Halfway Home, page 18
She shook his arm again. “Hush! I’m not finished with you yet. That sweet girl who was taking breakfast with you this morning is only a poor, helpless vessel—”
A poor helpless vessel?
“—For your lust, but the Good Book teaches that any man who lifts a hand against his wife will surely burn in—”
Jericho didn’t linger to learn the fate of such a man. Jerking his sleeve from his assailant’s determined grip, he hightailed it to the howl, slammed the door shut and breathed a sigh of relief just as a pigtailed seaman came sailing through the bat-wing doors of the barroom.
God Almighty, what a place, he thought wonderingly. Drunken seamen, evangelizing females, runaway lovers, and men who met at dawn for the sole purpose of ventilating one another with knife or pistol.
The sooner he got her away from here, the better.
Sara was sleeping soundly, her color fully restored, when he let himself quietly into their bedroom. For several minutes he stood watching her, trying to think of the best course to take. Should he send her on ahead on the packet, or escort her home himself? This was no place for any woman, especially not a woman as prone to trouble as his Sara was.
His Sara . . .
He heard the steam whistle again. She was no more than half a mile away by now. With a whispered oath, Jericho let himself out as silently as he had let himself in. How could he chart a sensible course with Sara lying there in the bed, her lips parted, her small hands tucked up under her chin? She was a bloody lodestone, was what she was!
But this was no place for a lady, that much he did know, what with crooks from Carolina laying about in the Virginia wing, and crooks from Virginia holed up in the Carolina wing. And Sara, whatever else she might be, was a lady.
His lady. That, too, needed considerable pondering. Now that he had recovered to the point where a few shots of brandy and a little caution in the way he moved were all he required, maybe he’d better rethink this whole marriage business before it was too late. Sara needed a husband, all right, but did he need a wife?
Lost in thought, Jericho sauntered outside. Three cardplayers on the wide veranda lifted a hand to hail him and thought better of it. Two men knelt in a patch of sunshine and rolled dice. One glanced up at him, started to say something, and then looked away.
Jericho saw none of them. Leaning against a giant black gum tree that hung out over the canal, he gazed up at a hovering fish hawk and made an effort to assemble his reasons for marrying Sara Young. Reason number one being that he had spent what he’d thought at the time might well be his last night on earth in her bed, and thus had been responsible for ruining her reputation.
Another reason was that he had failed to protect his own sister, and his conscience had been hurting something fierce.
Then, too, he had told himself that even if he survived his meeting with Smithers, he would eventually go to sea again. Wilde Oaks needed a mistress, if not a master.
He’d had good reasons for marrying, he told himself now, but one thing he was certain of—he hadn’t married Sara because he needed her.
The hawk plunged and came up shaking its feathers, a fish gripped fatally in its talons. Some creatures died so that others could live. It happened. As it turned out, he himself had lived.
But then, the damnedest thing had happened. While he’d been lying abed, sore, weak and mad as hell at life in general, he had started thinking of all the things he would miss if he died at the age of thirty-two.
The puzzling thing was that he hadn’t thought of all the ports he had yet to visit, all the seas he had yet to sail—he had thought about Wilde Oaks. His home. The place where he’d lived out his boyhood, seeing the greening fields year after year without even noticing them. Seeing the tobacco turn gold in the autumn, the seagulls following the plow each spring as acres of dark, fertile land were turned.
He’d thought about stories he had heard as a boy from an old black man named Moses, who had lived on the farm forever. Tales about old Chief Okisko, and how Moses and Jericho’s grandfather had hunted bear in the swamp and run a trotline for giant cooters.
He had thought about all the times he and Tubby had hidden from Louisa by climbing the pecan trees, and how old Vinegar used to fuss at him, telling him he was going to break his bony head, because pecan trees were too brittle for climbing.
Surprisingly, he had not thought once of all the women in the world, waiting to be discovered, to be dallied with, to be pursued and pleasured.
Instead, he had thought of Sara.
*
They ended up taking the shay, partly because they missed the packet, but mainly because Rafe told Jericho he wasn’t up to driving, and naturally, Jericho had to prove that he was. Both Rafe and Sara had argued with him, but in the end, Rafe had agreed to ride Jericho’s gelding to Wilde Oaks, where he would wait for them. If they weren’t home by dark, he would head north to meet them.
Even Sara knew the ride would likely take longer than that, what with the roads in the condition they were in. If the farmers and the drummers and that rackety old stage racing daily between Norfolk and Elizabeth City weren’t enough to wear it out, there was the constant flow of heavily laden log wagons and shingle carts coming out of the swamp, churning up the road so that it was little better than a mud hole in some places.
Rafe didn’t care much for Bones, who tried to bite him. Bones cared even less for Rafe. “Should’ve thought to warn you,” Jericho said with a grin. “He’s not real partial to the smell of Bay Rum.”
Rafe scowled, but got the beast under control and walked him out onto the road. Sara and Jericho watched the ill-suited pair out of sight, then prepared to set off on their more leisurely journey. All signs of Sara’s distress had faded. After her unscheduled nap, she was feeling better than she had in days.
Their first argument came when she seated herself and started to take up the reins.
“Madam, I do my own driving.”
“That may be true when you’re fit to drive, but you’re not, and we both know it. Jericho, for once in your life, be sensible.”
“Damn it, Sara, for once in your life, you be sensible! A woman in your condition has no business driving. It puts a strain on the, uh—on your—”
“My shoulders? They’re in better shape than yours, might I remind you? If I can manage old Blossom pulling a rickety farm cart, I can certainly handle a nice little one-horse-chaise.”
Jericho drove. Sara fumed. Her belly had settled, thanks to the gingerroot he had found for her to chew on, but at this rate, he would have her so riled up she would need a peck of the stuff before they got home.
They had hardly gone more than a mile or two when Sara’s eyes began to burn. “Is it my imagination, or is the smoke getting worse?”
Jericho concentrated on passing a shanty where children, pigs, chickens, and dogs spilled across the road. “Look over to the southwest. Those aren’t rain clouds.”
“Fire?” she whispered.
“Looks to be just this side of Lem’s horse camp.”
“Where is that? Do we go through it?”
“Near enough,” he said, and drove in grim silence for a while. Sara decided it was best to let him concentrate. She could patch up any damage he did to his shoulder once they were safely home.
The smoke got worse. It was increasingly hard to see. “Hang on, Sara,” Jericho yelled over the clatter of hooves on cypress logs. “I’m going to see if we can’t get past before it reaches the road.”
And hang on she did. With both hands—one on the side rail, the other on Jericho’s hard thigh. If it bothered him, he didn’t let on. He drove like a madman, his face taut, his dark clothing gray with ash. Sara felt sorry for Rafe’s little mare, who couldn’t be accustomed to such a pace, but as the smoke grew ever more dense and fly ash began to settle all around them, she forgot the mare and began to worry about Jericho. His wound had healed over, but it couldn’t take too much punishment.
“Maybe we should turn back,” she yelled over the rattle of wheels bumping over a rough section of corduroy.
“Too late,” he cried grimly.
Holding her hat on with one hand, she twisted around and stared. “Oh, my merciful saints alive,” she breathed. Fire had sprung up in several places behind them. Not raging forest fires, for along this section of the swamp, most of the woods consisted of wet-footed trees. Swamp juniper, gum and cypress. The scraggling acres of cleared land had long since been harvested, so there was little fuel there.
Sara knew about the swamp fires, about the layers of peat that had built up for thousands of years—perhaps millions—since a time when the very road they traveled now had been ocean beach. About the dry cycles when lightning could set off fires that burned underground for years, now and then springing up aboveground to burn a few acres of forest . . . or more.
They passed two farm carts, loaded with children and sacks of grain. Jericho called out to the driver of the hindmost cart to ask if the fire had reached the road yet.
“She’s sprung up fresh ‘bout a mile off to the west. There’s a clearing ‘twixt the fire and the canal, so the road’ll be jest fine, long as some fool don’t strangulate on smoke and block the way.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice, and without even looking over his shoulder, yelled, “Set down, younguns, or I’ll feed ye to the hogs!”
Half a mile farther south, Jericho stopped and jumped down. While Sara rubbed her tender, battered behind, he dipped a handkerchief into the black water at the edge of the road and wrung it out. He handed it to Sara, then removed his coat, swagged it through the ditch, and swung back up into the shay.
“Cover your head with this if it gets any worse,” he said, and handed her the sodden garment, which stunk of mud and smoke and worse.
It was deliciously cool to her touch. She hadn’t realized how much the temperature had risen. “What about you?”
“I’ve been through worse.”
She didn’t doubt it, but they had both started to cough, and she couldn’t help but notice the way he grimaced whenever he did. As if it hurt him.
Getting up onto her knees, she wrapped her arms around him to keep from being thrown out and tied the handkerchief over his mouth and nose. He tried to brush her hands away from his face, but controlling the skittish mare was taking all his attention.
He muttered a muffled thanks.
At least, she thought that was what he had said. For all she knew, he could be directing her to fry in hell. From the looks of the spark-laden smoke, they might both be on their way there.
The farmer had been right—the road was untouched. She recognized a certain lightning-struck tree, a massive black gum with roots arching high above the black swamp water from her recent journey north, and knew they were not very far from Wilde Oaks. Another few miles—
And then suddenly everything seemed to happen at once. Sparks were flying all around. A burning brand drifted down onto the mare’s hindquarters, and she screamed and rose up on her hind legs. The shay tilted, and Jericho reached out with one hand to grab Sara just as she went sailing over the side.
The fireworks continued, only now her face was wet and she couldn’t breathe and her head was splitting apart.
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” The words seemed to echo in some vast, dark brown cavern, repeated over and over in a hoarse, but entirely reverent tone.
Had she fallen asleep in church and woken up suddenly?
But why was she so wet? Why was her head hurting so she could hardly bear it? Why did someone keep praying over her, as if she were laid out in a coffin with a lily in her hands?
Chapter Fifteen
“Is she dead?”
Sara recognized that voice. She tried to lift her head and glare at the speaker, but it hurt too much. Something was pressing into her belly. Something or someone was jostling her so that her arms were flopping, swinging, brushing against something cold, wet and hard. She slitted one eye open and saw in the flickering lantern light a pair of dangling hands—her own; boot heels—definitely not her own—and the familiar wooden steps that led up onto the veranda at Wilde Oaks.
How strange . . .
“What happened?” the voice persisted.
“Hester!” someone shouted. “Get out here, fast!”
She knew that voice, too. It was Jericho’s voice, coming from somewhere above where she dangled. Only why was he shouting when her head was about to fall off?
“Is she dead?” the first voice repeated. “What happened?”
“Who the devil are you? Where’s Hester?”
“Right here, right here—oh my blessed Lord in heaven, what’ve you gone and done to her? Is she hurt bad? Is she—?”
“No, damn it, she’s not dead, but she might well end up that way if you’re going to stand around gawking all night!”
Well. She wasn’t dead, then.
“Help me get her down.”
Down from where? Heaven? If this was heaven, then the other place must be awful, indeed.
Hands tugged at her from all sides, grabbing her by the waist, by the hips. She smelled a whiff of spicy, lemony scent—her own, which she was most definitely not wearing as she hadn’t even thought to take it with her when she’d gone racing off to care for Jericho.
“What’s wrong with her? Captain Wilde? No, wait—let me spread something over the sofa before you set her down, else she’ll ruin the cover with all that mud.”
Jericho swore. Hester Renegar made that noise with her teeth and tongue that meant she was disgusted. Sara opened her eyes.
She was wet, cold and horizontal. Finally. And ruining the sofa. Dimly aware of the two women hovering over her, she looked wildly around for Jericho. Don’t leave me, she wanted to cry. Oh, please, whatever you do don’t ever leave me!
He was standing behind the sofa, pale as a sun-bleached bedsheet, his left hand rubbing his right shoulder.
“You’re hurting, aren’t you? There, I told you you should’ve let me drive.” She hadn’t meant to fuss at him, truly she hadn’t. For some reason, she didn’t seem to have a speck of control over her thoughts, much less her tongue.
“Oh, Miss Sara, hush now, don’t try to talk,” Hester scolded.
“I’d better get some shears and cut off her hair,” said Ivadelle Moyer.
At which Sara blinked the mud from her eyes and said the first thing that popped into her head. “Are you still here?”
“Who the hell is this woman? Hester, where’s Tubby? Someone’s got to go for Doc Withers.”
“Shhh, he’s already gone. Left out of here not more’n an hour ago, said if you was this late, likely you’d had trouble with that arm of yours, what with the fire and all.” The old woman’s face puckered up. “Only it weren’t your arm at all, it was Miss Sara, poor lamb. Is she burned anywhere?”
Sara really thought someone should show more concern for Jericho. After all, he had got her home, hadn’t he? The last thing she remembered was sailing over the side of the shay, feeling her head strike something hard, and then seeing a shower of fireworks. After that, all she could remember was flopping around like a sack of meal.
With her eyes closed, Sara did her best to reconstruct what had happened, but it was hard to think when her head hurt like the very devil. “At least you had the good sense not to strain your shoulder,” she whispered, not even knowing if he was still there.
“Sense enough not to risk dropping you on your backside, you mean,” Jericho growled, carefully arranging a crocheted spread over her wet body. Turning to the housekeeper, he said, “She’s not burned, not so far’s I know.”
Sara opened her eyes in time to see his hand hovering over her head. She flinched. “Don’t touch it! Is it—broken?”
“We’ll find out as soon as Doc gets here. Shhh, now . . . don’t try to talk. You’ve got a knot on your noggin big as a dipping gourd, but I don’t think you busted anything.”
Hester was there with a damp cloth, wiping and blotting, making tsking noises again. Ivadelle kept going on about cutting off her hair and how awful she looked, but Sara was hurting too much to care.
And then a banty rooster of a man wearing a rusty black suit and pinch-nose spectacles burst into the room, shooing everyone away, and she could hear Rafe in the background talking to Jericho. With a sigh, Sara sank into blessed oblivion.
*
The sun was shining brightly through a crack in the draperies when Jericho opened his eyes. He ached in every inch of his body from having slept in a chair. Or possibly from leaping out of the shay, diving into the swamp after his wife and then carrying her over his shoulder the last few miles. The shay had been hopelessly mired, one wheel hiked up off the road, the other bent and buried. He had cut loose Rafe’s mare and the poor creature had gone flying off down the road before he could lay a hand on her, otherwise he might have carried Sara home that way. It would have been a hell of a lot easier on both of them than the way he’d been forced to carry her, slung like a croker sack over his good shoulder with one steadying hand on her backside to keep her aboard.
At the time, all he’d been able to think of was that she might die, and if she did, he didn’t think he could bear it.
Or that she might well lose her baby, which didn’t bother him near as much, but all the same, he wouldn’t wish that sadness on any woman. It reminded him too painfully of what had happened to Louisa.
Instead, he had discovered that the woman he had lusted for, the woman who had muddled his thinking ever since he’d looked up and seen her through the hotel window, had made a fool of him.
An even bigger fool than he had made of himself.
Not that he would ever Jet her know that he’d been all ready to give up the sea for her by the time Doc Withers had let slip her secret. Ready to give up the one thing he loved most in the world for something he had come to love even more.
The thought slipped into his mind before he could guard against it, and he swore. Love Sara?
