Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1)

by Sara Mitchell

  Without warning, he leaned over her again. His fingers wrapped around her wrist as though he was about to hold her down. Reacting without thought, Garnet attacked, even as her panicked mind struggled to remember her father’s instructions on how to defend herself against unwanted attentions. Burning talons of pain gouged her body, ripping her to shreds. Not much of a fight . . . Her vision blurred, dimmed, but she refused to give up.

  “Shh! It’s all right! I’m not going to hurt you! Listen to me, Miss Sinclair—Garnet. You must keep still or you’ll tear the stitches. Garnet! Be still.” The whiplike authority of his voice penetrated the miasma of pain and panic. She obeyed, primarily because she knew he was right. At this point, resistance would be counterproductive. Confidence and cunning, that was the way she would regain her freedom.

  “That’s better.” His fingers were still wrapped around her wrist, but after a moment he carefully laid her hand across her middle and sat back. “Your pulse is racing.” He stared at her, and Garnet watched in rising confusion as the harsh aggression on his face faded away, leaving behind a smooth impenetrable mask. “Do you promise not to move if I leave you for a moment?”

  Warily she nodded.

  He studied her for another long moment, and a flicker of something softened the harsh features. Then he turned and moved to the other side of the fire, disappearing into the shadows. When he returned, he was carrying the fox. “He’s still alive. I thought you’d rest easier if you saw for yourself.”

  Without warning, tears brimmed. Garnet tipped her head up to keep them from spilling, ignoring the lash of pain at the movement. “Thank you . . . for taking care of him.”

  “I was afraid not to. Have you always been this intransigent, Garnet Sinclair?”

  Was that a thread of humor she heard? It seemed so uncharacteristic of this dark, brooding man who acted the good Samaritan with a conflicting blend of irritation and compassion. “My sister Meredith’s the stubborn one. I’m”—she hesitated, then mentally shrugged—“thought of hereabouts as the wild one, I’m afraid.” Oh, my. That sounded provocative as well as inaccurate.

  “No wonder you were so stubborn over the fox then.” He carefully deposited the small bundle against her right side. “The little fellow’s asleep, or unconscious, which is the best thing for him. Hopefully his presence will prevent you from any more outbursts—wouldn’t want to scare him, would we?”

  “I—no.”

  Another of those indecipherable expressions flickered across his face. Then he made an abortive gesture of his hand and abruptly turned toward the fire. “I’ve made some sassafras tea. Found some roots growing near the creek. I want you to drink some. You lost a bit of blood.” When he turned back around, he held a collapsible metal cup in his hand.

  Discomfited, Garnet watched the steam spiraling from the cup. It was plain he resented the role of good Samaritan—but it was equally plain that without assistance she was helpless. She doggedly held on to her composure as she met the frowning gaze again, trying to apologize with her eyes for all the trouble.

  After a moment the man muttered something under his breath, then deftly slipped his free arm beneath the back of her neck. “I’m going to support you. Try not to expend any effort.” His strength as well as his nearness were overwhelming. Garnet automatically tensed. But the impersonal skill of his hands was somehow reassuring, so she tried to remember that he was a doctor, and doctors were allowed the privilege of such intimacy. His hold was comforting, not threatening, and in spite of her uncertainty, she relaxed beneath his hands.

  “That’s it . . . slowly now, don’t add a scalded mouth to your list of injuries.”

  The pungent tang of sassafras and some other unfamiliar aroma filled her nostrils. The tea was weak, bitter, but its warmth comforted her chilled insides. “Thank you.”

  “Any nausea?”

  She thought for a moment, shook her head in relief.

  “Good.” He helped her drink the entire cupful, his aid experienced and capable. “If this stays down, in a few moments we’ll try some solid food. The remains of my lunch, I’m afraid—half a ham biscuit, some cheese and soda crackers from the general store in Tom’s Brook.” His expression was wry. “They’re fairly squashed, but your body needs the nourishment. About your buggy . . . Do you remember where you left it?”

  Though still muzzy-headed with pain, she groped in her memory for a clear image. “Edge of a meadow. There’s a lane that leads back to the road.” It wasn’t far, less than half a mile . . . but she couldn’t make it. The pain battered in relentless waves, making her lightheaded.

  “Not yet, my girl. Don’t give in to it yet. Come on, talk to me. Help me to help you. You say you have a buggy, so your horse is waiting for you, isn’t he? Tell you what, in a little bit I’ll go find them. Garnet—may I call you Garnet? What’s the name of your horse, Garnet? I’ve told you about Dulcie, tell me your horse’s name.”

  “Hmm? Oh . . .” Garnet tried to smile despite the inferno of agony threatening to engulf her. “Goatsbeard.”

  He blinked.

  “It’s . . . a wildflower.”

  The man, MacAllister—was that his name?—smiled back, the first time Garnet had seen him do so. “Unusual name for a horse. But a young lady who draws beautiful flowers, and rescues wounded foxes at the expense of her own life and limb, is also unusual.”

  He reached beyond her head, and a moment later Garnet felt the balm of a cool, damp cloth against her face and neck. After a while the world stopped dipping and swaying. “You’re . . . my sister and I ate lunch in town. We heard . . . they said you’re a doctor.”

  “Not any longer.” The emphatic denial registered with the force of a blow, yet the gentle strokes of the cloth against her skin never varied. “But you don’t need to worry,” he added, sounding as though the words had been squeezed through their wringer washer. “I didn’t happen to be passing this way by accident.”

  “Going to Winchester, you said. To pick up your horse.” Garnet fumbled, searching with her hand until she felt the soft fur and pointy shape of a fox’s ear.

  Sloan MacAllister gave a short bitter laugh. “Yes, but that’s not—never mind. You wouldn’t understand. Even though I do, I don’t like it.” He muttered something else beneath his breath. “But I will take care of you, so don’t worry. I was a very good doctor. And I’ve given you something, something that will help the pain while we’re on the road. Relax. Stop struggling in your mind and relax. Trust me to take care of you.”

  “I’m taking the fox with me.”

  “Miss Sinclair. He’s a wild creature, badly injured. Taking him with you will only frighten him, in all likelihood finish him off.”

  Garnet ducked her head, squeezed her eyes shut, and swallowed repeatedly until she could control her voice. “I have to try.” No good, she thought, wincing at the thick wobbly sound. “What if . . . what if God brought me to this spot, because He didn’t want one of His creatures to die so cruelly?” Not again. Don’t make me endure this again. “I know, that doesn’t make sense to you. It’s just an animal, after all.” She bit her lip, kept her head down, unwilling to face Dr. MacAllister’s condemnation.

  It was absurd to expect him to understand. Even worse, the height of presumption for her to interpret God’s purpose. The almighty Creator of the universe neither required nor requested the cries of a doubting Thomas such as herself. She was behaving like a hysterical female, instead of graciously thanking this man for saving her life. “I’m sorry. I’m imposing on your kindness.”

  Odd, but Dr. MacAllister’s face was indistinct, as though she’d smeared her charcoal pencil over it. “You’re right, about the fox.” She caressed the soft ear with trembling fingers, then slid her hand away in a gesture of renunciation. “Will he suffer, do you think? Or just . . . drift off?” Her throat closed up again.

  “Oh, for—” All of a sudden fingers softer and warmer than a slice of Leah’s fresh-baked bread traced a delicate path from h
er forehead to the vein fluttering in her neck.

  “Ill-tempered lout,” she heard him mutter. Then, “I’ll take care of the fox, with as much diligence as I plan to take care of you. And we’ll bring him along, I promise. I’ll see both of you safely home, Garnet Sinclair.” Incredibly, she thought she heard resigned humor drifting through the words. “Rest easy. I’ll see you home.”

  Nine

  Jacob Sinclair stared between the horse’s ears, his hands clutching the buggy reins like a lifeline. It was past ten o’clock. Jesus, blessed Savior . . . it’s past ten . . . The vise around his ribs that made every breath a struggle now tightened with each passing second. Garnet. Garnet. Where was the lass?

  Over the past four hours he had run a gauntlet of harrowing emotions, from annoyance to anguish. At this moment he was fighting to keep Leah from guessing how close he was to breaking down.

  The entire neighborhood had roused to search for Garnet, gathering momentum as hours passed without word of her appearance. Bobbing lantern light speared into the countryside on both sides of the Pike, and a cacophony of sounds filled the moonlit night—plodding hooves, wheels crunching on the macadam. Occasionally Banjo’s hounds bayed, halting the murmur of voices until Banjo scolded the dogs for sniffing out a raccoon or possum. As yet, the dogs hadn’t found Garnet’s trail. Nobody had found the trail, nor any sign of Garnet.

  “Papa?”

  “Aye?”

  “I . . . nothing.”

  Jacob glanced sideways, to Leah’s hunched figure. The buggy lantern shone onto her hands, those small but capable hands, not so steady now, smoothing endlessly over the pile of blankets she’d insisted on bringing along. A basket of food sat between her feet, along with a dry bonnet she’d dug out of the bureau in Garnet’s bedroom.

  Lord, forgive me. He’d been a selfish churl, locked1 inside his own fear. For all her self-possession, Leah was still only nineteen years old. “We’ll find her,” he promised now, shifting the reins to one hand to give her a hug. It was about like embracing a porch column.

  “I know.” Unspoken words hung thick in the cool night air, possibilities too horrific to voice aloud.

  Finally Leah cleared her throat. “Since the Magruders have a telephone, I asked FrannieBeth to send Duncan back home, to call Meredith. No matter what, she’ll want—” She stopped. “You know Meredith. She’ll rent a hack, or be on the first southbound train, never mind her job.”

  “There’s a good lass,” Jacob murmured, patting her restless hand. “I never would hae thought of all that.” But his Leah had.

  “Um . . . what about Joshua? I mean, he’s been courting her for years, even if Garnet doesn’t see—” This time, her voice broke on the last word.

  “Ho, Jacob!” Amos Pettiscomb cantered up, waving his hand. “Found her! We found her, man!” He pointed toward the north. “Half-mile along, headed this way in that runabout of hers.”

  Scattered cheers burst all around as the news spread among the searchers. Beside him, Leah choked back a sob.

  “Thank God.” Jacob closed his eyes, squeezing her in an exultant hug. “Thank God.” Right now, he couldn’t frame another coherent thought.

  “Ah, um . . .” Pettiscomb hesitated. His horse tossed its head, spraying lather, hooves restlessly stamping.

  Jacob peered upward. “Amos? She’s all right, isn’t she? I mean, she’s driving, and all.”

  “Well, now, Jacob, I can’t rightly say, ’cept she’s—”

  “What’s happened? Is she hurt—what?”

  “Papa, let Sheriff Pettiscomb finish.”

  Automatically Jacob covered Leah’s fingers, which were digging into his arm.

  “Ah well, as to that—Miss Garnet, she ain’t exactly driving.” He muttered something under his breath, and spat a stream of tobacco onto the road. “Listen, Jacob, best tell it to you straight. Your daughter’s been injured, don’t know how bad ’cept the feller driving the buggy reassured me she’d be fine. Sounded like he knew what he was about. Funny thing that, now I think on it—hey!”

  His startled shout was drowned in a clatter of hooves. Jacob slapped the reins to the horse’s flanks again, catapulting the buggy down the Pike at a reckless gallop.

  He shouldn’t have stayed here, Sloan thought for the third time in as many minutes. The Sinclairs’ parlor was stifling, the silence after this past hour thick enough to choke a buffalo.

  Shouldn’t have stayed, shouldn’t have acquiesced to Jacob Sinclair’s pleas. Should have resisted the hollowed-out desperation in his eyes, the frantic grip of his hand while Sloan explained what had happened to his daughter. You’re a feeble-minded softhead, MacAllister. Right now he could have been halfway back to his place, instead of languishing in this room like a tame tabby cat. After all, there’d been plenty of offers from the neighbors, all of them eager to rub shoulders with the—Sloan clenched his hands so hard the knuckles ached—with the Yankee doctor.

  Oh, he could have been on the way home, all right, forced to share a buggy with some yokel picking at his soul, demanding answers and asking questions, trampling on his privacy and Garnet Sinclair’s. Sloan winced at the memory of the avid faces crowding around when he and Jacob Sinclair lifted her from the buggy.

  Words formed somewhere deep inside him, gradually snagging his attention with their conviction. Scraps of Scripture, the notion that he was being chided like the apostle Paul for kicking against the pricks, resonated in the silent room as clearly as if they’d been spoken aloud. Shoulders sagging, Sloan forced his hands to relax, flexing the fingers until the circulation was restored. A corner of his mouth twitched. All right, he deserved to be smacked, and hard. The local folk had been concerned, their manner caring more than curious. Several faces bore the trace of tears.

  More to the point, Sinclair and his youngest daughter deserved something beyond the curt words of reassurance he’d flung their way.

  It was just . . . “It’s a fox, for crying out loud,” Sloan said. An injured, dying animal whose presence, because of his promise to Garnet Sinclair, was the primary cause of Sloan’s foul mood.

  It had been the unanimous opinion of thirty or so neighbors that the fox be tossed to the hounds. Even Jacob Sinclair, mindful of his daughter’s tender nature, had been reluctant to shelter the injured varmint. That left nobody but Sloan to protect the animal, and by inference Garnet’s “tender nature,” an unpalatable choice because Sloan didn’t want anything to do with either of them.

  He ran a hand around the back of his neck, his mind tormenting him with the picture of an unconscious Garnet cuddled against his side like a helpless child.

  At some point during the ride the wind had blown her hair across her face and onto his forearm, even though the darkness muted the brassy shade. She’d roused momentarily when he tried to stuff her hair inside the collar of his jacket to keep it out of his way. Sloan remembered with a grinding sort of disquiet that Garnet had even been concerned about ruining the blasted jacket. “I’ll replace it,” she’d whispered, her voice slurred from the injection he’d administered. “Did I . . . thank you? For the fox? My father . . . care for . . .”

  Sinclair would have promised to house a family of skunks if she’d asked. The fox had been deposited inside a hastily scrounged orange crate and transported to a corner of the Sinclairs’ wash house. Sloan figured its chances for survival were negligible.

  Well, it was no longer his problem. He’d done what he could, for both his “patients,” and as soon as the Sinclair family doctor gave his report, Sloan could leave Sinclair Run in the dust.

  Resigned to the inevitable for now, he prowled the parlor, for a long time scarcely noticing his surroundings because he was arguing with God, albeit silently. Eventually, however, the peaceful atmosphere of the room worked on him, calming the resentment, the sensation of being trapped.

  A smile finally teased the corner of his mouth when he approached the table where the youngest daughter had left him a tray loaded with food, alon
g with the choice of hot tea or spiced cider. Leah was her name, he remembered. Sloan wondered whether she was ever still. The moment she’d sprung down from the family buggy, she’d taken over with the forcefulness of a field marshal, thanking the crowd at the same time she was directing Sloan where to carry her sister, making sure her father would take care of the horses.

  He wondered what the oldest sister was like. Leah and Garnet appeared on first acquaintance to share little beyond the family name. Leah’s slight frame and unremarkable coloring disguised a dictatorial personality. Garnet, on the other hand . . . Sloan tipped his head back, squeezing his eyes shut against the memories.

  The self-possessed young woman with haunted eyes. The semiconscious, blood-soaked girl with a head of blood-colored hair, whose stubbornness defeated him even as her inexplicable fear unnerved him. Trying to understand Garnet Sinclair was like grabbing a handful of mist.

  A ship’s clock quietly ticking above an old horsehair chair in the corner showed it was approaching midnight. Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Sloan poured tea into a sturdy earthenware mug and selected a square of some sort of bread. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten for over ten hours, having fed Garnet the remains of his box lunch from Tom’s Brook. He swallowed some tea, which tasted good, actually, then took a cautious bite of the bread or biscuit or whatever it was.

  Flavor burst over his tongue in a flood of incredible sensation. Sloan eyed the laden tray thoughtfully, then shrugged and sank down in a comfortably worn overstuffed chair. After wolfing down two squares, he settled back to savor a third more slowly.

  While he ate, his gaze explored the room. Nothing like the luxurious mansion where he’d grown up, but a palace compared to the cramped and leaking company house where he’d spent the last three years. Furniture was simple, for the most part, though beautifully finished. All the wood gleamed satin in the soft glowing light. Examples of needlework here and there spoke of taste and skill. Garnet, Leah, or the oldest daughter—Meredith, was it?