Halfway Home, page 15
For a long moment, they stared at each other. Sara regretted her sharp words the moment they left her tongue. That dratted temper of hers. One of these days she really was going to have to do something about it. “Jericho, I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“Come here Sara.”
Still clutching her nightclothes, she took a step backward toward the changing screen.
“Sara. Please come here.” Jericho held out his left hand, wincing as he did so, for even so small a movement put a strain on the tender tissues of his back.
Warily, she moved to stand beside the bed. No matter how disgruntled he was, she told herself, he could hardly take out his rotten disposition on her. Physically, he lacked the strength.
And then he took her hand in his, studied it for just a moment, and carried it up to his lips. When Sara felt his lips touch her skin, her heart turned completely over in her breast.
She felt the heat rise to her face and knew she must appear a perfect dunce. She had no experience at all with this sort of thing. Archibald didn’t count, because Archibald had never ever made her feel all wispy and tingly. Jericho made her feel wispy and tingly with a single touch, which was strange indeed, because she had known Archibald for years. Jericho was still a stranger.
And then she felt his tongue stroke her palm. Her eyes widened. Her breath caught in her throat, and she stared down at him. “Why did you do that?” she whispered.
Was that sheer devilment glittering in his eyes, or was he coming down with a fever?
“Jericho, are you sure you don’t need a dose of something?”
He dropped her hand. His eyes closed, and she wondered if she had only imagined those strange lights that had danced’ there for a moment. His lashes, which were longer than hers, resembled tiny black lace fans against his pale, angular cheekbones.
“Go to sleep, Sara,” he said tiredly.
Which made it all the more ironic that hours later, she was still awake, going over in her mind everything that had passed between them since she had first laid eyes on this remarkable, enigmatic man.
Chapter Twelve
From inside the hotel came the usual night noises. The clink of bottles, the sound of jeers and curses, frequent explosions of laughter. There was the occasional sound of a shrill voice from one wing or another as a female of the more respectable class upbraided her unfortunate spouse.
Rafe preferred to remain outside. The wind blew in from the east, bringing a hint of salt and some relief from the peat fires. In the distance he heard a dog bark. Heard the soft call of an owl on the hunt and the scream of its prey a moment later. From the direction of the livery stable came intermittent stomps and whiffles as a dozen or so horses settled down in the strange environment.
Smithers’s horse. Had anyone thought to pay the tab and send the poor beast home?
Rafael Turbyfill, one booted foot propped on the porch railing, drew on his cigar, blew a stream of smoke into the darkness, and pondered the strange position in which he presently found himself.
Rarely in his nearly thirty-nine years had he felt the pinch of conscience. Never to this extent. Seldom had he felt it at all, for since the death of his bride nearly twenty years ago after only three months of marriage, he had lived a purely hedonistic life, free of all constraints.
And now this. Damn all, it wasn’t even as if he’d liked the boy! Smithers had been just one more face, albeit prettier than the average, that had made up the scenery for so long. Stoddard, Mayberry—Hilliard, Jamison, and that crowd. Good fellows all, who came and enjoyed his hospitality for a day or a week or a month, bringing friends who in turn returned and brought their own set of friends.
Of which Titus Smithers was one. Ye gods, he knew more about the poor bastard dead than he ever had alive.
Rafe was aware of the fact that over the years his own reputation as a freewheeling, hell-raising host with a damned fine cellar had spread widely throughout the area. But what the devil, he had nothing better to do with his time. The farm ran itself. His overseer was far too efficient to need his help, and as Rafe had no real need to do otherwise, he had gradually fallen into a pattern of gambling, drinking and wenching. He told himself, when he thought about it at all, that it was a harmless enough way of life. A man needed friends. The married friends needed the occasional respite from their families. If he had bothered to think about it at all, he would have said he served the purpose of allowing his friends a safe place to throw off their shackles before putting their noses back to the grindstone.
As for Smithers, he doubted if he had spoken to the boy more than a dozen times at the most.
And then the fool—the shabby bastard—had gone and committed a heinous crime against an innocent young woman that had resulted in the loss of three lives, including his own.
Damned near four. Rico wasn’t out of the woods yet.
Rafe swore at his own stupidity. God, how could he have been so criminally careless as to allow himself to be a party to something like that?
Not that he had known or even suspected. Smithers had mentioned meeting a woman in the neighborhood, which, if Rafe had thought about it, could only have been Louisa. Little pudding-faced Weezie, whom he had teased unmercifully as a child and ignored from then on. Rafe rarely even saw the girl, for all she lived only a couple of miles away. She had always been painfully shy. Then, too, he had never been one to waste his time on respectable females.
Leastwise, not for more than twenty years.
So he had gone on risking a small fortune every night on the turn of a card. Gone on betting on the dogs and the horses. Gone on drinking himself into an early grave, which would be no great loss to anyone, as he himself would be the first to admit.
And then Jericho had come home the first time, wanting to meet the young man his sister was walking out with before he went back to his ship. By the time he returned, the damage was already done.
“I owe him,” Rafe said softly around the stump of his cigar.
Only there was no way in hell he could ever replace what had been lost. No way. Weezie was gone. How old had she been? He didn’t quite recall, but his own sister would have been about the same age.
God, he’d almost forgotten he’d ever had a sister. Emma had died at the age of seven, along with his parents, of the smallpox. Since then he had done without family. Who needed family when he had a thriving farm, plenty of friends and a good, reliable staff? It was a hell of a lot more than Rico had.
Although Rico had Sara. He could envy the man Sara if he didn’t feel so damned sorry for him. And so guilty.
Crushing the tip of his cigar on his boot sole, Rafe tossed it out into the darkness. He swore and forked his fingers through the thick, iron-gray hair that was one of his few real vanities. There was one thing he could do for his friend. It wouldn’t make up for the loss of a sister, but it might steer him away from the ruinous path Rafe himself had chosen to follow.
A bachelor’s life, while it had much to commend it, was far from perfect. There came a time when a man grew bored with gambling. When his gut couldn’t tolerate much more drinking. When his manhood refused to take any interest in a well-turned ankle, a playfully lifted petticoat, or one more plump, rouged breast.
At this rate, he thought ruefully, he might even be forced to spent the rest of his days holed up in his library, reading worthy tomes and writing snide letters to the editor of the News and Intelligencer.
If that was to be his role, so be it. He had earned it. But Jericho deserved better, and Rafe was going to see that he damned well got it.
And as it turned out, fate had played right into his hands.
Ivadelle Moyer. Now there was a piece of work, he mused.
* * *
Oh, for mercy’s sake, didn’t anyone care that there was a desperately ill man in room number three? How was a body supposed to rest with all this going and coming? Here it was the middle of the night, when decent folks were abed, and boats were still pulling up to the landing, the passengers insisting on being serviced.
Sara sat up in the trundle and shivered. The fire had burned down, and she hadn’t bothered to stir it up. She’d always preferred sleeping under a mound of covers with a window cracked open, even in the dead of winter.
Jericho was staring up at the ceiling, which wasn’t too surprising. He’d been increasingly restless lately. It was getting to be a problem, just keeping him in bed.
“Sara? Are you awake?”
“Shhh, go to sleep.”
“I need to get up for a minute.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Whatever needs doing, I can do it for you. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Sara. I need to get up,” he repeated, and it dawned on her what he meant.
“Oh,” she said, and scrambled out of bed. The chamber pot was behind the screen. Usually, Rafe helped with the more personal side of nursing.
But before she could fetch the pot and leave the room, Jericho swung his feet off the bed and tried to stand. Scolding under her breath, Sara lunged to catch him and was barely in time to keep him from falling. He staggered, and they might both have fallen in a heap on the floor if she hadn’t managed to support him until he could grab a bedpost.
“Stubborn man,” she muttered.
“Bossy female,” he growled.
“You need Miss County. She would put you in your place and keep you there if she had to sit on you.”
Panting with exhaustion, Jericho looked up at her through the unruly shock of dark hair that was forever falling over his brow. “You have my permission to try it, madam, but take my advice—wait until after I’ve used the necessary.”
Sara gasped at his plain speaking. “Well, I never!”
“Then I reckon it’s about time you did. I’ll go with you.”
He tried to get up again, and Sara placed both hands on his shoulders. “If you’ll just wait until I get my clothes on, I’ll fetch Rafe and he can help you.”
If he weren’t in so much pain—if his bladder weren’t fit to burst, Jericho might even have laughed at the thought of this small, determined woman marching into the taproom and dragging poor Tubby out by his ear.
Not that Rafe wouldn’t be willing. Those two seemed to have gotten real chummy these past few days.
Darling!
To Jericho’s way of thinking, the best thing for all concerned would be to get himself and his wife back home, and send Turbyfill on his way. “I don’t need Rafe,” he said shortly. “And neither, I might add, do you.”
“Well, you might not think so, but if it hadn’t been for Rafe, I wouldn’t even know where you were, or if you were even still alive. If it hadn’t been for Rafe—”
“All right, all right, he’s a bleeding saint. Are we all agreed on that point? Now then, damn it, come back here!”
Which made Sara lift her head, jut her chin and back out of reach like a wounded wild animal, wary of being caught.
Which made Jericho feel like dirt. Blast it all, whether he wanted her or not, the woman was his wife! He would never hurt her.
Taking care to keep any hint of impatience from his voice, he said, “Sara, lend me your shoulder. With or without you, I’m going out that back door. And while I’m at it, I might even stay outside long enough to smoke a cigar.”
“Over my dead body,” she vowed.
“That can be arranged,” he shot back, and could have cut out his tongue when he saw the stricken look on her face.
Smithers had been her brother, after all. He kept forgetting that. And he, Jericho had murdered him, never mind that the rat had deserved to die. “Sara, I’m truly sorry. I’m in a foul mood, but there’s no call to take it out on you. If you don’t mind stepping out to the front desk and asking the clerk to round up Rafe, I’d appreciate it.”
“Are you in much pain?” She narrowed her eyes as if suspecting him of a trick.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m in considerable pain.”
“Do you want some laudanum?”
Jericho sighed sharply and gazed up at the ceiling, which had not been repaired since the drunk had shot a hole in it. “No, ma’am, I don’t want any more painkiller. What I want is a place to relieve myself, and if you don’t quit yammering and help me outside, I might just embarrass the hell out of both of us by committing infancy in my blasted bedclothes!”
What could she do? The man was stubborn as a three-legged mule. “Can you take time to put on your boots?”
“Depends on how big a gambler you are.”
Sara moved hastily to his side and lowered her shoulder, edging it under his good arm. “It’s cold outside, but I reckon if you were going to take a fever, you’d have done it before now. I only hope your feet are as hard as your head.”
“If they’re half as hard as your heart, darling, I won’t feel a thing.”
“Wretch,” she said with just a hint of a reluctant smile.
“Wife,” he shot back, as if to say tit for tat.
She led him to the door of the gentlemen’s facility and slipped into the women’s room. Bodily functions presented a real problem when one was confined in a small space with a person of the opposite gender. Even when that person was one’s spouse. Bathing and dressing behind a folding screen was one thing.
Other things were . . .
Well. Other things.
He was waiting for her when she went back outside, leaning against the rough plank building, arms crossed over his massive chest. Even in the long knit underwear he slept in because a nightshirt would be impossible to deal with when it came to dressing his shoulder, he looked strikingly masculine. She had thought at first it was only because he was so tall, and he always dressed entirely in black—and his skin was dark, and his hair and his eyes. And he had that way of walking that drew one’s attention to the width of his shoulders and the length of his muscular limbs. But that wasn’t it at all. Even in his underwear, he was spectacular.
Especially in his underwear.
Oh, my merciful saints alive. “I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the light from the sliver of a moon. Wisps of ground-fog drifted up from the warmer waters of the canal to swirl about their nightclothes. “It’s damp out here,” she said. “I’d better get you inside before you—”
“Sara.”
She paused in the act of positioning herself under his arm. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, you don’t have to thank me. I had to go—that is, anyone would have—”
And then, Jericho started to chuckle.
And then Sara did, too.
And then, there they stood, the two of them, out beside the necessary under a silvery quarter moon, hanging onto one another and laughing fit to wake the dead.
Oh, my, she did like the clean, musky scent of his body. Liked the feel of his arms around her and the strength of his long, lean body hovering over her so protectively, when if the truth be known, she was the one who was supposed to protect him.
All the same, she stole a moment to huddle in the sheltering warmth of his arms before turning to slide her shoulder under his arm, her own arm around his taut, narrow waist.
The man is an invalid, Sara! You ought to be ashamed of what you were thinking!
Rafe was waiting outside the door when they got back to their room. “Where the devil have you two been? I came by to see that you were secured for the night, and you were gone.”
Scowling, Rafe edged Sara away and took her place at Jericho’s side, helping him into the bedroom. She discovered, somewhat to her surprise, that she wanted it back. That she liked being able to hold her husband on any pretext at all.
Which just went to show that not even the most sensible of women were proof against the temptations of the flesh.
“Rico, I checked with the livery a few minutes ago, and the boy says Smithers’s horse is running up a tab of three dollars a day.”
“Blue?” Sara whispered. “Blue is here?”
Both men stared at her. Rafe had lowered Jericho to sit on the side of the bed. “That’s the name of the gelding. Of course, you’d know about Smithers’s horse.”
“Blue was my father’s horse,” she explained. “Titus took him over after Papa died.”
Rafe looked from one to the other, and then he shook his head. “I’d almost forgot about that. You know, I can’t figure out which one of you two is the craziest. Are you sure you want to stay married? I could track down that joiner and see if he wouldn’t untie the knot. It ain’t like you’d had time to do anything about it.” He lifted a nicely arched brow. “Or is it?” he drawled.
If Jericho looked embarrassed, Sara looked ready to sink through the floor. “Titus was not my real brother, he was only my stepbrother,” she said stiffly.
Rafe’s eyes, which were the exact color of wild chicory, were impossible to read. Sara suspected he was teasing, but she couldn’t be sure. “Did you ever stop to think what you’re going to tell your young’uns if they start asking why they don’t have any aunts and uncles?”
Jericho shrugged, and then winced as his shoulder muscles protested. Sara was busy picturing a miniature Jericho: dark, defiant and too daring for his own good. Or a little girl . . . they could call her Louisa.
“You didn’t think about that, did you? Took one look at Sara’s big brown eyes and forgot everything else.”
“You were there when it happened, damn it! Why didn’t you stop me then, if you thought it was so all-fired important?”
“When I rode up, the deed was already done. Smithers was off sharpening his knife, the joiner was cramming his Bible in his hip pocket, and you were stowing your bride aboard the Albemarle.”
He was teasing. Sara was almost sure he’d been teasing all along. All the same, if Jericho truly felt that way about it—about their marriage—then what chance did they have to make a future together? Or had he even thought about the future?
