AMY TRAILED listlessly behind Colin as he hustled the children to the wagon. Leaning against the side, she watched them clamber into the back, wondering where she’d find the energy to climb up herself. She felt like she hadn’t slept a wink last night; barring some catnaps Monday evening and her uneasy slumber in the jostling wagon yesterday, she’d been awake for nearly three days.
“Keep an eye on them, will you?” Colin asked.
She nodded, watching his easy stride as he headed into the inn. Thank heavens he was here…
Closing her eyes, she shook her head in a vain attempt to clear it. She had to think straight, figure out a plan. While it was easier to let him take care of her, she couldn’t rely on Colin. He was a tempting comfort, but a false one. She meant nothing to him.
Her thoughts drifted to last night. How could she have asked him about himself and his past as though everything were normal, as though Papa hadn’t just died? And dear heavens, had she actually kissed him? And enjoyed it? Her face flamed at the memory. What kind of a daughter was she? She didn’t deserve to enjoy anything, ever again.
She opened her eyes to see Colin returning, her trunk balanced on one straining shoulder.
“What on earth is in here?” He set it in the wagon with a decided clunk.
“Everything I own,” she said in a broken whisper, her gaze riveted to the wooden slats, the leather straps, the brass fittings.
Papa’s life’s work was in there.
Colin pushed the trunk under the bench, making a hideous scraping noise. Suddenly her throat constricted and she seemed unable to breathe. The grief was bubbling up inside her. A weight settled in her stomach; a fist closed around her heart. Her eyes filled with hot, blinding tears.
It was rising, threatening to overwhelm her, and this time she couldn’t stop it.
She stumbled up to the bench, but she couldn’t sit upright, so she sank to the boards and covered her face with her hands. Then she let it rise up and out, the pain and the tears and the great, tearing sobs.
Her breath came in hysterical gulps. Colin stroked her hair, but she shook off his hand, though she knew it might hurt his feelings. The children were silent; she could feel their pitying gazes. She didn’t care. Papa was dead. She would never see him, never hug him, never hear his voice again.
She was jostled when the wagon started moving, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Wordlessly, Colin stuffed a handkerchief into her fist. Before long it was sopping wet and twisted in her hands.
The world retreated until she was a mass of wretched pain. Papa was dead; her home was gone; she had no father, no mother, no family at all except one aunt in a foreign country.
It was all Papa’s fault. When he’d gone back inside their burning house, he’d robbed her of both her father and her life.
How dare he? she thought. I hate him!
Bolting upright, she gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth as though she’d said the words out loud.
She felt Colin’s gaze, his compassion, but it didn’t help at all.
When he drew her hand away from her mouth and threaded her fingers through his, she levered herself up to the bench and leaned against him, closing her eyes. The tears leaked slowly, tracing new paths down her raw cheeks. Her head throbbed; her eyes burned, hot and swollen. But no physical pain could match the anguish in her heart.
She’d been furious with Papa, to the point of hating him—and for one split second, she had really felt that.