Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1)

by Sara Mitchell

  “I can’t help it. I love you.”

  Beneath his hands he felt her stiffen. Sloan closed his eyes. God, I’m sorry. Sorry.

  “You . . . love me? How can you love me? You left me, I haven’t heard from you since the day we—” She stopped.

  A muscle in his jaw jumped. It had been easier to face Kristen Jorvik, humbly confessing his sin, than it was to reopen his eyes and face Garnet. But he had no choice. “I shouldn’t have said it—no! Don’t struggle. Please. I didn’t mean what you’re thinking. I only meant I hadn’t planned to tell you yet, not under these circumstances.”

  She stood there, stiff and still, eyes dark. He couldn’t read their expression. This time, it was painfully obvious that she’d closed herself off to him. And he couldn’t bear it. “Garnet, let me take you home. Let me explain. Please.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’ve remembered why your name is so familiar.” Mrs. Ward blindsided him, so focused had Sloan been on reaching Garnet that he hadn’t noticed the other woman’s return until it was too late. “You’re from Baltimore, right? One of the Daniel MacAllister sons—the youngest, I believe?”

  The chill of winter sleet iced Sloan’s spine. Slowly he forced himself to drop Garnet’s arm, to face Mrs. Ward. The purveyor of his destruction. “Yes. I’m Daniel MacAllister’s youngest son.”

  Mrs. Ward nodded. Satisfaction, and a spark of sympathy, gleamed in the worldly blue eyes. “I have friends in Baltimore—stayed with them last winter. The town was full of gossip over the death of, I believe it was Thomas, your middle brother. He killed himself, didn’t he? Over an illicit liaison with your . . . yes. It was your fiancée, wasn’t it?”

  Beside him, Garnet inhaled, a soft sharp sound. Sloan sensed more than saw her involuntary recoil, and there was nothing, nothing on earth or in heaven he could do to shield her from the awful truth. He’d planned to tell her, had spent the last days setting the stage in his mind. He’d explain everything—his past, his restoration. His love. He hadn’t wanted to hide anything from her. But he had wanted to choose the time, the place.

  It was inevitable that the sins of a man would ultimately be exposed to the light. Unfortunately, seldom were they exposed at the sinner’s convenience.

  His lips bared in a savage smile. “Yes. My brother Tom committed suicide.” He speared Mrs. Ward with a look that dared her to drop her gaze. “He broke into my pharmacy, ingested a handful of every powder and pill he found. And after he went mad from the self-induced toxicosis, he finished the job with a scalpel.”

  There was little satisfaction in watching the artist turn pale. Little triumph when her gaze dropped, and a flush climbed into her cheeks. As though in a dream Sloan turned to Garnet. He watched his hand stretch toward her, drop. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this . . .”

  Then, still moving in the same dreamlike state, he walked away.

  Twenty-Eight

  Garnet watched Sloan’s retreating figure, feeling as though her body didn’t belong to her. Instead of the iciness, her blood churned, bubbling and hot, like a pot of Leah’s soup boiling over. Instead of frozen immobility, she wanted to . . . to lash out. To physically hurt someone.

  No, not just someone. Felicity Ward.

  The powerful, strange feelings consumed her, all thoughts of Raymond Critchley momentarily banished. She turned the force of those feelings on her target. “How could you? You ought to be ashamed. Ashamed! Do you ever think of anyone but yourself, Felicity? Have you ever in your entire self-absorbed life considered that other people were not created for your benefit? You hurt Sloan.” She pointed a shaking finger toward his diminishing figure. “You hurt him. Shamed him—”

  “Enough. Goodness, Garnet. I can’t believe my eyes! Look at you—oh, very well. I apologize, for my unwelcome intrusion as well as my insensitivity.”

  “I’m not the one who needs the apology.”

  “I can see that.” She seemed to hesitate, and between one blink and the next, Garnet realized why: The confident, patronizing woman was . . . intimidated. By Garnet.

  Well. Good.

  “I’d begun to think you really didn’t have the temper to match the hair,” Felicity said.

  “I didn’t, until now. I’m tempted to get carried away by the novelty of it.” Garnet swept a furious glance over Felicity’s pristine appearance. “Tell me all the other tidbits of gossip about Sloan that you’ve withheld—the ones you savor in private until an occasion where you can inflict the most damage.”

  Felicity’s chin angled. “You have no right to speak to me like that. Why do you want to know anyway? I’d think we both heard quite enough of the sordid details.”

  “My reasons are none of your concern.” She folded her arms.

  Felicity’s mouth curved in a brittle smile. “Fine. It isn’t much. And I didn’t mention anything before because, until five minutes ago, I didn’t make the connection.” She paused. “I’m not sure I care overmuch for this . . . belligerent Garnet.”

  “She’s becoming more so . . .”

  “Oh, do calm down, girl. You’re weaving on your feet, in case you haven’t realized it. Losing one’s temper tends to be very exhausting.”

  Sighing, Felicity lifted a pacifying hand and started talking. “The MacAllisters are a fine old family, roots go back to pre-Revolutionary days, according to my friends in Baltimore. Their estate is purported to be magnificent—dignified Georgian, all brick. Landscaping by Mr. Frederick Olmstead’s firm, I believe. I’d love to paint it. I suppose I’ve ruined any chance of fulfilling that desire.”

  Garnet made a sound that reminded her of Phineas growling.

  Felicity stepped back, a quick, satisfying retreat. “Yes, well . . . I don’t know much else. Sloan’s father is dead, and the eldest son lives in the family home with his wife and children and the widowed mother. My friends claim it is an unpleasant atmosphere. The eldest son’s a stuffy, pompous sort, and it seems his wife despises him. The mother’s become a recluse of sorts—the scandal of her son’s death, you understand—”

  Abruptly she stopped, and something like a wince passed across her face. “She blamed the youngest son”—her voice rose—“told him to his face he was a murderer, and she never wanted to see him again. It was Sloan . . . all this time, it was your Dr. MacAllister.”

  “Why would his mother blame him? ” Stunned, Garnet tried and failed to imagine the trauma Sloan must have endured from the repudiation by his own family. “You said the brother killed himself. That’s not Sloan’s fault.” Frantically she searched the hill behind Felicity. Her heart jumped, a hard painful twist against her ribs. There was no sign of Sloan. “He probably wasn’t even there. Regardless, under the circumstances”—betrayed by his fiancée—“how could he be blamed?”

  But whether or not he had been there, he would blame himself. His bottomless compassion, his vow before God to heal . . . Why couldn’t his family see the wounded soul of this man? No wonder he was bitter. All these months he’d been carrying an intolerable load, and Garnet hadn’t known. She’d foisted all her pain, her past onto his broad shoulders, and he hadn’t complained. His own mother had denounced him, Jenna had betrayed him—but Sloan hadn’t turned his back on Garnet. And that day, the day he’d kissed her, when he’d been trying to open his wounded heart to her, she’d been so afraid of her own feelings she hadn’t considered how vulnerable Sloan had made himself.

  She was no better than Felicity.

  He’d told her that he loved her. And she’d stood there like a scarecrow.

  “I’ve shared everything I know about it,” Felicity said. “Can we please go now? The next time I see the poor man, I promise to deliver a fulsome apology.”

  Her facile remorse sparked Garnet’s newfound temper. “Just a moment. I need to put on my shoes.”

  She stuffed her feet in the unlaced boots, fastened them, and stood up. She smiled at the other woman. Then she leaned down, swept up t
he canteen—still half full—and calmly upended it over Felicity’s head. Felicity shrieked, hands flailing in useless protest. When the canteen was empty, Garnet slung the strap over Felicity’s soaked shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find another ride home. You seem to have gotten yourself all wet, and I don’t want to ruin the fabric on the buggy seat. Besides . . . I have someone I need to see before I go home.” She lifted her skirts and ran, her gaze on the brow of the hill. He was gone . . . but if she hurried, perhaps she could catch him before it was too late.

  Goatsbeard, rested now and adept at cross-country excursions, leaped without protest into a canter the instant she jiggled the reins. The buggy jolted up the hill, its springs groaning in protest. Garnet gripped the reins firmly, her gaze trained on the lone rider headed for a patch of woods at the foot of the meadow. Shadows had lengthened, veiling the air. Sunset was only moments away. “Sloan!” Useless to call of course, he’d never hear. But she screamed his name anyway, over and over.

  A wheel glanced off a large stone. The buggy lurched, bouncing so hard Garnet’s head smacked the roof. She fought for control, though her fatigued muscles possessed the strength of wilted flower stalks. Goatsbeard stumbled, almost jerking the reins from her hands. Wind whipped through her hair, tearing the last of the pins until the mass unfurled, spilling into her face, over her shoulders, blinding her. She clutched the slippery reins with one hand while the other swiped at her hair. “Sloan!”

  Just before the woods swallowed him, she saw Dulcie half rear and swivel around. The mare whinnied, and Garnet saw Goatsbeard’s ears prick forward. With the last of her shredding strength she slowed the horse to a trot. Sloan started back up the hill toward her, emerging from the purple shadows into a fiery spear of sunlight that streamed across the earth. They met fifty yards from the woods. Behind them, the mountains swallowed the sun, shrouding the meadow in misty lavender.

  Sloan leaped from the saddle and snatched her out of the buggy. Beneath his fading summer tan his face was pale, set in harsh lines. “You little idiot!” He wrapped his arms around her, smothering her against his chest. “You could have killed yourself!”

  His heart thundered in her ear. Garnet tried to speak, but the words clogged in her throat, and all she could do was cling. Then his hand was burrowing beneath the wild mass of hair, closing over her neck. Hard fingers slid up her throat, cupped her chin, and lifted her head.

  His mouth descended, and he kissed her with a wild fervor that turned her world to a sparking Catherine wheel.

  Only when his lips softened, drifted to her cheeks, her temples, and finally her closed eyelids, did Garnet realize she was weeping.

  “Shh . . .” He murmured to her, soothing words whose meaning was unintelligible but whose tone filled her with comfort. With peace.

  Eventually she managed to worm one of her hands between them, pressing it against the warm spot between his beard-stubbled chin and neck, where a vein pumped strong and sure against her fingers. She could no more control the slow tears soaking her face than she could still the fine trembling that seized her limbs.

  Without warning Sloan swept her up into his arms.

  “Wh-what are you doing?”

  “I’m carrying you.” Some unsettling emotion seethed beneath the terse words. “Into the woods, before we’re interrupted by anyone else.”

  Tremulous, Garnet laid her head against the bunched muscles of his shoulder. “That sounds ominous. What about the horses?”

  Without pausing Sloan whistled, a low but melodious sound. Dulcie ambled over, following them just as Phineas followed Garnet across the yard. Goatsbeard plodded along behind them.

  “Is there anything you can’t do?” Garnet murmured into his neck, half to herself.

  She wasn’t too surprised when Sloan answered, “Arrange the circumstances of my life.”

  They entered the woods, and he gently set her down. His hands caged her shoulders in a deceptively light clasp—Garnet sensed his tension and held herself still.

  “Papa’s going to worry, you know. Especially now.”

  “I do know that. We won’t be here but a moment.” He pulled a long breath, his hands kneading her shoulders with restless fingers. “Why did you chase after me like that?” he finally asked. “You could have been injured, could have been killed. Garnet?” His voice roughened, and abruptly he stepped back and pressed his fists over his eyes.

  “You were hurting. I couldn’t bear it.” She shivered in the gathering darkness. “Sloan, what Felicity said—I’m sorry. Not because of what she said, but because of how it affected you. That’s why you came down here to the Valley, isn’t it? You needed to escape. To heal.”

  “Forget it. It’s not important right now.”

  “Yes, it is. Your brother’s death wasn’t your fault. Even if you were there—”

  “I was in Adlerville. Someday, I’ll tell you about it. Garnet, it doesn’t matter.” His hand lifted in a jerky motion, dropped back to his side. He still wouldn’t look at her. “Did you risk your life chasing after me just because you felt sorry for me?”

  The careful tonelessness of the question made her wince. Immersed in her own insecurities, she’d forgotten that—inconceivable as it seemed—Sloan was almost as vulnerable to her as she was to him.

  “There’s a difference,” she told him quietly, “between pity, and . . . and hurting along with someone you . . . care about very much.” Sloan went still, so still she couldn’t even hear him breathing. She hurried on. “Beyond that, I was afraid if I didn’t follow you immediately I might never have the chance to ask you a question. It’s a selfish question, perhaps, under the circumstances, but it’s important to me. Perhaps, to both of us, if you—” She was stammering, incoherent, but pride no longer mattered. “I wanted to ask you a question,” she repeated.

  His head lifted. “What question? If it’s about what I said earlier, before that, that woman—”

  “I wanted to ask why you think my father put a cardinal feather in the secret drawer of my heartwood chest,” she interrupted before she lost her courage. “I’ve never understood. I-I love flowers, you see. Always have. And Papa told me . . . he told me,” she had to moisten her lips, had to twine her hands together to keep them still, “that someday a man, a special man would discover that drawer. He’d understand, about the feather, because this man”—her voice broke—“would understand . . . me.”

  Shadows . . . too many shadows, in the forest, in her heart. She couldn’t see Sloan’s face and yet . . . and yet . . . was he smiling at her?

  Doubt and fear swooped about her like barn swallows. Lord? If You hear me, I need to understand. “I know, the cardinal feather is red, just like my hair. But I hate my hair, and I don’t even like birds. And after that summer, I was convinced that God was punishing me, that I’d never meet a man like that. A man who would . . .”

  “Love you,” Sloan finished. He combed his fingers through the tangled wildness of her hair, his touch tender. “This hair whose color you hate—remember when Jacob told me you dyed it once?”

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  “Even if you’d succeeded, when your hair grew out it would always be red. Wouldn’t it?” He lifted a handful of strands and tickled her nose with the ends. Then he took her face in his hands. “Like a cardinal’s feathers. Because that’s how God created cardinals, and that’s how God created you, my darling. Did you know that the deeper red a male cardinal’s feather is, the easier it is to attract a mate? All part of the divine design. God cares about the cardinals as well as the sparrows, and He cares about you, Garnet Sinclair. In fact, He loves you far more than He does those birds.”

  “I know that,” she whispered, but a blush heated her cheeks when Sloan’s response was a soft laugh.

  “You know it in your head.” His thumbs brushed her temples, caressing circles that intensified the heat of her burning cheeks. “But you’ve had a little more trouble accepting it in your heart. That’s what your f
ather and I talked about, one memorable evening. But God loves you for who you are, red hair, freckles, doubts, and all.”

  Now his head dipped so he could brush a featherlike kiss across her trembling lips. “And God’s nature is like that cardinal’s red feather. Unchanging. Unchangeable. His love, His compassion—His forgiveness will never fail you, Garnet. What I believe Jacob has prayed for you, all these years, is that one day you’ll stop fighting yourself. That you’ll accept who you are, hair color, doubts, ‘wild nature,’ and all. I’m praying for that as well, you see.”

  His hands slid down to her wrists, and he held her a little ways back. Deepening shadows veiled his face to an indistinct blur, but the power of his words bathed her in radiance. “Because if you can accept with your heart as well as your head how very beautiful you are in God’s eyes, I’m hoping that you’ll be able to accept how very beautiful you are to me. And sweetheart, if you were bald and cross-eyed, you’d still be beautiful to me.”

  Garnet whispered his name, half in wonder, half a prayerful plea.

  “I’m praying that you’ll accept my love. Freely. Without conditions or reservations.” Now his thumbs were stroking the insides of her wrists. Beneath his mustache she glimpsed a flash of white teeth. “God’s been teaching me a few things as well. About timing, and choices. So I won’t pressure you. I can wait for Him to help heal your heart, the way He healed mine.”

  His smile turned wry. “No doubt I’ll never wait as patiently as the Lord, I’m sorry to say. But I will wait. Because I love you.”

  “I don’t think,” Garnet managed, lifting her arms to him, “that you’ll have to wait for very long.” She drew his head down and told him with her kiss what she wasn’t able to tell him in words.

  Twenty-Nine

  Ten days later, accompanied by gray drizzle and lowering clouds that obscured the mountains, Garnet and Sloan paid a visit to Raymond Critchley. His condition, according to the Strasburg doctor who had agreed to take over his care, was still critical, but the prognosis remained hopeful.