Daughter of the Sword (9 page)

But this was the United States! And she was going to persuade Johnny that she should have her Bowie knife. Then, come night raiders or amorous Britishers, she'd be ready. On that unmaidenly thought, she at last fell asleep.

It was decided the next morning that Mother would stay home. She and Deborah could do the washing while tending to Rolf, and Thos could help Father at the shop.

“Rolf's feverish,” Mother said after the men had gone. “I'll try to get some milk and mush down him and dress his wound while you get the water on to boil. Thos has already started the fire under the kettle and dumped in a few buckets to start you off.”

Deborah slipped into her moccasins, not wasting time, because it promised to be a hot day, and washing, even in cool weather, was drudgery. Still, she'd rather carry water than cope with that shoulder, let alone the strange sensations Rolf could cause in her.

The trouble with being in the yard, of course, was that when she looked at the stable or wagon, she remembered last night. Pushing it away, she started her task.

She knew Mother wanted to wash her hair soon, so she left the soft rainwater in the barrel and drew up buckets from the well, carrying two at a time to pour into the big black kettle sitting on an iron grate above the fire. Thos had also brought out a bench and put the tub on it. Deborah filled this for rinsing and thrust more corncobs and cow chips under the kettle before adding soft soap.

By the time she went back to the house, Leticia had sorted the washing into dark and white. Deborah carried out the sheets, napkins, and undergarments, put them into the now boiling water, and poked them around with a blunt stick. Mother joined her in time to lift the steaming laundry from the kettle into the dishpan, where spots were rubbed out and more stubborn stains were attacked by laying the article on the bench and beating it with a wooden mallet. The soapy water was, as much as possible, wrung into the dishpan and then returned to the kettle.

“Rolf's shoulder's angry but seems clean enough,” Mother said. “He wouldn't eat. After we rinse the white things and get them drying, why don't you see if you can coax him to have a little food?”

There was really no choice. “I'll try,” Deborah said and hoped she didn't sound as nervous as she felt.

When the kettle was emptied of whites, Deborah brought the colored things, sighing at the state of Thos's trousers and shirts, though to be fair, the dress she'd worn yesterday had smudges of dirt and blood, which Mother had already rinsed with cold water.

These went into the kettle. Deborah helped rinse the whites and wring them out, dumped the first rinse water, and filled the tub for the second rinse. Colored clothes, thank goodness, got only one rinse! When the sheets and other white wash had been rinsed again and wrung as thoroughly as the women could manage, they were spread over the plum bushes to dry.

“See what you can do with the young man,” Mother said. “If he won't have mush or gruel, perhaps he'd like some mashed plums.”

Doubting that, for the plums, preserved in water till a sealing scum formed, were sour and not much improved by sorghum, Deborah went reluctantly to the house.

Mother had tied back the curtain to admit the breeze, but it was already warm. Rolf's hair was spread on the pillow like tarnished gold, and his eyelashes lay long and dark against his cheeks. His white linen shirt was open at the front, revealing a strong muscular neck. There were ruffles down the front and at the wrists, making him look, Deborah thought, with a smile at her fancy, like a stricken Cavalier. As she watched him, wondering whether to let him sleep or ask him what of their limited fare he might like to try, his eyes opened, widened at the sight of her, but remained drowsy—as if he continued a very pleasant dream.

Uneasy at his gaze, Deborah asked how he was that morning.

“Much better, now that you've come.”

Deborah viewed him with suspicion. “You wouldn't eat on purpose!”

“Your mother,” he said blandly, “is a charming and estimable woman, but it's seeing you that makes me ready for nourishment.”

“That sounds like rubbish, sir!”

“Not a bit! You make me eager to gain back my strength, Miss Deborah. Not,” he added reflectively, “that being ministered to by a lovely woman doesn't have its rewards. But on the whole, I prefer to have two sound arms!”

“I hope you heal quickly, sir, though doubtless the creatures you hunt should be grateful for a respite!”

His eyes traveled to the pulse beating in her throat. “I don't shoot my sweetest quarry. I must admit, in fact, that it sometimes turns and hunts me again.”

“Will you have mush, gruel, or preserved plums?”

Rolf chuckled. “And sometimes the object of my hunt pretends it's not pursued. Then, when I catch up to it quickly, it cries foul and swears it was never warned.”

“I'm warned!” Deborah turned on her heel. “Now, Mr. Hunter, I've come to wait on you, but Mother needs my help. Will you have some food or wait till she can come to you?”

“Cruel!” he groaned. “I did expect more gratitude.”

“I'm grateful. Your aid last night cancels your … your rude behavior earlier! But you like to fight, Mr. Hunter. You seized the occasion with gusto. You must pardon me if I feel you acted in accordance with your natural bent.”

“Then aren't you glad I happened to be on your side?” he asked jauntily after the merest furrowing of his brow.

“I'd be gladder yet if you didn't seem to glory in a chance at killing.”

“You mean I should hate a fight the way Dane does, agonize before and after?” Rolf laughed derisively. “It all came to the same act in the end. Both Dane and I killed last night—protecting you and your family, remember.”

“I … know.”

Remembering the shrieks of pain, the tumble of wrecked bodies, she began to tremble, then turned her face so he couldn't see her tears.

“Deborah.”

She blinked and tried to subdue the lump in her throat. “Shall I bring you something to eat?”

His hand closed on her wrist, more compelling in that he lacked the strength to maintain the grip if she resisted. “Sweet Deborah.” His voice was a caressing whisper. “Forgive me. I'm a rogue. Bring that mush or gruel or whatever you have and I'll eat it up like a model patient.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissed it gently, and let her go.

He ate the bowl of mush and milk, opening his mouth obediently as Deborah fed him. She distrusted his meekness but was too grateful for it to challenge. Avoiding those deep green eyes that never left her face, she concentrated on her task. He didn't try to talk. That made their closeness more intimate. She felt pressed upon by his watching, his silence, and she was glad when the last bite was gone.

“Would you like coffee?” she asked, rising from the stool.

“Whatever you'll give me.”

“There are also milk and buttermilk.”

“Coffee, please.”

She brought him a cup of the makeshift brew and asked if he needed anything else. “Could you fluff a little coolness into the pillows?” he asked.

Deborah took them. They were of the finest down, a luxurious contrast to the shuck mattresses. As she stepped behind Rolf to arrange them, he leaned back suddenly, cheek against her breast.

“The sweetest resting place,” he murmured.

His breath warmed her through the cotton, sent a prickling of gooseflesh over her. For a fraction of a second Deborah couldn't move. Then, blushing hotly, she sprang back. But in the instant she'd been transfixed, Dane had entered.

His cool gray eyes touched her; there seemed to be the slightest curl to his lips. Fixing his attention on Rolf, Dane said in a dry tone, “You seem vastly improved, brother.”

“Still swimmy in the head.”

Rolf was all innocence, though his greenish eyes flickered with merriment as Deborah said to Dane with all the dignity she could command, “Now that you can see to your brother, sir, I'll help my mother. Have you breakfasted?”

“Most adequately, thank you.”

With Melissa Eden sitting across from him? Melissa's gowns weren't exactly low-cut, but in a place where everyone but “bad” women wore high-necked ones, her ruffled, tight-fitting bodices were something of a scandal. No doubt, too, the early hour had excused a suggestive disarray of that shining taffy-colored hair. The conjured image put Deborah completely out of temper. Dane was an arrogant, evil-minded man who seemed to blame
her
for what his resourceful younger brother did! But she was anxious over how the town had taken the killings at Marais des Cygnes.

Swallowing her wrath, she asked what was happening in Lawrence. “A messenger rode in with the news during the night,” said Dane. “He says James Montgomery's raiding north for vengeance. Jim Lane's rousing the militia around Lawrence and Topeka and intends to march into West Point, Missouri, to look for Hambleton and his gang.”

“I hope they find them all!”

“So does your brother.”

“What do you mean?” Deborah's heart chilled.

“I stopped by
The Clarion
and found Thos pointing out to your father that he's seventeen, strong and unencumbered, and that it's his bounden duty to go with the militia and ‘Grim Chieftain' Lane.”

Deborah's hand went involuntarily to her throat. “Father didn't let him?”

“Between us, we managed to persuade your twin that his first duty was to help protect you and Mrs. Whitlaw in case a real border war breaks out. But he's restive, Miss Whitlaw, restive.”

“I—I'll talk to him!” Resentful as she was at Dane, she was still forced to be grateful. “Thank you for persuading Thos, Mr. Hunter.” She added with some bitterness, “I'm sure he'd pay much more attention to you than to anyone else!”

He almost smiled. “Call it even for brothers, Miss Whitlaw. I'm sure mine has been a more tractable invalid for you than ever he'd be for another mortal.” He gave Rolf a mock-stern glance. “The danger is that he may play sick to enjoy your attentions.”

“Oh, he won't do that for long,” Deborah assured them both. “If people don't mend when Mother thinks they should, she starts them on a course of castor oil. That always effects a quick cure.”

“You shouldn't threaten a wounded man!” said Rolf with a grimace.

Dane laughed. “Well, you young rascal, it sounds as if you're in the right hands!” He began to unwrap the bandage. “Mrs. Whitlaw agreed that since my experience with firearm wounds is greater than hers, it'd be well for me to have a look.”

“Will you need anything?” Deborah asked.

“If I do, I'll find it. Failing that, I'll shout for help. Since you prefer that I not hire a nurse, at least I'll see that the whole burden of care doesn't fall on you.”

That was like him—too proud to accept favors from colonials! Deborah went out with as much of a swish as her rather limp skirts could manage and was in time to help Leticia with the rinsing and wringing.

One at either end, they twisted the last possible drop of water from Thos's trousers. “I'd best start dinner,” Mother said, pinning up damp tendrils of elusive hair and glancing at the noon sun. “We have the rabbits Rolf gave us yesterday, and Dane brought a mysterious hamper from town.” Her almost childlike pleasure at the gift faded. “I'm thankful that Dane talked Thos out of following Jim Lane. I don't like that man and never did—the way he treated his wife and that bloodthirsty rasping way he shouts and stirs people up! He was a pro-slavery Democrat when he was a congressman from Indiana and voted for repealing the Missouri Compromise, which brought on all this trouble, because if that law had remained, there'd be no question of allowing slavery in Kansas, or Nebraska, either!”

There was no way to defend the way he'd forced a divorce on his wife, daughter of General St. Clair, who'd been president of the Continental Congress and governor of the Northwest Territory. It was rumored that Lane had gone through her inherited wealth and come to Kansas, but after the divorce she had married him again!

“Thos thinks he's been converted to the Free-State cause,” said Deborah.

Leticia sniffed. “The way he's always getting converted at different Methodist churches? He rides around on that claybank in his moth-eaten sealskin coat, chewing tobacco and telling people how brave he was in the Mexican War. He'd fit better with the Border Ruffians!” She marched for the cabin while Deborah began spreading the colored clothes over the bushes.

So Dane Hunter probably intended to spend most days looking after Rolf? Could it be that besides his wish not to impose, he meant to protect his brother from involvement with a woman he might have to marry if the dalliance went too far? Deborah's cheeks burned at the thought and she shook Thos's trousers till they snapped.

Why
was that odious man forever catching her in unexplainable situations? He must surely know his brother's philandering predilections! Still, he behaved as if she'd invited Rolf's amorous nonsense. It wasn't fair!

Smarting. Deborah put out the smoldering fire with soapy water from the kettle and poured the rest on the bare ground. The lye soap would kill plants. Rinse water, however, was precious. Dipping buckets into the tub, she carried this to the garden.

There looked to be enough peas for cooking with new potatoes. That would be nice for supper and would improve Dane's opinion of their food.

What did she care for his opinion?

She cared. However noxious his manner, there'd been that one heart-stopping moment she could never forget, the sounding of a chord so deep within her she hadn't dreamed it was there. She wouldn't be a fool, sigh after him, or seek his favor, but she'd be lying to herself to pretend that what he thought wasn't devastatingly important. She wouldn't let him guess that, though! Turning the kettle upside down so it wouldn't rust, she put the soft soap back in the well-house and placed the tub where it'd catch any rain water that might fall.