft flannel covered in small roses and smelled slightly of the floral sachets placed in the cedar-lined drawers. It made Adam smile. There were roses on the wallpaper of the bedroom and on the parlor and foyer walls. Adam's father had told him that there were always fresh flowers in the Stoddard house brought in by Elizabeth and that he and Adam's mother often talked of the rose bushes they would plant around the house when they finally settled out west. The climbing rose tree that adorned the front porch of the Ponderosa had been planted in her memory. "Your mother would have loved to see it, Adam," Ben had told him one day when the tree was blooming and the red of the blooms brought a sense of celebration to the place.
Adam took the gown downstairs and the woman was still huddling against the wall. "Here," he said, holding out the nightgown. "Go ahead," he said, moving closer. "You'll be warmer." She only stared at him. Adam wondered if she spoke English but even if she didn't, it should be obvious that the gown was for her. He unbuttoned the top few buttons and then held it over her head. She ducked down but Adam put the gown over her head and then gently reached out and pulled her hair out of the gown. It fell about her shoulders and Adam touched it again lifting a heavy lock in his hand. It was softer than anyone's hair he had ever felt. The woman did nothing else to help herself put on the gown.
"Stand up," Adam said. "It'll be easier to dress." He reached for her arm and she slightly resisted but allowed him to raise her to her feet, the gown looped about her neck. Adam averted his eyes although he wanted to look more at her rounded body, at her firm breasts and smooth belly and legs. He helped her slip her arms through the sleeves and then after the gown fell down almost to the floor, he buttoned it up while she stood like an obedient child. "Let me take you upstairs. I'll put you in a bed—in my mother's room—and bring you some warm milk. All right?"
She seemed less afraid of him but she still hadn't said a word. Adam decided he wouldn't expect her to talk; perhaps she couldn't. Tentatively placing a guiding hand on the small of her back, he led the young woman upstairs. She has the scent of the ocean about her—clean and exciting—challenging a man to something. The woman turned her head to look up at him and again, Adam was stunned by the beauty of her eyes, their depth and sadness and by the loveliness of her face. In a manner, she looked like a child; she had that innocence about her but he had to resist the urge to grab her and hungrily press his mouth on hers.
Once they were in the room, Adam led her to the bed and when she lay down, looking trustingly up at him, he tucked the coverlet around her. "I'll stir up the fire and it'll be warmer soon. Stay in bed and I'll go heat up some milk. I'll bring it up." Adam reluctantly left her, worried she would leave and he found that he wanted her to stay—he couldn't understand why-and hurried to the kitchen to heat some of the milk he had bought. He pulled a copper pot off a hook and poured enough milk in it to fill one of the thick-walled white mugs in the cupboard. As the milk heated, Adam would spin it in the pan to keep it from scalding and then placed it back on the fired-up stove.
I would hear if she left but I need to hurry. She could go up to the widow's walk. If she finds the stairs up, she might leap off the roof. She's been through some type of trauma and I need to get her to a doctor and talk to the law. Someone has taken her clothes from her and left her exposed on a brutal night like this—some cruel, cold-hearted bastard. Whoever it was wanted her and maybe she ran to escape being violated—or she was and then thrown aside. But no man could leave her, especially after tasting her—no man could be that invulnerable to her beauty—or her body.
Adam paused in pouring the milk into the mug, sitting the pan back on the stove. He realized his hand was slightly shaking and his breath was labored; he knew he desired the woman upstairs. Adam took a deep breath and finished pouring the milk. He was a better man that that, stronger than to give in to base desires. She would be safe with him…she would be safe.