Embrace the Day (31 page)

No thought preceded Hance's action. Knowing only the heat of blinding rage, he shot to his feet and drove his fist into Farley's smirking face.

Caddick landed with a howl on his backside as blood poured from his nose. Snarling an oath, Hance dove onto him, losing sight of Ivy in the scuffle that followed. The last he saw of her, as Nathaniel Caddick and several others hauled him away from Farley, was her bewildered face, stained with a humiliated flush. A look of bleak disappointment haunted her eyes. Instantly, Hance knew she disapproved of his defense of her.

Roarke appeared like a flame-haired giant, balling up his fists and demanding an explanation.

"He attacked me, the infernal beast," Farley spluttered. "He should be horsewhipped."

"Throw him out," barked Farley's father, Samuel. "Throw him out like the rubbish he is."

Hance wrenched himself from the grips of the two men who flanked him. Glowering, he retreated. "No need for an escort," he growled. "I know my way out."

He paused for just a moment, moving his eyes over the scandalized crowd gathered around the crab-apple tree. He caught sight of Ivy, and their gazes locked.

Her look told him, with dreadful finality, that the image he'd spent weeks building had crumbled. She took a single step away, then turned her back on him.

As he stalked through the dark, dusty streets of Lexington, the only thing Hance remembered with any clarity was that look. The stark, searing disappointment in her brandy-colored eyes, impaling him with disapproval. Hance knew he'd made a fatal error. Ivy would never forgive him for being so rash, for losing control.

Full of self-loathing, he headed for Satterwhite's Tavern and drank enough whiskey to drown a skunk. He did the same at several successive taverns, but the needed effect eluded him. Hance didn't feel as base and worthless as he deserved. Slamming a coin down on the bar, he stormed from the saloon, pointing his feet in the direction of Miss Nellie's. It was fitting, he reflected grimly, for him to turn to Nell Wingfield after being rejected by a decent woman. He'd done it once before, after Janie Carstairs.

But none of the girls, not the lush, brassy-haired Doreen nor the exotic octoroon Cherisse, was to his liking tonight. Even Belle, with her tongue curling into his ear as she whispered an outrageous suggestion, couldn't coax Hance out of his mood of self-loathing.

He was about to leave, disgusted with himself, when a girl he'd never seen before crossed his path, carrying a tray of glasses across the parlor.

The girl was striking—small, with a shining mane of inky hair and wild blue eyes fringed thickly by long, curling lashes. Prominent cheekbones and an arrogant lift to her chin, a well-shaped nose and a smooth brow, added pride to her appearance. Her body was taut and firm, yet at the same time generous in its proportions. She had a delicious-looking mouth and an air of innocence about her that intrigued Hance.

He was seized by a sudden masculine urge. Grinning, he felt more like his old self again. He planted himself in front of her, feet splayed and arms akimbo, smiling lazily as he blocked her path.

"Not so fast, pretty girl," he said. "I wouldn't mind a few hours of your company tonight."

She tried to push past him. "It's not my place."

There was a lilting arrogance in the way she spoke that made Hance pause, considering. Recognition teased his mind, then burst into consciousness.

"By God," he laughed, "why didn't I see it before?" Insolently, he reached out and stroked her smooth, copper-tinted cheek. "You're an Injun, aren't you, girl?" That would be even more satisfactory, spending his anger on such a lovely specimen of the race he hated.

He took the tray from her. "Come on, little squaw," he said. "You and I are gonna have some fun."

"Let me be," she said through her teeth.

Hance's reply was cut off by a meaty hand clapped firmly over his shoulder. He twisted his head to see Jack, whom Nell employed to deal with unruly patrons.

"She ain't one of the girls," Jack said.

Hance jerked away from him, reeling a little. "What the hell difference does it make?" he demanded. "Look, I'll pay double the usual fee."

Nell edged her way forward, placing her hand on Hance's arm.

"Mr. Adair," she said with an affected formality that infuriated Hance, "I'm afraid I must insist that you leave Mariah alone. She's not to be had for any price."

Mariah shot Nell a look of gratitude. This wasn't the first time she'd turned aside a large amount of money for her. Nell declared that no amount was worth as much as decent help these days. But Mariah suspected that it was more than practicality that made Nell so protective of her. Nell's harshness concealed a streak of sentimentality as wide as the Kentucky River. Having ascertained early on that Mariah was a virgin, Nell had made sure that this quality was guarded as closely as her cache in the safe.

"Set that tray in the kitchen," Nell said. "You can finish in the morning."

Awash with relief, Mariah left. After going to the kitchen, she slipped out the back, crossing the dooryard to the bungalow she shared with Gideon. As she stepped into the cool night air, gulping it into her lungs, Mariah found she was shaking. She leaned against the house, hugging herself, rubbing her palms up and down her upper arms.

Mr. Adair, Nell had called him. That name was like a small needle sticking painfully into her side. She wondered what relation the handsome, drunken man in the house bore to Luke. Brothers, probably, although she saw no resemblance in the two. The fair-haired man within was older, with tiny fans beside his eyes and lines of hardness about his mouth that made her afraid.

Mariah drew a shaky breath. The predatory look in those glittering blue eyes, the promise of brutality she heard in his voice when he discovered she was Indian… A man like that could hate awful hard.

Shuddering, she started across the yard. A chorus of crickets rose up, filling her ears. Mariah had almost reached the bungalow when an arm as strong as a steel band hooked around her from behind, sealing her windpipe.

The reek of whiskey preceded a soft whisper in her ear.

"It's me, little squaw."

Luke was grateful
when Roarke approached him from across the Beasleys' ballroom. Lyla Jessup's desperation to get him to marry her was growing day by day. Tonight she'd boldly extracted him from a comradely discussion of farming techniques and drawn him to the dance floor.

Luke hated dancing. He didn't even like women, not the ones like Lyla. He found their chatter annoying, their laughter forced and artificial. Seeing no use for them, he was never more than distantly polite. Unfortunately, this elusive quality drew women to him like mindless moths to a glowing candle.

Hannah Redwine, who never appeared at these social gatherings, was the one exception to Luke's dispassionate attitude. Two years ago he'd plowed a firebreak around the widow's farm and, with neighborliness rather than passion, had become her lover.

She was ten years his senior, alone in the world, with a no-nonsense way about her that appealed to Luke's practical nature. She'd welcomed him into her life with the ease of a scratch on the back. Temporary, but welcome. That suited Luke just fine. There were no disappointments because there were no commitments.

Unexpectedly, another image pushed its way into Luke's mind. Eyes of blue, stark against light copper skin, a proud, determined chin… He shook his head. Where the hell had that come from?

His father spared him from having to probe his thoughts. His face grim, Roarke took Luke by the arm and steered him out onto the verandah with an apologetic smile at Lyla Jessup.

"Hance has gotten himself into a bit of a scrape," Roarke said.

Luke frowned. "I thought he left hours ago."

"Turns out Farley Caddick's nose is broken. His father vowed to send the sheriff after him."

Luke couldn't fault the Caddicks for that. Although he suspected Hance had been provoked, there was no denying that he'd acted out of turn in smashing Farley's nose. Luke's first impulse was to let the Caddicks have their petty revenge in sending Hance to jail for a day or two to cool his heels.

But he knew better than to say as much to Roarke. His parents had always gone out of their way to smooth things over for Hance. Although Roarke and Genevieve never spoke of it, they were afraid of losing Hance.

"He's probably already left town," Luke ventured.

"We have to be sure," Roarke insisted. "Caddick is mighty tight with Judge Ormsby. Things could go badly." Seeing his son's hesitation, Roarke put out a hand. "Luke. He's your brother."

Luke expelled his breath with a soft hiss. He'd been getting Hance out of scrapes since boyhood, performing the chores he neglected, never revealing to the parson that Hance was the one who tossed bombshell acorns into the schoolroom fire, turning aside one girl's inquiries when Hance was out with another… Luke strained against resentment. It was always he who did the covering up, like a harrow over a rutted field.

Of course, there was no one else to do it. Israel was too righteous; he'd see to it that Hance faced up to the error of his ways. Sarah was too young and silly to be any help at all. Only Luke possessed the loyalty, however reluctant, to help Hance.

"I'll go," he said at last, brushing past his father.

Luke's mood darkened more with each successive tavern and gaming hall he visited. Yes, the barkeep remembered Hance; he'd stumbled out, cussing and reeling, a while ago. Finally, at the Sheaf of Wheat, a gambler jerked his head.

"Try Miss Nellie's. The fella wasn't good for much, but I heard him mumble something about that place."

Luke wasn't inclined to pursue the suggestion. Hance was not one to pay for something given freely by any number of girls.

But he'd exhausted all the other possibilities. Feeling weary and irritated, he trudged down Water Street and stopped in front of a two-story white house. Lamplight filtered through a fringe of chintz curtains, and piano music wafted out on the scented breeze, accompanied by low conversation and rippling laughter.

Luke let himself in the picket gate, shaking his head. He didn't much care for Nell Wingfield's girls, with their overblown looks and too-knowing ways. He'd never liked the idea that Mariah Parker worked here.

A scream rent the air, freezing Luke at the bottom of the porch steps. Then he thundered into action, rounding the house to the dooryard in back. In the scant light of a clouded-over moon, Luke discerned two figures locked in an embrace some yards away. The man had his hand buried in the woman's hair. He yanked her head back sharply and leaned forward to kiss her.

Luke started to turn away. It didn't surprise him that some of Nell's patrons treated women roughly; it wasn't any of his business if that's what Nell—

The woman screamed again, a ragged, desperate sound followed by the tearing noise of fabric being rent. Still Luke didn't move toward them. But then the woman began sob-bing, and he heard the man curse, his words slurred
by
drink.

"Injun bitch! I liked you better when you were fighting me."

An icy hand took hold of Luke's heart and squeezed. His brain screamed a denial as he tore across the yard. He grabbed Hance by the shoulders and flung him roughly to the ground.

He dragged his gaze to Mariah, taking in her wide, frightened eyes, lips that were battered and swollen by Hance's mouth. She clutched convulsively at the bodice of her dress but not before Luke caught a glimpse of the flesh exposed by Hance's tearing.

Rage rocketed through Luke. Without pausing to think, he leaped onto Hance, pulling him up by the shirt front.

"Get up, damn you!" Luke ordered, hearing his voice shake with fury.

Hance righted himself and swayed a little, grinning. "What's up, little brother?" he slurred mildly.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Hance shrugged. "Just havin' a li'l fun with the squaw here. Now, why don't you go on back home and leave us be? She was just startin' to enjoy herself."

Luke glanced over at Mariah, wondering if he'd been mistaken. Hance was as handsome as the devil. Maybe she was no different from the others, maybe she…

But she was different. Still clutching her dress, she stared at Hance with a mixture of terror and revulsion. Luke placed himself between her and Hance, who laughed.

"Come on now, you're not gonna defend that bit of Injun trash, are you, little brother? It's not like she hasn't had her fun before. I've heard redskins like it a lot—"

"Just get the hell out of here, Hance. Caddick's sent the sheriff after you."

Hance's face grew grim as the unpleasantness of the scene at the party came back at him. But he was too drunk for caution.

"Maybe I ought to get out of here," he agreed. Luke dropped his fists, and Hance seized the opportunity to shove him aside, reaching for Mariah. "Just as soon as I settle things with the little squaw," he added, yanking Mariah's hands away from her bosom.

"You son of a bitch," Luke snapped, and rage built within him again, more intense than before. He took a sort of grim satisfaction in the feel of his fist burying itself in Hance's midsection. He'd never hit his brother before. All the force of years of frustration added impetus to the blow.

Hance stumbled back, his breath snatched away. He gasped for air and then growled, "Quite a punch, little brother. If I didn't know you hated Injuns like sin, I'd think you wanted her for yourself." He swung out in an ill-aimed blow that clipped Luke's jaw, less painful than it was irritating.

Luke hurled Hance against the house. Then he lost track of how many times he struck that handsome, laughing face. He knew only that he was punching his knuckles raw on his brother.

Only Mariah's voice, taut with alarm, finally penetrated his blinding rage.

"Luke. Luke, stop. You'll kill him."

His hands fell to his sides. Hance slithered to the ground with a moan. Luke felt rivulets of sweat crawling down his neck, down his arms, stinging where his knuckles had been laid open. He raised his eyes to Mariah, feeling a new focus for his anger.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" he demanded.

She regarded him steadily. "It's not what you want, Luke."

They stood for a long moment, eyes locked, both breathing heavily. Luke tried to blame Mariah. He wanted to believe she was the reason he'd attacked Hance. But there was more to it than that. Much more.

Nell Wingfield appeared in the yard, taking in the scene with a swift glance. "Should've known he wouldn't leave peaceably," she remarked. Hance began to moan softly. She shook her head. "I doubt he'll mend his ways, though, Luke. What's bred in the bone can't be beaten out of him."

Luke looked at her sharply. "What's that supposed
to
mean?"

Nell shrugged. "Some other time, Luke. Just get him out of here." She disappeared into the house.

Mariah turned away. "I'll get some things to clean him up."

She walked a few steps, then turned again.

"Luke."

"What is it, Mariah?"

"Thank you, Luke."

Luke didn't knock on the door but lifted the latch quietly and let himself in. The room was swathed in darkness, but Luke knew his way around, skirting the pine trestle table, setting his hat down on the precious, lovingly oiled spinet. The warm, familiar smells of baked goods and lye soap lingered in the air, mingling with wood smoke from the low-glowing potbellied stove in the middle of the room.

Luke slipped through a partition to the bedroom, rounding a highboy and lowering himself to the bedside. Unerringly, his hand found a familiar, softly rounded shoulder.

"Hannah," he whispered. "Hannah, it's me."

She stirred to wakefulness. "Luke." He could hear the smile in her voice.

"I know it's late, Hannah—"

"You know I never mind that, honey." Her hand was warm on his chest.

"I need your help, Hannah. I've got Hance outside." Briefly, he sketched out what had happened at the party.

He brought Hannah her wrapper from a hook by the door and lighted a lamp. They went outside, and Luke brought a groggy and drunken Hance down from his horse. Roused from a besotted half sleep, he swung his fist at Luke with a curse.

"Cut that out," Luke said irritably, dragging him inside. In minutes he was sprawled on the settee, muttering.

Hannah brought a red cedar bucket and some cloths and daubed gingerly at his cheek. The gash was a short split high on the cheekbone, puckered by bruises at the edges. Hannah glanced up at Luke.

"I thought you said he was doing the hitting. Looks like Farley managed to get a few punches in."

Luke winced as Hannah applied bloodroot liniment to the cut. He'd felt its sting plenty of times on various boyhood wounds.

"It wasn't Farley," he admitted quietly. Self-loathing welled in his throat.

Hannah frowned. "Then who—?"

Hance had come unpleasantly awake at the balm treatment. He lifted one corner of his mouth at Hannah.

"My own baby brother's handiwork," he said. His eyes, crystalline despite drink and injuries, glittered at Luke. "Right handy job you did, little brother, defending the virtue of an Injun whore." Hance then looked at Hannah, savoring her shocked expression. "That's what he did, all right. I was just having a little fun with the squaw—Shaw-nee trash, I guess she was—when Luke took it into his head to rescue her."