Her Captain's Heart

by Lyn Cote

“I believe, Friend,” the widow replied in a tranquil tone, “that there has been enough bloodshed. And I hope many will agree with me.”

  Matt drew in a deep breath at her audacity. Whoa.

  Her words left Jed with nothing coherent to say. He grumbled mutinously and then looked at Matt. “Ritter, you should never have come back here. That’s all I got to say to you.” With this, Jed sat down.

  “I think it would be best if you all leave our service,” the preacher said. “Now.”

  “Mother, can he make us leave church? I thought anybody could go to church,” Beth said in a stage whisper, tugging at her mother’s sleeve.

  Matt looked to Verity, leaving it to her whether they stayed or left. After all, this had been her idea. But he’d take on the whole congregation if she wanted him to. In fact, his hands were already balled into fists.

  “I bid thee good evening, then,” Verity said, taking Beth’s hand and walking into the aisle like the lady she was. Matt followed her to the door of the church. Then he turned back and gave the congregation a look that declared, Everything the lady said is true. We’ll leave now. I don’t listen to a preacher who speaks hate. This isn’t over.

  The wind hurried them all home, billowing the widow’s skirt and making Joseph and Matt hold on to their hats. At their back door he paused for a moment, thinking yet again that he should say something about Fiddlers Grove and his family, but he could come up with nothing he wished to say. So he bid them good-night and headed for the cabin. Behind him, he heard Verity and her father-in-law closing and latching the windows against the coming storm.

  Just before Matt closed the cabin door, he gazed up at the storm-darkened sky. Jed McKay’s words came back: “Ritter, you should never have come back here.” Opposition was a funny thing. Initially, he’d felt the same way as McKay—that he shouldn’t have come back. But now that he’d been run out of one church, rebellion tightened in his gut. No one’s running me out of town. Not again.

  The thunder awakened Verity. And Beth’s scream. Verity leaped out of bed. Lightning flashed, flickering like noonday sunshine, illuminating the room. Beth ran into the room and threw her arms around her mother. “Make it stop! Make it stop!”

  Verity recognized the hysteria in her daughter’s voice. Thunder always brought back their shared fear of loud noises that had begun with the cannon at Gettysburg and the terror of war. Verity knew from experience that words would not help Beth. She wrapped her arms around her daughter, hugging her fiercely. That was the only thing that ever helped. Verity’s own heart pounded in tune with the relentless thunder.

  Then the house shook. And exploded.

  Or that was what it sounded like. Felt like.

  Joseph charged into her room, trousers over his nightshirt. “I think we’ve been hit by lightning,” he shouted over the continuing din. “I’m going outside to see if anything caught fire.”

  Verity glanced out the window and shrieked, “The barn! The barn’s on fire!”

  Joseph ran from the room. Verity settled Beth in her bed and pulled the blankets up over the child. “Stay here, Beth. I must help thy grandfather!”

  Verity snatched up her robe, trying not to hear her daughter’s frightened cries as she ran. Outside, the storm shook the night. Lightning blazed. Thunder pounded. Barefoot on the coarse wet grass, Verity ran with her hands over her ears. It seemed impossible that anything could burn in the downpour, yet flames flashed inside the open barn loft.

  Ahead, Joseph and Matthew were opening the stalls to get the horses out of the burning barn. Between thunderclaps, the shrieking of horses slashed the night. Verity raced over the soggy ground. Somehow she had to help put the fire out.

  One of their horses bounded out of the barn. Galloping, it nearly ran her down. She leaped out of the way and fell hard. Another thunderbolt hit a tall elm nearby. Brilliant white light flashed, followed by a deafening thunderclap. She covered her eyes, as well as her ears. The ground beneath her shook.

  When she could, she looked up. In the open barn doorway, Joseph was waving both arms, beckoning her. She dragged herself up from the ground. Slipping on the wet grass, she hurried toward him. With the lightning flashing, she didn’t need a lantern to see what had upset her father-in-law. Mary Dyke’s son lay on the dirt floor of their barn.

  “What happened to him?” she called over the continuing thunder.

  “I don’t know!” Joseph shouted back at her.

  Matthew yelled, “I think he climbed the ladder in the hayloft and opened the door so the rain could douse the fire.”

  Verity looked up and saw that the fire was out. “What’s he doing here? In our barn?”

  “Don’t know,” Matthew said, “Joseph, help me get him into the house.”

  Within minutes, Matthew laid the boy on the kitchen table. Verity asked Joseph to check on and reassure Beth so she could examine Alec. Verity listened to his heart and felt for a fever. No fever. But the boy had a black eye, bruises and a split lip. Had he been fighting? Why was he hiding in their barn? Sodden and chilled from her own wet clothing, she tried to rouse him but had no luck.

  The thunder still boomed outside, but it was more distant now. “The boy worries me.” She looked toward Matthew and gasped. His hand was pressed against his forehead, blood flowing between his fingers. “Thee is hurt. What hurt thee?”

  “Blasted horse knocked the stall door into me on his way out. Don’t worry about me.”

  Wasn’t that just like a man? Blood pouring from his head, but don’t worry about him. Her exasperation moved her past her fear of the storm. She moved quickly to the pantry and collected her nursing equipment, a wash basin, a fresh towel and soap. “Sit.” She pointed to the chair.

  Grumbling, Matthew sat. She lit an oil lamp on the table and leaned close to him, examining the gash.

  “This will need a stitch or two. I’ve got some experience nursing. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Just clean it and use some sticking plaster to close it.”

  Ignoring him, she gently washed away the blood. It felt odd to be touching a man. His wet hair released the distinctive scent that was Matthew Ritter. She forced herself to focus on the gash on Matthew’s forehead. He sat very still, probably as uncomfortable with this nearness and touching as she was.

  Finally she was able to turn away, drawing in a ragged breath. She’d nursed other men without this breathless reaction. Matthew should be no different. She emptied the basin out the back door and returned the medical supplies to the pantry.

  The chair behind her scraped as Matthew rose. “What are we going to do about Mary’s boy?”

  She looked out at the pouring rain. “This is not a night to go afield. We should get him out of his wet clothing and into a warm bed.”

  Matthew swung the thin boy up into his arms and carried him upstairs. Hearing the creak of the rocker in her room and realizing Joseph was rocking Beth, she directed Matthew to lay the boy down on Beth’s empty white-canopied bed. Beth and Verity could share a bed as long as Alex needed to stay.

  Verity gathered a clean nightshirt from Joseph’s room and brought it back to Matthew. “Here, put this on him. It will be too big, but it will be dry.” A pile of soaked clothes sat on the floor.

  Matthew had lit the bedside candle and stood, looking down at the boy. His expression caught Verity’s attention. “What’s wrong?

  Matt hesitated and then folded back the top edge of the blanket covering the boy. Verity gasped.

  Chapter Four

  The boy was covered in harsh purpling bruises—hardly a spot of skin had been spared. Matt felt a wave of anger wash over him.

  The widow turned away, shuddering as if fighting for control. “That couldn’t have happened to him just from the storm,” she finally said in a low voice laced with revulsion.

  Matt had to stop himself from putting an arm around her. No woman should have to see something as cruel as this. “No, but it explains what he was doing in our barn.” Matt’s low wo
rds scraped his throat. “He was hiding. This isn’t a normal whipping of a boy. Somebody has beaten the living daylights out of him. Somebody bigger and stronger.” Anger steamed through Matt. He had no doubt who’d done this. He met the widow’s eyes across the bed. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t tell her who he thought was responsible. Poor Mary. I have to think what to do to help, not make matters worse. But what? If I confront Orrin, he’ll just beat the boy worse or turn on Mary.

  “What are we going to do?” Verity asked, echoing his thoughts.

  “Let me think.” This was a sticky circumstance. Going over to Orrin Dyke’s house and beating the thug into the mud wouldn’t help Mary or her son. But Matt had to fight himself to keep from doing just that. Dyke was lucky enough to have a son, and he treated him like this?

  Matt glanced up at the rustling of the bedsheets. The widow was very gently and thoroughly checking each of the boy’s limbs for movement. The candle cast her face in shadow. And for once, she was without her armor, her widow’s weeds and tight corseting. In her muslin wrapper and slippers, she looked slender and almost frail. Very feminine.

  This reaction rolled through him like the thunder in the distance. He throttled it and asked harshly, “Are any bones broken?”

  “His legs, arms and shoulders move in the normal ways. But I’m sure that he has bruised or cracked ribs. Is there a doctor nearby?”

  Her compassion touched him. He fought against showing this. “Not near. About eight miles from here. Do you think he is in need of a doctor?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t get him to wake up. See here.” She brushed back the boy’s bangs and showed him an especially nasty bruise. She had long slender fingers and her hands showed signs of honest work.

  For a moment the woman looked down, a soft expression on her face as she stroked the boy’s cheek. Matt felt her phantom touch on his own cheek. He was conscious of both the sound of steady rain against the window and of the scent of lavender wafting from the woman. He dragged his gaze from her, forcing himself to study his surroundings. This must be her daughter’s room. Pinafores hung on pegs by the door and a canopy covered the bed—it was a homey place that contrasted with the ravaged boy.

  She reached across the bed and gripped his damp sleeve. “What can we do about this?” she whispered.

  He shook his head and then, unable to stop himself, he laid his hand over hers.

  A moan startled him. She released Matt’s sleeve, breaking their connection. “Mama.” The boy was waking.

  “Alec, it’s Verity Hardy.”

  The boy tried to sit up and groaned. The sound spoke of such deep pain that Matt found himself gritting his teeth.

  “Don’t try to sit up yet,” she cautioned. “You’re hurt.”

  Alec still struggled, trying to get up as the widow tried gently to hold him back.

  Matt leaned forward. “Alec, I’m Matt Ritter, an old friend of your mother’s. Lie back down. It’s all right.” He carefully pressed boy back down.

  The boy looked up wide-eyed in the candlelight. “You’re that Yankee. What happened? Why am I here?” Before Matt could answer, he saw fear flash in the boy’s eyes. “I shouldn’t be here.” Again the boy thrashed feebly under the blanket, trying to get up.

  “Alec, you must lie still.” The widow held his shoulders down. “Mind me now.”

  At her quiet but insistent words, the struggle went out of the boy. He went limp. “What’s happening, ma’am?”

  “Thee helped us keep our barn from burning down,” Verity answered. “Thee must have been hit in the head somehow. I couldn’t wake thee. So we brought thee into the house.”

  “Ma’am, I should be getting home.”

  “No, I think it would be best if thee stayed the rest of the night here.”

  “But, ma’am, my mother needs me. Please.”

  Alec’s words struck Matt like a blow to his breastbone. Was Orrin beating Mary right now? The urge to run to her rescue made Matt’s heart gallop. He added his hand on the boy’s shoulder over one of the widow’s. “All will be well. You’ll go home in the morning.”

  Panic widened the boy’s eyes. “But my father—”

  The widow touched the boy’s fair wet hair. “Thee must lie back and rest. Trust us.”

  The boy appeared to want to argue, but fatigue and weakness overcame him. He whispered something that Matt could not understand and then his eyes closed again.

  The widow touched the boy’s forehead. Then she looked over at Matt.

  When their eyes connected, he saw deep concern. Suddenly he felt his solitary bachelor state as he never had before. He looked away. “I think he’ll sleep the rest of the night.” He turned toward the door, wanting to put distance between them.

  “Matthew Ritter,” she asked again, “what can we do for this child?”

  Her soft voice beckoned him to remain. “I’ll think of something,” he rumbled. He left her, his mind churning as he thought of Alec. And of how much longer he’d have to wait for the telegram that would whisk this woman—so dangerous to his peace of mind—out of his life.

  Matt and the widow and her family stared at the telegram sitting open on the breakfast table. A military courier stationed at the railroad and telegraph depot had brought it just as they were sitting down to breakfast.

  The telegram had been short and to the point. “Mrs. Hardy stay and start school wherever possible STOP Ritter move forward with school construction STOP Signed, The Freedman’s Bureau.” Matt had wanted to say STOP himself and had tried to hide his irritation, but he didn’t think he’d done a very good job. The widow had merely read it aloud and then made no comment. Clearly she wasn’t a gloater.

  Then he thought to ask about Alec. “Is our visitor staying for breakfast?” The telegram had made him forget momentarily that there were more important things to deal with. His will hardened. An honorable man couldn’t just ignore what had been done to the young boy—he had to act today.

  The widow looked strained, glancing sideways at her little girl. “Our visitor left before I was able to invite him to stay for breakfast.”

  Beth glanced up at her mother with obvious curiosity. “We had a guest?”

  “Alec stopped by for a bit, but he had to get home.”

  “Oh,” Beth said, sounding disappointed.

  Matt didn’t like that Alec had left. Would he suffer for running away?

  “I was wondering, Matthew, if we should drop by and visit Alec’s parents.” The widow gave him a pointed look.

  “I don’t think that’s something we should do,” he replied, aware that she didn’t want her daughter to know of Alec’s situation. Orrin would lash back unless the right person spoke to him. Men like Orrin only listened to those they dared not disregard, those they feared. And there was only one man in Fiddlers Grove Orrin might fear.

  “But something should be…” Her voice faltered.

  “Perhaps we should talk about this later,” Matt said, nodding toward her daughter.

  “Yes, we’ll discuss it later.”

  Beth looked at both of them and then went back to eating her oatmeal.

  Matt cleared his throat. “The surveyor will be here this morning to survey the school site before we start building, so I’ll be busy with that today. Have you had a chance to hire us a housekeeper?”

  “I will attend to that today,” the widow replied, offering him a second helping of biscuits.

  It was hard to stay annoyed that Mrs. Hardy was remaining. She brewed good coffee and made biscuits as light as goose down. He might as well just get over the aggravation of having someone—this woman—working with him. We’re here for the duration. He forced a smile. “Good biscuits, ma’am.”

  She smiled her thanks and offered him the jar of strawberry jam.

  He took it and decided not to hold the excellent jam against her, either. She couldn’t help it if she was a good cook. All in all, it could have been worse. She wasn’t much for nagging. He’d just go about build
ing the school and signing men up for the Union League of America, and she’d start teaching school. They need meet only for meals.

  He let the golden butter melt on the biscuit and blend with the sweet jam, and inhaled their combined fragrance. Army rations weren’t even food compared with what Mrs. Hardy put on a table. He hoped she was as good at hiring a housekeeper as she was at cooking.

  He wondered briefly where she was supposed to start the school in Fiddlers Grove. Did the Freedman’s Bureau think the locals would rent her space? Not a chance. Well, that was her job. He had enough on his plate, starting with Alec and Mary. His conscience wouldn’t let him pass by on the other side of the road.

  After breakfast, the widow sent her daughter out to feed the chickens and give the leftovers to the barn cats, who, along with the horses and the barn, had survived the night’s storm. Joseph rose from his place at the table and asked without preamble, “What was wrong with the boy?”

  “He had been beaten unmercifully,” the widow replied.

  Matt heard the mix of concern and indignation in her voice. His nerves tightened another notch.

  “Disciplining a boy is one thing. Beating him is another.” Joseph looked concerned, his bushy white brows drawing together. “Alec is a good boy, too.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never dealt with anything like this.” The widow lowered her eyes and pleated the red-and-white-checked tablecloth between her fingers.

  Matt wished he could save her from worrying over this. “What can anyone do? A father has control over his children, absolute jurisdiction.” The bitter words echoed Matt’s frustration over his inability to take direct action. The world was the way it was and good intentions never went far enough.

  Matt had decided he wouldn’t tell the widow or Joseph what he planned to do. He didn’t want to give her hope when there probably wasn’t any. He had to admit to himself that he also didn’t want her to know he’d tried and failed. He ground his molars, irritated.

  “I will pray about this,” the widow said. “All things are possible with God.”

  Matt gritted his teeth tighter. Prayer didn’t help. He’d learned that while watching the life leak out of friends on the battlefield. He’d been the one who closed their eyes in death. Either God didn’t hear prayers in the midst of cannon fire or Matt didn’t rate much with God.