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

by Jennie Marsland

  A knot formed in Kendra’s chest. He hadn’t mentioned any feelings for her, but for the baby’s sake, what could she say but yes? “Aye.”

  Davy studied her for a moment, then brushed his fingers over her cheek. “You don’t look very pleased about it.” When she didn’t answer, his hand dropped to her shoulder. He pulled her closer, bent his head and brushed his lips over hers. “Are you only agreeing for the baby’s sake, Kendra?”

  He held her gaze. At her silence, Davy smiled and kissed the corner of her mouth. “We can be good parents, lass. And we can be good together. I’ve missed you.”

  He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips while his fingers played in the loose curls at the nape of her neck. Kendra couldn’t fight off the hope that surged through her, any more than she could deny the pleasure of Davy’s touch. She opened to him, hesitantly at first, then eagerly, hurt and fear melting away. He hadn’t told her in words that he cared, but he was showing her now.

  Still, she needed to hear the words. Kendra pulled back and smiled at him, a smile that she felt deep inside. “Are you only doing this for the baby?”

  Davy shook his head and laughed. “I do have a lot to learn, don’t I? I’m sorry. Kendra, I love you. It took me a while to realize it, but I do.”

  There was no fear in his eyes now. Blinking back tears, Kendra grinned and walked into his arms. “Don’t let me go again, Davy. I don’t think I could stand it.”

  Another slow, teasing kiss. “I won’t. Now let’s go wait for your mother. We want to be looking respectable when she gets home.”

  * * *

  “Chelle, we’re going to be out of onions after I make the stuffing tomorrow. Would you mind running to the store? And pick up a newspaper for your uncle while you’re there.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. I may as well go now. I’m not doing much.” Chelle dressed for her walk, took some change from Aunt Caroline’s jar of butter money and started off, glad to get out of the house. Ever since Kendra had come to see her, brimming with the news that she and Davy were going to be married quietly on Boxing Day and return to York together, Chelle had felt restless and trapped.

  She told herself it was just the prospect of losing her friend, but she knew better. Sadness seemed to have seeped into her bones and taken root there. Missing Martin and Leah hadn’t gotten any easier with time, and the long, dark winter nights didn’t help.

  “There you are, and oh, there’s mail, too. A letter from your brother, I think.” Mrs. Bingham reached under the counter and laid an envelope on top of Uncle Jack’s newspaper. “Happy Christmas, Rochelle.”

  Her mood forgotten, Chelle stuffed the newspaper in her bag with the onions and snatched up the letter. Trey had addressed it to her, so she tore it open and read it as she walked home.

  October 20, 1861

  Camp Marcy

  Dear Chelle,

  By the time you get this, it will be winter. Things are more or less the same here. We haven’t been told much, but the word is that we will be given our orders when the spring campaign begins.

  In a way, I’ll be glad. Anticipation is worse than reality, and everyone here is growing restless with drill, routine, and cramped quarters. We got piecemeal information on the battles that were fought over the summer, but no one knows what to believe. I don’t doubt you’re better informed than we common soldiers.

  There was an outbreak of measles in camp this month, and we lost a few recruits. I never thought I’d be grateful that we had measles when we were eight. I’ve been well, though if boredom were fatal, I’d be dead by this time.

  Now for the difficult part of this letter, Chelle. I can’t put it off any longer. There is no easy way to say what I have to say, so I’ll do it as briefly as possible.

  A few days after our birthday in September, a party of high-ranking officers visited Camp Marcy. One of them had a young lieutenant on his staff. I’d been put in charge of looking after the party’s horses, and when Lieutenant Carter returned for his, I noticed the knife at his belt. It looked familiar. When I asked him about it, he told me he’d taken it from the body of a dead Confederate cavalryman at Bull Run back in July.

  I asked him to show it to me. Chelle, it was Rory’s knife, the one with his initials engraved on the hilt. I know you’ve seen it. I’d recognize it anywhere. When I asked Lieutenant Carter to describe the man he’d taken it from, the description fit. According to him, it looked as if Rory had been killed instantly.

  Chelle, I don’t know what to say…

  Chelle stopped in the middle of the street, blinded by tears. A buggy rattled by, so close it brushed her shoulder, but she didn’t move. Her heart threatened to burst through her chest, and she couldn’t breathe. Then, suddenly, she couldn’t stand still. She dashed her arm across her eyes to clear them and started running, out of the village, past the forge and out onto the dales. She came to the sheltered hollow where she and Kendra often stopped on their walks, sank to the ground and fought to catch her breath.

  It isn’t true. Trey must be mistaken. It can’t be true.

  She saw Rory as she’d seen him in her dream, staring sightlessly at the sky. For nearly a year, Chelle had loved him as much as she was capable of loving anyone, but she’d let him go in anger. Had he forgiven her? She’d never know.

  She couldn’t cry. To cry would make it real. If she started, she was afraid she’d never be able to stop.

  Somehow, the ache of regret for Rory blended with her deeper, stronger ache for Martin and Leah, until she could hardly breathe for pain. Paralyzed, Chelle sat there while the cloud-veiled sun sank below the horizon. When the first fine sifting of snow began to fall, it didn’t register. It began to settle thickly on her cloak, unheeded as she repeated the same three words over and over through chattering teeth.

  “It isn’t true.”

  * * *

  “Get up, Tessa. There’s a bait of corn waiting for you, out of this wind. Jump in, Gyp, there’s a lad.” Martin waited until Gyp was safely settled in the back of the cart, then urged Tessa into a trot. He’d just delivered a load of hay to the sheep. He’d never take his freedom for granted again, whatever the weather, but the cold wind had crept through to his bones, and now it was starting to snow in earnest. Time for a warm fire and a bowl of Jessie’s hot mutton stew.

  He shrugged deeper into his coat and thought of Leah to warm away the ache in his chest. This time of day was the worst, just as it had been in the months after Eleanor died. It would take time to root Chelle out of his mind and heart. He hadn’t realized just how much she meant to him until he’d lost her. The pain never really left him; the best he could do was to forget it now and then when he was with his daughter.

  As the cart started down the slope to the river, Gyp stood and let out a sharp bark. Martin reined the mare to a stop and looked around him. He saw nothing but empty moorland until his eyes settled on an odd-colored shape in a hollow off to his left. Then the shape moved. He jumped from the cart and walked toward it, Gyp at his heels.

  “By all that’s holy. Chelle!” He covered the last few yards at a run and knelt beside her. “What’s the matter? Has someone hurt you, lass?”

  She didn’t answer. Martin unbuttoned his coat, pulled Chelle onto his lap and folded the sheepskin around her, holding her against his chest. Shivering, she laid her head against his shoulder.

  He saw no blood, no bruises. She didn’t seem to be hurt, but she was half frozen. He held her tighter and pressed his lips to her hair, part of him reveling in her sweetness even through his worry. “Tell me what’s happened, love.”

  Silence. Questions would have to wait. Martin gathered Chelle in his arms and ran with her to the cart, bundled her onto the seat and climbed up. He took her on his lap again and sent Tessa along the dark track as fast as he dared.

  Colin dashed out of the house as the cart rattled into the forge yard. “Martin, what’s happened to her? She should have been home over an hour ago. We thought she’d likely ca
lled on the Fultons.”

  “I don’t know what happened. She doesn’t seem to be hurt, but she’s chilled to the bone. I found her halfway out to my pasture.”

  The letter fell from the folds of Chelle’s skirt as Martin transferred her to Colin’s arms. The color drained from his face as the paper fluttered to the ground. “What is it, lass? Is it your brother?”

  Chelle looked up. The anguish in her blue eyes stabbed at Martin’s heart. God, how long would it be before he stopped aching for her?

  “No, not Trey. Rory.”

  Colin held her closer. “I’m sorry, love.” His eyes met Martin’s over Chelle’s head. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Martin. I’d best get her inside.”

  Martin followed Colin into the house. Caroline’s hand flew to her mouth, and then she hurried after Colin as he carried Chelle upstairs. Martin sat on the kitchen sofa and watched, helpless, while Jean scurried around, heating water and blankets.

  After what felt like an age, Colin came down, looking older than his years. “She’ll be all right. She’s asleep. Will you stay for a drink?”

  “Nay, Jessie will be waitin’ supper for me. I’d best be off home.” To stay here and not be able to be with Chelle, watching over her, would be pointless torture. Her family would look after her.

  “All right, then. She won’t be ready to talk to anyone before morning, anyway. Thank God you found her when you did.”

  “Aye.” Whether or not Chelle was part of his life, Martin couldn’t imagine his world without her in it. Surely the love he felt for her went with her every day, even if she didn’t know it.

  It occurred to him that he’d forgotten to ask about the lad whose name Chelle had mentioned. “Was Rory her young man at home? The one she almost married?”

  Colin nodded, his face taut. “Yes, he was.”

  “First her mother, and now this.”

  “She’ll get through it.” He put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Come back tomorrow. She’ll want to thank you.”

  Colin glanced behind him at Jack and Brian sitting at the table, then followed Martin out to the yard and held Tessa while he climbed into the cart. “Lad, I’m worried about Chelle. She hasn’t been herself since she broke things off with you. I meant it when I asked you to come and see her.”

  Martin shut his heart to a rush of longing. She’d told him where she stood in plain English. Why make her tell him again? “I will, but I’m not sure she’ll want to see me.”

  Colin shook his head. “We’ll see. If you still care, don’t give up on her.”

  Martin climbed onto his seat and picked up the reins. The smart thing to do would be to leave well enough alone. Pay a brief call, accept Chelle’s thanks and get out. He didn’t need any more grief. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He sent Tessa on and left Colin standing there, watching him.

  * * *

  Chelle woke in the gray winter dawn and sat up in bed. Her stomach rolled with nausea as the memory flooded through her.

  It was Christmas morning, and all she wanted to do was pull the covers over her head and stay here, nursing her emptiness. Would she ever feel young and alive again?

  Someone knocked. When Chelle didn’t answer, the bedroom door opened a crack. “Lass, are you awake?”

  Chelle swung her legs over the edge of the bed and reached for her robe. She knew well enough that the family wouldn’t let her hide. “Come in, Dad.”

  Her father crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed and put his arm around her. “We’ve naught to hold on to right now but faith, you, your brother, and me.”

  Chelle knocked his arm away and got up to pace the floor. She had to keep moving, stay ahead of the pain. “Trey didn’t know anything for sure. All his information was secondhand.”

  “Chelle, you know how unlikely it is that anyone else would have Rory’s knife if he were still alive. It was marked with his initials.”

  “He could have been wounded and dropped it. Someone else might have picked it up. That man Trey spoke to might have just assumed Rory was dead if it was him at all. He could be recovered by now.”

  “Lass—”

  Chelle stopped pacing and folded her arms across her chest as if she could ward off the truth. “Dad, I know. I just don’t want to believe it.” With a sigh, she sat beside him again and rested her head on his shoulder. “Do you remember the time back in the spring when I had that nightmare about a battlefield?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I dreamed that I was looking for Rory, but I found Trey instead. He was badly wounded. And Uncle Jack said that your mother had the sight. Do you think that means Trey will be—”

  Her father stroked her hair. “We know Trey hasn’t seen action yet, love.”

  “But I had another dream just the other night, about Rory. I saw him dead, and now…”

  Her father pulled away to look at her. Chelle saw fear flicker briefly in his eyes.

  “Ever since we heard Trey had enlisted, you’ve been afraid for him. So have I. It’s only natural that you’d dream of him. Right now, with your brother still in camp, I’m more worried about you.” He took her face in his hands. “You frightened us all last night.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Chelle smiled for him and stood. “I’ll be all right. It’s Christmas Day. Let’s not ruin it for the family. Go down to breakfast. I won’t be long.”

  That flash of doubt she’d seen in her father’s eyes stayed with her. He wasn’t convinced that her dreams meant nothing, but Chelle was through making things harder for her father. She washed her face and put on the new navy wool dress she’d just finished a few days ago, left her hair loose and went down to the kitchen with her head high.

  Not long after breakfast, Martin’s cart pulled into the yard. Before he could come to the door, Chelle slipped out to meet him. He was the last person she felt like talking to, but she quite possibly owed him her life. She couldn’t be a coward now.

  A thick blanket of snow lay over the yard and the open country beyond. She’d never seen anything like it. The storm clouds had packed themselves off, leaving everything glittering under a chilly blue sky. A breathtaking winter day, but a harsh one. Chelle found no solace in its beauty.

  Martin got down, left the reins trailing in the snow and came toward her. An arm’s length away he stopped, his eyes searching hers. “How are you this morning, lass?”

  “I’m better. Martin, I feel so foolish. If you hadn’t come along—”

  He stepped closer, his brows bent in a puzzled frown. “Foolish? Chelle, you were grieving.”

  “Yes, I was.” Chelle fought the urge to step back. Being near Martin like this brought back every feeling, every memory of each time he’d touched her or kissed her. “You probably saved my life yesterday. What can I say? But nothing’s changed.” She saw the fresh hurt in his eyes and lowered her gaze. “Someone’s bound to see you leaving here. You’d better go.”

  His face set, making him look very much as he had the first day she’d met him out on the hillside. He climbed back to his seat and gathered the reins. “Goodbye, Chelle.” The words came out flat, with no feeling. Cold to the bone, Chelle went in.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Drew Markham looked around him with loathing. His father’s farm had been the scene of the worst years of his life, but two years of hard labor in the mill had bought him a promotion and escape. He’d only returned home twice since leaving, but what he’d heard in the village yesterday had brought him back one last time. He’d sweated too much in these fields as a boy to be done out of what was rightfully his.

  The farm lay tucked in a hollow, near the track leading to Carston. The stone house and byre stood as little altered by the years as the moorland around them, but Drew saw small changes everywhere he looked. The hood over the well needed repair, the gate that filled the gap in the yard’s stone wall hung crazily on its hinges, and many of the cobbles in the yard were worn and broken. His father and brother hadn’t been doing much
of a job keeping the place up.

  He heard voices coming from the byre. His father and Richard must be nearly finished with the morning chores. Drew turned and walked into the house to wait for them. He was through with milking and swinging a pitchfork.

  He added a shovelful of coal to the stove and sat at the kitchen table. The room looked as cheerless as it always had in Drew’s memory, with the once-white curtains now dingy with soot and no rug on the cold earthen floor, which looked like it hadn’t been properly swept since the curtains were last washed. His father wouldn’t tolerate dirty dishes or neglected spills, but beyond that he didn’t care much. God, how glad Drew was to be free of this place.

  Boots clattered on the kitchen step. Drew’s father and brother came in out of the gray winter morning, blowing on their hands. At the sight of Drew, Richard’s pale blue eyes turned sullen. “Now then. Fancy you dropping by.”

  Drew’s hackles rose, as they always did around his brother. His father hung his coat on the back of the door and dropped heavily into a chair, while Richard filled the kettle from a bucket on the pantry cupboard. “So what brings you here? You’ve been scarce enough this past year.”

  “I heard something in the village yesterday. Seth Brimsby told me at the Crow that you’d said Dad was signin’ the farm over to you. Was he tellin’ the truth?”

  His father gave Drew a hard stare. “Aye, it’s the truth. What then? You couldn’t get away from the place fast enough.”

  That’s for sure and certain. What reason did you ever give me to stay? “No, I couldn’t. Richard can have the place and welcome as far as I’m concerned, but I want to know where my inheritance is going to come from. While I lived at home, I worked as hard as either of you. I deserve something.”

  The contempt Drew remembered so well once again laced his father’s voice. “You turned and walked out without a backward glance, never thinking of aught but yourself, just like your mother. I’ve naught for you, Drew. You gave up your rights when you left.”