Calhoun Chronicles Bundle (40 page)

“Did you ever find out who she was?”

“We never learned her name. The salvage company in Eastwick came straightaway and took the cargo—sardines and olive oil, mostly. They asked about the Spanish lady’s belongings.” Eliza gestured at the treasures. “My father was an honest man, but he said nothing to the salvagers. When I asked him about it later, he smiled at me and said one day I’d be needing a dowry of my own, and he was sure the beautiful Spanish bride would want me to have hers.”

With a self-deprecating grin, Eliza looked down at her homespun smock and bare feet. “Thus far, I haven’t found any use for it. But—” She broke off, stopping herself and glancing away from Hunter.

He found himself staring at the sweet, slender curve of her neck as she turned her head away. “But what?” he asked, almost against his will. “Tell me what you were going to say.”

With his fingers at her jawline, he brought her gaze to his. Her skin was petal soft, washed clean from the cistern water earlier in the day. She tensed when he touched her, and seemed so flustered that he relented and dropped his hand.

“You’re as skittish as one of those wild ponies you showed me,” he said, reaching into the bottom of the old chest.

“That was with her things,” she said.

He opened the large, flat book. Folded inside the front cover was a map printed on yellowed paper. He raised the flame in the lamp and studied the map. The words were in Spanish, but he recognized the outward curve of the coastline. “California,” he said.

“We thought that was her destination.” Eliza paged through the book. “The text isn’t in English, but by studying the text and the pictures, I—” She bit her lip, bashful again.

“Go on,” he said, intrigued. He was having to pull this out of her.

She opened the book to a page marked with a length of black ribbon. “I know these pictures as well as the saltwater channel in front of this house. My father and I spent hours studying them. The lithographs were printed from famous paintings by an artist called Jiminez. There,” she said, indicating a page in the book. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

He scanned the text beside the picture. “Cel—”

“Cielito,” she said, correcting his pronunciation. “It’s north of gold country, and the land is there for the taking. Wild horses run free for thousands of miles. My father always said we would go there one day.”

“I take it you’re more at home with horses than with people.”

“A horse never did a thing wrong to me.”

“And a person has?”

Agitated, she recoiled, as if sensing she had revealed too much. She shut the heavy book with a thud and put it back in the trunk. Hunter sensed something more was going on than the simple display of her treasures. She was telling him her dream. Like the dance she had done with the stallion on the beach that first morning, she was doing a dance with him. She would reveal something to him, and see what happened in return. Interesting.

“So when do you set sail?” he asked.

She laughed, but he heard bitterness in her laughter. “I think I’m a little late for the gold rush.”

He indicated the things in the trunk. “That would be worth something.”

“That poor dead bride left them with me. I’m not sure she meant to, but it seems wrong to sell her things. I’ll take them with me. They were always meant to wind up in California anyway.”

“And when will that be?” he persisted.

She looked him in the eye, and for a moment he wished he hadn’t drunk so much.

“That depends,” she said, “on what I have to do to earn the price of passage.”

E
liza scrambled out of bed with a vague, disoriented sense that something was amiss. She washed and dressed quickly, and didn’t bother with her hair. Then she went outside to find the porch deserted.

Had he gone? Had he taken Finn, or simply left the stallion for her to train?

Caliban came trotting up, his fringed tail swishing to and fro in friendly fashion. “So where’d he go?” Eliza murmured, distractedly scratching the dog’s ears. A breeze hissed in the high trees on the lee shore, bringing with it a tingle of heat from the coming summer. The tide was out, and the long slick mudflats fidgeted with the movements of bugs and crabs. Eliza climbed up to the porch rail and balanced there to give herself a longer view, past the outbuildings and the rippling windrows of saltmeadow hay. No boat or scow lay at anchor at south shore. Instead the strand was wide and empty, the tide out far, gulls and cormorants squabbling over crabs and shellfish on the flats.

She had looked upon this sight every day of her life, but today felt different. After her father died, she had finally understood what loneliness felt like. She discovered that it was bearable so long as she didn’t brood about her isolation.

But with the arrival of Hunter Calhoun, she had discovered something else. She needed to be with someone. Even if that someone was an arrogant, hard-drinking Tidewater blue blood. In his absence, she no longer felt merely lonely. She knew a sense of abandonment so vast and deep that she wondered how she could be feeling it and still be alive. It was a different sort of hurt from the hopeless agony of losing her father. This was a sort of hurt that held the heat of anger.

Why had he left without a word? Had he revealed too much of himself, telling her of his dreams and plans for the place called Albion? That was probably it, she decided. People were rarely grateful to those to whom they told their secrets.

Caliban whined impatiently, eager to get on with the day. There were weirs and crab traps to be checked, chores to do. It was silly, but she had grown used to Hunter Calhoun being present when she awoke. Sitting around and wondering about him accomplished nothing.

Claribel’s milk pail wasn’t in the kitchen. Eliza wondered if she could have left it out somewhere. But she never forgot the pail. She hurried outside and walked up to the meadow, listening for Claribel’s bell and calling her name. The little cow always walked the same track, and the path beaten into the sandy earth was easy to follow. Like the other animals of the island, the cow had a language all her own, a silent and simple language Eliza understood. Rather than shying from her, Claribel almost always came when called.

With a strange shock Eliza saw Hunter Calhoun, carrying a bucket of milk down the cow path toward her.

“Morning,” he said, his manner casual, as if this were an everyday occurrence.

“Morning,” she echoed, unable to get her mouth to say anything else.

“Did your milking for you,” he said gruffly.

She followed him down to the house. “I’m used to doing my own chores.”

He went inside and set the bucket in the dry sink, laying a towel over the top of it. “Don’t look so outraged, Miz Eliza. You know, in my time I’ve given cause for any number of women to take offense, but never on account of milking a cow.”

She felt her cheeks redden. “I’m not offended—”

“You are.” He took her hand and pulled her along with him, leading the way outside. “And I can tell you why.”

She wrenched her hand away from his, but he kept walking, so she had to quicken her step to keep up. “Very well. Tell me why.”

“Because you’re starting to like me.”

“I’m not. I don’t even know you.”

He slowed his pace and sent her a sidelong glance. “Honey, you know me better than almost anyone I’ve ever met. See, I don’t talk about…What happened with Lacey and the farm and what I hope to accomplish—I’m not sure why I spoke of it to you.” He thought for a moment. “You started liking me better after I told you about my terrible past.”

“That’s not true. I—”

“You’re just relieved to hear I’m not some arrogant planter, whipping his slaves and taking their women to bed.”

“I’d be relieved to hear that about anyone.”

“Well, the fact is, you like me better today than you did yesterday, and tomorrow you’ll like me even more.”

“Why is that?”

“You’ll see.”

They made their way along the path to check on the stallion. Finn stood in the shade of a sweetleaf tree, drinking from the rain barrel and switching his tail rhythmically to and fro. At the sound of their approach, he stopped drinking and brought his head up sharply, long bright strands of water dripping from his muzzle.

She could see the lingering ghosts of fear and rage in him. He pricked his ears high and clamped his tail low, sucking under his haunches and lifting one foot. He was fully prepared to defend himself by kicking.

“He’s about to explode,” Hunter observed.

“Yes.” She felt a certain satisfaction in the idea that he was paying attention to the stallion’s signals.

“He seemed better yesterday, but look at him now.” He touched her arm lightly, and she felt stung, unused to any man’s touch.

She pulled away. “You can’t rush the process. His fear was deep. Be patient.”

“Show me,” he said to her. “Show me how you tamed him.”

Over the years, many had asked the same of her father. Only a few had genuinely wanted to learn. Looking into Hunter Calhoun’s clear blue eyes, she hoped he was one of those few.

“He’s willing to listen,” she said. “Watch the ears.” Ever so slightly, one ear turned back obliquely. “Go on into the pen. You should start working with him.”

“Don’t you think it’s too soon to test him?”

“We’ll know in a moment, won’t we?”

Hunter Calhoun stood at the gate, scowling. He was peevish, balky, like an intractable plow horse. The thought made her smile. “All right, Mr. I-Can-Ride-Anything-with-Hair. Are you saying you’re afraid?”

“You didn’t see us getting him off the ship from Ireland. This stallion’s a lit stick of dynamite.”

“Just watch him,” she said softly. “Feel what he’s telling you.”

“Honey, what he’s telling me is he’d like to kick my eyes through the back of my head.”

She pushed him lightly, her hand on his back. “You’ll be fine. And if you’re not, just—stay close to the rail.”

He grumbled, but he did as she said, walking into the pen. She took a quiet joy in the morning now, for it felt like so many mornings past, when her father had been alive. The prospect of a new horse. The squeak of the bar across the gate and the solid thunk of the rail dropping into place. She had missed this. Oh, how she had missed this.

“Now, hold your shoulders square, but don’t threaten him. Think about what he sees when you walk toward him. Your eyes are at the front of your head, which marks you as a predator.”

“I can’t do much about that,” Hunter said between his teeth.

“I’m just pointing out that to a horse, you have the look and the smell of a predator. Instinct will tell him to flee from you. So you’ve got to convince him to want to follow you.”

“In other words, he’s got to see something I’m not. I don’t think a horse is that smart.”

“You’ve got to avoid threatening him. Walk slowly. Don’t be intimidated, but don’t intimidate.”

As Hunter approached the horse, the chestnut hide quivered and the ears flattened. Hunter half turned to her, a question in his eyes.

“Watch the horse,” she said. “See the way he holds himself. He distrusts you, but you have his attention.”

When Hunter walked closer, she said, “Now, turn away.”

“But shouldn’t I—”

“I know it’s not customary,” she said. “But it works. Just don’t act anxious or impatient when you turn.”

He did as she told him and, as she knew he would, the stallion watched the man walk away. They repeated the exercise—Hunter’s advance and retreat—several times, until the stallion decided to go along with the man.

Hunter Calhoun surprised her. She had expected disdain from a Virginia aristocrat. She had expected him to balk at taking advice from a woman. Yet with the stallion, he showed a remarkable patience, never trying to rush the horse as most men would. “Take the time now, or spend a longer time later,” her father used to say.

For all of his bluster, she observed, Hunter had not lied about his abilities. He was good with horses. As the morning wore on, he convinced the stallion to follow him, stopping and starting at his will. Finally, by mid-morning, she said, “Try getting him to lie down.”

His skeptical gaze flicked to her, but then he nodded. He understood what it meant to get a horse to lie down. It was the ultimate exercise in trust, for a horse was at his most vulnerable when lying on the ground.

Hunter took the shank of the halter and tugged it down. The horse resisted. Hunter let him resist, time and time again, not fighting him but not letting up either. He touched the horse, spoke to him in a low, compelling voice. Eliza felt entranced by the sight of Hunter’s big hands skimming over the horse’s hide, the sound of his dark, nonsensical whispers. Deep within her, she felt the same primal response of the horse—an awakening, a quickening. Warmth and interest. She found the picture of the blond man and the dark horse enchanting. Finally, as the sun arched up to high noon, the stallion lay down in the shade of the sweetleaf tree.

“I’ll be damned,” Hunter said. “It’s working.” He stared at her for a long moment with the oddest expression on his face. For no reason she could fathom, she blushed and looked away, holding her breath until the moment passed and he turned his attention back to the horse.

She sat on a heartwood stump and watched while Hunter tamed Finn limb by limb, inch by inch. The man’s large hands rubbed the horse all over, the vulnerable spine and withers, the neck and haunches and cheeks—everywhere. The drowsy warmth of the afternoon invaded Eliza, and a curious lassitude stole over her. She kept watching those hands, those big gentle hands, touching and patting, rubbing and caressing. The horse grew more and more relaxed. Hunter took the great nodding head between his hands and shook it gently, pressing his will upon the stallion like a father to a wayward boy.

He selected an old, rusty dandy brush from the cobwebby grooming box and groomed the horse, working slowly, always talking, seeming to take a pure sensual delight in the task. The mud-caked hide was transformed, bit by bit, into a coat of polished mahogany, its color pure and dazzling to the eye. Eliza could not keep her gaze away from the spectacle, even though she felt like an intruder in a way she never had while watching her father. She grew warm and lazy with the contentment of watching a man who knew the ways of horses. A man who knew how to use his hands, and his voice, and an intimate touch to bend the creature’s will.

After a long time, he gave the stallion a piece of barley sugar and left the arena. When he looked at Eliza, he laughed softly. “I take it from the expression on your face that you approve.”

His laughter and his words flustered her. It was as if he had caught her in the middle of an impure thought. “Oh!” she said, brushing off her smock. “You did very well. Exactly as my father would have had you do.”

He studied her for a moment. “I wish I’d known him.”

The quiet statement pressed at Eliza in an unexpected place. She found she couldn’t speak, so she merely nodded and gave her attention to the horse.

“Should we go on with him today?” Hunter asked.

“Later, perhaps. It’s fine to keep after him, but we should let him rest too.”

“Good.” In one smooth movement, he peeled the shirt off over his head.

She gaped at his chest, glistening with sweat.

He laughed again, still softly. “Pardon me. I reek of horse.”

Trying to recover her composure, she said, “You can draw a bath at the cistern if you like.”

He sent her a long, speculative look that made her tingle in appalling places—her throat, the tips of her breasts, between her legs. She prayed that he couldn’t discern the reaction by looking at her.

“I’d like,” he said simply, and followed her back to the house.