Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

H ow could he have gotten them into this mess? He was supposed to be protecting Muireall, not be the reason they were both down a ravine. John gingerly examined Muireall's arm, his jaw clenching at how her face contorted. Though the bone did not seem to be displaced, he could not rule out a break.

John blew out a breath and glanced around. He easily located a couple of good, straight sticks for her splint and ripped a length from the bottom of his shirt to tie them to her arm. Muireall remained rather stoic throughout the ordeal, whining but once, though he could only imagine the pain she was in. "Let me see if I can get the mare to pull me from here." Or find some other way out. "Then I can make a sling or something to pull you up."

Muireall simply nodded, eyes closed. His heart twisted at the sight of her lower lip tucked under her teeth.

John limped over to the side of the ravine and clutched the length of rope still attached to his middle. He called out to the mare and twirled it to and fro, but there was no sign of movement from the top. The mare required more convincing than that. John blew out a painful breath. It would be up to him and Muireall to find their way out.

He surveyed the edges of the ravine once more, ignoring the pain that seared through his right ankle and the soreness that stretched across his upper back and around to his left side. No longer did he consider how Muireall could help him, but how he could help her.

One side of the ravine was not quite as steep as the other two, and though it would be difficult with his injuries, it might be possible to make it up. After all, Muireall was counting on him, and he had endured much worse pain before. If he could live through the ordeal he had as a nine-year-old boy, he could face this for the sake of his wife.

Taking hold of a rock, he hoisted himself up the first couple of feet. But when he dug his toe into the soft earth and tried to push farther upward, his foot slipped. He groaned, shoved his boot into the ground again, and pushed. He latched onto a dried plant, but it ripped loose. His nails dug into the rock that held him, but it was no use. He slipped back down the few feet he had gained, his boots squishing into the mud as he landed. A low moan slipped out as agony sliced through his ankle. Still, John gave it one more try with the same result. The ground was simply too muddy and soft. Given another day for the surface to dry, he could be successful. He turned back to Muireall and frowned. He had to be.

For now, though, the ravine led down to a large cave, and it appeared that travel downward would be easier than up. They could camp there for the night and try again tomorrow. That would be better on Muireall, anyway. Then perhaps he could build a travois to bring her up after him. It was midafternoon, and though they would only have the supplies on their bodies, he made sure to keep the most vital materials close at hand. In a leather pouch, he kept flint and steel, as well as a couple strips of jerked meat. Then there was the canteen, knife, and rifle he kept strapped to his body as well as the pistol he had lent Muireall. For a single night, it should be all they needed. The cave was definitely the wiser option. At least for Muireall.

His only concern was the mare. What if she wandered away? Or worse, was stolen, supplies and all? John shuddered at the thought. And though he did not prefer to leave his steed unattended and uncared for, there was little else he could do. The ground was simply too muddy, and both he and Muireall were injured.

He turned and knelt at Muireall's side. Her eyes opened to slits, her jaw still clenched.

"I am going to carry you down to the cave. We will camp there for the night."

Muireall nodded. He moved to the side away from her injured arm and gently scooped her into his arms. She seemed so frail and small, nestled there against his chest. His ankle protested the extra weight, and pain radiated through his ribcage, but he gritted his teeth and moved forward, anyway. It took slow, careful steps, but finally, they were on the solid rock floor of the cave. The temperature dropped several degrees as they moved down into the vast structure, but a fire should easily keep them warm enough.

He lowered Muireall to the ground. "I am sorry that we have nothing to put down on the hard floor."

"'Tis fine." Muireall's voice was small, her pain and tiredness evident. If only he had some way to ease her suffering in their current situation. But the limestone cave held few comforts without their supplies.

John frowned. "I will start a fire. You rest here." Not that she was going anywhere. Still, he pushed himself to gather wood and start a fire as quickly as possible. At least the ravine seemed to catch leaves, sticks, and other debris that made it easy enough to gather what he needed. Only once he had Muireall settled would he consider exploring even the smallest portion of the massive cave. From where he knelt to unload his armful, the structure seemed to stretch on forever.

Soon, the fire crackled as Muireall fell into a fitful sleep. While she was unconscious, the whimpers she had withheld in his presence slipped out and cut through him like a knife.

April 1, 1784

M uireall contained a groan as she shifted. Not only was her hip sore from sleeping on the hard stone floor, but the movement shot a new wave of pain through her arm. Her slumber had been restless, and because of her injury, John had not embraced her as they slept. Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes. Though he had remained by her side, without the steady warmth of his body, he seemed a world away. All was cold and hard and uninviting in this stone hideaway.

Muireall closed her eyes and swallowed. She prayed they were able to keep moving today, no matter how terrible the pain. She could withstand it as long as she had hope. And here, all seemed hopeless.

Muireall turned her head toward where John slumbered. But he was not there, only more emptiness. As she glanced the other direction, her gaze landed on where his blurry form stood by the remnants of the fire. "You are awake." Was that a smile on his face?

She pushed herself to a sitting position with her good arm.

"Hey, hey, hey." John came and knelt beside her. "You do not need to do that. You need to rest and heal."

Muireall gave him a pointed look. "We cannae live in this cave while I heal."

John did crack a grin then, but his eyes still held concern.

She rubbed her thumb over his jawline and the dark stubble there in an attempt to comfort him and ease his mind.

"I know. I need a shave," he replied instead.

Muireall gave him a pointed look. "'Tis not what I meant." She moved her touch to the scar on his cheek. "Tell me about this," she urged. The more time she spent with John and the closer they grew, the more she desired to know all there was to know about him. His Adam's apple bobbed, and she was close enough to see, to feel his breath upon her lips.

"You do not want to hear." There was a bite to his voice, a self-loathing she had never heard before.

"I do, John. I want to know all there is about ye."

He closed his eyes and shook his head, his mouth a flat line.

Muireall inhaled deeply. Perhaps it was time she took the first step in forging the gap between them. "If it will make it easier, I need to tell ye somethin' about meself as well." She sighed. "An' ye might wish to leave me behind in this cave after I do."

"What is it?" John settled back on his heels, his voice wary, as though he was bracing for the worst. It did not make what Muireall had to do any easier. But if she wanted her husband to be honest with her, she had to be honest with him.

"I…I am near-sighted. Even as close as ye are to me, ye are blurry. I can only see clearly to right about here." She held her hand up in front of her face. John did not react, so she continued. "I cannae tell ye what is over there." She gestured to a dark mound at the mouth of the cave. Likely, it was mud and leaves, but her eyes could not give her the answer. John still did not respond, and her shoulders sagged.

Finally, he spoke. "You cannot see?"

Muireall shook her head. "Not well."

John stood and began pacing back and forth. "What about your sewing?"

"I know the movements. I can sew with my eyes closed. And if I have a new project or an intricately detailed stitch, I hold the fabric close enough to see."

John let out a loud breath. "And you did not think I needed to know?" He did not give her time to answer before he plowed on. "You lied to me? Omitted an important detail that a man should know before he marries a woman?"

John turned to her as he spat the last question, and it knifed through her chest.

Tears formed in her eyes. "I…I withheld the truth. Aye. I was afraid ye would not want to marry me. I…I can still fulfill all my wifely duties. I can cook an' clean an' sew. Even raise children."

"Raise children! What if they were in danger? How would you know? How could you save them? You set yourself on fire the first night on the trail!"

Muireall recoiled at the volume of John's voice.

He turned with a growl and ran his hands through his hair. Then, he stalked away, into the depths of the cave. Muireall's heart broke as she watched him go, and tears slipped down her cheeks. Only once he was out of earshot did she succumb to the sobs that caused her arm to ache as her shoulders shook. And still, she did her best to remain quiet in the echoing cave.

Her worst fear had come true. She had come to love a man, only to have him resent her once he learned the truth. He thought her to be defective and unworthy—uncapable, even.

What was she to do now?

M uireall had lied to him, taken him to be a fool. Ignoring the darkness that closed in around him and the pain that reverberated through his ankle with each step, John marched deeper into the cave. So much made sense now. She had caught herself on fire. What he had thought to be a simple accident was actually an indication of her dangerously diminished sight.

How could Muireall possibly believe that she could live a full, normal life? If they had children, how could he entrust their care to her? How could he ever even allow her to venture out of his sight? The woman was a risk to herself and others. She had already proven that. And to think, he had taught her how to shoot his gun. No wonder she could not hit the broadside of a barn.

John's breathing was quick and ragged in the cool air as he pushed farther, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior he had explored the night before. How could she have deceived him so, roping him into a marriage with a broken woman while hiding such a secret from him? He shoved his hand through his hair, his fingertips grazing the leather strap of his eyepatch.

John stopped and sighed.

Sure, he had been made a fool. But so had she. How could he be mad at Muireall for hiding her flaw when he had hidden his own? His shoulders sagged. She did not even know his real name. He had a past that had literally come to haunt them.

Rollinson and Hodges. He had left Muireall alone.

A gunshot split through the air, echoing through the cave. No !

John ran back the way he had come.

M uireall listened, but she could hear nothing over the pounding of her heart in her ears. Something or someone was in the cave with them. She kept John's pistol aimed in the direction she had fired, but whatever had been rustling around in the leaves near the entrance seemed to have either fled or died. Whichever it was, she prayed the mysterious foe could no longer harm her. At least, not worse than she already was.

"Muireall!"

At John's voice, she whipped around, the pistol still held out before her. But as his familiar form approached, she breathed a sigh of relief and lowered the weapon.

"What happened?" He sounded out of breath as he knelt beside her and eased the gun from her loosened grip.

"There was something rustling about over there." She pointed. Then hesitated before defensively adding, "I could not see what it was to know if it was dangerous."

John sighed, and it was evident what he was thinking. He thought her incompetent, and here she was, proving his point.

"At least you came to no harm. I will check, but it appears you scared whatever it was off." He leaned over and kissed the top of her head before following where she had indicated.

She stared after him. A kiss? Did that mean he had chosen to accept her as she was?

Within moments, John was back by her side, confirming there was no danger. "We should be on our way, though. We should be able to reach Pitman Station today or tomorrow."

"Good." Muireall pushed to standing.

Not a word was spoken between them as John gathered their few supplies. Walking back to the edge of the ravine, his gait appeared stiff, as though he were masking an injury. Muireall frowned. He was allowed to hide that from her, but she could not conceal her own weakness? The intention was different, she supposed. His must be to protect her while hers had only been to protect herself? Still, there was a discussion to be had. If John had chosen to accept her and her deficiency, it rooted a seed of hope for their marriage. But he could apologize for the hurtful words he had spewed.