Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  “Boots, will you see to Buffalo, too? He’s all lathered up from our trip.” Boots nodded, gesturing that he’d take care of the horse. Keeping his voice down, Jack rushed on, wanting to get all his orders in before Boots could wander off with Lou. “Be careful outside. I think you’ll be okay. I have reason to believe that Seth won’t be back. But take a gun, anyway. And keep your eyes open. Lock that front door again, too. And plan on staying in the house for now. Just keep a look out the windows for me. And call me if you need me. Or if you see anything. You understand?”

  Boots nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll settle Lou in downstairs and get that Winchester of your pa’s and keep guard.”

  “Good. That’s good, Boots.” With that, Jack glanced back at Angel. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t responded to their conversation. His heart sinking because of that, Jack watched as Boots tenderly collected Lou and helped his buddy from the room. Then, finally, Boots quietly closed the door behind them.

  And now, Jack was alone with Angel. Looking her over in the bed, his heart all but torn out—such a little ball she was, lying there—Jack suddenly realized that she was naked beneath the thin twisted white sheet. Her tanned skin showed through. And she was shivering in the morning cool. Annoyed that he hadn’t noticed it before, but glad for this one thing he could do for her, Jack arrowed up to his feet.

  Leaning over, he reached for the quilt at the bed’s foot, drawing it up and over her, gently, tenderly settling it around her. Not one response from her did he get for his efforts. Grimacing in disappointment, Jack sat in the rocking chair Lou had just vacated and tugged it closer to Angel. Leaning forward, his legs spread, his elbows resting on his knees, Jack lowered his head to rub his face with his hands. What a day. And the sun’s barely up.

  After a moment, he raised his head, lowering his hands to hang loosely between his legs. He considered Angel, saw to his surprise that she’d quit crying. He didn’t know if he should call that good or bad. But either way, her black eyes were wet and shiny, and she stared … but straight ahead, not at him. She blinked. Sniffed. Blinked again. And closed her eyes. A frisson of fear lanced through Jack. Was she dying?

  Tensing, bunching his muscles, gripping the rocker’s arms, he’d all but jumped up before he realized she was breathing softly, that her shoulders rose and fell with each steady breath. She was sleeping.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jack whispered in relief, wilting back onto the chair. He didn’t think he could take much more of this without his own heart stopping. But seeing that she was okay for the moment, he gave in to his own body’s demands for rest. Bone-tired and saddle-weary, he slouched down, resting his elbows atop the armrests, knitting his fingers together over his belly, and laying his head back against the rocker’s headpiece as he closed his eyes. And nodded off.

  Or thought he did. Because he suddenly jerked awake and couldn’t say why. Nor could he say that the room’s shadows were any shorter, that the sun’s position had changed any. So, what had awakened him? His gaze sought and found Angel. Her eyes were open. She blinked, sniffed, shifted her gaze … as if looking him up and down, as if considering him. Did she recognize that it was him and not Seth? It appeared that way.

  His heart racing, Jack slid out of the chair, again squatting next to the bed, his hands braced against the mattress. “Angel?” he said, speaking softly.

  She blinked again, her nose twitched—Jack held his breath—she shifted her body, uncurled some, her shoulder edged up. What was she—? Her fingertips appeared out from under the quilt he’d thrown over her and smoothed their way across the sheet, stopping only when they touched his, when she closed her fingers around his. Overcome by such a simple gesture of trust, of a heart still working, of a soul still alive, Jack finally exhaled, felt the chills of emotion race over his skin, and finally allowed himself to believe. But still afraid of spooking her, he didn’t move, just waited for her.

  She looked up at him. A single tear spilled from her eye, coursing alongside her nose, down her puffy cheek … finally rolling onto her cut and swollen lips. Still staring at him, she tipped her tongue out and caught it, as if it were a sweet nectar. And blinked. Jack could stand no more. “Oh, Angel, I’m so sorry,” he crooned. “You were right. I never should have left you. Can you ever forgive me?”

  She swallowed, grimacing as if even that hurt. Jack saw the bruising around her neck, wanted to die. But then, the tiniest, barest nod he’d ever seen moved Angel’s head up and down.

  His heart soared. And, right or wrong, willing to risk it, he stood up, scooping her—quilt, undone sheet, and all—up into his arms. She didn’t protest. Jack sat with her in the rocker, cradling her, holding her across his lap, as he would a baby. Her head rested just under his chin, her legs draped over his, her feet not touching the ground. Jack wrapped his arms her. She felt so damned warm and soft. And little. How could anyone hurt her?

  And yet he had … he saw again himself hitting her. His father had hurt her … he recalled the contents of the letter his father’d written and that he’d read. His brother had hurt her … he held the evidence in his arms. And life had hurt her. He remembered the rope burns around her neck when he’d first seen her and conjured up a lynching scene. He’d seen enough hangings to know what one looked like. And before that, there’d been her life with her mother and her life on her own. He’d heard the stories, knew the tales of the little girl always being chased off, always shunned by so-called decent folk.

  Well, damn us all to hell. She’s worth more than the whole lot of us put together. It’s the rest of us who should be licking her boots. It’s the rest of us who’d be blessed to have her even speak to us.

  Jack again looked down at Angel in his arms and kissed the top of her head, wishing she’d yell, or cry it all out. Or just speak to him. He supposed he wanted to hear her say she was all right. But he knew she wasn’t. So how could she say it? And even if she did, it’d be her stubborn pride talking and not the truth of what she was feeling inside. She never spoke of that. He knew her that well already.

  A sudden smile curved Jack’s mouth. Right now he’d love to hear some of that sass coming from her. He’d give his gun hand to see her tilt that chin up and call him cowboy. A chuckle escaped Jack before he could guard against it.

  He glanced down at her, wondering if he’d disturbed her. Apparently not. Because just as she’d been doing all along, she now stared straight ahead, blinking occasionally, sniffling … and nothing more. Forget about her not speaking, he told himself, tightening his grip around her, holding her closer. He had more than her words. He had her in his arms. She was allowing him to hold her. Even after everything she’d been through. Which meant she trusted him. And felt safe with him. Jack’s mouth curved down with a newfound humility. He didn’t deserve her. No Daltry did. All they’d ever done was hold her captive. And hurt her.

  His expression clouded as he thought of the letter his father’d written. He could only wonder what her reaction would be once she read it. Of course, he didn’t have to show it to her, came the sneaking thought. Which Jack immediately dismissed. No, that’s wrong. Because he wanted Angel in his life for good. He glanced down at her, and his heart felt heavy, began to beat erratically. But in a good way. Forced to, Jack grinned at his lovesick self. Yes, he loved her. And he’d be a damn fool to let a woman like her get away from him. Which meant … once she was better—he clung to the hope that she would get past this—he had to tell her. But just picturing that scene sobered him. Well, it couldn’t be helped.

  Because she had the right to know everything the Daltrys had done to her. Everything. Only then could she make the right decision about him. Whether to stay or to go. Jack huffed out his next breath on a sigh. Damn. All this honesty and uprightness. The sacrifices he was willing to make. Standing ready to tell her the whole truth and then living with her decision, whichever way it fell. What was this? Was it love? Did love make a body want to do crazy things, take crazy chances with happiness?

&
nbsp; It must. Because just the way he felt about her, how he ached for her, how his chest hurt when he simply thought about her, all told him … he’d never loved a woman before. He’d never been bound by such strong feelings of wanting to do the right thing. He’d never had notions of settling down, of waking up every day, for the rest of his life, to the same face next to him in bed. Of making something of himself and the Circle D. But now he sure as hell did. And look who was giving him these home-and-hearth tuggings. Angel Devlin. Amazing.

  Jack shook his head, not sure how he felt about this, even after admitting it was all true. How did he feel? Well, a little sick to his stomach, actually. And weak. Probably because he’d ridden or huddled against the rain all night. Probably because he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. No … probably because he was in love. With the one wrong woman in the whole world. Wrong for a lot of reasons. After all, what would people say? A Daltry—a respected name in the growing community of Texas landowners and cattle ranchers—marrying a Devlin, the daughter of a dirt farmer and the town whore?

  Jack’s eyes narrowed, he picked up the pace of his rocking, held Angel tightly. He didn’t give a damn what anyone in town—in any town—thought. But just let some son of a bitch say that—to her, to him, to one of their kids. Just let him. He’d be picking his teeth up off the ground. Or find himself needing to be dragged off to the undertaker. Jack took a lot of satisfaction in that outcome. But then he slumped, wondering what some comment like that would do to Angel. She was his main concern. How would she feel, hearing someone say that, or holding it against their kids?

  He knew it could, and probably would, happen. Well, there were just some things he couldn’t fix. But, damn, what a cruel world it was that couldn’t look beyond the circumstances of her life to see the goodness and the strength inside this girl who’d never hurt anyone. And that was another thing. How many people could say that? That they’d done no harm? Not too damned many, by God. He couldn’t even lay claim to that himself.

  Hearing himself defending Angel against imaginary detractors—when in reality he knew she was fully capable of defending herself—Jack felt an unexpected smile curve his mouth. She’d shoot their asses, and he knew it. A sudden bark of laughter filled the air. He was so blessed to have her trust. It was enough for now. Enough to build on. Warmed by this hope for the future, Jack spent the next few moments listening to her breathe, hearing her sniffs, feeling her subtle shifts of position against him. And loving her. Just loving her.

  And wishing there were some way he could break through to her. Some way he could jar her out of this state she was in. He’d heard of this before, of folks who’d suffered such horrible things that they never recovered. They just went through the rest of their lives as if they were sleepwalking. Couldn’t anybody touch their hearts or minds again. What if Angel was always like this? A wave of fierce protectiveness swept over Jack. Then so be it. If this was how she was for the rest of her life, then fine. He’d take care of her. He’d still love her. That wouldn’t change.

  It was true. He could do it, could live with that. But he wanted more than that for her. She deserved it. She deserved some happiness. Dammit, if she’d just get well, he’d give her the danged ranch. Just have her sign those papers he’d found at Seth’s hideout and then file them himself in Wichita Falls. And take her with him to do it, just so she could see for herself, like she’d been so all-fired determined to do, anyway. So the Circle D would be hers, like Pa’d wanted, and if he—Jack Eugene Daltry—was lucky, she’d let him hang about the place … like some old chicken outside or some half-wild barn cat.

  This whimsical view of the future had Jack chuckling, a happy sound that broke the silence. Until then there had been only an occasional chuckle from Jack, a sniffle from Angel, and the comforting squeaks of the rocker as he pushed it back and forth. Well, maybe I ought to get her cleaned up and dressed. Maybe that’d make her feel better.

  Jack sat up, stopped his rocking, and looked down at Angel, at her scratched and bloodied body, at her tangled hair. What the hell had he been thinking to leave her cold and dirty and naked like this? Wasn’t he the one who’d just said he could take care of her?

  Yep. Well, then, time to prove it. Jack got up, handling her weight as if she were no more than a puppy, and set her on the bed. Her hands clenched the quilt, her upturned face begged for reassurance. All but undone, Jack smoothed his hand over her hair. “It’s okay, baby. I’m not leaving you.” She blinked, relaxing some. Only then did he go to the chest of drawers in the room and rummage through it, looking for suitable clothing for her … and hoping she had some, since all she seemed to want to wear were his clothes.

  * * *

  In the oven-heated kitchen, his shirtsleeves rolled up, Jack wrang out the washcloth again, glancing at Angel as she sat, still and quiet, gripping the sides of the hip bath filled with warm water. Her just-washed hair streamed down her back. And her bruised gaze never left him. Jack told himself that was good, that she needed his presence, that maybe she was clinging to him as she did her sanity.

  He lifted her arm—so slender and fine boned, with its wrist so tiny that his big fingers more than closed around it—and washed it tenderly, softly. She watched him doing it, as she had every other detail of her bath, but still didn’t say anything.

  Clenching his jaw, forcing a smile for her, Jack tried to keep his Seth-directed rage off his face. Every scratch, every bruise, every toothmark on her … all had that bastard’s death written on them. Goddamn, Seth’d hurt her. And Jack hadn’t realized just how much until she’d whimpered and stiffened, breaking his heart as she clung to his neck when he’d lowered her into the water … when her privates had dipped into the wet warmth. Soothing her, telling her it was okay, figuring it stung pretty bad, Jack had knelt beside the tub, had held her suspended there, his muscles rigid with growing fatigue, until she’d relaxed, until he’d felt certain he could lower her all the way.

  Even then she hadn’t said a word. She’d just stared at him with those big, heart-wrenching eyes of hers. Just stared and trusted. Sighing, feeling the emotion-induced tightness in his chest, Jack decided to talk to her about anything that came into his mind. Maybe she just needed to hear another voice. And maybe, given how he always made her so mad, he’d happen onto something she’d feel a need to respond to.

  Hoping like hell this new idea worked because he didn’t know what else to do, Jack again smiled at her, lowering her arm back into the water and rinsing it. She didn’t protest, just blinked and watched him.

  “I tell you, Angel,” he began, lifting her other arm, and washing it as he spoke. “I do believe, that for as long as I live, I’ll never forget old Boots’s red face and that embarrassed look he had when I carried you in here. How about you?” Nothing. Gamely, fighting disappointment, telling himself it was too soon and to keep talking, he went on. “It’s a good thing you were still wrapped in that quilt, huh? Because I don’t believe Boots has ever—” Jack choked back his next words. What the hell! He’d nearly said I don’t believe Boots has ever been with a woman. That was the last thing she needed to hear about, someone being with a woman.

  “I don’t believe Boots has ever heated that much water that fast,” he amended, feeling his own face heat up. “But he pretty much cleared out after that, didn’t he?” Nothing. She blinked, watched his mouth move. Jack lowered her arm, rinsed it, began soaping her upper chest, dividing his attention between his task and her face. “Believe me, I’ll hear about this. He and Lou love to tease me. But that’s okay. I’ve been teased for doing a lot worse.”

  Jack paused as he soaped her to think a moment, rubbing his bared arm under his nose. Then he had the perfect story and focused again on Angel. “Once, when I wasn’t much more than a kid, I thought it’d be fun to jump out of the loft and onto the back of my pa’s stallion. Well, that ornery cuss just sidestepped like he knew I was on my way. Damn near broke my neck. Would’ve, too, if there hadn’t been a loose pile of hay right th
ere. I didn’t think Pa would ever quit whipping my behind—once he knew I was okay.”

  Nothing. Discouraged, Jack fell quiet and washed her bobbing breasts, feeling only concern for the finger-shaped bruising on their full softness. But a part of him—as he lowered the soapy cloth down her belly, and washed her as best he could, as closely as he dared—couldn’t help but note her beautiful pinkish skin and smooth, womanly body. With that thought, such defeat as he’d never known assailed him. How could anyone—Jack’s temper surged, had him wanting to throw the wet washcloth across the room. Had him wanting to rage and scream against the injustice of it all.

  How could Seth hurt her like this? What beat in his brother’s chest where a heart should be? Some black and crumpled lump of a hard thing, was all Jack could figure. Because, damn, this was wrong. What he was looking at was wrong. As he fought for control, not wanting to spook Angel, Jack continued washing her, kept soothing her, continued talking about silly things. At long last, he finished her bathing … and his temper held, cooling as did her bathwater. He got up from his squatting position beside the tub and reached for one of the towels he’d laid across a chairback.

  Suddenly, he realized he’d worked through his temper. He’d held it, had kept it in check. Was this some kind of turning point for him? Because always before, before Angel, he’d given in to his temper, had let everyone around him know he was mad, had gone off half-cocked and done some pretty stupid things, a few of which he’d barely survived to regret. But there’d been no explosion this time. Why? A good question. Suddenly reflective, Jack wondered what was different now. Was he just growing up finally? Or was it more than that?

  With the soft toweling clutched in his grip, he eyed Angel in the tub. Her gaze was lowered to the sudsy water in which she sat. And then he knew. It was her. She’d made him different. For the first time in his life, how someone else felt, how they might be affected by his ranting and raving, had been more important to him than letting out everything he felt.