She had lied to the doctor by telling him she was no longer dizzy and weak. He’d glanced at her unbelievingly, but had demurred, admonishing her to take a stout dose of whiskey before she went to bed. Hot tea with whiskey and honey sounded very good to her.Straightening, she turned and fumbled with the key, locking the door, then testing it to be sure it was secure. She clenched her fists to stop her hands from trembling.“Fine spinster I am,” she muttered to herself. “Afraid of my own shadow. I will not allow myself to be frightened by one incident with a drifter who has probably already left town.” Her father had never locked his doors. She reached out to turn the key but her fingers wouldn’t work. She was just tired. After a good night’s sleep, she was sure she’d feel much better. She made her tea, poured in a little bourbon and a spoonful of honey and took it into the bedroom. But the fear would not leave her. There was a lot on her mind, and tea and rest weren’t going to fix it.She lay down and pulled the covers up over her head, but every time she closed her eyes she saw soft, blue ones staring at her in kind concern.
