As Garret's finger touched the plaything he heard an audible gasp from the others around the fire, heard Ashleen hushing them. The moment seemed to stretch out forever, the tension so thick he couldn't seem to draw breath.
Then, as suddenly as the exchange had begun, it ended, the little girl merely turning around and sinking to the ground beside him, the stew bowl pillowed on her lap.
Out of the corner of his eye Garret glimpsed Renny dumping his bowl onto a crate and stalking off, a wounded expression on his face. Liam clambered to his feet and, tucking his crutch beneath one arm, limped after him, a worried frown puckering the lame child's features.
More disturbed than he cared to admit, Garret shifted his gaze back to the little girl beside him, watching as she took up the spoon in a dimpled hand and began nibbling at the hot food, a smattering of brown gravy rimming her pink lips. She licked the gravy off, looking for all the world like any other four-year-old girl. Looking for all the world as Beth had before the Garveys had cut her down.
Then it struck him, swift, unmerciful. The emotion he had seen in Meggie's dark eyes. Trust. She had regarded him with the same absolute faith that had always shone in his sister's eyes.
Why?A voice cried deep inside him.She doesn't even know you, MacQuade... doesn't know the truth... that in the end you couldn't help Beth. You won't be able to help her, either.
The feeling of helplessness he had barred from his heart twenty years ago ripped through him, leaving him devastated, stunned.
Garret forced himself to look away from the child, as if that could diffuse some of the pain. He tried to eat more himself, but he couldn't squeeze anything past the knot in his throat.
After what seemed forever the meal was finished. He started to rise, needing more than ever to get away from Ashleen and the little girl with the haunting dark eyes.
"Have to go now." Was his voice somehow betraying how shaken he really was? He wouldn't meet Ashleen's eyes. "Got some things to do before tomorrow."
"No!" There was a quiet desperation in Ashleen's voice as she hastened toward him. "We haven't even eaten your berries yet, and—"
"Everything was real good, Sister." He forced his lips into a stiff smile. "It beat that jerky all to he—" He stopped and swallowed hard, fingering the brim of his hat. "Thanks."
He started to stride away. A pleading hand on his arm stopped him. He didn't turn around. If he had, he wasn't certain he would ever be able to leave.
"Mr. MacQuade... please... if you could come back for a little while after the children have had their stories, after they're all tucked up in bed..."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Sister Ashleen." His voice was hoarse, low.
"Please! I just... I need to talk to you. About Meggie."
The child's name was like a razor-sharp blade, slicing deep.
"She's never done that before," Ashleen was rushing on. "I mean gone to a stranger, sat by him. And her doll... even I am not allowed to touch it. Please, Mr. MacQuade."
"Damn it to hell!" Garret grated. But even he knew when his back was against the wall. Resigned, he said, "I've some things to tend to first."
Most women he knew would have been all bundled up in wounded pride, sullen or teary-eyed with reproach over his harsh words.
Ashleen O'Shea beamed at him.
Chapter Ten
Garret retreated to where his gear was stashed, his gut clenching as he tugged his supplies from his worn leather saddlebags. Lighting a lantern, he took up his charcoal and paper, trying to lose himself in a world of his own creation. A world of line and shadow, of time forever frozen, where the flick of his hand could smudge away anything that brought him pain.
Yet though he battled to concentrate, he found himself pulled, not into his drawings, but into the web of words drifting upon the night wind from the campfire.
He had sometimes caught glimpses of the end-of-evening ritual Ashleen and the children indulged in, vaguely wondering what it was that brought the excited glow to the children's faces, sometimes letting their laughter ring out into the darkness, sometimes shouts of denial or encouragement or pleasure.
Yet with distance blurring the sound of their voices he had always had the power to blot out their words before. Tonight at the cook fire it seemed as if Ashleen had somehow snarled silken threads about him, drawing him into that charmed circle even now, with all the mystical magic of a siren.
Snippets of phrases reached out to taunt him, scraps of images created by words as vivid and varied as the colors on an artist's palette. When her voice dropped low he found himself straining to hear her, felt the muscles in his shoulders coil as she hurled her bold knight-hero, Sir Alibad, into countless fantastic perils. Evil villains plotted and poisoned, fierce monsters stalked and snarled; even the hero's own past rose up like some living beast to torment him.
Now Garret knew why the children clustered so close around her, devouring every word. He was almost tempted to draw closer himself, anxious that he not miss any of the grand adventure being spun out by the golden-tressed fairy enthroned upon a crate.
She drew out the tension, honing it until Garret could hardly stand it, surrounding the beleaguered knight with not one but three slavering dragons, their teeth red with his blood. Yet just as a dragon claw knocked the sword from the wounded Sir Alibad's fingers the knight heard a cry of denial behind the brutal beasts. He looked past them and saw, in the shadowy entrance to the magic cave, a figure robed in purest white, hair like spun silver draping a woman.
She stood peering at the knight with eyes of violet, her arms cradling a golden harp.
