The Captive Heart

by Griep, Michelle;

  “I am so, so sorry.”

  “Don’t … take in … stray animals.” Every word cost him, his voice growing thinner. Tighter. Heat poured off him, and her gown stuck to the sweat and blood on his skin.

  The last flare of sunlight dazzled between the trees, painting his face in orange light. His usual swath of hair was plastered against his damp skin, revealing ruined flesh from temple to jaw, puckery, as if it’d been melted and reshaped on his cheekbone by a rough hand.

  She sucked in her own breath. How much suffering could one man take?

  Chapter 17

  Life always came down to a choice between dark and light. Blackness promised oblivion and relief, but oh, Lord … that was a lie. Samuel had learned that a long time ago. So he forced open his eyes to brightness and blinked from the shocking contrast.

  “You are awake!”

  Fabric rustled. A whiff of wood-fire and sunshine, sweet and surprisingly musky, feathered over half his face—the half not mashed against a pillow.

  “Aye.” His voice rasped, and he cleared his throat.

  He blinked again. This time, the world shifted into focus like the turn of a great kaleidoscope. Worried blue eyes, flecked with golden sparkles, stared into his. Afternoon sun—ever brightest in the west-facing cabin—set Red Bird’s hair aflame. He should’ve been up hours ago.

  He shifted his head on the pillow. “Must’ve been a rough night.”

  “It has been two.”

  “Two?” Lord, have mercy. What kind of man lolled about in bed for days? He shoved up—then cried out as fire sliced from his shoulders to the small of his back. He dropped onto the straw tick with a groan. Blast that McDivitt! The good-for-nothing … hold on.

  Straw tick?

  He pushed to his elbows, slowly this time, like Ezekiel’s dry bones coming to life. Sure enough, he lay on the bed usually occupied by Red Bird. She knelt next to the frame, close enough that he could count the pale freckles romping over the bridge of her nose. Any closer and she’d be lying next to him.

  Despite the searing pain raging in his muscles, laughter begged to be released, and he chuckled until he winced. What a tale this would make for Inoli. With a little embellishment, he could stop the teasing from his friend.

  “Mr. Heath! Please, do not overtax yourself.” A nattering wren couldn’t have scolded any better. “You have suffered a severe beating. There is nothing humorous about this.”

  “Ahh …” Again with the Mr. Heath? He was certain she’d called him otherwise earlier. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he struggled to sit and swing his legs over the side of the bed. Fresh agony burned along each gash. He waited until the room stopped spinning and he saw only one red-headed woman—not two—eyeing him as if he were a lunatic.

  “But you see, Tatsu’hwa, I got to sleep in your bed.” He winked at her, followed by a grunt. Sweet white-clouded heavens! Even his face hurt.

  The woman’s cheeks turned scarlet as she rose to her feet. “The bed is not mine, sir. It was yours to begin with.”

  He’d snort—if the movement wouldn’t hurt so much. “Life needn’t be so serious.”

  “But this is serious!” Her hands clasped together in front of her, her fingers laced so that her knuckles were white islands in a sea of red. “You almost died because of me, and I am so, so sorry. About everything. I had no idea feeding a stray horse was against the law.”

  This time the snort would not be denied—and he paid for it with a stabbing slice across his shoulder blades. Once he caught his breath, he lifted his face to hers. “This wasn’t about the law, the horse, or even you, so stop blaming yourself.”

  Fine, white teeth worked her lower lip as she digested his words. “Then … it is about that man, McDivitt, is it not? There is a quarrel between the two of you, I think. Why?”

  “McDivitt is a greedy bloodsucker who’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants—and what he wants is anything I’ve got.” Had he spoken this of anyone else, a twinge of guilt would’ve spiked his gut, for it would’ve been slander. But in McDivitt’s case, he spoke true. The man was as wily as a creek gorge during the spring melt.

  “He is not right in the head, is he?” A slight ripple worked its way down to the hem of Red Bird’s skirt as if her knees shook.

  He frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  “He mistook me for someone else, but it seemed more than a simple mistake.” A shadow crossed her face, though the afternoon sun blazed unhindered through the window. “It was like … like he really thought I was her.”

  He gripped the edge of the bedframe. Would this never end? “Let me guess. He thought you were Mariah?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze snapped to his. “Who is she?”

  The question ripped into him like the tip of the whip. How to answer that? She’d been his bane, his sorrow, his mistake—

  His wife.

  He shot to his feet. Night fell hard. So did he.

  “Samuel!”

  Chest heaving, he fought once again to stay in the light. A groan scraped out his throat, and he clung to the bedframe with shaky arms, forcing himself to remain upright.

  Red Bird dropped to her knees before him, resting a light touch on his knee with her fingertips. “Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?”

  The waves of pain eventually ebbed, and he met her gaze. “Lend me a hand.”

  “Surely you are not thinking of standing?”

  “The sooner I move, woman, the sooner I heal.” He lifted a brow at her. “And the sooner you’ll get your bed back.”

  She set her jaw.

  He stared her down.

  “Very well.” She sat next to him, her sigh a reproach. “Put your arm on my shoulder, and we shall both stand on the count of three. Ready?”

  “Aye.”

  “One. Two. Three.”

  His head floated, and he wobbled, but at least the room didn’t spin. Red Bird’s small frame pressed against his, shoring him up. He took a step, then another. Soon, the worst of his pain stemmed from the woman’s arm digging into the small of his back where she supported him. He unwound his arm from her shoulder.

  But she didn’t let go.

  “I’m fine, Tatsu’hwa,” he ground out. “Let go.”

  She hesitated. “Are you certain?”

  “Have you ever heard me say anything I wasn’t sure of?”

  Her brow creased—but she stepped aside.

  He hobbled to the door, his steps slowing as he passed Grace’s crib. She slept with her feet hitting one end and her head the other. He’d have to build the girl her own bed soon.

  Outside, the fragrance of tangy pine floated warm on the afternoon breeze. He leaned against the porch post, filling his lungs with the sweetness, but his lips twisted into a sour pucker. Across the yard, a few gashes marred a pine where the whip had missed its mark. McDivitt had planned that ambush with the skill of a wildcat. He must’ve been prowling about, just waiting to spring when the time was right. Dirty son of a jackanapes.

  The scuff of wood on wood pulled him from his thoughts. He turned. Red Bird hauled a barrel across the porch to his side.

  “You ought to sit.” Her tone brooked no argument, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Thankful for her compassion? Or irritated she told him what to do?

  He grunted—but eased himself down.

  She swooped in front of him. “Shall I get you a drink? Are you hungry? Maybe you ought to—”

  Irritation won out. “Stop flapping about like a mother hen. And for heaven’s sake quit looking at me as if I’m about to break. I’ve seen worse.”

  “I—I only meant to help.” Her shoulders slumped as if he’d been the one to brandish a whip against her. She spun toward the door, her skirts a’twirl around her legs. “I should see to supper.”

  He stifled a groan—but not from his pain. That he’d hurt her was evident. That it bothered him was a surprise. Crossroads were a notorious danger, and the intersection he now stood at could cost hi
m his heart depending on which direction he chose.

  Care about the woman’s feelings?

  Or take cover behind a mask of indifference?

  He shifted on the barrel, embracing the sharp pangs in his back.

  “Tatsu’hwa,” he breathed out.

  Her footsteps padded to the door. Of course she couldn’t hear him whisper, not with the shush of the breeze rustling the leaves and waving the pine boughs. He could still tuck tail and run the other way. Pretend it didn’t matter. Stiff-arm the empathy rankling him as much as his ruined flesh.

  He sucked in a breath and called out. “Sit with me, wife.”

  Eleanor hesitated, one foot on the threshold. The sting of Samuel’s rebuke still burned in her ears—yet it was a just anger. She deserved it, more than he deserved the whipping. He’d nearly been killed because of her.

  “You heard me, woman.”

  She whirled, expecting to see him inches from her.

  But he hadn’t moved. He sat with his back to her. Deep red lines crisscrossed his back, the skin purple in some patches, yellow in others. Scabs covered most of the stripes—only one trickle of blood seeped from the widest gash.

  Yet her stomach twisted. That had to hurt.

  “You going to stand there gawking at my back or come join me?”

  Drat the man! Of course he should be angry with her, but not for caring about him, not for tending him in every possible way to ease his pain. Why did he not berate her for bringing trouble to his own back? Why not censure her ignorance for housing a foreign horse in his stable? Why not simply send her from his home? Not one of her former masters would have taken such a beating in her place—then ask that she sit beside him.

  Emotion clogged her throat as she retrieved a barrel from the other side of the porch and dragged it next to his. How could Samuel Heath tie all her guilt and humiliation into one big knot and cast it far afield, asking her to keep company with him instead of dismissing her from his life? He’d be better off with her gone. She sank onto the barrel, smoothing wrinkles from her skirt. A silly occupation, yet as soothing as the sun on her face. “You are very kind, sir.”

  “Kind?” A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I’ve been called many things. That’s not one of them.”

  “Oh, but you are! You dote on your daughter. You put up with my cooking. You sleep on the floor, and you took a lashing that should have been mine. Beneath that gruff exterior, I think you are very—” She pressed her lips tight. Embarrassment burned up her neck and flushed across her cheeks. Would she never learn to hold her tongue?

  “Careful now.” He turned toward her. “You’re starting to sound like my wife.”

  “I … I …” She what? How did one possibly reply to such a statement? Her fingers snagged on her skirt, creating a new crease instead of removing them.

  He cocked a brow, humor flashing in his dark eyes.

  She flailed for a new topic. Any topic. “I … uh, I could not help but notice the other marks on your back. Would those scars be the reason you know so much about bears?”

  His gaze pierced, digging deep.

  But a grin parted the dark stubble on his face. “I’ve had a run-in or two.”

  She glanced at the purplish-streaks reaching across the side of his rib cage, then shot her gaze back to his. “It appears the bear came out the winner.”

  He smirked. “I’m the one still breathing.”

  “Indeed.” She studied the lines at the corners of his eyes, each a testament to a life lived on the edge of want and need. He belonged here in this rough and rugged land. He was part of it. “I perceive you are a survivor … of many things.”

  He looked away, gaze fixed on the tree line—though she very much doubted he saw it, not with the way a twitch throbbed at the apex of his jaw.

  “Tell me your story.” His voice drifted out soft, a plea. An invitation.

  And quite possibly his own evasion tactic.

  “Story? Me?” A bitter laugh quivered on her lips. “That would be a very short book, I am afraid.”

  “Even so, I would hear it.”

  Memories stole her breath. She spent most of her time denying the past. To voice it would breathe life into a dragon she’d rather not face. “There is not much to tell, really.”

  “It would take my mind off the hurt of my back.”

  La! He couldn’t have trapped her more securely than by using one of his steel snares. She ran her hands from thigh to knee, pulling the fabric taut. “England was my home, though I have not any family left. My mother died birthing me. My father … well, some called him a gentleman.”

  His face shot to hers. “But not you.”

  Guilt sank in her chest. Was she not this very morning teaching Grace to give thanks in all things? “I am sorry to give that impression. Yes, my father was a gentleman, with land holdings in Devonshire. His position afforded me the privilege of attending one of the finest finishing schools and later a position as governess in several great households.”

  Furrows dug deep into his brow. “Why did you not simply live with your father until you married?”

  “I said my father was a gentleman. He died when I was eighteen.”

  “If he had land, seems like there ought to have been enough money to provide for you, even after his passing. Why did you seek employment?”

  This time she looked away—away from his questioning gaze, the question itself … and as far away as possible from examining the real reason she’d traded in her dreams of marriage for the lonely, set-apart life of a governess. She clenched her skirt and squeezed, creating as many wrinkles as her father had willfully cut into her life.

  “I’m not the only one with scars, aye? Look at me, Tatsu’hwa.”

  His tone challenged, calm yet strong, the same voice he’d used when frightening off the bear, compelling her to turn his way.

  His eyes glimmered with too much knowledge, like he could see the torn soul she kept buried deep. “Take it from someone who knows … Don’t let the past fester inside. The sooner you move on, the sooner you’ll heal. Sometimes you got to cut your losses.”

  “And what if that loss is your life?” She spewed out the words like cream gone bad, the barrel rocking beneath her. “My father lost his land, his dignity, my dignity. Tell me, for you are a father, what kind of man asks his own daughter to repay his gambling debts by trading her innocence for gold?”

  Samuel’s face hardened to flint. Fierce. Deadly. A savage look that chilled her to the marrow.

  “I’ll tell you what kind.” His voice shook. “The kind that didn’t deserve a daughter like you.”

  Then just as suddenly, the lines of his face softened, and he reached for her hand. “You were wronged, true. But we’re all wronged some time or another. Even God. And that’s the only reason you can let go of bitterness—because He did.” He spread her fingers and turned her hand palm up, then let go.

  She blinked, the truth of his words as stunning and raw as the stripes on his back. Her hand dropped to her lap, her thoughts to a brand-new pool of wonder. For the first time, she shrugged off the word trollop and examined it in the afternoon light, remembering the rage in her father’s voice when she’d refused to yield to his request, the flare of his nostrils when he’d cast her out. The heavy weight of his rejection.

  “It was not about you, child. It was always—ever—your father’s wicked choices.”

  Her gaze shot to Samuel’s mouth, but his lips were shut.

  Gooseflesh lifted the skin on her arms.

  She went back to smoothing her skirt, her eyes following the movement. What if this whole time she’d driven her life to combat a lie? What if her father’s rejection had been nothing but his own desperation? A thrashing, miserable death of his dreams, murdered by his vice—not hers.

  Her hands stilled. Peace blew over her, gentle and warm as the July breeze. She searched Samuel’s face, marveling. The wild man in front of her could have no idea the gift he’d just handed he
r. “I did not realize you were a God-fearing man.”

  He tilted his head, his swath of dark hair hiding the scars on his face. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

  Chapter 18

  Samuel chucked the last log beneath the shelter of the new lean-to, then straightened with a grunt, swiping his brow with the back of his hand. Unyielding heat trickled sweat down his back, stinging the barely healed wounds. He stretched a snarl out of his sore muscles. Three weeks and still his body complained. So did he. Against Red Bird with all her smothering ideas of what he should and should not be doing. Against Ben Sutton, who had yet to send word about the expected negotiator. Against himself for the temper rising as hot as the last breath of July and as impossible to keep in check. Ahh, for a good rumble with Inoli, but his friend had not yet returned from Chota—though he should be back any day now.

  He snagged his shirt off the top of the stack and shrugged it on, wincing as fabric scraped over his wounds. Painful, but could be worse. Thank God infection hadn’t taken root.

  Far off, a low rumble snagged his attention. Could be nothing, and most likely was, yet he lifted his head, blocking out the thrumming insects and chattering birdcalls, and … there. A layer beneath. Reverberation pounded at ground level, growing louder the longer he listened.

  He grabbed his rifle from where he’d propped it against the lean-to wall and strode to the front of the house.

  Six horses tore up the road and fanned out in front of him, McDivitt at the crux. Samuel shouldered the stock and aimed the muzzle at his chest, dead center.

  Angus turned aside, a line of tobacco juice nailing the dirt. Sunlight glinted off a few drops clinging to his beard, dancing as he spoke. “Afternoon, Heath. I see your back is doing better.”

  Next to Angus, a jaunty bay trotted forward, sailing past the pack of men like an arrowhead. The flash of the rider’s red coat stood stark against the drab colors of the others. Samuel stifled a groan. Major Andrew Rafferty. Death always seemed to accompany the man.

  “Good day, Mr. Heath. As hospitable as ever, I see. But you might as well put the weapon down.” The redcoat moved like a phantom in the wind, whipping out a double-barreled pistol and firing off two rounds into the dirt at Samuel’s feet. “You can’t shoot us all.”