Free The Captive Heart by Michelle; Griep

and squeezed. She could hardly see Grace’s little face through a blur of tears as she swung her up. A yawn stretched the girl’s mouth, and she popped a thumb into her mouth.
    Eleanor yawned as well. “Tired little one? So am I.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Weary of this day, this wretched land … my life.”
    She set Grace down in the crib, then rummaged through one of the crates, pulling out a tiny nightdress for the girl. By the time she crossed back to the little one’s side, Grace curled into a ball, eyes shut.
    She couldn’t help but smile. “I do not blame you.”
    The jingle of harness from outside stole the smile from her face. Mr. Heath would be back soon. In here. With her.
    Turning in a circle, she surveyed the room once again, looking for … what? A secret passage leading to a chamber fit for a princess? Bitterness pinched her throat tight. Yes, that’s exactly what she wished for.
    With a sigh, she plopped down into the chair, avoiding the bed altogether. What was the point? There was no possible way she could undo her stays by herself—nor would she lie with her husband.
    Hopefully, Mr. Heath would remember what he’d agreed to.

    Samuel shoved the stable door shut, putting an end to a very long day. Halfway to the house, he stopped, letting the night air soak into his skin, damp and cool. Closing his eyes, he filled his lungs with the tanginess of pine. Here, in the midst of shushing breeze and cricket song, he knew God lived.
    And grace upon grace, God knew him right back.
    “Lord, have mercy,” he prayed as he stalked to the house. How did one suddenly live with a woman again?
    Using the same footing as if hunting a panther, he stepped over the threshold quietly, not willing to wake Grace or startle the woman. The grease lamp burned as bright as he’d left it. The bed lay untouched. And there, reclining on the chair, head turned aside and eyes closed, the woman breathed evenly. He pressed the door shut behind him with a silent hand. She must’ve been so tired that she collapsed without thought.
    He removed his tomahawk, then loosened his belt and slipped that off as well. The woman shifted at his movement, but did not waken. At that angle, all bent and draped on the hickory chair, she’d surely be stiff come morning. Ought he lift her as he would Grace and carry her to bed? He raked a hand through his hair. No, that would surely scare the breath from her and stir up Grace in the process. He crossed over to her and halted—then frowned. If she opened her eyes now, with him towering like a bear on hind legs, the result would be no better. So he squatted, arms resting on his thighs.
    For the first time, he studied her unguarded. Fair skin, roughened in patches by wind and reddened by the sun, curved over high cheekbones that were quite fine, almost sparrow-like in delicacy. Without the harshness of daylight, her hair took on a burnished sheen, like the ridgeline of an autumn sky, when reds and oranges flared as the sun set. Her lips, somewhat chapped, were surprisingly full, almost overlarge compared to the oval of her face—but not alarmingly so. No, he rocked forward, leaning for a closer look. On the contrary, the only thing alarming about the woman was the way she kept herself all buttoned up tight, as if she’d never known the freedom of laughter in a meadow or running her toes along the soft silt of a creek bed. What kind of life had she known, living among his enemies?
    Repentance never came easy, but he’d learned that when it did come calling, to open the door wide with a hearty welcome. He never should have treated this woman so harshly in town this morning. The rude awakening. The heartless marriage vows. His silence on the drive home. All because he was too consumed with ignoring his own pain to be mindful of her feelings. He hung his head.
Oh God, forgive me. Again.
    Weary to the bone, he lifted his face and nudged her leg with the backs of his fingers. “Woman, go to