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Shay pushed back his hat and used his kerchief to wipe his forehead. She’d walked across the pasture, then down the hedgerow to the far end of the field where they toiled in the sun. His eyes had swerved in her direction between each hole he pushed into the soil. Her hair caught the sunlight, shimmering and drawing his gaze like a magnet. Even from a distance, he knew the exact shade of her eyes, knew the shape of her mouth, the tender slope of her bosom.
He cleared his throat as she deliberately caught his eye and waved, pleased at the small smile she made no effort to conceal. “Noah?” The man looked up and motioned toward Jenny, his sons following his lead. Their steps were eager as all four of them turned in her direction. Jenny settled her pail on the ground, spreading the small tablecloth she’d brought from the house. “Come and eat,” she invited them, placing the platter she’d prepared in the center.
“Isabelle made cake.” She lifted, lifting the lid from a tin box with a flourish. Inside, squares of golden pound cake awaited, a thin glaze coating each piece. “She said it was especially for you, Noah,” she told him as he stood beside the food she’d arranged. “Sit down, won’t you? I’ll go and get your water.”
Shay watched her walk away, to where they’d left the last of the water. Two jars remained of the four she’d brought earlier, and she carried them back, one in the fold of each arm. Her skirts brushed the grass and swayed with each step she took. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows and the summer sun had left its signature behind, toasting her skin to a golden brown. He imagined the pale flesh above the rolled sleeves, and below the V of honeyed flesh at her throat. She was fair, if he was any judge, with that copper-colored hair. Where the sun had touched her face, she wore freckles, just a smattering across her nose and cheeks, and more of the same blended with the tan on her forearms.
Blue eyes found his and a rosy flush painted her cheeks. He’d warrant that the skin beneath her bodice held the same hue, and that thought released a rush of energy within him that stood no chance of being expelled. Not today, or tonight, or anytime soon.
She was a woman ripe for the taking, and he’d give his eye teeth and then some if he had any chance of snatching her for himself. Instead he could only watch, and try his level best to contain the desire she inspired.
She bent to the men, handing them the jars of water, and Noah gave the first to Shay. “Drink what you want,” he said politely. “I’ll share with you.”
And not until I’ve had my fill, Shay thought, with a rueful nod of his head. Too many restrictions remained, even in the world where no man was a slave to another. Noah would not presume to take first place, and his easy acknowledgment of that fact of life as he knew it, made Shay cringe. He drank, long and deeply of the cool water, then handed it to the other man.
“Here you go,” he said, “I’m fine.” And then turned to his food.
“Are you sure, Mr. Shay? Take all you want,” Noah offered, obviously unwilling that he should offend by drinking more than his share.
“There’s plenty more, Noah,” Jenny said quickly. “I have another jar in the basket.” Obviously used to the traditions that would take long to die out after the years of rigid separation, she had come prepared, and Shay lifted his brow as she glanced at him.
The extra jar of water was nestled against the trunk of the tree and she settled herself in the grass beside it, watching the men devour the food she’d brought. Then as they stretched out on the grass, hats over their eyes, she piled the scant remains in her basket. Shay watched from beneath his hat brim, and his gaze traced the lines of her slender form, noting the shabby dress with a twinge of anger.
She deserved more, and yet, should he attempt to replace her worn clothing with new, she would be offended. Of that fact, he was certain. Jenny was used to making do; she was a magician at creating clothing for her child from Carl’s castoffs, left in the attic. He’d found her sewing by candlelight one evening and scolded her for not using a lantern.
“It wastes kerosene,” she’d told him, bending to stitch carefully at the small pair of trousers she was creating.
It wasn’t his place to argue with her and so he’d pleased himself by moving the candle closer. Its light had shone in the tendrils of hair that fell against her jaw, glistened in the depths of her eyes as she glanced up at him, and he’d clenched his broad hands into fists lest he reach to brush the wayward lock from the fine line of her cheek.
Now she stood and lifted the basket, waving a hand at the four men, three of whom were dozing, obviously having learned at an early age to take cat naps where they could. Shay, on the other hand, found it difficult to close his eyes without the presence of walls around him, or at least a rocky ledge at his back. He watched through his lashes as her gaze lingered on him, noted the touch of her tongue against her upper lip and suppressed a shiver that threatened to translate into full-blown desire.
She turned away, and he sat up abruptly, jamming his hat atop his head. Less than two months here and he spent half his time teetering on the verge of snatching at her like a randy cowhand. He stood, gaining his feet in a fluid movement that caught Noah’s attention. Scooping his hat from his face, Noah rose and Shay motioned at him with one hand.
“Rest awhile,” he murmured. “You’ve been working hard all morning. Your boys can use a break, too. I just want to walk the length of the field and back. It looks a little swampy at the other end.”
Noah’s eyes flickered toward Jenny’s retreating form and he allowed a grin to curl the corner of his mouth. “Miss Jenny surely is a nice lady,” he said quietly. “My woman thinks you’re taken with the girl, Mr. Shay.”
“She’s out of my class, Noah.” And yet he could not resist another look in her direction. She’d halted by the pasture fence to talk to the mare, and her dress was hiked up, exposing slim ankles. How he knew they were slim from this distance was a mystery, yet Shay would have gambled his bank account on the fact. “She deserves a gentleman, someone worthy of her.” If his words sounded harsh Noah paid no mind, but chuckled beneath his breath.
“She deserves more than that, Mr. Shay. But what she needs is a man to bring her to life, somebody who’ll put a spark in her eye and roses in her cheeks.” As if he’d said more than he intended, Noah lowered himself to the ground once more and shifted his hat over his eyes, his body visibly relaxing like a sleepy hound dog in the sun.
Jenny fanned herself with a hand-painted, pleated-paper specimen she’d found in the attic. “Do you think the corn is tall enough to cultivate?” she asked idly.
“Yeah, I’d say so,” Shay answered. “Up past my knees already.”
They sat on the porch, watching as Noah’s boys carried dishes back to the house. Isabelle fed them nightly in the cabin she shared with her husband, and then the young men, whom Noah still considered his boys, brought the pots and dishes back to the house for washing. It was a complicated procedure, one Jenny had decried as a waste of time and energy, but Isabelle would not be dissuaded. And so the nightly procession continued, with Isabelle washing up after both tables were cleared.
Jenny ate, as usual, in the kitchen, with Marshall serving as a buffer between Shay and herself, his childish questions amusing Shay, and providing Jenny with time to enjoy her meals. She’d long since decided that a five-year-old child was the most inquisitive creature on earth, but Shay seemed to enjoy the boy. Their evening walk was a favorite time for Marshall, and today was no exception.
They’d marched down the lane between overhanging oaks, and Jenny had watched them go, her thoughts in turmoil as she saw Marshall offer his hand to the man who slowed his steps to a child’s pace. Shay looked down at the outstretched fingers for a moment, his hesitation brief, then took the small hand in his own, strolling slowly as though his entire world was circumscribed by the realm of her child’s universe.
What would happen to Marshall when his idol left? she wondered. For sure as the sun rose in the morning and set in the western sky every night, that day would come. Maybe not for a few months, but sooner or later, wanderlust would grip the dark, scarred man who had invaded their lives, and he would leave as he had come. The vision of that tall stallion galloping down her lane, with Shay in the saddle, was enough to bring tears to her eyes.
And that was ridiculous. He was here to help. He’d said he would lend a hand, get them on their feet. He’d talked about picking cotton, harvesting corn and cutting the second crop of hay sometime in August or September. Beyond that, he’d made no promises.
Beyond that, she saw only the bleak days of winter, chilly mornings, a Christmas without funds to buy gifts, save for a few handmade items she and Isabelle would put together. And yet, she could expect nothing more from the man than what he had promised he would give. Carl sent me here…there’ll be four men in the field.
Her chin lifted and she gritted her teeth against the tears that overflowed her lashes, rolling down her cheeks and dampening her bodice. “He’s not gone yet,” she scolded herself quietly. “Land sakes, the man’s only been here two months, and you’re blubbering already about him leaving.” She laughed, a rusty sound with no humor, and from the kitchen behind her Isabelle made a scoffing sound.
Jenny swung her head to find her friend at the door, visible through the screen. “You might’s well dry those eyes,” Isabelle said, her low voice grating out the words. “He’s a man, with a man’s ways, and he’ll try to get past your bedroom door if you let him, Jen. He’ll leave you with another young’un ’neath your apron if you don’t take care.”
“No.” It was softly spoken, but held the steel of her mother’s upbringing in the single syllable. “I’ll not take a man in my bed without a marriage certificate hanging over the headboard, Isabelle. My mama taught me better than that.”
“And that one—” Isabelle waved her hand in the direction of the two male creatures who meandered down the long lane “—that one’ll sweet-talk you with promises and make you forget everything you ever learned about men. Mark my words, Jen, you’re no match for a man like that.”
Jenny turned away, pierced to the heart by the truth of Isabelle’s predictions. “Maybe not,” she admitted. “But wouldn’t it be grand, even for a little while, to know that sort of loving?” She laughed aloud. “Listen to me, Isabelle. I’m spinning dreams out of shadows.”
“Watch your step,” Isabelle said glumly. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you, missy.”
The two figures, one tall and straight, the other small and somehow vulnerable, even from this distance, turned and headed back to the house. Then they halted, and Shay bent low, picking up the boy and lifting him high, only to settle him on his wide shoulders. One arm raised in a broad wave and Marshall called out in a clear piping voice, “See me, Mama? I’m taller than anybody!”
The walk back was taken at a faster clip, with Shay trotting the last several yards, depositing Marshall on the porch with a flourish. “There you go, Marsh,” he said, lifting his hand to smooth back his hair. Marshall had ruffled it, running his fingers through the dark length as he held tightly to his makeshift steed. Now, Shay’s long fingers combed it into place, and Jenny watched each movement of his hand.
Marshall snuggled next to her on the edge of the porch and looked up with a grin that squinted his eyes and brought out the dimples in his cheeks. “Did you see me, Mama? Did you see me riding on Mr. Shay’s shoulders?”
She nodded, wiping at a speck of dirt on his cheek, then allowed her hand to cup his nape. “I saw you, sweetheart. You were the tallest man on the place.” She looked up at Shay and was lost in his gaze. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Marshall has missed having a man around the place. He trots after Noah, but I’m afraid he gets in the way much of the time.”
“He won’t be in my way, Miss Jenny,” Shay told her quietly. “Never.”
She smiled and felt an unmistakable tremble in her lower lip. Lowering her head, she buried the telltale sign of emotion against Marshall’s hair.
“Jenny?” Shay spoke her name, a questioning lilt in the syllables. And then he touched her, one hand reaching to press carefully on her shoulder. “I won’t hurt you, Jenny.”
She felt Marshall’s head swivel, heard his indrawn breath, and closed her eyes as he spoke words that dropped from his lips like hot coals. “Don’t you ever hurt my mama. That big man did, a long time ago, and he made my mama cry.”
Jenny swallowed a gasp and lifted Marshall to his feet. “No one is going to hurt your mama, Marshall,” she said firmly. “Now run in the house and let Isabelle get you ready for bed.” Marshall’s soft lips pressed a damp kiss against her cheek and he hugged her neck tightly.
“I love you, Mama.” It was meant as a whisper, but his reedy tones vibrated in the silence, and she was hard put not to shed tears of thanksgiving for the tender heart of her child.
“I love you, too,” she answered, turning him in the direction of the door. “I’ll be up to hear your prayers in a few minutes.”
And then she turned back to Shay.
Chapter Four
Shay’s eyes were narrow slits, his mouth a thin line. He gestured toward the door behind Jenny, his hand slicing the air. “What man was Marshall talking about? Who was he?”
Jenny’s heart sank. There were things she’d managed to tuck into a place marked as the past, things she chased from her mind when they poked their ugly heads into view. The subject Marshall had brought to Shay’s attention with such childish innocence was one she’d determined to forget. And now it faced her head-on, brought to life again by a memory she’d thought long gone from her child’s mind.
“It was a long time ago,” she said, her voice trembling, her throat clogging with hateful tears. “I didn’t know Marshall still remembered it. In fact, I’d thought him too young to understand.”
“How old was he?” Shay asked, squatting before her, sweeping his hat from his head. Reaching forward, he placed it on the porch, next to where she sat. Her eyes followed his movements, focusing on the hand that hovered over his hat brim. And then she blinked as it moved, settling on her shoulder. His fingers squeezed lightly, and he repeated his query. “Jenny? How old was he?”
“A baby, not quite two. It was just before his second birthday.” She allowed her gaze to lift from his hat, but could not meet the burning question in his eyes.
“It must have made a vivid impression,” he allowed, softening his words, as if he would thereby coax her to his will. “What did he see, Jenny?”
Her eyes squeezed tightly shut, the vivid image of a blue-uniformed man appearing as if the sight were indelibly painted in her mind. And so it was, she realized. All of her trying could not erase the vision of terror she’d faced on that day. “It was after the war, long after I’d heard that Carl was dead. The army was still around, making its final raids, the soldiers heading back north.” The image in her mind became more intense, the whiskered man’s smile more coaxing, his rasping voice speaking words she’d never thought to hear.
You don’t want your place burned now, do you?
“No! No!” She cried the reply aloud and her eyes flew open. Shay was before her, an emotion she could not fathom blazing in his eyes. Her fingers pressed against her lips, too late to silence the words she’d blurted aloud.
“What did he do to you?” His lips barely moved as the words were uttered, the rasping sound giving voice to his anger. “Tell me, Jenny.”
Come on inside, honey. His teeth had been stained, his hands dirty, and the uniform stank of dried sweat and long days spent on horseback. Her stomach churned, as if those odors remained with her still, and she felt sour bile rise to her throat, gagging her with violent spasms.
“Damn!” Shay’s curse was soft, but fervent, as he tugged her to her feet, lifting her into his arms. He carried her easily, as though she were featherlight, and her hand reached to clasp his neck, holding tight to the anchor he’d become. Pausing at the pump, he braced one foot on the watering trough. He lifted the handle, then pressed it down, allowing the water to gush forth. His hand snatched the kerchief from his throat and he held it beneath the flow, somehow balancing her weight on his knee.
“Put me down,” she whispered. “I’m too heavy.”
His glance was quelling and she bit her lip, motionless in his grip. The kerchief was squeezed in his wide palm and he shook it out, droplets shimmering in the setting sun. Folding it in upon itself, he wiped her face with the damp cloth, and she felt the nausea subside.
“Is she all right?” It was Isabelle behind them, and Jenny murmured words of reassurance.
“Get us a cup for water,” Shay said curtly, and Isabelle responded with a breathless agreement. In moments she was back, and again water ran from the pitcher pump, this time filling a china mug from the kitchen. Shay held it to Jenny’s lips and she drank, swallowing great gulps, until he tilted it away from her.
“Slow down, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You’ll be sick if you drink it too fast.”
“I’m sick anyway,” she muttered, her embarrassment rising as she took stock of her position. “Let me down now.”
“In a bit,” he told her. “Take the cup, Isabelle,” he said firmly, and then, both arms encircling Jenny again, he lifted her high against his chest and walked to the barn. She glanced over his shoulder to see Isabelle near the watering trough, cup in hand, a look of fear bringing her soft features into bold detail.
“Where are we going?” His stride was long, his breathing deep, and Jenny felt apprehension nudging her. The man was beyond anger, way past the point of reasonable behavior, and she was being toted like a…Her mind was blank. His arms held her with care, firmly but without undue force. His face was drawn in lines of concern, but an underlying fury drove him beyond his normal conduct.
Shay was a man to be reckoned with, and she was about to face him, head-to-head. And in the barn, it seemed. He entered the wide doorway and halted, his head turning from one side to the other, as though he sought a place to conduct this conversation.
“This’ll do,” he said shortly, dropping her to her feet at the bottom of the ladder that led to the hay loft. “Climb,” he told her.
She looked at him over her shoulder. “Climb? You want me to climb into the loft?”
He nodded. “I thought I was pretty clear on that.”
The warmth of his body penetrated her clothing and she felt a flush warm her cheeks. “Can’t we talk right here? Or back on the porch?”
“Climb.” The single word left her no leeway, no room for argument, and she wondered at her own compliance as she obeyed his command. Jenny Pennington was not a pushover. She’d run a plantation, managed to keep her head above water and been a prideful woman for the past several years. Now she found herself bending to the will of a man who had literally scooped her up, mopped her face with a sopping wet kerchief, then ordered her to climb a ladder into the hayloft.
Her feet found the square rungs in rapid procession, and her wobbling legs propelled her over the edge into a deep pile of fresh hay. He was close behind, rising to his feet and glaring down at her as if she were a recalcitrant child.
“Everything all right up there?” Noah was below, peering upward and Shay growled a reply. “Yes, sir. I can see you got things under control, Mr. Shay.” Noah’s words faded as he left the barn, and Shay turned back to Jenny. His mouth twisted in an exasperated grimace, and he dropped down beside her.
“Damn, you sure know how to get me riled.”
“Because I felt sick?” she asked. “Or because I didn’t tell you my sad story?”
“Neither,” he told her. “No, both, maybe. You were green around the gills, and I was afraid you’d faint dead away on me. And then I knew I’d have to fight to make you tell me what I need to know, and the porch wasn’t the place for that kind of a battle.”
She looked around the loft, only the open window allowing enough light for her to see him clearly. “And this is?”
“It’ll do.” He leaned beside her on one elbow. “Now, tell me what Marshall was talking about. He said a big man had hurt you.”
The confusion of Shay’s trip to the barn and the climbing to the loft had chased the images from her mind, and for that she was grateful. Perhaps, with Shay here, and surrounded by the safety of this private place, she could remember that day without falling prey to the heart-clenching horror she’d lived through.
And there was to be no retreat. Shay’s grim features made that clear. Her mouth worked as she searched for the words, and her speech was halting.
“Yes, he saw a big man,” she began, her gaze turning inward as she remembered Marshall’s wide, terror-stricken eyes. “He watched a brute in a blue uniform take me inside the house, while he and Isabelle were kept in the yard. And later he saw me crying.” She clenched her hands tightly, oblivious to the long fingers that untangled her own, and matched their palms in a warm embrace.
“What did he do to you?” His voice was low, rasping and she looked up to see darkness where so lately amusement and kindness had danced in the depths of his eyes.
Her words were careful, precise. “I don’t think you want to know.”
His dark head nodded slowly. “You may be right. But I need to know. I need to hear it from you.” He bent closer. “And maybe you need to tell me. Maybe speaking the words aloud will chase the memory from your mind.”
The trembling began in her limbs, or perhaps it had never ceased, she thought, remembering the climb up the ladder. Shivers chased the length of her spine and gooseflesh turned her arms cold. She opened her mouth and felt the urge to scream, to let loose the shame, to shout her anger aloud. As if Shay were the culprit, she turned her fury in his direction.
“He made me strip and lay on the floor, right in the parlor. And then he used me like I suppose a man uses a whore…until I bled. He laughed at my tears, and told me I was lucky, that he’d saved up for weeks till he found a woman pretty enough to—” Her mouth could not speak the word, the ultimately filthy phrase he’d used to describe his act.
“And I was the lucky one he’d chosen.” The bitterness she could no longer contain put a vile connotation on the word, and she bowed her head as grief manifested itself. The sobs were heart-rending, the tears profuse, and her wail of sorrow was muffled against his shirt. Shay lifted her on his lap, sitting upright against a post, and held her as he would a child, his arms offering comfort, his whispered words soothing her anguish.
She buried her face in the center of his chest, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt, and drew her knees up. Shay’s warmth surrounded her, his face resting against her hair, his hands moving against her back, then rubbing her arm. He lifted his hand to her head, his fingers combing through the loosened locks of hair, and he buried his fist in the length of silken tresses.
“Jenny.” That such soft, whispering comfort could come from the depths of a man like Shay was beyond her comprehension, and yet his whisper of her name conveyed an emotion too deep for words to express. Her name vibrated from the firm cushion of his chest, sounding against her ear as if it would enfold her in its syllables. He rocked her in his arms, swallowing her anger in his sorrow, smothering her fury with a blanket of tenderness. And mourning with her for the loss of her dignity, the trampling of her pride and the violation of her innocence.
Not that she’d been virginal, but that before that day she’d been treated with respect and love. Until the day she gave herself in trade for the safety of her family. Until she’d been called upon to purchase the plantation in a way she’d never imagined would be required of her.
The night grew cool, and the owl that made its nest in the rafters of the loft flew on wide wings to the window opening. Its mournful sound echoed as it took flight into the night air, and Jenny gathered herself, lifting her head, reaching for the handkerchief she kept in her apron pocket.
She’d cried copious tears, Shay’s shirt soaking them up, and no doubt dampening his chest. He’d found her another kerchief in his pocket, and that, too, had been the recipient of more moisture than she’d thought possible. But blowing her nose was a private business, better done with her own white handkerchief. Sitting upright now on his thighs, she did so, aware of Shay’s soft chuckle.
“Feel better?” he asked dryly.
“Does the word cleansed have any meaning right now?” she asked quietly, folding her hands in her lap and looking into his eyes.
His nod was barely visible and she sighed. “I’ve never talked about it before, not even to Isabelle. She knew, of course. And so did Noah, and the boys, I’m sure, but no one ever mentioned it. I suppose they understood that I wanted to forget that day.” She touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his scar.
“I don’t suppose we ever really forget though, do we? When we’re scarred beyond repair, I mean.” She felt his jaw harden beneath her hand and she cupped his chin. “Do you blame me, Shay? Did I do the right thing? Or should I have watched while they burned my home and left the lot of us standing while they rode off?”
He was quiet, the muscles of his jaw clenching, and she felt his anger radiate from the depths of his being. Yet when he spoke, his words were soft, reasonable and soothing to her soul. “You did what you had to, Jenny. What we all do when the time comes to make a choice. Whether it causes pain or shame or sorrow, sometimes we’re called on to make a sacrifice that scars the soul. And then we have to live with it.”
