The Immortelles by Gilbert Morris

this moment all of her life. She would remember that she had cheapened herself to a man who had pulled away from her. A flash of violent emotion coursed through her—the closest thing to hatred that she had ever felt. Something inside murmured that what he had done was right and she was wrong, but it was only a faint voice. And she writhed silently in shame.

Chapter six
    â€œDo you feel up to walking?”
    Damita rose and brushed the straw from her dress and hair. She had slept fitfully and found upon waking that she was still angry at Yancy Devereaux. The memory came flashing back, of how she had clung to him and how he had turned away from her, and it left a bitter taste in her mouth and in her spirit. “Yes,” she said in a steady voice. “I’m all right.”
    As Damita stood, Yancy handed her her coat and said, “You’d better wear this. It’s still damp, but it’ll cut the wind.” She took the coat and slipped into it. When they stepped outside, he glanced at the sky. “We’ll try this road. Surely we’ll find something.”
    â€œAll right.”
    Yancy started to speak, then, seeing the adamant look in her eyes, he said merely, “Let’s go. There are fresh wagon tracks along here. We ought to find a house somewhere.”
    Ten minutes later, they rounded a bend in the road, and Yancy said, “Look, there’s a place.”
    Damita followed his pointing finger and
saw a house built up on a slight hill. Smoke was rising from the chimney, and she felt a wave of relief. “Someone is there,” she said.
    â€œYes. Come on.”
    The house they approached was two-storied, unpainted, and weathered to a silver gray. A pasture lay beyond it, with several cows and two horses. A large, whitish dog arose from the porch and slowly approached with his head down, baring his teeth. “It’s all right, boy,” Yancy said.
    Even as he spoke, the door opened and a man stepped out. “Be quiet, Rex,” he said and looked the couple. He was a tall, lanky individual wearing overalls and a gray sweater. His hair was tousled, black and gray, and his skin was tan and leathery-looking. “Hello,” he said. “You folks lost?”
    Yancy answered, “We were on the ship Orestes. She went down last night.”
    â€œWent down? You mean sank?”
    â€œYes. Could you get us in out of the weather? The lady is exhausted.”
    â€œMy name’s Moore—Caleb Moore. Come on inside.” The man turned and opened the door, calling, “Esther!” A woman appeared in the doorway, and her eyes widened. She was wearing a white apron over a blue dress and seemed to be about the same age as her husband, somewhere in her fifties. “My stars! What in the world?”
    â€œThese folks were in a shipwreck.”
    â€œCome on in. It’s a wonder you’re not frozen.”
    Damita walked inside the large kitchen, and a stove that threw off waves of heat drew her immediately. She walked over to it, held her hands out, and then, inexplicably, began to tremble again.
    â€œHere, you can’t wear those wet clothes. Come along with me. What’s your name?”
    â€œDamita Madariaga.”
    â€œMiss Madariaga, you come along to my bedroom. My clothes won’t fit you very well, but you can get dried out. Caleb, you get this man some of your dry clothes.”
    â€œSure.” Caleb Moore stepped into a bedroom and came out with an armload of underwear, socks, shirts, and a pair of pants. “You can wear these. What’d you say your name was?”
    â€œYancy Devereaux.” The men shook hands, then Yancy slipped off his damp, dirty clothes and into the clean ones his host offered. The older man pulled a sweater from the back of a chair and held it out. “You might want this for a time.”
    â€œThanks, Mr. Moore.”
    â€œCaleb’s all right. I’d better get out there and see if