Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) (3 page)

How could the man turn his back on his own flesh and blood?

Chelle picked Leah up and nestled the baby’s head against her shoulder. “If you were mine, I’d—”

She isn’t yours, never will be. She’ll be leaving here soon. Don’t let yourself care too much.

Only it might already be too late to keep Leah out of her heart.

* * *

Martin leaned into the cow’s side and felt his irritation drain away as his hands took up the familiar, calming rhythm of milking. He wasn’t sure why, but the McShannon girl had set his teeth on edge. Probably because he’d come upon her without warning.

Her father would likely have a time with her. Headstrong, Martin guessed, with looks that would turn the lads’ heads. A combination that spelled trouble.

He’d seen more than a strong will in those blue eyes. The lass was unhappy, which wasn’t surprising. The whole village knew Colin McShannon had come home after losing his wife. Before her arrival, Martin had even heard some idle speculation as to what Colin’s daughter would look like. Would she be attractive? New young, single women didn’t move into the district every day.

Now that he’d seen her, Martin had to admit that gossip hadn’t come close to the reality, though she wasn’t his type. He’d always preferred dark girls, like Eleanor, with her ebony hair and luminous gray eyes, her body generously curved whereas the McShannon lass was tall and lissome… Martin closed his eyes, remembered the feel of Eleanor’s curves under his hands. Then his gut clenched at the memory of her labor, her screams, her blood. The same memories that assailed him whenever he thought of his wee child.

Eleanor’s daughter deserved better. She deserved to be raised by people who could look at her without flinching. Right now, she got everything she needed from the McShannons, but she’d be weaned by summer’s end. Before then, Martin would have to find a place for Leah to grow up, a place where she’d get the affection he couldn’t give her.

Martin knew people talked about him turning his back on his daughter, but if he wasn’t going to raise her it was best he left her alone. The less confusion in the child’s life, the better.

And in your own.
Martin ignored the taunting whisper of his conscience, finished milking and took the full pails to the cellar. As he poured the rich, creamy milk into enamel pans to separate, his came to the door and looked hopefully down the cellar steps.

“Aye, Gyp, I’ll save some for you.” He left a cup or two of milk in the bottom of one pail, returned to the byre and poured the milk into two dented tin bowls, one for the cats and the other for the dog.

He ran a hand over Gyp’s back as he drank his milk. Time to be bringing on a young dog while the old lad could still help train it, but after nine years of working together, Martin hated the idea. “I don’t like to think of you growing old, Gyp. We’ll wait another year, perhaps.”

Martin worked his way through the rest of the barn chores, then turned his thoughts toward supper. The house faced the byre across the cobbled yard, both structures built of the unyielding local stone that made light of two hundred years of weather. The years hadn’t left much more of a mark inside. Eleanor had liked the place as it was, and Martin felt no need to change the familiar surroundings of his youth. He washed his hands, lit the lamp and kindled a coal fire in the range. Once it was hot, he pulled a few smoked sausage links from a hook in the rafters, tossed them into a skillet and put some potatoes on to boil. Then he lit another fire in the old fireplace that took up a whole wall of the sitting area and ate his supper beside it, sitting in the threadbare armchair that knew all his kinks.

Afterward, he tried to read the newspaper he’d picked up at the store that morning but found he couldn’t concentrate. His gaze wandered to his fiddle case, leaning in the corner near the door.

He hadn’t touched his fiddle since losing Eleanor, hadn’t wanted to. It reminded him too much of the dances they used to attend together, of all that life no longer held. But tonight, for some reason, his fingers itched to play.

Martin took the fiddle from its case, returned to his chair by the hearth and plucked the strings. They were badly out of tune but hadn’t lost their vibrancy. He coaxed them back to their proper pitches and drew the bow across them. They sang in response.

Disconnected notes formed an improvised melody that gathered pace until it swept along like the wind off the dales, full of anger and frustration. The music stabbed at Martin’s heart until he had to stop playing. Fighting for self-control, he put the fiddle away and took a bottle and a glass from the pantry cupboard.

He’d acquired a taste for Scotch during the few months he’d spent in London years ago. This wasn’t the finest, but it was more than good enough for a plain farmer like him, and it would help him sleep for a few hours. He poured a generous shot and downed it quickly, wanting the liquor’s burn to erase the pain the music had dredged up.

When it didn’t, a black rage swept over him. The next thing Martin knew, he’d hurled his glass across the room to shatter against the door of the pantry cupboard. Shards tumbled across the floor, glittering in the lamplight. Pieces of something that had once been bright and whole.

“Damn it, you should have known better!” Martin’s vision blurred with tears. Cursing, he swept up the broken fragments, blew out the lamp and went to bed.

Chapter Three

The chill winds died down, as Chelle’s father said they would. She welcomed the change. Back in Georgia, the seasons slid into each other seamlessly. The languid heat of summer cooled to autumn; the air took on a slight bite, and that was winter. Then winter warmed gently into spring again. Here, the distinctions were sharper.

The dales began to bloom, enticing Chelle out for long walks. She still ached with grief for her mother, but when she sat alone in the fragrant stillness of some hollow in the grass, listening to the hum of life around her, the ache lost its bitterness. She’d done enough grieving over the past year while Maman was ill. Now she was healing. It shamed her, but Chelle couldn’t deny it.

Her father was healing, too. There wasn’t always enough work for him at the forge, so he’d cast his net a little further and found work with one or two of the local landholders who owned racing Thoroughbreds.

He was away the morning Chelle washed her hair and went out to sit on the kitchen step with Leah while it dried. With the baby settled comfortably on her lap, Chelle closed her eyes and turned her face up to the warm sun.

The jangle of trace chains brought her back to earth. Martin Rainnie led two Clydesdale mares into the yard, his collie trotting beside him. He stiffened slightly as he noticed his daughter in Chelle’s arms, then walked by her without a word and tied his horses to the hitching post. Jack and Brian came out of the stable to greet him.

“Now then, Martin.”

“Mornin’, Jack, Brian. These two need doin’ again.”

In spite of his gruffness and his broad Yorkshire, there was something pleasing in Mr. Rainnie’s voice. Deep, but not too deep, its tone varied in a way that made Chelle think perhaps he really was musical. Jack gave one of the mares a friendly slap on the neck, loosed her from the hitching post and backed her into the middle of the yard.

“Aye. You first then, Tessa.”

Brian stoked the forge and blew the fire to white heat with the bellows while Jack pulled the shoes from Tessa’s plate-sized hooves. Mr. Rainnie held the mare’s halter and kept his back to Chelle. She couldn’t help thinking that he resembled his horses. Massive but in proportion, without the quickness and agility of a man with Rory’s lighter build, but graceful in his own way. No doubt a lot of women would find Mr. Rainnie attractive.

The dog seemed to remember Chelle. Tail wagging, he took a couple of steps toward her, then trotted up when she held out her hand.

“Hello, Gyp. You trust me when I’m not near your sheep, do you?” The dog sniffed her fingers, then settled down on the cobbles at her feet. Mr. Rainnie made a restless movement, but he didn’t call Gyp back.

Brian broke the silence. “Have you started shearing yet, Martin?”

“Not yet. Next week, likely, if I can get help. That mightn’t be easy this year. I ran into John Watson, Westlake’s agent, this morning at the store, and he told me Westlake’s dropping his price for wool. Market’s all upset because of the mess overseas, he says. It’s hard to pay shearers when the fleece is worth a pittance.”

Brian took a red-hot shoe and pressed it to the mare’s hoof. The reek of burning horn filled the air as Jack trimmed the hoof, using the blackened imprint as a guide.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if Westlake is in some kind of a scrape with his business concerns in London, a scrape that needs cash to get out of.”

Mr. Rainnie shrugged. “Perhaps. I’m thinking that he’s gettin’ on, and his daughter would no doubt rather be in London. His wife’s spent all her time there for years. He hasn’t any sons so he may be gettin’ ready to sell the mill here. Well, I won’t starve with the farm to feed me, whether he buys my fleeces or not.”

From things she’d heard, Chelle gathered that most of Mallonby shared her uncle’s opinion of Phillip Westlake, the owner of the woolen mill, a self-made man who was too conscious of the fact and cared little for those below him. The men talked sheep and crops while they shod Tessa and the other mare, Neely. When she thought Leah had been in the sun long enough, Chelle took her inside. Not once had Mr. Rainnie glanced her way, if he could help it, but she felt his gaze on her back as she went in.

Perhaps he wasn’t quite as indifferent to Leah as he seemed. Or had he been watching
her?
She shook off the feeling of those green eyes on her, took Leah to Jean and started for the village to run an errand for her aunt.

A waft of fragrance welcomed her when she stepped into the Binghams’ shop, a blend of mint, spices, soap and tobacco that reminded her of the mercantile at home. Candy jars lined the front window to entice passersby, while a row of bags and barrels along the back wall held the usual staples. Behind the counter, Mrs. Bingham looked up from her newspaper.

“Now then, Miss McShannon, what can I do for you?” Mallonby people hadn’t quite decided how to speak to Chelle yet. They weren’t sure where she fit in their social order, but most of them chose to be polite.

“Aunt Caroline needs some sugar. Five pounds, please.”

As Chelle paid for her purchase, a girl of about her age walked in, followed by a young man. Both were strangers to Chelle. The man might be considered handsome if you liked dark hair and eyes and an arrogant swagger. The girl was obviously pregnant. Mrs. Bingham leaned on the counter, pursed her lips and glared at her. “Yes?”

“Mam wants a dozen eggs, please, Mrs. Bingham.”

When the girl handed over her money, Chelle noticed that she wore no wedding ring. She took her eggs, glanced sideways at the young man and hurried out, forgetting her change. With a smirk on his face, he reached to pick it up. Chelle covered it with her hand. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll return it to her.”

His gaze travelled slowly up and down her body before he replied. Chelle’s fingers itched to slap him. Then he touched his cap and stepped back. “As you wish, miss.”

He put as much insolence as he could into the words. Chelle threw him a scornful look, picked up the coins and her sugar and walked out. She overtook the girl a short way down the street and tapped her shoulder.

She turned around, cheeks flushed, an angry sparkle in her gray-blue eyes. Had she expected to see that young man from the store? Chelle smiled and held out the money. “You forgot your change.”

The flush on the girl’s cheeks deepened with embarrassment. With her vivid coloring, fine features and head of rebellious golden-brown curls, she had a kind of natural, windblown prettiness that reminded Chelle of the local countryside.

“Oh… thank you.” She slipped the coins in her skirt pocket and looked Chelle over with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “I don’t know you.”

“Rochelle McShannon, Jack’s niece. I’ve only been here three weeks, so I haven’t met everyone in Mallonby yet.”

“I’m Kendra Fulton. I must be going. Thank you again.”

Kendra hurried off down the street.

Chelle headed home and found Jean in the kitchen, stirring a pot of bubbling strawberries. “Put the sugar in the pantry, Chelle, and thanks. I used the last of what we had in this jam.”

Chelle put on an apron and joined Jean at the stove. “That looks almost done.”

“It is, and just in time. The babies will be waking up any minute. Did you hear any news at Bingham’s?”

While they bottled the jam, Chelle told Jean about Kendra Fulton and the rude young man in the store. Jean rolled her eyes. “That sounds like Drew Markham. Drew is a clerk in the mill office. He thinks that makes him a catch, but the truth is no decent girl in Mallonby wants aught to do with him, in spite of his father’s farm.”

Chelle dropped a sealer lid on the counter in surprise. “If his father has a farm, what is Drew doing in the mill?”

“You’d have to know the family.” Jean spoke without looking up as she filled jars. “Drew is Caleb Markham’s son by his second wife. He has an older son, Richard, by his first. She died when Richard was seven. From what I’ve heard, Caleb didn’t get on well with Drew’s mother—she’s been gone about eight years now—and he’s never gotten on well with Drew, either. Nor has Richard. So, once Drew finished school, he got himself hired on at the mill. He started out on the floor, showed himself clever and willing to work, and caught the foreman’s eye. A year or so ago, he got promoted to the office. He lives on his own in one of the mill houses now. He’s clever and ambitious, but he’s a regular cad.”

Chelle’s skin crawled at the memory of how Drew had looked at her. “He isn’t the father of Kendra’s child, is he?”

“No. Drew was still on the mill floor when Kendra started there, and he took a bit of a fancy to her, I think, though he did naught about it then. Then, after she was fired, he started “courting” her, if that’s what you call it when a man pesters a girl and she tells him to go hang. Not that he had any notion of marriage, I’ll warrant. He wouldn’t saddle himself with someone else’s child.”

So Kendra had been a mill hand. Of course, she would have been let go as soon as her pregnancy became known. Chelle’s sympathy for the girl deepened. “I can’t imagine that he would. And I suppose the baby’s father is nowhere to be seen.”

“Not exactly. David Phelps is the baby’s father. He and Kendra were both let go when word got out that she was pregnant. David went to his uncle in York to work in his warehouse, and he asked Kendra to marry him and go with him, so we’ve heard, but she wouldn’t. I don’t know why. So folk are doubly hard on her, and Drew takes advantage of it.”

A lonely, difficult path, chosen of Kendra’s own accord. Had she discovered that she and David didn’t love each other enough, just as Chelle had discovered with Rory? If so, Chelle couldn’t find it in her heart to judge. “She has courage. I’ll give her that.”

“Aye. It’s made things hard for her, losing Kendra’s wages, but so far they’ve managed. Her father died years ago. Kendra does washing and mending for a few families that aren’t as narrow-minded as most. Her mother works at the mill, too.” Jean paused in the middle of wiping drips of jam from the table. “I can see what you’re thinking, Chelle. You’re sorry for Kendra, and so am I, but she made her own choice.”

“Yes, and I respect her for it. I intend to be her friend if she’ll let me.”

Jean shrugged. “She could use a friend, that’s for sure and certain, but be prepared to be tarred with the same brush if you befriend her.”

Chelle tilted her chin. “I suppose you’re right, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”