The Courtship of Izzy McCree

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  “I’d know all about whiskey and its uses.” She corked the bottle, then applied a fresh linen dressing.

  At that he held his silence. But he could still hear in his mind Cutler’s taunts about the tavern wench. It made his blood boil all over again, thinking about the pained expression on her face at Cutler’s revelations.

  “Now that eye, Captain Prescott.”

  He tried to chuckle, but it came out as a strangled hiss of pain. “That was…long time ago. I don’t have…any fancy titles now.” His words were beginning to slur as the whiskey and exhaustion had the desired effect.

  “Mm-hmm.” Holding the lantern close, she examined the swelling that had one eye almost closed. “You’re going to have a lovely bruise all the way to your cheek. I think I know something that will help.” She dipped a square of linen into cold water, then pressed it to the swollen eye.

  “Now lie back,” she commanded.

  “Why?”

  “I’ll see if you broke any ribs.” She began gently probing.

  Matt winced. “Easy.”

  Her fingertips skimmed his torso. “Is this better?”

  “Yes.” He closed his eyes. “You have a much lighter touch than the army surgeons.”

  “I suppose you speak from experience?” She caught sight of several faded scars. Two were obvious bullet wounds. One, long and thin, appeared to have been caused by a knife or rapier.

  He nodded, then opened his eyes to find her leaning over him, their faces nearly touching. “I took…couple of bullets. A stab or two. But I was one of…the lucky ones.”

  “Was it Chancellorsville that convinced you not to follow your father’s dream?”

  He shook his head and sucked in another breath when she began to bind his ribs. “I think I always knew…I wanted to be a farmer. But the bloody massacre at Chancellorsville made me realize the futility of guns and fighting.”

  “You must have had a momentary lapse today.”

  He almost smiled. “I have to admit. It felt good. I was m a mood to kick something. And…kicking Cutler’s hide…gave me real pleasure.” His words became even more slurred with each passing moment.

  “Then I’ll admit, it gave me some pleasure, too. But only for a moment. When I saw the pain you were forced to endure…” She looked away.

  Moved, he touched a hand to her face. “Sorry, Isabella. I don’t usually…indulge in such things. We have…so little time in this life. From the day I came home from the war, I was obsessed…with peace. All I’ve ever wanted was to be left alone…to follow my heart.”

  “And your heart led you here.”

  “Yes.” His eyes closed.

  “It wasn’t my heart that led me here, Matthew. It was…” She glanced down. The pain, which only moments ago had pinched his features, had now slipped away, leaving him relaxed and almost smiling.

  “Matthew?” She slipped her hand in his. The big, work-roughened fingers didn’t return her grasp.

  “Good. You’ve moved beyond the pain.” And she would be spared admitting the truth for a while longer.

  “Sleep now,” she murmured.

  On a sigh, he did.

  It was pain that woke him. Pain that exploded through his head, radiated from his shoulder and seeped into every part of his body. It hurt to move. It hurt more to lie still.

  He turned slightly, to ease his stiff shoulder, and had to bite down hard on a bitter oath.

  Then, in a sliver of moonbeams, he saw her. Sitting on a hard kitchen chair, which she’d pulled alongside the bed. The blanket she’d tucked around her had slipped to the floor. She was still wearing her gown, which bore the traces of blood and dirt from his wounds. Her hair had slipped from its ribbon and streamed across her face, dipping over one eye in a most beguiling way.

  He touched a hand to the clean dressings at his shoulder, then gingerly pressed a finger to the swelling beneath his eye. Bits and pieces of memory began to slip into place. He could recall the touch of her hands, as soft, as gentle as spring rain on his flesh. And the sound of her voice, low, soothing. She had calmly, efficiently handled everything. The children and their needs. Supper. Bedtime. As well as his needs. She had cleaned and dressed his wounds. Had given him whiskey to ease the pain. A soft bed to cushion his aches.

  But what about her needs? Who saw to that?

  He saw her eyes flicker, then open. At once she was on her knees beside the bed, touching a hand to his forehead.

  “Matthew.” Her voice was a whisper in the moonlight. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Just a few minutes.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Ever been through a battle?”

  She shook her head.

  He chuckled, though it ended on a wheeze of pain. “That’s how I feel. Only worse.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  “Water would be nice.”

  She stood, crossed the room, then returned with a cup. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she cradled his head on one arm while holding the cup to his lips.

  He took a long drink, then lifted a hand to the swirl of hair that curtained her cheek. “The army never had such beautiful nurses.”

  “I’m not beautiful.” She moved away, placing the cup on the night table.

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “You’re just…being kind, Matthew. I know what I am.”

  “And what are you, Isabella?”

  She took a deep breath, keeping her gaze averted. This was so painful. But it had to be done. “I’m a liar. Everything I’ve ever told you is a lie.”

  “Everything?”

  He saw the flush that stole over her cheeks. “Almost everything. It truly was Aaron’s letter that brought me here. I guess that’s just about the only truth I’ve told. But I didn’t read it in church. In fact, I was never inside the church in my town. Women like me weren’t welcome. So I used to peek through the windows.”

  “Why?”

  “I liked the singing. And the sound of the preacher’s voice. Oh,” she added with a start. “There’s another lie. The preacher wasn’t my father.”

  “I know. At least, I’d guessed as much.”

  He said it so simply she had to stop and turn. “You knew?”

  “You may call yourself a liar, Isabella, but you’re not a very good one.”

  “I see.” The flush on her cheeks deepened. She turned away. “I didn’t have a father. Or a mother. I was an orphan. I spent the first ten years of my life in the Philadelphia Home for Foundlings.”

  Ten years. She would have been Clement’s age. The thought brought as much pain as his wounds. “Then what happened?”

  “I was considered old enough to earn my keep. So I was sent to work in the home of Mrs. Eudora Hastings. She said I had a sweet nature, and so she kept me around for the next two years as a companion for her children.”

  Izzy wasn’t aware of the look that came into her eyes at the memory. She clasped her hands together. “Oh, those were lovely times. I used to pretend that Mrs. Hastings was my mother. She was a stern woman, very demanding, but fair and very wise. She was a follower of Reverend Halfyard, who ran the foundling home. She decided to teach me to read and write after she found me looking through a picture book one day. You can’t imagine what that meant to me. But then…” Her smile underwent a transformation as she struggled to keep it from fading.

  “Mr. Hastings died, and Mrs. Hastings was forced to take her children to her brother’s home in New York. She couldn’t afford to take me along. But before she left, she sat me down and said she wanted to talk to me like a daughter. She explained that a girl all alone in the world had special problems. She warned me that men would try to hurt me. And that I must resist them in any way I could. Because once I allowed one of them to hurt me, it would be never ending. And good people would have nothing more to do with me. She asked me to promise that I would always fight such men and lead the life of a good, God-fearing woman. And though I didn’t quite unde
rstand what it was she wanted from me, I gave her my solemn vow. So I allowed her to cut off all my hair, because she said it would be a source of temptation to men. And I agreed to heed her warning to dress only in simple clothes that would not draw attention to myself.”

  “Isabella, I think…”

  “No. Let me get through this.” Her smile faltered, but she bravely bit her lip, determined to confess everything while he was a captive audience.

  “Since I had already left the foundling home, I was not permitted to return. In order to survive, I was forced to accept employment at the local tavern. At first I was only expected to help in the kitchen.” She twisted her hands together in her lap. “That’s where I learned to cook and clean, or take a beating at the hands of the owner, Mrs. Purdy. But it was her husband I really feared. One night Mr. Purdy got drunk and tried to…”

  Matt’s eyes narrowed. With each word from her lips his anger and outrage were growing fiercer.

  Seeing it, she was quick to soothe. “Oh, Mr. Purdy didn’t manage anything. He was too drunk. But his son found me crying and gave me his knife, and warned me to seek shelter in a loft in the stables, where I’d be able to see anyone who came in. And that’s where I slept from then on.”

  “In the stables.” Fury darkened Matt’s eyes.

  “It wasn’t so bad. Oh, there were times it grew bitterly cold in winter, and stifling in summer. And sometimes I smelled as bad as the animals. But that loft in the stables became my haven. Even when I had to begin working in the tavern, filling tankards and serving the tables, I preferred the safety of the loft to the room in the attic that the Purdys offered me.”

  “I take it you didn’t like working in the tavern.”

  She shook her head. “I detested it. The men, especially after they’d had too much ale and whiskey, were often cruel.”

  Matt recalled Cutler’s comments about prodding her with a stick to watch her limp. In an instant the fury was back, burning like bile in his throat.

  “There is something else.” Izzy’s voice lowered.

  Her look was so grave he found himself wondering what could be more serious than what she had already told him.

  “I lied about Aaron’s letter. But you must never let him know.”

  “What about the letter?”

  “It did arrive, as I’d said, at the First Pennsylvania Congregation. But after it was passed from family to family for several weeks, someone brought it to the tavern and nailed it to the wall, where it became the object of ridicule.”

  Though Matt felt a flash of anger for the sake of his innocent son, he had to admit that he wasn’t surprised. “It sounds like the sort of thing that would be snickered over by the tavern crowd. I doubt there are many in this world who would be willing to leave the comfort of family to make a home in the wilderness for four motherless children.”

  “But, you see, Aaron’s letter spoke to a need in me. All I’ve ever wanted was to be part of a family. What was the risk, if it meant I could finally have my heart’s desire?”

  Her eyes gleamed with the memory. “I tore down his letter and read it night after night until, finally, I found the courage to answer it. And, oh, the fine stories I began to spin in my mind. I would start a new life, with a fine new name, Isabella McCree. And Izzy the Gimp would be forever forgotten, except by the drunks at the Purdy tavern.”

  “Is the tavern where you first met Cutler?” Matt could scarcely speak his name without gritting his teeth.

  She looked away. “Cutler. And others. There were a lot of men who tried to follow me outside and have their way, but after I carved up Otis Blandin one hot summer night, they pretty much left me alone. The word got around that I was a bit touched in the head.”

  “Is that why you never married?” Matt asked softly. “Because you…carved up Otis Blandin?”

  “Oh, no. I’ve always known I wouldn’t be wed. That’s why I had no way of preparing how to be a wife, how to give a husband his rights. It was explained to me in the foundling home that no man would ever marry a cripple.”

  At his arched brow she screwed up her courage and removed her shoes. “This was a lie, too, Matthew.” Though this was the hardest of all to admit, she let out a small sigh of relief now that it was over. It was painful to reveal all her secrets, but it also gave her a sense of freedom.

  She wiggled her toes. “These shoes hide my deformity, but they’re quite painful to wear after many hours each day. My one leg is shorter than the other. Reverend Halfyard explained that my mother probably committed some sin with her legs, and that was why I was born like this.”

  “Sinned with her legs?” Matt couldn’t keep the bitter sarcasm from his tone. “Did the good reverend explain how that could be possible?”

  “He said my mother was probably a thief who could outrun the authorities. And so, as retribution, I would never be able to run and play like other children.”

  “What nonsense. And you believed him?”

  Izzy shrugged. “It seems as good a reason as any.”

  “Did no one ever suggest to you that nature simply erred?”

  “Reverend Halfyard said there is a reason for everything under heaven. And the sin of my parents was visited upon me.”

  “Isabella.” Matt’s teeth were clenched as tightly as his fists. “I have no patience with such nonsense. Nor should you. These things simply happen, for no good reason.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Matthew, since nature was very generous to you and your children. But once I’ve displayed my deformity, you’ll see for yourself.”

  She got to her feet and began to limp around the room.

  As she passed the bed Matt grabbed her hand, stopping her in midstride. He drew her close, then said, “Show me your foot, Isabella.”

  She hung her head. “Don’t ask this of me, Matthew.”

  He pressed her hand between both of his. “Show me.”

  Her movements were stiff and awkward as she lifted her skirts.

  “Up here.” His tone was gruff as he patted the edge of the bed.

  She lifted her foot to the mattress.

  In the moonlight he studied it. “The only deformity I see are the marks of the tight laces and the red, swollen toes from the confining shoes. Otherwise, I see only a small, dainty, perfect foot.”

  “It is not the foot that is deformed, Matthew. It is my leg. And the shoes add just enough height so that I don’t limp when I walk.”

  “You aren’t listening to me, Isabella. Maybe this will convince you.” He shocked her by pressing his lips to her foot. “Your foot is not deformed. And neither are you.”

  She felt a jumble of sensations rocketing through her, leaving all her defenses shattered.

  He kissed her toes, her instep, her arch, her ankle. She felt so weak she feared for a moment she might fall.

  “Matthew, I…”

  “You’re cold.” His warm fingers traced her calf, sending prickles of pleasure along her spine. “Come to bed, Isabella.”

  “I…can’t.” She lowered her foot to the floor and started to step back.

  He caught her hand, holding her when she would have run.

  “There’s no need to worry about my…husbandly rights. In my condition, all I can do is hold you.” He lifted aside the blankets and drew her down until she was lying beside him. “And even that might prove to be too much.” He rolled to his side and caught his breath on a pain.

  “Here. Lie still.” She eased the pillows around him, cushioning his painful shoulder. Then she curled up beside him, feeling the warmth of his body.

  “Warm enough?” He linked his fingers with hers.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now go to sleep. And I’ll do the same.”

  The last thing she saw was the glimmer of moonlight in his eyes and the curve of his lips as he smiled at her. Tears of gratitude, of relief welled up, blurring her vision as they spilled over, coursing down her cheeks. With his thumbs he wiped away her tears and pressed h
er cheek to his chest.

  Against her will, her eyes closed. Feeling safe and warm, she slept.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Matt lay listening to the soft, steady sound of breathing beside him. The moonlight had faded, with only the faint glimmer of starlight through the darkened windows.

  His body ached in places he hadn’t even known were there. But the knowledge that Isabella was sharing his bed made the pain tolerable.

  He thought about all the things she’d told him. Painful, secret things that had caused her shame for a lifetime. Yet she’d taken that first tentative step out of the darkness.

  He shifted so that he could watch her as she slept. Her hair spilled across the pillow. Starlight uncovered even more hidden glints of gold among the brown strands. Her brow was smooth and unlined, reflecting a sweetness, an innocence that were a joy to behold. Her lashes cast long, spiky shadows on her cheeks. Her nose, small and upturned, and her full, pouty lips begged to be kissed.

  He couldn’t resist the temptation and brushed a kiss as light as a snowflake across her nose and mouth.

  She came instantly awake.

  “Matthew.” She leaned up on one elbow, shoved hair from her eyes. “I thought for a moment you had…” She swallowed back what she’d been about to say. What fanciful dreams had she been spinning? Dreams of a lover’s kisses as delicate as a raindrop. “Did you sleep?”

  “A little.”

  She touched a hand to his forehead. “You have no fever. How do you feel?”

  “Sore. But I’ll live.”

  “You must be hungry. You never ate a thing yesterday. I’ll go fix you something.”

  “Wait, Isabella. Relax a minute.” She was always scurrying off to work, so eager to please.

  He closed his hand around her wrist, then placed her fingers on his, measuring. “So small and slender. How can such small hands do so much work?”

  “All my life I’ve had to work or starve. I guess hard work is just a habit.”

  “You’re becoming a habit with me, Isabella. A very pleasant habit.”

  She sat back, warm and languid. Maybe she hadn’t only dreamed that kiss. “I…am?”