Choices of the Heart (26 page)

“They never! Who was it? I’ll skin ’em alive.” Mrs. Tolliver leaped to her feet as though intending to do so right then and there. “Griff stopped ’em quick enough, I hope? Your dress?” Her gaze dropped to the tear in the neckline that ended just short of making it indecent.

“Yes, he had a shotgun.”

“Which one did he shoot?”

“No—none.” Esther stared at the older woman, who looked pleased at the prospect that her son had perhaps shot one of his own cousins.

“Well, that’s probably a good thing,” she said. “We got troubles enough with other families. We don’t need ’em amongst our kin.”

“But I’ve made trouble between Zach and Griff.” Esther pressed her cold hands to her hot cheeks and dropped her gaze to the stone floor of the kitchen. “I need to leave.”

The sound of voices rumbled from outside—harsh, but not angry, not fighting. Childish laughter and a few thumps sounded from overhead.

Mrs. Tolliver cleared her throat. “You and Griff were alone an awful long time. Did my son dishonor you in any way?”

Esther shook her head.

“Hmm. I wonder why I’m not believing you. You two looked right close when we walked in here.”

Esther ducked her head further.

“Look at me, Esther.” Though gently spoken, the command suggested Mrs. Tolliver would take no disobedience from the schoolma’am either.

Esther raised her head and crossed her arms. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Did Griff kiss you?” Mrs. Tolliver asked.

Esther ran her tongue along her lower lip, recalled the taste of lemon, the tang of the flavor, the sweet pressure upon her mouth, and she grew warm all over—longing, shame, humiliation.

“I’m gonna tan his hide.” Mrs. Tolliver strode to the back door.

“Ma’am,” Esther called after her, “I’m afraid my foot is still bleeding and I’ve gotten some on your floor.”

Zach encountered Griff at the well, pumping water into a pair of buckets as though trying to win a contest.

“Why?” Zach asked.

Griff exchanged a filled pail for an empty one and resumed pumping without saying a word.

Zach tried another tack. “You took my girl from me.”

Griff paused with the pump handle raised and his gaze fixed on the distance. “I didn’t take her from you, Zach.”

“You were holding her.”

Sickness ran through Zach’s guts at the memory of walking into the kitchen and seeing Griff with his hands on Esther’s shoulders, his face so close to hers, her eyes wide, her lips parted as though anticipating a kiss. She certainly wasn’t trying to escape, as she had from him.

“You were practically nose to nose,” Zach pointed out.

“We were.” Griff dropped the pump handle into place and set his hands on his hips. “She broke her shoe and cut her foot when she ran away from you pressing your advances on her after she said no. I was setting her down after carrying her for near a mile. Does that satisfy you? ’Bout broke open my wound doing it too. She’s heavy.”

“She’s perfect.”

“Yea, I think you were saying something ’bout that before you tried to kiss her.” Griff took a pace forward. “I should have knocked you down for that. She’s under a Tolliver roof. She’s under my protection, and you drove her right into danger.”

“Is she all right? Her foot? The rest? Her dress looked torn to bits.” Zach half turned toward the house. “I should go—”

Griff grabbed his shoulder and spun him back. “Leave her alone. You’ve done enough damage for one night.”

“I’d like to apologize.”

“You can wait until she’s not hurting and isn’t wearing a tore-up dress and—” He started to move away. “I got work to do.”

“At midnight?”

“I’d rather be mucking stalls than talking about that female with you.”

Zach fell into step beside him. “Why’ve you taken to not liking her?”

“You don’t want me to tell you.” Griff walked faster. “Just go home, Zach, and come back tomorrow to say you’re sorry for being a fool around a female tonight.”

“Not ’til you explain yourself.” Zach reached the barn door first and stood in front of it, his arms crossed over his chest. “You were as mean as I’ve ever seen you be with a female in there tonight. I oughta knock you down for talking about the cats dragging her in.”

“Go ahead if it’ll make you feel better. I probably deserve it, and I won’t hit you back.”

Zach’s innards twisted up like a scrap of rope. “What d’you mean you probably deserve it?”

Griff remained before him, tall, sturdy, silent, his hands at his sides but not relaxed. Every muscle in his body, etched against the starlit sky and distant light from the house, spoke of coiled muscles ready to snap.

Zach dropped his own arms, fists clenched. “You did kiss her, didn’t you?”

“That female in there you think is so perfect ain’t anywhere near.” Griff moved in closer and lowered his voice. “If you insist on knowing, then I’ll tell you. I did kiss her, and I wasn’t the first man she kissed back. She’s more’n happy to use her pretty face and her soft little hands to get a man to—”

Zach lashed out. Griff swayed to the side, and the blow landed on his cheekbone rather than his nose. But the skin split and blood flowed.

“Don’t you ever talk about her that way again.” Zach braced himself, waiting for a retaliatory strike.

Griff simply yanked off his shirt and pressed the cloth to his face. “Don’t believe me. Court her and find out for yourself. Now get out of my way.” He shoved Zach aside and stalked into the barn.

The door closed and the bar dropped into place behind him.

Zach stared at his knuckles. One was swelling. Swelling because he had hit his cousin, his lifelong friend, had broken his vow before the preacher and God to keep peace between the families.

“You don’t speak against any female like that,” he said aloud.

But he had done all he could for the moment to raise tension between the families, to start the feuding again—short of acting like his brother-in-law and dishonoring a female, which he just couldn’t bring himself to do.

Apparently unlike his cousin.

“I’m glad I struck you, Griff Tolliver.” He spat in the direction of the barn.

His anger, his apprehension that he might indeed have started up the feuding again, however much he wished not to, sent him striding up and over the ridge like it was flat ground. He didn’t care how long they’d been friends. Griff was still a Tolliver, and the rest of his family didn’t like Zach’s kin, so Griff might have joined them in taking what he wanted without caring for vows or friendship.

Lost in a whirlpool of anger, envy, and speculation, Zach didn’t hear the crunch of rock beneath someone’s foot, the snap of a branch, and the rustle of leaves until a moment before a knife slammed into his hip.

22

Griff slammed the pitchfork so hard against the barn’s stone floor, the ash handle broke with a splintering rend of wood that sent the horses and mules whinnying and kicking their stalls. Griff tossed the shattered pieces into a corner and contemplated kicking or striking something himself.

But he didn’t need a busted-up foot or hand. He already sported a busted-up face with blood flowing down his cheek in a slow but steady trickle. He was going to have a black eye too, thanks to that lovesick fool of a cousin.

And his own stupidity.

He dropped to his knees in the center of the barn with the warm hay and manure and horse smell around him, and pressed both hands to his face. “Oh, Lord, why did I do it? If I’d kept my hands off of her, if I didn’t give in to temptation, I wouldn’t be thinking now maybe I love her.”

And he wouldn’t be so hurt by the way she had given him her attention, stroking his hair, touching his cheek—the affections of a beloved—just because she wanted something he refused to give her: setting her down to . . . what? Satisfy her pride, avoid the embarrassment of being carried like a child?

His face throbbed. His heart ached. His conscience stung.

Zach wasn’t the only one who needed to be asking the girl for forgiveness.

At that moment, with the bleeding refusing to stop, he needed to ask her for purely practical help.

Light-headed, he staggered to his feet and made his way back to the house. He didn’t know how he’d be greeted. Momma probably wanted to get out the stick she used for tanning the deer hides and use it on him. And Esther was likely to slap his face as soon as doctor it, as she should have done in that clearing.

He opened the door with caution and peered around the edge. “Momma? Can I come in?”

“Maybe on your knees.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He opened the door wider.

Momma crouched on the floor, finishing wrapping a strip of clean rag around Esther’s foot. A smell like something they’d feed the pigs reeked in the kitchen.

He grimaced. “What’s that awful smell?”

“Comfrey. Heals like nothing—” Momma glanced up, and her jaw fell open. “Did Zach hit you?”

“Yes’m.”

“What’s he look like? Does he need doctoring or burying?”

Esther gasped.

Griff half smiled. “Neither. I didn’t touch him.” He met Esther’s gaze across the room, tumbled into the pull of her beauty like a body caught in a spring river current. “I deserved it.”

“Humph.” Momma snorted. “Not sure turning t’other cheek’s so good when you get yours busted open.”

“You need stitches.” Esther reached for that black satchel of hers. “And cold water. I guess there won’t be ice. Come sit down. I’ll—”

“Not without a shirt he won’t.” Momma stood between him and Esther. “You should know better’n to come into a room with a lady without being all dressed.”

“I forgot.” Griff looked down at his blood-streaked chest.

“It’s all right.” Esther stood, favoring one foot. “I have brothers and I—I took a bullet out of a man’s shoulder once when he shot himself cleaning his gun and Momma was out of town. Come sit down, Griff.”

“I’ll fetch you a shirt.” Momma headed for the steps, tossing over her shoulder, “You be respectful, Son.”

Griff sank onto the bench Esther had vacated and gazed at her busying herself with things in her bag until she noticed him. When she glanced up, he gave her a lopsided smile. “If you want to leave the ridge, I don’t blame you a bit. We haven’t been too kind to you.”

“You all have been very kind to me.” Esther began filling a needle with a thread as fine as a spiderweb strand.

“I’m right sorry about tonight. Will you forgive me?”

She kept her head bent low over her task. “Depends on what you’re sorry for.”

“Everything, maybe.”

“I see.” Without looking at him, she set the threaded needle on a cloth, where it caught the light from the candle lantern and shone like a miniature spear she intended to stab him with. She pulled a square of cloth from her bag and poured something from a flat bottle that smelled almost like spirits.

“What’s that?” he asked with some trepidation.

“Witch hazel. It’ll sting.” She laid it against his cheek.

Breath hissed through his teeth, clamped shut against an exclamation he’d regret later.

“I warned you.” She sounded too cheerful.

“Is that revenge for what I said about the cats, or for kissing you, or both?”

“Neither. It’s to clean away any dirt and stop the bleeding so I can see what I’m doing.”

“Do you know what you’re doing? I mean, this is going to hurt, ain’t it?”

“A great deal.” She sponged gently around the bruised and split skin. “And I expect you’ll have a scar. But it won’t take away from your handsome face. In fact, I think it’ll make you quite dashing.”

Even if she was flirting with him again, his heart stopped aching. He barely felt the first bite of the needle, but she paused and rested one hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right? You’re not going to faint on me or anything?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve known worse.”

“Like what?” She took another stitch.

He closed his eyes. “The time the ax slipped when I was chopping wood and cut a gash in my leg. Momma don’t have such a light touch with the needle as you.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose your leg.” She again drew the thread through his skin. “You still all right?”

“Yes’m.” If he held on to the edge of the bench with both hands.

“Two more. Let me know if you feel weak.”

Of course he was weak. Not two minutes had gone by in her company, and he was like a rotten log she could crumble between her fingers. Soft in the heart. Soft in the head. He needed to say more to her.

“Esther, I—”

The fourth stitch might as well have been a butcher knife to his entire skull, and he couldn’t think for a moment. Then Momma returned, a clean shirt over her arm.

“You’re gonna need to be buying readymade shirts in town if you keep ruining them with blood.” She draped the shirt over his right shoulder since blood smeared the other side. “At least you’re halfway decent.”

He was going to be halfway unconscious if the fifth stitch hurt as much as the last one.

“Thanks, Momma,” he murmured, bracing for the stab, the bite, the drawn-out agony of the thread pulling through. “I hate spiders,” he muttered.

Esther started. “What? Are you going out of your head? I forgot to ask if you’re hurt elsewhere.” She placed one hand on the back of his head. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”