The Captain of Her Heart

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  Ritcherd rode slowly home, his mind consumed with prayer. In his youth, he’d not put much account in talking to God. But war had changed his priorities quickly. He never would have survived the experience with his sanity intact if he hadn’t been able to pour out his fears to a supreme being. And his experiences, however difficult, had only strengthened his conviction that his prayers had been heard. He couldn’t count the times that he’d prayed he would make it home alive in order to share his life with Kyrah. And now his prayers were focused on his desire to have things right with the woman he loved. He couldn’t rest until they were.

  He was dismayed to return home and realize he’d arrived in time to have lunch with his mother. Jeanette seemed delighted, and he indulged her if only for the sake of keeping peace. As long as Kyrah didn’t come up, they could manage a civil conversation. But his mind kept wandering while his mother rambled on about all of the gossip he’d missed while he’d been away. He was nearly ready to excuse himself in order to be alone when Jeanette mentioned Mr. Peter Westman, who had won the estate from Stephen Payne in a gambling spree.

  “He’s invited us over for tea this afternoon,” she said as if it was an invitation from the king himself. “He’s been wanting to meet you, and I thought today would be perfect. You don’t have plans, do you?”

  Ritcherd’s first reaction might have been to decline. But he suddenly felt that it was very important to accept. Perhaps it was just what he needed: to see the other side of Kyrah’s world. And perhaps meeting the man she worked for would enlighten him.

  “I’d love to,” he said, and Jeanette looked genuinely pleased.

  Ritcherd fought back the sickness that consumed him as they entered the house where Kyrah had once lived. But it only took a minute to realize that it was not the house that had once made him feel so welcome here. Now it seemed as cold and bleak as his own home.

  Ritcherd managed to greet Peter Westman civilly when his mother introduced them as if they might become the best of friends. He had forgotten until now that his mother had mentioned they were near the same age. He tried to imagine how he might feel toward this man if he didn’t have the prejudice of knowing what he’d done to Kyrah’s family. But it didn’t take long to realize that prejudice or no, he didn’t like this man. He was blatantly arrogant, and just the type to give the new rich a bad name.

  Jeanette and Peter dominated the conversation completely, but Ritcherd was content to sit quietly with his thoughts. He wondered, first of all, why his mother had never had anything good to say about Stephen Payne, who had been a good and decent man. But she was practically coddling this idiot who made his living in exactly the same manner, although he would daresay by less honorable means.

  The sickness inside of him increased as he recalled a time when this had been Kyrah’s drawing room, and his mind wandered through sporadic memories of the happy moments he’d spent here, feeling much like a part of her family. He remembered Sarah sitting prettily near the window doing needlework. And he had often tried to imagine Kyrah as she grew older, knowing she would be very much like her mother. Although Sarah was smaller in stature, since Kyrah had inherited her father’s height, their coloring was much the same, and they both possessed an innate graceful quality that was difficult to describe. Ritcherd had quickly grown to love Kyrah’s mother; she was everything that his own mother was not—cheerful, optimistic, kind. And she always laughed at his jokes, whether they were funny or not. She had often scolded him when she felt he was not behaving as he should. And he’d realized in his later years that many of his scruples had come from the gentle discipline he’d received from Sarah and Stephen, rather than the harsh tactics used by his own parents that had tended only to make him rebel.

  Ritcherd’s mind went to Stephen and his heart wrenched at the reality that he was dead. He remembered going hunting with Stephen many times, and the way they had talked and laughed together. Stephen’s love for Ritcherd had been a careful balance of friendship and fatherhood. And Ritcherd couldn’t ever remember his own father saying anything to him that was not in a stern, authoritative tone, and usually scolding in content.

  Ritcherd was brought back to the present when his mother asked him some insignificant question, as if to make certain he felt included in the conversation. He grunted something to indicate he’d heard when he really hadn’t, then he focused on their host. His dark hair was slicked back and cut short, which was unusual in this age of the fashionable ponytail. He dressed too sharply for good taste. And scrutinizing him carefully, Ritcherd decided this was not the kind of man he’d want to deal with in any matter. Instinctively, he didn’t trust him. It was as simple as that.

  Ritcherd thought of the circumstances that had brought Peter Westman to this house, and his distaste for the man smoldered into something more tangible. This was the man who had taken everything away from Kyrah’s family in a card game. It didn’t take much imagination to surmise that he probably cheated. And what Sarah had told him earlier only added to the theory. Was Mr. Westman the man who had driven Stephen to suicide?

  Ritcherd was just contemplating a way to graciously make his exit when Kyrah came into the room to serve the tea. She nearly dropped the tray when she saw him, but she quickly recovered with dignity and went about her business as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He was the one falling apart inside. To see her doing servant’s work under such circumstances made him want to carry her forcefully away from here this very minute. And he would have done it if he’d not remembered Sarah’s warning about wounding Kyrah’s pride.

  The following five minutes were some of the worst he’d ever experienced. But the way they opened his eyes to the situation made them priceless. As soon as Kyrah entered the room, Ritcherd could see clearly that his mother was pleased with the situation. He thought of how Jeanette had accused Kyrah of everything from leading her son down a sinful path to being a freeloading lowlife who was out to catch herself a rich husband. At many times in his life Ritcherd had all but hated his mother, but now as he watched her attitude toward Kyrah’s misfortune, he felt certain that his own mother was one of the lowest forms of life on earth. Perhaps second only to Mr. Westman, who seemed eager to mimic Jeanette’s attitude.

  “Thank you, Kyrah,” Peter said. Then he added toward Jeanette, “She’s priceless, you know.” He turned and eyed Kyrah lewdly while she poured the tea.

  Jeanette’s smile made it evident that she thought Kyrah was exactly where she belonged. And Ritcherd had to wonder if her purpose in bringing him here was to somehow convince him of Kyrah’s social status, which Jeanette deemed completely unworthy of her son. The thought sickened Ritcherd. But his sickness increased tenfold as Peter Westman watched Kyrah move across the room with a gaze that seemed to imply his ownership, as if she were no different to him than a prize mare or a hunting dog. He wondered what kind of cruelty Kyrah had been subjected to in being forced to work for this fiend. And he wondered if Sarah had gotten the truth out of Kyrah. If this man had so much as laid a hand on Kyrah, he’d kill him. It was downright pitiful that she should have to work for this degenerate who had put her in this position. Whether Kyrah still loved him or not, Ritcherd made up his mind then that he would find a way to get her out of this—a way that would let Kyrah save her pride.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without Kyrah,” Mr. Westman went on, and Ritcherd sensed there was some playacting going on here. It all seemed so dramatic. When Kyrah moved within Mr. Westman’s reach, he nonchalantly brushed his hand across her hip, and everything in Ritcherd became defensive. As soon as Kyrah moved away and gave Peter a cold glare, she shot a look at Ritcherd that pointedly indicated she would never forgive him if he so much as lifted a finger.

  Jeanette seemed infinitely pleased with Mr. Westman’s attention to Kyrah, but it was something else that now held Ritcherd’s interest. He watched Kyrah closely, and felt something stab at him when she once again turned toward him, he
r eyes full of scorn and . . . what? Contempt? Hatred? But why?

  Ritcherd didn’t know the answer, but as she finished serving and left the room, he had to acknowledge that he had no reason to believe she felt any differently for him than she did this idiot she was working for.

  “I hate tea,” Ritcherd said suddenly as he set the cup down and stood. “I believe I’ll run along and leave the two of you to chat.”

  Jeanette tried to sound disappointed that he was leaving, but Ritcherd knew she had done what she’d set out to do in bringing him here. And with him gone, she could now discuss whatever it was these two had cooking. He felt relatively certain that his mother was probably bribing this man to help keep him and Kyrah apart.

  It was tempting to wander the house and try to find Kyrah, but he felt more inclined to be alone. He didn’t know if he could take any more of her cold glares and hurtful silences. Since he’d arrived in the carriage with his mother, he decided to walk home the long way and ended up sitting in the church ruins. He lost track of the time as he considered the complete despair of his circumstances. He’d lost everything that mattered to him, and he didn’t even know where to begin to put his life back together. He finally had to accept that maybe he really did have to learn to live without Kyrah and get over her. The thought made him groan and double over. He couldn’t even comprehend it.

  “Please, God,” he murmured. “Please, give me some hope. Show me the way.”

  In a conscious effort to open his mind to the answers, Ritcherd did his best to force away the darkness hovering over him. He took his mind, step by step, through every piece of information he’d acquired since his return, hoping to find something he’d missed that might help him know how to reach Kyrah. At the very least, he couldn’t move on without understanding why she was behaving this way. If he had spurned her and done something to hurt her somewhere along the way, he could understand her attitude. He wondered if he’d inadvertently done such a thing. But no matter how intensely he thought it through, he couldn’t find any obvious answer.

  Again, he took his mind through everything his mother had said, Sarah had said, Kyrah had said. What had he missed? Instinctively he felt there was an answer buried somewhere in the conversations of the past few days. But the sun went down and Ritcherd still felt as ignorant as he had when he’d arrived at the church ruins hours ago. He began to pray that he could just be free of these feelings and move on with his life. Then a thought appeared in his mind that actually made him gasp.

  “Kyrah’s sixteenth birthday,” he murmured aloud, wondering why it suddenly seemed so important. Frantically he thought it out. Sarah had said that Stephen’s body arrived home on Kyrah’s sixteenth birthday. But there was something else, something more personal for him. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He did remember, however, that when Sarah had brought it up, just this morning, he’d had a strange feeling pass over him—something beyond the surge of grief that had come with her report.

  “Kyrah’s sixteenth birthday,” he repeated, as if it could clear his mind. And again he prayed. “Please, God! Show me what to do. Help me understand!

  “Kyrah’s sixteenth birthday!” he murmured once more, feeling suddenly weak. He pressed both hands over his heart, as if to steady its sudden pounding. He remembered now! He remembered recording it in his military journal. The first time he went into battle. The voice that warned him. The bullet that barely missed him. The realization that no one had been there but him. He’d passed it off with a logical explanation, but . . . that voice. That voice!

  “Merciful heaven!” he muttered and slid off the bench to his knees. “Stephen!” He had thought the voice sounded like Stephen. But maybe . . . Was it possible? Could it have actually been Stephen? He’d convinced himself that Stephen had been an ocean away. But Stephen had been dead. And now some force he couldn’t explain was verifying the truth to him with feelings more powerful than he’d ever experienced. As the reality settled in, everything changed. His entire perspective became very clear. He knew now. He couldn’t explain how he knew. But he knew. He knew beyond any trace of a doubt. His life had been saved that day so that he could return home and care for the wife and daughter that Stephen Payne had left behind.

  Filled with confidence and hope that more than matched his recent despair, Ritcherd turned his face heavenward and offered his deepest gratitude. He knew now what he had to do. And he had to start by making it perfectly clear to Kyrah where he stood and what he intended to do. What she chose to do had to be up to her. But it didn’t change what he had to do. And he had to do it now!