Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1)

by Jennie Marsland

  Chelle climbed the hill and found herself in the middle of a sunny expanse of short, rough grass, intermingled with darker patches of heather. Bare rock showed through the thin soil here and there. The air was alive with birdsong and the slightly sour smell of awakening earth.

  The track met the river at a shallow ford, with stepping stones conveniently placed for crossing. On the other side, it soon dwindled to a walking trail. Chelle strolled along, feeling like she was walking on the roof of the world, until she reached the edge of a steep cliff. Her breath caught from more than exertion.

  She’d never seen anything like it. She stood high above miles of moorland that extended as far as she could see, empty except for the occasional farmhouse and sheep in the stone-walled pastures. Amid the farms stood a village similar to Mallonby, its cluster of stone buildings dwarfed by distance.

  She dwindled to nothingness in the middle of it all. Chelle’s mind still clung to the familiar landscape she’d left behind, but underneath that homesick longing she responded to her new surroundings so strongly tears came to her eyes. She sat there until she started to cramp with cold. A queer feeling of regret came over her as she started back along the track. Since leaving home, she’d envied her brother moving into untamed country. Now, she’d found a bit of it for herself.

  In no hurry to get back to her uncle’s, Chelle followed an alluring side path that looked as if it led around the jutting bulk of the cliff to the open plain below. She followed the sound of sheep bleating, came to the top of a rise and found a flock grazing below her. One ewe stood alone near a patch of brambles, nosing at something hidden inside.

  A weak bleat told Chelle what the “something” must be. She hurried down the slope and as she expected, found a young lamb caught by its fleece in the bramble’s thorns, nearly exhausted from struggling.

  “You’ve got yourself in a fine mess, haven’t you?” Chelle didn’t relish the thought of getting her hands in among those thorns, but she didn’t see much help for it. After a quick glance around, she wrapped one hand in her cloak and started pulling the branches away from the lamb.

  In spite of the protection, the thorns reached through to her skin. The frightened lamb didn’t help. Not as exhausted as Chelle had thought, as soon as she freed it from one clinging branch it struggled and got caught by another. By the time she lifted it out of the bush, she’d earned a couple of nasty scratches.

  As she bent to set the lamb on its feet, a dog’s bark startled her. Still crouching, Chelle spun around and faced a grizzled black and white collie, standing a few feet away with its teeth bared and hackles raised. Luckily, the dog’s owner stood close by. Heart in her throat, Chelle released the lamb and slowly raised her gaze from a pair of heavy boots to eyes the color of a stormy sea.

  “Come, Gyp.”

  The dog returned to his master’s side at the curt command. Chelle stood, blushing under the man’s cool stare.

  He’d be at least six feet tall, perhaps taller, bulky and solid. He reminded her of Charlie Bascomb at home, broad in the shoulders, thick in the legs and torso, but the resemblance stopped there. Charlie was quiet and easy-going, always wearing a smile, but there was nothing approachable about this man with his lowering brows, grim mouth and rust-colored hair. His resemblance to Leah told Chelle who he must be.

  “Hello. I’m Rochelle McShannon. Are you Martin Rainnie?”

  The collie stood braced beside his master, the fur still standing up on the back of his neck. Mr. Rainnie looked no more welcoming. He spoke to Chelle as curtly as he had to his dog. “Aye. What are you doing out here?”

  It seemed Jean had done the man a favor by saying little about him. Chelle lifted her chin and showed him her bleeding hand. “That’s obvious enough, isn’t it? That lamb’s fleece was caught in this bush. I freed it.”

  Mr. Rainnie looked her up and down with those cold gray-green eyes, then softened his tone and made an effort to curb his broad Yorkshire. Likely he’d recalled that his daughter was living with her family.

  “So you’re Jack’s niece. I didn’t know you’d arrived yet.”

  “We arrived yesterday.” Chelle fished a clean handkerchief from her skirt pocket and wrapped it around her scratched hand while she fumbled for something to say. “I’ve been out for a walk to the top of the hill. The view is lovely.”

  Mr. Rainnie’s mouth twisted in a sardonic grin as he stepped closer. “Aye, but it’s not very sustaining. Not much but sheep will grow up here.”

  Chelle took in his well-worn clothes and large, work-roughened hands. Martin Rainnie’s face showed the effects of wind and weather, but she thought the lines around his mouth and eyes revealed bitterness. With the breeze plucking at the sleeves of his faded canvas jacket, he seemed as much a part of the landscape as the sheep and the moorland grass, and just as rugged.

  “The village down there, is that Carston? Dad mentioned it.”

  “Aye, that’s Carston.”

  “I thought as much. I was on my way home when I decided to follow this trail and heard the lamb.”

  Mr. Rainnie shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets. “You could have spared yourself the trouble. This is my flock, and I check on ‘em every day. You’d better get home and take care of those scratches.” With that, he strode past her toward the sheep, his dog at his heels.

  Chelle watched him go, his shoulders high, his broad back stiff with annoyance. Because I rescued one of his silly sheep? She turned on her heel and started back toward the village, muttering under her breath. “I’m sorry for your daughter, Mr. Rainnie. As for me, the next time I find one of your animals in trouble, I’ll be leaving it alone.”

  When she entered the forge yard, she found her father working by himself. Chelle slipped into the house and tended to her hand, then came back out to talk to him. He set aside the hinge he was repairing, wiped his hands on a rag and joined her on the kitchen step. “Did you enjoy your walk, lass?”

  “Yes, most of it. Where are Uncle Jack and Brian?”

  “Off doing a job on one of the farms.”

  In spite of weeks spent traveling, Chelle thought her father already looked less tired than he had when they left home. Coming back here had been good for him. The move was worth it to her, for that alone.

  “I walked out to the edge of the cliff overlooking Carston. The view is beautiful.”

  It did her heart good to see him smile. “I’m glad you think so. I loved our land at home, Chelle, for the sake of your mother and you children. But here, I love this place just for itself.”

  “I know.”

  Her father took her hand and squeezed it. “I hope you’ll like it someday, too, lass. You come from a family of movers, after all. I had itchy feet at your age, and Sidonie’s ancestors ended up in Louisiana after they were expelled from their homes in Nova Scotia. Then, Sidonie left her family behind in New Orleans and moved to Georgia when she married me.”

  Forsaking all others. The most difficult of promises, but one Chelle knew her mother had never regretted. Maman’s Catholic family had never truly forgiven her for marrying a newly-come English Protestant, but she’d had the courage to follow her heart.

  You’ll have to learn courage if you’re going to survive here. Chelle put on a determined smile, the best thing she could do for her father. “You’ve never told me why you left England, Dad.”

  “I left more or less for the same reason Trey went west—to have a future. I’d been hanging around racetracks for ten years, worked my way up from stable lad to exercise boy to jockey, and I knew I’d never be anything more if I stayed. I’d seen a lot of riders get hurt, some killed, and it was only a matter of time until I took a bad fall. Everyone does. So, I started placing a few wagers here and there.”

  Chelle’s smile became a grin. Back in Morgan County, her father had been as well known for his gambling streak as for his way with high-strung Thoroughbreds. “I can imagine that.”

  “Aye. I was lucky a few times in a row, pocke
ted my winnings and headed for America. I landed in New Orleans, met your mother in her father’s mercantile, and you know the rest of the story. Now Trey has headed west, and you and I have been chased back here again.” Grief passed in his eyes like a cloud across a clear sky. Jaw set, he shook it off. “Wherever they landed, our people have always survived, and so will we. I’m content. My only regret is that I never brought Sidonie here. I wish she could have seen it.”

  “So do I.” Chelle knew her mother would have loved Yorkshire, except for the climate. The place would have appealed to her romantic streak. “She wouldn’t have appreciated the weather, though.”

  “That’s for sure and certain.” Her father slipped an arm around her. “Chelle, I know how much you gave up when we left home. If things had worked out between you and Rory, I would have stayed in Morgan County for your sake, at least until the war ended.”

  Chelle leaned into his warmth. She wouldn’t have him feeling guilty for her breakup with Rory, however much it still hurt. “It was for the best, Dad. I loved Rory, but his family would never have really accepted me. At heart, I can’t blame them. I used to try to imagine myself learning from Mrs. McAfee how to manage Pinehaven, but I could never quite do it.”

  Her father’s gaze swept the yard, the familiar surroundings of his childhood. “I’m a blacksmith’s son, and your mother was a storekeeper’s daughter. It’s no wonder you couldn’t imagine fitting in with the McAfees, with their high-bred ways. Perhaps Sidonie and I were wrong to let you and Trey make friends with the planter families.”

  Memories flooded Chelle’s mind. Nights camping out in the playhouse she and Trey had built at the bottom of their father’s pasture. Birthdays and Christmases, Sunday afternoons spent roaming fields and woods with the Sinclairs or the Bascombs, sons and daughters of large planters. They threw rocks and climbed trees and rode as well as Chelle and Trey, and they all learned to swim in the creek that cut through the McShannon place. Rory had never been among them. The McAfees had always held themselves a bit apart, even from the other planters.

  “How could you have prevented it? We all ran together as children, and Trey and Justin Sinclair became such good friends that Justin included us in his circle as we got older. The differences between us didn’t matter… then.”

  Her father smiled, a smile tinged with sadness and regret. “You know I never judged the few of our neighbors who owned slaves. After all, I chose to live among them, and for the most part they treated their people as well as the mill hands are treated here. I had no quarrels with anyone until Georgia seceded from the Union, but then I had to speak my mind. I’ve never been the most tactful of men, Chelle. This war will be suicide for the South, and I said so.”

  No, tact wasn’t his strong point. The twenty years he’d spent in America hadn’t changed him from the scrappy little Yorkshire terrier of a man he’d always been. Chelle loved him for it.

  “You were honest, just like you raised Trey and me to be. Dad, I met Martin Rainnie today.”

  Her father glanced at her hand and noticed her scratches. “And what happened? By the looks of it you’ve got a story to tell.”

  “I found a lamb caught in a bramble bush. Then Martin Rainnie found me. He scratched almost as badly as the brambles.”

  Her father grinned. “You look like you’ll survive. I remember Martin as a young lad. He would have been six or seven when I left England. He used to loiter around Connor Larkin’s harness shop and listen to him play the fiddle. As time went on, Connor started teaching Martin his notes.”

  Chelle tried to picture a fiddle in Martin Rainnie’s big, rough hands and failed. “Really? I can’t imagine him having any interest in music. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who’d have much use for anything that impractical.”

  “Perhaps not, but he did back then. I remember Connor saying what a quick learner Martin was.” Her father shook his head. “I don’t know whether he kept it up or not, but I think he had talent. Jack says Martin’s been hard on himself since losing his wife.”

  “Jean said the same thing. He could certainly stand to learn some manners. He was so standoffish and rude he made me feel guilty for rescuing his silly lamb.”

  Her father stood. “Ruffled your feathers, did he? Don’t be too hard on him, lass. He’s got his troubles. Now, back to work before Jack and Brian get home and find me idling.”

  In the kitchen, Aunt Caroline was in the middle of dinner preparations while Jean sat at the table, trying to soothe her fussy son. Leah lay in the family cradle nearby. Chelle looked down at the baby and saw the resemblance to Mr. Rainnie stamped on her little face.

  How could the man turn his back on his own flesh and blood?

  Chelle picked Leah up and nestled the baby’s head against her shoulder. “If you were mine, I’d—”

  She isn’t yours, never will be. She’ll be leaving here soon. Don’t let yourself care too much.

  Only it might already be too late to keep Leah out of her heart.

  * * *

  Martin leaned into the cow’s side and felt his irritation drain away as his hands took up the familiar, calming rhythm of milking. He wasn’t sure why, but the McShannon girl had set his teeth on edge. Probably because he’d come upon her without warning.

  Her father would likely have a time with her. Headstrong, Martin guessed, with looks that would turn the lads’ heads. A combination that spelled trouble.

  He’d seen more than a strong will in those blue eyes. The lass was unhappy, which wasn’t surprising. The whole village knew Colin McShannon had come home after losing his wife. Before her arrival, Martin had even heard some idle speculation as to what Colin’s daughter would look like. Would she be attractive? New young, single women didn’t move into the district every day.

  Now that he’d seen her, Martin had to admit that gossip hadn’t come close to the reality, though she wasn’t his type. He’d always preferred dark girls, like Eleanor, with her ebony hair and luminous gray eyes, her body generously curved whereas the McShannon lass was tall and lissome… Martin closed his eyes, remembered the feel of Eleanor’s curves under his hands. Then his gut clenched at the memory of her labor, her screams, her blood. The same memories that assailed him whenever he thought of his wee child.

  Eleanor’s daughter deserved better. She deserved to be raised by people who could look at her without flinching. Right now, she got everything she needed from the McShannons, but she’d be weaned by summer’s end. Before then, Martin would have to find a place for Leah to grow up, a place where she’d get the affection he couldn’t give her.

  Martin knew people talked about him turning his back on his daughter, but if he wasn’t going to raise her it was best he left her alone. The less confusion in the child’s life, the better.

  And in your own. Martin ignored the taunting whisper of his conscience, finished milking and took the full pails to the cellar. As he poured the rich, creamy milk into enamel pans to separate, his came to the door and looked hopefully down the cellar steps.

  “Aye, Gyp, I’ll save some for you.” He left a cup or two of milk in the bottom of one pail, returned to the byre and poured the milk into two dented tin bowls, one for the cats and the other for the dog.

  He ran a hand over Gyp’s back as he drank his milk. Time to be bringing on a young dog while the old lad could still help train it, but after nine years of working together, Martin hated the idea. “I don’t like to think of you growing old, Gyp. We’ll wait another year, perhaps.”

  Martin worked his way through the rest of the barn chores, then turned his thoughts toward supper. The house faced the byre across the cobbled yard, both structures built of the unyielding local stone that made light of two hundred years of weather. The years hadn’t left much more of a mark inside. Eleanor had liked the place as it was, and Martin felt no need to change the familiar surroundings of his youth. He washed his hands, lit the lamp and kindled a coal fire in the range. Once it was hot, he pulled a few smoked sausage
links from a hook in the rafters, tossed them into a skillet and put some potatoes on to boil. Then he lit another fire in the old fireplace that took up a whole wall of the sitting area and ate his supper beside it, sitting in the threadbare armchair that knew all his kinks.

  Afterward, he tried to read the newspaper he’d picked up at the store that morning but found he couldn’t concentrate. His gaze wandered to his fiddle case, leaning in the corner near the door.

  He hadn’t touched his fiddle since losing Eleanor, hadn’t wanted to. It reminded him too much of the dances they used to attend together, of all that life no longer held. But tonight, for some reason, his fingers itched to play.

  Martin took the fiddle from its case, returned to his chair by the hearth and plucked the strings. They were badly out of tune but hadn’t lost their vibrancy. He coaxed them back to their proper pitches and drew the bow across them. They sang in response.

  Disconnected notes formed an improvised melody that gathered pace until it swept along like the wind off the dales, full of anger and frustration. The music stabbed at Martin’s heart until he had to stop playing. Fighting for self-control, he put the fiddle away and took a bottle and a glass from the pantry cupboard.

  He’d acquired a taste for Scotch during the few months he’d spent in London years ago. This wasn’t the finest, but it was more than good enough for a plain farmer like him, and it would help him sleep for a few hours. He poured a generous shot and downed it quickly, wanting the liquor’s burn to erase the pain the music had dredged up.

  When it didn’t, a black rage swept over him. The next thing Martin knew, he’d hurled his glass across the room to shatter against the door of the pantry cupboard. Shards tumbled across the floor, glittering in the lamplight. Pieces of something that had once been bright and whole.