Page 29 of Heart on the Line

She knew better than most that a man’s character had no correlation with his appearance. Her father had been handsome enough to fool an entire town into believing him a saint. Ladies thought she and her mother were the luckiest females alive. And when her ma’s battered body finally gave out, womenfolk lined up with food and sympathy for the widower left behind. Helen had done all she could to scare the fools away. The women might be stupid, but they didn’t deserve the nightmare of living with Judson Potter behind closed doors. No female did.

Thankfully, her father enjoyed the attention from his admirers too much to settle on just one lady. And since he had Helen to work his frustrations out on at home, he kept the ruse up for nearly two years before he had the decency to drink himself blind, tumble headfirst off his horse, and break his neck.

This fella didn’t have the look of a charmer, at least not from what she could tell by the side of his face not planted in the dirt. A day’s growth of whiskers darkened his jaw, his clothes were practical rather than fancy, and his left stocking had a hole on the side of the heel. Helen’s gaze traveled back up to his head. His hair was longish, overlapping his collar, as if he couldn’t spare the time for a trim, but his mustache was impeccable. Thick, brown, and long enough to hide the top line of his upper lip, yet well-groomed and tidy.

Helen smirked. “Found yer vanity, didn’t I?” Somehow that made him less formidable, knowing he had a weakness. Besides the hole in his leg, of course.

Which she really needed to do something about.

Unfortunately, grabbing his feet and dragging his carcass the last ten feet to her cabin door was probably not the best option. He looked far too heavy, and yanking on that bad leg would do him no favors. She might not want to help him, but now that she’d been assigned the task, she wasn’t about to sabotage her results.

Helen glanced up the path to the line cabin and frowned at the closed door. Transporting an unconscious stranger was going to be hard enough without having to deal with a latched door. She pushed to her feet, jogged over to the cabin, and opened the door. Worried the wind would blow it closed before she returned, she grabbed the one chair the small room boasted and propped the door open.

She hurried back to the fallen man and hunkered down by his head. “All right, Mr. Mustache, you have to wake up enough to help me move you.” She squeezed her arms beneath his right shoulder and lifted. “It ain’t far,” she grunted, barely managing to roll his torso a few inches off the ground. Heavens, he was heavy. “Just a few steps. Then you can pass out again. I promise.”

His head jostled as she struggled to roll him. Another groan, louder this time, rumbled from beneath that bushy brown caterpillar on his lip, and his eyes cracked open.

Helen nearly dropped him, not expecting such vivid green eyes on a man with dark coloring. His gaze was glassy and unfocused, but any consciousness was better than no consciousness, so Helen doubled her efforts, determined to take advantage of whatever awareness she could wrest from him.

“Wake up, mister. I can’t get you to the cabin on my own. I need your help.” She spoke right next to his ear, her head bent close to his as she searched for the right leverage. “Come on. Help me!”

“Rachel?” he croaked. His body stiffened as he raised his head to look at her. His cloudy gaze meshed with hers for a breath-stealing instant, then something snapped inside him. He started thrashing, desperate to get up.

“Easy, now,” Helen warned. “You’re hurt.” She wanted him to get up, but she didn’t want him to kill himself in the process.

The stranger only clenched his jaw and continued his ungainly rise. He was half dead, yet somehow, by sheer force of will, he crawled to his feet. He could bear no weight on his left leg. Helen tried to wrap an arm around his waist and duck under his left arm as a human crutch, but he pushed her away.

No, not away. He pushed her behind him. Planted himself in front of her like some kind of crazed guardian.

“Don’t worry, sis. I won’t let Pa hurt you. Go hide where I showed you. Everything will be all right.”

Helen froze, her heart pumping a frantic rhythm. He thought she was his sister, and he was protecting her. Despite what must be excruciating pain, he stood in her defense.

How many times had she dreamed of a strong older brother to stand between her and her father?

But he wasn’t her brother. He was a stranger, out of his head from fever and loss of blood. He wouldn’t be able to stay on his feet long. She had to get him to the cabin.

“I’m safe,” she murmured in an attempt to calm him. “You’re the one hurt. Let me help you.”

He shooed away her hands. “He might come back. You need to hide where I showed you. Pa won’t find you there. I’ll make sure of it.”

By putting himself in harm’s way and taking the beating himself. She knew. Hadn’t she done that herself when her mother had grown too weak to withstand her father’s “discipline”?

Ma had done her best to shield Helen when she’d been a child, but over time, she grew too tired and worn out to divert her husband. Helen had been twelve when she took over the role of protector, trying to spare her mother the brunt of her father’s wrath. In the end, he’d still killed her. A person could only be broken so many times before they lost the ability to mend.

“Pa’s gone,” she said, playing along with the man’s delusion. She locked her arm around his waist and wedged herself beneath his left shoulder. “You can protect me when he gets back. If you can stand, which you won’t be able to do unless we get to the house and tend that leg.”

His brows peaked in confusion. “You’re sure he’s gone?”

Helen nodded. “I’m sure. Now let’s get you to the house.” She took a step toward the line shack. Then another. He hissed in pain, but limped along beside her.

“One more year, Rach,” he said, his words slurring slightly and his weight growing heavier as they reached the door she’d propped open.

Helen trudged forward, afraid they wouldn’t make it to the narrow bed inside if they slowed.

“Grayson said he’d hire me as soon as I turn sixteen. We’ll leave that very day and never come back here again. I swear it.”

Thank heavens the room was small and sparse. Just a chair, the bed, and a rickety table by the stove in the far corner. Nothing to trip over or climb around. Three strides, and she’d have him to the bed.