The Captive Heart

by Griep, Michelle;

  Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

  The movement hit her like a rock through glass. Thousands of shards poking and needling and drawing blood. Shattering her perceptions, all she’d hoped for and wanted to believe about him. All she thought she knew of him. Her jaw dropped, as unhinged as her feelings, and she shrank back on the quilt. Biz and Molly had been right. So had McDivitt. She stared at him, horrified.

  “That’s right. Look at me like I’m a fiend.” His voice was throaty and raw. “Because I am one.”

  “I can hardly believe it.” The words came out shivery. Funny they came out at all.

  “I said things no man should, God help me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed, up and down, up and down. “Some say liquor talks. I say it’s the soul showing its true colors. Those words … they hurt her bad. Real bad. I don’t remember much of what Mariah said to me, but I do remember her grabbing all my jugs and smashing them, one by one against the wall, alcohol drenching everything. Grace crying. Me being a coward and running away.”

  The words swirled like autumn leaves caught in an eddy of cold wind. Around and around. Gathering them took an awful lot of scurrying, but she sorted each one and laid them out in a row. Pressing her fingers against her temples, she massaged as she tried to make sense of what he’d said compared to what she’d heard from others.

  “Wait a minute …” She lowered her hands, clarity dawning bright as a July morn. “You ran away? And Mariah was still alive?”

  “She was more than alive. She was a cannonball, pitching dishes and pots and pans at me out the door. I know now that I shouldn’t have left. I should’ve stood there and taken it like a man. If I had …” His voice broke. “Oh God, if only I had.”

  He shot to his feet.

  She shot to hers, grabbing his sleeve. “What happened? How did she die?”

  He wrenched from her grasp, wheeling about.

  “Do not run away this time!” She gasped, as much out of shock at her own boldness as from the glassy gaze he turned on her.

  In two strides, he stood nose to nose with her, his words thundering against her cheeks. “You want to know the kind of man you’re living with? Do you! I collapsed out near the back of the trading post that night, dead drunk. If it weren’t for half the town yelling, ‘Fire!’ I doubt I’d have wakened. When I staggered to the house, the flames … the screams …”

  He retreated a step, shaking his head, the sorrow on his face enough to drive her to her knees. “I ran in, but part of the roof had already caved, the timbers crushing Mariah’s legs. There was no time to think, even if I were sober. I grabbed Grace from her cradle and got her to safety. And when I tried to go back in for Mariah …”

  His throat bobbed. His lips twitched.

  But no more words came out.

  She folded her arms, the only shield she’d have from the answer to her last question. “Did you start that fire before you ran off?”

  Hanged. Drawn. Quartered. Death by any means of torture would hurt less than the suspicion written in the creases of Red Bird’s brows. Samuel ground his teeth against the searing loss of her trust—for surely having asked such a question, doubt must be gnawing a hole in her gut. Of course he’d grieved Mariah’s death, but this? This time he’d lost something he cherished.

  He reached for her, but inches from contact pulled back. He didn’t have the right. Not anymore.

  “No, Tatsu’hwa ….” His voice crackled, and he cleared his throat. “Mariah and I had our differences, but I would never have started that fire, not even drunk.”

  “Then …” A tide of confusion darkened the blue of her eyes. She blinked, saying nothing. Slowly, she unfolded her arms and spread her hands. “That explains why you were released from jail. But if you did not kill your wife, why do you bear the guilt?”

  He studied her face. Was she mocking him?

  A clear gaze, pure as the August sky, stared back. Sweet, underserved mercy! The woman seriously did not realize the depth of his treachery.

  He closed the distance between them and rested his hands on her shoulders, as if by sheer touch he might make her understand. “Don’t you see? If that house hadn’t been filled with my drink, it wouldn’t have gone up so fast, not like that.”

  “But Samuel, you said yourself you did not start that fire.”

  He shook his head. “If I hadn’t been a drunkard, if I hadn’t left when I did, if I hadn’t—”

  Her hand shot up, stopping his mouth, her fingertips an ember against his lips. “And if Christ had not given His life on the cross, then you would be guilty. But in your own words, you are a different man because of that grace. Samuel.” Her eyes filled, shimmery and heartbreakingly beautiful. “You need to forgive yourself.”

  He clenched every muscle, afraid to breathe, to hope, to maybe believe that she was right. He could turn and run. Flee to the woods and work off the guilt and shame—but wasn’t that exactly what he’d done by moving to the wild, holing up in a cabin with Grace, accepting God’s forgiveness but condemning himself?

  As if reading his mind, Red Bird slid her hand away from his lips, trailing her fingertips upward. Fire tingled on his skin where she touched. Her fingers slipped beneath his swath of long hair, lifting, exposing, resting like a whisper on his ruined cheek.

  His breath hitched—audibly.

  She smiled, her beauty unmatched by all the angels in heaven. “Forgive yourself, Samuel. The scars will remain, but you will be healed on the inside.”

  He turned that thought over, like a warm stone in his hand, enjoying the feel of it until he could bear it no longer. He covered his fingers over hers and nuzzled his face against her palm. How could she offer such unconditional comfort when her life had been anything but comfortable—especially the past several months?

  “Papa?” Sleep thickened Grace’s voice from the tent. Moments later, arms wrapped around his leg.

  Despite all the pain, the loss, the tragedy that followed him around life like a hound of hell, he chuckled. “Woman, I do not deserve you or Grace. Why is God so good to me?”

  Red Bird pulled back, disentangling her hand from his. “Because He is good. It is His nature. Nothing more—and nothing less.”

  Silence stretched between them, filled with cricket song and the far-off whoops of traders and trappers—and broken only when Grace tugged at his leg. “Hungry, Papa.”

  “Well, now.” He bent and tossed her into the air until she giggled, her braids flying golden in the early evening light. Satisfied, he tucked her in one arm and offered the other to Red Bird. “Would you like to go to that, er, festival and get a bite of supper, Mrs. Heath?”

  “I would.” She beamed at him and rested her hand in the crook of his arm.

  He’d walked into Newcastle before. He’d ridden. Driven. And one time even rolled in on a loosened load of barrels broken free from the back of a wagon. But he’d never flown in, steps as light as an eagle on the wing. Telling Red Bird everything about his horrific past hadn’t weighed him down in shame. It had freed him—even when he passed in front of the charred reminder of his former home. His steps slowed, and he looked closer at the ruins. Sure, a few scorched patches remained, but mostly weeds and grass spread over the lot. New growth. He peered down at Red Bird to find her gaze upon him.

  He winked. “You know, I think I just might sell that piece of land to McDivitt.”

  She swatted his arm. “You, sir, are a scoundrel.”

  He grinned. “Ahh, but I’m your scoundrel, and there’s not much you can do about that now, is there?”

  A blush to shame the fairest June rose blazed across her face—and warmed his heart. He stifled a chuckle. If Inoli knew how soft he was becoming, the teasing would be endless.

  At the far end of Newcastle, near the road leading to Charles Towne, a square of land had been cleared. Tents ringed the area. Tables of all sorts, constructed from planks and logs, clustered on one side. The smoky aroma of roasted venison and
pork wafted on a cloud hovering above the gathering. Musicians plucked warm-up notes on fiddles and flutes. Even a drum rat-a-tat-tatted.

  Samuel scanned the assembly, wondering which man needed guiding to Keowee. The thought of having to ask McDivitt for an introduction galled him, but how else would he discover the negotiator’s identity?

  Grace bounced against his shoulder, pulling him back to the reality of her hunger. He purchased three meat pies from a vendor, then seated his family at a corner table, keeping his eye on those nearest—and keeping his wife far away from those two friends of hers who might poison her mind further against him.

  Torches flamed to life as they ate, dancing atop thick posts driven into the ground, adding to the festive feel. Grace shoved the rest of her pie toward him and hopped off her barrel.

  “Grace!” Red Bird rose.

  He reached across the table and tugged her sleeve. “Watch.”

  The girl darted ten paces off, joining with a group of girls spinning in circles to the music.

  Red Bird faced him, a frown marring her brow. “But what if she—”

  “The girl slept half the day away. Let her dance.”

  The setting sun lit streaks of fire in a loose curl brushing against Red Bird’s neck. The urge to loosen all that hair, watch it tumble over her shoulders, run his hands through it until he wept, drew him to his feet. He rounded the table. Her gaze followed his every movement.

  He caught the strand between forefinger and thumb, the silkiness of it shooting heat up his arm. He tucked it behind her ear, whispering into it. “And what about you, Tatsu’hwa? Would you like to dance?”

  She retreated a step, eyes wide. “I … I am not familiar with the steps.”

  “Why, woman, all you got to do is follow.” He held out his hand.

  Her gaze bounced between his open palm and his face. Then slowly, like a rabbit creeping out from a stand of grass, she lifted her hand.

  Before she could change her mind, he entwined his fingers with hers and guided her to where a line of skirts swirled and bobbed between an opposite line of men. When he pulled her to take their places at the end of the rows, a jolt shot from his heart to his belly. What was he doing? For a moment, he stood, stock-still, the laughs and chatter of dancers around them fading so that all he heard was the rapid beat of his heart.

  “Samuel?” She wrinkled her nose, her funny, endearing way of asking what on earth was wrong with him.

  But no, for this one grand and glorious moment, nothing was wrong. Not. One. Thing. He smiled in full. “This is a fast one. Follow my lead.”

  They looped and dipped and circled their way down the line and up again, both their chests heaving by the end of the reel. Red Bird’s cheeks flushed to a breath-stealing hue, her eyes gleaming like a spring pond warmed by the sun. True, Mariah had been a stunning beauty, but the sincere loveliness of Red Bird, innocent and genuine, unmarred by greed and manipulation, stoked a hunger inside him that could not be denied much longer.

  Without thinking, he grabbed her hand and tugged her past the dancers, beyond the torches, all the way to a break between tents and forest. Her steps kept pace with his, showing no sign of hesitation. The rising moon shamelessly tagged along.

  He stopped and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Desire shook along every nerve, sending a warm ache through his body. He lowered his forehead and rested his brow against hers.

  “Tatsu’hwa,” he whispered.

  A funny sound garbled in her throat, and she leaned against him. The heat of her body burned through his shirt. The sudden realization that she wanted him heightened all his senses, and he inhaled her sweetness.

  “Are you asking?” The question came out too husky, too revealing, but he couldn’t stop it.

  She lifted her face, her nose bumping against his, her lips less than a breath away. It would take no effort—none—to press his mouth to hers, taste her, know her. Claim her for his own.

  But that would destroy the tenuous trust she’d placed in him.

  Oh God, help me stay strong.

  Her eyes, too dark to discern the color, held on to his. Her lips parted. The tension between them a shiver in the night. One word, just one word from her, and he’d make her his wife in more than name only.

  She mumbled something about Grace, then wrenched away, darting back to the torches.

  He watched her disappear into the throng, a smile stretching across his face.

  She hadn’t asked for that kiss yet—but she also hadn’t flatly refused him.

  His grin grew.

  Progress.

  Chapter 26

  Eleanor dashed toward the crowd, tall grass snagging her dress though she bunched the fabric nearly as high as her shins. Highly inappropriate—yet necessary. Night air slid up between skirt and stockings, the temperature having dropped some since sunset, but she burned. White hot fire blazed from her cheeks to the pit of her stomach. Samuel watched her. She knew it. Could feel the weight of his smoldering gaze embracing her from where he yet stood at the edge of the woods. Her body begged to revisit the keen feelings he stirred, maybe even turn back and find out what it would feel like to have his lips one with hers, his body one …

  Oh God, forgive me.

  Who was this brazen woman inside who’d almost asked for a kiss? Who’d maybe have asked for more if given a chance? She pumped her legs faster. She didn’t even know herself anymore.

  Darting between two tents, she entered the fray of merrymakers—then pitched forward, the toe of one shoe caught on a rope tied to a stake in the ground. She flailed.

  But a wiry arm caught her fall. “Slow down there, missy.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed out, winded from the race and her thoughts of Samuel. Straightening, she drew back and smoothed her skirts.

  Torchlight flickered over the face of the man in front of her, highlighting a large nose and completely skipping a cavern where an eye should’ve been. A grotesque sight—and one altogether familiar, for she’d gazed upon it over a campfire many a time.

  “Mr. Beebright.” She smiled. “Such a surprise. Good evening.”

  His single eye widened, one grey brow arching to the night sky. “Well, well, ain’t seen you in a spell, and look at ya.” He cocked his head, studying her down to the tips of her boots. “I knew living with Heath would change yer ways. Got the straitlaced starch beat right out o’ you, eh? Why yer a regular upcountry wildcat now, I reckon.”

  Her fingers flew to her hair. La, she must look a fright—not a topic she wished to explore, especially with a man.

  “I trust you are well?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Likely faring better than you. Least yer still standing.”

  She pursed her lips. What was she to say to that? “I am sorry; I do not understand.”

  Beebright sucked in air between the gap in his front teeth. “Heath’s first wife didn’t last a year afore he got rid o’ her. I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t meet with the same lick of bad luck, though I didn’t want to tell you that up front.”

  The words were a slap in the face. Had anyone in this town taken the time to find out the truth from Samuel? She lifted her chin and stared him down. “My husband had nothing whatsoever to do with that tragedy.”

  Beebright rocked back on his heels, howling, his slanted shoulders riding the crest of the laughter like a fisherman’s bobber in the water. “Got to you, did he? That Heath, he do have a way with women. I ’spect you’ll be popping out a babe in no time.”

  “Mr. Beebright!” she hissed, then darted past him, unwilling to listen to any more wicked conjecture. His laughter followed for a time until it blended into the backdrop of music and other revelers.

  Skirting the dancers, she searched for Grace. The little blond head yet bobbed with a circle of other girls, right where she’d left her.

  Eleanor bent, calling for the child. “Grace, shall we get a drink?”

  The girl broke from the circle and ran to her.
“Thirsty!”

  “I thought so.” She smiled and held out her hand, her grin growing as little fingers wrapped around hers. Somehow, Grace always managed to set her world right.

  Weaving past tables, Eleanor ignored a few lewd comments from trappers who’d clearly drunk enough to loosen their lips. The tang of homemade liquor stung her nose. This was no place for her and Grace on their own. Maybe she should have waited for Samuel to catch up.

  But as she neared a sideboard loaded with crocks of cider and ale, the tension in her jaw slackened. Molly and Biz huddled together in front of it, jabbering away.

  She led Grace to where they stood. “Good evening, ladies.”

  Molly spun, beaming. “Eleanor! So happy you made it tonight.” She stooped and tugged one of Grace’s braids. “You, too, Miss Grace.”

  The girl giggled, burying her face against Eleanor’s skirt.

  “Where’s yer man?” Biz craned her neck, scanning the area, then blinked her feline eyes at Eleanor. “So, you run off, aye? Smart choice. I’m sure I can get Parker to take you and the girl in. He’s got a kind streak wide enough to drive a cart through. Maybe two. God’s truth, cuz I been using that to my advantage.”

  For some odd reason, Biz’s wink and trademark smirk annoyed her, and she sighed. “No, Biz, I did nothing of the sort. And I want both you and Molly to know that what you told me about Mr. Heath this morning is patently untrue. He explained everything this afternoon. He is not to be blamed, leastwise not for his wife’s demise.”

  “Demise?” Biz spit out the word as if tasting a lemon for the first time.

  “Death,” Eleanor explained.

  Molly looked from the child to Eleanor. “How can you be certain? The terrible things I’ve heard—”

  “Are exactly that, Molly. Hearsay.” Eleanor shot her a pointed stare, driving home her point. “It is nothing but gossip and lies, and I will thank you to not repeat it anymore.”

  “Hold on here a minute.” Biz elbowed her way between her and Molly. Her blue gaze dissected her like a butterfly pinned to a display board. “Why … yer as sweet on him as Molly is on Ben Sutton.”