Embrace the Day (10 page)

She turned her gaze back to Calvin. Suddenly, she understood the glitter of determination in his eyes. Even before last night, Calvin had been restless, seeking something her small farm couldn't offer him.

"I hope you find what you're looking for out there, Cal."

she said quietly, turning her gaze to the hazy blue line of mountains in the west.

"Reckon I might, Miz Culpeper," he remarked, turning away.

"It's best you let him go," Roarke said behind her. "There's no putting blinders on a man like him." Laying his arm across her shoulders, he walked her back to her horse.

Genevieve turned and gave Cal a last look. Before he followed the contingent out of town, he raised his arm in salute and sent her one of his rare smiles. Genevieve knew then that what Calvin was doing was right.

"
Steady now
…"
Roarke
said gently, watching Genevieve as she sighted down the octagonal barrel of the Pennsylvania flintlock rifle he'd brought her. "Don't tense up, but be ready for the kick when she fires."

Genevieve's arms ached beneath the weight of the long gun, and its curly-maple forepiece was slick with sweat from her hands. Steadying herself, she closed her eyes and turned her head slightly in anticipation of the thunderous report.

"No, no." Roarke chuckled, taking the rifle from her. "You can't very well close your eyes if you mean to shoot at something."

Genevieve shook her head. "Roarke, I'm hopeless. I still don't know why you insist on putting a gun in my hands."

"I've told you before, Gennie, I want you to learn to defend yourself. Here. Try again."

Taking the rifle in hand again, she followed his instructions more closely. Peering down the length of the barrel at a distant tree, she squeezed the brass trigger. Flint struck the frizzen and made a hot spark, igniting the powder in the firing pan, which in turn exploded the powder in the barrel.

Genevieve was instantly flung to the ground, ears ringing and nose burning with the acrid scent of powder. Then Roarke was at her side, frowning with concern.

"Gennie—"

She coughed and sat up, wiping black powder from her face. "I'm all right. But I hope you're finally satisfied that I'll never learn to shoot."

"Not at all, girl. It just takes practice. Phillip Greenleaf is no bigger than you, and he's one of the best hunters in the county. Come, I'll show you how to load."

Genevieve watched as he screwed a small swab of tow into the end of the barrel, tamping it in with three swift strokes of the ramrod. This was followed by a carefully measured amount of powder and then the bullet itself, wrapped in a bit of greased patching.

As Roarke drew out a minute amount of priming powder, Genevieve realized that her concentration had strayed from the gun to the man loading it. The play of muscle in his arms as he seated each step with the ramrod, the glint of sunshine in his hair as he bent to his task, made Genevieve long to touch him. She pressed her arms firmly to her sides.

Half-admiring, half-annoyed, she continued to watch him. He was remarkable—so sure of himself, so competent in all he did. He farmed the land as if he'd been born to it and handled a gun like the most seasoned frontiersman.

"Is there nothing you can't do, Roarke Adair?" she mused, more to herself than to him.

He looked at her in surprise. "What manner of question is that?"

She flushed a little. "I was just thinking how well you do everything. I've seen you shoe a horse, fix a plow, even hammer out a tool at the smithy. You're a wonderful father to Hance, and everyone in Dancer's Meadow is envious of your corn crop."

"You're making too much of me, Gennie. Besides, you're the one they all admire."

She snorted. "I'm the one they all laugh at behind their hands."

Roarke shook his head. "I never told you this, but last fall some of the men in the King's Arms laid bets you wouldn't last a single season."

She drew herself up indignantly. "Oh? And just how did you bet, Roarke?"

The sound of his deep laughter rippled over her. "I won a shilling from every one of the sods."

Joshua had never asked Genevieve about the night preceding Calvin's departure for the frontier.

"Always figured the boy'd take a different path," was all he'd said.

Mimsy had taken her eldest son's departure hard, but she, too, had understood. Curtis and the others were proud to have a brother who was an Indian fighter.

Genevieve knew Joshua wasn't brooding over Calvin now. He was grinning broadly, his face dappled by the late-September sun streaming down through the leaves of the hickory tree in front of the house. Genevieve eyed him curiously. She'd never seen him look this way before. He seemed about to burst with anticipation.

"What is it, Joshua?"

"Follow me," he said, leading her up to the high fields, the first they'd planted in the spring. Genevieve walked happily in his wake, wondering what new bit of tobacco lore he was about to reveal to her.

Joshua stopped at the top of the field and hunkered down beside a tobacco plant. "Look at it," he said, taking hold of one of the broad leaves. It was slightly grayish and spotty. For a moment, Genevieve thought he might say the plants were diseased, but the merry gleam in his eyes told her otherwise.

"It's ripe," he said simply. "Lord be thanked; I was afraid this cold spell would do us in. But I think we've weathered it. We can start the cutting."

Genevieve had known the harvest was near, but she couldn't help the rush of gladness she felt. She jumped into the air with a whoop and threw her arms around Joshua. He swung her about, laughing.

"We did it, partner," he chuckled, setting her down.

Genevieve had never felt such supreme satisfaction. As Joshua went to call the boys and fetch the scythes, she hugged herself and raised her face to the autumn sun. Its warmth fell like a golden curtain over her, full of promise, full of hope.

The curing barns were more than half-full of drying tobacco. Bundles hung, bound by the stems, brushing Gene shoulders as she worked. Joshua and the boys were in the fields, cutting through the acres. Curtis's voice rose in song after song, bringing a holiday air to the farm.

But Joshua's face when he entered the barn was grave. Curtis was with him, no longer singing.

"There'll be a hard freeze tonight," he said quietly.

Genevieve set down the bundle she was holding and wiped her hands on her apron.

"Can the crop withstand it?" she asked.

Joshua shook his head. "It's been too cold for too long. Everything that's not harvested by morning will be lost."

She felt a leaden chill in the pit of her belly. "But we've only got half of it cut."

He nodded glumly. "Crop was small enough to begin with. We don't even stand to recoup what we've spent."

Genevieve squeezed her eyes shut. Even so, a tear crept out from beneath an eyelid. She tried not to feel defeated, but so much was riding on her first season.

"I guess," she said slowly, opening her eyes, "I've been fooling myself into thinking we'd make good. I'm sorry, Joshua. I didn't mean to dupe you into working for me."

"Don't take on like that, partner," he said. "Let's go get in what little we can. Come on, Curtis."

But the boy was nowhere to be seen. Unnoticed by Genevieve and Joshua, he'd managed to slip off somewhere. Grumbling a promise to take a willow switch
to the
Jad, Joshua led the way up to the fields.

They worked all through the day at breakneck speed, flinging the tobacco onto a sled made of wooden planks and depositing the leaves in the sheds without stopping to strip and bundle them. Mimsy and the girls pitched in, using kitchen knives. But they were too few, and the plants too many. There was no way they'd be able to finish before nightfall.

Already the wind was skirling down from the heights of the Blue Ridge, which had become an uneasy cauldron of scudding clouds and uncertain winds that bore the bite of a killing frost.

Genevieve battled a feeling of hopeless despair, applying her scythe savagely to the stalks. As the sky softened and darkened to purple, the tears came again. She'd played for high stakes, and lost. Piggot would sell the farm out from under her. Never had failure tasted so bitter.

She was so intent on savaging the plants and despising her own foolishness that she didn't hear Curtis Greenleaf's shout.

Only when the bobbing of torches caught her eye did she give her attention to the boy. Curtis was fairly dancing up the road to the farm, singing and shouting the whole way. And, incredibly, he was followed by a string of people.

They came on foot, in wagons, a few on horseback. Genevieve recognized Roarke instantly, sitting proudly on his roan stallion.

"God blind me…" she breathed. There were dozens of torches flickering up the path, as if lighting the way for a small army. The men shouldered scythes and rakes, and the women toted gingham-topped baskets of food and kegs of cider and lemonade. Picking up her skirts, Genevieve ran down the hill.

"Roarke?" she asked, feeling suddenly self-conscious as she recognized what seemed to be half of the population of Dancer's Meadow. "What—"

"They've come to harvest our tobacco!" Curtis shouted. "Said they'd work all night if they had to!"

Genevieve sent Roarke a questioning look. His white teeth gleamed in the torchlight as he grinned. "You should've asked, Gennie. It's the only way you're going to get help from your neighbors."

"But I can't pay a crew, Roarke. I simply—"

His fingers bit into her shoulders. "Gennie, when are you going to get it into that thick head of yours that there's such a thing as neighborliness? These people want nothing, except to see that they do lose those bets they made against you."

"Oh, there might be a thing or two," the Reverend Carstairs said with a grin.

Genevieve braced herself. She expected him to summon her to meeting once again, to give thanks to his God for her good fortune.

Carstairs read her reaction correctly. His laughter rang out. "Not that, Genevieve Culpeper. I've no doubt you'll be a proper churchgoing woman someday, but not until you're ready. No, I just want you to promise to join us at the harvest dance once this is all over." He laughed again at her sigh of relief.

It was a novel thought, that the people of Dancer's Meadow would want to include her in their celebration. Along with a rush of happiness, she felt a lump rise in her throat.

"I'll oblige you there, Reverend," she said brightly. "It will be my pleasure."

Already the men were swarming over the fields, cutting furiously with their backs to the biting wind. The women were gossiping and slicing pies and setting out portions of chicken. Genevieve threw herself into the work, unmindful of the pain of raw and blistered hands. With so much help, the work would be finished in hours. Her hands went to her cheeks and came away soaked with tears of joy.

As the last of the tobacco was hauled to the sheds, she approached the Reverend Carstairs. "Thank you," she told him, her voice breaking. She looked at the weary, smiling faces of her neighbors. "Thank you all."

Reverend Carstairs shook his head, reaching into his coat and extracting a Bible. "We'd best be thanking him who
is
truly responsible for this," he said, moving beneath a torch.

" 'Sing unto the Lord with thanksgiving,' " he read. " 'Sing praise upon the harp unto our God; who covereth the heaven with clouds, who prepareth rain for the earth, who maketh grass to grow upon the mountains…' "

Genevieve felt Roarke's arm slide about her shoulders, and for once she didn't shy away from him.

The next day, weary to the bone and weak with relief and gratitude, Genevieve settled down and penned a letter to Digby Firth in a firm hand. The crop was in and safely drying. In just a few months a thousand hogsheads of Virginia's finest strain of tobacco would be shipped down river to Yorktown.

"I can't very well go to a party like this." Genevieve looked dubiously at her worn frock.