Family of the Heart

by Dorothy Clark

  Clayton veered his gaze to his open door. In the bedroom across the hall, on the far outside wall between the two windows, was where the bed had been. Deborah’s bed. The one where she had given birth to the child he was responsible for—the bed she had died in. It was not there now. The bed was gone. As Deborah was gone. As his old bed was gone. He had taken an ax, chopped the beds to pieces and burned them. But the fire could not purge his guilt. The living proof of that was sleeping on a mattress in the corner.

  Clayton sucked in a breath, forced himself to remember every detail of that night with Deborah. How he wished he could take back that night. But he could not. And he could not bring Deborah back. He had tried to keep her alive. Had prayed for God’s mercy. Had offered himself in Deborah’s place. But all his prayers, all his begging had changed nothing. Deborah had died.

  Clayton’s face tightened. He had to face that guilt every day. Had to endure the burden that grew every time he saw the child. But he did not have to add to the burden. And he would not. He would not allow himself to love Sarah Randolph.

  “Deborah…no…”

  Sarah jolted awake.

  “…baby…mustn’t…”

  “Wake up, Mr. Bainbridge.” Sarah caught hold of Clayton’s flailing hand, held it in both of hers.

  “…dead…no, take me…” He sat bolt upright in bed.

  “Oh!” Sarah dropped his hand and grabbed hold of his shoulders. “Wake up!”

  “My fault…”

  Should she push him down onto the pillows, or would it hurt his back? She tightened her grip. “Mr. Bainbridge! Please wake up! You will hurt yourself.”

  He opened his eyes.

  Sarah stared into Clayton’s eyes, saw awareness returning and drew her hands back. “You were having a nightmare.” She reached behind him, fluffed his pillows. Why was she blushing? She had done nothing wrong. “There. Can you lower yourself to the pillows, or do you need my help?”

  “I will manage.”

  His voice was gruff, raspy. She nodded and stepped close, ready to do what she could if her help was needed.

  Clayton placed his palms on the bed on either side of him, took the weight of his body on his arms and leaned backward. Pain knifed him on the lower left side of his back. He stopped the slow torture and let himself fall into the nest of pillows. “Ummph.” He closed his eyes against the pain.

  “Are you all right? Can I get you anything?”

  “A new head and back would be nice.” The words came out a little breathless, not jovial as he had intended.

  “I wish I could grant your request. Or at least do something to ease your pain.”

  There was genuine concern in Sarah’s voice. He knew it was unwise, but he opened his eyes and looked at her. “You have done more than I had any right to ask or expect, Miss Randolph. I am not your responsibility. The child is. But I thank you for your kind care. I do not believe I could have stood the pain without your cold cloths easing it somewhat.” Or your presence, which makes everything better. And worse. Her answering smile stole the breath he had managed to regain.

  “But you did not ask me, Mr. Bainbridge. I was ordered by Mrs. Quincy to care for you. And I confess to a great reluctance.” She reached out and straightened his coverlet. “You see, since a little child, I have been sickened by the sight of blood.” She glanced up at him. “I am quite over that now.”

  Her laughter was soft as the soughing of wind through the branches of trees. He would never forget it. Nor would he forget the way the dim lamplight made the golden flecks in her brown eyes shine and emphasized the shadows cast by her long, sooty lashes when she looked down at him.

  Clayton drew himself up short. He moved his head to a more comfortable position and tracked her progress around the foot of his bed. “You said I was having a nightmare. Did I…say anything?”

  Sarah paused, nodded. “You mumbled something about Deborah.” She moved along the other side of his bed, straightening the covers as she went. “And you mentioned a baby.” She looked down at him, her eyes warm with sympathy. “Nightmares are horrible things. I hope you do not suffer them often.”

  It would be so easy draw her close. To taste the sweet softness of her lips… Clayton clenched his hands and shoved them beneath the coverlet on his lap. “No, not often.” He looked closer, noted the clouds in her eyes. “You sound as if you have experience with nightmares.”

  “Some.” She looked away.

  “From a childhood mishap?”

  “No.”

  Her tone did not invite further questions. Intuition dawned. “From a thunderstorm?”

  A shudder shook her. “I do not wish to discuss it.”

  Clayton gave a careful nod. “As you wish. But should you ever care to do so, I will be ready to listen. Sometimes, talking about a nightmare breaks its power over us and it goes away.”

  “Yours has not.” Sarah offered a challenge in her stare. “Is that because what you say is false? Or because you do not discuss your nightmares, either?”

  He should have let the nightmare topic die. His curiosity had him backed into a corner. But he could not lie to her. “I do not discuss it. My nightmare is true.” Clayton sucked in air, spoke the words he had never before said aloud. “I made a terrible mistake. There were severe, irreversible consequences. Talking about it cannot make my guilt go away.”

  Sarah took hold of the bedpost beside her, blinked her eyes. “Forgive me, Mr. Bainbridge. I did not mean to bring the memory of a painful time back to you.” She blinked her eyes again. “I know how devastating that can be. My nightmare is also real.”

  Sleep would not come. She was afraid to let it. Afraid the nightmare would come. Every time her eyelids grew heavy she got up and walked around the room. She remembered Aaron’s face now. The way he had looked at his last moment on this earth—the moment before the lightning struck him. It was her last memory of him.

  Sarah shuddered, rose from the rocker and pulled the blanket that covered her lap around her shoulders. It was a futile effort. The cold was inside. Nonetheless, she hugged the blanket close and wandered about Clayton’s bedroom, wondering again why there were no paintings of his wife, no mementoes of her anywhere.

  She strolled to the window and stood looking out into the moonlit night, mentally going through every room in the house searching for something that proclaimed Deborah Bainbridge had lived here. There was nothing. She was familiar with all of the rooms, except Clayton’s study. Perhaps that was where Deborah’s picture hung. Perhaps Clayton wanted it near him all day. Or perhaps he did not want to be reminded of Deborah.

  Clayton had called out his wife’s name while he was thrashing about in his bed. Was Deborah Bainbridge Clayton’s nightmare? As Aaron was hers?

  Sarah lifted the hem of the blanket off the floor and walked over to the corner. Clayton had also said “baby.” Was little Nora involved in the nightmare? Was that why Clayton would have nothing to do with his daughter? And if he would not speak about it, how would she ever be able to bring father and daughter together?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sarah carried Clayton’s breakfast tray to the table by the stairs, came back and tugged the rocker away from the bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  She braced for battle, looked up at Clayton and launched into her prepared speech. “Quincy must go to the farm today, and Eldora will be putting up preserves. I will have Nora here with me. I thought it best to move the rocker away from the bed so we will not disturb your rest.”

  There was no display of anger. Clayton went absolutely still. His face had taken on that carved-of-stone look. She leaned down and tugged at the chair.

  “Leave the rocker in place. Lucy will watch the child.”

  His voice was quiet, devoid of all emotion. The child. The words grated. As did his attitude. Anger would be better than cold indifference. At least it would show he had some feelings! Sarah lifted her chin. “Lucy is at her home. She has been taken with the sicknes
s that is going around. And I am Nora’s nanny.” She took a firmer grip on the back of the rocker, glanced over her shoulder and backed toward the side wall.

  “Stop! Leave the chair.”

  Sarah jerked to a halt at the barked words, looked up at Clayton. There was no indifference now. The expression on his face—the tightened lips, the pain, anger, despair in his eyes held back her defiance on Nora’s behalf. That odd connection welled, stronger than ever. A desire to help Clayton, to see him healed. To see whatever caused him such pain erased. The longing rose, as strong as her purpose to give Nora her father.

  She clenched her hands, hid them in the folds of her long skirt. Why did she have these feelings? How was she to help Clayton when her own heart was broken? What about her pain? Anger filled her eyes with tears. She ducked her head and blinked them away.

  “The chair is too heavy for you. Get Quincy to move it.”

  Clayton sounded resigned. Well, she was not. She was grieving Aaron, and she did not have the strength to take on Clayton Bainbridge’s burden. Sarah blinked her eyes clear and lifted her head. “Quincy has left for the farm.”

  Clayton’s chest swelled. He blew out air. “Then leave the chair where it is.”

  “But—”

  “Miss Randolph, do you not understand the roles of a servant and an employer? That was an order.”

  Sarah stared, bit back a retort. He was right. She was only a servant to him. She had forgotten that while caring for his wounds. Evidently he had not. And she had been concerned about him having a wounded heart? She ignored the pang of hurt. It was nothing but wounded pride.

  “Very well.” She lifted her hands from the chair and took a step back. “If there is nothing you need at the moment, I will go down to the kitchen and bring Nora back.” She waited to a count of three, pivoted and sailed across the room. His dirty breakfast tray waited there on the table. She snatched it up and hurried out onto the landing before she gave in to the urge to throw his coffee cup at him, wound or no wound. It was a good thing for Mr. Clayton Bainbridge she was a lady!

  Clayton leaned back against his pillows, bereft and hollow. He had accomplished his goal of distancing himself from Sarah. And all because he had been worried she would hurt herself moving that heavy rocker. He should have realized—should have challenged Sarah’s pride earlier. Her stiff posture, lifted chin and flashing eyes were proof of a wall he would not be allowed to scale no matter how he longed to reach her heart and claim it for his own. All he had to do was make certain that wall stayed in place—and return to work as soon as possible. The less time he spent in her company the better.

  Clayton lifted his hand and gently probed the wound on the back of his head. It was scabbed over and tender to the touch, but there was no eruption of pain, only a dull throbbing. He would not be bedridden if it were not for the injury to his back. He may not be in condition to supervise the work sites, but he would at least be able to care for himself, and work in his study. He would be independent. Sarah Randolph could return to being a nanny instead of his nurse. And he would be able to avoid all contact with her.

  Clayton flattened his palms against the mattress, braced himself and lifted his right leg a few inches off the bed. It hurt, but the pain was nothing he could not bear. He shifted his weight slightly, gritted his teeth and tried his left leg. “Ahhugh!” Pain thrust deep into his side, slashed across his lower back, agonizing and intense.

  His stomach churned. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip, moistened his palms. Clayton clamped his jaws together and sagged back against his pillows. Pain pulsated in the bruised area above his hip, traveled down his leg. For all his effort had cost him, his leg had not moved. Fear clamped his chest, squeezed his throat. What if he was crippled? That would make it certain he could not have Sarah. Ever.

  “Mr. Bainbridge!”

  Clayton opened his eyes. Sarah, the child in her arms, stared at him from the open doorway. He closed his eyes again, unwilling to let her see his agony.

  “Sit here, sweetie.”

  The rocker squeaked. The blanket on his left pulled down. She was leaning over him. He kept his eyes closed.

  “How can I help you?”

  The sound of her soft voice was like balm, the fact that she cared, enough. But he could not tell her. He could never tell her. The wall had to remain firmly in place. Clayton rolled his head side-to-side, heedless of the healing wound, and waited for the pain to ease.

  “And what is this?”

  Sarah’s voice, pitched soft and low—the whispering rhythm of the rocker in the background. Clayton frowned. He must have fallen asleep. He opened his eyes and looked toward the chair. Sarah was sitting with the child on her lap, holding an open book.

  “A cow.”

  His lips twitched. The child was speaking in an exaggerated whisper. She must have been warned to be quiet.

  “Very good! And what does a cow say?”

  “Moooo.”

  “Yes. Now, what is next?”

  The child twisted her head around and looked up at Sarah.

  “A butterfwy!”

  “Shhhh…” Sarah placed her finger across her lips and glanced his way. Her eyes widened. “You are awake.” She rose, still holding the child, and stepped close to his bed. “How do you feel?”

  “All right.” Lamplight danced among the crests and valleys of the child’s golden curls. Deborah’s hair. He looked away, glanced out the window. The sky was gray. Layers of dark clouds foamed in the distance. “Looks as if we are in for some weather.”

  “Yes.” Sarah took a breath. “Are you hungry? We ate some time ago. But Eldora will fix a tray for you.”

  Clayton nodded, tried not to notice the child who was staring down at him.

  Sarah turned, lifted the picture book off the seat of the rocker and carried Nora to her mattress in the corner. “Now you be a good girl and look at your book, Nora. I have to go get your papa’s food, but I will be right back.”

  Papa. Clayton’s stomach knotted. “Take the child with you.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I have to carry your tray, and Nora cannot climb the stairs.” She hurried out of the room. Closed the door behind her.

  He was trapped! Clayton glared down at his useless leg.

  “Duck…quack, quack.”

  Paper crackled—a page turning.

  “Horsy!”

  He pressed back into his pillows, closed his eyes and willed Sarah to hurry. There were soft rustling sounds…hesitant steps…a bump. He did his best to ignore them. They grew louder, drew nearer. His heart thudded. Ridiculous to be frightened of a child. His blanket moved.

  “Me petted your horsy.”

  Clayton sucked in a breath, opened his eyes. The child was leaning against the bed staring at him, her tiny hands holding on to the covers, her chin level with the mattress. How did she—The bed steps! If she moved—Clayton’s heart leaped into his mouth. He shot a glance at the closed stair door, looked back at the child. Better keep her talking. “You did?”

  Her blond curls bobbed with her emphatic nod. “Horsies are big.” She let go of the covers and spread her little arms as wide as they would go—teetered.

  “Careful!” Clayton grabbed hold of her arm. She was so small. He cast another look toward the door. Where was Sarah? He looked back. The child was looking up at him. There was something about her blue eyes…He swallowed hard and held out his other hand. “Can you climb up here and tell me about the horses?”

  She nodded, slipped her tiny hand in his. His chest tightened. He ignored the sensation, lifted her up onto the bed and sat her down in the center, beside him, where there was no chance she would topple off the edge.

  “Horsy go—” She made a sound he interpreted as a snort, dipped her head and pushed it forward.

  He recognized Pacer’s nudge. “That means he is glad to see you.”

  “Uh-huh. And kitties, too!” She wiggled into a more comfortable position against his legs. “Kitties go,
rrrrr-rrrrr, ’cause they be happy when you petted them. And they gots special names.”

  “Oh.” Rain pattered against the windows. A soft, soothing sound. He watched it flow together, form small rivulets and run down the panes.

  “Uh-huh. They be Happy an’ Fluffy an’ Wiggles an’ Bun’le.”

  Clayton’s brow rose. Four kittens? He had told Quincy to take them to the farm.

  “Me gots a special name. Me Nora.” She yawned, stuck her thumb in her mouth and looked up at him. Blue eyes full of trust. Her eyes…

  Clayton’s heart lurched.

  The stair door clicked open.

  Sarah stepped through the door, leaned against it and pushed back until it clicked closed. She looked over at the bed and almost dropped the tray she carried. “Nora!” She rushed across the room. “How did you get up on your papa’s bed?”

  “She climbed the bed steps. I thought it prudent to keep her up here where she could not get hurt.”

  Sarah put down the tray and lifted Nora into her arms. The toddler snuggled close and closed her eyes. “I forgot about the steps, Mr. Bainbridge. I—” His raised hand stopped her apology. She searched his face. He had that stony look again. She could not tell if he was angry with her or—O Lord, please do not let him blame Nora. It was my fault. I forgot about the steps. O Lord, please, please do not let him be angry with Nora.

  She gave the toddler a hug. “It is bedtime for you, sweetie.” She tucked her in, gave her a kiss and hurried back to give Clayton his tray.

  “Thank you.”

  Polite, expressionless. She could read nothing in his voice. She walked to Nora’s dollhouse, straightened the furniture. Rain splattered the window beside her. The tree branches outside tossed in a rising wind. Her hands itched to close the shutters and pull the curtains, but it was not her room and she did not dare. She finished her work and turned her back to the window, looked toward the rocker. It faced his bed and the window beside it. There was nowhere for her to hide. Nothing for her to do.