Halfway Home, page 5
Impulsively, Sara made up her mind to ask Archibald, as soon as he arrived, to look out for the man and see if there was anything they could do for him.
Chapter Four
Sleep was impossible in the common room, even if Jericho had nothing more on his mind than whether to have herring or ham for breakfast. With only eight rooms in the hotel, most men bunked together, using bedrolls or blankets on the floor.
Among the shingle captains, swamp lumbermen and other rough customers, talk was crude, raucous, sometimes funny. Jericho was in no mood to be amused. Neither was he in any mood to put up with listening to speculations on the various attributes of the brown-haired beauty. Bets were placed on whether or not she was here to meet a lover, whether or not the lover would show up, whether he would marry her if he did show up, and whether or not she was ripe for a tumble in the meantime.
Momentarily distracted from his own dismal affairs, he flung down his saddle blanket in the farthest corner of the crowded room, stretched his six-foot, two-inch length on the thinly covered floor, crossed his arms over his chest and stared up at the smoke-darkened ceiling.
He tried not to listen. The woman, whoever she was, would be safe enough. She probably had a maid traveling with her. At any rate the doors had locks, didn’t they? All she had to do was turn her key.
Yes, and every key would likely unlock every other door in the hotel, he thought ruefully. Skeleton keys were all but worthless.
Jericho told himself the woman was not his problem. He had never felt at ease around women—leastwise, not around respectable women. His entire adult life had been spent among men of the roughest sort.
Besides, he had too much on his mind to concern himself with some big-eyed waif with skin the color of sourwood honey and eyes as big as chestnuts. In a face that was too vulnerable by half.
Unbidden, his mind filled once more with the images that had haunted him for days. Louisa as a small child racing down the lane after a puppy, tripping over her shoelaces, tumbling headlong and then wailing for “Weeco” to come pick her up and chop off her hateful old shoestrings.
His had been the arms that had comforted her when the pup had died of the flux. She’d been seven at the time. Ten years later, when he had come home for a rare holiday visit, he had been the one to dry her tears when her best friend married the young man both girls had loved.
Oddly enough, they had remained close over the years, right up until he had taken command of his own ship, when his duties had multiplied a hundredfold. His father had never written to him. Not a single letter. His mother couldn’t write, but Louisa had written to him often, her letters catching up to him in bunches. He had written back, but not, perhaps, as frequently as he should have. His only excuse was that he’d been busy, and the corn, tobacco and potato fields of Wilde Oaks had seemed a world away.
He had hated to leave her that last time, only partly because of what he would have to do. Perhaps even then, he’d had a premonition.
When he’d come back after selling his ship, with the funds in hand to hire carpenters, field hands and a new overseer to begin putting the farm back to rights, he had been greeted by a pale, desperately thin woman who was scarcely recognizable as the sister he had left behind little more than a month earlier.
Knowing something was badly amiss, he had suspected it had to do with that damned Virginian with whom she’d been keeping company. His first evening home he had persuaded Louisa to tell him what was wrong, expecting to hear the sad, if predictable tale of another broken romance.
Instead he’d been stunned to learn that she was with child. She had broken down and cried in his arms, explaining in gulps and gasps that she had only just found out, and had not yet had a chance to tell Smithers about the baby because he’d been called home by a sick mother and had been unable to return. He had forgotten to leave her his direction, and Rafe had not known how to reach him.
“But he’s back now,” she had said with a feverishly hopeful smile. “I saw his horse in the paddock with Rafe’s big gray just before dark when I took Brig out for his evening walk. I’m sure he’ll be seeking you out first thing tomorrow, because now that my year of mourning is up, there’s no more reason to wait.” Her eyes had pleaded with him for understanding. Or perhaps for reassurance.
Jericho’s first impulse had been to hunt down the bastard and wring his neck for treating any woman, especially one so gentle and innocent, in such a shameful, disrespectful manner.
Evidently, Louisa had read his thoughts. “Don’t be angry, Rico. I love him so much, and I—I’m sure he loves me, too, only his mother has been sick so much lately, and—and, well, it just happened, that’s all. Besides, it’s not as if I were in my first youth.”
Grudgingly, Jericho had admitted that perhaps at Louisa’s age, a certain amount of impatience was understandable, but damn it all, the rogue should have known better than to leave her with child. There were ways of protecting a woman. What if something had happened to him before he could many her? She would have been ruined. Not only heartbroken, but flat-out ruined!
Jericho had wanted to collar the cad and haul the pair of them up before the nearest preacher before the sun set on another day.
Unfortunately, he had scheduled an interview with a possible overseer for the following morning. As the man was coming all the way from Perquimans County to meet him, he couldn’t very well send him away and ask him to come back another time. Distracted, he had forced himself to go through with the interview, and after hiring the man, he’d had to take still more time to show him around the farm and try to answer his questions.
God alone knew if he’d made any sense, with his mind on far more vital matters.
“Where’s Miss Louisa?” he’d demanded of the housekeeper the moment he’d seen the man off the property.
Hester Renegar, a dour woman who had kept house for them for as long as Jericho could remember—who had been known irreverently as old Vinegar when they were children—had gone on breaking eggs into a big graniteware bowl. “Gone sparkin’, I reckon. Buggy left out about an hour ago, with that mangy old hound of hers trotting alongside. Shut ‘im up in the barn, but he dug out.”
Brig wasn’t mangy and he wasn’t a hound, but defending the dog had been the last thing on Jericho’s mind at the time. He had saddled up Bones and set off at a tooth-rattling gallop across the field toward the Turbyfill farm.
“Where’s Smithers?” he’d demanded, bursting through the door.
Rafe Turbyfill was dozing over a brandy, a big, battered tomcat sprawled across his knees. “Titus? What’s the young fool been up to now?”
“Never mind that, just tell me where to find him.”
The older man tugged at the cat’s ear, then dumped the animal when it clawed him. “Damned ingrate,” he muttered. “Talking about me cat, Rico, not you. Last I saw of Smithers, he was headed down the lane. We were playing cards, and he spotted Louisa’s buggy down by the pond and took off. Surprising, the way she took to him. She could do a lot better, even if she is getting a bit long in the tooth.”
Rafael Turbyfill eyed the man who had bested him more often than not at racing, fighting, hunting, and gaming when they were boys. Weighing his words, he said, “If I was you, Rico, I wouldn’t encourage nothing in that direction. Young Smithers is good enough for rough company, but he ain’t good husband material, if you know what I mean. “
Jericho was afraid he did, although it was a little too late now. “Much obliged, Tubby,” he said, absently dredging up a hated nickname. Taking the steps two at a time, he leapt on board the gelding and wheeled back down the long, pecan-lined road.
They weren’t at the pond that had been a favorite fishing hole for all three as children. Feeling an odd sense of disquiet, Jericho headed home. Likely, he would find her in the kitchen, talking wedding plans with old Vinegar.
They’d damned well better be laying plans! Husband material or not, the bastard was going to marry her. What’s more, if he so much as brought a frown to her face, he would answer to Jericho, because this time he wouldn’t be halfway around the world; he would be right here to protect his sister’s interests.
At least for a spell. Until he found himself another ship.
God, he was going to be an uncle, he thought, bemused as he rode home at a far slower pace than he’d set out.
The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. Hester Renegar served him a cold meal at his desk. Ignoring it, he asked again after Louisa.
“Still out. Lots to talk about, I reckon, poor young’un. Heard the dog a-barkin’ up a storm not more’n an hour ago, sounded like he was down by the hedgerow.”
“Likely run up a rabbit.” He was glad she had taken the dog.
It was late in the afternoon when Jericho, caught up in the farm account book, which was not so different from a logbook now that he’d had time to get a grip on it, heard Brig barking outside. Closing the book, he stood and rubbed the tense muscles at the back of his neck.
She was home. It was about time. Engaged or not, Smithers had no business keeping her out this late of an evening. They’d damned well better have scheduled a fast wedding, otherwise they were going to find themselves hustled off the nearest joiner so fast their shoe soles would smoke! No nephew of his was going to be born on the wrong side of the blanket and have to bear the shame of it for the rest of his life.
Erasing all signs of anger and worry from his face, Jericho headed outside to unhitch the buggy and rub down Louisa’s mare. He’d expected to see Smithers with her, but there was no sign of the young jack-a-dandy.
“You’re late,” he said, careful to keep any hint of anger or disapproval from his voice. “Shouldn’t you be resting more now that . . .” His voice had trailed off, and he’d stared at the creature who all but fell into his arms. “God almighty, Weezie, what happened?”
She’d been weeping hysterically, making barely a sound. Her hair was tumbled around her shoulders. She had always taken great pride in her hair, for it was long and lustrous, the color of a crow’s wing. Now it was tangled and—Jesus, was that blood?
“Louisa! Hush now and tell me what happened! Did the buggy roll?” Of course the buggy hadn’t rolled. She’d never have got it righted again without help.
She had clung to him, her fingers biting into his arms with surprising strength while the damned dog pranced around them, twisting and whining. Ignoring the mutt, Jericho had held her away to force her to look at him, to answer him, and then he wished to God he hadn’t.
He had carried her into the house, trying not to stare at the bruises, the abrasions—at the place on her cheek where it looked as if she’d been caught by a vine.
Hester had taken over as soon as he’d laid her on her bed. “I was afraid of this,” the stern-faced old woman had muttered. Jericho had wanted to know what she meant, but there’d been no time to ask.
Without bothering to saddle Bones, he had raced off bareback after old Doc Withers, who lived some four miles away. Barking out a few words of direction, he had sent the man back to Wilde Oaks and then set off for Rafe’s farm to find Smithers. There had been not a single doubt in his mind as to who was responsible.
Before he had even reached the split-rail fence between the two properties, he’d seen a flashy red and black runabout wheel out of Rafe’s driveway and head north at a rapid clip.
“Smithers! Damn your black soul, come back here!” he’d shouted, kicking up his winded mount.
The driver had glanced over his shoulder and had begun frantically whipping the blue roan, the flimsy vehicle bouncing on the rough road and nearly overturning twice. With the slightest shift of his weight, Jericho had urged the gelding into a dirt-eating gallop. As if he’d known the desperate stakes—as if he hadn’t already been lathered from racing to fetch the doctor—Bones had flattened out and given chase.
The race had ended almost as quickly as it had begun.
“Get down from there, you scurvy bastard.” Jericho’s voice had been soft, but the deadly threat was unmistakable. Panic had widened the other man’s eyes. Under pale, arched brows, they were a perfect match for his blue velvet coat.
“Keep away from me, you madman!” Smithers had screamed. From atop the high seat of his fancy vehicle, he had snapped his whip at the devil dressed all in black—a devil with murder in his eyes.
With a lightning-like move, Jericho caught the weighted end of the braided leather whip and jerked hard, tumbling the younger man to the ground. Rolling off the back of his horse, he was on him instantly.
No fighter, Smithers had been paralyzed with fear. Dirt caught in a thread of spittle, marring his flawless features. Jericho had been within an inch of wrapping his hands around his lily-white throat when a voice behind him had coolly spoken. “You don’t really want to do that, Rico. Kill him now and you’ll only hang for your troubles, and then who’ll look after Louisa?”
Bending over the cowering creature on the ground, Jericho had waited for the fire in his belly to cool. Rafe was right. This wasn’t the way to do it, not if he intended to live long enough to look after his sister and her baby.
“You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” he had growled.
“Probably not, but whatever you’ve got against the boy, this is no way to settle it.” Rafe had still been mounted on his big gray. He had gazed down on the scene dispassionately, his face flushed from too many years of high living. “Back off, Rico.”
“I want him dead.”
The man on the ground had whimpered and tried to scramble away. Rising slowly, Jericho had placed a big, booted foot on his coattail.
It was Rafe who had issued the instructions. They would meet at the Halfway Hotel as soon as Smithers could find someone to act for him. Was that clear?
It was clear.
By the time the details had been settled, Smithers was puking his guts out in the middle of the road.
Jericho and Rafe had ridden back together. Neither man had spoken until they’d reached the place where the road turned off to enter Turbyfill’s nine hundred acres.
“I’ll act for you if you’ll have me,” the older man had said quietly. “I feel partly responsible. He was my guest.”
Jericho had nodded. “Obliged,” he’d said. “And Rafe—thanks for saving me from being buzzard bait. I’d have murdered the son of a bitch right there in the road.”
“Louisa?”
He’d nodded. “He beat her.”
Turbyfill’s hooded eyes had darkened. “Jesus,” he had muttered.
Jericho had remained silent. He’d seen no reason to mention the child. It would be common knowledge soon enough.
“Give Smithers a few days. Doubt if he’ll find anyone real eager to second him.”
“I’d rather go back and finish the job now,” Jericho had said with a harsh laugh.
“Go home. If there’s anything I can do, send word. Otherwise, I’ll meet you at the hotel in about a week’s time. And Rico—don’t worry. I’ll see the boy’s there if I have to drag him there, myself.”
*
Looking back, Jericho wished Rafe had never come along that day. Wished he had finished what he’d started—not that it would have changed anything. Louisa was gone, taking with her any need to save himself from the hangman’s noose.
It had been too late by the time he’d got back home. He’d known it as soon as he’d seen old Doc Withers walking out to his buggy. The old man had looked a hundred years old. Jericho had felt his blood run cold, quite literally. He’d always thought that cold-running blood was merely a figure of speech. It wasn’t.
He had flung himself to the ground and slapped the gelding on the rump. “What’s wrong?” he’d demanded, catching up to the physician just as he was placing his black leather satchel in his old fashioned buggy.
“I’m sorry, son. I did all I could. I don’t believe she wanted to live. Once the bleeding started, there was no way I could help her. I tried everything I knew to do, but sometimes, the Lord’s will prevails.”
Jericho had commenced to swearing. He had sworn to keep from crying, but he’d cried anyway.
“I take it you knew she was with child,” the old man said quietly.
Lifting his wet face to a sky that had been streaked with the last remnants of a smoky sunset, Jericho said, “I knew.”
And so he had buried her. Buried her on the low rise that passed for a hill in this flat country, under the big woods maple, beside their parents and the two babes that had died in infancy.
And now he was waiting to finish what had to be finished before he could go back to sea. God knows, he had no desire ever to see Wilde Oaks again. For all he cared, Hester and the new manager he had hired could split it between them.
*
Sometime after midnight, the noise abated. Jericho was on the verge of falling asleep when he heard two men speculating again about the woman in room three. It didn’t take a whole lot of imagination to realize they were speaking of the brown-haired beauty he had glimpsed at the window on his arrival.
With a soft oath, he rolled over on the hard floor and stuffed his rolled-up coat under his head, but it was impossible to ignore what was being said.
“Way I heard it, she’s alone over there in the Carolina wing. Don’t even have a maid with ‘er. Not but one kind o’ woman stays in a hotel without a maid.”
“Less’n she’s waitin’ for a husband.”
“Either waitin’ er runnin’ away. Packet boats an’ stages runs both ways.”
“Aww, she ain’t married. She ain’t got that married look to ‘er. I got me two dollars. Reck’n that’s enough?” one young tough speculated.
Jericho had about all he could stomach. The lady, regardless of her situation, deserved to be treated with more respect. Sitting up, he eased one of his two pistols from his duffle and rested it across his lap.
