Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Jack exhaled and had a melting grin for her, had she cared to look. But she didn’t glance up, just sat there, waiting. Sobering some, Jack approached her, touched her arm. She looked up. “Stand up, honey, I need to dry you. I don’t want you to catch your death in this cool air.”

  Angel obediently stood up, water running in cascades and rivulets over and around her curves, down her firm and silky body. Despite his tender concern for her, Jack’s very maleness had his breath catching in his throat, his knees weakening. He couldn’t help it. She was so damned beautiful. So desirable. That word shamed him. Desirable. Why was he thinking such thoughts at a time like this? And poor Angel. Would she ever again allow a man, even him, to talk to her of desire? He feared her answer, but knew he wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

  And if she didn’t, what then? What of his love for her? What if she did get better in her head—he knew her body would heal, but what of her soul?—and never again wanted to feel a man’s hands on her? Using the towel, Jack squeezed and rubbed the water out of her hair, trying his best not to tangle it. Done with that, he tossed the damp cloth onto the floor and reached for the dry one, wrapping it around Angel, tugging her hair free, and then holding her arm as she stepped out onto the other damp towel.

  Well, he supposed, as he patted her dry—trying hard not to allow his male thoughts free rein, trying hard to ignore his body’s physical, almost involuntary response to her warm femaleness—if she got right in her head and didn’t ever want to be touched again, he guessed he’d just have to do what he could to make sure she was set up here at the Circle D … and then leave. Because the way he felt about her, the way his blood pounded through his body at just the thought of her, he knew he couldn’t stand being around her and not holding her. No, he’d want to touch her. Do more than touch her.

  Jack’s mouth quirked with his troubled thoughts. This was a tough one. But not really, he supposed. After all, he knew how to live the kind of life that’d be left to him. Hadn’t he just spent four months wasting time and laying waste to his health with drinking and gunfights, brawling and womanizing? He’d done it before, and he could do it again. Only this time, if it came to that, his heart wouldn’t be in it. He’d leave that here with Angel. As if just now hearing his own thoughts, and recalling his past selfish behavior, Jack paused in his drying of Angel—she just looked at him—and shook his head, wanting to chuckle. When had he become so good, so willing to make sacrifices?

  Again, the answer stood before him, blinking and sniffling. “Ah, Angel,” Jack sighed out, loving her, “Come on, let’s get you dressed, girl.” He tossed the damp toweling aside and reached for the pair of bloomers and a camisole—his heart ached for how thin and worn they were—that he’d found in a dresser drawer in her room. Helping her into them—all too familiar with their workings—Jack then buttoned her into one of his own flannel shirts, a blue-checked one that was too small for him.

  But still, it engulfed her, hanging almost to her knees and way past her fingertips. Three Angels could have worn it comfortably. Jack didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry as he folded up the sleeves until he could see her hands. “I guess it’ll just have to do,” he told her. “It’s all I’ve got.”

  Then he stepped back to check his handiwork. And saw her ruffled bloomers hanging out from under the shirt, her bare calves below them, and did finally grin at her. “Teach you to leave yourself in my hands, young lady. Now, sit here”—he pulled a chair out from the drop-leaf table, positioned it with its back to the heated oven, and urged her onto it, holding her wet hair away from her shirt as she sat—“and let me see to that hair of yours.”

  Angel sat obediently, her hands folded loosely in her lap. Standing behind her chair, Jack released her hair and eyed the long damp mass that dripped water onto the floor. What now? He’d never done this before. He crossed his arms, glanced at the tortoiseshell comb and brush reposing on the table, and then shifted his gaze back to her. Well, how hard could it be to dry it some more and rub it down and then brush it? That’s what he did to his own. So, that’s what he did to hers … dried it more, rubbed it gently, and then combed it, allowing the oven’s heat to dry it.

  Finally he parted it in the middle and brushed it until the rich and thick blackness of her hair crackled and shone almost blue in the day’s light. As he worked and chatted amiably enough with her, Jack realized he’d never before felt so content in his life. Just doing something this simple for someone he loved, someone not able to do the same for herself, made him happy, made him feel … well, like a man, in ways he never had before. Angel. She was a woman of firsts for him. If he didn’t take care, he thought, grinning, she’d wrap his heart around her little finger and render him as simple as Lou and as tractable as Boots inside of a month.

  Stepping around in front of her, checking his endeavors with her hair, Jack grinned at her. Her mouth quirked … or seemed to. Jack’s heart soared—Was that a grin? Was he getting through to her? Carefully, almost cautiously, as if the moment were a living thing he could disturb, Jack shifted the comb to one hand … and reached for the scissors with his other. Here was the real test. That too long, uneven fringe of hair that hung in her eyes, that she was always brushing away, only to have it fall right back into shaggy place. Would she allow him to cut it? Or would she cut his heart out with these same scissors, just for trying?

  Only one way to find out, Jack decided. He squatted down in front of her, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, feeling his denims stretch tight over his thighs. With the comb, he settled the hair over her eyes, heard her sniff under the silky waterfall he’d created. And then, gently, slowly … in case she cared to protest … began snipping, at first awkwardly, but then with growing confidence and sureness as Angel sat obediently, her hands still clasped together in her lap. Every now and then, she sniffled, but that was all.

  In what seemed like only moments, Jack was done, and happy with the results. A delicate fringe of bangs now graced her forehead, cut level with her eyebrows. Clasping the comb and scissors in one hand, Jack cocked his head this way and that, smiling, nodding. Angel’s clearly visible big black eyes stared back at him. And snippets of cut hair dusted her nose and cheeks. Jack grinned, and using his free hand, brushed them away as gently as he could, given his thick, masculine fingers. “There,” he said. “What do you think of that?”

  Tears sprang to Angel’s eyes. Big, fat, wet ones. Her face reddened, crumpling. Jack’s heart sank, his eyes widened. Here it comes, he warned himself. He laid aside the comb and the scissors, and reached out to grasp Angel’s hands in his. She sat rigid in her chair, her whole body shaking with emotion, with her tears. She was really letting go now, as she needed to. Paralyzed in the face of such strong emotion, Jack didn’t—couldn’t—say anything. He just held her hands, stared at her bare feet, and ached for her, felt bad for her, felt bad for himself … for his part in all this. For his family’s part in the bad life she’d had, was still having.

  More than anything, Jack wanted to reach up and wipe away her tears, to stroke her hair, her face, tell her she was okay. But he didn’t. How could he tell her she was okay? She wasn’t. He just wanted her to be okay. And he couldn’t reach out to her because she clung to his hands, gripping them tightly and sobbing. And thus, time passed. And Angel cried out her anguish. After a while, Jack began to worry. Could she stop? He wasn’t seeing any sign of a letup. Should he hold her again? Would she want that? But most of all, he worried about what she might be going through in her mind. What were her thoughts?

  “No one…” she hiccuped suddenly. Jack sat up alertly, his muscles tensing, his heart thudding. He watched her closely, craving her words, no matter what she had to say. But then she couldn’t seem to go on, couldn’t seem to get them out. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and made a visible effort to calm herself.

  “Take your time, sweetheart,” Jack urged. “Just go slow.”

  She nodded, sniffling and staring at him. So
mewhere in his heart Jack felt certain he was her lifeline, his presence was her sanity. And nothing in his whole life had ever made him feel better. Because this was his Angel. And she was talking. She was going to be okay … maybe. He supposed it depended on what she had to say.

  “No one … what, Angel?” he finally prompted, suddenly dreading as much as anticipating her speaking her mind right now.

  She looked up at him, her eyes deep and limpid pools, her chin dimpling with her stuttering sobs, her cheeks lined with watery rivulets. “No one ever … cared enough … about me to … cut my hair.”

  Eighteen

  Angel couldn’t believe she’d just said that. Not so much because she’d admitted such a thing. But more because she hadn’t thought she’d be able to say anything ever again. Even now, as she sat there shaking, trying not to cry again, as she watched the play of emotion over Jack’s face, watched the effect her words had on him … she couldn’t shake the sense that she was awakening from a nightmare, one that had been followed by a deep and long sleep, one she’d entered into because she didn’t want to be aware.

  And yet, now she was. Aware. Now, in only a flash of a moment, she relived every second, knew every detail, felt every scratch and bruise, heard every ugly word Seth had said to her, felt every punishing thrust she had to endure. And found—surprisingly, reassuringly—that, despite it all, she wanted to live. And wanted to make sure that Seth didn’t. Even as she looked into Seth’s brother’s eyes, even as she recalled Jack’s many kindnesses, his warmth, his tending to her … she wanted to kill his brother. How would he feel about that, about her when she did it?

  “No one ever cut your hair for you before?” Jack asked, pulling her out of thoughts she was all too glad to abandon.

  Angel shook her head, shrugging as she loosened her grip on Jack’s hands and reached up to brush away the wetness on her cheeks. “My mother used to, when I was a girl,” she said, surprising herself because she couldn’t seem to stop talking about this, couldn’t seem to stop the flow of words. “But then she … well, she couldn’t, anymore, after … that. I tried to, over the years, but I’m not too good at it. And there … weren’t always scissors around. And then it just didn’t matter. No one cared. Not even me.”

  Jack stared at her with such warm sympathy that Angel feared more tears. Why did she keep bawling like an abandoned calf? This wasn’t like her. She didn’t cry. And why was she telling him these private matters to do with herself? She didn’t talk. She kept to herself, kept herself shut off … frozen, she now realized. That stopped her. It’s no longer good enough, something inside her said, further capturing her attention, making her sit up straighter. No longer, Angel. Reach out. Take this love offered.

  Love? Is that what this was that she felt? She blinked, staring at Jack as he watched her, apparently content to talk with her if she wanted to, or to be quiet and wait for her, if that was what she needed. Her thoughts produced a frown, which made Jack’s eyebrows rise. But he didn’t say anything. Love. Is that, Angel wondered, what kept him squatted down in front of her, kept him taking care of her, and talking about silly things from when he was a boy? Was this love … this sharing, this wanting to be here, this wanting to hear his voice, feel his touch? Was this love?

  She suspected as much, but just didn’t know. It could be. But she couldn’t afford to find out, couldn’t afford to need him, to want him … not if she still planned on killing his brother. Which she did. She still planned on it. Still fully intended to do it. And that meant she’d most likely lose Jack. Because no matter how much he might hate—and she suspected that he did, being the decent man he was—what had happened to her, this was his brother she was talking about. And blood was thicker than—

  “What’s wrong, Angel?” Jack suddenly asked, again pulling her away from thoughts of Seth … as if he knew where her mind had wandered and tried to interrupt her. “Why’re you frowning like that? What were you thinking about?”

  Angel looked at Jack. Should she tell him? Was she strong enough right now to deal with his reaction, no matter what it might be? And she had to admit, she had no idea what he’d do. He’d been tender with her so far, but as she’d just admitted … this was his brother she meant to kill. Just as she thought she’d decided to go ahead and say what she was really thinking, an unbidden image popped into her mind, stopping her words.

  The white wolf … grinning, wagging her tail, letting Angel touch her fur. The memory had Angel blurting, “The wolf. Yesterday. What did it mean?”

  Jack pulled back, stiffening but quickly trying to disguise that he had, Angel realized. Her senses went on alert as she watched him come to his feet and busy himself with cleaning up the kitchen from her bath. She sat where she was—waiting for him, waiting for him to speak—but pivoted in her chair to see him.

  “What did it mean, Angel? In what sense?” came his offhand-sounding response as he picked up the towels and the comb and scissors.

  She cocked her head, gripping the chair back with one hand, almost afraid to wonder why he’d not answered her right away. Still, sore as she was, it gratified her to be able to move, to function, to think. Feeling stronger by the second, and realizing that she did, Angel pronounced herself ready to deal with everything that had happened, and more than ready to get her life in order. She reached up, out of long-standing habit, to brush the hair out of her eyes, only to find there was nothing impeding her view. She lowered her hand to her lap and challenged, “You know what I mean, Jack.”

  Her words caught him on his way to the sink. He stopped and turned to her, staring, his expression changing with his thoughts. Angel drew a small measure of satisfaction from his reaction. She could tell that she’d surprised him. Could see—just by watching him, by the way he held himself—that he was realizing, as she had, that her time of weakness, of needing care, was quickly passing. She was back. And he would have to deal with her. “All right,” he said, laying the things he held in his hands on the wood counter.

  Then, again facing her, leaning his butt against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest, and looking as if he were etched in stone, he said, “It means, Angel, that someone is going to die.”

  Angel clutched the chair back with both hands. “Someone? You mean me? Because she came to me and let me touch her?”

  His expression impassive, he shrugged, saying, “I don’t know.” His voice was flat, his body rigid.

  But Angel didn’t believe that he didn’t know and opened her mouth, meaning to tell him so, when he cut her off.

  “No, that’s a lie. I do know. But it’s not you.”

  His answer made her slump down in her chair. She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know, but yet … she did. “Then who, Jack?”

  He looked her right in the eyes, never changing his dead-sober expression. “Me. Or Seth. Maybe both.”

  Angel’s heart seemed to lodge in her throat. For long moments she could do nothing but stare at him … and be afraid for him. Then she burst out with everything she was thinking. “That doesn’t make sense, Jack. Why would she come to me? I don’t have anything to do with her. You do. She was as good as your mother for years—”

  “I thought you didn’t believe all that.”

  Angel clamped her lips together, raised her chin a notch. And realized that yes, she did believe it. How else to explain it? But still she wasn’t ready to admit as much to him. “Well, let’s just say I do.”

  “All right. She comes to you because … you’re here and you have strong ties to us.”

  Angel cocked her head. “You mean the land, the ranch?”

  Jack sent her an assessing, almost accusing, look that made Angel’s face heat up. “It’s more than that. And you know it.”

  She did, but felt shy about it. So she deflected his accusation with another question about the white wolf. “How come her coming to me, grinning, her tail wagging, has you thinking that you or … Seth is going to die?”

  Jack shrugged, evidently all
owing the change in subject. “Well, it’s hard to figure what lies in a spirit wolf’s head. But now—and too late for you—I think I understand. Since Pa is already gone, Seth and I … well, we’re the only ones left. So it has to be one or both of us.”

  Both of us. Angel ignored the sick feeling his words gave her and gestured her confusion. “I still don’t get it, Jack. How you’d know that, I mean.”

  “Well, neither do I. But she comes either as a warning or as a comfort. And yesterday, for the first time, she was both, I believe. Her showing herself to you was a warning for me. To point me where the danger lay. She knew you’d tell me … and you did.”

  Suddenly, as if overcome, Jack jerked away from the sink, turning to it, pounding it with his fist, gripping its rim, and hoarsely crying out, “I should have heeded your words, Angel. But I was too damned stubborn and hell-bent on doing things my own way. I should have listened. I am so goddamned sorry.”

  Then, he became quiet, his body seeming to hang as he stood staring out the window for long, silent moments. Angel swallowed, didn’t know what to say, what to do. Then Jack pivoted, staring at her with eyes burning, hurting. And suddenly, she knew. He wanted her forgiveness. Angel lowered her gaze, mumbling, “You did what you thought you had to, Jack.”

  “Yeah. And didn’t it turn out great?”

  Angel looked up at him, hating the bitterness wrapping itself around his words, and perhaps around his heart. This time, with more force, she told him, “You did what you thought you had to do.”

  His grimace said she might believe that, but he didn’t. “Fine. I did what I had to do. To hell with me. I’m just grateful Old Mother came to you. At least you can count on her. Her tail-wagging and grinning … that was to let you know you’d be all right. Maybe she knew I wouldn’t heed her warning. Maybe she already knew I’d be a hardheaded jackass.”