Dorothy Garlock - [Annie Lash 01] (31 page)

“My darlin’, my darlin’, my sweetness, my love . . .” He whispered the love words. The hammering urge to release his passion was acute, but he waited, holding back until he felt the first tremor deep inside her. Then he was free to plunge, to rise, to let go. And he did.

An explosion of ecstasy swept them away from the physical world.

An eternity later, he raised his head to kiss her lips, her nose, her neck, to lick her cheeks with joyous frenzy. He leaned on his forearms to take some of his weight off her body, yet he remained buried deep inside her.

“My purty girl . . .” He burrowed his face in her hair and waited for his galloping heart to slow to its regular beat. “I’m too heavy for ya,” he whispered worriedly. He lifted himself out of her and rolled onto his side. The strong ropes beneath them squeaked in protest as he turned into the grass mattress that cradled them. He put his hand on her hair, feeling its soft, silky texture. It enshrouded his face, caressed his shoulders. “Oh, sweet lass . . . I couldn’t live without ya now.”

He lay holding her, arms wrapped around her. She fit so perfectly in the nest made by his arms and muscular thighs. She lay warm and soft and infinitely dear against him. Thoughts swarmed his mind. Someday he hoped to make her understand how she had wrapped her sweetness into the very core of his being. She had penetrated his heart with her gentle ways as not even his first love had done. It frightened him. What if he should lose her? She could be killed as Eben had been killed . . . she could die in childbirth . . . even now his seed could have found her fertile valley and she could be growing his child.

Rachel gave a tired little sigh and closed her eyes in sweet exhaustion. “Tomorrow I’ll do the washin’ if it don’t rain,” she murmured and fell into deep sleep.

*    *    *

The sky was alight with a new day when Fain carried the last bucket of water from the spring and poured it into the big iron pot he had hung from a stout pole. Israel had built a fire beneath it and was now bringing the wooden washtub from the shed. A bench, newly made, stood against the wall of the cabin. Rachel had been amazed when she first saw the huge wooden tub. She had expected to lift the clothes from the boiling water, lay them on a smooth half-log, and beat them clean with a paddle as she had always done. Fain had explained that Simon had transported the tub all the way up from New Orleans so that they would be able to bathe in the wintertime. Now it would serve a double purpose.

By the time Faith had been fed and put back to sleep, the breakfast things had been put away, and the meat with cabbage and onions for the noon meal had begun to simmer, the water boiling in the iron pot. Fain carried Faith and the cradle out into the yard. He placed the baby in the shade near where Rachel was working.

Israel came over and hunkered down to look at the babe. A huge smile split his face. Fain lingered beside the cradle, gently stroking the tiny blond head with his fingertips.

“She’s a-growin’, Mistah Fain. She sho is.”

“She’s a beaut—that’s what she is,” Fain said with affection. “She knows her pa, too. She c’n be a-whinin’ ’n’ frettin’ ’n’ if I pick her up she hushes up ’n’ goes to sleep.”

“Babes know somethin’ like that when they’s so little?” Israel asked.

“This one does,” Fain said proudly. “Look a-there at her hands. Rachel had to cut her fingernails already ’cause she was scratchin’ her face.”

“They’s mighty little.”

Rachel turned her back and punched the clothes down into the boiling water so that Fain and Israel wouldn’t see her smile. Love for her husband flooded her heart. She pressed her face to his shirt before dropping it into the suds.

Olson came across the yard, his rifle in his hand. He gave her a friendly wave and walked toward the river. Rachel sensed that the men were more concerned about Eben’s murder than they let on to her.

“Me ’n’ Israel are goin’ to dig us a cellar. Where’d’ya want it?” Fain came up behind her and nuzzled her neck.

“Oh . . . you scared me, Fain!” She lifted her shoulder, giving his face a brief hug between it and her cheek. “A cellar? Goodness! Are you sure you want to work on it now? I thought you were anxious to work on your guns.”

“I got all winter to work on the guns. If’n my woman wants a cellar—I’ll dig her one.”

“You’ll not get it done this summer if you don’t quit huggin’ me, and I’ll not get the washin’ done either,” she chided, but turned her face for his kiss, not knowing or caring if Israel was watching. “You’re a-spoilin’ me,” she cautioned.

“Whatta ya think about next to the house there?” He turned her so that she could see where he was pointing. “It’d be handy. We could get into it from the outside, and we c’n put a trap door in our sleepin’ room. We could get in if a cyclone come.”

“I can’t think of a better place. We can keep the milk and garden stuff down there where it’s cool.”

“It’s settled, then?”

“It’s settled. Now, Fain . . .” He was nuzzling her neck again. “I’ve got to get the washin’ done before Faith wakes up,” she protested lovingly.

“I cain’t get enough of ya. I think I’ll carry ya off to the woods,” he teased, and his fingers worked at the front of her dress while his eyes twinkled at her. He waited until she smiled. “That’s what I wanted—a big smile on my woman’s face.” He patted her on the backside and left her.

When the washing was done and spread out on the bushes in the full sun, Rachel took her suds into the eating room and scrubbed the floor and everything in it, including the thick fireplace mantel, the work shelf, and the big trestle table. When she finished, the room was soap-smelling clean. She poured out the water well away from the cabin so that the men wouldn’t track mud onto her clean floor. It was still an hour before noon, so she sat in the rocker with her knitting needles and the wool she’d unraveled from an old shawl. Fain had gaping holes in his socks and she had vowed to knit him a pair as soon as possible.

*    *    *

Fain heaved himself up and out of the hole he and Israel were digging. It was hot, hard work, but he welcomed it. It gave him a chance to think of other things while putting his foot on the spade and sinking it into the ground.

It had been a week since Simon had left to look for Berry. Lardy should have been back days ago, if only to report that Light was not in the area. Fain was puzzled about not hearing from him. He was worried about Berry and about Simon, who should have been back by now unless he was trailing Berry deep into the wilderness. He’d heard of roving bands of Indians who stole women for slaves; the women had disappeared, never to be heard from again. How would Rachel bear the uncertainty of not knowing if Berry was dead or alive? He tried to push the thought aside and concentrate on the problem at hand.

“Pound out that broken handle on the shovel, Israel. I’ve got another in the shed. I’ll fetch it. I always used ash for helves, but Simon told me hickory had more stayin’ power. I made up some last winter when I had time on my hands. We’ll give ’em a try.”

Fain watched Israel walk toward the shed. He knew that the slave had been mighty shaken up about Eben’s murder. The two men had become friends, not only because of their color but because of Eben’s compassionate nature. He had taken Israel in tow, and in just a few short weeks Fain had seen a world of difference in the man: he became more confident and lost much of his hangdog look. But in the past week he’d reverted to his former cowed, frightened attitude. The words he had spoken this morning when he stood over the cradle and looked at Faith were the first he had volunteered in a week.

Fain stepped around the corner of the house and headed for the shed. He stopped short. Two men were coming into the house yard from the south. They were less than a hundred feet away. His first thought was that he’d left his rifle leaning against the cabin wall. His second thought was—why hadn’t Olson warned him of the strangers’ approach?

One of the men walked slightly ahead of the other. He was dressed in a white silk shirt with flowing sleeves cuffed at the wrist. His tan breeches were fashionably tight, and the legs were tucked into shiny black boots. He wore a broad blue ascot looped beneath his chin and a feathered, three-cornered hat. The musket in his belt looked to be silver plated. Fain instinctively noted the gun. It was second nature for him to notice firearms.

The other man wore the loose breeches and heavy boots of a riverman. A knife hung from his belt and he carried a long gun.

These observations took only a few seconds; then recognition, followed by relief so great that he let loose with a bellow of welcome.

“Fish! Damned if I didn’t think the governor’d come to call!” He strode forward and held out his hand.

“Hello, Fain. I take it you’re surprised to see me.”

“Surprised to see ya so all gussied up, boy. How be ya?”

“I couldn’t be better. Is Simon around?”

“No, lad. We’ve had a heap of trouble since ya left. Berry took off to try ’n’ find the land her pa filed on the same mornin’ ya took off down the river. Simon’s gone a-lookin’ for her. He’s been gone more’n a week. I’m afeared the girl’s come to grief.”

“It’s possible he found her and they’re spending some time upriver at his homestead.” Fish didn’t seem surprised or concerned about Berry, but that fact didn’t register with Fain until later.

“Could be they did that,” Fain agreed. “But it’s not like the girl to not c’mon back and set Rachel’s mind to rest.”

Fain’s eyes honed in on the man who stood behind and to the side of Fish. His feet were spread, he held a rifle up and under his arm, and his eyes roamed. He was a big man, almost as big as Fain. The two of them dwarfed Fish. “Who’s your friend?”

“Emil Harrison,” Fish said without looking at the man, pointedly refusing to introduce him. “Have you got the kinks worked out of the breechloader yet?”

“I’ve not worked on it since ya left.”

“You made some progress on it before I left.”

His tone caused Fain’s eyes to narrow and gave him a stab of irritation. “Nothin’ much come of it,” he said and shrugged. Then, wanting to change the subject, he said, “Ya look fine, boy. Ya look quality.”

“I
am
quality.”

Hearing the hardness in the voice, Fain jerked his eyes to meet the cold blue ones of the man who had enjoyed his hospitality for the past several months. There was an aloof look of superiority on Fish’s face that made Fain angry, then a quiver of apprehension traveled the length of his spine. However, he allowed none of it to show in his face, and was about to make a laughing apology, but Fish cut him off.

“Is Berry’s nigger here?”

“He’s over back of the cabin. We’re diggin’ a cellar.” Something in Fish’s face and the other man’s attitude prompted Fain to add, “One of Simon’s freighters is here, and I’m a-lookin’ for Lardy anytime.” There was a frozen moment of silence. Fain broke it by saying, “C’mon and see Rachel, Fish. She’ll be glad to see ya.”

“My name is Edmund Aston Carwild.”

Fain’s eyes flicked from Fish’s suddenly flushed face to the other man.
When had the rifle barrel tilted in his direction?
He looked back at Fish, searching for some glimmer of the lad whom Eben had fished out of the river and who had stayed on wanting to learn gunsmithing. The face was not the same. It no longer looked boyish. The face of this man was etched in uncompromising lines. The body was the same, but it was held stiffly, arrogantly. Fain’s mind was in an uproar.
Something was going to happen, and he was powerless to stop it.

“I knowed about the Edmund Aston part. Ya never let on the other name riled ya.”

“It did and it does,” Fish said flatly. “But a man learns to swallow his pride . . . when necessary.”

“Is that right?” Fain said sarcastically. He made no pretense now of being amicable. He felt a tightening in his chest. There was something deadly here. There was no doubt that Fish was going to turn aside every effort to be friendly. It would be best to get it all out in the open, so that Fain would know what he was facing. His eyes shifted to the man with the rifle. He’d seen his type roaming the river: a man who would slit his own mother’s throat for a gold coin. “It’s plain you’re not friendly,
Mister Carwild.
Spit it out. What’s eatin’ atcha?”

“You’ve got something I want,
Mister MacCartney
—the breechloader.”

“The hell you do!” Now Fain looked like a different person. The amiable man was replaced by a deadly sober one with a tight mouth and hard, fierce eyes. Anger was stamped on his face and in every line of his body.

Fish raised his brows into a haughty, contemptuous line. “Why do you think I hung around here these past few months? It certainly wasn’t because I enjoyed living in a hovel. It wasn’t because I was stimulated by your brilliant conversation, and it wasn’t because I wanted to earn a miserly living as a gunsmith. Think, Fain. Your little secret found its way all the way downriver to Natchez.”

“Ya’ll get that breechloader over my dead body!” Fain roared.

“If that’s what it takes, Fain. I’ll get it, and over your wife’s, too.” He tipped his head toward the cabin.

Fain’s eyes followed the gesture. A thin, rangy man with a black beard and black hair stood in the doorway. He was armed with a rifle and a musket. Fain froze as fear gripped him, but his rage came boiling out.

“Ya stinkin’ low-lifed fop! Ya cowardly sonofabitch! If’n a one of ya lays a hand on my wife I’ll snuff ya out like ya was a chicken!” His huge fist clenched and unclenched. The rifle that nudged his belly was the only thing that kept him from grabbing Fish by the throat.

“Calm yourself. You’re one against three, soon to be four. Don’t do anything foolish. You and the nigger can’t stand against us.”

“You’re forgettin’ Olson and Lardy!”

“Don’t count on Olson and Lardy.”

Fain opened his mouth, then snapped it shut when the import of the words sank into the turmoil in his mind.

“God Almighty! Ya murderin’ sonofabitch!”

“Don’t think to rile me by calling my mother a bitch. She was one. Now, are you going to cooperate, or will I have to send Jackson in there to have a little sport with Rachel?”