My Heart Stood Still (Sisters Of Mercy Flats 2)

by Lori Copeland

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Cover photo © Chris Garborg, Bigstock / Richard McMillin

  MY HEART STOOD STILL

  Copyright © 2015 Lori Copeland, Inc.

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Copeland, Lori.

  My heart stood still / Lori Copeland.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6167-7 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6168-4 (eBook)

  I. Title.

  PS3553.O6336M9 2015

  813’.54—dc23

  2014021860

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  Sisters of Mercy Flats

  About the Publisher

  Abigail, Anne-Marie, and Amelia McDougal are smart and pretty enough to turn any man’s head, but marriage isn’t for them. They’ll stick together through thick or thin. The trouble is, the thin times are coming faster than the thick times.

  The nuns who run the mission in Mercy Flats, Texas, do the best they can with the three orphaned girls, but they are constantly glad to know the Lord forgives, since those three need a huge dose of tolerance daily.

  In book one, Sisters of Mercy Flats, we witnessed how Abigail had Barrett Drake scratching his head with bewilderment. So sit back and hold tight as Anne-Marie attempts to tame Creed Walker, a man who has no intentions of being tamed…

  One

  A large chestnut stallion galloped headlong across the dusty plains, carrying two riders pressing low against its sides. Man and beast had ridden hard for over an hour and the animal’s side was heavily lathered, its flanks heaving from exertion.

  Anne-Marie McDougal locked her hands around her rescuer’s waist and held on tightly, praying she would survive this newest catastrophe. Her sisters, Abigail and Amelia, had been rescued from a jail wagon and carried off in different directions, and Anne-Marie was in the hands of a stranger. A very large, intimidating man, who had plucked her off her feet and now raced along the road at a frightening clip. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw no sign of the band of youthful braves who had been chasing them. Perhaps they had tired of the pursuit and broken away.

  The Comanches, the sudden flight from the jail wagon, and now galloping across the countryside with a savage was like an awful dream, but Anne-Marie knew it wasn’t a nightmare. It was really happening.

  She tightened her grip around the Indian’s waist and wondered about this uncivilized being who had swooped down from the heavens to save her from a fate worse than death.

  Her heart raced with alarm. Who were these men who had seized her and her sisters, Amelia and Abigail, to safety, and then sprinted in opposite directions?

  A new, more disturbing thought came to her mind. What if the three Samaritans had not come upon them? Anne-Marie shuddered to think where she would be now. Scalped…or dead.

  She held tight as the Indian cut the chestnut off the trail and pushed the animal up a steep ravine. If only she had thought the last scam through more carefully. She had warned Amelia and Abigail it would be risky to make a fool of A.J. Donavan. He was an intelligent man, and she had sensed that he couldn’t be tricked as easily as the others.

  Panic welled up inside her. She had never been apart from Abigail and Amelia. She and her sisters had always faced life together, afraid of nothing, anxious of no one. If anything happened to them she couldn’t bring herself to go on.

  But she couldn’t allow herself to entertain such thoughts. Optimism was her strength; she couldn’t lose it now. She had escaped unharmed, hadn’t she? She wasn’t bleeding or wounded. And the two men who had rescued Abigail and Amelia were white men, not a savage like her defender.

  The Indian’s stoic silence was beginning to grate on her. Obviously he neither understood nor spoke a word of English, but she would have to find a way to communicate soon. She had to make him understand that he must help her find the nearest stage or rail station so she could return to Mercy Flats, Texas, immediately.

  There, by the grace of God, she and her sisters would be reunited—provided her sisters’ rescuers had been as cunning in eluding the Comanches as her protector. But was he her rescuer? She had no assurance that he wasn’t as intent on evil as the band of young warriors chasing the wagon.

  No. She must believe that he had good intentions and that Abigail and Amelia were safe. At this very moment they might be as confused and frightened as she was, but they would be back together soon—very soon. And they would continue providing funds for the orphanage in Mercy Flats as they always had.

  Leaning closer against the man’s powerful back, she shouted above the racing wind. “It’s getting colder. Can we stop soon—is there a town nearby?”

  When he showed no signs of responding, she sighed, realizing that communication was impossible. He didn’t understand a word she said, but it didn’t matter. She would forgo small talk if only he was skilled enough to get her to safety with her scalp intact.

  She was limply clinging to his waist by the time he finally angled the horse down a gulley and through a deep thicket. She tensed. This was the moment she had been dreading; this was the hour he would prove his intent. He was either her defender or her adversary. Her heart tripped in her chest and she sucked in a deep breath.

  Half turning, the man grunted, pointing toward the ground.

  When she was slow to comprehend, he grasped her by the arm and eased her off the back of the horse. She had been astride the animal for so long that her legs threatened to give out. When she stumbled, a strong hand reached out to steady her.

  Motioning her to a nearby log, the man slid off the horse and set to work. In a surprisingly short time he had a fire going, its warmth gratifying in the deepening twilight. The day had begun warm and balmy, but during the afternoon clouds had formed overhead and now the biting wind carried a hint of snow.

  Anne-Marie tried to ignore the grumbling in her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since sometime early this morning, and she had no idea where her next meal would come from. The Indian appeared to have little provision for travel—a canteen tied to his saddle and a bedroll. His tribe could be nearby, yet if that were true, considering the worsening weather, why hadn’t he el
ected to seek shelter with them? But if he planned to do her harm, he was certainly being a gentleman about it.

  “I’m hungry,” she said, patting her stomach to convey her misery. “I’m hungry and cold,” she added, using the same insistent gesture, hoping he would comprehend her need.

  Giving her a brief, vacant stare, the man moved closer to the fire.

  In the light he looked wild and uncivilized. He was large, and his buckskin shirt and trousers smelled as if he hadn’t washed in months. Thick black shaggy hair blew in the wind. Nut-brown skin stretched tightly over high, hollow cheekbones. In the deepening shadows, he appeared even more ominous.

  Her eyes traveled the length of his ragged form. He was from an impoverished tribe. Even the leather moccasins he wore were old and threadbare.

  Pity momentarily flooded her, and her compassion deepened when she saw that he was shivering from the cold.

  Drawing a deep breath, she glanced about the campsite, wondering if either one of them would make it through the night. She didn’t see how. They had nothing, virtually nothing, to protect them from the elements.

  “Do you have a blanket?” She mimed rubbing her shoulders.

  His gaze fixed on the shower of sparks shooting up from the dry timber.

  “Perhaps we should huddle together. We have to do something or we’ll both die!”

  The man remained stoically silent.

  She thought for a moment and then tried again. Pointing at the fire, she lifted her brows in question. Food? Surely he could understand that. They had ridden for hours. He had to be as hungry as she was. Didn’t his kind run down rabbits on foot or catch fish with their bare hands? She glanced around the campsite and her heart sank when she spied a stream that was little more than a trickle of water. There would be nothing in there to ease their hunger.

  She rose and began to pace around the campfire, her frustration mounting. She had to try to think of a way out of this. If she had to be stuck with a man, why couldn’t it be one who understood simple English? The other girls would surely have a laugh when this was over and Anne-Marie told them about her captor. At least Amelia and Abigail had been rescued by men who undoubtedly spoke or understood a common language.

  Positioning herself on a rock, she focused on the sounds coming from the bushes. She wasn’t squeamish. It took more than rustling sounds in the thicket to spook her, but she had never been out alone much at night.

  And she had never depended on a man for anything.

  She didn’t like the fact for the time being that she was dependent on one now—and especially this particular man.

  She bit her lower lip. If it weren’t so late, she’d scare up her own supper. Her eyes returned to the dense thicket, but it was extremely dark.

  Not a hint of moon shone through the bare tree branches. In another few minutes she would barely be able to see her hand in front of her face, and she didn’t have a gun.

  Shivering, she burrowed deeper into the woolen nun’s habit she’d been wearing as a disguise during the caper that had landed them in the jail wagon. The shrieking wind reminded her of how little protection the disguise was in a full-blown blizzard. Her gaze returned to the Indian. At least her habit was warmer than what he was wearing.

  He stirred, adding wood to the fire, seemingly oblivious of her presence.

  Miniature snowflakes began to form in the air as the two forlorn figures huddled close to the fire.

  Long minutes of silence passed when Anne-Marie decided to take matters into her own hands. She was so hungry she couldn’t sleep, even if she wanted to, which was impossible in such deplorable conditions. She had no idea what she would find beyond the rustling bushes, but she—

  She stiffened as the corner of her eye caught sight of something slithering across the ground. A lizard seeking the warmth of the fire.

  She lowered her eyes to the toe of her boot, and her throat squeezed so tightly with fear that she couldn’t make a sound.

  A pair of reptilian eyes stared up at her.

  There were few things in life Anne-Marie dreaded, but a lizard was one of them. As a child, she had slipped into an abandoned well and spent the next hour in a bed of various species of lizards before Father Luis and Sister Agnes had been able, with the help of a long rope, to pull her out. For years afterward Anne-Marie couldn’t close her eyes without reliving the horror of that old well and the slithering reptiles that had mercilessly crawled over her body while she lay paralyzed with terror.

  Cold yellow-green eyes stared back at her while she attempted to find her voice. She squeaked, and then squeaked again, trying to gain the Indian’s attention.

  The man calmly piled more wood on the fire.

  By willing her vocal cords to move, she succeeded in making a small, barely perceptible noise pass her lips as her eyes riveted on the intruder reclining on the top of her left boot.

  Glancing up, the man finally caught Anne-Marie’s anguished stare. He rose slowly to his feet, his eyes warning her not to move. The hairs on the back of her neck rose when she saw the glint of a blade appear in his hand.

  With catlike stealth, he advanced on the lizard. The knife blade reflected the fire’s dancing flames, looking more sinister than any gun. The man’s black eyes glittered as he concentrated on his prey. Anne-Marie’s gaze beseeched him to move faster, but he showed no signs of understanding. Instead he crept closer, each step methodically calculated.

  While still a few feet away, he took aim and let the knife find its mark.

  Anne-Marie’s eyes rolled back in her head, and with a soft whimper she slumped to the ground in a lifeless heap.

  Snow had started to fall heavily when the Indian knelt beside the sister to check her pulse. He laid his fingers on the base of her throat, his eyes softening when he detected a strong heartbeat. For so small a sparrow, the sister had much spirit. His gaze traced her delicate features. It had been some time since he had seen such a lovely woman.

  Bending forward, he gently picked her up and moved her closer to the fire.

  His gaze lingered on her beauty when he slowly straightened. Snow was gathering on her dark lashes, and in the flickering firelight her face radiated a childlike innocence.

  Kneeling again, he tucked the skirt of her habit around her tightly, making sure the wind could not penetrate her small frame.

  When he stood, his eyes moved regretfully to the bushes where he had thrown the lizard carcass. Too bad she was so afraid of the creature; it would have made an adequate meal.

  His eyes once again returned to the sister. She was such a beautiful woman to have chosen to live out her life in a convent. He briefly speculated as to why. Dedication like hers was not often found in one so young.

  A moment later, carrying his knife, he disappeared into the heavy thicket.

  Anne-Marie opened her eyes to see large, cottony white balls floating down in the moonlight, settling like feather down on her cheeks. For the longest moment she couldn’t remember where she was.

  Staring up, she saw a layer of white coating the tops of the trees, their branches decked out in glistening winter finery. Icicles dripped from the boughs of cedar trees, turning branches into dazzling Christmas tree ornaments.

  She lay drinking in the magnificent sight. The night was so silent she could almost hear smoke drifting from the fire.

  When her memory rushed back she bolted upright. Where was the Indian? The campfire blazed brightly, but he was nowhere in sight. Panic seized her and she called out, her voice hollow in the icy stillness. She sat for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. Had he left her? What if he had taken the horse and ridden off, leaving her to fend for herself? A groan escaped her when she remembered the lizard and the speed with which the Indian’s knife had killed it.

  A sound drew her attention, and she glanced up, catching back a shout when she saw the man returning. He was carrying something in his right hand.

  “There you are!” she called out. “I was afraid you’d left me
here—alone.”

  Her eyes focused on the meat he was carrying, and her stomach rumbled with hunger. “Thank goodness you found something.” She wasn’t sure what he held, but by now it didn’t matter. She’d settle for anything to appease her empty stomach.

  Moving to the fire, the man deftly skewered the meat and hung it over the hot flame.

  “What is it?” she asked, not expecting a response, but just to hear a voice breaking the unnerving silence. “Well, no matter, it looks delicious,” she added a moment later.

  They sat in silence, surrounded by falling snow and the occasional sound of fat dripping into the fire.

  When the meat was nearly black, the Indian removed it from the spit and laid it aside to cool.

  After a while he tore the fare into chunks and handed her a portion. She couldn’t hide the trembling in her hands when she took it from him.

  His eyes darted to hers briefly, and she smiled back in gratitude. “Thank you. It smells wonderful.”

  Picking up the crusted meat, she told herself to be grateful for the kindness he had shown her. Maybe they couldn’t communicate, but at least he had treated her with respect, and she should consider herself fortunate.

  He paused as if waiting for something.

  When she returned his gaze vacantly, his eyes fell away, and he began eating.

  Later he tossed the last bone aside and settled near the fire and closed his eyes.

  Anne-Marie rolled herself up in a blanket he provided from his saddlebags and lay down near the fire. Was there a woman somewhere tonight concerned about his welfare? Tall, sleek muscle ridges showed through the rugged buckskin. He was handsome to be sure—or he could be most striking with the proper care. A good scrubbing, a pair of scissors, and a shave would make a big difference. She looked away when her cheeks heated. What thoughts! Abigail would think she’d lost her mind.