Free My Heart Remembers by Kim Vogel Sawyer

swished them away with trembling fingers and vowed in a whisper, “You’ll pay for this, Randolph. How dearly you will pay. . . .”
    Isabelle swung herself from the cramped area beside the hansom cab driver, then reached to retrieve the bag she’d wedged in at her feet. Shivering from the cold wind that lifted her cape and sent little particles of snow down the back of her dress, she dropped a few coins into the man’s outstretched hand. He gave no nod of acknowledgment, merely slapped the reins down on the horse’s back, forcing her to leap backward against the curb.
    Her heel caught in the hem of her dress, and she heard the fabric rip. Sucking in her breath in aggravation, she resisted the urge to check the damage. It was cold and dark—she needed to get inside as quickly as possible. Lifting her skirt with one hand and holding the leather handles of her bag with the other, she made her difficult progress along the dim, shadowy sidewalk that led to the Heatons’ stately home.
    Facing the eight concrete steps that led to the receiving porch, she chose to leave the bag behind. One of the Heatons’ servants could retrieve it after she’d been allowed entry. She climbed the slippery steps and twisted the brass key that sounded the bell. In moments the door swung wide and the Heatons’ butler invited her in.
    Her spine straight and chin angled high, she said, “I need to speak with—”
    “Isabelle!”
    Glenn Heaton approached in long, eager strides. Isabelle almost began to cry when she saw his sweet smile of welcome.
    Her proud posture dissolved. She needn’t maintain the façade of strength now that Glenn was here. She stretched her hands toward him, relishing the secure feel of his long, cool fingers wrapped around hers.
    “Mother will be so disappointed. She’s already retired for the evening. What brings you out on such a frosty night?” Then his brows thrust downward, and his blue eyes narrowed in concern. “My dear, something is wrong.” With an arm around her waist, he guided her to the parlor and assisted her to a chair. He knelt and grasped her hand. “What is it, darling? Are you missing your parents terribly?”
    She sniffed, blinking hard against more tears. “Yes, but it isn’t that.”
    “What is it, then?”
    Isabelle’s chin quivered from the effort of containing both anger and grief. “It’s Randolph. He—”
    Glenn’s father entered the parlor at that moment, crossing quickly to the pair. “I was told we had a guest, but I didn’t expect to see you out at this hour unescorted, Isabelle. Your father—God rest his soul—would be distraught by your wandering the city alone at night. I trust you have good reason for this late visit.”
    “Father, my fiancée is the one who is distraught,” Glenn said, his tone severe. “Something is wrong. Perhaps you should sit down and listen.”
    Mr. Heaton harrumphed but seated himself on the edge of the sofa without another word.
    Glenn turned back to Isabelle, his expression attentive. “Now, there. Tell me. What has happened to Randolph?”
    “Nothing has happened to Randolph, but . . .” Isabelle explained as best she could the odd discussion that had taken place between herself and her brother. Glenn’s face changed from concerned to puzzled to indignant as she finished. “The Bible he gave me is outside in my bag, at the base of the porch stairs with the few belongings he allowed me to bring from my home. I . . . I don’t know what to do, Glenn.” Her voice broke on a sob.
    “You did the right thing, coming to me, Isabelle.” The sweet brush of his knuckles on her cheek was as intimate as a kiss. “I’m sure Randolph is merely so distressed by your parents’ untimely deaths he is not within his right mind. He’ll come to himself in a few days and invite you back.”
    Isabelle blinked away her tears. “Are you certain?”
    “Of course,” Mr. Heaton inserted. “People do odd things in times of grief. In the meantime, we