Embrace the Day (35 page)

Every cut of the knife and blow of the tomahawk was a celebration of his hatred. His glee at the sight of Luke's shoulders and arms, slick and streaming with blood, was hideous.

Black Bear could have finished Luke with a single well-aimed stab, but he wasn't a merciful killer. He wanted Luke to suffer.

Luke bore the attack tirelessly, as if he didn't even feel the stabs and cuts that streaked his arms and shoulders.

Then Mariah realized what he was doing. He was waiting. Waiting for Black Bear to tire himself out. The brave was no longer a youth; his dancing and artful feints were wearing on him. His breathing was slightly labored, and droplets of sweat sprayed from his brow as he jerked his head to and fro.

But Mariah wouldn't allow herself to hope that Luke was gaining an advantage. Black Bear was still a practiced killer. Even when Luke managed, with a powerful kick to the chest, to send Black Bear sprawling, the triumph lasted only seconds.

Luke's small success enraged Black Bear. The brave's attitude of cruel playfulness flared to fierce anger. He righted himself as Luke came at him. His knife sliced into Luke's shoulder, laying open a gash that stained him with blood, from his chest to the waistband of his breeches.

A dullness crept into Luke's eyes, and Mariah could sense the strength draining out of him. Then, high above the noise of the crowd, a thin scream sounded. Mariah whirled to see Luke's sister, standing between the squaws who had brought her from the council house. Eyes wide, arms stretched out in supplication, she strained toward her brother.

Some long-buried spirit had risen to the surface, and there was a light in her eyes: the cold sparkle of terror.

With her stare fastened on the streaming wound in Luke's shoulder, the woman extended her grimy hands toward her brother. "Luke!" she screamed. "Luke!"

Mariah's gaze snapped back to him. He had seen the light of recognition in Rebecca's eyes. He had heard his name on her lips.

With new force, he lunged at Black Bear. His anger was magnificent, terrifying, out of control. He moved so fast that Black Bear's swing with the tomahawk arced wide and missed; then the weapon flew to the ground. The men came together in a deadly handclasp, knives raised and trembling above their heads.

Their faces were close, their eyes pouring hatred. Then, as if by mutual agreement, they ended the deadlock. Both knives dropped. In seconds, the enemies wrestled in a tangle of limbs and curses in the dust.

Black Bear fought with all the feline cunning he possessed, but Luke's power kept his scratching and biting at bay. Luke rolled the brave onto his back and straddled him, grinding his knees into Black Bear's wrists to hold the brave still.

Eyes wide, Black Bear seemed to realize he had been bested. Several braves moved in to defend him. An order barked from Puckinswah stopped them. "Halt! It's Black Bear's fight."

Muttering angrily, the braves fell back.

Luke's anger exploded as he rained blows on Black Bear's face. Even after the brave went limp, Luke continued his assault, cursing incoherently. Mariah saw tears mingling with the sweat that poured down his face.

Finally, the blows subsided, along with Luke's rage. Filthy, bloody, with no trace of the victor's strut, Luke surged unsteadily to his feet. He staggered toward Rebecca, whose screams had subsided to sobs.

Like an awakening wild beast, Black Bear rose. His face was battered almost beyond recognition. His power was nourished by dark hatred. He stumbled at Luke, raising the knife he had retrieved from the dust.

Mariah heard a scream and realized only later that it was her own. Luke wheeled around. Black Bear stabbed out with the knife.

Luke caught his wrist. Black Bear's fingers held the weapon in a death grip. The blade glittered, caressing Luke's pale, stubbled throat and then was pushed away, closer to the brave's smooth, brown neck. Nose to nose, chest to chest, their panting breaths mingling, they faced each other for the reckoning.

Black Bear's hand trembled as he tried to aim the blade at Luke. "You are a killer, Luke Adair," he said in thick, rough English.

"No!" Luke burst out. "You're not worth killing."

"A killer, like all the white man!" Black Bear's mouth twisted in a hideous smile, and he slackened his grip. The pressure of Luke's defending hand pushed the sharp blade into the brave's throat. Dark blood spouted from the wound. Still grinning, as if to savor the triumph of his hatred, Black Bear toppled to the ground. His lifeblood seeped into the dust.

Luke fell still, watching. Mariah hurried to his side. He would need her now. He would need her to help him combat the dreadful self-loathing that shone in his eyes.

"It's over, Luke," she said gently.

"I killed him," he said, as if he had not heard her. "I killed him."

"It's what he wanted, in the end. To die in combat like a true warrior. To make a murderer of you. You can't let him win, Luke. He deserved to die. Look at your sister. See what he made of her."

It was Rebecca's sobs, not Mariah's words, that penetrated his self-contempt. The red-haired woman had crumpled at Black Bear's side and was whimpering over him, like a dog mourning the master who had abused it.

Luke went to her, murmuring softly, having forgotten all but the fact that at long last, he would be taking his sister home. Only Mariah had an inkling that something was wrong.

Around her, Shawnee voices rang with outrage. Tomahawk in hand, a brave moved toward Luke. Mariah stepped into his path.

"It was a just fight," she said. "Black Bear agreed to the terms."

"The nenothu has killed one of our braves. He must die."

Puckinswah, the old chief, came forward. "The nenothu fought honorably. He will not die. Still, the life that was taken from us must be paid for."

"We've brought gifts," Mariah said desperately. "A fine pacing horse, silver—"

"You know what we want," said Puckinswah, giving Mariah a hard look. "It is you, Whispering Rain."

She stumbled back, incredulous. "I live among the white man now," she said. "It is where I belong."

Puckinswah laughed. "No doubt you like their fine houses and soft beds."

"I work hard in the white man's city; it is no easy life. But I have a place there."

"You will be much happier among us, among your father's people." Murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd.

Mariah argued, but the men would not be moved. With a leaden heart, she realized what she had to do. Luke wouldn't allow her to be kept here against her will; he'd die for her first. She must make him believe that she was staying here by choice. His life depended on it.

She helped him clean and bind his wounds, helped him dress. Not once did she allow herself to think that this was the last she'd see of him. Silently, she vowed to come back to him.

When Luke was ready, she took his beloved face between her hands, memorizing every feature, every line and angle.

"I'm staying, Luke," she told him with quiet firmness.

He looked as if she'd struck him. His face drained to white. "Mariah—"

"These are my people," she said hurriedly. "I've missed them. I've missed the freedom, the songs and ceremonies, the feeling of belonging—"

"But you belong to me!"

Yes, yes, her heart cried out. She blinked to chase away tears that, for the first time in her memory, stung her eyes. "Please, Luke. It's my decision."

"What about us, Mariah?" He gripped her shoulders and shook her. "That was no playacting I was doing last night, when I married you in the way of your people. You're my wife, damn it!"

She looked down. "It was easy for us to dream, Luke, when it was just the two of us in the wilderness. If I returned to Lexington, nothing would be the same. Your family, the people in town, they'd never accept me."

"But—"

"It is my choice. Please accept it." She leaned up and kissed his cheek, nearly shuddering with sadness. "Go, Luke. Take your sister home."

He studied her for a long moment, pushing his fingers through his hair in a gesture of frustration now familiar to Mariah. And then his face grew hard.

"I guess I was wrong about you, Mariah. I was a fool to believe all the things you said to me."

He turned away and helped Rebecca onto a horse, then mounted his own. Mariah forced herself to remain still as he rode away down the wind-swept traces toward Kentucky.

Only when he was out of sight did she sink to her knees. Every tear she'd spent a lifetime holding back flowed freely now, darkening the dust that she pounded helplessly with her fists.

They were two days' ride from Lexington, and Rebecca was still as much a stranger to Luke as she had been in the Indian village. At first it hadn't mattered. His wounds plagued him; the deep gash in his shoulder was healing badly, and his head pounded ceaselessly.

Worse still was the blow of Mariah's rejection and Luke's inability to tear his mind from her. At night he tortured himself with images of their honeyed lovemaking, remembering Mariah's softness, the shyness that had given way to a passion so sweet it defied description.

Grinding his fist into his hand, Luke asked himself how she could turn her back on that. The one time in his life Luke had dared to entrust his heart to someone, she'd broken it. He felt like an empty shell, as hollow and wooden as a rotted tree.

It was better that way, Luke told himself. Empty shells didn't bleed.

He tried to push Mariah from his mind as he made camp that night. As always, Rebecca was no help. She sat listlessly by, chewing on a bit of hardtack, watching him as he made a fire and rubbed down the horses.

The woods were quiet; it was between the time of the noisy birds of daylight and the nighttime sounds of wolves and owls.

As he sat drinking the coffee he'd brewed over the fire, Luke studied his sister. She was reading her worn red Bible and twisting a grimy braid about her finger. She'd barely spoken a word to him since they'd left Indian country. A snatch of conversation he'd once had with Nell Wingfield crept into Luke's mind.

"Before the first month was out she was touched, Luke. Mad. I suppose it was her way of escaping. She created a world of her own because the one she lived in was unbearable. She took to talking to herself, to the plants and the sky."

Luke squeezed his eyes shut, imagining all his sister had been through, her pitiful retreat into madness.

The next day he knew he had to do something about her. It would be shock enough for his parents to see her again; the least he could do was clean her up a little.

By the banks of the Kentucky River, just short of the road to Lexington, he stopped his horse and lifted Rebecca down from the other. For once he appreciated the unquestioning obedience Black Bear had beaten into her.

"You're to have a bath," he said. He suspected she hadn't had one since she'd left Dancer's Meadow. He brought a cake of lye soap from his saddle pack and took Rebecca's hand.

As soon as she realized his intent, she began to fight, scratching at him and bucking so hard that she nearly reopened his wounds. Gritting his teeth, Luke dragged her into the river, both of them fully clothed. He washed her from head to foot, scrubbing her skin and the doeskin dress that had been stained by grease and ash. Rebecca wailed piteously, but Luke was relentless, cleaning her dirt-smudged face, unbinding the grease-slathered braids, washing away the stench that rose from her body.

It was worth it, he decided some time later. Rebecca's face had been scrubbed until it shone, and her hair, drying in the afternoon sun, was now like his, richly red and gleaming. At last he saw his sister, in body if not in spirit. He only hoped she would be healed by her family's love.

The clock chimed gently in the darkened room. Roarke's candle shed light on a small figure at the door, leaning against its frame in a pensive attitude.

"Come to bed, Gennie love," Roarke said.

She looked over at him with a smile but turned back to the door to gaze out into the early-winter night.

"I'm too excited to sleep," she said. "It's not every day one's son announces he's getting married. And to such a girl, Roarke. Ivy Attwater is everything I could have wanted for Hance."

"Aye. Not what I expected, but better. Ivy's got a good head on her shoulders, not all fluffy and frilly like most girls."

Genevieve passed a hand over her hair. There were strands of gray threaded through it now; her hands were lined and careworn, yet as strong as they had ever been.

"I hope her family likes us, Roarke. I always thought the Attwaters so grand, with their house on the hill and all their fine friends from the university."

Roarke came and stood behind her. She leaned back savoring the warmth of him, the loving feel of his hands as they came up to grip her shoulders.

"Gennie love," he whispered huskily into her ear, "you'll have the Attwaters on their knees before you, make no mistake."

She smiled. Roarke always made her feel so fine, so beloved. She was comfortable with his touch but not so comfortable she didn't feel a familiar thrill of excitement when his lips grazed her neck. She sighed and looked up at the stars, thanking the heavens for the miracle of her husband's love.

She pulled away just before the deep eddying pleasure of his touch overtook her.

"Gennie?"

She pointed out the window at the distant dark shape coming over the rise to the north of the farm.

"It's Luke," she said excitedly, recognizing his hat and his stance in the saddle. "He's come home."

They hurried out onto the porch. Luke had been gone for four months, with even less explanation than he usually gave. Another rider appeared around a curve in the drive—a woman.

"Roarke," Genevieve said, clutching at the folds of her wrapper, "who could it be? I'm hardly fit for company."

He lit a lantern and fitted a chimney over the flame. Luke dismounted and helped the woman down, then guided her up the stairs. Roarke held the lantern high, illuminating her face.

The light wavered uncertainly as Roarke's hand trembled. "Holy mother of God," he whispered. "It's Becky." He set the lantern down and leaped from the porch, followed by Genevieve, who was already sobbing incoherently.