The Captive Heart (27 page)

“Since when are you so accommodating?”

“I ain’t never been nothin’ but.” He leaned sideways, eyes seeking out Red Bird like a hawk to a mouse. “Why, I’ll even see yer wife and child get home safely, you wanna take that guide job.”

Samuel reached for his tomahawk. He might not be able to take the man out with a shot, but he could make Angus wish for death with a few well-placed swipes.

McDivitt had no qualms about rolling his eyes. “Just let me know, Heath. I’m happy to oblige, and something tells me yer wife wouldn’t mind at all, either.”

Samuel choked a hold lower on the handle, primed for throwing.

Either McDivitt didn’t notice or didn’t think the threat was real. He merely unfolded his arms and fumbled around inside his waistcoat. A small pouch appeared, and he took out a fat pinch of tobacco, jamming it between gums and cheek. Smacking his lips, he stuffed the pouch away and strolled over to Red Bird.

“McDivitt! I’m warning you—”

“Shut yer gob, Heath. I’m going.” But before Angus stalked off, he lowered his voice and said something to Red Bird.

She pressed shaky fingers to her lips.

Samuel swung back his arm, resetting the weight of the tomahawk in his fingers, the temptation to let the blade fly a sharp need in his bones. The gall of the man to poison her mind right in front of him!

“Samuel! Do not!”

Red Bird’s plea sliced through him, and he sucked in a breath. What she must think of him.

McDivitt sauntered away, his whistling tune a burr in Samuel’s ear.

He thrust the tomahawk back into his belt and strode to Red Bird. Her sweep of freckles stood stark against a face pale as a winter moon. She lifted her chin but did not meet his gaze.

McDivitt could have told her any number of lies, but if he’d told her the truth … Samuel swallowed the acid rising up his throat. “What’d he say? And don’t tell me nothing, because we both know he did.”

“He …” Two pearly teeth worked her lower lip. “He offered me protection.”

“From what?”

A crow swooped overhead, landing in the hickory with a jagged caw.

But Red Bird said nothing.

He grabbed her shoulders, forcing her face up to his. “He offered you protection from what?”

Her mouth twisted, and a blue flame flared in her eyes. “You!”

He staggered, immediately splaying his fingers.
Oh God. Forgive me.
In the past five minutes, he’d proven McDivitt right by everything he’d said, thought, done. What was wrong with him?

He stared at her, his gut clenching, hating the questions in her gaze, but mostly hating himself. “I’m sorry, Tatsu’hwa. I shouldn’t have …” He sighed, frustrated with himself, with McDivitt, with life in general. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. The things you’ll hear … and probably already have …”

Shaking his head, he wheeled about. What more was there to say?

A hand on his sleeve stopped him.

“You are right. I have heard much—but not from you.” Brittle grass crackled beneath her feet. She circled, stopping in front of him. “You asked me once to tell you my story.”

Her eyes finally met his—and his blood drained. A world of hurt shone in that sea of blue. Her lips thinned for a moment.

And her next words hit him broadside. “I would hear yours.”

She could have no idea what she asked of him. Blood rushed through his veins, pumping in his ears like white water. He spent most of his time forgetting. Ignoring. And now she wanted to rip the scab off his barely healed past and probe around in the wound?

Her fingers once more rested on his sleeve, her touch gentle, her gaze fierce. “Please, Samuel.”

His nostrils flared. He could feel it. There was no other option, the way he inhaled until his lungs burned.

A single, stunning realization pierced his heart like an arrowhead shot true. If he wanted a real relationship with this woman, one he’d never experienced before—not even with Mariah—then he needed to tell her the truth.

Was that what he wanted? To know and be known by this slip of a woman? And an English one at that? He clenched his jaw, fighting against the answer.

God help him, he did. But how on earth could he dredge up the past without breaking?

T
he late afternoon sun hovered low in the sky, trying to decide if it should hold its position or give in and sink. Going backward was not an option—for the sun or for Eleanor. What had possessed her to ask Samuel about his past? She ought not care about a thief, a destroyer, and possibly a murderer, not if everything she’d heard from Biz, Molly, and McDivitt was true. But after living with this man and seeing his integrity, how was she to believe such things?

She studied Samuel’s face, looking for answers. The thumbnail scar near the bridge of his nose, the half of his cheek hidden behind a curtain of loose hair, the strength in the muscles on his neck alone all labeled him capable of the accusations. He could be violent. She’d seen it.

But she’d also seen him love his daughter with a fierce kind of tenderness, passionate and authentic. He’d quietly taken a whipping in Eleanor’s stead, faced a bear—not once, but twice—and provided for her every need. She pursed her lips. Yes, she did want to hear of his past from his own mouth, and more than that, she owed it to him.

He stood silent for so long, though, that she doubted he’d answer at all.

Behind them, Grace murmured in her sleep. The girl would wake soon, and the thought of losing this moment of truth tasted like loss in her mouth. Eleanor swallowed and gave it one last shot. “Samuel?”

His face jerked aside as if she’d slapped him. He stalked away and dropped onto the blanket, rumpled by McDivitt’s hasty departure. Drawing up his knees, he rested his forearms atop them. For a moment, he looked like a little boy, sullen yet ready to give an account to his mother for stealing a biscuit. “What do you want to know?”

She sifted through questions as she chose a spot on the quilt to best see his face, close enough to hear every nuance of his voice yet far enough to flee if she must. Lowering to the ground, she gave thanks for the solid earth beneath her. At least something was constant. Dependable. Not like the crazy churning in her stomach. She’d never been so forthright, so intimate in conversation with a man, and judging by the way he pressed his lips together, this might be new for him, as well.

She smoothed her skirts, then met his stare. “I think a good place to start would be with your first wife, Mariah. She is Grace’s mother, after all, and if I am to help you raise her child, then I think you are indebted to all of us to honor her memory.”

“Honor?” The word flew from his mouth like a musket shot. “There was no honor in that woman.”

Bitterness colored his tone. Apparently he had some sort of motivation to have killed her.

“She wronged you?”

The scar on his nose whitened against the black scowl twisting the rest of his face. “You could say that.” Then it cleared. Just like that. The hard lines smoothed. No, not just evened out, but drew into a jagged, painful grimace. “And I wronged her right back.”

She lost him then. She knew it. Could see it in the way his gaze floated past her, stared into the distance and straight into the past. His jaw tensed. The brown of his eyes hardened into a blank void. What kind of abyss did he plummet into?

“Mariah,” he said at length. “She was a dragonfly on a summer day, flitting here and there, and when she landed … Well, half the time I wondered why such a beauty would notice a wretch like me.”

Eleanor leaned forward, fearing the way his voice trailed off that he’d say no more. “And the other half?”

His gaze shot to hers. “The other half I was too drunk to care.”

She gasped.

He worked his forefinger and thumb, rubbing them together for a time, then his fingers curled inward. “Up until a year ago, the bottle was my god.”

“What happened then?”

“The real one showed up.”

She sank back, unsure what to think, what to feel … and especially what to say. “So, you do not drink anymore?”

He shook his head, his swath of hair brushing his collar in emphasis. “By the grace of God, no. The man you married is not the same one as wed Mariah. And that’s a mercy for you.”

She bit her lip. She could end it here, on a positive note—but she might never grasp another chance to discover the truth. Her teeth scraped across her lip as she released the pressure. “Mr. McDivitt said you had to marry. That Mariah was with child … and the child was yours. Is that true?”

He didn’t need to answer. The downward curve of his shoulders said it all.

“Aye. To my great shame, she was.” His head dipped, the brim of his hat hiding the naked emotion in his voice. The man could face charging bears and lashing whips without a flinch, but the way he crumpled now in front of her broke her heart. Scooting closer, she rested her hand on his leg. “A wise man once told me not to allow the past to fester inside. That you must let it go.”

Slowly, his face lifted to hers, a faint gleam lightening his gaze. “So … you do listen to me, hmm?”

She smirked and released her hold. “I do, and I should like to hear more.”

“You are a dog with a bone, Tatsu’hwa.” He sighed as if disgusted, but a half smile lifted the corners of his mouth—then faded as he continued. “I came to town about the time Mariah’s father died. Funny, though, now I think on it … grief never did slow her down. The woman simply knew what she wanted and went after it.”

“And that was you?”

“No. It was my money.”

“So it is true?” She folded her hands in her lap, puzzling over his answer. She’d served in fine homes. The best, really. And they all had a certain smell, a unique feel of privilege and arrogance that permeated the walls. This man’s simple cabin and simpler lifestyle slapped that construct right in the face. “You are wealthy?”

“That depends on what you count as treasure.” He scrubbed his fingers across his chin, studying her, dissecting how she’d react.

She didn’t blame him. If his first wife snared him for money alone, no wonder he hid in a no-account log home in the woods. She peered up at him. “I have learned that money is easily lost and just as easily steals the souls of those who value it.”

“Would that Mariah had been as wise as you.” He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring. Whatever demon he wrestled with pinned him without mercy.

“Did you …” She paused, not wanting to breathe life into the question that nagged her, but the swelling inside her heart forced the words free. “Did you love her?”

“I thought I did.” His eyes snapped open, seeking hers, stealing her breath with the exposed sentiment he allowed her to see. And it was an allowance, for he could as easily shutter his feelings as he always did.

“I had no idea what real love was.” His voice lowered, husky around the edges. “Not then.”

The warmth of his gaze lit a fire in her belly, and she pressed her fingers against her stomach. Oh my, but she could fall for this man, fall and never reach the bottom of the love she read in his eyes. The veracity of it pulled her forward—and pushed her back at the same time. How could she give herself to a man who might be a murderer?

“I must know…. What happened the night Mariah died?”

Like the rolling up of a parchment, sealed with wax and just as unreadable, his eyes darkened, closing her peek into his heart.

“What have you heard?” His voice was flat, the warmth cooled, almost icy.

She shook her head. “It does not matter what I have heard. It matters what you tell me, for I expect you will tell me the truth.”

“What makes you think you can trust me?” He stiffened, like a bowstring about to snap. Whatever she said next would either loosen that tension—or break him.

But did she really trust him to tell her the truth?

She searched his eyes. This time he remained hidden, somewhere deep inside, forcing her to answer based on what she already knew of him. “Granted, you have not given me much information, but I believe all you have spoken thus far is reliable. Mr. McDivitt has shown he is not of sound mind. And Biz and Molly, well … they were not there that night, were they?”

The lines of his brow crumpled, and he leaned forward. Reaching out, he brushed his knuckles along her cheek. “You are a curious woman, Tatsu’hwa.”

Temptation to nuzzle into that touch burned with each stroke. Yet she held firm.

“All right.” He dropped his hand. “Make of this what you will. It was a year ago now. I’d been out drinking all day, knowing I’d have to leave the next. Major Rafferty—that soldier you met—needed a tracker, and there’s no drinking on the trail. So I aimed to fill myself with so much rum it would last for days. I got home late that night and stumbled through the front door. Angus tore out the back.”

A thundercloud swept across his face. “Mariah didn’t deny it, didn’t even have the decency to care that Grace was in her cradle the whole time. That was the worst—and last—quarrel we ever had.”

“Did you … did you kill your wife?” She held her breath.

Color rose up his neck, flushing his face to the almost purple shade of a bruise. The fabric of his shirt stretched tight against his chest as he sucked in a breath.

Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

The movement hit her like a rock through glass. Thousands of shards poking and needling and drawing blood. Shattering her perceptions, all she’d hoped for and wanted to believe about him. All she thought she knew of him. Her jaw dropped, as unhinged as her feelings, and she shrank back on the quilt. Biz and Molly had been right. So had McDivitt. She stared at him, horrified.

“That’s right. Look at me like I’m a fiend.” His voice was throaty and raw. “Because I am one.”

“I can hardly believe it.” The words came out shivery. Funny they came out at all.

“I said things no man should, God help me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed, up and down, up and down. “Some say liquor talks. I say it’s the soul showing its true colors. Those words … they hurt her bad. Real bad. I don’t remember much of what Mariah said to me, but I do remember her grabbing all my jugs and smashing them, one by one against the wall, alcohol drenching everything. Grace crying. Me being a coward and running away.”