The Captive Heart (19 page)

Care about the woman’s feelings?

Or take cover behind a mask of indifference?

He shifted on the barrel, embracing the sharp pangs in his back.

“Tatsu’hwa,” he breathed out.

Her footsteps padded to the door. Of course she couldn’t hear him whisper, not with the shush of the breeze rustling the leaves and waving the pine boughs. He could still tuck tail and run the other way. Pretend it didn’t matter. Stiff-arm the empathy rankling him as much as his ruined flesh.

He sucked in a breath and called out. “Sit with me, wife.”

Eleanor hesitated, one foot on the threshold. The sting of Samuel’s rebuke still burned in her ears—yet it was a just anger. She deserved it, more than he deserved the whipping. He’d nearly been killed because of her.

“You heard me, woman.”

She whirled, expecting to see him inches from her.

But he hadn’t moved. He sat with his back to her. Deep red lines crisscrossed his back, the skin purple in some patches, yellow in others. Scabs covered most of the stripes—only one trickle of blood seeped from the widest gash.

Yet her stomach twisted. That had to hurt.

“You going to stand there gawking at my back or come join me?”

Drat the man! Of course he should be angry with her, but not for caring about him, not for tending him in every possible way to ease his pain. Why did he not berate her for bringing trouble to his own back? Why not censure her ignorance for housing a foreign horse in his stable? Why not simply send her from his home? Not one of her former masters would have taken such a beating in her place—then ask that she sit beside him.

Emotion clogged her throat as she retrieved a barrel from the other side of the porch and dragged it next to his. How could Samuel Heath tie all her guilt and humiliation into one big knot and cast it far afield, asking her to keep company with him instead of dismissing her from his life? He’d be better off with her gone. She sank onto the barrel, smoothing wrinkles from her skirt. A silly occupation, yet as soothing as the sun on her face. “You are very kind, sir.”

“Kind?” A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I’ve been called many things. That’s not one of them.”

“Oh, but you are! You dote on your daughter. You put up with my cooking. You sleep on the floor, and you took a lashing that should have been mine. Beneath that gruff exterior, I think you are very—” She pressed her lips tight. Embarrassment burned up her neck and flushed across her cheeks. Would she never learn to hold her tongue?

“Careful now.” He turned toward her. “You’re starting to sound like my wife.”

“I … I …” She what? How did one possibly reply to such a statement? Her fingers snagged on her skirt, creating a new crease instead of removing them.

He cocked a brow, humor flashing in his dark eyes.

She flailed for a new topic. Any topic. “I … uh, I could not help but notice the other marks on your back. Would those scars be the reason you know so much about bears?”

His gaze pierced, digging deep.

But a grin parted the dark stubble on his face. “I’ve had a run-in or two.”

She glanced at the purplish-streaks reaching across the side of his rib cage, then shot her gaze back to his. “It appears the bear came out the winner.”

He smirked. “I’m the one still breathing.”

“Indeed.” She studied the lines at the corners of his eyes, each a testament to a life lived on the edge of want and need. He belonged here in this rough and rugged land. He was part of it. “I perceive you are a survivor … of many things.”

He looked away, gaze fixed on the tree line—though she very much doubted he saw it, not with the way a twitch throbbed at the apex of his jaw.

“Tell me your story.” His voice drifted out soft, a plea. An invitation.

And quite possibly his own evasion tactic.

“Story? Me?” A bitter laugh quivered on her lips. “That would be a very short book, I am afraid.”

“Even so, I would hear it.”

Memories stole her breath. She spent most of her time denying the past. To voice it would breathe life into a dragon she’d rather not face. “There is not much to tell, really.”

“It would take my mind off the hurt of my back.”

La! He couldn’t have trapped her more securely than by using one of his steel snares. She ran her hands from thigh to knee, pulling the fabric taut. “England was my home, though I have not any family left. My mother died birthing me. My father … well, some called him a gentleman.”

His face shot to hers. “But not you.”

Guilt sank in her chest. Was she not this very morning teaching Grace to give thanks in all things? “I am sorry to give that impression. Yes, my father was a gentleman, with land holdings in Devonshire. His position afforded me the privilege of attending one of the finest finishing schools and later a position as governess in several great households.”

Furrows dug deep into his brow. “Why did you not simply live with your father until you married?”

“I said my father
was
a gentleman. He died when I was eighteen.”

“If he had land, seems like there ought to have been enough money to provide for you, even after his passing. Why did you seek employment?”

This time she looked away—away from his questioning gaze, the question itself … and as far away as possible from examining the real reason she’d traded in her dreams of marriage for the lonely, set-apart life of a governess. She clenched her skirt and squeezed, creating as many wrinkles as her father had willfully cut into her life.

“I’m not the only one with scars, aye? Look at me, Tatsu’hwa.”

His tone challenged, calm yet strong, the same voice he’d used when frightening off the bear, compelling her to turn his way.

His eyes glimmered with too much knowledge, like he could see the torn soul she kept buried deep. “Take it from someone who knows … Don’t let the past fester inside. The sooner you move on, the sooner you’ll heal. Sometimes you got to cut your losses.”

“And what if that loss is your life?” She spewed out the words like cream gone bad, the barrel rocking beneath her. “My father lost his land, his dignity,
my
dignity. Tell me, for you are a father, what kind of man asks his own daughter to repay his gambling debts by trading her innocence for gold?”

Samuel’s face hardened to flint. Fierce. Deadly. A savage look that chilled her to the marrow.

“I’ll tell you what kind.” His voice shook. “The kind that didn’t deserve a daughter like you.”

Then just as suddenly, the lines of his face softened, and he reached for her hand. “You were wronged, true. But we’re all wronged some time or another. Even God. And that’s the only reason you can let go of bitterness—because He did.” He spread her fingers and turned her hand palm up, then let go.

She blinked, the truth of his words as stunning and raw as the stripes on his back. Her hand dropped to her lap, her thoughts to a brand-new pool of wonder. For the first time, she shrugged off the word
trollop
and examined it in the afternoon light, remembering the rage in her father’s voice when she’d refused to yield to his request, the flare of his nostrils when he’d cast her out. The heavy weight of his rejection.

“It was not about you, child. It was always
—
ever—your father’s wicked choices.”

Her gaze shot to Samuel’s mouth, but his lips were shut.

Gooseflesh lifted the skin on her arms.

She went back to smoothing her skirt, her eyes following the movement. What if this whole time she’d driven her life to combat a lie? What if her father’s rejection had been nothing but his own desperation? A thrashing, miserable death of his dreams, murdered by his vice—not hers.

Her hands stilled. Peace blew over her, gentle and warm as the July breeze. She searched Samuel’s face, marveling. The wild man in front of her could have no idea the gift he’d just handed her. “I did not realize you were a God-fearing man.”

He tilted his head, his swath of dark hair hiding the scars on his face. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

S
amuel chucked the last log beneath the shelter of the new lean-to, then straightened with a grunt, swiping his brow with the back of his hand. Unyielding heat trickled sweat down his back, stinging the barely healed wounds. He stretched a snarl out of his sore muscles. Three weeks and still his body complained. So did he. Against Red Bird with all her smothering ideas of what he should and should not be doing. Against Ben Sutton, who had yet to send word about the expected negotiator. Against himself for the temper rising as hot as the last breath of July and as impossible to keep in check. Ahh, for a good rumble with Inoli, but his friend had not yet returned from Chota—though he should be back any day now.

He snagged his shirt off the top of the stack and shrugged it on, wincing as fabric scraped over his wounds. Painful, but could be worse. Thank God infection hadn’t taken root.

Far off, a low rumble snagged his attention. Could be nothing, and most likely was, yet he lifted his head, blocking out the thrumming insects and chattering birdcalls, and … there. A layer beneath. Reverberation pounded at ground level, growing louder the longer he listened.

He grabbed his rifle from where he’d propped it against the lean-to wall and strode to the front of the house.

Six horses tore up the road and fanned out in front of him, McDivitt at the crux. Samuel shouldered the stock and aimed the muzzle at his chest, dead center.

Angus turned aside, a line of tobacco juice nailing the dirt. Sunlight glinted off a few drops clinging to his beard, dancing as he spoke. “Afternoon, Heath. I see your back is doing better.”

Next to Angus, a jaunty bay trotted forward, sailing past the pack of men like an arrowhead. The flash of the rider’s red coat stood stark against the drab colors of the others. Samuel stifled a groan. Major Andrew Rafferty. Death always seemed to accompany the man.

“Good day, Mr. Heath. As hospitable as ever, I see. But you might as well put the weapon down.” The redcoat moved like a phantom in the wind, whipping out a double-barreled pistol and firing off two rounds into the dirt at Samuel’s feet. “You can’t shoot us all.”

Samuel stood stunned. Two shots without reloading? A double barrel? He’d heard such things were possible, but he’d never seen it. Where had Rafferty gotten such a weapon? Unease crept down his spine. If the major had one, how many others in the British military sported such?

Samuel kept his rifle trained on McDivitt but spoke to Rafferty. “Don’t need to shoot you all. There’s only one I aim to hurt.”

“Humph,” the major snorted. “I’m surprised ’tis not me.”

Samuel swung the rifle, sighting the barrel on Rafferty. “Didn’t say it wasn’t.”

Florid splotches bloomed on the major’s clean-shaven face, glistening beneath a wash of sweat. His dung-colored hair clung to his brow, making a desperate attempt to escape the cockaded hat atop on his head. Fool. Even a trade shirt was too hot to wear on a day like this, yet the man kept his coat buttoned at the chest.

“Come now.” A bead of perspiration rolled off the tip of Rafferty’s nose. “You may live in the wild, but you do not have to behave as a beast.”

This sweating pig had the guts to call him a beast? He fingered the trigger.

A movement caught the edge of his vision, and he slipped his gaze sideways. In the cabin’s window, another flash of red appeared, framing porcelain skin and wide eyes. Hopefully by now Red Bird had gained enough frontier-sense to stay inside.

But all the same, he lowered his rifle, cradling it and setting the hammer to half-cock. To Rafferty’s right, Jackson and Wills sat stone-faced atop their mounts. Beside McDivitt rode Stane and a fellow so thin, his bones looked as if they rallied to escape his skin.

Samuel turned to Rafferty. “What’s this about?”

The major’s horse shied a step, and he jerked the reins. “These are dangerous times, Mr. Heath. Men’s loyalties are fickle at best. I’m on the hunt for a traitor.”

His heart skipped a beat. Was this it? Had his Sons of Liberty affiliation been discovered? The gaze of the woman at the window hit him like a shot to the head. What would become of her? Not that she wasn’t resourceful, he’d give her that, but she wouldn’t last long in the backcountry without him. Nor would Grace. Defeat tasted sour, and he was tempted to turn aside and spit like McDivitt.

But he swallowed instead.

To You, God. I commit them to You.

He set his jaw and lifted his chin. “Then happy hunting. Take your fancy firearm and get off my land.”

“I suspected as much.” The major swung a long leg over his mount and slid to the ground. He rummaged in a pouch worn on a strap across his chest as he walked toward Samuel. “As I recall, our last venture required a little persuasion as well.”

He held out a rolled-up piece of rag paper.

Samuel ignored it. “You gave me no time to bury my wife. I was supposed to be happy about that?”

“There wasn’t anything left to bury.” McDivitt’s words flew through the air and rained hot coals on Samuel’s head.

Samuel snatched the paper from Rafferty’s hand and broke the seal. Each carefully penned word added stone upon stone, boxing him in.