The Heart of Home

by Stephenia H. McGee

  He clutched at his shirt, desperately wanting it to relent, to leave him be, even if in so doing he remained only a shell. But he deserved no such mercy. Not he who had owned men like chattel and then robbed those who sought to stop him of their lives. He had broken many of God’s commandments. He had not honored his mother, and stayed at her side. He had stolen supplies from the enemy. He had killed men in battle. Had watched their lifeblood drain out with detached indifference.

  Forgive me, God. It is another failure, another weakness. Though I do not deserve it, save me from this darkness that consumes me. Send me something of your light. Show me you have not forgotten me, for once I was yours.

  “Tristan!”

  He turned, unsure if the call of his name had sprung from his own desperation or from lips that should not be so near. Through the sheets of falling rain, a flash of color drifted through the haze. Opal held the bunched fabric of her skirts in her hands, her booted feet slipping in the mud as she struggled to get to him.

  In two strides, he had her by the elbow. Water streamed down her face and clung to her lashes like tiny diamonds. She shouldn’t be here.

  “What are you doing?”

  The bite of his words didn’t send her running as they should. Instead, she turned her chin up, the defiant set to her jaw warning him a scolding was forthcoming. It was no less than he deserved.

  “I’m saving you!” She grasped his forearms, her wide eyes a mixture of fear and anger.

  “What?”

  She flung a hand at the river. “I’ll not let you go in again! I swear I will not!”

  He turned to look at the churning waters lapping at the edges of the bank. He scowled. It had risen at least eight inches since he last looked upon it. He glanced back to the house, situated far too near.

  He started pulling on Opal’s arms. “Come, Miss Martin, let’s get you back inside.”

  She planted her heels. “You must let go of some of this pain, or it is going to steal from you all that remains of life.”

  A growl rumbled in his chest, but she only stepped closer, defying him. Did she not see the danger she was in? The concern in her eyes softened his edges of steel, robbing them of the cuts they should deliver.

  He gentled his tone. “This is hardly the place for such a conversation.”

  “If I leave you alone, I fear you may do something foolish. And if I take you into the house, this moment will be gone and you will never speak of what happened.”

  “You want me to speak of it?” How could he? How could he voice things that would only douse the guarded affection he’d glimpsed in her eyes and replace it with the hatred he deserved?

  She reached up and placed a hand on his cheek, and he longed to hold her again. Tristan shoved the sentiment aside. He was a sinking ship, and she should not go down with him. Better he undo this now before it became more than he could bear.

  He grabbed her sodden elbow and thrust her toward the house. She nearly lost her balance, but he kept her upright, hauling her away from the rising river. “What would you have me say? I am sorry I took liberties that were not mine.” He pulled her through the mud, heedless of the way it sucked at his boots. “I should never have stolen that from you. It was a mistake. You have my word it will never happen again.”

  “But, but…I….” She tried to stall his progress, but he kept his grip firm and his pace steady. “I’m not going to marry him!” She yanked her arm free, slipping and falling to the ground.

  “You’ll go north,” he said through gritted teeth, thrusting his hands into the mud and underneath her. Tristan set his feet and lifted her from the ground. “And you will forget about that rascal. And you will forget about me. Live a better life.”

  She gasped and snaked her arm around his neck. “I cannot forget about you.” The words, spoken so close to his ear, twisted his gut.

  “You must.”

  Her fingers dug into his shoulder and then retreated as he hauled her up onto the porch and set her on her feet.

  “Of course.” She lowered her head, a vibrant flower withering underneath all that soiled him. “There will always be Millie.”

  He froze. What did Millie have to do with this? “What?”

  “I know you will always love her, but I thought….that maybe….” her voice crumbled and she put her fist to her mouth. “I am a fool.”

  Water coursed down her cheeks, and he knew tears mingled with the rain. Tears he had caused. He clenched his hands. When he could not form words through the constriction in his throat, she gave a sob and darted into the house, leaving him alone with his shattered thoughts.

  Chapter Nine

  Opal burst into the house in a sodden heap of mud and dejection. She dripped upon the floor she had just scrubbed, clods of ruddy clay clinging to her hem. Why? Why must she always hold on to hope when doing so only led her to pain? Hope the war wouldn’t come, hope Daddy would return home, hope that there would be a light in this endless swarm of loss and misery.

  All of it pointless.

  “Opal!” Mama screeched, hurrying toward her. “What has happened?”

  “The storm….” As though in confirmation of her words, the house shook with a crack of thunder.

  “And you went out in it?” Mama stopped in front of her, fingers working at the fabric at the base of her throat. “Did you fall?”

  Opal merely bobbed her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, now, let’s just get you cleaned up. I’ll have Mr. Stuart stoke a fire and get some water heated for you for a bath.”

  He was likely already gone, but she didn’t have the energy to say so.

  “What’s this?” Mr. Weir appeared out from the parlor, his eyes growing wide.

  “Why is he still here?” Opal whispered through clenched teeth.

  Mama turned her back to the carpetbagger, hiding some of Opal’s condition behind her own frame. “I couldn’t send him on his way in the storm. That would be ill mannered.”

  Opal began to sputter, but then clenched her teeth even tighter. What did it matter, anyway? She moved to step around Mama and head toward the stairs, trying to hold on to at least a fraction of her dignity.

  “Miss Martin, is this sort of behavior common for you?” The corners of Mr. Weir’s mouth bent under the weight of his disapproval.

  Did she normally go about sliding in the mud like a pig in its sty? Anger boiled in her stomach, released in the snap of a single word. “No.”

  He seemed relieved, falling in step beside her as she tromped to the stairs. “Good then. I can’t have my wife acting in such an inappropriate manner. It is my hope that I will eventually be able to take you to Washington.”

  Opal jerked to a halt. “Excuse me?”

  The smile that twisted his lips looked equal parts condescending and placating. “I’m sure there are things that women do out here in the country that seem normal to you, but understand those things wouldn’t be acceptable in fine society. But don’t worry, I will teach you.” His voice deepened, and his lecherous gaze roaming over the sodden dress clinging to her every curve caused her insides to constrict. “Indeed, I have lots of things to teach you.”

  Standing in a ruined dress, her heart raw and her senses flailing, Opal couldn’t bring herself to proffer politeness, nor could she hide her true thoughts any longer. She took a step toward him, her pulse pounding. Somewhere in the peripheral of her senses, she heard Mama’s gasp, heard her speak something, but Opal ignored her.

  “Let us make one thing very clear. I will never consent to marry a greedy opportunist like you. I’ll not be your housekeeper or your pet.” Her rage gathered with every word, and she stepped closer to him, poking him in the chest.

  He gaped at her, his complexion reddening with every breath he drew through his pointy nose. Something dangerous sparked in his eyes, warning her not to press further. But the words were already sharpened on her tongue and flew out to flay him.

  “And I will never warm your bed!”

/>   His nostril’s flared, and in that moment, the mask of the friendly, simple dandy fell away. His eyes bulged and before she could step back, he grabbed her arm.

  “How dare you speak to me that way, you wretched little urchin.”

  Mama yelped. “Unhand her!”

  Mr. Weir hauled Opal against him, his eyes boring into hers. “You will do everything I tell you to do, or I will see to it that you and your vexatious mother are left to beg for scraps.”

  Opal struggled to free herself from his grasp, but he sank his fingers into her skin. Mama pulled at his arm, begging for him to let her go. Mr. Weir simply swung out his free arm and batted her away as though Mama were nothing more than an irksome fly.

  He sneered. “Now, I grow tired of these games.”

  “Please, just give us the money for the house and we will be gone from here.”

  Opal had never heard such terror in her mother’s voice, and it turned her blood cold.

  Mr. Weir glanced at her, and then as suddenly as he had turned into a terror, the fire drained from his eyes and he dropped Opal’s arm. She rubbed at the sore place, biting her lip.

  He shook his head. “Now why did you have to go and make me do that?”

  She swallowed hard, glancing at Mama. Mama had gone completely pale, and looked as though she were about to faint. Opal took a small step back. This man was dangerous.

  “Forgive me,” she squeaked, trying to find a modicum of strength to free them from this madman’s wrath. “I…I was merely distraught after falling in the mud, and humiliated that you had to see me in such a despicable state. I…didn’t mean it.” Her voice quivered, but it only seemed to help him swallow the words.

  He sighed. “I understand. But we will not let ourselves get in the mud again, now will we?”

  She shook her head, grasping the stair rail.

  “That’s good then. And I shall forgive you this once for speaking to me in such a manner. But now we know not to speak that way ever again, don’t we?”

  Opal lowered her eyes. “Yes.”

  He placed a finger under her chin and forced her to look at him. “Do not fret, I said I forgive you. We can put it behind us now.”

  She held his gaze, afraid to breathe until he finally removed his touch.

  His eyes roamed down her dress. “You need to throw that one away.”

  “All right.”

  He smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “There now. See, isn’t that better?”

  She stared at him, willing her features to remain smooth even as he took a step closer, only a hand’s breadth away. “How about I find you another gown? Something more fitting for you to be seen with me in?”

  “I….” She glanced at Mama, who had begun fanning herself. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  He reached up and grasped her shoulder, and it took all of her willpower not to flinch. “I must tend to some business, but it shouldn’t take long. When I return, I expect your mother to have her affairs in order and her things packed. You should prepare yourself for the wedding and be sure the master chamber is in order. Once we have said our vows, we will send Mrs. Martin off with a stipend and a train ticket to Massachusetts.”

  Opal pressed her lips together and gave a small nod. He squeezed her shoulder and then stepped back. “Good. Then I shall see you again soon, my dear.”

  Without bothering to bid Mama goodbye, he fetched his hat and opened the front door. The rain had slackened to a drizzle, and though he cursed it, he stepped out of the house. As soon as the door latch clicked, Mama scurried to it and turned the lock.

  Then she collapsed into a heap on the floor.

  Chapter Ten

  Tristan watched the swirl of the river as it tested, and then shook off the chains of its banks. It crept tentatively at first, caressing the grass with gentle exploration. Then it became greedy, gathering up its brethren falling from the sky and building its ranks.

  He took a step back, and then another. The river would swell, and do what it had always done. The river was not like men. It could not be contained, or broken. It could do only what nature, what God himself, had commissioned for it to do. It did not fail, it did not sin, and it did not carry a conscience for its destruction.

  But Tristan did.

  Forgive me.

  The water lapped his boots, causing him to retreat. He didn’t dare look at the house, which succored Opal from him. What did she do now? Did she see how hopeless he was? Did she now realize that even a slimy blowhard was a more favorable option than…?

  He shivered. Than what? Him? When had he even begun to let himself think that would be an option? He deserved no such goodness in his life. Not after the man he had been, or the things he had done in war. He should have defied his father’s wishes and freed his family’s slaves when he had the chance. But he had been too set in the old ways…a coward.

  If he had done things differently, then Millie would have never tried to help Pat run. Then she would have never been out there…alone….

  Pain constricted in his chest. He should have been there. He should have put his own foolish pride aside and done what was right. Millie had paid a high price for his stubbornness. Rain coursed through his hair, washing the scar that remained from an injury he didn’t even remember receiving. He only remembered finding out about the loss of his home and then waking up with more pain.

  Pain that Opal had tried to bind, just as her gentle sweetness had tried to wash and bind the pain in his heart. He turned to look at the house, and for a moment, wondered if he could ever throw aside the past and start anew. Could he find redemption in saving Riverbend and dedicating his life to the woman who saw into his darkness and still reached for him?

  But he could never offer her this battered heart, or a shell of a man too heavy laden with all he had done and all he had lost to ever be whole again.

  Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden.

  The thought pressed itself upon him, and he drew a quick breath. He looked around, but no sounds greeted him beyond the rush of water and the steady pelt of rain that obstructed his vision and clouded his senses.

  I will give you rest.

  He didn’t deserve rest. He didn’t deserve happiness. He didn’t deserve anything more than to let the waters sweep him away. Water dripped from his lashes and mingled with the moisture pricking his eyes.

  For the wages of sin is death.

  Pain lanced through him, as sharp and sure as shrapnel. Tristan had sinned in abundance. He deserved the river, even as now it came for him, sucking at his ankles and twisting itself around his feet.

  Christ also suffered for us….who bore our sins in his own body on the tree…by whose stripes ye were healed. As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us. God’s mercy is the cause, the removal of sin the result.

  Where did these verses, so long buried in his soul, come from? He had not set himself to memorizing them and had not laid eyes upon scripture since he left for war.

  He’d been young when he’d asked the reverend to pray for him; a youth who did not understand what it meant to offer himself in service. He had accepted the gift of salvation, but had failed in aligning himself under orders.

  He’d been glad for the gift, but hadn’t really wanted to surrender to the giver. And where had that gotten him? It had taken him far from the light, a light he now could barely remember. Tristan hung his head. He had wandered, but he could not, would not, let the darkness take him.

  Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: the old things are passed away; behold, all things become new.

  New. He did not have to be the youth consumed with pride. He did not have to be a soldier doused in misery. He did not have to be a ghost of misfortune set to float through the world and never live in it again.

  Tristan lifted his face to the cleansing rain, feeling a great weight lift from him even as the river pulled at him. He’d asked for forgiveness, and it had
been granted. He was made new. It was time he started acting like it.

  The waters surged, tugging on his legs and pulling him off balance. Had he waded into the river? Tristan blinked, coming out of his stupor.

  The river!

  It had swept out of its banks, through the yard, and now lapped at the foundation of the house! Water wrapped itself around his waist, trying to unmoor him. Any moment, it would push up onto the porch and seize the house. He had to get inside and warn the women. He set his feet into motion, each step causing his muscles to strain.

  “Tristan!”

  He looked up, hoping he had only imagined the panicked voice. “Opal! Do not leave the porch—”

  She clutched a column, her face a mask of fear. “Tristan! It is Mama!”

  He set his teeth and tried to move faster, but it took all of his effort to keep his feet underneath him in the churn of the water. It surged, pushing against his back. He stumbled.

  “Tristan!”

  He thrust his arms out to his sides, regaining his footing. Now, if he could only get….

  Opal screamed.

  In a flash of fabric and flailing arms, Opal’s skirts caught the current like a sail in the wind. She dipped beneath the surface of the muddy water, and he lunged. The swollen river snaked around him, seeming as desperate to keep him from his destination as he was to obtain it. He fought against the force of the current, struggling to get to the house even as the water strained to carry him away from it. He kicked his feet, trying to reach where she had gone under just off the porch.

  Eddies swirled, and the water lapped at the house, but he saw no sign of Opal. He twisted, franticly seeking a splash of yellow fabric or a splay of cinnamon hair. How could she have disappeared that quickly?

  There!

  Her head bobbed up again and she sputtered, just out of reach. Tristan lunged away from the house, letting the desires of the current pull him toward her. “Opal!”

  Tristan reached, his fingers grasping at fabric, but slipping free. She swept farther away, the river taking her with it as it galloped across the yard. If he didn’t reach her before the water struck the woods….