Storm of the Heart

by Anna Small

  Her hands were on his body. He couldn’t see them but knew they were there. Such a light touch; he could barely stand the shiver running through his very bones, making him weak-kneed and helpless. He wanted to keep her there with him and tried to speak, but no sound came out of his mouth. He tried to touch her, but she moved away until she vanished from sight.

  Chapter Four

  Abigail stretched to ease the stiffness in her back. All night, she’d slept in a chair at the table, waking at the slightest movement from her patient or tending the fire if it threatened to go out. He tossed and turned in sleep, working off the bandages she’d so carefully wrapped around his head and wrists, and she secured them several times before he slept peacefully.

  She rose to make coffee. He was close to the fire, and she gently moved his arm so she wouldn’t accidentally step on it. His eyes opened, and he stared at her blankly before a look of recognition filled his eyes.

  “Water.”

  She hurriedly grasped the pitcher from the table and poured a cup. She helped him sit, and he clung to her wrist with a weak hand while she held the cup to his lips. After a few gulps, he lay back, exhausted. He blinked at her.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Since yesterday, when I found you. It is only just morning now.”

  “I am indebted to you, mistress. Pray, tell me your name.”

  His voice held an edge of command. He was obviously a man used to taking charge. She broke his stare by pouring another cup of water.

  “Mrs. Quinn.”

  “Well, Mrs. Quinn.” He sat up on his own and grasped the quilt around his shoulders. “I wish I could introduce myself, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten who I am.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I must have hit my head on something when I went overboard. Or perhaps it was the shock of the cold water.” As if he were still trapped in the cold north Atlantic, he shuddered and pulled the quilt around him. “May I trouble you for some clothes? I will find the means to repay you for your kindness.”

  He glanced around her simple cottage. She wondered if he thought her a destitute widow and hid her shame by gathering some of Caleb’s things she had been reluctant to part with. A weathered chest beneath the window contained a few pairs of woolen trousers, left behind when Caleb pulled on the blue jacket and dark trousers of his new uniform. How proud he’d been, posing and strutting around the village before he and a handful of others rode south to Boston, there to meet the ships that would take them north to the fighting.

  Her fingers caressed the still-crisp starched linen shirt he’d worn to church. Worn at their wedding. She shook her head to dispel any lingering pictures of her husband. This was not the time for regret. She brought the clothes to him. He’d pulled himself up into a chair, the quilt around his shoulders.

  “You may have the use of these. Caleb…Mr. Quinn was about the same size as you.”

  “Thank you.” He took the bundle from her and kept it on his lap. “I do not know what turn of fortune brought me to your doorstep, Mrs. Quinn.”

  “I did nothing more than what any decent person would do.” She hesitated before saying anything else. She burned to know more about him: where he was from, his true identity. Part of her didn’t want to know anything at all. She should treat his wounds and send him on his way before anyone found out about him. That would be the safest course, for herself as well as him. “You’ve a cut on your head, and I fear you have bruised your ribs. I was cleaning the wound just now. You should lie down and rest.”

  He gripped the table and rose to his feet. The motion slid the quilt down his body. She turned away at the last minute, but not before glimpsing his flat abdomen with the line of dark hairs disappearing beneath the edge of her shawl. She had seen him this way all morning and touched his body while she bathed and cared for him, but that had been in the action of a nurse. It was something else altogether to see his bare chest while his silvery blue eyes gazed at her.

  “What is this?” He lifted a corner of her shawl from beneath the blanket.

  “My…my shawl.” She fought the heated blush that seared her cheeks, but it did no good. “You lost all your clothes in the sea. I wrapped you in it when I found you on the beach.”

  It was his turn to glance away.

  “Thank you, again. I’m afraid I do not have the luxury of time, though you are kind to help. May I ask you to take me to your town center? Perhaps I may find some answers there.”

  She reached for his arm and stopped. Instead of physically restraining him, she shook her head vehemently.

  “You should stay here until you are more fully recovered, sir.” She held out the bandages and the bottle of ointment. “I must insist you allow me to finish caring for that wound.”

  He seemed amused at her attitude and indicated his head.

  “By all means, then. Do not let me stop you.” He eased into the chair, prepared for her ministrations. He winced when she gently smoothed his hair from his temple. “How does it look?”

  Uncertain if she should voice her suspicions now or keep them to herself, she dabbed the wound with a wet, clean cloth.

  “Not too bad. It’s not very deep. I cleaned out the sand while you were sleeping.” He twitched and his jaw tightened. She lifted the rag from his head. “I regret I do not have anything for the pain.”

  “It’s not too painful.”

  She resumed her task and stopped again when he gasped and seized her wrist, releasing it a moment later.

  “I lied. It hurts terribly.”

  “My brother took a hard knock to the head when we were younger. His eyes dilated.” Without hesitating, she tilted up his chin and leaned over him to peer into his eyes. His widened for a moment, but he met her steady gaze.

  “How are they?”

  She was far too close. She could make out every detail of his eyes—the clear blue of the sea outside her door. A starburst of silver ringed his normal, black pupils. Her gaze drew to the rest of his face. His carved cheekbones, where the color had slowly returned to make him less like a statue and more like a man. The top curve of his lips, still cracked from exposure, but healthy and pink. The corners of his eyes crinkled.

  “Mrs. Quinn?”

  She snapped her head back and straightened.

  “Your eyes are fine. I mean, I do not think you suffer any internal injury.” She hastily applied a soft bandage to the wound and wrapped a longer strip around his head to secure it with a knot. “Take this ointment and apply it to your side. It will help with the bruising.”

  He scooped out some ointment and applied it gingerly to his ribs.

  “Thank you. I do not know how to repay you…”

  “There is no need.”

  Her stomach felt strange and quivery, almost the same as when she greeted Caleb, come home after a two-year stint on her father’s whaler. The boy with the loud laugh and smiling eyes had grown into a man, broad-shouldered and handsome as sin. They were married the next month.

  But this was no childhood friend or neighborly fisherman who needed assistance. Even in his injured state, his masculinity was almost overpowering in her small kitchen.

  She headed for the door and picked up a metal pail.

  “I’ll bring back some mussels for breakfast.”

  “May I help?”

  With a quick shake of her head, she opened the door to go outside. Before she closed it, he had risen to dress. The door latched behind her just as she caught a glimpse of his bare back.

  The brisk air revived her hot face. She caught her breath and gave her shoulders a shrug. The stairs creaked as she walked down to the beach, and she signed as her bare toes sank into the brown sand, warmed from the morning sun. She should take him immediately to the village, where her brother and the other men could determine his fate. If he were a prisoner of the Americans, he must be returned to his captors at once. Worse, if he were a British spy, Lobster Cove would provide no safe haven amongst its outspoken, patriotic citizens. She would
have to reveal his presence eventually but would worry about that later.

  As she waded through the rocks in the shallow water, she confronted her feelings. For as much as she longed for Caleb to come home, deep inside her heart, she knew he never would. Stories similar to what had happened at the Adams’ house were rare to the point of rumor and wishful thinking on the part of the young widows left behind, with only their memories and one or two children, if they were lucky, to remind them of the life they once had.

  Caleb wasn’t coming back. Perhaps this stranger was a sign from Providence. The sea had taken one man and returned another. She should help him as much as she could. To turn him over to his enemies would be the worst kind of betrayal. But what if he were a dangerous spy, intent on harming her country?

  She stopped in her tracks. What if Caleb had found his way ashore in some distant, hostile land, and a kind widow took him in? He could be bundled up in some stranger’s bed, enjoying the comforts of home with a new life. A worse thought was that a royalist had found him. If she could betray this stranger to his enemies, why should not another woman hand Caleb over to the British? Her stomach twisted, and she staggered forward, tears blinding her. She could not do it. It would be condemning him to death.

  The sharp sting of the cold water on her feet brought her to her senses. She waded in the shallow water and held up her skirts with one hand and grasped the pail in the other. The mussels clung to the rocks, exposed by the low tide, and she pried them loose with a sharp rod Caleb had made for her. She dropped them one by one into her pail, glancing up at the cliffs behind her now and then to see if her guest had come outside. Her food was usually simple; whatever the sea gave up, and her brother brought her fresh produce and milk from his farm once a week. The stranger needed nourishment and she hoped to find enough for a satisfying feast. She would go without if she had to.

  Mounds of seaweed dotted the beach, but none large enough to hide a body. The pile that had sheltered him had disappeared with the tide the day before. A shiver coursed down her arms and prickled her skin. There was another explanation for his mysterious presence. An occasional body did wash up at Lobster Cover from time to time as a result of an obvious shipwreck. The victims were always dead, and there was usually more than one, accompanied by an assortment of waterlogged trunks and boxes and other debris from a destroyed ship.

  This man, notwithstanding his apparent dehydration and exhaustion, could have come ashore in the dead of night and situated himself to look like a victim of misfortune. Perhaps he had fought in the same battle responsible for Caleb’s death.

  She filled her pail automatically, while her thoughts raced with every possible scenario for his appearance. She could be harboring a fugitive from naval justice. A spy intent on betraying her trust and harming the town. Her town. Lobster Cove was rich in resources. Colin O’Dowd was the wealthiest man in four counties, thanks to the open trade between Asia and the United States. Perhaps it was his treasure the stranger was after. She was not only harboring a possible spy, but a criminal intent on harm.

  A crab pinched her toe, and she jumped out of its way, spilling some of the mussels. Muttering an oath, she stooped to gather them when the water beside her splashed.

  “I’ve been calling your name for more than a minute,” her brother complained. “Lost in a daydream, are you?”

  She hopped out of the sea foam onto the sand and looked up at his tired, older-than-his-years face. He still suffered from the loss of his youngest son. She knew it was for his other children and his wife he got out of bed every morning. Like her grief for Caleb, Elias’s ran deep and silent.

  “I didn’t hear you. What are you doing here?”

  That was a mistake. A slight frown furrowed his brow. She hastily kissed his cheek, which she had forgotten to do in the midst of her emotional wanderings.

  “I came to chop your wood and bring you some milk and butter. I also wanted to look at your shutters. There was a strong wind the other night. Another storm like that will blow your house into the water.”

  “Luckily, I have some of Father’s oars under my bed. I can row myself to safety.”

  Her words brought a smile.

  “I wish I had some of Father’s gold under mine.” He crossed his arms. “Finish what you’re doing, and show me whatever needs repairs at the cottage. You know that Patience won’t be satisfied until I break my back working two homes.”

  His words were in jest. His cheerful wife deserved her name. Abigail’s heart filled with gratitude toward the loving brother and his wife who provided a home to her when Caleb went away. She had only just gotten used to living on her own again when they started pestering her—gently, of course—to move in with them. Her lonely life on the outskirts of town worried them, although she cherished the peaceful sea. Besides, if Caleb had died at sea, was his spirit not sailing forever on the white peaks of the waves?

  “I do not need any help with the wood,” she said quickly, forcing herself not to look up at the cliffs. Despite the crisp air, she broke out in perspiration beneath her armpits. “There’s enough for a few days. I can manage. Why do you not go fishing and tell Patience you were here all day?”

  Elias’s frown vanished.

  “I just might do that. It’s been weeks since I had a day to myself.” He straightened her shawl over her left shoulder where it had dropped. “You must come over for supper tonight, then. I cannot keep making excuses for you. Patience wants to bake a pie, and apparently, my presence alone does not warrant something as grand as a pie.”

  “Not tonight.” She hefted the pail. “Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day.” She danced up and down on her cold feet. “I think I’ll go back inside now. Come by in a few days.”

  “What are you hiding, Abby?” His voice took on the bossy tone she hadn’t heard since they were children and he’d caught her eating the wild blueberries Mama had put aside for stewing.

  “Nothing.”

  His eyebrows lifted with suspicion. She shrugged.

  “The storm had me awake half the night. I combed the beach all this morning and am a bit tired. I was going to lie down and have a late supper.” She rattled the mussels in the pail.

  He scanned the length of the narrow strip of sand.

  “Did you find anything interesting?”

  “Uh, no.” She nearly choked on her words. “Nothing of any value.”

  “Ah, well.” He examined her in silence for what seemed an eternity. “You look peaked. Still having nightmares?”

  He was never subtle. She shifted position on the cold sand.

  “They come and go.”

  He was silent again. Finally, he nodded.

  “I have them myself. It takes time to heal the wound, Abby. Just time.”

  “I have that in abundance, fortunately.” She smiled with what she hoped was convincing assurance. “Go, brother. Fish for your supper. I’ll be fine.” She was relieved she’d plucked enough mussels from the sea to satisfy his watchful eye.

  “If you insist.” He winked at her. “Have your rest. I’ll return in a few days.”

  She waved goodbye as he walked away. He looked over his shoulder, but she pretended to be interested in the mussels. When he was gone, she hurried up the creaking stairs against the cliff wall and headed home. Her previous dark thoughts returned. Perhaps she should have told Elias about the man. Elias was practical and intelligent; he would know what to do. But what if he insisted they turn him over to the authorities?

  Regardless of her solution, she could not sequester him for long. That she had not told Elias at the outset pointed an accusing finger her way. A widow of two and twenty could not share her home with another man, let alone a possible enemy. She shrugged as she trod across the path, her cottage in sight. The man was nothing to her. She could provide him food and clothes, and send him packing. No one would ever know he had been there, and her reputation would be unsullied. She had helped him, as was her Christian duty, and could send him away with a c
lear conscience.

  She opened the door to her house, prepared to speak her piece. She would feed him today, and he’d leave in the morning. They’d wish each other well, and that would be the end of it.

  The pine table was set with a faded cloth. Two pewter mugs of water were at the opposite ends, along with forks, knives, and plates. The remainder of her morning bread was in a basket beside her chipped butter crock. Her guest straightened over a pot of boiling water on the fire. The fragrant steam filled the room with the scent of dried onions and herbs. He motioned toward her pail.

  “I thought I would start the water for those mussels.”

  “How k-kind.” She stuttered over a few words.

  The shock of entering the cottage and seeing him dressed in Caleb’s clothes nearly made her trip over her doorstep. Her shawl was neatly folded and lay on a chair. She didn’t know how she would ever look at it again without remembering what it had covered.

  “I wish I could repay you in a more meaningful way.” He glanced around the cottage with its open kitchen and the bedroom beyond. “Perhaps I may make a few repairs. Did your husband have any tools?”

  She nodded mutely. She’d forgotten what it was like having a man in her house. The past several months of loneliness and solitude, occasionally dispelled by Elias’s visits, seemed like they had never happened. Clothed in Caleb’s garments, the stranger resembled Caleb with his broad shoulders and easy smile. She could almost imagine her husband was home.

  But he wasn’t Caleb. God alone knew who he was. She handed him the pail, and he picked through the mussels with a quick eye. If he were a British officer born into a noble family, as so many of them were, how would he know how to cook? Let alone fix up her cottage?

  She watched his capable hands clean and prepare the mussels before he dropped them into the boiling water.