"I'll wait," Hazard said. "Is she going to be all right?" The taut nerves were explicit in his voice, and he was mentally cursing himself for being so obtuse.
"Nothin' a little food and rest won't cure." Lydia placed a gentle hand on Hazard's arm and she felt tense, iron-hard muscle. "Relax, Hazard, she's going to be fine. Food over on the stove. You know where the plates are." And she bustled off to see to Blaze.
She was in and out of the kitchen during the next twenty minutes, fixing a tray, fetching warm water; once she asked through the screen door to where Hazard sat immobile on the porch steps, "Does she have luggage?"
"No," he said, turning, half rising. "I have some light baggage. Is there something—"
"Never mind. Eat now, Hazard, and that's an order."
"Thanks, Lydia, I will." But he didn't move. And it seemed a long time later that Lydia held open the screen door and said, "You can see her now."
Blaze was propped up in a large feather bed clothed in one of Lydia's plain cotton nightgowns and dutifully sipping the warm milk Lydia had instructed she drink before sleeping. "Now you can talk to her, Hazard, for five minutes; then she's going to nap. Five minutes. Understand?" She waited for his nod before brushing past him and returning to the kitchen, with the same ener-getic stride Hazard had first seen ten years ago when he'd met her at a trading camp her husband, Joel, had set up near the Powder River.
Hazard stood in the doorway, his head only inches from the lintel, the width of his shoulders dwarfing the opening. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't realize how tired you were."
"It's all right," Blaze politely replied, holding the warm cup of milk between her hands and wishing they could stop acting like strangers. Into a deepening silence, she nervously stammered, "I… it came on suddenly… actually."
Feeling the awkwardness as well, Hazard made an effort at conversation. "How do you feel"—he paused, searching for an appropriate word—"otherwise?" he finished lamely. "The baby… I mean."
"Good, I think." Blaze blushed. "I don't know what to expect."
She looked touchingly young, all in white, her flame-red hair falling loosely on her shoulders, the nightgown, many sizes too large, rolled up at the cuffs. It struck Hazard for the first time since New York that she was Blaze, his wife. He walked the few steps to the window overlooking the orchard and stared at the even rows of apple trees, at the glossy green leaves and shiny fruit turning a deep autumn red. Had it been a mistake going back for her? He wasn't immune as he'd thought. He couldn't carelessly discard her simply as the woman bearing his child—a notion conceptually viable back in Montana when he'd made the decision to go east—it was all eminently more complex here in her presence.
"You must be tired, too."
He turned, hearing the sound but not the words, and Blaze was reminded of the first time at the cabin when he'd been silhouetted against the noonday sun. Dressed in black, affecting the white man's world, Hazard looked as tall and straight and powerful against the sunny window as he had that first day on the mountainside. But his eyes were shadowed with the strain of travel now. And when he didn't respond, she repeated, "You must be tired too."
"No," he said, "I'm fine." It was an automatic reflex, schooled into him many years before, schooled by arduous migrations, and fortnight-long raids and a man's code of endurance. "But you should sleep now. Lydia says you must."
"So I must?"
"Absolutely." He smiled a little. "I've never dared argue with her."
"Are you afraid of her?" Blaze playfully asked, running her fingertip around the rim of the plain pottery mug.
"I'm afraid of lots of things."
"But not of me."
"Oh, of you, too, bia," Hazard said very very softly. Perhaps most of all, he reflected. "Now sleep… I'll see to the horses."
Blaze finished the milk after he left, contemplating his softly worded reply. No sarcasm this time or anger as in New York. It was Hazard, honest and plain-speaking, and the words warmed her more than anything he'd said on the journey. She slept peacefully for the first time in weeks, buoyed by his soft disclosure, and dreamed glorious, luminous dreams of them as a family: she, Hazard, and their baby, somewhere in the mountains, somewhere safe with sun-dappled willows and clear running water.
AFTER Blaze fell asleep, Hazard ate.
"You can't take her overland at the same pace you're used to, Hazard," Lydia was saying. She and Hazard were seated on the back porch. It overlooked the road and while Hazard didn't anticipate anyone finding them here, it never hurt to be wary.
"I know. But it can't be too leisurely either."
"Why? Trouble after you?"
For a moment Hazard didn't answer. He looked down at his hands, then out to the vista of ripening cornfields. "There's always that," he said into the warm evening air.
"Some dead husband's relatives?" Lydia asked. She'd seen the mourning clothes and the first signs of pregnancy, and they both conjured up questions.
He shook his head. "The mourning's for her father."
"Is there a husband?"
"Not after us."
"What sort of trouble, then?"
"A greedy mother with less than maternal feelings and her boyfriend, who'd kill his own mother or anyone else for a nickel."
"Nice combination."
"It encourages speed on one's journey," said Hazard drily.
"Where you taking her?"
"Back to my people."
"Is she your wife?"
He nodded, then looked away.
"Problems?" Lydia said, the evasion too noticeable to miss. There was a short silence, and then she asked the question in the forefront of her mind. "Is the child yours?"
"Yes." An emphatic answer, and this time he looked her straight in the eye.
"If you're willing to take advice from an old lady who's been married forty years to an irascible fur trader with an itch to travel, I'd say you can work out about anything… if you want to."
"Thanks for the advice. I'll think about it." He was contemplating the dusty toes of his boots.
"She loves you, you know."
His eyes came up slowly, questioningly.
"No, she didn't tell me in so many words, but all you have to do is watch her eyes on you. That's love, Hazard, and I hope you're not too big a fool to know it. What with your child and all, she needs you. Now, more than ever. I should know. Had eight."
It was an opening for Hazard to turn the conversation. Everything was too confused now for easy answers to anything. He knew Lydia's favorite topic of conversation was her children and grandchildren. "How are your children?" he asked.
Lydia told him. In detail. Hazard knew all the children, although most were older than he. And when Lydia slowed occasionally in her recital of their latest experi-ences, he coaxed her with another question. Lydia's family was all nearby, although the boys often accompanied their father on the trading journeys. So he posed the polite inquiries and Lydia talked. It pushed aside the issues and problems confronting him—if only for a time. They were still on the porch when Blaze woke from her nap, exchanging reminiscences with each other.
Hazard was incredibly handsome, lounging back in his chair, all dark elegance against the bucolic green countryside. Blaze was reminded afresh how much of a stranger he was to her, how little she knew of his past. It added another small sadness to the chasm between them. Squaring her fragile shoulders, she shook off the melancholy, her chin came up, unconsciously stabilizing her uncertainties.
She padded out the door and across smooth wooden porch flooring worn shiny by forty years of children's feet, and the chatter abruptly ceased. The oversized nightgown trailed behind her, and Hazard, his eyes drawn to her fresh young beauty, had a glimpse of the girl she must have been long before he knew her.
"A swing," she said, her voice liltingly light, as though dark thoughts were strangers to her soul. "I love porch swings." She moved toward it, past Lydia and Hazard seated at a small table in the shade of a fruit-ladened grape vine. "Do you remember, Jon, the night of the Territorial Ball? There was a swing on the porch." Sitting down, she pulled up the excess skirt and set the swing in motion with her bare feet. Small, high-arched feet. With soft, warm soles, Hazard recalled. Soft, warm soles that had teased him; soft, warm soles he'd kissed.
She looked up when he didn't answer and smiled, a winsome, small-girl smile that tugged at Hazard's rapidly beating heart. He remembered the night—and every day since first seeing her—vividly. "I remember," he quietly said.
Lydia had never heard anyone call Hazard "Jon." She'd also never seen him with his heart in his eyes. "Why don't I let you two reminisce and I'll start something for supper," she said, and neither seemed to notice when she left.
"You look like a small child in Lydia's gown." He should have said something more neutral, mentioned the weather or the grapes or Lydia's hospitality, but the words were on his mind and came more naturally than meaningless chatter.
"I don't feel like one," Blaze replied. "This gown makes me feel very pregnant. I hope you like a fat wife." She smiled. "And you look like a misplaced hired gun dressed all in black on this sun-drenched porch. A thin hired gun… we'll make a fine pair," She spoke as she always did—spirited, frank—and memories of the mountain cabin poured over Hazard.
"That always came easy." His dark brow rose. "The pairing."
"And it doesn't now?"
"It can't."
"What if I want it to?"
He smiled that lovely smile she would have walked through fire for. "You always want it to. That's no reason."
"It's a start, Jon. It was before and it can be again." There was quiet hope in her voice.
The smile had disappeared and he had slipped back behind the confines of his mistrust. "I don't want it to start again. I had plenty of time in the weeks since the blast to think, and I couldn't come up with one logical reason for being together."
"How about an illogical reason like… love?"
"Grow up, Blaze. You're using the wrong word. You and I are nothing but problems."
"I don't agree with you."
"You never did, Boston." He smiled halfheartedly. "That's another problem." Pushing his chair back, he rose. "I'm going to take a walk before supper." Vaulting lightly over the spindled railing, he strode away.
"WOULD you like some help?" Blaze asked, entering the kitchen. Then, more frankly, "I need advice."
Lydia turned from the sink window where she'd seen Hazard disappear down toward the creek. "Lovers' quarrel?"
"I wish it were that simple," and Blaze outlined the last few months in succinct phrases.
"He came back for you, though."
"Not me. He came for his child."
Lydia knew love when she saw it, and Hazard's feelings weren't strictly paternal. "That's what he's telling himself," she said.
"He won't even come near me."
"Skittish, like a wolf that got hurt in a trap."
"Do you think so? I can't even tell if he cares anymore. I practically had to make a scene before he'd talk to me on the train."
"Oh, he cares."
Blaze smiled and pressed her palms to her cheeks; she could feel the warm glow rising. "If he still cares…" she whispered.