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.”
Immediately, she regretted confiding in this stranger her anger at Elias for enlisting, but she was relieved when he continued interrogating her.
“But, you don’t hate him now,” Caid’s question was more like a statement.
Marty shook her head and stared at her hands, which she had pulled from the confines of her skirt, before she answered, “No. I loved my husband and I understand now why he had to go.”
Then she busied those hands with the task of braiding her hair into a long rope at the side of her head while she pushed back the memory of losing Elias and the hope for love that had died with him. Oh, how she wished that she could, if only for a moment, let go of her vow to cleave only to the memory of her husband and the promise that her marriage had guaranteed love everlasting, children and grandchildren and the dream of always counting on that love until death, that is her death, would finally cease it. But her love had ceased upon hearing the news of her husband’s death and the realization that there would be no children for her, no grandchildren and no love in her future, for her heart could not, would not take the chance of losing love again.
Chapter Seven
Caid watched her from the corners of his eyes, observing her breathtaking beauty while she pretended to ignore the radiating emotion that his closeness was bound to emit. Then, deciding that he should not repeat aloud the words that were screaming inside his head, words that would shock her if not frighten her away from him, words that echoed inside his heart and in his soul, words that would assure her that love did exist beyond the grave and he was right there, a breath away from her and very much willing to ease her pain and fill that gaping hole in her heart, he looked away from her. He stared at the not-so breathtaking bulls ahead of him and cursed her devotion to the man in question.
Then, he leaned his back on the seat and stretched his long leg in front of him. Musing new words to change the subject that his mind had meandered into, Caid reverted to answer her ever-present avowed love for her dead husband with a tiny bit of bitterness in his voice, “We all had our reasons.”
“Did you fight in the war?” Marty asked, craning her head to read his expression but he kept his face forward.
“Sure did,” he said with a nod before he clucked to the bulls, still fighting the urge to insist that she put aside her grief. Then, he shifted on the seat and added, “But, I was fighting for the other side.”
Realizing that she might think that he could have been the one who had made her a widow, he cleared his throat and continued, “But I didn’t join until later, after my brother was killed. I felt it was my duty and honor to take his place. Mother was not happy about it but I knew it had to be done.”
A sudden image of his mother’s anguished face when he had told her that he was going to enlist in the army flashed into his mind. She had just lost her youngest son, the light of her life, and now her first son was leaving her to be either killed or maimed in a war that did not concern him. Yes, he was a Northerner. Yes, he was a landowner, or a descendent of one and a representative of the family in the Union’s fight for freedom of the slaves down south. But his family did not and had never owned slaves and their plight did not concern the McAllister clan, so Mother did not think that either of her sons should forfeit his life for ‘slaves who would not appreciate his sacrifice’ and she had burst into tears and added ‘MY sacrifice!’
He recalled trying to remind her that the Union was mostly fighting to keep the country together, but she would not hear any part of that argument. His brow furrowed while he conjured up the conversation in his mind, but Marty thankfully interrupted it.
“Did she ever forgive you?” Marty asked as if she really did care that this man would have his mother’s love forever, for in her mind, a mother’s love was ever-growing, never-ending and absolutely unconditional.
“Not completely,” he answered, staring off in the distance, relieved that she had found a subject that would alter his amorous mood, but more than a little perturbed that she had picked this one. “And she never got over losing her favorite son.”
“Why do you think he was her favorite?” Marty asked with a perplexed expression on her face.
“Because my father was a gambler who married her for her money and when her mother disinherited her, he left her poor and pregnant. She hated him because of it and I’m sure I was always a reminder of that,” he said with a tilt of his handsome dark head.
Immediately feeling concern for him, Marty laid a hand on his forearm and assured him, “She loved you. A mother always loves her children.”
Caid stared down at that small tender hand, the hand that used to carry the symbol of love everlasting until the war interfered. He wished that it would have been his love that she had lost, for he would invite death for just one moment in her arms, one word of assured love from her and that would have been enough for an eternity of memories for him. Then he raised his gaze and switched his feet on the rail while he switched his mind back to answer her assurance that his mother had, and to concede to his realization that Marty had not, loved him, “I’m sure she loved me, but she loved Caleb more.”
Seeing her shake her head in the negative, he assured her, “Naw, Caleb was the darling in her eyes because she loved his father more than
life itself. And when his father passed away, Caleb was all she had. Besides me,” he added almost in a whisper.
“Do you see her often?” Marty asked, trying to change the subject just a bit.
“The last time I saw her was the day I came home from the war,” he answered as if reliving that day in his mind and he welcomed the anger that this recollection ensued in his heart, for it chased away the disappointment at not enjoying the love of the woman next to him. “She’d packed all my things and stored them in the barn and when I came home, she told me where they were and how fast to get them off her property.”
“So she didn’t forgive you!” Marty exclaimed with appalled realization.
“Nope,” he said with a quick shake of his head. “She never forgave me for enlisting, she’d said, and even though she was glad that I was alive, she’d told me she never wanted to know if I was breathing or dead. She said she was done with worrying about me, that it was best that she remembered me just like I left her.”
Then as if a gush of wind had sucked the breath from his lungs, Caid realized that maybe Mother really did love him and that her vile measures were truly warranted. A brief picture of her hardened face that stared at him defiantly demanding that he leave her forever flashed into his mind and he suddenly remembered that in his anger at her, he had stomped away from his mother. But his broken heart had sent him back to crush her weary body to his and to whisper ‘I love you, Mother’ before he had tossed her away from him and stomped out of her life. Now, sitting next to this woman who evoked so much emotion in him, Caid remembered looking back at the broken woman that was his mother and how she crumpled in a heap of despair in the knowledge that he had actually believed her attempt at pushing him away. But his pride had forced him to harden his heart and to ignore that selfless act on her part to spare him further misery. It was not until this moment that he discovered her actual motive for sending him away.
Enchanted Heart Page 5
