Dream Weaver (10 page)

"Miss Emrys." Noah paused. "May I call you Gwen?"

"Sure."

He opened and closed his mouth, staring at her for a long moment. "Miss Emrys, uh, Gwen, I wanted to ask you..."

He took a deep breath, leaving her to wonder what he wanted.

"Will you marry me?" Noah continued in a rush of words, "Oh, I know I'm bein' hasty and all that, but a man needs a wife in these parts, and you sure are the prettiest lady I've seen in a long time, or ever, I guess." He grinned. "Even if you do talk funny." Noah shifted from one foot to another, an expectant gleam in his eyes. "So will you marry me?"

She stared at him. "But we hardly know each other."

"Don't matter. We can get to know each other after we marry," Noah replied.

Gwen's mind raced, wondering how to answer him in a tactful manner, one suited for this time period. "Sir, you do me a great honor, but we've known each other for such a short time, and I feel that perhaps we are not well-suited. Oh, you're a nice man, and I'm sure you're a hard-working farmer. But I don't believe I'm the one for you." Seeing the stricken expression on his face, Gwen tried to soften her words. "You deserve a better woman than I, one who can tend your house, cook your meals. I'm not very good at cooking and cleaning and--"

"Wouldn't matter to me. You'd learn housewifery soon enough, I vow."

"Noah, I'm not the only--" She cleared her throat. "Lots of other women around. Another woman could make you happier, I just know it.” Like Leah Conway. Why don't you ask her? ”So hey, let's leave it at that, shall we? You really are a good man, Noah." Gwen flashed him a friendly smile. "But don't you think it's time we went back inside?"

She returned to the frolic with Noah, still overcome by the farmer's proposal. A jarring thought slowed her steps. Suppose Christian showed her a little more interest, what would happen then? Would he propose? She smiled at her crazy imagination. Why, she didn't even love him.

* * *

After the set ended, the dancers headed for the refreshment table again. Where was Gwen? Christian wondered. Of course, she meant nothing to him, save that he missed the verbal bouts that kept him on his toes. And another thing--would he ever discover the reason for her presence in the western part of the province?

"Excuse me, gentlemen." Rebecca rose from her chair to help with serving, leaving the men to their conversation. A glass of whiskey in his hand, Christian joined Edward and Daniel in a discussion about a possible conflict with the Indians. Now and then, his eyes strayed toward the doorway.

There! Gwen stepped into the room with Noah Enfield, their faces unreadable. Strange, he hadn't realized how much he enjoyed her company until she'd left him. But Noah Enfield? Christian frowned in thought. Could it be--? Had Noah asked her to--? Well, he's welcome to her, but she may prove more than he can handle. A sick feeling settled in his stomach. He shrugged. So she was attracted to another man. Why should he care?

What if Gwen were his wife? Foolish speculation! He still hadn't learned where she hailed from, or what had brought her to this part of the province. Either she was a French spy or--heaven help her--she was crazy as a Bedlamite. She was trouble, no matter what.

For now, he dismissed the problem. Tonight was not a good time to glean any information. Just the same, he wished he could help her if she truly were crazed, but he feared becoming entangled by her charms. And that would never do.

* * *

On his rounds in the wilderness days later, Christian stopped by Jeb Randall's place, finding the farmer at work in the field. He slid off his horse and left the bay to nibble on the grass that edged the furrowed fields. After removing his hat, he ran his hand across his perspiring forehead and bent over to brush the trail dust from his leggings. He tied the reins to a low tree branch and approached the farmer.

"Jeb," he called as he angled his way through the rows of corn, stirring up dust along the way. "Haven't seen you for quite a while. How do you fare?" Acres and acres of flax, corn, and vegetables surrounded them, the fresh, clean aroma of newly-hoed earth scenting the air. Beyond the fields, the vast, dark forest stretched for miles.

Tall and gaunt, Jeb stopped to rest his hands on the hoe handle, sorrowfully shaking his head. "First the cow died, then my wife."

"Jeb, I'm so sorry! I had no idea she was sick. How did it happen?"

Jeb turned and spat, then fixed his gaze on Christian. "Well, first she stopped giving milk, then I found her on the barn floor--"

"No, no. I mean your wife."

"Oh, her. It started with a fever, and--

"Jeb! Why didn't you come get me?"

"Kept thinkin' she'd get better. She kinda went outta her mind at the end. By then there weren't nothin' I could do." He gestured toward a hill about a half-mile distant. "See that hill yonder with the cross atop it? Buried her there a coupla days ago. But the cow--" He shook his head again. "Don't know what I'm gonna do."

Christian's jaw tightened. "So you're upset about a damn animal."

"Yep, sure miss that cow."

"But your wife!"

"Well, 'tis easy enough to get another wife. 'Taint so easy to get another cow."

"Unfortunate fellow!" Christian turned and stalked away, his booted feet kicking loose rocks in his path. About to mount his horse, he paused, a shaft of fear making his heart pound. What if Jeb's wife had died from something contagious?

* * *

 
With memories of the frolic still vivid in her mind, Gwen held Bryony close on the settle while Lumi napped next to the hearth. Was it just her imagination, or did the little girl seem extra warm this afternoon?

"When will Papa be back from Phil--Phil--"

"
Philadelphia
," Gwen finished. "Your mother said the trip from here to
Philadelphia
takes a long time, and your father has a lot to do there, I understand." Gwen hugged her in reassurance. "Your father can take care of himself, and before you know it, he'll be back home." The little girl nodded, a worried look on her face. "Is Mama sick?"

"Your mother is resting." She bit her lower lip. How could she tell the child that Rebecca had suffered a miscarriage yesterday? "It's nothing serious, honestly, sweetheart. Your mama has been so busy lately I suggested she rest for a few days while I look after you and Robert. Molly can cook and take care of the house."

Bryony scoffed. "Robert's a baby. He takes a nap every day."

"Oh, and I suppose you never took naps?" Gwen asked with a teasing grin.

"Only when I was a little, little, little baby," she said, holding her hands about a foot apart, "like this."

Gwen shifted her position on the hard-backed settle and smoothed her hand over the child's forehead. "You seem a little warm, sweetie. You don't feel sick, do you?"

Bryony shook her head. "I'm not sick."

 
"Well, let's take advantage of the quiet," Gwen said, "and I'll tell you a poem about a bear.”

Bryony drew back. “Bears are scary.”

“They won’t hurt you if you don’t bother them.” She cleared her throat.

There once was a bear who had fuzzy hair

He was quite clean and not at all mean

Except when he took a scare

Well, then, you should see that bear

 
Bryony raised her hand to her forehead. "My head hurts, Gwen."

"I thought you felt sick, and besides, you and Robert played so hard this morning." Touching the little girl's forehead, Gwen wished she had a thermometer. "How about a nap after I finish the poem?”

"I'm not a baby. Go on with the poem, Gwen."

Noting the little girl's drooping eyelids, Gwen hurried through the poem, omitting some of the middle.

He fussed and he fought

He became quite distraught

The meanest bear you’ve ever seen

Bryony pressed against Gwen, fast asleep. Gwen eased away from her, then rose to her feet, bending over to pick her up. Bryony winced and whimpered at her touch, scaring her witless. Smoothing the little girl's wet hair plastered to her forehead, Gwen observed her flushed face and checked her pulse, going fast, so fast!

She sank back on the settle, running her fingers through her hair. What should she do? You couldn't just drive down to the corner drugstore to buy Tylenol. She rubbed her forehead, realizing there wasn't much she could do, except enlist Molly's help. Then she'd ride to Christian's place.

Her mind made up, she hurried to the kitchen where Molly kneaded dough at the long table.

"Molly, Bryony appears to have a fever--"

Molly pressed a floury hand to her chest, a frightened look on her face. "Oh, no, miss!"

"Nothing to worry about, Molly." She hoped so. "I'm going to ride over to Dr. Norgard's. He should know what to do. For now, I'll sponge Bryony with cold water, and you can take care of Robert when he wakes up." She gave Molly a frank look. "You don't mind taking care of Robert?"

"Of course not, miss."

"Well, then, be sure to keep him away from his sister. No need for you to take a chance, either. Bryony will be my responsibility." She thought hard. "I'm not going to tell Mistress Chamberlain about it now. She's got enough on her mind. Tomorrow...we'll see."

* * *

As Christian's house came into view, Gwen breathed a long sigh of relief. Now, she could get him and they'd be on their way..

Except that he wasn't home. Gwen lifted the iron doorlatch and stepped inside, squinting in the dim light that barely penetrated the room's lone window. God, she prayed, please have him return soon.

She waited a few minutes for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, then wandered around the room, noting the utensils at the hearth, the pewter mug, the wooden bowl on the table. His things. The pale beam of light through the window caught the dust motes that floated in the air, the nicks and scratches on his table, the scuff marks on the wooden floor.

Although she'd been in his house before when she'd had her harrowing time travel experience, she'd been too upset then to notice much of anything. This time, she studied the oak bookcase in a far corner next to a clothes chest. On a shelf above the bookcase huddled a mortar and pestle, along with a multitude of jars, each neatly labeled. Fascinated in spite of her anxiety, she moved closer to get a better look.

She bent low to scan the labels, flummoxed by so many odd concoctions, such as calomel, ipecac, and all the other medicines she'd never heard of. No doubt they all served their intended purpose, but she wondered if they were as effective as antibiotics and other modern medicines. Not likely.

Her gaze drifted down to the oaken bookcase, where she ran her finger along the leather-bound books to study the titles. William Harvey's An Anatomical Treatise on the Motion of The Heart and Blood in Animals rested between other medical texts whose authors were unfamiliar to her. A couple of books by Fielding caught her interest. Maybe she could borrow them later. Why, Christian had a fortune in books here. She knew of a bookseller in
Pittsburgh--

Damn! She pounded her fist on the bookcase and resumed her pacing. When would she ever realize she could never go back?

Just when she'd given up hope, the door creaked open and Christian stepped inside. The brilliant sunlight behind him caught his deerskin shirt and leggings in an amber glow, as if they were on fire. His dark green tricorne gave him a look of solemn distinction. With a guilty pang, Gwen stopped her pacing, as though caught in some crime.

As Christian stepped inside, he saw her worried look. "Gwen, what's amiss?"

"Bryony's sick...fever, aching muscles..."

"My God!" Influenza. He'd heard of a recent epidemic at
Fort
Pitt
, and then Jeb's wife had apparently died from it. Even though these settlers lived in comparative isolation, diseases could spread from one family to another.

He drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He held the door open for her. "Let us leave now. No time to lose!"

* * *

Beside Bryony's bed, Gwen watched Christian open his wooden instrument case to withdraw a scary, sharp-looking instrument.

She sucked in a breath. "What's that for?"

Frowning, he glanced her way. "A lancet."

"But what is it for?" She had the worst feeling that...

"For drawing blood." Christian threw her a look of surprise. "Surely you've seen a lancet before?"

"No, I haven't, thank God. You eighteenth-century doctors sure do love to bleed your patients, don't you? And I've heard the cure was often worse than the illness."