Nan Ryan (33 page)

Soon Helen and Charlie were walking the happy engaged couple to their carriage, thanking them for coming, and waving as they drove off into the gathering dusk.

The long, languorous September days of Kurt’s convalescence became—oddly enough—a pleasant period in his life and in Helen’s. Like most women, Helen was a natural-born nurturer, so taking care of the injured Kurt was second nature; as soon as he was out of danger, she loved every minute of it.

Like most men, Kurt couldn’t get enough of being cared for and pampered and fussed over by a sweet, pretty, bossy woman.

Charlie too enjoyed that special season of long, lazy days when the three of them were constantly together. He got to help Helen do everything. He was there to assist in the feeding of his father. He was right there with his own soapy washcloth when Helen gave his father a bed bath. He was there making faces and giving instructions when Helen shaved his father’s whiskered cheeks and chin. He was there to see to it his father soaked his sprained ankle twice each day.

And in the quiet, still, scorching afternoons, he was there to wave a faded funeral-home fan back and forth before his father’s warm face while Helen read aloud.

She had been reading every afternoon since casually asking, a couple of days after Kurt had been hurt, if he’d like her to read to him. When he had said yes, she had selected from the tall bookcase in the parlor one of the leather-bound works of Sir Walter Scott.

And so the afternoon reading quickly became a regular part of their routine, as did Kurt’s morning bath. And the changing of his bandages. And serving his meals on a tray. And rubbing his back and legs while he groaned with satisfaction. And a hundred other intimate little things the three of them shared daily.

It was during those first long anxious hours of worry and the following calmer hours of watching Kurt recover that Helen began to feel as if the three of them were a family. She dearly loved the adorable Charlie. She was falling in love with Charlie’s brave, handsome father.

She almost hated to see this sweet interlude come to an end. She half wished that Kurt wasn’t healing so rapidly. Wished the long languid September days would stretch on endlessly.

At times Helen stood on the gallery just outside Kurt’s room looking wistfully over the low flat fields of her farm. Tall green cornstalks and golden summer wheat shimmered in the strong sunlight. Wherever she looked she saw the ripening bounty of all their hard labor.

Harvest time was just around the corner.

Harvest time and the crops would be sold and Kurt would be back on his feet. And she would pay him what she owed him and he would leave. And Charlie would leave. Both father and son would leave her. They would ride out of Alabama and out of her life. They would go back to Maryland.

Back to their home.

And she would be alone again.

Too quickly, the peaceful precious days were slipping by.

More than two weeks had passed since the brutal beating and Kurt was on the mend. He was able to see out of both eyes now. His broken ribs were no longer painful except when he turned over too quickly. His discoloring bruises had lightened. All but a couple of abrasions were almost healed. The pulled ligament in his right leg no longer bothered him and the fierce swelling in his badly sprained left ankle had almost disappeared. The fractured fingers on his left hand—fore and middle fingers—were temporarily useless, but gave him little trouble.

Truth to tell, he felt rather guilty about continuing to lie in bed, but anytime he mentioned getting up, Helen promptly vetoed the notion. She had, she said emphatically, promised Doc Ledet that she wouldn’t allow his patient to get out of bed until he, the doctor, okayed it.

So there.

Kurt didn’t argue the point all that much. He was enjoying the rest. What with the long hard years of the war, when he was constantly tired and hungry and dirty, it was rather nice to now be lying in a big feather bed and have a beautiful woman feed him hot meals from a tray and bathe him with soapy water and soft hands. A man could get used to such spoiling treatment.

Kurt sighed with lazy contentment one sultry afternoon, folded his arms beneath his head, and gazed contentedly out the open French doors. Beyond the broad white gallery and the tangled greenery cloaking the cliffs, the waters of the deep blue bay sparkled dazzlingly in the brilliant September sunlight.

Smiling, stretching, Kurt thought to himself that he could lie there forever looking out at that breathtakingly beautiful view.

The only thing which would make it better, he mused drowsily, would be to have Helen lying there beside him. He could almost feel her soft warmth enfolded in his eager arms. Could clearly envision her glorious golden hair fanned out on his naked chest. Could all too easily imagine his hands caressing—

The bedroom door opened and Kurt’s head snapped around. Expecting to see Helen, his quickening heartbeat slowed and he fought the mild disappointment when Charlie skipped noisily into the quiet room.

Kurt smiled at his son and said, “Come keep me company. I’m lonesome.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Charlie said. He dragged his footstool over to the bed and climbed up on it. He scaled the mattress like a nimble acrobat and crawled over to his father. Sitting back on his heels, Charlie said, “Helen’s baking a surprise for you.”

“Is she?” Kurt laid an affectionate hand on Charlie’s bare knee. “What is it?”

Charlie squinted his eyes. “I can’t tell. Helen said so.”

Kurt nodded, then sniffed at the pleasant aroma wafting in from the kitchen. “Smells mighty good, whatever it is.”

“Helen let me lick the bowl,” Charlie said. Then, having heard Helen ask every afternoon about this time if Kurt would like her to read to him, he said, “Shall I read to you?”

“Please do,” Kurt answered, just as he always did.

Charlie giggled, threw his arms up, and laced his hands atop his head. “Daddy, I can’t read. Jolly hasn’t teached me yet.”

“Taught,” his father gently corrected. “Well, that’s all right. Why don’t you tell me a story?”

“Tell you a story? What about?”

“Anything that comes to mind. Make up a good exciting tale and I’ll just lie here and listen.”

Charlie had an imagination. He began a colorful yarn, his eyes expressive, his hands gesturing.

Kurt listened for a time, lying back on the pillows, his eyes closed. But as the tale went on and on and grew more and more farfetched, his thoughts drifted to the day he and Charlie had first ridden onto Helen’s farm. It seemed like just last week. It had been more than four months ago!

It was early spring then. Now it was early autumn. The fields had not been planted then. Now he was proud of the crops that would soon be ready for harvest, proud of the improvements he had been able to make in the run-down lowland farm.

Kurt smiled to himself. When the crops came in, Helen could easily pay her taxes and she would even have some extra money. Already she’d been talking about painting the house, getting new kitchen curtains, buying the beautiful lilac counterpane she had seen at the Bon Ton over in Mobile last winter.

Kurt’s smile disappeared and his bare chest constricted. Yes, Helen would soon have money. Which meant she would pay him what he had earned and expect him to move on. To take Charlie and go home to Maryland.

Not so long ago that’s all he had dreamed of. Going home to Maryland. Home to the Dunston horse farm. Home to where he would one day have his own farm, his own land, his own home.

But what was a home without a woman in it? Without Helen?

He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want to leave Alabama. To leave her. His sweet, beautiful Helen.

And be alone again.

“… and then … then this b-i-gggg monster …” Charlie was still telling his story when Helen came into the room. Barefooted, her hair held atop her head with the mother-of-pearl clasp, she was carrying a tray with three glasses of chilled milk and three large slices of chocolate cake dripping with rich fudge icing.

Charlie immediately forgot about his storytelling. He clapped his hands when Helen handed the tray to Kurt and then climbed up onto the bed herself, crossing her legs beneath her and spreading her long skirts over her bare toes. Charlie thought it great fun for the three of them to sit there on the bed, talking, laughing, and enjoying the rich dark chocolate cake.

But as soon as he’d finished his cake, Charlie grew restless. He was off the bed and gone, racing outside and shouting to Dom. At Kurt’s insistence, Helen lingered.

Leaning back against the tall mahogany poster at the bed’s foot, hugging her knees, she stayed and talked, relaxed, enjoying the easy closeness which had developed between them during Kurt’s convalescence.

Listening as he spoke in a low, lulling voice, Helen studied his dark face, noting that it was almost back to normal. A little discoloration remained around his right eye and the cut just below his left eyebrow had not completely healed. But his handsomeness had been fully restored and in another week it would be impossible to tell that merciless blows had ever landed on those strong chiseled features.

Helen’s gaze lowered to his chest, which was bare, his nightshirt having been discarded because of the relentless heat. As with his face, most of the bruises and cuts were now nearly invisible, save that worst deep cut directly below his heart—the one which had become infected. A small bandage covered it and Helen knew he would sport a small scar for the rest of his life.

Tempted to remove the clean white bandage and press her lips to the slow-healing wound, she said in soft, casual tones, “Tell me what happened.”

Since they had been talking about something which had nothing to do with the fight, Kurt was puzzled by the question. “I don’t … What do you mean?” He frowned and shrugged.

“The fight. What happened in town to cause the fight in which you were very nearly killed?”

“Now, Helen, do I look like a man who was almost killed?”

“Please tell me what happened.”

“What happened? I got into a barroom brawl and got beat up. It’s as simple as that.” He smiled at her.

Helen smiled too. What a gallant liar he was. “With whom?” she prodded. “And who started it?”

“I didn’t get the fellow’s name,” Kurt said evenly. “But I started it. I threw the first punch.”

“You started the fight? You hit him first?” Kurt nodded. “But why? Why would you do such a thing?”

Kurt leaned back against the stack of pillows piled up against the headboard. Smiling, he said, “I had no choice, Helen.”

“You didn’t?” Her blue eyes grew wide. “Why?”

“You don’t want to know.” Kurt shook his dark head.

“I do. Yes, I do. Tell me.”

“Well … the man—this big ugly brute—made an indelicate reference.” Kurt cocked a dark eyebrow.

“Indelicate reference?” Helen repeated, frowning. “What exactly did he say?”

Impishly, Kurt grinned. “He called me a Yankee asshole.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

H
elen audibly winced and her blue eyes widened with shock. Her back stiffened and she was momentarily speechless. Her lips pursed, she stared at Kurt, astonished, totally taken aback.

But then she saw the self-deprecating grin on Kurt’s handsome face and the devilment flashing in the depths of his forest-green eyes. She released her caught breath and smiled too, hesitantly at first, still a little tense and not quite certain that she should be smiling. Kurt’s disarming smile broadened and so did hers.

And Helen started to laugh.

Kurt laughed with her. The two of them sat there on the feather bed and laughed uproariously. Suddenly the whole thing seemed incredibly hilarious and they laughed and laughed. Once they got started laughing, they couldn’t stop.

Tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks, Helen clutched her aching stomach and fell weakly over onto her back at the foot of the bed. Eyes squeezed shut, she kicked her bare feet up and down like a child and continued to laugh.

When finally she started to calm and quiet a little, she opened her eyes, turned her head, and looked at Kurt. That brought on a new burst of explosive laughter. His bare shoulders shaking, Kurt leaned back against the tall pillowed headboard and coughed and wiped the tears from his eyes. He slipped his left foot out from under the sheet and gave Helen’s hip a gentle kick with his toes.

Giggling and gasping, she grabbed his ankle, forgetting it was the one he had sprained.

“Ooch,” Kurt groaned dramatically, still laughing. “Hey, that’s my bad ankle.”

“Oh, dear!” Helen released his foot immediately. The laughter dying in her throat, she was up in a wink, tearing away the sheet and carefully examining his ankle. “Have I hurt you badly, Kurt? I never meant to—”

“No, I was just teasing you,” he quickly interrupted, wiggling his toes and turning his foot this way, then that. “See? The ankle’s okay.”

Helen’s troubled gaze lifted to meet his. “You sure? I’d just die if I thought I had stupidly hurt you.”

Kurt looked into her beautiful eyes, saw the genuine worry clouding them. He felt his heart kick against his ribs. “Ah, sweetheart,” he murmured, and instinctively held out his arms to her. “Come here.”

“I’ve been so worried about you,” Helen said, spontaneously crawling toward him. “So worried and afraid and I didn’t know what to do and I … I wasn’t sure I could take care of you properly and … and … I felt like you had gotten hurt because of me and I hated—”

“Oh, honey, honey,” Kurt murmured softly, putting his hands under her arms and gently pulling her to him. He drew her into his close embrace, wrapping his long arms protectively around her. Pressing her face to his chest, he laid his cheek atop her head and his voice was a low, warm caress when he said, “You’ve been nothing short of an angel. Nobody could have done more for me than you have and you’ll never know how much I appreciate it.” One dark hand cradled her head and the other—the one with the two fractured fingers—moved soothingly, tenderly over her back and slender shoulders.

Weak from all the giddy laughter, flushed and hot, Helen went limp against him, allowing him to hold her. Relaxing completely, she closed her eyes and sighed softly. Her lips against his bare warm shoulder, she said, “You really are feeling better, aren’t you?”