Trust. Unquestioning faith. They shone beneath the thick fall of her lashes. "You're goin' away, Mr. God," she said, slipping one hand in the pocket of her pinafore. "Sir Abbledybab in Sister Ash's story went 'way, too. You gonna be slayin' dragons?"
Garret thought of the Garveys' evil faces, savage eyes.
"In a way I guess I am, Meggie-girl."
She seemed to consider this. "Don't s'pose you got a 'chanting harp."
Garret traced her cheek with one fingertip. "Not many enchanted harps out on the prairie, sweetheart."
"No, but there's lots an' lots o' magic rocks out in my see-crud castle. Maybe you could take one of them with you while you're dragon hunting."
Her face was so earnest, those big eyes so solemn, Garret gave her a wan smile. "I'd be obliged, Meggie. Much obliged."
Her brow crinkled as she rummaged around in her pocket, then, with a triumphant nod, extracted a lumpy bundle bound up in the handkerchief Shevonne had given her the night before. "I put the prettiest rock in here," Meggie told him. "Tied it up all safe."
"I don't want to take your present, sweetheart," Garret said, starting to untie the knotted handkerchief. But Meggie reached out her small hand, stopping him.
"It'll keep the magic all inside," she whispered. "Then when the dragons come you can let it out an' it'll dee-feet them."
Garret curved his fingers around the hard object encased in the soft square of lawn. He tucked the talisman in his shirt pocket. "Thank you, sweetheart," he said. "I'm sure I'll use it often." But it was not the warding off of scaly monsters or even the Garveys he was thinking of, but rather other dragons—of doubt, of fear, of loneliness—that he knew would stalk him when he left Ashleen and the children behind.
Satisfied, the little girl reached up to bracket Garret's face with her hands. "You better go now, Mr. God," she said, her lips pursing. "The dragons are waitin'."
Garret hugged her tight, feeling the precious warmth of her, the sweet child scent of soap and innocence clinging to her skin. "I love you, Meggie-girl," he said hoarsely.
"Come back quick, Mr. God. Everyone'll stop cryin' when you do."
With that, the girl released him and turned to skip out the door into the dew-wet grass.
It was as if she had taken all the light with her, shadows clinging about the silent room. Garret raised his gaze to the quiet figure who stood staring out the cabin window, her back ramrod straight, her golden hair kissed by the sun. He couldn't see her face, didn't need to. It was branded on his very soul—every delicate ivory curve, every angel-sweet smile, every twinkle of mischief and joy that had sparkled in those summer-sky eyes.
Where could he begin? How could he tell her how much he loved her, how much he hated leaving her, even for a little while? He groped for the words but knew the quest was hopeless. "Ash, I—"
"Don't, Garret, don't—don't say anything. We've said it all a hundred times since that night in the wagon. There's nothing that can change the way I feel. Or the fact that you believe you have to go."
He raked agitated fingers through his hair, wanting to yell, to curse, to grab her and make love to her until they both forgot any world existed beyond this cabin, beyond their fields and the children Garret loved as if they were born of his own blood.
But painful as it was, Ashleen was right. In the end, nothing would change. He would still go. She would still let him.
He sighed, levering himself to his feet, wishing there was some way to make this easier on them both. But there was no way to ease this pain that was like ripping his soul out; there was no way to tell her good-bye.
Wordlessly he crossed to where she stood. "Damn it to hell, lady, I love you," he choked out.
She spun around, her tear-streaked face and pain-filled eyes searing themselves in Garret's heart forever. "Don't you dare die on me, Garret MacQuade!" she cried, beating on his chest with small fists. "Don't you dare!"
Garret caught her in his arms, crushed her against his chest. He could feel the passion in her, the love; and for the first time since the day Kennisaw Jones had pulled him up the cliffs ledge, he wanted to live—forever.
"I'm coming back to you, lady," he said, kissing her cheek, her temple, her lips. "You're going to spend the rest of your life fighting with me, making love to me, building a life with me. The devil himself couldn't keep me away."
He closed his eyes, wanting to cling to the beauty in her, the life in her, but it was Cain Garvey's face that rose in his mind, his eyes twin pits of evil, beckoning, ever beckoning him into hell.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Jesuit mission of San Fernando graced the valley like an old woman, careworn, weathered, yet beautifully serene. Garret reined in his horse and stared down at the tiny building that had served as a beacon of holiness in the rugged Texas hills since the last of the conquistadors had faded into legend.
He could remember his mother speaking of the priests there with a kind of wistful longing, remembered her spinning tales for Beth and him of the grand cathedrals and churches to be found back east. She had gone there, docile, devout, before Tom MacQuade had made her love him. Then she had closed the cathedrals and the comforting words of the priests into pages of her memory, sacrificing them as she had her sisters and her mother and her friends, sacrificing all she had known to follow the man she loved.
There had been times on Stormy Ridge Garret could remember her hinting to his father how wondrous it would be to have one of the wandering priests call at the farm, but Tom MacQuade had always had crops to plant or harvest, fields to clear, fences to repair. Any journey away from the farm had been consumed with gathering supplies or buying livestock at the town a week's journey in the opposite direction.
