Embrace the Day (36 page)

Luke stood back, feeling the ache of tears behind his eyes as he watched. Roarke gathered Rebecca against him, running his hands over her hair and murmuring her name, over and over again. Genevieve joined them in the embrace, crying and thanking the stars for her daughter's return.

Rebecca stood immobile, neither responding to her parents' outpouring of joy and affection nor rebuffing it. Only after several moments had passed did Genevieve and Roarke notice.

"She's not the same," Luke explained hurriedly. "Let's go inside."

Genevieve led the unprotesting young woman into the house. Before following them, Roarke stopped and rested his hand on Luke's shoulder.

"How did you do it, son? How did you find Becky?"

Luke glanced away. He could never tell his father how dear the cost of finding Rebecca had been. His quest had brought him together with Mariah; his success had torn them apart.

"It doesn't matter, Pa. Becky's home, and that's all that counts."

"Black Bear… ?"

"He's dead."

Roarke studied his son keenly. He didn't miss the sadness in Luke's eyes, the world-weary thin note in his voice. Roarke knew that look; he'd worn it himself, long ago. It was the look of a man who had killed, and who thought less of himself for having done so. But now was not the time to probe the shadows that haunted his son. He picked up the lantern and led the way into the house.

"Stop primping so, Sarah," Genevieve said, guiding the girl away from the bureau mirror. "One would think this was your engagement party instead of Hance's."

"Maybe it is," Israel teased, pulling one of his sister's golden ringlets out and watching it bounce back into place. "She's got her sights set on Nathaniel Caddick."

"That's not so," Sarah declared petulantly. "I just want to look nice for Hance's party."

"Well, you do," Israel said, patting her hand placatingly. "You look as pretty as a spring flower. Caddick would be some kind of fool if he didn't notice."

Genevieve went upstairs, a small smile on her face. Her two youngest children were happy, possessing neither Hance's wild streak nor Luke's quiet intensity. Israel had recently expressed a desire to enter the Presbyterian ministry, and pretty, acquisitive Sarah had never made a secret of her social ambitions. Genevieve didn't understand that, but it seemed important to Sarah, so she allowed it.

Only one of Genevieve's children worried her now. The middle one. The daughter who had tugged on her apron and begged for stories, who had picked wildflowers at the fringes of the garden while Genevieve worked.

And now she was in the room she shared with Sarah, where she had been for a month, hiding from the world.

Taking a deep breath, Genevieve knocked and let herself into the room. Rebecca sat in the recess of a dormer window, the late-afternoon sun slanting down over the yellowing pages of her Bible. She was dressed in a buttercup dimity frock, one of Sarah's that had needed only a few tucks to make it fit Rebecca's thin frame, a flounce at the bottom to lengthen it.

"Becky?" Genevieve crossed the room to her. "You look very pretty."

"Do I?" Rebecca shrugged listlessly.

Genevieve took a small hand mirror from the dressing table and held it up in front of her face. "Look at yourself, Becky. You're lovely. Your father used to say your hair reminded him of wild ginger blossoms."

The girl stared dispassionately at her image—clear gray eyes, clean, regular features, a well-shaped mouth held in a straight line. Her skin was marked by pocks, but not badly.

"Am I pretty?" she asked, truly uncomprehending. She continued to stare, as if looking at a stranger.

"Don't you remember how you used to stand on the bridge over Dancer's Creek and watch your reflection in the water? You must have been just five or six at the time. You used to drop pebbles into the creek and laugh as the image rippled. You were—"

Rebecca raised her eyes to Genevieve. "I don't remember anything about that time."

Genevieve looked away, feeling her heart constrict. For weeks they'd tried to stir their daughter's memory, showing her the sampler she'd once made for Roarke's birthday, bringing up images from her childhood.

"Nothing, Becky?" Genevieve asked. "Nothing about the family we used to be?"

"I… When Luke was fighting Muga and I saw him bleed, something stirred inside me and I said his name. But it wasn't really a memory. It was just—"

"Well now, here's my girl," Roarke said jovially, striding into the room. He looked marvelous in his black trousers and meeting coat, his silver-streaked hair combed mercilessly into place. He kissed Rebecca on the head and hunkered down beside her. He grinned, reaching into his pocket.

"I found something for you, Becky. Something I made for your tenth birthday." He handed her a small carved dancing bear.

Rebecca's hands trembled as she took it from him. Something glimmered in her eyes, a bright flicker that hadn't been there before. Roarke and Genevieve watched, hardly daring to breathe, as she pulled the thin hemp string. The bear spun and bobbed on its stick, whirling with a wooden clack.

Rebecca clutched it to her chest. She raised her eyes to Roarke, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. The sheen of tears in her eyes didn't veil the sparkle of recognition there.

"Papa," she whispered brokenly. "Papa, it's you."

She tumbled into his arms, reaching out to Genevieve at the same time and calling her Mama and suddenly speaking disjointedly of people she'd known, places around Dancer's Meadow that had been hidden away in the recesses of her mind for years.

Hance strode into the room, looking splendid for the Attwaters' reception. He'd been about to give his parents an impatient prod, but his irritation disappeared when he saw them all laughing and talking and crying at once.

"What's this?" he asked, leaning easily against the door frame.

Rebecca extracted herself from Roarke's embrace and brushed the tears from her cheeks. Slowly, she walked to her brother.

"I'm back, Hance," she said softly. "I'm really back. I remember everything now." Hugging him, she gave a little laugh. "More's the pity for you, big brother. I remember what a wild boy you were, disappearing from church and deviling me with your horrible language."

He chuckled. "You always used to say I'd bring the wrath of the Almighty down about my ears, making me feel like a sheep-killing dog. And here I am, a respectable man, about to marry the most decent girl in Lexington. So if you don't mind, I'd like you to mop your face and comb your hair so my future in-laws won't think my family is completely besotted."

The drive to town was a merry one, the family squeezed together in Hance's gleaming new carriage, wrapped warmly against the chilly air of January. Roarke wondered aloud how Hance had the means to afford such a grand conveyance.

"A respectable man like me deserves a respectable vehicle," he said.

Luke looked at him sharply, at the bright yellow-gold band on Hance's finger as it curled about the reins. He knew exactly where Hance had found the means to buy the carriage and adorn himself with gold. Although his parents were ignorant of their eldest son's connection to smugglers in New Orleans, Luke was well aware of it. In helping Hance move into his new house on High Street, Luke had stumbled across numerous bills of lading for goods that had been traded in defiance of the law.

But he said nothing. Now was not the time to question Hance's lack of scruples, not with Rebecca finally remembering who she was and his parents so happy.

They flanked their eldest daughter, sitting proudly on the high seat of the carriage, smiling and nodding at the people they passed, who paused to stare curiously at Rebecca, whose return had been a source of gossip for a month now.

Only one small incident marred the trip. Rebecca glimpsed Johnny Eagle, an aging Shawnee who frequented the grog shops on Main Street. Although the Indian wore trousers and a linsey-woolsey shirt, he kept his long hair braided and sported a necklace of bear claws, long and curving into his chest.

Johnny Eagle waved unsteadily at the Adairs, giving them a gap-toothed grin. Rebecca made a small squeak of horror and buried her face against Roarke's sleeve.

"There now," Roarke soothed. "He's harmless as a June bug."

"I know," Rebecca said tremulously. "But I just can't stand any reminder of, of—"

"Of course you can't, Becky love. And I'll see to it you don't ever have to be reminded of the bloody savages again. Ever."

"
Mr. Coomes," Mariah
said softly, "no words exist to tell you how grateful I am."

Will Coomes grinned and pushed his hat back on his head. There was a dull-white scarred area on his scalp where, thirteen years earlier, he'd lost a good bit of hair and flesh to a Miami brave's scalping knife.

"Well, now, I don't need any thanks, Mariah." He slung his rifle over his shoulder and gazed longingly at the Sheaf of Wheat Tavern. "Beelzebub and me were glad of your company on the way back to Lexington from Indian country."

"You risked a great deal for me," Mariah insisted.

He shrugged. "Not really. It was just a case of good timing and bad weather. I showed up just when the winter decided to get good and nasty. The Shawnee couldn't very well have worried about keeping prisoners during a blizzard like that." He shook his head. "Yes, sir, that was some little storm."

Mariah smiled at his understatement. They'd both nearly died more than once on their journey back to Lexington. But never, not even while wading through shoulder-high drifts or groping, snow-blind, across howling meadows, had she regretted leaving the Shawnee village. Her love for Luke drove her, made her forget fear and discomfort as she focused her mind on him during the six-week trek to Lexington.

Her only thought was to see him, to explain, to erase the shock and pain she'd seen in his eyes at their last parting.

Will Coomes looked again at the inviting tavern, a warm haven in the January chill. Sounds of laughter and clinking glasses issued alluringly from its doors.

"Guess I'll be going, Mariah," Will said. He paused once more to study her. "Damn, but you're a brave little woman," he added.

She turned away with a smile, just in time to see a small figure running toward her.

"Mariah! Mariah!" Gideon Parker hurled himself into his aunt's arms. "You're back! Miz Nellie said you'd never come back!"

Mariah hugged the little boy close, smiling slightly as his nose wrinkled at the smell of her well-greased and ash-rubbed buckskin dress.

Gideon held her hand and skipped happily at her side, "Where've you been, Mariah? Why are you wearing those clothes?"

"I was in Indian country, with my father's people."

Gideon's eyes widened. "Really?" He was worried at first, but after Mariah assured him that she was back to stay, he badgered her for details of her journey. A bit sadly, she reflected that Gideon had been too young to remember his first three years. He might have been born a Shawnee, but he'd be raised an American.

Mariah spoke patiently, ignoring her weariness. "What are you doing in town, Gideon?" she asked. "It's freezing outside and nearly dark."

"Miz Nellie sent me to M'Calla's apothecary in Short Street for some tonic. Come with me, Mariah."

Andrew M'Calla grumbled at having to concoct a draft of calomel and jalap just at closing time, and he eyed Mariah's fringed and soiled Indian garments with distaste.

"Thought you'd stopped being an Injun now that you're among decent folk," he said uncharitably. "And Mr. Bradford singin' your praises to the sky because of those essays you done for his paper…"

Mariah was too tired to take offense at M'Calla's attitude. She took the parcel and thrust it into Gideon's hands, then stalked out of the shop. It was fully dark now; stars had appeared overhead, and the air smelled sharp and clean. Gideon scampered down the street, and she followed more slowly, shaking her head. People like the apothecary would always be part of this life she'd chosen to live. She would have to learn to face their prejudice, to—

A bright orange spark made an arc several feet in front of her, leaving a thin wisp of tobacco smoke. Mariah stopped and looked up at the stone steps of the house to her right, one of the fine ivied residences near the college. Its windows glowed with yellow light and music wafted out on the chilly breeze.

The man who had been smoking the cheroot rose and raked a hand through his hair in a gesture so familiar to Mariah that she gasped.

Gideon turned, frowning. "Go on home," she whispered. "I'll be there later." He shrugged and skipped down toward Water Street.

Mariah clutched the wrought-iron gate at the end of the walk and took a deep breath.

"Luke. Luke, it's me, Mariah."

His body, outlined by the glow from the windows, stiffened. Mariah yanked the gate open and ran to him, pressing against his chest. It wasn't the reunion she'd envisioned; she still wore fringed buckskins and braids and was filthy from weeks of travel, but she didn't care.

"I'm back, Luke," she murmured softly.

He didn't return her embrace. He set her away from him, and she saw anger in his eyes.

"What do you want from me, Mariah?"

"Luke, please listen. I had to stay in the village. I had to pretend it was my choice. Puckinswah, the old chief, would have kept me by force if I'd refused."

"You sent me away," he grated, taking her roughly by the shoulders. "Damn it, Mariah, I gave you my soul, and you sent me away."

"I didn't know what else to do, Luke. I had to lie—"

"Seems like you lied about a lot of things."

She shook her head vigorously. "Only about wanting to stay with the Shawnee. Nothing else. Luke, why can't you believe me?"

He let out his breath with a soft hiss. "You should have told me."

"I couldn't, Luke. You were hurt; you couldn't have withstood another fight." She winced at the fury on his face, but her gaze never wavered. "I stayed because I was afraid for you, Luke. I came back because I love you."

Tense silence lingered in the cold air between them. Then Luke gave a small gasp of longing and need. He caught her against him, and she was engulfed by his familiar male scent, the feel of his crisp starched shirt front beneath her cheek, and his arms around her.

"You sweet, foolish woman," he murmured. "Do you know what it did to me when you said you wanted to stay?"

She nodded. Her throat began to ache. "Yes. Yes, I do know. Because I was feeling the same thing."

"You could have died getting back here, Mariah."

"I know. But I didn't want to live without you."

The kiss he gave her drew out until her knees felt weak. Then, with a whoop of gladness, he whirled her about. Taking her hand, he led her toward the house.

"Luke, what are you doing?"

He grinned. "There's an engagement party going on inside. We might as well give my family even more reason to celebrate."

"Your family? Luke, no! I'm not dressed for—"

He pulled the door open and brought her into a small but grand vestibule that smelled of polish and lamp oil and rich food. Still she resisted, feeling unwashed and out of place in the house. But Luke pulled her into the drawing room, grinning jubilantly.

The music, provided by a small ensemble of university students, continued. But the people in the room stopped to stare at Luke and the uninvited guest. Roarke and Genevieve approached hurriedly, looking apprehensive and not a little troubled.

"Luke, what's going on?"

"This is Mariah. My wife." Mariah's heart swelled at the pride she heard in his voice. But, seeing shock etched on the faces of his family, she felt a chill grip her.

"Luke," she began, "this isn't a good time—"

"A
redskin
?" Roarke said in a low voice, a voice taut with outrage. Mariah winced at the hatred she heard.

"Now look Pa—"

"No,
you
look." Roarke jabbed a finger at him. "You can't just come waltzing in here with some unwashed squaw and say that."

Luke tensed, holding his anger in check—just barely. "Mariah's been through a lot. I won't have you insulting her."

"Insulting her! By God, listen to yourself. What about what the Shawnee did to your family, torturing Becky for years, nearly driving her insane—"

"Well, well," Hance drawled, approaching slowly, julep in hand. "It's the little squaw from Nellie's." His eyes flicked indolently over Mariah.

"Nellie's?" Genevieve whispered.

Hance grinned. "Don't suppose my little brother told you that, did he? She works for Nell Wingfield. Were it not for the ladies present, I'd elaborate…"

Roarke's voice grew thunderous. "You would bring an Injun whore into this family?"

Luke's fist was a blur as it sped through the air, connecting with his father's jaw. Roarke stumbled back less stunned by the blow than by the fact that his son had just struck him. Genevieve's hand flew to her mouth.

At the same moment, Ivy entered the room, her arm linked with Rebecca's. Ivy stopped, sensing immediately that something was amiss. Rebecca's gaze moved about the room, to the music ensemble that had finally fallen silent, then to her father and brother, both of whom were red-faced and breathing fast and sharp.

And then she saw Mariah. Her eyes fastened on the sunburst pattern on the buckskin dress, on the greased braids, the worn moccasins.

Her screams tore through the air, making even the staunchest of guests shiver with the piercing terror of it. Rebecca screamed ceaselessly, in hysterical panic, clutching her arms around her waist and backing away from Mariah until her back was against the hand-painted wallpaper.

Although Rebecca's screams were incoherent, it was clear her lapse into hysteria sprang from the sight of Mariah—her hair braided, her features so frankly Indian, the bold beaded designs on her dress. Every feature was a reminder of the savagery Black Bear had dealt Rebecca.

While Genevieve rushed over to calm her daughter, Roarke leveled a murderous gaze at Luke.

"Get her out of here," he growled.

But by the time Luke turned to Mariah, she was gone.

Sunlight streamed into the brown and yellow bedroom of the neat clapboard farmhouse, laying golden illumination over the profusion of wicker baskets that Hannah Redwine kept for gathering. Luke moved restlessly about the room, cursing softly when his knee cracked against one of the porcelain knobs of the highboy. He raised a whiskey bottle to his lips, only to find that he'd emptied it hours ago.

Hannah stirred and propped herself up on one elbow, brushing aside her blond hair. She looked pretty in the morning Luke thought. The lines of care etched on her features were soft now, giving her face an endearing quality, especially when she was smiling.

She wasn't smiling now. Her brow was furrowed in concern.

"Something's wrong."

He lifted the corner of his mouth in the ghost of a smile. "I figured you'd notice."

She drew her knees up and hugged them to her chest. Her eyes were soft, but he knew she was looking at him keenly, studying his every move.

"You were gone so long. I'd just about let go of you, Luke, thinking you'd found someone else."

Luke said nothing. He didn't know anymore. He just didn't know.

"We've been together a long time," Hannah continued, her voice strangely tight. "And it's been good." She drew in a long, shuddering breath. "But I've decided it's not enough for me, Luke. After all is said and done, it's not enough. I need more than just a few hours of closeness whenever the mood strikes you. I need you here, Luke, by my side. All the time."

His mouth went dry. This was not what he'd come to hear. Hannah's words weren't spoken as a strident demand, which he would have found easy to reject. Instead, she spoke softly, a compelling plea.