The Captive Heart (42 page)

Holding back a sob, Eleanor whispered, “I shall always love you, little
one.
”

Her throat closed, and she sped to the door. Grace would be better off without her. So would Samuel. She had to believe that, wrap her hands around that boulder, and let it sink deep into her belly. Believing otherwise would crush her.

“Heath!”

Samuel jerked up his face and sucked in a breath. A blur of green and brown slowly sharpened into trees, trail, canopy, and ground. Wohali blew out a snort and bobbed her head, his mount as annoyed by Barton’s voice as he was.

Sweat beaded on Samuel’s forehead, and he swiped it with the back of his hand, skewing his hat. For the first part of September, it surely felt like midsummer—except for the recurring chills that shook him from head to toe.

“We going in circles?” Barton accused from behind.

Samuel ignored him, forcing his eyes to remain open—hard to do when, with each of Wohali’s steps, he wanted to wince. The wound on his chest burned like hellfire. Oh, for a bottle of rum right about now … but he didn’t drink anymore. Did he?

Swallowing the old desire, he slipped his gaze from a jut of granite, to a forked scarlet oak, and on to a southward bend in the trail. All of it familiar. Too familiar. Full consciousness punched him in the gut. Barton was right. They’d been here. Yesterday. And maybe even the day before that. Inoli would have a good laugh about that when he heard—Samuel’s heart seized. No, he wouldn’t. His brother would never laugh at him again.

He pulled back on the reins with his good arm and voiced a low “whoa” to the two horses strung behind. He had to get his bearings—and not let on that he’d lost them in the first place. Not that Barton was in much better shape than him. The man’s leg, wrapped and tied, was on the mend, but the arrow wound in his gut festered. If they didn’t reach Newcastle by sundown, neither of them would see another day.

Barton hacked up a wad and spat it to the ground. “Yer lost, ain’t ya?”

“Shut your mouth, Barton. You talk too much.” Wide awake and wishing he weren’t, Samuel sniffed. Then sniffed again, trepidation growing with each inhale. How had he missed the smoky stench in the air?

He twisted in the saddle. Pain seared the entire left side of his torso, and he grunted. The breeze carried a burnt stink from the east, up toward a rise of pine and hickory. The direction of his house.

Oh God. No.

“Hyah!” He dug his heels into Wohali’s belly. The mount took off like a well-placed musket shot.

“What in the—”

“Shut up, Barton!” Samuel yelled. Half a mile later, an old buffalo trail intersected their path. He steered his mount onto it. All three horses slowed on the incline.

“Ain’t Newcastle south? I need me a doc. I can’t take this much longer.”

The man’s whining burned into Samuel’s back like a hot poker. Or was that from the fever he could no longer deny? Either way, he understood why McDivitt had wanted to shoot the man. Four—or was it five?—days in Barton’s company could drive anyone to the act.

One more mile, and Samuel’s heart started beating hard. Acrid air hit the back of his throat, rubbing it raw. A half hour later, and his heart stopped. So did Wohali. The other horses whinnied. All three halted at the line where growth and greenery gave way to charred ground and blackened timber. Ahead, trees sprawled like dead men. Only a few brave survivors stood tall and blistered.

Behind, Barton cursed.

Samuel leaned forward, whispering to Wohali. “Home, girl. Take us home.”

A great shiver ran the length of his mount’s neck; then Wohali trotted onward, stepping high over logs. Samuel gasped, clutching the reins so tight his fingers ached. Better to focus on that pain than passing out—or on the horror that he might find when his homestead came within sight.

With every step closer, he couldn’t help but wonder if Red Bird and Grace had made it out alive. Had they plenty of warning? Had his wife known what to do? His blood ran cold, and he trembled. Uncontrollably. Had they met with the same end as Mariah?

He should’ve been here for them—he should’ve been there for Mariah.

Loosening the reins, he gave Wohali plenty of lead to pick her way down the creek bank then up the other side. When they cleared the rise, the ruined area of black land punched him in the lungs, stealing his breath. Samuel slid from the horse and ran to what should’ve been his yard, his stable, his home. His life.

Nothing but charred heaps of rubble remained. Not even any smoke curled out. Like life had loaded up its mount and moved on.

How much loss could a man take and still stand? Not this much. Not him. He dropped to his knees. Gravel dug into his flesh, poking through the fabric of his breeches. Good. Dig and cut and shred. Why not? He’d lost it all. His brother, his daughter, the only woman he’d ever loved.

A cry started deep, plowing up heart and soul and yanking them along as it tore out his throat. The wail swelled up to heaven. It had to. There was no other place for it to go.

Spent, he pitched forward and lay prone, rock and dirt mashing into his cheek. Eventually, his eyes closed. Maybe forever. If God smiled on him, he’d never open them again.

S
nap! The piece of chalk broke in Eleanor’s fingers, the sharp crack filling the schoolroom like the breaking of a bone. Seated in front of her, ten-year-old William Taggerton glanced up from his sketchpad. She smiled down at her young charge with the feigned look of pleasantry she’d mastered in the past three months. “Give me a moment more, William.”

The boy shrugged and went back to sketching out a likeness of a ship with a charcoal stick. He wouldn’t care if she ever finished.

Eleanor drew in a deep breath, then pocketed the broken half of chalk and went back to writing sums with the leftover stub on a small slate. What was wrong with her today? A grimace tightened her jaw, and for the space of a heartbeat, she nearly gave in to the truth of what ailed her every day. Sorrow. A grief so acquainted it had no qualms about climbing into bed with her each night so that she woke in the morning to a pillow dampened by tears.

Oh, Samuel, would that things had been different.

“Miss Morgan, look!” Susan’s cheerfulness squealed from the girl in a pitch that set Eleanor’s teeth on edge. Across the table from William, his younger sister grinned up. A stack of buttons wobbled in front of her, like a castle tower about to tumble under siege.

“Very nice, Susan. How about you sort them now, by color perhaps?” She forced a lightness into her tone that she didn’t feel. Couldn’t feel. Not when every time she looked at the girl, all she longed to see was Grace’s pixie face. What a horrid quirk of fate that her new charge also had golden hair.

“Miss Morgan?” A woman’s voice called to her from behind.

Eleanor stashed away the rest of the chalk into her pocket. “See if you can do these sums for me, William.” Handing the slate to the boy, she whirled to answer the housekeeper’s summons. “Yes, Betty?”

The woman stood framed in the schoolroom doorway, looking like a spooked horse, nostrils flaring, the whites of her dark eyes large. “It’s Mr. Taggerton, miss. He be askin’ for you in the study.”

Eleanor pressed a hand to her stomach. In all her time as governess in this home, she’d never once been called to the study. In truth, after the first week here, she’d hardly seen or spoken to either the master or the mistress. “Me? Now?”

“Yes’m.” The woman bobbed her head, the white kerchief on her hair in stark contrast to her ebony skin. Casting a wide-eyed look over her shoulder, as if perhaps a hound of hell tagged her heels, she scurried into the room and lowered her voice, for Eleanor alone to hear. “And miss? You ought to know … he ain’t smilin’. He be in a foul mood, so mind yer step.”

“Very well.” Eleanor smoothed her clammy hands along her skirt. It must be bad if Betty were this riled. “Thank you. I shall be down directly.”

Betty whooshed out the door, apron strings flying. Eleanor watched her disappear, unease creeping down to her stomach and tightening into a knot. Why would the master call her midday when he ought be out attending to more important matters of business?

Mulling the possibilities, she crossed the rug to a bookcase and pulled off a picture book. Running her hand farther down the shelf, she grabbed a reader, then returned to the table and set them down. “When you are finished with your tasks, children, I would like you to do some reading. I shall be back shortly.”

“Yes, Miss Morgan,” their voices joined together, Susan’s lisp adding a hissing quality.

Eleanor frowned as she hurried out the door and down the corridor. As she sped along, she contemplated what to try next to get Susan to annunciate more clearly—a vain attempt to keep from thinking about why Mr. Taggerton had summoned her.

She descended the grand stairway, turned left, and stopped in front of the study. Pausing, she fingered her hair and tucked up any stray wisps. Necessary, yet also a stalling tactic, giving her enough time to compose the rapid beat of her heart. Surely she’d not committed some grievous error? If she were relieved of this post—no. Better not to think it, or she’d undo her last-minute primping and enter the room all teary-eyed and forlorn.

She lifted her knuckles and rapped on the mahogany, the echo bouncing in the small corridor.

“Enter.” The command, though muffled, was stern.

My precious Lord;

My only hope;

My Saviour, how I need You now.

Holding tightly to the prayer, she shoved open the door and met with cigar smoke and tension thick on the air. Mr. Taggerton stood behind his desk, arms folded, blue eyes trained upon her. A severe line creased his brow. Without a word, his censure boxed her ears.

She stopped just inside the threshold, unable to make her feet travel any farther. Apprehension moistened her palms, and she folded her hands in front of her, giving no quarter for them to rub along her skirt and expose her nervousness. She’d not seen the master of the house look so austere in her entire time here. Swallowing for courage, she was about to greet him when a movement from the other side of the room attracted her gaze.

There, near the corner, another man stood at the window, back to her. He lowered his hand, and the sheer curtain he’d been holding back fell into place. Sunlight silhouetted him, light against shadow. A figure of darkness and strength. Her heart skipped a beat.

The man’s hair was the shade of roasted chestnuts left too long in the fire, just like Samuel’s, but it was pulled neatly back and tied with a ribbon. His shoulders were broad, with a fine, strong back that narrowed at the waist, but the tailored suit did not bulge out at the hip where a tomahawk ought to rest. Farther down, past legs wrapped in exquisite fawn-colored wool, leather shoes reflected a sunbeam from the window. Moccasin boots wouldn’t do that—and that’s all Samuel ever wore.

Eleanor swallowed a sour taste. Curdled milk would’ve been sweeter. La! Would she never be free of the man?

“Miss Morgan?”

“Yes, sir.” She snapped her face back to Mr. Taggerton and dropped a curtsey. “I came as quickly as I could, sir.”

He crossed to the front of the desk, looking down his nose at her the entire time. “I have just heard quite a tale. A fantastic one, really, though one I’m inclined to believe unless you say otherwise.”

Biting her lip, she looked from one man to the other. The fellow at the window stood as granite, his back an unmovable mountain.

Mr. Taggerton’s steely gaze was every bit as inflexible as he drew up in front of her. “When you first came here, Miss Morgan, you told me of your past, but I wonder if you told me all of it?”

“I …” She pressed her lips shut. What had he heard? Who knew anything about her? Had the duke somehow found out her location from his wife and was even now ruining her in a new land? Panic fluttered in her chest. “What is it you want to know?”

His gaze bore into hers, terrible and piercing. “Are you married, Miss Morgan?”

“No!” Without thought, her hand slapped against her chest, the bear claw beneath her bodice a sharp accusation as it dug into her skin. The tangible truth scorched her conscience, and she wilted back a step. God’s wrath burned hot against deceivers such as herself. “I mean … I suppose I am, until I can pay off my contract. But I swear to you, sir, I never knew the man as a husband. In that respect I am blameless.”

“Breaking a contract—either indenture or marriage—is a serious offense.” Mr. Taggerton’s eyes narrowed. “I could have you arrested. Imprisoned. Or worse.”

“Me?” Panic choked her, and she gasped. “Please, no. I had no choice in the matter. I only did what I had to. You do not understand!”

Her voice broke, a ragged cry fraying her words to shreds—and like a hawk to a mouse, the noise drew the other man from the window.

Across the room, dark eyes found hers—and stared straight into her soul. “Then tell him everything, Tatsu’hwa.”

The floor pitched, like the canting of the ship that’d first brought her to this land. She staggered to a nearby chair and grabbed on to the back of it.