Enchanted Heart (6 page)

“Don’t make me have to save you too,” the man on the red-brown horse yelled as he closed his fingers around her slender shoulder to keep her steady in the flowing water. His face was grim, almost admonishing until she planted her feet wide apart on the shifting rocks and stared up at him with a grateful smile. His teeth flashed white in the dark sky when he smiled back at her, capturing her gaze with the twinkling gleam in his eyes.

Marty looked up at the stranger and recognized him as the same man who had insulted her earlier and anger began to rise in her again, but her elation at seeing her precious niece in his arms made her scream with joy, “Seraphina!”

“She’s all right,” the man said as he patted her shoulder reassuringly before he touched a heel to his mount’s side and asked, “Can you make it back on your own?”

Marty nodded, shivering and teeth chattering. She lifted her leg to move but the current was too strong, keeping her pinned in that position. She tried again and was almost pulled into the water by the waves. She flailed her arms, clamping her mouth shut against a frightened scream that would have caused little Seraphina to panic and then she regained her balance.

“Wait right here,” the man yelled above the noise. With a nod and a smile, he said, “I’ll come back for you.”

Marty nodded, too cold and too tired to protest. She watched him steer the horse to the shore and then hand Seraphina over to a happy Greta, who took her daughter into her arms and wrapped her in a warm quilt. Then, he rode back into the river and sloshed his way toward Marty. His proud figure rising above the river, to her amazed eyes, miraculously overshadowed the starry sky and the moonlit whitecaps and washed away any animosity toward him that she had embraced and replaced it with awe and unabashed admiration for the man who had taken charge of a desperate situation and had come to the rescue of two ill-fated females.

With a strong hand, he effortlessly lifted Marty into the saddle in front of him and pulled her close to his chest, his warm body searing her frozen back. He pressed her into him with one arm while he maneuvered his mount with the other, his gentle voice guiding the animal through the swirling current. The muscles on his chest and arms rippled beneath a cold, wet shirt that clung to his body like another skin. Somewhere in the depths of the river, he had lost his hat and the dark curls on his head dripped icy droplets onto her already drenched hair. And somewhere, in the fathomless depths of Marty’s cold and empty heart, an intensifying spark of veneration for her rescuer warmed her very soul.

At the rocky shore, he eased her to the ground and then dismounted, inspecting her limbs to see if she was hurt. Satisfied that she was unharmed, but worried that she would freeze to death in the cool night air, her savior scooped her up into his arms and strode toward the fire that she and Greta had built earlier, before Fate stepped in and changed their lives forever.

Marty clung to him like a vine to a giant oak tree, her shaky arms fastening to his strong neck and her fingers intertwined there, frozen together like rusty hinges. Her weary head fell against his strong shoulder and she nuzzled her nose close to his neck, breathing in the warm, woodsy scent of him. And when he bent to place her on a log next to the fire, she was reluctant to let go of him. For a brief, awe-inspired moment while he stared into her languid eyes, she wished that he would kiss her, even lifted her chin toward him. But with his gentle coaxing, she released her hold on him.

Depositing her on the log and wrapping her in the quilt that Elsa had provided, the man sat beside Marty and put his arm around her shoulder, rubbing the life back into her bones. His large manly hands caressed her arms and then rubbed her shoulders and neck, enticing the warmth to return there.

Marty stared at the fire and melted into the heat that transferred from the stranger’s body to hers. Within a few minutes, her limbs becoming weak and tired, she began to slump against him, her eyes rolling back into her head. But his voice brought her back, if only for an instant.

“Wake up, there, ma’am,” he said as he shook her shoulders in both of his hands. “Don’t go to sleep yet. We’ve got to get you dry first.”

Marty nodded and mumbled, but her body was just too heavy. Her mind went black and the fire in front of her was snuffed out by the darkness that overtook her. Sweet, sweet heat of oblivion enveloped her in a blanket of shadows that swirled around her, carrying her to that silent interlude where only nameless faces prevail.

Chapter Six

When she awoke, the bed was moving beneath her and the sun came streaming through the gap in the canvas. She rose quickly, wondering how the wagon was driving itself, for her sister sat beside her reading one of Gunnar’s poems for the umpteenth time.

Greta put the paper aside and pushed her back into the blankets, saying with authority in her voice, “Lie down. You’ve got a deathly fever.”

Marty remembered her father’s fight with a fever and she was determined not to let this one get the best of her. She pushed past Greta’s hands and threw back the blankets, saying, “I’m all right.”

“No you’re not!” Greta insisted, pushing with all her might against Marty’s shoulders, but her sister was too strong, even in her sickly state. Inwardly, she admired her sister, who was much stronger than herself, who defied death with the gusto of a gunfighter and who challenged adversity, even tragedy, with stoic tenacity and resilient endurance that her twin wished that she could muster in her own frail body. Giving up the physical fight to keep her sister still, Greta let Marty scramble to her feet while she sat with her hands clasped in her lap in utter defeat.

“Who’s driving the wagon?” Marty asked, stumbling past Greta and toward the driver’s seat.

“That nice Mr. McAllister,” Greta said in a sing-song voice, clambering after her sister but stopping at the back of the seat while Marty began to climb over it. She watched her sister crawl over it like she was on a mission of reclaiming her property and she shook her head in absolute amazement. To be that bold, she thought as she waited for Marty to plant herself on the seat next to the man in question and then she leaned on the back of the seat to listen while her sister ripped into him with reprisal. But she was surprised that Marty did not start an argument with him right away, surprised that her sister seemed mesmerized, almost enchanted by him while Marty paused to stare at the man before she climbed up next to him. She watched with wonder in the darkness of the canvas while the scene on the seat played out.

Marty started to ask Greta who Mr. McAllister was, but seeing the back of his curly dark head and those broad shoulders, she remembered. Those strong hands that held the reins ever so lightly had rescued her from the river’s terrible grip. That handsome sun-kissed face had reassured her as he had slowly lowered her to the ground from his horse and those muscular arms had carried her to the warmth of the campfire and then had wrapped her in glorious comfort until she had given in to her body’s pleas to drown out his request for her to stay awake. For long moments while her fingers gripped the back of the seat of the wagon and while she stared at the marvelous back of the stranger, she was swept away in that memory, wanting desperately to remain in that fascinating fantasy while life and its miserable memories drifted far, far away.

But she shook her head in order to focus on taking charge of her wagon and she climbed into the seat beside the man who had taken charge of her heart by saving her body and rescuing her soul. Tossing that thought from her mind, she threw him a sideways glance and thrust her hands between her legs and into the warmth of her skirt. The crisp morning air bit at her cheeks but she was determined to sit there until that man gave her the reins and let her take over the driving of her own wagon. Realizing that he was not going to do so, she cleared her throat and said, “I’ll take over now.”

The man next to her leaned away from her and turned his face toward her before he said as if angry at her, “You’re welcome!”

Suddenly, remembering that she had not thanked him for saving not only her life but the life of her sister’s daughter, she ducked her head and mumbled, “Thank you.”

A nod was all she received for her gratitude and the man ignored her once again. She took this opportunity to examine him through the thickness of her long black lashes and she drank in the handsome features that shined in the light of the sun. His slightly rounded forehead was tangled with silky black curls that danced around his dark eyebrows in the cool breeze. His strong chin, which was set in a determined jaw beneath plump luscious lips, was angled yet gently rounded at the tip. His sun-kissed cheekbones were chiseled above that square jaw line and his nose was straight and slender, turning up ever so slightly at the end. And those dark blue eyes, as blue as the deep blue sea, sparkling sapphire spheres that twinkled in secret merriment as he kept them staring ahead of him, simply took her breath away.

Sucking in a gasp of wonder at the handsome picture that he presented, if not one of resignation that this beautiful man had brought her from the brink of death to Heaven’s gate, she very kindly said, “We really appreciate you saving our lives.”

McAllister looked at her then, not that he had not picked many opportune times in order to take in her wondrous beauty. In the memory of her, which he had stamped in his mind and on his heart, she was still as beautiful as before. Her dark auburn hair that whirled halo-like around her peaches-and-cream face kissed her cherry-red cheeks with endearing wisps as the morning breeze tossed it about. Her light blue eyes danced with spirit and uncommon audacity, which most women including her twin sister failed to emit, much less possess. Her tilted chin that jutted out in defiance just at that very moment as if she were thanking him for some deed that he was expected to perform for her in the first place. Her petal-soft lips that curled up ever so vaguely in a slight smile that she sometimes had trouble hiding in his presence, an accomplishment that he took much pleasure in extracting from her, were rich with a deep mahogany hue that only Mother Nature could paint upon them. He moved his gaze to consider her slender shoulders and, dare he venture to lower his eager eyes beyond them to the rise and fall of her beguiling breasts?

Quickly, he raised his gaze back to her face. Studying it without disguising his languid appraisal, Caid’s bright blue eyes reflecting exactly what was on his mind, he nodded. In his mind, he said,
‘The pleasure was all mine’
. But to her, said softly, “You’re welcome.” Then he winked at her, a gesture which, in that instant and each subsequent time that he bestowed it upon her, made her heart flutter, and he added, “I’m glad that both of you are safe now.”

“Yes, we are,” Marty said with a smile, and then she looked around the wagon for her niece and with sudden fear, she asked, “Where is Seraphina?”

“She’s riding with Ingrid,” Greta told her as she leaned out of the canvas and then ducked back inside to give her sister some privacy with the man who was obviously concerned about her welfare and quite possibly becoming fond of her. Then she turned to straighten the blankets so that her sister would be comfortable when and if she decided to find herself back there to rest.

Satisfied that her niece was safe, Marty leaned back against the seat and, while keeping her face pointed in front of her, she cut her eyes toward the man once more. His lean body leisurely lounged in the seat beside her while he ignored her again, keeping his gaze upon the bobbing heads of the two bulls that were all too willing to do his bidding.

“I don’t believe that we have been properly introduced,” Marty said suddenly, as if the suggestion would somehow shatter the cool silence between them. She stuck her hand into his chest and announced, “My name is Marthe, it’s like Martha but spelled with an ‘e’ instead of an ‘a’ on the end. But most folks call me Marty.”

In her rambling, she had failed to mention her last name to him and it never occurred to her to correct herself until he later exposed her blunder, which flustered her all the more.

The man took her hand into his and squeezed it firmly before he nodded and answered, “The name’s McAllister. Aiden Kincaid McAllister. Most folks call me by my last name but I let my friends call me Caid.”

“Well, Mr. McAllister,” Marty said, ignoring his familiar tone but smiling warmly while she shook his hand. “It’s certainly nice to meet you,” she declared before she pulled her hand from his and thrust it back into her skirt to ease the fire that seared her pulsating palm.

“Nice to meet you too, Miss…” he said and paused to politely extract her last name from her, which she had failed to offer him.

“Mrs. Ingram,” she corrected with a curt nod toward him.

Caid looked at her hands, which she hid in her skirts and he did not recall seeing a wedding ring on the one that counted, so he asked, “Where’s Mr. Ingram?”

Marty looked across the prairie at the faint horizon and answered with a sad tone in her voice, “He was killed in the war.”

“I’m sorry,” was all that Caid could say, for he was not particularly sorry that he had asked, but more for the sad expression that his question had drawn on her face. He missed her smile, elusive and tenuous as it was in her feeble attempt to make herself seem as repugnant as possible to him. But even in her sadness she was beautiful.

“He was a good man,” she said as if she had to convince him that Elias was indeed just that.

“I’m sure he was,” Caid said with a nod. He fell silent for a moment while he watched her face, which she kept turned away from him as if she were fighting the tears that threatened to spill over her thick black lashes. How very much he wanted to take her into his arms and chase away the grief that had assailed her, but he knew that she would have backed away from him if he had, so he queried instead, “You never remarried? The war was over years ago.”

“He died in the very beginning, the first year of the war,” she explained as if telling him a heroic tale. “He enlisted in the Confederate Army when Texas seceded.” Then her eyes grew dark and her voice wavered in anger as she interjected, “He said it was his duty as a Texan, as a southern gentleman and I hated him for leaving me.” Pausing to take a breath and to reflect on the loss of not only her husband, but her three children and she added, “And I never wanted to remarry.”