Chapter 14

14

Enya stared at the black and white keys that spread out before her.

"Play for me." Sullivan's request echoed in her head. Not just the words, but the reverence in his tone, as though he wanted to hear her play the piano more than he wanted anything else.

But she wasn't sure if she could play. As she'd tossed and turned on her bed a short while ago, her restlessness had prodded her up, and the need for solace had driven her to the piano. Except that she hadn't taken solace in music once during all that had happened over the past months.

It was almost as if she'd been punishing herself for what she'd done by depriving herself of something that had always brought her so much joy and comfort. Perhaps subconsciously she'd been telling herself that she didn't deserve any more happiness. Or maybe since she'd lost her innocence and a piece of herself, she'd lost her will to make music too.

Whatever the case, she'd put to death her desire to play the piano. And she hadn't planned to resurrect it.

But something stirred inside her, something sweet and warm and beautiful. It was only a thin wisp. But it was more than she'd felt in a long time, perhaps even before Bryan.

Was it possible this kindhearted man beside her was slowly helping to revive her?

She wasn't sure how he was breathing life into her, but being around him was waking her to the possibility that her life wasn't over, that she could learn to live again, that maybe she had more in her future than she'd imagined.

He wasn't afraid to challenge her. She needed only to think back to earlier in the evening when she'd tried to argue with him about slavery. He'd sensed her divisiveness and had chosen to address it.

Just now, his words rattled through her regarding her responsibility in her failed marriage: "Moving forward, you must not let your passion alone guide you; rather you must use sound reason as well as the advice of those who care about you."

They were hard, humbling words to hear. But they were wise.

He was wise. And he wanted to hear her play the piano.

She lowered herself back to the bench but couldn't make herself lift her hands.

He scooted off and stood. Then he turned and began to walk away.

Was he leaving?

A strange need nudged her. She wanted to play for him, wanted to communicate what she couldn't say aloud—that she appreciated his goodness to her.

She lifted her fingers to the keys. The ivory was cool and smooth to the touch. Somehow, as if her fingers had a mind of their own, they pressed the keys for the sonata she'd composed before she'd met Bryan—the last one she'd created during those days before her world had turned upside down.

From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Sullivan setting down a chair beside the piano and lowering himself into it. And then she knew. He hadn't been leaving. He'd merely gone after a chair so he could give her the room she needed on the bench.

Of course. Because that's the type of considerate and caring man Sullivan was.

Her fingers easily found the rhythm of the first movement, which was fast and lively and filled with all the zest for life she'd once had. The innocence and naivety, the unquestioning trust in everyone she met, the blissful and fairy-tale-like view of the future.

As she finished the first movement and started into the second, the tempo slowed, the notes slipped into D minor, and the mood plummeted into melancholy. All she could think about was how it represented her time with Bryan—full of disappointment and hurt and broken dreams.

By the time she reached the third movement, her fingers had slowed, and she couldn't make them pick up the tempo again. The maturity of the notes, the deeper chords, the fulfillment of the new lighthearted F major—she couldn't go there yet. And her fingers stalled.

Would she ever be able to move forward into a new life? Would there be a day when she wasn't filled with remorse and guilt and sadness?

Silence settled over the saloon.

Only when she sniffled did she realize that tears were trickling down her cheeks.

She swiped at the tears, then slid her hands onto the bench on either side of her. A moment later, a large hand covered hers, tentatively, gently. Sullivan's. The touch seemed to communicate that he understood she wasn't ready to finish the sonata yet, that she still needed more time, and that he would be here by her side while she worked through the next movement.

He pressed her fingers more firmly and then began to lift away.

Before he released her completely, she grasped his hand and held it tightly. For a reason she didn't understand, she wasn't ready for him to let go of her, wanted his comfort, wanted him to hold her hand just a wee bit longer.

His muscles tensed, then he seemed to give himself permission to continue the contact because his large fingers wrapped around hers more securely, enveloping her hand and making her feel suddenly safe.

Safe. Was she safe with Sullivan?

She wasn't sure if she'd ever be safe from hurt with any man. Regardless, she drew strength from Sullivan's solid, steady hold of her hand.

He was leaning forward on his knees, her hand clasped in his. He didn't rush her or push her to talk. He didn't turn the moment into a sensual one. And neither did he make any apologies for touching her.

He was such a good man. Why hadn't some smart woman snatched him up and married him yet? Why was he still single?

"Sullivan?" His name came out a trembling whisper. She'd wanted to ask him personal questions on their walk earlier and hadn't been able to make herself do it. Could she gather the courage to find out more about him now? As one friend to another?

Aye, just as friends.

He didn't lift his head to look at her. He kept it bowed. But she could feel that he was waiting for her to continue, that he was giving her all the time she needed.

"I don't know much about you—that is, I haven't been good at..." She was botching her efforts and sounded like a young girl speaking to a boy for the first time.

His fingers pressed against hers reassuringly.

She breathed out a tense puff of air. "I'm sorry I've been so consumed with myself that I haven't taken the time to ask you questions and learn more about you."

"I admit, I am reserved." He spoke the words as if he was revealing a part of himself that she didn't already know.

She almost smiled. "Oh my. That does come as a great shock. Please do tell me more of your deep, dark secrets."

At her words—perhaps more at the playful tone of them—he glanced up. Even in the darkness of the saloon, she could see his eyes widening.

She'd surprised herself too. When was the last time she'd been playful? She couldn't keep from teasing him again. "I suppose next you'd like to reveal that you're not very talkative."

He studied her face intently. "No, I was going to reveal that I have no sense of humor."

His tone was so solemn that for a moment she almost believed he was serious. But at the twitch of his lips into the barest semblance of a smile, her own smile broke free. "You're funny."

"No, really I'm not."

"Aye. You may have everyone else fooled, to be sure. But not me."

His lips curled a wee bit higher.

Had she seen his smile come out completely yet? She couldn't remember him smiling or laughing. And that was a shame. He probably had a dazzling smile and a hearty laugh.

"What would you like to know about me?" Leaned over with his elbows still braced on his knees, he didn't let go of her hand.

A dozen questions all floated to the top of her mind. But since he was reticent, she needed to start with something nonthreatening, topics that weren't overly personal, subjects that wouldn't send him into a full retreat into himself. Not that he'd retreat. That was probably her tactic more so than his.

"How many siblings do you have, and what are their ages?"

"If I answer your question, will you promise to answer it for yourself?"

She tapped her lips with her free hand and pretended to mull over his stipulation. "You drive a hard bargain. But aye, I will."

She wasn't sure why she felt more lighthearted and carefree than she had in a long time, but as he began to tell her the ages of his two younger sisters—both married with children—the tension eased from her body, and she found herself enjoying the conversation with him in a way she hadn't yet experienced.

She shared more about her family, that in addition to Finola and Kiernan, who were both older, she had three younger siblings—Zaira, who was nineteen, Madigan sixteen, and Quinlan thirteen. And she told him about each, what they were like, and how much she adored them.

Of course, next she asked him about his parents and what kind of relationship he had with them. She liked that he shared honestly and described that, although he loved them, he'd felt stifled and pressured, so much so that he preferred to be away from home much of the time.

When she had to answer the same question, she admitted that she had a similar relationship with her parents—they loved each other, but conflict often occurred between them.

They talked of how their parents met and what life was like growing up. They spoke of their childhood antics, favorite pets, and hobbies. They discussed their faith, and she admitted she was struggling with feeling far from God, and he confessed that he'd experienced that at times too. And when she couldn't hold back a loud yawn, he finally stood, tugging her up with him.

His hand still surrounded hers, solid and companionable. He'd done nothing that she could even remotely construe as sensual, not even to graze his thumb across her skin. And, as earlier, she felt entirely safe with him.

"Time for you and the baby to go to bed." His voice dropped to a whisper, likely so if any of his crew were listening, they wouldn't discover she was already pregnant only two weeks after being married.

She nodded and fought back another yawn. After the emotionally draining night, she swayed, exhaustion moving in and clouding her head.

He released her hand, and if she hadn't been so tired, she would have scrambled to grab his back into her grasp, not ready to let him go. But in the next instant, he lifted her off her feet and into his arms.

A part of her knew she needed to protest. She was a strong woman and didn't need him to pick her up. But she liked that he'd noticed how tired she'd grown and that he was concerned enough to carry her back to their cabin.

As he settled her against his chest and started through the saloon, she snuggled in. Her head fit perfectly at his shoulder, tucked lightly against his chin. And her body melded into his arms and chest.

"Thank you, Sullivan." Her eyelids fell, and for the first time in a long time, as sleep claimed her, she had the feeling that maybe—just maybe—she'd find a way through to the other side of her heartache.