Free Family of the Heart by Dorothy Clark Page A

moment she neither moved nor spoke, then her chin lifted and her shoulders straightened. The melancholy on her face disappeared as quickly as smoke before a strong wind. Except for the shadow that dulled the golden glints that usually sparkled in her brown eyes. The brightness in them now was caused by the glistening moisture of unshed tears.
    Clayton stood frozen in the doorway, wanting to leave but knowing a hasty exit would reveal he had seen her moment of vulnerability. And he knew, too well, how important it was to cover that inner vulnerability with a facade of normalcy to protect your heart and save your pride. He moved into the room, pretended he did not see her tears, did not recognize her sadness. “Did you wish to speak to me?”
    “No, I—” She blinked rapidly, turned away. “I was feeling restless, unable to settle for the night. I hope I did not disturb you.”
    “Not at all. I was finished with my work.” He sought for an innocuous subject, something that would give her time to compose herself. “Is there a problem with your room? Are you uncomfortable or—”
    “No, the room is quite satisfactory. I—” She took a breath, turned back to face him and gave a rueful little smile. “The truth is, I posted a letter to my parents today, and I have become a little homesick. We are very close. Especially since—” Her voice broke. She hurried to the fireplace and looked up at the two portraits that hung side by side above the mantel beam. “What a lovely lady. And the gentleman…” She glanced at him, looked back at the picture. “You have the look of him.”
    A distraction so he would not question her about what she had left unsaid or comment on her tears? Clayton nodded, went along with the change of subject. “Not surprising. That is my grandfather and grandmother, Ezekiel and Rose Bainbridge. They built this place back when this area was the frontier. It served them well. The neighbors used to fort up here when there was an Indian raid.”
    Her eyes widened. “Truly?”
    Clayton smiled at her awed tone. He had captured her attention. Perhaps he could do a little distracting of his own, give her something to think about that would hold her sorrow at bay through the long night hours. He knew the anguish of troubled, sleepless nights. “Truly. Stone doesn’t burn, and most of the other homes were made of log back then. Have you noticed the deep gashes in the front door? They are from Indian tomahawks.”
    “Tomahawks.” She looked toward the entrance hall. “I cannot imagine…”
    But clearly she did. Clayton strode to a window, reached behind the drapes and pulled the solid wood shutters that were folded up against the deep walls of the window well into view. He pointed to the small square holes in them. “These holes were for their rifles. If they had enough warning, they opened the windows—if not, they broke the glass out. Grandma hated that because it took so long to get the glass to replace the broken panes and the flies and mosquitoes always found the holes.”
    He folded the shutters back and indicated a large chest that sat against the wall beside the window. “My father used to stand on that chest so he could load my grandfather’s long rifles during battles. He used to tell me the stories of those battles when I was young. It is one of my fondest memories. That, and my mother singing me to sleep at night.”
    He moved to the fireplace, ran his finger over the hole where a cartridge had buried itself in the heavy beam. “There are many reminders of those days in this house. And a story behind every one of them.” A smile tugged at his lips. He gave it free rein. “I inherited my grandparents’ stories and memories along with their house.”
    “How lovely for you. I never knew my grandparents.” Or my parents, either. She looked up at him. “And your parents?”
    His smile faded. “They died in a smallpox epidemic at Fort Belle Fontaine when I was four years old. My