Blue Moon (4 page)

Now
, she thought,
now he’ll try to touch me. He’ll put his hands on me and try to make me do things I don’t want to do and he’ll succeed because I’m so weak. So terribly weak
.

He took a step toward her.

Olivia braced herself.

He said, “If you want to head off alone through the countryside, go right ahead. There are bears out there, and hunters’ traps, and plenty of wolves and coyotes beyond the swamp. You want to go right now?” He ignored the sad, limp duck carcasses, crossed the room, and waited by the door for her to make the next move. “Let’s go.”

For a moment she could not believe her luck had changed. Despite the way he looked at her, he was clearly not going to attack her. He was not refusing to take her out of the swamp. He was actually going to send her on her way without argument. The bears, wolves, snakes, and bobcats collectively did not frighten her as much as the thought of what might happen if he acted on his desire.

When Olivia pushed herself up with her good arm, her legs started to shake. Stars danced in front of her eyes.

The next thing she knew, she was lying on the bed again, looking up into Noah’s concerned face.

“You all right?” he asked softly.

Her mouth had suddenly gone dry. She ran her tongue over her lips and tried to swallow. Immediately he disappeared and seconds later came back with a long-handled ladle of water. He gently cradled the back of her head in his hand and pressed the ladle to her lips. She took a few sips. When she was through, he lowered her head to the pillow.

“Looks like you’ll have to put off leaving for a while.”

His voice was so soft, so matter-of-fact that she sighed.

“But you
will
take me out of here, won’t you? You
will
let me go when I’m able?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Olivia looked up into his face. Couldn’t she tell a man’s lie from the truth anymore? Could he possibly be feigning such a puzzled expression? Could it be that here was a truly honorable man, one who would not harm her? A man who would ignore his own desire and see her safely out of here?

She did not even realize she had shed a tear until he reached out and wiped it off her cheek with his thumb. His hand, where it cupped her face, felt warm and dry and gentle, so caring that she was tempted to let down her guard. When she met his gaze, he quickly turned his head so that she saw only the perfect side of his face.

“You don’t need to worry. Say the word and I’ll point you in the direction of Shawneetown,” he whispered, concentrating on the scene outside the window. “But until you feel up to it, you’d best stay put.”

“I hate to impose on you like this, but I have no choice.”

She turned her head and looked through the window. The shutters were open, and weak sunlight was shining through the canopy of cypress. Outside, a woodpecker worked for his meal, and the hushed sound of leaves rustled on a slight breeze. It smelled like rain. Spring had shaken off winter’s final embrace.

The air in the small cabin was permeated with the scent of wood smoke even though the fire had died sometime during the night. She knew that in a few minutes he would have it burning again, that the mallards would be roasting on a spit over the coals. Her mouth watered, thinking of what a luscious meal the fowl with iridescent feathers would make.

It had been weeks since she had eaten a hearty, substantial meal. Stanley Marlborough’s hunting skill would not have filled a powder horn. On the journey north, more often than not they had been forced to eat johnnycakes that his wife, Polly, had directed Olivia to make out of corn flour and water.

She blinked back another tear and stared up at the ceiling. The unusual cabin was warm and snug, and for the time being she was apparently safe. She had found herself in far worse circumstances and discovered the world was not a gentle place, that some men had no honor, so Olivia told herself to be grateful and tried to relax—but it was difficult with Noah sitting on the edge of the bed. His weight dragged the mattress down on one side. He was not touching her, but his nearness was unsettling. She could feel his intent gaze, meeting it as she turned to look up at him again.

“I guess I’ll have to stay on for a little while longer.” She half expected to see a sign of triumph on his face, but all he did was nod before he stood and quickly turned away.

Could it be, she wondered, that Noah LeCroix was more afraid of their tentative arrangement than she?

Noah left her alone except to offer her more water and then to help her recline against the pillow to eat. That meant touching her, leaning over her, catching his breath when he felt her hair brush against his cheek.

He kept busy with his daily routine, taking pride in his cooking when she complimented the roast duck. His feelings were all jumbled. He was as thankful that she was not able to leave just yet as he was disturbed by the knowledge she was staying on.

He could not have known that having companionship after all this time would prove so unsettling. He hoped she could not see his confusion, hoped she was unaware of his reaction to her nearness, the sound of her voice, her beauty. Although he had done nothing to indicate he would ever, could ever harm her, he sensed that she was still very wary, almost frightened of him. He tried to keep his distance, wondering what kind of men she had known, what kind of man could have instilled such fear in her.

He ate alone at the table, keeping the ruined side of his face turned away even though she did not seem to have an aversion to his scar. After his experience in New Orleans, he was uncomfortable having her look at it any more than she had to.

He cleaned up and put the trenchers and utensils away before looking at her again. He noticed she had fallen asleep; he was free to take refuge alone on the porch.

Below him the frogs sang in a harmonious chorus. Noah stood close to the rail, where the rain dripped over the eaves. He looked through the treetops, staring out at patches of gray sky framed in the small spaces between the interwoven branches, and felt the kiss of spring in the rain and on the night air. Beyond the wetlands the trees were budding. The dogwood and redbud would soon bloom. Another long winter was over. Spring meant that new life would soon be in evidence everywhere. The animals of the forest, plains, and woodlands were choosing mates, making nests, digging burrows. It was the natural course of things.

Noah sighed. Spring fever. Maybe that was why having a female in his home made him so jumpy. He was all too aware of Olivia as a woman, as a soft, gentle, mysterious creature so very different from himself.

By the time he turned away from the railing, Noah had convinced himself that he must be dwelling on Olivia Bond day and night because she had intruded so suddenly into his well-ordered world. He even went so far as to admit that he was curious because he was ignorant of a woman’s nature. He was not used to having one around, especially one who was so very lovely.

And although it momentarily entered his mind, he flatly refused to believe that her nearness stirred him so because he was the oldest living male virgin in the state of Illinois.

Chapter 4

It rained for two days and a night. Olivia attempted to make herself invisible, or as least as unobtrusive as humanly possible in the one-room cabin while Noah was forced to remain inside with her. Although he never once gave her reason to worry, she remained ever vigilant and grew more and more curious because he seemed as wary of her as she was of him.

They engaged in stilted, polite exchanges whenever necessary, but most of the time the air was rife with tension. Noah went about the business of his life, repairing a stool with a wobbly leg, cutting out pieces of tanned hide to construct a new pair of moccasins. Olivia stayed on the bed, not so much because she still felt weak, but because there was no place else to sit except beside him at the table.

It was still raining early on the morning of the second day of foul weather when she scratched her head, caught her fingers in the tangled mass, and then looked down at the dirt beneath her nails.

“I need a bath.” She sighed the words aloud without thinking.

Startled when the sound of her voice fractured the silence, Noah quickly came to his feet, knocking the stool to the floor. He straightened it carefully before he looked over at her.

“You need a bath?”

There was such a look of intense concern and confusion on his face that Olivia found herself smiling.

“I’m sorry,” she said, quickly sobering as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “I was just thinking aloud.”

He hovered, immobilized by indecision. “You need a bath,” he repeated.

“I know.”

“A bath.” He was still half a room away, one hand on the tabletop, his work forgotten.

“Water. Soap. You know.” She had not actually ever seen him wash up, but she had heard water splash outside and saw the evidence of his clean face and hands and the dampness on the collar of his shirt. Not once had he offered to bring her soap and water. Not once had she had the courage to ask for anything that would make her feel any more beholden.

He nodded, looked her over slowly from head to toe, and walked out.

She had seen more of the back of Noah LeCroix than the front, for he spent most of his time trying to get away from her. The concept of a man running from her was not only welcome, but very, very curious. This man was fast proving too good to be true. He had shown her nothing but kindness, albeit a guarded, standoffish sort of kindness. With nothing to do but sit on his comfortable bed and contemplate her life and her circumstances, she realized with no little trepidation that here in the strange treehouse built over the swamp, she had actually started to feel safe. But her experience thus far had taught her that feeling secure with a stranger was a very bad sign.

Could this have been his plan, then? To take her in, make her feel confident, even secure with him, only to realize later that she had become his prisoner after all? She glanced around at the four walls covered with the hides and furry skins of dead animals, looked out the window and saw only the sky, the branches and leaves of trees. She was completely at his mercy, dependent upon him, imprisoned by the swamp.

A sharp thump in the doorway made her start. Noah was headed her way with a bulky half-barrel in his arms. He negotiated the open doorway, crossed the room, and set the barrel down near the bed. His straight black hair sparkled with raindrops. Across his shoulders, his shirt was spotted with dampness. After hanging a caldron over the fire, he made a good five trips in and out again carrying bucketfuls across the room, pouring them into the caldron while Olivia watched in stunned silence.

Next, he rummaged through the goods he kept on the far side of the room—a collection of tins and sacks, stoneware crocks, and stacks of hides. Soon he walked back carrying a hunk of soap, a small, clean rag, a larger piece of white muslin for a towel, and a thick, folded piece of doeskin.

Neither of them spoke as he pulled a stool near the half-barrel and slowly, precisely laid out the soap, rag, and towel on the seat. Then he carefully filled the barrel with warm water from the caldron.

“There.” He stood with the doeskin in his hand, waiting. Hell would freeze over before she stripped down and plunged in with him standing there.

She eyed the barrel. “I … I’ll never fit in that,” she blurted.

He looked startled. His face turned red as fire. “Yes. I mean, no, you won’t. I mean … that is … I thought that you could … stand in it. Or lean over it. Maybe.”

Olivia thought he might choke before he finished. For a long moment, the awkward silence stretched between them and then, Noah’s eye widened and he blinked.

“I’m going out to see to my traps. It’s high time. Past time. I’ll be back in a while.”

“It’s raining. You’ll get wet.” There was no way she could bathe with him in the room, but she hated to run him out of his own house into the rain.

He was spreading out the buckskin on the end of the bed. As he unfolded it, she saw that it was a gown with fringe across the bodice and along the hem. Inside of that was a beautiful turquoise and violet silk shawl covered with fanciful embroidery. When she looked up, he was beside the door, shrugging into his own knee-length buckskin coat.

“The rain has almost stopped. In a little while the sun will break through.”

Outside the window, water was still streaming in rivulets off the roof.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure as anyone can be about the weather. The drops are getting bigger. It will stop soon.”

He slipped the rawhide strap of a powder horn over his shoulder, then tightened the knife sheath on his hip. A black hat hung on a peg near the door. He took it down and put it on, then picked up the long rifle. He thrust his chin in the direction of the dress on the bed.

“You can put that on when you get through.” His gaze touched on the filthy gown she was wearing. Stunned by both the offer and his understanding, she swallowed her shame.

“Noah?”

“What?” He was almost outside.

It was the first time she had said his name aloud. It conjured memories of bible stories, of floods and animals walking two by two. This man, unless he was doing a fine job of acting, seemed gentle enough to charm wild animals into following him aboard an ark.

“Thank you.” It had been so long since she had anything to be thankful for that the words felt foreign on her tongue.

He nodded, easily dismissing her gratitude. Through the open door behind him, the curtain of rain had become a heavy, silent gray mist.

“Will you be all right?” He shifted his weight as if he were uncomfortable, impatient to be away.

They were such small things, his offering her the gown and the lovely shawl, being kind enough to ask if she would be all right while he was gone. Without warning, her eyes smarted. When hot tears filled them and his image wavered, she tried to hide how much his show of concern had moved her. Instead of looking at him, she concentrated on the surface of the clear water shimmering in the tub.

“I’ll be fine,” she said softly. She listened for him to leave before she remembered that his footsteps rarely made a sound. Looking up, she found him still there, framed in the open doorway.

“I won’t be far off. If anything … if you should need any help, just holler and I’ll hear you.”

Her throat was too thick for words. All she could do was nod as he left her alone. The door closed with a hollow sound behind him. Olivia sat there staring and found herself picturing him there, tall and silent, watching, always watching her as if she were some strange, exotic creature he had found in the swamp, one that he had absolutely no idea what to do with. That in itself astounded her and kept her thinking of him long after he was gone.

Noah shared his pirogue with two beaver carcasses and a green-winged teal that had landed to rest and preen on the bow.

“So, duck,” he whispered, “would you like to hear about a man who keeps making a fool of himself?”

The duck looked over at him, took wing and left the pirogue bobbing just enough to barely ripple the water.

“Not interested?”

Noah stretched but made no move to pick up the paddle, content to sit in the shelter of the trees, close enough to the treehouse to hear Olivia should she call for help. As he had predicted, the rain had stopped shortly after he left but he still tarried in the open, unwilling to return before his guest had a chance to finish bathing. If he walked in and found her even in the slightest state of undress he was certain that his heart would stop and he would keel over. That, or explode.

Since she was feeling up to bathing, he reckoned she was one step closer to traveling. As soon as he went back, he was determined to bring up the subject of her leaving, one she had not broached since the morning she’d demanded he take her out of the swamp and then fainted dead away.

He sighed and stared down at the dead beavers. One had drowned in the trap on the edge of the swamp. The other had nearly been cut clean in half when the sharp jaws of the trap slammed closed. He hated killing but he did it in order to survive, never taking more than he needed for food and trade. Today he was just thankful to have caught something. Now, having the beavers to skin and new pelts to cure would keep him busy. He could only hope that the work would help keep his mind off Olivia.

She had been with him almost four days and he still knew next to nothing about her or how she came to be on Heron Pond. He was beginning to think he never would. There was a hunted wariness in her eyes, one he had seen often enough in the creatures he tracked and trapped. She seemed content to keep her silence, and he suspected it was most likely to protect herself from whoever or whatever had driven her into the swamp in the first place.

He could not help wondering what she was running from or why she was headed to Shawneetown. Was she going home or running away? Would anyone welcome her? Was anyone searching for her?

He had been to Shawneetown once, picked up a flatboat and piloted it down the Ohio to Cairo. Not much to the town then except the saline mines that were nearby.

A water moccasin swam toward the boat, leaving a spiraling trail behind it through the duckweed before it veered off. Not enough to take his mind off Olivia.

Could she sense the hunger she aroused in him? Was that why she was so cautious and kept so very quiet? Was that why the wary, haunted look never left her eyes? Or was it his face? Did the long scar and the eye patch keep her ill at ease?

She was disrupting his life. He could not think of anything but her. Nor could he sleep or eat more than a few bites. She filled him up, his mind, his senses. Her smallest movement had him sitting bolt upright out of a deep sleep, listening to see if she was having another nightmare, waiting until she settled back down, wondering what he should do if she did not. Her softest sigh claimed his complete attention.

He had to send her on her way before he went insane. It was past time. She was on the mend. Her color was better now. Her cheeks had flushed bright pink when he brought in the bath. The glow had made her green eyes sparkle. How much more beautiful would she be once she was clean and dressed?

Noah took a deep breath, blew it out again and picked up the paddle. He had given her more than enough time to bathe. The storm had passed and the sun had broken through the remaining clouds. He bent at the waist and pulled the paddle through the water toward him. Poking the long paddle into the water to steer the light craft was second nature to him. The pirogue moved along, creating barely a ripple and hardly more than a soft splash. As he headed back home, Noah was sure the pounding of his heart was making more noise than his paddle.

Noah drifted the last few yards to the base of the huge tree, slipped a rope around a knobby cypress knee that grew two feet out of the water and climbed out of the pirogue. He was reaching in for the beaver when he paused, arrested by the sound of Olivia humming a song. The tune drifted down through the leaves and branches of the tree, light and charming as a caress, teasing him, coaxing him to hurry back.

He held onto his hat and leaned back far enough to look up, and then he saw her—sitting on a stool she had carried out to the porch, perched near the railing in a stream of sunlight, wearing his mother’s old dress and the shawl his father had brought from a place far, far away. She was bent over brushing her dark, heavy hair with her fingers, stroking it over and over, untangling the wet curls, letting the warm spring sun dry it. Noah’s breath caught. The sight held him, made him feel like a thief as he stood there stealing more than a glimpse of her private moment.

The melody of the song teased his memory. His mind searched for remnants of the notes hidden somewhere in a corner of his mind where bits and pieces of his childhood lingered. Shaking off the urge to watch until her hair was dry and she went back inside, he forced himself to move instead.

Noah tied the beavers together by the legs, slung his burden over his shoulder and let the animals hang against his back. He took his rifle in the same hand as the rope and then started up the crude wooden steps nailed to the tree. When he was halfway up she sang the chorus aloud and the words came rushing back to him along with the rest of the tune. Without thinking, he began to whistle along.

“Fa-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la.”

He whistled all the way up the ladder as the words flowed merrily through his head, their meaning nonsense at first; a miracle really, that his mind could recall them from so very long ago.

“
Soldier, O soldier, a-comin’ from the plain / Courted a lady through honor and through fame / Her beauty shone so bright that it never could be told / She always loved the soldier because he was so bold / Fa-la-la-la-la
…”

When his head cleared the edge of the porch, Noah stopped abruptly. Olivia was no longer singing. She was still seated on the stool, her dark hair clean and partially damp, flowing around her shoulders. His mother’s butterscotch doeskin dress covered her completely except where the open neck skimmed her collarbone and her forearms showed at the ends of the short sleeves. Her bare toes and ankles were revealed beneath the fringed hem. The shawl had slipped, draped itself over the crooks of her arms.