Red crept over her cheeks. So … that’s exactly what she’d thought.
He shoved off from the door frame. “To be fair, there is probably someone to address my grievances to, but they’ve changed the parish lines so many times, one hardly knows which district we live in today, let alone who to appeal to.”
She pursed her lips. “That does not seem right.”
“Because it isn’t.”
She closed the distance between them, stopping but an arm’s length away. Curiosity lapped at the shores of those sea-blue eyes. “Are you, or are you not, loyal to the Crown?”
His breath caught in his throat. Men had given their lives for answering such a question. Did she hold her breath as well?
He gazed down at her. Behind her long lashes, blue sparkled. He could drift in that ocean—and lose his soul in the depths if he weren’t careful. She smelled of dirt and toil, but something more. Distant horizons, foreign and exotic. He reached a hand toward her, then coiled it back before his fingers could brush against the hair at her brow.
“I am a man who’s loyal to God alone, Tatsu’hwa. Leave it at that.”
He turned and stalked across the porch and down the stairs. He’d have to watch his step around this woman. She was nothing like his first wife, and he wasn’t entirely sure why the realization sank low in his gut—and stayed there.
Chapter 12
A lion roared. The growl rumbled inside Eleanor’s chest, clawing to get out. A screech rent the air, frantic. Panicked. Sounding as if at any moment the beast might strike and rip flesh from bone.
Eleanor’s eyelids popped open. White light flashed, transforming the ceiling rafters into long blades, like larger-than-life knife edges suspended overhead. She lay frozen, trying to sift dreams and nightmares from reality.
Another rumble. Another cry.
Her breathing steadied, and she rolled over, reaching for her wrap. Grace wailed. Poor thing. Of course the resounding thunder frightened her. She’d tuck the wee one inside her own blanket and hum away the frightening noise. Sometimes a good cuddle was all one needed to right the world—that and a good soak. She felt so much better after her early evening dip in the creek, having scrubbed away grime and a few of her anxieties about Samuel. He’d not only honored his word to keep his distance while she bathed, but he’d also looked after Grace the entire time.
She swung her feet off the bed, then stilled when light flashed again. The black silhouette of a bear leaned over Grace’s crib and scooped her up.
Eleanor pressed her knuckles to her mouth, stifling her own cry.
The next flicker of lightning etched along the broad lines of Mr. Heath’s shoulders as he neared the door, moving without so much as a whisper of sound.
La! What a dolt. She watched as he and the crying girl disappeared outside.
Tying her wrap tight, Eleanor followed. Why would he take his daughter from the cabin? Why would he take her at all? She paused just inside the open doorway, unable to see him, but unwilling to break whatever magic spell he’d woven around Grace, for her cries faded to shaky sniffles.
Samuel’s voice rumbled in the dark, low as the thunder and every bit as forbidding, yet not terrifying in the least. “Face your fears, little one. You’re safe in my arms.”
Eleanor stiffened. A sob burned in her throat. His words both broke and mended her heart in one fierce slash. What would it be like to have strong arms wrap around her and murmur such words? How would it feel to be loved so intensely?
The mad thought hit her hard, and she balanced a hand against the log frame for support. What was happening to her? She barely knew the man, questioned his loyalties even, and…. Her grip loosened, fingers sliding off the hewn piece of wood. Whatever the man’s political leanings, he was clearly loyal to those in his care. As rugged as this wild land was, perhaps she ought be thankful he provided for her.
“I know you’re in the shadows, Tatsu’hwa.” His voice carried in, catching her in the act. “You might as well come out.”
Suddenly she was four years old again, hiding behind drapery, unaware the tips of her shoes peeked out beneath the hem. The same humiliation twisted her twenty-five-year-old stomach.
Shoving down the memory, she stepped onto the porch. Lightning backlit tree branches bent in a macabre dance. Thunder rolled a bass drone. But … wait a minute. She strode to the edge of the wooden decking and reached out a hand, palm up. Not a drop of moisture dampened her skin.
She turned back to Mr. Heath. “Why is there no rain?”
He shifted the little girl in his arms, and Grace lolled her head against his great chest. “There is.” His voice lowered, an angry edge sharpening it. “Six or seven miles off.”
“You do not sound pleased.” She peered at him, a dark mountain looming against more darkness. Reading his face was impossible. “Will not some rain help the drought?”
“Does one kind word heal months of hurt?”
Her lips parted, breath trapped in her throat. How could one predict what this man might say? She drew a step nearer, waiting—praying—for another flash of lightning to read his face. Were all Colonial men so unguarded, so piercingly direct?
The whites of his eyes flashed, pinning her in place. “You study me as if tracking a wildcat.”
Fire burned over her ears and settled in her cheeks. She clutched her wrap against her collarbone, twisting the fabric, holding on to any dignity she could find. “Even so, I would think every bit of rain helps.”
“True, but for now, it’s the lightning that concerns me most.”
Her brow crumpled. “But you said it is at least six miles off.”
“How long do you think it would take a fire to eat up that much ground?”
Fire? She licked her lips. Wild animals, a husband as changeable as a spring tempest, wilderness and Indians, and now she must add fire to her list of fears in this strange land? She whirled and searched the woods, straining to see any spark or flicker of red or orange.
“Don’t fret. I’ll keep watch.” Samuel’s breath ruffled the loose hair atop her head.
She turned. He stood so close, she felt the heat of his body rolling off him in waves. He smelled of leather and gunpowder and a warm autumn day, all crushed leaves and dried grass.
He leaned, transferring Grace into her arms. “Go to sleep, both of you.”
The little girl nestled her face into the crook of Eleanor’s neck. Samuel stepped aside. As she crossed the porch and entered the tiny cabin, she searched the queer feeling tingling low in her heart, nearly out of reach. Maybe, perhaps, it was an inkling of what it felt like to be loved.
She quickened her pace and pulled Grace into bed with her, lifting the covers over her head. More than fire or storm or threat of beast, the foreign feeling alarmed her most of all.
Creek water hit the back of Samuel’s calves, barely above his ankles even after last night’s storm. He squatted and dipped his hands into the cool liquid, bringing a scoopful up to his face and washing away another night of fitful sleep. Then he shook off the excess and leapt to the bank where he’d left his boots. The woman ought to be up and dressed by now.
Grace’s sing-song carried out to mingle with the high-pitched chirps of cardinals. He shook his head as he bounded up the stairs and into the cabin. The girl was as boisterous as her mother had been.
Speedy little feet dashed over to him. “Edoda!”
He lifted the child, eye-level. Nary a hair was out of place. “My, my … aren’t you a little lady? Next thing I know you’ll be wanting lacy dresses and ribbons and such.”
Red Bird turned from the hearth, a kettle in one hand. She poured amber-colored liquid into two mugs, then brought him one. “You took me on as Grace’s caregiver. I intend to do my best.”
Setting Grace down, he sniffed the steam, which mostly smelled like a September day. He took a sip. Aye. It tasted of fallen leaves as well. Swallowing back a gag, he eyed her over the rim. “What is this?”
�
��Tea.”
He massaged the back of his neck, thinking on all the supplies he’d stored in crates. “Woman, I don’t have any tea.”
“You do now. I improvised.” Half a smile quirked her prim lips. “I also did not have a chance to thank you for the bundle of provisions you brought from town yesterday. Molly must have had something to do with it, I suspect, for it all suits me. I am grateful. Thank you.”
Her freckles darkened, and she turned away.
With her back to him, he leaned out the door and dumped the contents onto the porch. Inoli would surely split open his side were he to see him drinking tea—or more like boiled nettle and mulberry leaves. He returned the mug to the table and snatched up the pistol, where the woman had left it untouched. “Come outside, Red Bird. But see that Grace is occupied first.”
He strode out to the front stairs and sat. Resting the pistol on his thigh, he retrieved a small piece of whittled hardwood from a pouch. Fabric swished behind him.
“What can I do for you, Mister—”
He cut her off with a scowl over his shoulder. He’d played the part of a gentleman once. Never again. “Look, if you refuse to call me Samuel or Heath, then call me nothing at all. Have a seat.”
He scooted sideways, making room for her skirt.
She sat without a word, but her mouth dropped when he reached for her hand and wrapped her fingers around the pistol.
“Oh! I really do not think I should—”
“I told you I aimed to teach you to shoot. I mean what I say.”
Her throat bobbed, but glory be, she did not drop the weapon.
“We’ll start small. See this?” He held up the piece of wood. “You’ll use this in place of flint. We won’t even load the barrel. There will be no big noises and no shots. We’ll work up to full charges gradually, so as not to spook you any more than you apparently are.”
Her lips puckered, and she refused to make eye contact.
He smirked, then using his index finger, pointed out the appropriate mechanisms. “This is your frizzen, frizzen spring, pan, cock, jaws, and jaw screw. Can you repeat that?”
She shot him a sideways glance, sharp as a dagger fresh off a grindstone. “I am no imbecile, sir.”
He lifted a brow.
She pointed to each part in turn, using the correct names.
“Good. Here.” He held out the wood shaving. “You’ll use this in place of flint for now. Put this piece into the jaw and tighten the screw moderately. When the cock is released, the flint strikes the frizzen, flush across the face of it. Adjust the flint—or in this case, the piece of wood—if you need to, then fasten it snug. Give it a go.”
She hesitated, then her fingers flew to work, and she lifted the pistol for his inspection.
He squinted, eyeing the job. Sweet mercy! The woman was a natural. He set the cock full open and gave it back. “Aim and fire.”
Her brow crumpled.
“Just pull the trigger. It’s not really going to fire.”
She stood, gripping the pistol in surprisingly steady hands, and pulled the trigger. The resulting snap of metal against wood made her flinch.
He rose beside her. “Good job, Red Bird. Practice that same routine throughout today. We’ll prime the pan and load the barrel when I get back.”
“Where are you going?” The pistol lowered to her side, and she fluttered her free hand to her chest, looking away from him. “I mean, not that I question your right to come and go, I was simply … curious, is all. Forgive me for asking.”
“I’ve a mind for something other than jerky, and thought I’d hunt some fresh meat.” He swiped some hair from his eyes, and she jerked back from his sudden movement. Curious. He narrowed his eyes. Why was she so twitchy? Red crept up her neck, and she shrank farther away. Strange reaction—and he doubted very much it was from the mention of meat.
“I should check on Grace.” She whirled and flew up the stairs and across the porch.
He beat her to the door and held out an arm, barring her entrance. “I don’t know what you’re used to, but I will never lift a hand against you, despite what anyone may say.”
For a moment she met his gaze, then bowed her head. “Let me pass, please.”
With one knuckle, he lifted her chin. “What kind of home do you come from?”
Pride angled her head, away from his touch. “The finest in England.”
He frowned. What kind of fine home turned out a woman like this, leaving her to fend for herself in a foreign country? “Then why do you cower like a whipped hound when I make a sudden move or you chance to speak your mind?”
Retreating a step, she straightened her shoulders and met his stare. “I was a governess. Employers frown upon a candid tongue.”
“To the point of a whipping?”
“Of course not.” She shrugged. “Letting me go without a reference would have been punishment enough.”
Ahh. That was it, then. The woman must have spoken her mind in the wrong company. “Is that why you’re here?”
She bit her lower lip, a trait he was learning to decipher as stubborn determination.
He stepped closer. “What happened to you, Red Bird?”
She retreated a pace, an insane dance, one that would lead her to the edge of the porch in no time. “A powerful man made advances that I did not welcome. I responded in a way that ruined any chance of me ever working again in England.”
“You … responded?” As she stood there, pistol in hand, fire in her gaze, he wondered what on earth the woman might have done. A grin split his face, large enough that it pulled at the tender skin left behind by McDivitt’s uppercut. “Thunder and turf, woman. Maybe I ought not be teaching you to operate a firearm. God help the man that crosses you.”
She stood silent, staring, a picture of sweetness and lightning with the way her fingers yet curled around the handle of the pistol.
He laughed and stalked from the porch, toward the stable. He might have to rename the woman Red Tail Hawk with her fierce gaze and tense focus. He grinned at the thought and shook his head. He wasn’t aware that he was whistling until he heard it himself.
And he hadn’t whistled in years.
Chapter 13
Eleanor retied her apron while Grace did her best to jump up and pull the strings from her hands. She spun and scooped the little imp off her feet, inhaling the child’s ever-present smell of sunshine and dirt.
“So much naughtiness in you today, little one.” She pressed a kiss to the crown of Grace’s head. “We shall put that energy to good use, hmm?”
Grace bobbed and wriggled, all the while repeating, “Hmm? Hmm?”
Bending, she released the girl, then straightened and surveyed the cabin. She’d already swept the floor and cleaned the breakfast dishes—easy to do when she’d taken to serving hardtack and jam. Samuel, as usual, left them alone immediately after eating, striding off into the woods to do whatever it was that trappers did.
Over the past two weeks, she’d developed a routine—of sorts. Not that anything about this land could be regulated into the daily schedule of the fine homes she’d served in. Still, she’d found a small way to fit in by teaching Grace the value and educational benefits of productivity. Together they’d cleaned, organized, and beautified the space between these log walls. The trouble was, though she’d tidied the cabin, she’d nearly worked herself out of a job.
“Come along, Grace. Maybe it is time we expand our endeavors.” She strode to the front door, flinging it open to a sunny June day, leastwise what rays could travel into the tunnel-like entrance on the porch. Heaps of wood on either side, stacked from decking to roof, blocked most of the view.
A slow smile tugged her lips. Who’d have thought her next opportunity was right outside the door?
She stooped to Grace’s level. “How would you like to help me clear this off? We shall make it a fun game, shall we not?”
Grace reached up her hands, planting a palm on each of Eleanor’s cheeks. “Edo
da?”
“No, sweetie. This game is just for you and me, not your father, though it shall be a grand surprise for him when he returns.” She stood, eyeing the stacks through narrowed eyes. Indeed. Clearing the porch would be a welcome surprise, especially if she dragged out a few barrels for sitting on, and perhaps fashioned a small table from a crate. Why, if she potted a few plants, it might even pass for a poor replica of an English garden sitting cove.
They worked well past dinner, until perspiration stuck her shift to her skin and Grace hunkered down by the front door, sucking her thumb. After a meager meal of porridge, she laid Grace in her crib, then heaved herself up and dove back into work.
Eventually, all the wood lay in one of two piles on the ground at each side of the porch. Swiping the dampness from the back of her forehead, she retrieved a broom from inside and swept off the bits of bark left behind, concentrating so hard, she jumped when a question hit her from behind.
“What do you think you’re doing!”
Samuel strode across the lot, his step so determined, his deerskin leggings clung tight against his thighs. On one hip, a knife tied to a buckskin tether swung at his belt. On the other, his ever-present tomahawk. He wore no coat, just a trade-cloth shirt with laces hanging loose at the neck, his thick leather belt cinching in at the waist.
She set the broom aside, keeping it within reach. The man looked like a wolf on the hunt.
He took the stairs in a long-legged leap, surveying the empty deck from one end to the other. “What have you done?”
A raven screeched from the top of a tall tree, adding to the forbidding vision Samuel drew. He was a fearsome sight, all wild-haired and cagey, his fingers curled tight at his sides.
Eleanor clasped her own hands in front of her, fighting the urge to wring the life from them. Why would the man not be pleased with her industry?
“I thought,” she spoke slowly, as though explaining a point of grammar or mathematical concept to one of her charges, “if the wood were cleared away, the porch might provide extra living space. Perhaps we might sit out here in the cool of the evening.”
The Captive Heart Page 10