Halfway Home, page 19
Like hell he did!
*
Sara moaned. Without opening her eyes she was aware of the brilliant sliver of light that fell across her face. Inch by inch, her fingers explored their immediate surroundings. These weren’t the coarse hotel linens. Nor the thin hotel mattress. That wasn’t the raucous sound of drinkers and gamesters she was hearing. The whining noise outside the window was oddly familiar, although at the moment she couldn’t quite place it.
Her head ached furiously, but at least she was dry. Which was a reminder of just how wet and miserable she had been only a short while ago. And how she had got that way.
Now she was dry and miserable.
She must have made some sound, because Jericho was there when she opened her eyes, almost as if he’d been waiting for her to wake up. She gazed up into his face. He looked gray. The lines that bracketed his wide mouth were deeper than ever, and that granite jaw of his was half covered with a dark stubble. “You look dreadful,” she rasped. “You haven’t been here all night, have you?”
“Hester cleaned you up and fussed over you for a spell. I stood the graveyard watch. Happen I fell asleep in the chair.”
Sara hadn’t the least notion of what a graveyard watch was, but she didn’t much care for the sound of it. Had they expected her to die, for mercy’s sake?
“It appears to me that you sat your watch, not stood it.”
The look he turned on her would have sent a lesser mortal scurrying for cover. Sara was made of sterner stuff. “Did your wound tear open again?”
“So you remember that, do you? What else do you remember, madam?”
Madam. Well. She didn’t much care for the sound of that, either. “I’m sorry to be such a bother. And sorry about the sofa, too—all the mud, I mean. You
should’ve let Ivadelle cover it before you set me down.”
And then the door opened and that woman bustled in bearing a tray. She was wearing the same light blue sateen trimmed in black gimp that Sara had once envied.
Now she envied her the fact that she was able to walk and smile instead of lying abed scarcely able to keep her head from falling apart like a broken teapot. “You’re still here, I see,” Sara said, which was hardly gracious, but then, the woman had no right to be so cheerful when both her host and hostess were in pain.
“It’s a good thing, too, what with you and the captain both ailing. Renegar can’t manage all these steps.” Turning to Jericho, her scowl disappeared and was replaced by a look of concern. “Are you feeling better, Captain Jericho? I did offer to sit up with Miss—with Sara, you’ll remember.”
Jericho grumbled something and rose stiffly to his feet. Sara eyed the tray, which held both a teacup and a glass of some milky liquid. She needed the laudanum, but would prefer the tea.
Her foot hurt. Why on earth would her foot hurt?
She struggled to sit up. Examining her surroundings for the first time, she thought, how odd. I seem to remember moving into a cubbyhole of a room at the back of the house before . . .
Ivadelle reached behind her and punched at the bolster until it was in the most miserable position possible, and then she stepped back and beamed at Jericho. “There, now, I do believe she’s looking better this morning, don’t you? Of course, she never did have any color, but at least that hideous lump on her head has gone down some. Doctor Withers says she’ll likely not even have much of a scar. Have you told her the news yet?”
Jericho snarled. There was no other way to describe the sound that began low in his chest and worked its way up past the thin barrier of his lips. Just like one of the big black bears that lived in the nearby swamp that Sara had heard about all her life, and even eaten, both stewed and roasted, but had never actually seen.
“I’ll see she takes her medicine. Tell Hester to make up something fit to eat. I’ll be down for it in a little while.”
Ivadelle brightened. Really, Sara thought, no woman who looked so pretty should be allowed in the sickroom of a woman who didn’t. A woman who never had and never would.
“Shall we say bacon, ham, fried potatoes, and scrambled eggs?”
“You can say whatever you damn well please, but bring me a bowl of burgoo.”
“What on earth is—”
“Gruel! Oatmeal or cornmeal—Hester’ll know what’s best.”
“Oh, but—”
“Scat! On your way, woman!” He clapped his hands, which made the hammers start up all over again in Sara’s head and made Ivadelle yelp like a scalded cat.
Which was almost worth the pain.
No sooner had Ivadelle scurried through the door than Rafe poked his head in, bringing with him an aura of peat smoke, Bay Rum and cigars. “Good morning, Miss Sara. Now why don’t you take off that colorful mask you’re wearing and give us a proper smile?”
At his cheerful teasing, Sara felt her eyes prickle. “Oh, Rafe, I’m so glad you’re still here.”
“Here again, darling, not still. Spent the night in my own bed, but I come right on over first thing. Not feeling so feisty this morning, are we?” He sauntered into the room, ignoring Jericho’s grim lack of welcome, and presented Sara with a big bouquet of hothouse roses that had to have come all the way from Norfolk by way of stage.
Burying her face in the flowers, which, had she but known it, clashed wildly with her black-and-blue forehead and her red-scraped cheek, Sara felt her eyes brim over and cursed her own weakness. “You’re not going to call me madam or threaten to cut off my hair, are you?”
“Cut off that bountiful glory? I should say not. And if I’m not to call you madam, and that husband of yours clouds up every time I call you darling, then we’ll have to think of something else. How about—Petunia? I once knew a man who called his woman Petunia. She called him Fart Blossom. Happiest couple in Currituck County.”
Sara giggled, even though it hurt something fierce. Her laughter broke off when she noticed Jericho’s reaction. Evidently he didn’t appreciate Rafe’s silly attempt to make her smile, for he’d gone all sour and solemn again. She was beginning to think that was his natural condition.
“You want to leave under your own steam, Turbyfill, or shall I help you out the window?”
“The door, by all means. I never was real partial to being thrown out second-floor windows.” He held up a placating hand and said, “I’ll see you directly, Sweetpea. Doc says you’re going to be just fine. Way I heard it, that belly ache you was suffering from yesterday must have been something you ate.”
“Is that all you heard?” Jericho pressed.
“Well, no . . . now that you mention it, I reckon between old Doc Withers and that yeller-haired female that’s running tame around here, I heard about all there was to hear. You got something you want to talk about, Rico? Like maybe you need some advice?”
Jericho’s eyes narrowed. He reminded Sara of a bull about to charge. She grabbed Rafe’s sleeve and whispered, “What? What did he say? Is there something wrong with me? Something you haven’t told me?”
“More like something you haven’t told Rico,” Rafe said gently, smoothing his sleeve. His eyes looked tired, but there was a definite twinkle in them. Which was more than could be said about Jericho.
“Get out.”
“If you need some advice—”
“Get out. Just get the hell out of my house!”
Rafe backed toward the door, still grinning, which didn’t make a bit of sense to Sara. “I’m going, I’m going, you don’t have to get testy. And Rico, about my rig—”
“I’ll settle with you later on that count.”
“The mare was there in the paddock when I got home last night. Had a burn on her rear end, but—”
“Out.”
“But other than being a mite skittish, she was in right fair shape. More’n I can say about my rig. I sent half a dozen hands up the road to—”
“Out! I’ll settle with you directly.”
Rafe had his hand on the door. He opened it partially, and there was a scurrying sound outside in the hallway, as if someone had been listening outside the door. “Damn right you will. Sweetpea, don’t let anybody bully you. If this seagoing baboon turns you out, you come straight to me, y’hear?”
Turned her out?
All Sara understood was that she was hurting all over; her head obviously wasn’t working right yet, and for some reason Jericho was angry with her. She was madam again.
But surely he wouldn’t turn her out.
Moving carefully, she eased over onto her side, closed her eyes, and concentrated on lying perfectly still. If Jericho thought she was asleep, he might leave her alone until she could sort things out. Evidently she had done something dreadful, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember what it was.
At the moment she didn’t much care. All she wanted to do was sleep until all the pain and confusion went away.
She heard the chair creak, knew he was still there, but they continued to ignore one another until eventually she fell asleep.
From the kitchen came the clatter of pots and pans and the smell of frying bacon. Ivadelle’s voice could be heard telling someone or something to scat. A mockingbird ran through a lengthy repertoire, and Brig barked once or twice.
Sara slept on. Slept and dreamed she was dragging her husband out of the swamp by his arms. One arm fell off, and as she was searching for it among the cypress knees and black gum roots, the trees around them caught fire. Cottonmouth moccasins and snapping turtles began to converge on them, and she tried to shout a warning to Jericho, but no sound came forth.
*
As soon as he was confident that Sara was sleeping soundly, Jericho slipped away. He moved silently past the study, where the Moyer woman was dusting—damn her meddlesome soul—and he ran her out. He didn’t allow anyone to mess around in his private quarters.
He finally located Hester in the kitchen. “Who the devil is that woman? What’s she doing here?” he demanded.
“Her? Hmph! As for who she is, she’s your overseer’s sister. As for what she’s a-doing, I’ve got me own notions. Claims she can’t abide sleeping in a loft. Moved in here bag and baggage, saying she’d go back to the cabin once this smoke died down.”
Thinking back, Jericho seemed to remember hearing something about Hiram Moyer’s having a sister. He’d had so much on his mind at the time that the farm and the new overseer had been well down on his list of worries. He had assumed, if he’d thought about it at all, that the sister would be an elderly spinster, someone who would hardly make a ripple on the surface of a place as large as Wilde Oaks.
This woman made more than a ripple. She made a damned tidal wave! For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what she was up to, but she was up to something, all right. He could smell it. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate, what with learning how to deal with a wife, he now had two troublesome females to contend with.
He should have gone back to sea. He should’ve taken care of Smithers, bound up his shoulder, hightailed it to the nearest port, and signed on aboard the first outward-bound ship. As an able seaman, if that was the best he could do.
While Hester changed the dressings on his shoulder, fussing about what would’ve happened if the knife had gone half an inch lower and pierced his lung, Jericho asked a few questions. “What was that female doing in Mama’s room?”
“Miz Moyer? Your wife gave her leave just before she ran off with Rafe to fetch you. Turn this way—there now, you’re gong to have a fine scar.”
“Sara gave her leave to use Mama’s room?” As soon as he’d got his second wind, Jericho had carried Sara up to the master suite and laid her on the bed, with both women right on his heels. The confounded Moyer woman kept insisting it was her room and that Sara would be better off in the back where it was quieter.
With a few short words, he had set her straight. He had ordered her to clear out her gear. She hadn’t much liked it, but she had gone without making a fuss. Which was a good thing, because if she’d said one more word, she’d have likely found herself escorted to the overseer’s cottage with orders to damn well stay put.
With a raisin biscuit in hand and Hester’s sharp voice ringing in his ear, Jericho left the kitchen, promising to get some sleep, to come back down for dinner, and not to worry Sara if she was resting.
An hour later he was still pacing the master bedroom, one hand looped in the scarf the housekeeper had fitted on him after rubbing him down with turpentine and camphor. The sling helped, taking the strain off his freshly strained shoulder, but it didn’t do one bloody thing to ease what ailed him most.
She had lied to him. His own wife had lied to him. Not only was she not carrying a child, she had never even been bedded. He had taken Doc Withers aside, out of range of any nosy females, and asked him to make certain her baby was all right. The old man had briskly reentered the bedroom where Hester had been left to stand watch. A few minutes later he had brought out the information that not only was there no bun in the oven, but the girl had never even been broached.
“But then, I reckon you know that, seein’s she’s your wife.” The physician had looked puzzled. Both men had been embarrassed. And then Jericho had felt the anger begin to build inside him.
She had lied to him. He had acted in good faith to protect her reputation and give her a home. He had trusted her because he’d had no reason not to trust her, and she had lied to him!
The old man had left him with a final word of wisdom. “If ye’re a-wanting to know if she’s able, then ye can rest easy, boy. For all she’s small, she’s got the breadth to ‘er. Some women ain’t. Miss Louisa weren’t built for breeding, but this one’ll likely whelp as easy as spittin’ out watermelon seeds.”
Jericho still hadn’t quite believed it. “Are you telling me she’s—that my wife is—?”
The doctor had misunderstood him. “Healthy as a horse. As for the lump on her head, it’ll likely go down directly. Bruises take a mite longer to fade. Cold cloths. Turpentine poultices. Use the powders on her cheek, and as for the place on her foot where she whacked it, chances are, it’ll heal up with no trouble. Feet’s got a lot of bones to ‘em. Tricky thing, the foot.”
Her foot? Jericho hadn’t even known about her foot. “What I meant was—”
“Give ‘er a few days, boy—shell be up and about, ready to do her wifely duty.”
“But—”
“Now if ye’re of a mind to take some advice off an old man that’s seen his share of troubles, ye’ll send that Moyer female packing before she muddles things up. It ain’t none of my business, son, but that one’s a troublemaker, sure’s the world. I can smell ‘em same way I can smell out a fever.”
Still stunned by what he had just heard, Jericho had paid no attention. He hadn’t even noticed when the old man had let himself out and driven off in his mud-splattered, soot-covered buggy.
Judas priest. A virgin.
She had made a fool of him, all right. He would never even have thought about marrying her if she hadn’t told him she might be carrying a child. If he hadn’t felt sorry for her. I f he hadn’t climbed into her bed while she lay sleeping, been discovered there by the world’s biggest pair of flap-jaws, and been obliged to do what he could to salvage her reputation.
If he hadn’t undressed her over and over in his mind and enjoyed every sweet, seductive inch of her body in every conceivable way . . . some of which probably hadn’t even been invented.
But she had lied to him. Probably set out to trap him the minute she discovered that Ricketts already had a wife.
Every shred of instinct he possessed told him that Sara wasn’t the type to play a man false. Not his Sara. Not the woman who had teased him and confided in him, laughed with him and tenderly cared for him in spite of his surliness.
On the other hand, she was Smithers’s sister.
Wrong. She was only his stepsister. No blood kin at all. Hadn’t she been running from the bastard herself?
God, what a muddle. Jericho rubbed the back of his neck, then ran his fingers through his hair, leaving windrows falling every whichaway. How had he managed to get himself into such an almighty fix?
More to the point, how was he going to get himself out of it?
At least Smithers was dead. Not that he relished having a man’s blood on his hands, but if ever a man deserved to die, that one did. Not only for Louisa, but for Sara.
Sara. What was he going to do about her? He knew what he wanted to do, even now that he knew of her trickery.
He thought about the one and only long-term relationship he’d had with a woman. The same woman who had tried to pass off another man’s get as his own because she figured a shipowner had a more promising future than a greengrocer.
There was a rap on the door and before he could respond, Ivadelle opened it and offered him a selfdepracating smile. “I hope you don’t mind me interrupting you this way. I thought you could use some coffee.”
Hearing again the physician’s words, Jericho studied the tall, good-looking woman. Was she a troublemaker? Not the kind he was used to, at any rate—the kind that fomented strife aboard ship. The kind every captain was forced to deal with sooner or later in his career.
“I didn’t know if you took sugar,” she said in a voice that reminded him of cane syrup.
It was that sweetness that set his teeth on edge. She was too bloody sweet. No female was all that sweet unless she wanted something. God knows, Sara never went out of her way to be sweet.
Which meant . . .
Which meant that when it came to women, he was still at sea. “Obliged,” he said gruffly, taking the cup and ignoring the bowl full of lumpy brown sugar.
“I happened to overhear what Dr. Withers said about poor Sara,” she said diffidently. “I was dusting the window ledge in the next room.”
She was a great hand for dusting, he’d hand her that. “She don’t look too good now,” he allowed grudgingly, “but shell heal.” Regardless of how he, himself, felt about Sara, he wasn’t about to criticize her to another woman.
“It’s not as if she was any great beauty to start with. Still, I don’t suppose the scar on her cheek will even be noticeable in a few years.”
