Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) (21 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Drew finished packing his duffle bag and looked around the cold, sparsely furnished main room of his cottage. He’d never bothered to make it comfortable. He hadn’t grown up with comfort and didn’t miss it. A good thing, as he had a harsh, new beginning in a foreign country ahead of him.

It wasn’t the prospect of toil that filled him with rage. He’d never been afraid of hard work. It was the injustice of it. When he thought of the contempt his former workmates had shown him when he told the truth about the fire, he longed to hit someone, anyone.

No, not just anyone. Martin Rainnie. Drew had one last call to make before he left Mallonby behind, to make Martin pay for turning the crowd at the pub against him, and for Martin’s blows back in the summer. And this time, he was prepared. He felt in the pocket of his coat for the brass knuckles he’d bought a few years ago on a trip to York, and smiled as his fingers closed around them. Time to get a bit of his own back.

Drew walked through the village, quiet in the dim winter morning. He’d find Martin at chores and deal with him away from the house. He’d stop short of killing the man, but not too far short.

As he neared the forge, Drew caught a glimpse of movement in the fenced yard. A flash of blue. Rochelle stood at the well, turning the windlass. She filled a bucket, set it on the kitchen step, then picked up a basket and disappeared around the side of the small stable.

Right, then, he’d teach her a lesson as well. Drew knew Rainnie cared for her. They’d created enough of a stir in the village with their doings at the harvest dance. This would make Drew’s revenge all the sweeter.

With an eye on the house, Drew stepped inside the gate. She’d gather the eggs and feed the chickens. He had fifteen or twenty minutes before anyone would think about looking for her. More than enough time. The snow muffled his footsteps, and if the girl heard anything, she’d assume it was someone from the house. He reached the side of the stable in four quick strides and moved along the wall. No need for brass knuckles here. He was going to enjoy this.

* * *

Chelle had just finished gathering the eggs and turned to latch the door to the chicken coop when an arm snaked around her waist, and a rough hand clamped over her mouth. A man’s voice hissed in her ear. “Make a sound and I’ll kill you.”

Chelle bit him, but before she could scream a heavy blow to the jaw sent her reeling into the snow. Then Drew was on top of her, slamming his fists into her body, forcing the air from her lungs. Chelle couldn’t fight him. Her head swam with pain and lack of oxygen. Then another blow connected with her jaw, and she blacked out.

* * *

Martin looked up from his milking at the sound of Gyp’s sharp bark. He saw no one in the yard, but something must have set the dog off. He left his bucket of milk in the aisle and walked to the door, with Gyp at his heels.

Drew Markham stepped into the byre doorway, smiling. Before Martin could get set, cold metal slammed him in the belly. He toppled backwards into the aisle as Gyp shied back into a stall. Drew followed Martin down, punching with both fists.

He saw stars as his head struck the barn floor, but he managed to roll away from Drew’s next blow. The third struck Martin’s ribs, but his surprise had worn off. He caught Drew’s wrist and jerked it to the side, hoping to snap it, but Drew rolled with the motion and broke free. Martin realized he was facing an experienced fighter. Drew swung his metal-clad fist again and opened a cut on Martin’s cheek.

“You’ll look as pretty as the McShannon girl when I’m finished with you. I gave her a taste of the same on my way here. I wanted to give you both something to remember me by.”

Martin had never felt such rage, but he didn’t launch the flurry of punches Drew clearly expected. Instead, he scrambled to his feet, took a step back and smiled. “Is that a fact? I’m going to enjoy making you wish you’d never been born.”

Breathing heavily, Drew got up. Martin sensed doubt in the man like a predator smelling blood. The initial assault had left him still standing, and he outweighed Drew by at least thirty pounds.

Keep your eye on his right.
Martin began circling his opponent, buying time while he caught his breath and his head cleared. When Drew feinted with his left and swung a right, Martin ducked and drove his head into the man’s belly. As Drew fell, Martin caught his right wrist and twisted it. He felt the bones snap, heard Drew scream, and sailed in with both fists, battering his face and body until he flopped like a rag doll with each blow.

Enough.

Martin drew a bucket of cold well water and bathed his face and hands. He felt like he’d been trodden down by a horse, but the rush of the fight kept him moving. When Gyp came whimpering out of his hiding place, Martin picked him up and held him close. “It’s all over, old lad. Come on, we’d better get this bit of filth to town.” He carried Gyp out to the cart and set him on the seat, then lifted Drew and tumbled him into the back. He didn’t know if he’d fatally injured the man or not, and he didn’t care. The bastard had hurt Chelle. Martin hitched Major to the cart and headed for the McShannons’.

Colin met him in the yard, his face a mask of worry. With his heart thudding against his sore ribs, Martin jumped to the ground. “How badly is she hurt?”

“We don’t know. She’s still unconscious. Brian’s gone for the doctor. Christ, Martin, look at you. Has the world gone mad?”

“No, only Drew Markham. He’ll need the doctor, too. I may have done the bastard mortal harm. He came out to my place and jumped me. He told me he worked Chelle over. How long ago did you send for Doctor Halstead?”

“Only half an hour ago. Come in and sit down, you’re about to keel over. Leave the garbage in the cart.” Colin’s troubled expression lightened a bit as he looked over Martin’s shoulder. “There they are now.”

The doctor hurried upstairs with Caroline. Jack and Brian brought Drew in and laid him on the kitchen sofa. When he started to stir, Colin leaned over him and grabbed him by the throat. “Lie still and keep your mouth shut, you son of a bitch, or I’ll put a knife between your ribs and call it good riddance.”

Drew obeyed. Martin tended to the cut on his face, then joined the McShannons at the table. “What’s taking Doctor Halstead so bloody long?”

Colin tried to look reassuring. “Patience, lad. While we’re waiting, why don’t you tell us exactly what happened the other night out at Westlake’s? Chelle wouldn’t say much for all my badgering, and every person we talk to has a different story.”

Martin briefly gave Colin the facts. “When it was all over, I tried to talk to Chelle again about us, but—” He broke off as Doctor Halstead appeared at the top of the stairs.

“She regained consciousness while I was working on her. She has a broken rib and another that’s likely cracked, her kidneys are bruised, and a few of her teeth have been loosened. I gave her a healthy dose of poppy. She’s in for a miserable time, but her injuries will heal. We’ll have to watch her for pneumonia. That’s my main concern. Now for this one.”

The doctor made no effort to be gentle as he set Drew’s wrist and stitched a cut on his jaw. Martin smiled grimly at the news that Drew had broken ribs as well. At the very least, Chelle wouldn’t suffer alone.

After patching Drew up, Doctor Halstead volunteered to drive him to the jail. When they’d gone, Martin faced Colin. “I need to see her.”

Chelle’s father held Martin’s gaze for a moment. An unspoken message passed between them. They would get Chelle through this together. “Aye, come along.”

Caroline and Jean came out of the bedroom as Martin and Colin got to the top of the stairs. Martin wouldn’t have thought quiet Jean could look so angry. Then he stepped into the bedroom with Colin.

Rage swept all thought of his own hurts from Martin’s mind. He wouldn’t have known her. Chelle’s face was bruised and swollen, her breathing shallow and ragged. He wanted to run down to the jail and choke the life out of Drew, as slowly and painfully as possible.

Deep in a laudanum-induced sleep, Chelle didn’t respond when Martin touched her hair, spun silk between his fingers. Its scent wafted up to him, cool and subtle. God, he loved her. He would gladly have taken her pain on himself if only he could.

“Rest well, lass. Drew’s paid for this.” He lifted Chelle’s hand to his lips. “You came to me when I was hurt. I’m going to stand by you whether you want me to or not.” He sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at her father. “I know she cares for me, Colin. I’ll stay by her for as long as it takes to make her see it.”

Colin joined him and rested a hand on Chelle’s shoulder. “I thought you’d feel that way. She’s a luckier lass than she knows, Martin.”

* * *

She was in the playhouse at home, building mud pies with Cathy Sinclair and Clara Hughes. She heard her mother’s voice reading. “O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being.” The rest of the poem flowed from her memory, Maman’s favorite work by Shelley. But Leah was crying, and Chelle couldn’t listen any longer.

No, Martin would take care of the little one. He was right here beside her, holding her hand, his touch warm and comforting.

* * *

Dreams blended seamlessly with reality until Chelle surfaced in the muted light of a snowy morning, the lamp burning low on the nightstand. Pain knifed her in the side with every breath, her head throbbed, and her mouth tasted abominable. The bedroom door opened, and her father stepped in. He sat in the chair by the bed and touched her cheek. “You’re awake. How do you feel, lass?”

“Awful.” What was the matter with her voice? She didn’t sound like herself at all. “Dad, what happened?”

“You were badly beaten, Chelle.”

It made no sense. Her mind felt too thick and sluggish to follow the words. “Beaten? When?”

“Three days ago. You’ve a broken rib, and your kidneys are badly bruised. Do you remember anything of it?”

“No. Who would—?”

“Drew Markham. He decided to take out his spite on Martin before leaving town, but he came across you first. There’s one consolation, though. He looks a lot worse than you do. Martin beat him within an inch of his miserable life. Drew’s in the village lock-up, still punch-drunk and with a broken wrist and ribs. Martin took a couple of blows himself, but he’s healing. He’s been here most of the time.”

“He has?”

Her father took her hand and leaned close. “Yes, he has. Chelle, if it’s escaped your notice, it’s obvious Martin loves you.”

What had he said? Something told Chelle it mattered, but she couldn’t stay awake to puzzle it out. Something about Martin. He’d been here. That wasn’t a dream. Would he come again?

She fell asleep waiting for him.

* * *

Two days later, early in the white and rosy winter afternoon, Chelle sat up in bed worrying down some of Aunt Caroline’s chicken soup. The doctor had decreased her dose of laudanum, leaving her sleepy but coherent. She’d just finished eating when Jean knocked on the bedroom door. “You have a visitor, Chelle.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?” Jean grinned.

Martin.
Chelle steeled herself against a tumult of feelings as he came in. He wore a collarless gray linen shirt that set off his strong neck and the breadth of his shoulders, the stormy color of his eyes and the fire of his hair. Her heart beat painfully against her strapped ribs, responding to his presence, his voice.

“You look better today, lass.”

“I look a fright, and you know it.” Chelle’s gaze fixed on the healing cut on Martin’s cheek, the bruises on his jaw. Could anything be dearer than his face? “You look a little the worse for wear yourself.”

“Aye, well, you’ve seen me like this before.” He smiled, and her heart did another painful flip.

“Yes, and on my account. I seem to keep giving you occasions to come to my defense, and you seem to keep stepping in to defend me.”

Martin hitched his chair closer to the bed and brushed Chelle’s hair back from her forehead, his eyes full of anger and regret. “I didn’t defend you this time, Chelle. Drew got to you first. When he told me he’d hurt you… I honestly wouldn’t have cared if I’d killed him.”

His intense gaze suddenly made Chelle very conscious that she was in her nightgown. She pulled the quilt up to her shoulders. “Martin, I don’t remember much of the last few days, but I know you’ve been here. And I remember what you said to me that day at the Westlakes’.” She’d thought of little else since waking this morning. Dreams, memories, fears. Now, with Martin beside her, they vanished, leaving only a calm certainty. An ocean away from the white farmhouse her father had built out of Georgia pine, her heart had come home. “You asked me what I was afraid of. I want to tell you what happened between Rory and me.”

Martin took her hand. “I don’t need to know.”

“Yes, you do. I thought we loved each other, but when it came down to it, he couldn’t accept the fact that I was the daughter of a farmer who didn’t believe in slavery. I was too common for him. Then, his parents insisted that I cut all ties with my family as a condition of our marriage, and he agreed.”

“He was a fool.”

Chelle squeezed his fingers. “No, he wasn’t. He knew I would never fit in with his family. I was the one who fooled myself.”