Dorothy Garlock - [Annie Lash 01] (3 page)

Berry looked across the fire at the man in the flat-crowned hat. He was holding his plate in his hand, his head tilted to one side as if he was listening. There was something about the way he stood, motionless but alert, that told her he could spring with the quickness of a cat and that their ordeal wasn’t over. This was the first time she had really looked at him. All she could see now was the outline of broad shoulders and slim hips . . . and the hat.

Israel began to feed small twigs and branches into the fire. They caught and burned, the blaze building to light the area. The man stood quietly. It seemed to Berry that he didn’t move a muscle until the fire was blazing and the light reached out to him. Then he walked past Israel as if he weren’t there and placed his empty plate on the box beside the fire. He continued walking until he stood before the two women.

Berry moved in front of Rachel once again and waved the knife. “Stay back!” She met his gaze with her direct, black-fringed eyes, lifted her chin an inch higher, and thrust out her jaw.

“Thank you for the supper. It was hard to turn down the invite after being on the trail for days.” He lifted his hand to the brim of his hat and turned to leave.

“Mister!” It was the polite gesture that caused Berry to speak. He paused and turned, but kept his distance. She looked at him closely. He was extremely tall, but whiplash thin. She’d noticed when he had walked toward them that his movements were so smooth he could have carried a cup of water on his head without spilling a drop. He looked a cut above the other two. His buckskins were soiled but not ragged, and he didn’t stink, which was in his favor. He stood with his back to the fire; she couldn’t see his eyes clearly, but she knew they were honed in on her. “What’re you and them other two varmints hatchin’ up with my pa?”

The expression on his face was one of quiet sobriety. He didn’t speak, and the silence between them was disturbing. Berry watched him apprehensively.

“I never set eyes on your pa until a couple of hours ago. I’ve come up from Kaintuck’ with a load of trade goods. I’m a trader and a guide. Your pa figured to do some trading with me and invited me to supper.”

Berry continued to stare into his face. He’s not going to stare me down. The thought made her lift her chin even higher, and she gazed at him with cold dignity. “That tradin’ wouldn’t have anything to do with me and Rachel?”

He looked at her for a long moment before he spoke. “I don’t trade in human flesh, be it women or slaves.” His words came out cool and clipped.

“Then why’re you hangin’ out with
them?
”

His mouth tightened and the creases in his cheeks deepened to severity. “I don’t have to explain my actions to you, ma’am. But I’ll tell you this. I don’t hang out with the likes of Linc Smith and George Caffery. They’re what you said, varmints. They’re known up and down the river as thieving, lying, murdering scalpers, and your pa would be smart to steer clear of them.”

Rachel’s hand was on Berry’s shoulder, her protruding abdomen pressed into the younger girl’s back. In the stillness that followed the man’s words, Berry was conscious of the movement of life in Rachel’s body and heard Rachel’s sharp intake of breath.

“Go. We’ve not eaten supper, in case you ain’t noticed.” Her green eyes became glacial as they bored into his.

He hesitated while his eyes searched the camp. “Will the black be any help if you have trouble before your pa comes back?”

“Our trouble will be
after
he comes. But we don’t need no help. I’ve got this knife and a musket, ’n’ I can use both of them.”

He smiled as if he didn’t want to but was forced. “Glad to hear it.” He put his hand to the brim of his hat and walked away.

“Oh, Berry! What’ve we done? Asa’ll be crazy mad,” Rachel said in a horrified whisper.

Berry watched the trader until he disappeared in the darkness. She put the knife into her pocket and closed her eyes for an instant. “What’s done is done. We cain’t keep on knucklin’ under to him. The first thing we know he’ll have me sold off. He keeps a-sayin’ it’s time for me to take a man. He’d see that he got somethin’ for it, that’s certain!” she said bitterly. “As long as we’re together, we can stand up to him.” Suddenly she laughed. It was total and unexpected.

Rachel stood transfixed. “It’s not a laughing matter.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Asa’s got to do somethin’ to save his face.”

“Let him try! He won’t do nothin’ if I can help it.” She laughed again. “We shoulda stood up to him long ago, Rachel.” She tried to sound confident for Rachel’s sake. “I’m not goin’ to fret about it now. I’m hungry.”

They sat on the box beside the campfire and picked at the fried mush. Berry left the fat meat in the skillet for Israel. He brought more fuel for the fire and piled it on. She suspected it was his way of trying to protect them by keeping the camp lit up. The slave moved like a cowering dog, but it was a comfort to have him there.

“The trader appeared decent.” Rachel was holding on to Berry’s shoulder again, and Berry knew she was hurting.

“I dunno about that. He was a mite better’n the others. Did you see the knife he wore in his boot ’n’ that rifle he never let outta his reach? I’d bet he’d be a bugger in a fight.”

“He was clean. I’m sick to death of dirt and stink.”

Tiredness in Rachel’s voice prompted Berry to say, “Why don’t ya go to the wagon. I’ll clean up this mess.” She attacked the plates in a large wooden bowl. “I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll have a cup of tea. There’ll be warm water left for a good wash.”

Israel sidled up to the fire, bobbing his head up and down. The habit irritated Berry and she wished he wouldn’t do it, but she didn’t know how to tell him.

“Mistah, over there, tol’ me ta give this ta y’all.” He held a cloth bag out at arm’s length and jerked his head toward the edge of the woods.

Berry’s eyes found the trader standing in the shadows. His rifle was cradled in his arms and he still wore the brimmed hat. She took the bag from Israel’s hand and untied the string at the top. It was a bag of raisins. She’d had them only one other time in her life. She looked back at the man and nodded her thanks. He tipped his hat and disappeared even as she watched him.

“Rachel! He’s give us raisins! Now why in the world would he do that?”

“I . . . don’t know.” Her voice lightened. “But I’m glad he did.”

“Don’t go, Israel,” Berry called. “Hold out your hand. We’ll all have a treat tonight.” She went to him. He stood trembling with his hands behind him, as if he were in shock. “Hold out your hand,” she urged. He obeyed, and she placed a handful of the raisins in it. A smile split his face.

“Yass’m, yass’m, yass’m.” He kept repeating the words as he backed away.

Berry’s laugh rang out. It was a joyful, happy sound that broke the stillness of the night. “You’re goin’ to back into a tree if ya don’t watch out, Israel.”

“Don’t tease him, honey. You’ve shocked him enough for one night.” Rachel was smiling.

Berry handed her the bag. “Take them to the wagon. I’ll bring the water. If we’re lucky, Pa’ll stay away all night.”

*    *    *

Simon Witcher watched the girl accept the gift, then moved back into deeper shadows. He rested the butt of his rifle on the toe of his moccasin, used it to steady himself as he lounged against the trunk of a large tree. The color of his buckskins and the deep tan of his face made it almost impossible to see him in spite of his six-foot-four-inch height.

Simon didn’t really know why he stood there and watched the women, unless it was the musical sound of the girl’s happy laughter as she called out to the slave. The sound had given him a surge of pleasure and his eyes were drawn to her.

Asa Warfield had come to Witcher’s wagons and introduced himself. He’d said he was traveling with his wife and daughter to land he’d filed on west of the river. He was interested in the trade goods Simon had freighted from Louisville. After a half-hour of conversation he’d invited Simon to supper. The temptation to eat women’s cooking had spurred him to accept. However, he had immediately regretted his hasty decision when they were joined by Linc Smith and George Caffery, as unsavory a pair as roamed the river.

Now a worried frown creased Simon’s brow. He would have been forced to step in if the girl hadn’t stood up to Linc and her pa. What the hell! He scowled, disgusted with his thoughts. The pregnant woman was the man’s wife, the girl his daughter. He had no business butting into a man’s problems with his family.

He stood there until the campfire burned down. The slave came to add more fuel to the fire, then melted into the darkness of dense growth beyond the wagons. Simon went back to where the freight wagons were parked for the night. He paused and made a soft whistling sound before he showed himself.

Two men materialized out of the darkness. “York’ll take first watch,” one said. “Though ain’t likely ta have no trouble.” He eased himself down on the ground and leaned against the wheel. His companion went to the second wagon, threw out a bedroll, and stretched out on it. “Seems to be a train of farmers a-waitin’ to cross.” Simon took out a blanket and crawled under the wagon. He placed his hat and his gun on it and lay down. The big man by the wheel was still talking. “It’s a wonder they got this fer,” he said, snorting. “They ain’t got no more know-how than a Injun with his head cut off. That land o’er thar’ll give ’em a hard welcome.”

Simon chuckled. “It’s so. It’s the same with most that cross.” He was silent for a while, then said, “Fain, do you remember that pair that come in with a barge full of goods a year back and said the freighter had fell overboard and drowned? They said they’d salvaged the goods.”

“Yup. I remember ’em. Nobody believed it, but there wasn’t nothin’ they could do.”

“They’re in camp. Took up with an Ohio farmer. I heard ’em talkin’ about setting up a tavern with him.”

“Farmer’d better watch his step. Them’d knife their own granny for a gold piece.” Fain had the soft, slurry voice of a Virginian.

“Farmer’s got a couple women with ’em. I hate to see ’em get tangled with that pair.”

Fain didn’t answer. The men who lived in the woods did not speak when there was no answer required.

Simon closed his eyes, but sleep didn’t come. The picture of a face floated before his mind’s eye, a face framed with dark curls. A poignant loneliness possessed him for the first time in a long while. Far away, the sound of an owl echoed in the stillness. Simon was as filled with unrest as was the owl. His thoughts raced. For a moment he speculated on how it would be to have a woman in his cabin, a woman who waited for his return, a woman who whispered words of love in his ear. He turned restlessly.

Orphaned at the age of nine, Simon had been apprenticed out to work with a family named Pollard. They had been Scottish-Irish with six children of their own, but they had a lot of land to tend and a mill. The judge who had sent Simon there decreed that he work for his keep, and he was to be provided with proper food and care in return for his work. At age sixteen he was to be given a horse and a gun. His leaving had disappointed Mrs. Pollard, who had come to look on the boy as her own. In spite of that, Simon had left Pennsylvania and headed west. He had spent time in Virginia, then had come through the Cumberland Gap into Kentucky and Tennessee. He had learned the trading business, learned to fight, learned to judge men. He had filed on land and built a building to house his trade goods.

Now, ten years later, he was grateful for the time he had spent with the Pollards and grateful for the book learning they had given him along with their own children. Mr. Pollard had been a teacher and a scholar. Many times Simon had listened in awe to the man speak French, Spanish, and German. He’d been fascinated by the French language and had learned a smattering. It was useful to him in this area so full of Frenchmen.

Fain rolled up in a blanket and was soon snoring softly, but Simon’s mind refused to let him rest. Two unprotected women, especially as pretty as the Warfield women, would be a big temptation to men like Linc Smith and George Caffery. The girl was spunky. She had set Linc to dancing with that hot water on his hand. That was all the more reason why Linc would be set to go back. The fact that one of them was big with child wouldn’t matter in the least. And if the farmer got drunk enough . . .

Simon rolled out from under the wagon. He put on his hat so that York would know who he was, picked up his rifle, and, as silently as a shadow, moved between the trees toward the other side of the camp.

T
he raisins are grand-tastin’.” Berry dug her fingers into the sack and popped a few more in her mouth. “I could eat them all, but I reckon it would be hoggish.”

They sat on the feather tick, a blanket around their shoulders. A bit of wick floated in a bowl of oil and gave off a faint light. Berry liked it when she and Rachel were alone inside the tarp-covered wagon with the front and back flaps secured for the night. It was homey and private. They had washed in the warm water and put on their nightdresses before treating themselves to the trader’s gift.

“The raisins are good, but so was the wash,” Rachel confessed. “I’m tired of eatin’ dust.” She took the precious wire pins out of her hair, placed them in a small box, and picked up the hairbrush. When she shook her head, the long coil fell and spread, making her look like a child.

“I’m hopin’ we get a place near a clear running stream. We can bathe in it, put our wash pots on the bank, and have scrub water without havin’ to tote it far.” There was a wistful quality to Berry’s voice.

“Asa’s got wilder and wilder on this trip,” Rachel said with a worried frown. “He might not farm. He might try to turn his hand to somethin’ else.”

“I’m afraid of it. I don’t—” She broke off in mid-sentence and held her finger to her lips in silent warning. The campfire was still ablaze, and a shadow had passed between it and the wagon. “Keep talkin’,” Berry mouthed silently, and gently set the bag of raisins in Rachel’s lap.

Rachel’s eyes grew large and frightened, but she cleared her throat and began to murmur words about their home in Ohio. Berry injected a word occasionally, all the while inching toward the back of the wagon. She heard the rasp of cloth or leather as it scraped wood, and saw the movement of the tarp as it was gently prodded from the outside. She motioned for Rachel to hand her the musket they kept loaded. Rachel reached for it and laid it on the feather tick within her reach.