Captured by Love (Michigan Brides #3)(11)

And it glared particularly bright on one side of the roof where several shingles had fallen away, leaving a gaping hole.

If he hadn’t seen his maman in the cabin yesterday, he would have assumed the farm was deserted.

He stopped, lifted his heavy haversack, and tried to shrug off the uncomfortable weight of guilt that bore down on him.

Beyond the house, the barn was too quiet. The door hung ajar, and darkness was the only thing that filled the stone building Papa had constructed from all the rocks they’d cleared out of the fields.

Where were the hens that normally strutted around the yard and the pigs that Papa had often let roam freely? He strained to hear the whinny of one of the horses or even the soft bellow of their milk cow. But the farm was deathly silent. Only the drums, music, and songs from the feast on the beach drifted in the air.

The knot that had slipped around his stomach cinched tighter. Why hadn’t Maman come down to the shore to see the first ships of spring with everyone else?

He’d helped his men unload the canoes during the past couple of hours. And he’d greeted the Indians when they’d arrived a short while later. Finally he’d worked up enough nerve to begin the mile walk from town.

One of the tall, dry weeds that crowded what had once been Maman’s flourishing vegetable garden waved in the breeze as if to warn him to run back to the beach and avoid the meeting that he’d been mentally planning since God had finally gotten his attention.

But he shook his head and pushed aside the temptation.

The island breeze rippled across his freshly shaven face and brought with it the sweetness of lilacs. At least the lilac bushes Maman had planted when he’d been just a boy were still growing on either side of the front door of the cabin. Surprisingly they were trimmed and bursting with hundreds of tiny purple blooms.

At least one thing hadn’t changed. She still loved her lilacs.

He dragged in a deep breath and forced his feet to move forward again, and he didn’t stop until he stood facing the door.

It was time to ask for her forgiveness. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he did. It was what he’d felt God urging him to do since the night a year ago when in one of his drunken stupors he’d almost killed another voyageur during a stupid argument.

Thankfully, Red Fox had pried his fingers away from the man’s neck in time. But the incident had scared him, had awakened him to the drunken brute he’d become. He’d realized he hadn’t liked who he was, the kind of man Papa had once been—exactly the kind of man Papa had wanted to prevent him from becoming.

He could understand now why Papa had been so angry with him when he’d told him of his plans to join a brigade. He had indeed fallen into the drinking and debauchery that accompanied the life of the voyageur.

But not anymore. Not since he’d repented before God for the despicable man he’d become.

Of course, he wasn’t perfect. God was still working to change him. But he’d come a long way in a year’s time.

Pierre straightened his shoulders and doffed his cap. He ran his fingers through his hair, combing the wayward curls into submission.

Then slowly he opened the door.

As it swung wide, his attention shifted to Maman, kneeling before the hearth, fumbling with a teakettle and much too close to the small flames scattered among scraps of bark and wood shavings.

At the swish of the door opening, Maman’s back stiffened and her hands stilled. From what he could tell, she hadn’t changed much in the years he’d been gone. Her hair was still tied in the knot she’d always worn at the back of her neck and was the familiar blond, perhaps a little lighter now with silver threads. She was much thinner, but still had the willowy graceful form he remembered.

For a long, tense moment he held his breath and waited for her to turn. His muscles twitched with the urge to flee.

“Angelique?” she said. “Is that you?”

Angelique?

His mind flashed with the picture of the gangly redheaded girl Maman had loved as a daughter, the sweet girl who had followed him and Jean all over the island and had become the little sister he’d never had. She was apparently still very much a part of Maman’s life.

Maman turned slightly.

Pierre’s mouth went dry, but he forced himself to speak. “Non, Maman. It’s not Angelique.”

She gasped. The teapot slipped from her fingers and fell with a clank into her pitiful fire. She started to rise but in the process brushed her hand against the steaming spout. She uttered a pained cry and struggled to move away from the fire, dragging her sleeve across one of the flames and causing the threadbare material to ignite.

Pierre dropped his bundle and in three strides was across the room and kneeling next to her. With the edge of his leather shirt he smothered the flame on her sleeve and at the same time captured her hand.

“Let’s get some cold water on that burn,” he said.

But she tugged away and with a cry of joy flung her arms around him and pulled him into a hug. “Oh, Pierre . . .” Her voice wobbled. “My dear, dear son. Is it really you?”

“Oui, Maman. It’s really me.”

Her fingers came up to his hair, and she smoothed her hand over his curls the way she had whenever he’d come running to her needing her reassurance, especially after he’d done something he’d known he shouldn’t, which had been more times than he cared to admit.