Hopelessness embraced her in unfeeling arms as the memory of that single magical night with Garret taunted her.
It was as if she had betrayed them all—Garret, the children, herself. As if they all somehow blamed her—Renny, Shevonne, and Liam for surrendering Meggie's doll to the flames; Garret for her anger toward something he could not control.
But no one blamed Ashleen more fiercely than herself.
She had been wrong.
Wrong to challenge Garret in front of the children.
Wrong to make him appear the villain.
Now that the shock of Meggie's illness had receded, now that time had slowly melted the biting edge of her temper, Ashleen was able to admit to herself that Garret had had no choice but to get rid of the doll.
Get rid of it despite her anger, despite the children's tears, despite the knowledge that he would be devastating the little girl he had come to love.
Love.
Ashleen sucked in a painful, shuddering breath. No, there could be no doubt that Garret MacQuade loved little Meggie as much as she did. For though he had never spoken the words, Ashleen had seen the agony in his face as he had watched the child's suffering, had seen the self-loathing that seemed to hang over Garret's handsome features like the grimmest of shrouds.
Ash tried to swallow past the knot that never seemed to leave her throat, her gaze shifting to where Garret sat sentinel astride his horse, staring off into the endless sweep of wilderness.
Not once since he had gone off alone to feed things into the flames had she seen him pull forth his drawing supplies, to capture with lightning strokes some scene of pristine beauty or stunning power. Not once had she seen him smile or heard that low, engaging chuckle. Not once had she caught his eyes upon her with that sweet, wild heat she had come to crave.
At every meal he rode dutifully into camp, providing them with fresh-killed game or edible roots or berries. Sometimes he had even prepared the outlandish foods, concocting astonishingly tasty meals that would have been a great relief from their monotonous diet if anyone among them had the least appetite.
He had sat upon the same crate, toying with his food until Ashleen wanted to snap at him as if he were Liam. And when an even sadder, more solemn Meggie walked slowly to sit at his feet each time he entered camp, Ashleen saw a hurt in him, a sadness that rivaled her own.
Never did he acknowledge the rift between himself and the children, or between the two of them. He only spent the days wandering as far ahead of the wagon as possible, stoic, silent.
When Ashleen had dared question him he had informed her in clipped accents that he was riding so far afield to search for Indian sign. He didn't expect trouble, but it didn’t hurt to be aware. At worst, he assured her, the braves might be tempted to run off with their horses, but God knew they couldn't spare even one. Garret's eyes had flickered to Cooley, and Ashleen had sensed that he was resolved to protect Renny's beloved gelding—the most likely target of any marauding braves.
So Garret had ridden day after day, disappearing for nearly an hour at a time, only to return as detached from her as if the night of the storm had never happened. If he had seen anything in his roving, he never spoke of it, nor did he ever speak of the ostracism that was obviously tearing him apart.
Ash ached for him, ached for them all, her stomach feeling raw from guilt. As she watched him, Garret's head turned toward her for an instant, and she could feel the longing in him, the silent suffering as anguished as Meggie's own. But as if to hide his pain from her, from himself, Garret spurred the paint over a rill, vanishing into a clump of scrub timber that darkened the hillside like a bruise. Ashleen gritted her teeth, hating the sensation that swept over her as he disappeared, the wagon seeming suddenly vulnerable against the vastness of the prairie.
Wearily Ash flicked the bullwhip over the lead ox, the animal tossing its wicked-looking horns before settling in once again to pull against the heavy yoke.
She had seen the prairie serene as Eden, had seen its fury in the midst of storm. But today there was a brooding quality about the land stretching out around her, a quiet laced with menace that made her search the horizon for something that wasn't there.
Ash tried to brush away the vague stirrings of unease, feeling foolish as she continued to scan the countryside. It was as if she could feel someone watching her—as if she could taste a tang of danger in the thick, hot air, a danger she'd not felt since that day in West Port when she had made Cain Garvey stumble.
No. That was a worse Banbury tale than even Liam could conjure—outlaws tracking a lone woman and four children to avenge themselves for being tripped. It was just that she was so tired and hot, and it had been so long since anyone had smiled.
Ash sighed. More likely it was the ever-present grumbling of her own conscience that was making her so unsettled. Maybe it was time that she confront the wrong she had done Garret, the wrong she had done the children. Maybe it was time she attempted to make amends.
Resolved, she called to Renny, asking the boy to take the oxen for a while. With an aura of long suffering he climbed into the seat, taking the bullwhip in hand.
Ashleen went to the water barrel, drawing out a clean handkerchief and dipping it in what little remained of their supply. Garret had promised that they would reach water today and replenish the barrels, and Ashleen knew that no one would be more grateful than the sun-broiled oxen. Despite her aversion to the beasts she could almost feel sorry for them in the relentless heat.
She swabbed away as much of the trail grime from her face as she could, as well as the traces of her all-too-frequent tears. Tucking the damp kerchief into the pocket of her dove-gray dress, she took one last look around the wagon.
Liam and Shevonne were still trudging along side by side, Meggie wandering about a hundred yards in front of the wagon. Her feet were lost in the hardy grass pushing forth from the strip of prairie between the ruts carved by innumerable wagon wheels. Her tiny sunbonnet was angled down toward the road as if she were still searching for the beloved toy that had disappeared.
No matter how many times Ashleen had tried to explain what had happened to the doll, the little girl had never ceased her hopeless quest.
"Watch the little ones," Ashleen called up to Renny as she untied Cooley from the back of the wagon. "I'm going up to talk to Mr. MacQuade."
Renny didn't even respond but only stared at the far ox as if he wouldn't care if it dragged the whole wagon over the edge of a cliff.
