* * * * *
When Ritcherd woke up again with a hangover, he wondered once more what had happened to make his life such a mess. Of course, the war had been the beginning. He wondered how many relationships had been shattered through history as a result of war and its meaningless destruction. He wished that he’d been shot months sooner, or that he’d not had to go at all. He was beginning to see that the changes Kyrah had gone through in his absence were far more drastic than he’d first realized. But still he felt so utterly ignorant. He made up his mind that he needed more information, and there was only one place he could go.
Ritcherd paused hesitantly at the cottage door before knocking. He knew Kyrah was gone, but he wondered if his decision to discuss this with Sarah was right. He loved Sarah and had looked up to her as a mother. In turn, she had treated him as she would a son, both with love and discipline when she had felt it necessary. But he wasn’t certain he wanted to draw Sarah into this mysterious estrangement between him and Kyrah. Making up his mind that he had nowhere else to turn for answers, he rapped lightly on the door and immediately heard her call for him to enter.
“Hello, Sarah,” he said, moving into the parlor doorway.
“Ritcherd,” she smiled with genuine pleasure, “I’ve not seen nearly as much of you as I might have expected since you’ve returned.”
“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you,” he said soberly.
“Come in,” she motioned with her hand, “sit down.”
“Thank you,” he said, moving to a chair opposite her.
“Now,” she said, “what is it?”
“To put it bluntly,” he began, “Kyrah doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
“Yes, I know,” she said sadly. “I wish I could say I understood, but I don’t. She won’t talk to me about it at all. What has she said?”
“Very little,” he replied. “She’s told me she doesn’t want me in her life, but won’t give me an explanation.” He blew out a long breath. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come to you. I don’t want to put you in an awkward position, but I . . .” He looked directly at her. “I don’t know where else to turn.”
“I’m glad you came.” She smiled gently. “I only wish I could help you. I could try and talk to her, but to be quite honest, she rather avoids you as a topic of conversation.” Ritcherd tried to chuckle as he looked toward the ceiling.
“I’ve thought about it until my head hurts,” he said, “but I just can’t figure what I’ve done to make her so determined to be rid of me. I love her, Sarah. I have to know why she’s changed.”
“You always have loved her, I believe,” she said and Ritcherd was surprised, though he shouldn’t have been. He knew how perceptive Sarah was.
“Yes,” he replied, “I always have.”
“And now that the two of you are all grown up, you should be together.”
“That’s the way I see it,” he said, “but Kyrah’s got something else on her mind.” He rubbed his fingers together nervously until the silence forced him to finally put words to a thought that kept nagging at him. “Is it another man?”
“She hasn’t had time for another man,” Sarah replied easily. “She’s always working.”
“What about him?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name; that . . . man she . . . works for.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sarah chuckled. “She hates him.”
“Is he married?”
“No.”
“How does he feel about Kyrah?” he asked pointedly with a sick feeling rising in his chest.
“I don’t know,” she said quickly and Ritcherd gave her a deep, dubious look. “But I know how much Kyrah hates him. She’s always . . .”
“She’s always what?” he asked intently when she hesitated.
“Oh, Ritcherd,” she gasped softly when she seemed to grasp what he was thinking, “you don’t think that . . .”
“How should I know?” He stood in angry frustration. “I’ve been gone for three years!”
“Ritcherd! Calm down.”
“Name one good reason why I should be calm! I thought I’d lived through hell twice over, then I come home to find my whole world has fallen apart. And I didn’t even know anything was wrong. Do you have any idea how I felt when I heard that . . .” He turned toward her and his expression softened. “Yes, I’m sure you do. I’m sorry, Sarah. I . . .”
“Sit down, Ritcherd,” she said calmly, and he did. “Your raging will not do any good. I can understand how all of this must be for you, but I learned a long time ago that no amount of anger or tears will bring Stephen back.”
Ritcherd sighed and closed his eyes. Just hearing mention of Stephen’s death tightened a knot inside of him. He’d been so consumed with Kyrah’s attitude toward him that he’d hardly had a chance to digest the reality that Stephen was really gone.
“Now,” Sarah continued, “I honestly don’t believe he’s harmed her, but I will find out. If there’s anything wrong, I will tell you.”
Ritcherd watched her silently a moment, then gave a subtle nod. Knowing there was nothing else to be done about it at the moment, he forced it to the back of his mind. “There’s more, Sarah,” he said. “I can sense it.”
“Ritcherd,” she said gently and he met her gaze, “a lot has changed since you left here. Not only has Kyrah become a woman, but she has been through some terribly trying experiences. I don’t understand why she wouldn’t want to see you, but if I were to start looking for the answers, I would look to see what is different in her life. She is not the carefree child you left behind. You understand that, don’t you?”
“All I know for certain is what I’ve heard through gossip. Kyrah said nothing about any of this in her letters.”
“I know.” Sarah sighed. “At least, I know now. I had assumed she’d written to tell you. I admit I’ve not been good for anything since I lost Stephen, or I would have written to you myself.”
For a moment she seemed lost in her grief, then she turned thoughtful eyes toward him. “You’re very much a part of this family,” she said. “You have a right to know what happened in your absence.” Ritcherd remained silent; sensing that she needed to unburden herself, he wondered if she’d talked to anyone about this. Did Sarah have any friends, anyone at all besides Kyrah? Or did she even want to talk about it? He could see the pain seeping into her expression and almost wished the subject hadn’t come up.
“I assume,” she said in a wispy tone, “that the gossip is probably quite true. All I know for certain is that Stephen lost everything in a card game. But that’s not the tragedy.”
He saw her bite her lip before she went on. “If only he’d have come home,” she whispered, looking toward Stephen’s portrait that dominated one of the walls in the parlor. “He wanted so badly to give us a good life, and when he learned that this estate had been purchased by one of his gambling acquaintances for a measly amount, he challenged him to a game and won.
“We were always happy there. But we had been happy before. He must have thought, somehow, that all of it meant more to me than it really did. If only he’d have come home . . . I’d have told him we could make it through. I didn’t need the big house or the fancy things. I needed him, Ritcherd.” She looked at him sadly. “If he’d have come home, I could have convinced him that it was not so terribly serious . . . but he didn’t.”
Sarah looked abruptly away and stared toward the floor. “He was found in a hotel room in London with the gun in his hand.” She paused and her expression was blank. “What kind of desperation,” she said, turning again toward Ritcherd, “does a man have to feel to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger?”
Ritcherd looked abruptly away as he felt the horror of Stephen’s death strike him. Looking back toward Sarah, he noticed that her breathing seemed labored and her pallor had increased. But it was no physical ailment that had torn down Sarah’s health. It was the pain of her
loss. Stephen had been so much a part of her that he might as well have been half of her flesh and blood. And when he died, she’d lost so much of herself that she’d physically deteriorated.
He asked himself if he loved Kyrah that much, and the answer was easy. He did. He couldn’t claim the years together that Sarah and Stephen had shared, but he knew how painful it was now to feel Kyrah tearing herself away from him. He had been drained of all strength since Kyrah had told him she didn’t want him in her life. Although he couldn’t comprehend Sarah’s pain, he could perhaps understand what she was feeling. But he didn’t know what to say. There was no way to console her pain. He couldn’t tell her that Stephen had not died in vain, nor could he say that she would find happiness again. He knew himself that he could never find anything or anyone to replace Kyrah. Wanting to give her comfort, but unable to find the right words, he moved across the room and sat close beside her, taking her hand into his and squeezing it gently.
Sarah attempted a smile that quickly faded into despair. “What did I do . . . to make Stephen believe that the things he’d given me were more important than he was?”
Ritcherd swallowed hard. “I don’t ever recall a time,” he said gently, “when I was with the two of you and couldn’t see plainly that you loved him for what he was. He must have seen that, too.”
“I believe he knew that,” Sarah said. “That’s what puzzles me about his death.”
“What do you mean?”
“Stephen was very good at what he did,” she said carefully. “Although he wouldn’t admit it, I believe he was one of the best. But he was not an impulsive gambler, nor was he reckless. He would not have risked so much if he hadn’t been absolutely certain that he would win. It meant too much to him. He was not the kind to risk things that were dear to him in order to gain more. He was quite content with what he had.
“I believe it was his pride that killed him,” she said solemnly. “But something about it doesn’t seem right to me.”
Not knowing what to say, Ritcherd tried to turn her thoughts to a more positive note. “Stephen Payne was a kind, decent man, and more of a father to me than my own ever was. I truly loved him.”
“I know you did,” she attempted a smile, “and he loved you. But that’s not what you came to talk about.”
“There’s nowhere I need to be,” he said kindly. “If you want to talk, please . . .”
“Some other time,” she said, and he knew that even after the passing of years, it was still incredibly painful for her. But then she had nothing else in her life to compensate for the pain or to distract her from her loneliness.
“Ritcherd,” she said, “you must know how it breaks my heart to see Kyrah having to work so hard just to keep us fed. I feel guilt and regret every time she goes out that door. But she’s a proud girl and she won’t have it any other way. I know Kyrah has been very unhappy the last three years. You must realize that in one day she lost everything she had, including her father. Before all of that happened, she had already become downhearted because of your absence. She couldn’t speak without talking about you, and she spent hours every day sitting by the window, as if she was watching for you.
“Before Stephen left for London, he promised Kyrah that he would be back for her birthday. She was almost sixteen. And he was going to buy her the cloak she’d seen in town. It was beautiful: gray, lined with silver fox. She told me she hoped you would come back in the winter, so that she could wear it when she saw you again.” Sarah paused and drew a barely detectable but sharp breath. “Stephen’s body arrived from London on Kyrah’s birthday.”
Ritcherd’s hand went unconsciously over his mouth. The pain he felt was deep, but he also felt something else—something strange that he couldn’t quite put a finger on.
“She held up through it all,” Sarah went on, bringing him away from his thoughts. “It was me who fell apart when Stephen died. Kyrah remained strong. She must have known she had to. But I wonder what kind of pain she’s suppressing.
“For a long time she’d often say things to indicate that if you’d been here, things might not be so bad for us. She would sit in the walled garden whenever she’d find any bit of time for herself, and I knew she was missing you. Then one day she stopped going there—and she quit talking about you. She says very little about anything. She just comes and goes and keeps everything calmly under control.
“I’m very dependent on her,” Sarah admitted. “But I know she’s hurting. I was hoping your return would change that.”
Ritcherd stood up quickly and clasped his hands behind his back. He understood more and more how difficult these years had been on Kyrah, but he still wondered why she would not let him be a part of her life and help her deal with all of this. He thought of her crying in the church ruins, and his heart ached for her.
“I’ll find a way,” he said with conviction, “to help her—and you . . . whether she loves me or not.”
“Be careful, Ritcherd,” she admonished. “Be careful of her pride. It is one of Kyrah’s greatest strengths . . . and weaknesses. But right now it’s all she’s got. And if you wound it, she might never be willing to face you the way she should.”
“I’ll be careful,” he replied. “Perhaps I should go. She’ll be returning soon, I believe. Thank you, Sarah.” He bent to kiss her cheek and she returned the gesture. “Is there anything you need right now . . . anything I can do for you?”
“All we need from you is what I know you’re already determined to do.”
Ritcherd gave her a feeble smile and left the cottage, hoping her faith in him was warranted. He felt enlightened, but extremely depressed. Again he cursed the war that had made it impossible for him to be here when he’d been needed so badly. He ached for Stephen’s tragic death and for what Kyrah and Sarah had suffered as a result. Mounting his stallion, he told himself he would find a way to ease Kyrah’s suffering—one way or another.
He was almost dismayed to see Kyrah walking toward the cottage. When she realized he was there, she stopped abruptly and shot him a scornful glare. As their eyes met, he wondered if she was blaming him for her pain, or just taking it out on him. His heart told him to pull her into the saddle with him, carry her away and force her to see things sensibly. But he knew that if Kyrah had somehow come to hate him, such actions would only cause more resentment and make it harder for him to find a way to help her.
Kyrah held her breath as Ritcherd gave her a penetrating gaze. She was expecting some kind of confrontation, but he simply nodded and rode quickly away, leaving her feeling somehow deflated. She entered the cottage expecting her mother to tell her why Ritcherd had been here, or at the very least, talk about him as she often did. But Sarah said nothing about him. And Kyrah was almost disappointed.
While Kyrah worked in the kitchen, her mind became absorbed with what Ritcherd might have been doing at their home. She wanted to demand that her mother tell her what they’d talked about, but she knew she wouldn’t get an answer without an accompanying lecture on how unkind she was being to Ritcherd.
“What was that?” Kyrah asked when her mother mumbled something quietly.
“Oh, nothing important,” she said in an unusually light tone. “I was just saying that your father was so sweet. A bit silly at times. I can hardly understand some of these. But he was sweet.”
Kyrah glanced over her shoulder to see that Sarah was reading through a stack of little notes her father had written through the years. Sarah had kept them all, but Kyrah couldn’t recall seeing her read them since soon after his death. And then she had cried helplessly over them. Seeing her mother smile, she couldn’t help wondering what had suddenly made it possible for Sarah to reminisce about Stephen and feel happy. Could Ritcherd’s visit somehow have made a difference? The thought only aroused her curiosity further regarding their visit. But by the way he’d left without a word, she had to wonder if he had finally seen things her way. If that was the case, she wondered why she felt so much pain in thinking tha
t her wishes might be carried out.
Sarah drew her attention away from her collection of love notes and watched her daughter, feeling a growing concern. She wondered if it was Ritcherd’s return that made her feel less inclined to ignore her worries and fears, and confront them instead. She knew Ritcherd would see that they were cared for. Perhaps that in itself made it easier to look at their circumstances realistically. And perhaps time had eased her loss enough to make living without Stephen not seem impossible. Whatever the reason, Sarah felt stronger than she had in a long time. And she knew that now was as good a time as any to ask Kyrah what she needed to know.
“Is something the matter, darling?” Sarah asked, noting the way her brow was furrowed.
“No, of course not,” Kyrah insisted.
“There’s something I need to ask you,” she added, and Kyrah turned her attention away from her work. She could feel another scolding coming in regard to Ritcherd.
“How is it,” Sarah asked carefully, “that Mr. Westman behaves toward you?”
Kyrah was taken aback. This wasn’t where she’d expected this conversation to go. “He treats me like dirt,” she said flatly.
That didn’t surprise Sarah, but it wasn’t what she wanted to know. “Has he ever done anything to . . . harm you?”
Kyrah looked sharply at her mother and wondered if her comment had anything to do with Ritcherd’s visit. “Why do you ask?”
“You don’t tell me things the way you used to. If there is something bothering you, I would like you to tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Kyrah said blandly.
“Listen to me,” Sarah said with more conviction in her voice than Kyrah had heard for years. But it got Kyrah’s full attention. “I want the truth from you. If he’s done anything that—”
“I think he’d like to,” she stated, and Sarah felt both sick inside and relieved, “but I have no intention of giving him any opportunity.”
Sarah watched Kyrah leave the room, feeling certain she’d told the truth. And she was grateful that her daughter hadn’t been a victim of what she’d feared. Still, she hated having her work for that awful man, and she prayed that Ritcherd would find a way to get past Kyrah’s pride—and soon.
The Captain of Her Heart Page 12