Embrace the Day (25 page)

Artis Judd arrived on horseback. Three of his cronies were with him, joking raucously as they approached Hance.

"What do you say, pup?" Judd demanded. "It's not too late to beg off."

Hance threw him a scathing look but said nothing. He stooped and placed his pistol case on the grass, extracting one slowly, assuring himself that it was loaded and primed.

The seconds receded to the edge of the green. Hance paced off the distance, and Judd did likewise. Slowly. Neither was in a hurry to reach the end of the green.

Hance stopped walking and swung about. He'd half decided to vindicate Horace's honor by spending his bullets harmlessly in the air. But by the time he faced his opponent, Judd was a blur, his face drawn into a snarl as he brought his pistol up and fired with deadly aim. Hance felt a ball furrow its way into the flesh of his upper left arm, tearing muscle and shattering bone.

Even more blinding than the pain was the rage that roared through him. Ever the cheat, Judd had taken aim well before Hance had turned around. As blood warmed his sleeve, Hance gritted his teeth and fired, forgetting his idea of shooting skyward. A dot of red appeared on Judd's forehead, square in the center. He fell backward, dead before his body hit the grass.

Hance's ears roared, and he felt suddenly cold. He steeled himself against the trembling that threatened to shake him to his knees. Moving slowly, holding himself steady with a monumental effort, he replaced his pistol in its case and walked away, leaving the elegant weapons behind in the grass.

Hance didn't want them. He'd taken a man's life.

Judd's friends rushed to his body, stunned. One of the men looked up and shook his fist at Hance. "You'll hang for murder, Adair!" he shouted.

Horace's coach pulled up. The older man leaped out, his face ashen and damp with perspiration.

"Hance—"

"I'm leaving, Horace." He began untying his horse from the back of the coach.

"But your arm—good God, Hance, you'll bleed to death."

"I'll make it." Hance felt no joy at the prospect.

Horace gave him a wistful smile. "I dare say you will. That is, until the law catches up with you." His brow furrowed in distress as he watched Hance mount unsteadily. "You'll have to leave Virginia, Hance. Go away, lose yourself on the frontier. You won't be the first man to start clean in Kentucky."

Hance touched the horse's flanks with his heels. He rode westward until the woodlands swallowed him up. When he was a safe distance from Richmond, he stopped by a creek and dismounted. Taking out his knife, he sat at the base of an oak tree. Gingerly, he unbound the crude bandage he'd made from several handkerchiefs and took a bracing swig of whiskey from a flask, pouring some of the liquid on the bullet wound.

Then, with more fortitude than he'd know he possessed, Hance used his knife to remove the bullet. The operation took a long time, the bullet sliding deeper into damaged flesh each time Hance tried to grasp it.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to think of other things, anything but the deathly agony of steel probing for lead in his shattered arm. Horace Rathford's advice swirled like an eddying stream through his pounding head: the frontier… Kentucky…

The corners of Hance's mouth turned upward. He couldn't quite seem to focus his eyes, which were flooded by cold sweat from his brow.

"You know, Horace," he rasped, "I just might do that." He keeled forward. The last thing he felt before blacking out was the ticklish brush of grass against his face.

Roarke's back was
turned, taut and hunched-looking as he worked on a new grain bin for the livestock. He wielded his hammer with inborn expertise, his arm rising and falling in a natural motion.

Genevieve watched him sadly. A different Roarke worked the land now; there was none of the quiet joy that used to color his every task, no pauses to laugh and joke with the children. Roarke's heart hadn't been in the work of the farm since he'd returned, empty-handed and dispirited, from his two-year odyssey into Shawnee territory.

The fruitless journey had cost Roarke more than his high spirits; Will Coomes had been captured by a band of renegade Miami braves, and by the time Roarke caught up with them, the only evidence of his friend was a bloody scalp. Genevieve shook her head. Although Roarke hadn't elaborated on that tale, she was sure he'd exacted a harsh payment from the renegades.

The hammering stopped, and Roarke wiped a sleeve across his brow. As he so often did these days, he paused to gaze westward at the Blue Ridge in heartaching contemplation of what lay beyond.

Genevieve went to him and wrapped her arms around his middle, laying her cheek against his sweat-dampened back.

His big, freckled hand tightened around the hammer he was holding.

"Hello, Gennie love," he said softly.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Ah, Gennie, what am I always thinking about?"

She felt a familiar ache in her throat. "We all miss her, Roarke."

He shook his head and turned to face her with troubled eyes. "It's not so much the missing," he said. "It's the wondering and not knowing that's so hard to bear. Becky might have died months, years, ago, or she might still be with Black Bear, being treated like, like—" He clenched his jaw and looked away.

"Roarke, don't," Genevieve said quickly, tightening her grip on him. "We've tortured ourselves over this for four years. You did everything a man could possibly do. More than that."

Pain tore across his face. "Did I, Gennie? 'Tis a question I keep asking myself. Perhaps I should have gone ten more miles, twenty…"

She placed a finger on his lips, silencing him. "There are just too many places for Black Bear to go. If you'd searched ten years, you'd not have found him."

The tortured look hadn't left his face. "That's just what Will Coomes said. One of the last things he said."

Tears prickled in Genevieve's eyes. Roarke was too good a man to be so laden with guilt. His shoulders, though strong and broad, were hard put to support Will's loss and Rebecca's capture as well.

"We just have to go on, Roarke," she told him firmly.

He rested his chin on her head. Sarah toddled toward them, grinning, arms outstretched. "Papa," she said, clinging to his leg.

Sarah's touch seemed to jar Roarke out of his desolate mood. The child, born during his absence, was a spark of brightness in his life, with hair the color of sunshine and cheeks blooming with health and good humor. Though only three, Sarah had learned that her father was a fathomless source of indulgence, and she exploited that knowledge shamelessly. Roarke scooped her up and balanced her on his hip, tickling her under the chin until she chortled with glee.

"Thank God for this one," Roarke chuckled. "She's the prettiest Adair yet, aside from her mother, of course."

"What's that you got there?" said a voice from behind them. "Another towhead?"

Roarke and Genevieve turned quickly, faces lighting up. "Hance!" Genevieve cried, and flung herself against him. "Hance, oh, Lord, but we've missed you!" Seeing him wince, she pulled back, staring in consternation at the bandages that bound his upper arm.

Noticing her concern, Hance said quickly, "A scratch, Mama. I'm fine."

"Welcome home, son," Roarke said quietly. He extended his hand, and Hance clasped it. Roarke looked at him, suddenly struck by the absurd formality of their greeting. He gave Hance's hand a jerk, bringing the young man into his arms in a huge bear hug with the baby between, giggling.

"Say hello to your sister, son," Roarke said. "This is Sarah Ann Adair."

The baby clung shyly to Roarke, but her wide blue eyes remained fastened on the handsome, slightly haggard-looking man who was grinning at her with genuine pleasure.

"Come inside," Genevieve invited, linking her arm through his. She felt him stiffen at her touch. "Hance?"

He was quick to soothe the hurt that sprang to her eyes. "Sorry, Mama. I guess the arm's still healing."

"What happened?"

His smile faded, and he looked over at Roarke. "I was shot in a duel."

"A duel? You were dueling? Good God, Hance, whatever possessed you to…"

He looked suddenly weary, his eyes haunted by self-loathing. "I don't know, Pa," he said with painful honesty. "I never seem to know. It's so easy for me to see the wrong in what I've done. But only after it's done."

Hance raised his eyes to Roarke. "I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of, Pa."

Supper was a quiet affair, attended by more Adairs than had shared a table in a long time. Israel badgered Hance for tales of his exploits in the capital, but Hance had little to say, responding distractedly. He'd closed that chapter of his life just as the wound on his upper arm had closed. All that remained was a long, livid scar and the persistent dull ache of a bone that had no hope of healing properly.

Hance barely touched the roasted meat and steaming bowls of fresh vegetables. He walked out onto the porch, still reeling from the news of what had befallen Rebecca. His hellfire-and-damnation psalm-singing little sister. He tried to picture her in the hands of her Shawnee captors. It was too obscene to imagine.

The baby was put to bed, and Luke and Israel went to settle the horses in for the night. Watching Luke, Hance had the sensation of watching a stranger. He handled the horses expertly, joking with Israel as he worked. Hance sighed. He'd never really known his brother; he'd never really tried.

Only now did Hance feel that loss. Israel looked up to Luke in a way Luke had never regarded Hance. But, of course, Luke didn't need an older brother. He'd already surpassed Hance in height and exuded a confidence rare in men twice his age.

"I'll be leaving soon," Hance said to Roarke and Gene, who had joined him on the porch.

She looked at him curiously. "But why, Hance? You've just come back to us."

"I can't stay here."

"Of course you can, son. This is your home."

He brought his fist down on the porch rail so hard that the wood creaked.

"Listen to me, damn it! I have to leave."

"Hance—"

"You didn't ask me about the duel, but I expect you'll find out soon enough." His voice was brittle as he tried to mask his inner turmoil. Behind them the mantel clock ticked loudly in the keeping room.

"I killed the man who shot me."

Genevieve was reminded of the day Roarke had set off into the wilderness. With a leaden heart she made similar preparations for Hance. A single change of clothing, the barest implements of hygiene, which included only a comb, a razor, and a cake of soap. A few cooking utensils, sewing things, and a tool or two were stashed in his saddlebag.

Mimi Lightfoot, putting on a stolid front, although she was shocked by the fate of the boy she'd once nursed at her breast, prepared the food—plenty of hardtack and jerked meat, coffee and dried beans and a supply of sugar. Luke and Roarke saw to the most important provisions—a long rifle, polished to a dull gleam, a bag of shot, flints, a ramrod, a plain brass patch box, and a supply of powder wrapped in oilcloth to protect it from wet weather. Hance was also equipped with a finely honed hunting knife and the tomahawk Roarke had carried during the war.

The family stood in the yard, silent and tense. Hance looked at them, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a self-deprecating grin. He spread his arms, showing off the fringed hunting shirt and buckskin leggings Mimi had made him.

Roarke chuckled. "Where's our young dandy now?"

Hance sent him a sideways glance. "I expect he'll turn up somewhere over the Blue Ridge if what I've heard of Kentucky's to be credited." He scooped up little Sarah, who'd spent the past two weeks toddling worshipfully after him. Brushing his chin across her fair hair, he sighed. "I wish I had time to know you, sweetheart, like I knew Mattie. I once promised her I'd take her to the other side of the world, but it looks like I'll be going alone." Sarah gave him a moist kiss and squirmed away to devil a barn cat that had strayed into the yard.

Israel approached shyly. He was a little in awe of his eldest brother, whose wild ways had been spoken of with scandalized whispers in church ever since the sudden rift between Hance and Janie Carstairs. He gave Hance a Bible.

"What's this?" Hance chuckled. "Am I to find redemption in the wilderness and mend my ways at last?"

Israel swallowed at the sarcasm he heard in Hance's voice. "You used to read it," he said sullenly.

"So I did, lad. What could be more exciting a yarn than the tale of Gideon overthrowing the altar at Baal?" He caught Israel's look and stopped joking. Placing the small tome in his shirt pocket, he said, "I'll read it, Israel. I promise."

Luke sent a sharp look over his shoulder. Although Hance would probably read the book, it was doubtful he'd heed its lessons. Frowning, Luke turned his attention back to the pack saddle he was fashioning for Hance. No one had asked him to do it, but the notion had appealed to him. The result was gratifying—a sturdy fork of white oak with boards fastened to the prongs, boasting a good number of iron rings to carry straps and girths. Unsmiling, he placed it atop the horse and secured it.

"You did a good job, little brother," Hance said.

Luke chafed at the name Hance had taken to calling him, even though Hance said it jokingly, to point out the fact that Luke was the taller youth now.

"My pleasure," he said, drawing a strap through the pack saddle.

"You always were a great one for making things," Hance observed. "The only thing I'm good at making is trouble."

Luke shuffled his feet, trying not to show the resentment that welled within him. He didn't want to feel this way about his brother, but he couldn't stop himself. For years he'd been a dutiful son, smoothing over problems that Hance carelessly left in his wake.

Yet it was Hance the family rallied around, confused but all-forgiving. Sending him off with more money than Luke had ever seen in his life.

His mother had tried to explain. "He needs us, Luke," she'd said in that soft, compelling way of hers. "He needs more from us than you ever did. Ah, you're a good lad; you'll be all right…"

It was true, Luke conceded without a trace of smugness. He had a decided gift for keeping unto himself. He turned to Hance and stuck out his hand.

"Good luck," he said simply.

"I'll need it, Luke."

"Stay clear of redskins."

Hance shook his head. "I intend to be in their company constantly."

Luke frowned. "Hance—"

"That is, until I find Becky."

Luke's head snapped up. "What the hell—"

Hance grinned. "If I'm to take to the hills, I'd best do what I can for Becky."