“That and more. It seems there are many unspoken words. I can hear them rolling around in your mind.”
She snorted. “You sound like a man who writes stories for a living.” He was too perceptive.
“I am but a mere history professor, but I also have spent a great deal of time studying the human condition.” He took a breath. “You are full of life, but also full of great sadness.”
Her throat tightened. “That’s none of your concern, Mr. Bennett.”
“You are correct, of course.” He blinked, still watching.
She pushed some more water into his mouth and he choked. Chastened by her own actions, she wiped his mouth with a rag and waited until the coughing subsided.
“I’m sorry.”
He blinked and cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. For that I’m sorry.” Sincerity rang in his voice.
She set down the cup and clenched her hands together. “I think we can get along together if we don’t speak of this again. Tomorrow we start heading east. You should get some sleep.”
Isabelle got to her feet, her legs shaking and made her way out of the wagon. Mr. Bennett had seen far too much. Things were too hard for him to dredge out her innermost pain.
The air between them grew heavy with tension. The initial comfortable banter had been tucked away. Mason had let his mouth run away with him, again, and he had pushed her too far. She took care of him, but she didn’t chat, nor did she speak other than to ask if he needed anything.
He missed her.
Charlie took it upon herself to needle her sister at every opportunity. The once-cute, cussing youngster had turned into a harridan in mere days. She also watched Mason with an eerie stillness. He wasn’t sure if she was studying him as a scientist might a specimen, or if she was simply being a pest of epic proportions.
Every moment of every day was painful, but every time he woke, the pain had lessened an inch, sometimes even two. He was weaker than a newborn calf and apparently just as stupid. He pined for a woman he barely knew. However, she was the woman who saved his life.
Mason had never put much credence in the flowery romances or love poems of the literary world. Now that he found himself with nothing to do but think and stare at the canvas walls of the wagon, his mind had taken meandering paths.
One of those paths had been to obsess about Isabelle Chastain. From the first moment he’d seen her, she had fascinated him. Now that fascination had slid toward something deeper and he sure as hell didn’t know what it meant or what to do about it.
Was he in love? Or was it a common affliction patients have for their nurses? Deep or shallow? He damn well didn’t know, and that bothered him. Mason was out of his depth in more ways than one.
He decided to set goals. Each day he would do something. He wasn’t sure what it would be when he woke in the pre-dawn light, yet he decided at that moment. Today’s goal would be to piss on his own. He couldn’t bear to have her delicate hands on his cock anymore. Soon he would harden beneath her touch and then he would truly go to hell.
Oh, he would have to ask her to dispose of his urine, which was still a lowering thought, but he could at least be the hands that aimed the stream. It was ridiculous that he was down to the very basest point of his life, and he looked forward to pissing on his own.
He chuckled to himself.
“Mason?” Isabelle spoke from the other side of the wagon.
“I apologize, did I wake you?” He knew she barely slept, as did he. Taking even a moment of that well-earned rest was not acceptable.
“Do you need to, um, relieve yourself?”
He stifled the mad laugh that threatened to burst from his throat. “I will help myself today.”
A long pause. “That’s good. I know it must be difficult to be unable to do things yourself.”
“You have no idea.” He spoke under his breath, but she must have heard him because in moments she was beside him.
Her scent, so familiar now, made his breath catch. She pressed a jar into his hand, its coolness welcome.
“Thank you.”
“No matter what has happened or what has been said, I do not regret finding you or helping you.” She sighed, the sound infinitely sad in the shadows. “Our parents passed away a week ago.”
Mason was struck dumb by her confession. He assumed there had been parents at some point, but he had no idea it had only been a week. That meant he wore clothes of a man who had been in this wagon merely days earlier and now lay in a grave. He wanted to take them off and give them back, but he damn well wasn’t strong enough.
“Isabelle.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled it out of reach. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What would you have done? Felt sorry for us? Waved us past when we came upon your half-dead carcass?” Her tone was harsh, but beneath it he heard the grief and pain she tried to hide.
“No, but I could have expressed my sympathies and given you a shoulder to cry on. At the very least, I would have refused to wear these clothes.”
“And parade around naked in front of my sister?” She made a strange noise. “I think not.”
“Well, I am sincerely sorry for your loss. It was sudden, I assume. You haven’t had a chance to grieve.” He reached for her hand again, and this time she allowed him to hold it.
A minute of silence passed while he rubbed her palm with his thumb. It soothed him and he hoped it did the same for her. She fairly vibrated with sadness and tears. If only he knew what to do. He distanced himself from other human beings on purpose. The forced closeness was wreaking havoc with his self-imposed loneliness.
“I won’t allow myself until I find my other sisters. I can’t.” Her voice was a broken whisper.
Mason understood all too well how to stuff the bad emotions into a closet deep inside and lock the door. Isabelle didn’t seem to have the knack for it though. It had taken him years of practice. Her emotions were too raw, which meant she loved her parents. This was grief in its purest form. He was at a loss.
“I’m sorry.” The words were as inadequate as his ability to be a human being.
“Thank you.” She pulled her hand from his and he had to stop himself from grabbing it again. “Let me know if you need help with ah, the jar.”
With that, she left him to his own devices, for better or for worse.
Chapter Five
The days blurred together, one like the other. Exhaustion had taken over Isabelle’s world. She performed tasks by rote, her hands raw, her back numb and her eyes dry. There was no time to cry and no opportunity. She was responsible for three people, one who could barely piss in a jar. To his credit, he grew stronger every day and pushed himself, shaking and sweating, to do more.
He had grit and courage. Conversing with him in the darkness of the wagon had given her some surcease from the emotional dam that threatened every day. He was smart, funny, and she never knew what he was going to say next with his strange accent and his huge vocabulary.
Charlie had ceased talking except for grunts and curses. She did what Isabelle asked—or rather, told—her to do, but that was it. Gone was the sweet girl who sang, smiled and skipped. She’d been replaced with a sullen girl who wouldn’t look anyone in the eyes.
Misery had become Isabelle’s constant companion. She had learned to accept it, or at least ignore it enough to function. Two weeks after they had rescued Mason, Isabelle woke unable to open her hands. They had cramped from the abuse she’d heaped on them.
She lay on her side, squeezing her eyes shut in pain. A small moan rose in her throat and she swallowed it back with effort. With some warm water, she could ease the cramping. She had to keep moving, to reach Josephine at Fort John as soon as possible. The fall season was beginning in earnest and each night grew colder. Soon there would be snow. Of that she had no doubt.
Each second
she lay there doing nothing was a second they could be moving east, toward family.
“Isabelle, are you all right?” Mason was very close, only a foot away.
“Did you crawl over here by yourself?” She was too surprised to be upset by his nearness.
“I suppose I did. I guess I know what my triumph today will be.” She could hear the grin in his voice. “I heard a sound. I recognize distress when I hear it.”
Isabelle contemplated lying to him.
“It’s all right. You don’t have to say anything. Tell me what I can do to help. I’ve been nothing but a burden for two weeks.” He inched closer with a grunt. “Please. Let me help.”
Her eyes burned, but tears did not come. No, she would keep the promise to herself. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t accept comfort when it was offered. For the first time since her parents died, Isabelle let herself give up control.
“My hands.”
He took them in his hands. She sighed at the contact in the cold morning air. He was so very warm. He massaged her fingers first, straightening them with a gentleness that made her heart ache. She tried to see him, but it was too dark. He was gentler than she expected, and she allowed herself to relax. Her tired body sagged at the sudden pleasure from his touch.
“You should rest for a day. If you keep pushing, you will do permanent damage.” He moved to her wrists, then arms. She groaned low and deep in her throat. “Ah, it, uh, feels good?”
“Yes.” The word tore from her throat, surprising her.
“Well then, I’m glad to know I have brought you pleasure. You saved my life and I owe you more than I can ever repay.”
She almost snatched her hands back, but it felt too good. However, his statement stung. She wasn’t sure if it was her pride or her feelings that smarted. “While I appreciate your assistance, I do not want your gratitude to drive you to perform tasks.” Her voice sounded sharp to her own ears.
“Gratitude, is it? You have much to learn about me, Isabelle, if you think I do anything for anyone without my own motives. I assure you I am never selfless.” He sighed, a warm gust against her cheek.
She didn’t understand Mason and she didn’t think she wanted to. He was handsomer each day as the bruises and cuts healed. Stronger and more able, he even sat up on his own. He was dangerous to her equilibrium judging by her reaction to his ministrations. The Chastain sisters had been raised to be self-sufficient but also to help others. This made it difficult to accept help from others, and worse yet, ask for help.
Mason stripped her of any pretense in the shadows. The idea she needed him galled her and it was a thought she could not voice aloud. She would, however selfish it was, allow him to continue easing her pains.
“You are driven, stubborn, and you do not allow yourself to admit any weakness.” His perceptive eyes missed nothing.
“I could say the same of you.” She bit back a groan as his thumb dug into a particularly sore muscle on her arm.
“That is likely very true. I know many people who would agree with you. Nevertheless, they are not driving a wagon like a madwoman fifteen hours a day until they cannot hold a spoon.” He didn’t have to be right all the time, damn him.
“I do what I have to.”
“To reunite your family, as you said.” He paused and she frowned, wanting to demand he continue. “Yet your sister no longer speaks to you.”
That one was a slap. She yanked her hands away from him, and her muscles screamed in protest. “You have no right.”
“You’re correct. I have no right, but it seems there is no one else here to say what you need to hear. I don’t know you well, but after so many days in your care, watching you, I feel as though I can speak to what you’re doing to yourself.” He had stepped over the line, far over.
“That’s none of your business. You’re alive, aren’t you?” Anger simmered, along with what she could only call guilt because he was right. He was so very right.
“I am, but you won’t be for long if you keep at this pace.” He shook his head. “I like you, Isabelle, and I don’t like many people.”
She smiled at his self-deprecating tone. He was charming, as much as she wanted to deny it. “I like you too, but my family is more important.”
He was silent for a moment. “I envy you that. I don’t know what a family was supposed to be.”
She reached up and touched his whiskered cheek. She would have to shave him soon. His beard had grown in a golden brown. “A family is people you love who love you in return. People you would do anything for. People you—” She swallowed the lump in her throat that had appeared. “People you want to be with.”
“Do you want to be with me, Isabelle?”
The question hung in the air between them, heavy and prickly. Isabelle had no time to think about a man, or all that being involved with a man would entail. Yet Mason made her wish she had the opportunity. He didn’t treat her as an empty-headed beauty. His touch made her feel…cherished.
“What I want and what life will allow me are not necessarily the same thing.” She pulled her hands from his, much as she wanted to keep them there. “The sun will be up very soon. I must get up and ready us to leave.”
He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He remained so close, his warmth seeping into her space. She wanted to tell him to go, but she wanted him to move closer.
“Mason, you must let me up.”
“I’m not preventing you from moving. I am no longer even touching you.” His tone challenged her.
She would have to crawl over him to leave the wagon and he knew it, damn him. Isabelle didn’t know where she found the courage, but she threw off the blanket and prepared to rise.
“Wait. Please.” The sound of shuffling and then a grunt. “You’re free to go.” He was back over on his side of the wagon.
And she was strangely bereft.
Mason watched the terrain pass out the back of the wagon. It was endless prairie views, monotonous and brown, nothing like the gently rolling green hills of North Carolina. It was a reminder he was far from home, a stranger in a land he didn’t know or understand.
Charlie sat in the opposite corner of the wagon, mumbling under her breath and doing something with a handful of small rocks. She spoke to him, but he had to be the one to initiate the conversation. During the days, she made sure he had water and was comfortable. Isabelle took care of the bandages and the more personal tasks. The younger Chastain was a confused child and Mason felt for her.
“What are you doing, little one?”
“Huh? Nothing.” She tucked the rocks into her pocket and faced him. As usual, she stared at him, mute, with her frizzy hair in a halo around her freckled face.
“Tell me about your home.”
She started. “My home?”
“Yes, Isabelle said you’re from New York.” He was genuinely interested, since all he knew of New York was from books.
“Not anymore. We were supposed to be in Oregon, but now we live in this fucking wagon.”
Mason tried not to react to the acidic tone. “Then tell me about the wagon. Where did you get it?”
She stuck up her chin. “In Missouri. We bought it secondhand because that’s all we could afford. Because of my sister Frankie, we had to leave New York. Now she’s left with her new husband, Jo is dying somewhere and my parents are dead. Dead! Goddamn it!” She leapt out of the back of the wagon with the grace of a simian, flying around the canvas and landing with an audible grunt.
Mason stared at the place where she’d disappeared. What had just happened? He thought to get Charlie to speak and instead he had made her angry and hurt. Well, that wasn’t the stupidest thing he’d done, but it was right up there with some of his best mistakes.
“Mason?” Isabelle called from behind him. “Charlie just ran past the wagon. What happened?”
Mason force
d himself to crawl forward, over the crates and the chest of drawers. The healing cut on his thigh screamed in protest, but he had to start pushing himself some time. At least he wasn’t pissing blood anymore.
He reached for the ties that held the canvas closed. His fingers fumbled, but he finally got them untied. A blast of cold air hit his face and he winced. Was it that cold out there? Why was Isabelle driving the wagon when she likely couldn’t even feel her fingers?
Stupid question. He knew the answer because she’d already told him. She wanted to turn herself into dust to reunite her family, no matter the cost. Had he ever had that level of conviction? About anything? No, he hadn’t. Isabelle humbled him with her drive, her passion and her absolute certainty she was doing the right thing.
“Mason?” She turned startled eyes on him. “You are becoming more agile by the day.”
He shrugged. “I’m afraid your sister jumped out of the wagon because I asked her about home.”
Isabelle looked out at her sister, a speck on the horizon, her braids bouncing on her slender shoulders. “She’s lost almost everything.” Her voice broke.
Mason threw caution to the wind and crawled up onto the bench beside her. His head tried to lurch left, but he held on tight. Several dozen parts of his body protested, vociferously, but he ignored his own pains. It had been more than two weeks—he was healed enough to stop being cared for. It was time he started to pay back what he had been given.
“No, she hasn’t. Charlie still has you.” He reached for the reins, unsure of exactly how to drive a wagon led by oxen, but determined to learn. “Now, teach me how to do this.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“It’s my turn.” He held the reins up. “I don’t want to crash this into, ah, that prairie dog, so please tell me what to do.”
She shook her head, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. “First, you need gloves.” She reached beneath the seat and pulled out a well-used pair of men’s gloves. She rubbed the leather and blew out a breath. “Put these on.”
He pulled on the gloves, surprised by how well they fit. The last person to put them on must have been her father. His hands held these reins in these gloves before he had died, leaving behind his daughters whom he obviously loved. Mason flexed his hands and wondered if he would ever be good enough for Isabelle to love him.
The Jewel: The Malloy Family, Book 11 Page 6
