“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.”
“What happened soiled me,” she murmured. “Made me not fit for a decent man. I doubt I’ll ever feel…”
His hand covered her mouth, a rough, immediate response to her words that took her breath. “Don’t speak such blasphemy,” he growled. “You’re a fine woman, a good woman. His actions didn’t place a curse on you. But trust me sweetheart—the man will burn in hell for what he did that day. And if it were possible, I’d send him there myself.”
She uttered a sound of disbelief. “I wouldn’t want you to, Shay. Murder is never the right answer.”
He was quiet, barely breathing, and then he spoke. “Sometimes it’s the only answer.”
She was chilled by his reply, frightened by the bleak tone of his voice. And then he lifted her from his lap, stood and walked to the window. He was a shadow against the starlight, a tall, gaunt reminder that there are hidden depths in every man that don’t bear revealing, and Jenny hugged her knees to her chest, mourning the loss of his embrace.
She hadn’t looked him in the eye, had blushed beneath his scrutiny at the breakfast table. Shay’s hands gripped the handles of the cultivator and held it against the earth. Ahead of him, the mule leaned forward in her traces, and the combined force of his weight and her strength dug the three curved prongs into the ground, turning the hard dirt to tillable soil. His muscles bulged as he held the big implement steady, veering neither right nor left, staying between the rows of corn.
Behind him, Joseph followed, rake in hand, hilling the stalks, leaving the furrows deeper than the ridged rows. It was a hard job, and an hour at a time was enough to make a man rue the need for it. Noah stood at the far end of the row, waiting his turn behind the mule, and Shay was willing to give it up to him.
“I don’t know how you managed it by yourself before your sons were big enough to help with this,” he muttered, drawing his gloves off and tucking them into his back pocket.
“We all do what we have to,” Noah told him, his grin wide and white. “Can’t say it’s my favorite way to spend a morning.” He nodded at the broad haunches of the mule. “Not much to look at, the way I see it.” Shay caught his meaning. It brought a laugh from his depths and he rejoiced at the moment of amusement. There hadn’t been much to smile about thus far today.
Jenny had left the loft, silently and without his notice, as he stood at the window last night. Her slender form had caught his eye, her feet flying as she ran to the house, and he’d turned away from his dark thoughts, disgusted that he’d allowed her to flee, unheeded. The mattress had been hard and unyielding beneath his body throughout the long night, as he thought of the words she had spoken, the tears she’d shed against his chest. And most of all he remembered the feel of her curves, the warmth of her slender form as she clung to him, curled against his eager flesh, secure in his arms.
Breakfast had been brief, Jenny leaving the table to work with a bread pan full of risen dough at the buffet. She’d refused to look up when he bid her good day, only mumbled a reply. Marshall, oblivious to his mother’s mood, had followed Shay to the barn, and then to the cornfield.
Now he sat beneath tall bushes in the hedgerow, in charge of the water jars and carefully tending his collection of tin soldiers. On his stomach, smack dab in the center of a quilt Shay had spread for him, he kicked his feet in the air, laughing to himself as his miniature army marched across the corduroy patches. His golden hair was dark with perspiration at the temples, and sweat glistened on his nose as he looked up at Shay’s approach.
“Mr. Shay,” he called out. “Come see my soldiers.” Rising to his knees, he motioned to the area beside him. “You wanta sit with me for a while?” His smile was bright and he reached to find a jar of water. “It’s still pretty cool. Mama said to cover it with part of the quilt, and I thought it would make it warmer, but she said it would help keep it cool.” His brow furrowed as his small hands enclosed the jar, offering it to Shay. “That doesn’t make sense to me.”
Shay unscrewed the lid and tilted the jar to his mouth, swallowing the sweet spring water, making no attempt to halt the cooling drops that seeped down his chin. They stained his shirt, dark blots penetrating the fabric, and he looked down, reminded of the hot tears Jenny had shed on this selfsame shirt last night.
“Your mama knows more than we do, I think,” he told the boy. “Women have a knack of picking up on things. Now, we men,” he said wisely, exaggerating the words for Marshall’s benefit, “we just have to do the best we can, and pay attention to what we’re told.”
“You, too, Mr. Shay? Do you have to listen to my mama?” Marshall cocked his head to one side and frowned at the idea.
“Yeah,” Shay said. “I listen to whatever your mama tells me, son.” It seemed the boy had forgotten the moments from the evening before, his qualms buried beneath the ready smile and generous spirit he exhibited.
“I sure like you,” Marshall offered offhandedly. “I bet my mama does, too.”
Shay slanted him a grin, uncaring that his scar drew up, twisting his mouth. “You think so?” He thought a minute. “Maybe so, Marsh. Maybe so.” Noah was at the end of the row, Joseph close behind. Another two swipes through the cornfield and he’d be switching places again. Just about time for a nap, he figured.
His