Tristan stood heaving, watching the scoundrel disappear down the drive. A strong hand clapped him on the back.
“I daresay that fellow won’t be bothering us again.”
Tristan turned to the stranger. “I hope not.” He glanced at Opal. She and her friend, this man’s wife, chatted softly with their heads together.
The dark-haired man followed his gaze. “My wife is rather fond of Miss Martin.”
Tristan nodded absently, unable to tear his gaze from her face.
“I’m Westley Remington,” he said, giving Tristan’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “And you must be Mr. Tristan Stuart.”
“What?” Tristan turned. “Oh, yes, of course.” He stuck his hand out. “A pleasure, Mr. Remington.”
The man gave his hand a firm shake. He glanced at the women and then back to Tristan. “You have my word no harm will come to Miss Martin so long as I am near.”
Tristan nodded again, but felt the strangest irritation at the words. Almost as though he believed he should be the one pledging to protect her. But she had refused him.
Love is patient, love is kind…love is a sacrifice, and it is a choice. It is not a mere feeling.
Words from long ago surfaced, and he remembered the day he’d heard them. He’d been twenty, just after Fort Sumter. He’d been restlessly sitting in chapel, his father and his older brothers only days from leaving to join their new units. The pastor had spoken of love for family and for country. Of how love meant you had to sacrifice and honor those you loved, and it wasn’t merely a feeling.
His eyes followed Opal to the house. Could she love him in that way? She had already demonstrated those qualities in the many things she’d done for him. She’d even risked her life, jumping into the swirling river, when she thought she could save him. His throat constricted. She’d leapt for him, even though she couldn’t swim.
Were such things not at least sparks of love?
Mr. Remington moved to follow, and Tristan gave Shadow a pat on the head and a command to stay and watch before shoving his hands into his pockets and making his way toward the house that looked so much like his own lost home.
But what was home, really? It wasn’t the brick and mortar, but the people embraced within. And heaven help him, but if home was a place that held the heart, then his heart had just stepped inside a place called Riverbend.
Tristan lingered with Mr. Remington on the porch after the women slipped inside. The other man stood silently for a time, looking out over the yard. It still bore the signs of the flood, but Tristan had removed the majority of the fallen limbs and debris.
Tristan shifted his feet, feeling an odd compulsion to bear his battered thoughts to this stranger. “She refused my proposal of marriage.”
“Did she?” Mr. Remington cocked his head. “Are you sure?”
He scowled. Did the man think him daft? How would he not know if she had refused such a request? Still, he sifted through the conversation and examined the memory. “Well, she said she didn’t love me, and then ran away.” He lifted his hands. “I think it is safe to assume her answer is no.”
“Ah, well,” Mr. Remington said, rocking back on his heels. “One thing I have learned about women is that you can never make assumptions about their intentions.”
As Opal had made assumptions about Millie? He thought back, remembering the emotions that had played across her features. Yes, now that he thought on it, he was sure the look in her eyes had not only been sorrow for the story he’d shared, but also a different hurt. A pain of her own.
He looked at Mr. Remington, and oddly, the fellow smiled.
Why would Opal look that way? Unless… He glanced at the house, where the door stood ajar. Unless she thought Tristan yet loved another, and the idea pained her? “She distinctly said she did not love me.” But if she truly did not love him, then why be upset over thinking he yearned for a lost love?
“Hmm.” Mr. Remington glanced at the door. “When we were first together, I found it frustrating when Ella would lob hurtful words at me, even when I could clearly see she scarcely believed them.”
Tristan stared at him. That hardly sounded like the fairytale love he’d expected, given Opal’s doe-eyed recount of the tale.
“It wasn’t until later,” Remington continued, “that I realized she said things as a way of building walls against me, in order to protect herself. It wasn’t until I had the courage to scale those walls that I truly understood her.”
The man spoke in riddles.
“Perhaps,” he said with a sly smile, “you might find another opportunity to discuss things with her.”
“Perhaps. Though I doubt she will welcome the conversation.”
“Then maybe it’s time to declare your feelings.”
Tristan eyed the man a moment, his blood heating. “Yes, I suppose you are right.” How could he expect to win her, if he wasn’t willing to fight for her?
As Mr. Weir galloped off, Ella grasped her arm so tightly Opal winced. “Opal Martin, what’s wrong with you?”
Opal felt her jaw unhinge and snapped it closed. “What?” Should she not feel elation watching that greedy lowlife run away like a dog with its tail between its legs?
“Not that,” Ella whispered, ducking her head near Opal’s so Tristan and Westley wouldn’t overhear. “I mean him.”
“Tristan?” She glanced at him, noting the satisfied set to his shoulders.
Ella tugged on her and they started back toward the house. “Yes, of course. Who else?”
Opal frowned, and simply let Ella lead her away. She loved her friend, but the lady did have a knack for the dramatic. They made their way across the wet ground, trying to avoid the worst of the mud.
Mama stood on the porch like a queen overlooking her subjects, her smile radiant. Though, Opal couldn’t help but wonder why she seemed so jovial for someone who had just lost her opportunity to move to Massachusetts. They’d never have the money now. The thought brought both relief and guilt. She shouldn’t be so selfish. Mama watched them approach, then followed them inside, leaving the door ajar for the men.
Opal tugged her arm away from her friend and paused in the foyer. “Thank heavens that scoundrel is gone. Be sure to extend my heartfelt thanks to your husband.”
Mama made a scoffing noise, but Opal ignored her.
Ella lifted her eyebrows, two slashes of vibrant red across her pale features. “Aye, now, you know I will, but I daresay there’s another fellow who deserves the bulk of your gratitude.” Her accent always became more pronounced when she was excited over something.
“Yes, of course. I will thank Tristan as well, as that would only be proper.” Opal kept her shoulders straight, and her tone properly controlled. No one needed to know how it had thrilled her to see him fighting for her freedom from that awful man. They would deem such a thing silly.
Ella rolled her eyes. “For the most romantically inclined young woman I have ever known, you certainly missed the rather romantic nature of a dashing gentleman coming to your rescue.”
Something burned in the back of her throat and she swallowed it down. “Life is not like fairytales or romance novels. I know that now.”
Mama wrapped her arm around Opal’s shoulders and drew her close. “Oh, my sweet girl, I am sorry I criticized you for reading and for not treasuring your tender heart. I do not wish for you to become cynical.” Her voice hitched. “And certainly not on account of my bitterness.”
The tears that gathered in the back of her eyes wet her lashes.
“No, life is not like a story,” Mama continued, “where every problem is immediately resolved and every couple falls in love and then never has a care in the world.” She put both hands on Opal’s shoulders and looked at her intently. “But real love is much better. You are stronger for the pain you fight through together, and closer for the wounds you help one another heal. Love isn’t without conflict, nor is it without sacrifice. But, my darling, that is the love that seeps all the way into our souls, and has the substance to last.”
Ella sniffled. “Your mother is very wise. Do not think that Westley swooped in and, from the moment I saw him, I knew we would be together. Our love was forged through hardship, and is still growing. I love him more now than I ever did, and I believe with careful tending, that love will continue to strengthen.”
Opal blinked away the tears. “So love is not just a rampant attraction and a wool-headed feeling?” She said it only half in jest.
Ella laughed. “No, I daresay at times it is best described as a most frustrating and persistent devotion to tend to another’s wellbeing.” She grinned. “There are times you feel weightless and fluttery, but more often it is the comforting, steady feeling of a solid bond.”
“So this thing…” Opal said, glancing at the two women in front of her in turn, “this thing that I feel that has me yearning to care for him, to make his hurts lessen and his smile come more often, could that be love?”
Mama squeezed her shoulders. “It is how I started with your father, and it bloomed into something much more.”
The door creaked open, and the object of their discussion poked his head through the door. Concern lit in his eyes, those great pools of emotion that swept her away. “Are you well?”
She stepped forward, and nodded. “I am.” She glanced at Mama, who gave her a nod. “May we speak in the parlor?”
He seemed surprised. “I came hoping to do just that.”
The others dismissed themselves to join Mr. Remington on the porch, and Opal nervously followed Tristan into the parlor where he took a seat on the settee.
She hesitated only a moment, and then settled next to him. “Thank you for protecting me and my home. You didn’t have to do that.”
He reached over and took both of her hands in his calloused ones. “If you would let me, I would spend my life protecting you from every hurt I could.”
She opened her mouth, but he released her hands to put his thumb over her lips.
“Please, I must say this now, while I still have the courage to do so.”
Opal nodded against the warmth of his palm pressed against her cheek.
“I am broken and scarred, Opal. War has made me a haunted man. Shadows cling to my dreams, and battle still haunts my thoughts. I have no illusions about being the man you deserve, but I know that when I am with you, I want to be a better man. I want to learn to let God grow me into someone who can love you in all the ways you deserve.”
She shuddered under the sincerity in his eyes.
He let them drift closed and rested his forehead against hers. His tender words brushed against her heart like a feather. “If you would have me, I would like to take this seed of love and nurture it.” He leaned back, and his face filled her vision. “Marry me, and if you have a mustard seed’s worth of love for me as well, perhaps we can grow it into a great and mighty tree that will harbor us from life’s storms.”
She slipped her fingers up into the tangle of his hair, caked with mud from his encounter with Mr. Weir. “Oh, Tristin. I offer you a timid heart and, with it, hope to help you bind wounds and encourage you. I would like to grow this seed of love with you, and see where it takes us.”
He sighed, and slipped his hand up to the back of her head. When his lips caressed hers, something in her soared, and she pressed closer. And in one intoxicating moment, she found that feeling she’d only ever read about.