“You said in your letter,” his voice was husky, “you said that Terrel was involved with the PFLS.”
“I, Terrel . . .” She bowed her head. “I, yes. He … helped.”
“Money?”
“A little. He didn’t like the Rankans”-her voice got softer-“but he wasn’t really involved, not in a … he didn’t deserve . . .” but it was too much and she could say no more.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Neither of us like Rankans. Mother al- ways said they killed our father. He wore this.”-he touched his war- braid-“my father did.”
“Cade.” She dared to look up, but couldn’t meet his steady gaze. “Terrel, he-” She stopped. Could you talk of love to such a man?
Cade stood up. “I will get my things. You have a room for me?” She just nodded. “Good. Sarah, we will talk later. I am here. I cannot take away what has happened, but I am here. You need never fear.” With that he was gone. She sat there staring at the goblet. She should get up, show him the room, the room she had prepared, prepared months ago, but he would find it, know it was for him.
The dim light from the window glinted off the enamel overlay of the goblet. He was . . . Terrel had never said much about Cade, not Cade as a man. He was full of stories of their childhood, of the slow decline into poverty, of the family holding itself together fiercely, as all around them melted into the grayness of despair. Terrel had said that Cade was the stronger. A fighter. Nothing could beat Cade.
But who was this man, this man with his weapons and armor clanking about him, his ridiculous warbraid-who wore those anymore? She knew so little of him. Terrel had said he was some sort of warrior, but rich. She knew that. He had set Terrel up in business, bought this house. Money, yes, but … a shiver caught her by surprise.