Rachel's Choice (18 page)

She drew in a ragged breath. “I don't want you to go away,” she whispered. “I want you to stay with me.”

“I don't want to go, but I must,” he answered huskily. “I have to get these two away from the farm.”

“I don't mean that,” she replied. “I mean I want you to
stay
here on Rachel's Choice. Don't you want me?”

His face flushed with emotion. “You know I do.” He caught a loose lock of her hair and rubbed it between his fingertips. “It's all wrong for us.”

“Because you're a rich lawyer and I'm the granddaughter of an Indian?”

“Damn it, Rachel,” he flung back. “We're past all that, you and me. I'm a soldier. I have to go back to the war, and you …” He swallowed. “There's no place in your life for a Confederate—”

“You promised me!” she said. “You gave your word to me that you'd get my crop in.”

He nodded. “I did, and I mean to keep my promise. But when fall comes, I'll leave. It wouldn't be fair to you if I made promises I can't keep.”

“The war won't last forever.”

“Rachel, listen to me.” He cupped her chin in his hand. “Darlin' Rachel, the war widowed you once. I'll not let you wait and hope for me to return. You deserve better than what I could give. I'm a cavalry officer. In a charge I'm out in front, leading my men. If I were a betting man, I'd make no wager on my staying alive to see the end of this conflict.”

She was trembling from head to foot. “I'll not ask you to give up your cursed war, Chance Chancellor. I ask only that you love me for a little while. Until you have to go. Can't we accept our fortune and enjoy what time we have?”

“Do you know what you're saying, Rachel?”

“No ties, Chance. We'll live for here and now, and we'll let the future take care of itself.”

“And if I leave you with an unwanted baby?”

“Never unwanted if it's your child.” She hadn't known that she felt that way until the words came tumbling out, but it was true. If she did quicken with Chance's child, she would always have a small part of him, and she would love it as fiercely as she loved wee Davy.

“You're serious,” he said, stepping back and gazing into her face. “You're willing for me … for us …” He trailed off as she began to weep again. “Don't cry.” He pulled her into his arms again. “It tears my heart out when you cry.”

“Can't you pretend to want me?” she whispered, pressing her face into his chest.

“I don't have to pretend,” he grated. “It's not that you're not good enough for me, Rachel. It's me, it's what I've done … what I have to do.”

“For a little while,” she begged.

He swallowed. “So long as you know it's only—”

“Until harvest,” she finished.

He kissed her again, and she clung to him as though she were drowning.

Davy's fussing cry tore her away.

Chance straightened and picked up the shotgun. “I'll take them away now. Stay inside until I return. It may not be until morning.”

“If you turn them in to the authorities, they'll tell on you,” she said. “You'll be arrested as well.”

He nodded. “Where are the extra shells for this gun?”

“Upstairs, in my bedroom. I'll get them for you.”

“Tell me where. I'll find the shells.”

“You can't let them go,” she said. “I think they've committed murder. They're bad men, Chance, awful men.”

“I'll make sure that they won't come back to harm you or Davy.” He put her grandfather's watch into her hand. “I think this is yours.”

She nodded. “Yes, it is. But what are you going to do with them?”

“Don't ask me that,” he replied in a low voice that made her shiver.

“But …”

“Not now or ever.”

Rachel cleaned and tended the wound on Bear's head, then left the house to bring hammer and nails and sailcloth from the barn to cover the window. She swept up
the glass and stacked the broken chairs for repair, then returned to the kitchen to wait.

Sometime in the hours between midnight and dawn, Davy woke. Rachel fed him and sang him back to sleep. Bear lapped a little water from his bowl and crawled to Rachel's feet. The head wound was still seeping blood, but the dog's eyes seemed clearer, and she was certain that time would heal his injury.

Wide awake, Rachel continued to rock, still holding the baby in her arms. Davy's soft, steady breathing and the feel of his warm little body against her breast eased her heart.

Shortly before daylight Chance returned. Bear's whine alerted Rachel, and she put Davy on the daybed and picked up the rifle.

“It's me,” Chance called.

She let him in and bolted the door.

“I put Lady in the barn,” Chance said. “If you'll stir up some coffee, I'll bury her.”

She nodded. “Near the creek. Where the sun will keep her old bones warm.”

His hair was wet, his clothing relatively dry. “I took a swim,” he explained.

She wanted to ask about the two rebs, but she didn't dare. “Would you like breakfast?” she asked. She was suddenly shy. Only a few hours before, she'd agreed to be his woman—to sleep with him without the benefit of marriage—but she was so weary that she couldn't think straight. And now that there was nothing holding them apart, this seemed the wrong time.

“Just coffee,” he replied. “You go back to bed. You look worse than I feel.” He flashed a slow grin at her, and suddenly the room seemed to brighten.

“I'll take the baby upstairs with me,” she said.

“No, leave him. He'll be awake soon. I'll look after him while you catch a few hours of sleep. We'll have time enough together.”

Not enough, she thought. Not when I want you with me until hell freezes over.

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “Sleep,” he ordered. “Tomorrow is another day. We'll start over tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “We will.” She stepped out of the circle of his arms but held tightly to his hand. “There's something you have to know about my marriage to James.”

“He is dead, isn't he? That was the truth?”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “James died last fall, before the first snowfall.”

“Then there's nothing you need to tell me.”

“But I do,” she murmured. “Since we were kids, James and I were a matched team. We went together like raspberries and briers, bread and honey. No other boy ever gave me a serious look after James blacked Will Satterfield's eye for bidding on my picnic basket at the fair. I married him for love, but our marriage ended a long time before Gettysburg.”

“War is worse on some men than others,” Chance said.

“You don't understand,” she insisted. “The stranger who came home from Pennsylvania wasn't my James. He wore James's face, but he was different inside.”

“Lots of men—”

“Listen to me,” she pleaded. “I don't care about other men. This was
my
husband who had changed. My world is Rachel's Choice, and it was always James's, too. But after he joined up, he stopped caring about the farm and
about me. His mind burned with cheap whiskey, card gambling, and painted whores. We argued constantly, and he hit me hard enough to loosen a tooth. For weeks James stayed drunk and mean. I wouldn't have let him stay here, not if he wasn't so sick. And I never would have made a child with him if he hadn't forced me into his bed.”

“Rachel …” Chance's eyes widened in compassion.

“I just wanted you to know,” she whispered. “I don't hate James. I tell myself that he was sick in the head. But I despise the war that ruined him.”

Chance nodded. “I know you do.”

She released his hand. “I had to tell you,” she said softly. “It's important to me that you understand that what I feel for you is real—not a substitute for what I had with James.”

She didn't wait for an answer. Instead she walked quickly through the parlor and up the front stairs. She'd told Chance what she'd kept locked in her heart, and saying it lifted a heavy weight off her shoulders.

“Tomorrow is a start,” she whispered. “A start for us and for Davy.” And no matter what happened, she knew she'd never regret giving her love to Chance Chancellor. For him it might be three months, but for her it would be forever.

Rachel awoke to the smell of something burning and the sound of Davy's shrieks. She leaped out of bed to run downstairs, still in her nightdress. Tentacles of smoke seeped into the sitting room, making her eyes water.

“Where's the baby?” Rachel cried as she burst into the kitchen.

“Davy's outside.” Chance coughed and gestured to the woodstove. “The smoke's coming from the stove.”

Thick black clouds billowed out of the oven and filled the room; Rachel could barely make out the kitchen table. “Are you trying to burn my house down?”

Choking, Chance flung open the window over the dry sink. “It's nothing,” he managed. “It will clear out in no time.”

Rachel held her breath to avoid the worst of the smoke and dashed out into the yard to look for the baby. To her relief, she caught sight of him immediately.

Davy, tiny arms and legs flailing, lay in a wicker laundry basket. Bear crouched close beside him in the shade of the brick well. The mastiff whined a greeting to Rachel and thumped his tail against the hard-packed earth.

“At least one of you had the sense to get Davy out of
there,” she said, scooping up her little son and shushing his angry cries. “There, there,” she crooned. “You're all right.”

Bear nuzzled her ankle. “And you're going to be all right, too,” she murmured to the dog. A nasty gash scarred one side of his head, and his hair was matted with dried blood, but he wriggled joyfully when she petted him.

Last night's terror seemed far off in the bright morning sunshine. “We won't think of those rebel bastards, will we?” she whispered. She couldn't help wondering what Chance had done with them, but he'd warned her not to ask, and she was content to leave things that way.

She shifted Davy to her shoulder and scratched Bear under the chin. “At least I've got you.” Losing Lady was like losing a dear friend, and she knew that the big black dog would miss the old collie as deeply as she would. The two animals had been inseparable.

Sadness welled up inside her. The collie had been gray around the muzzle, but she had a few good years ahead of her. “I won't cry,” Rachel murmured. “I won't.” But she couldn't stop the lump from forming in her throat.

The squeak of the back door made her look up. She stared at Chance's soot-blackened face and then began to snicker. “Merciful heavens, look at you,” she declared. “What happened?”

“Making breakfast.”

She stood up and bounced Davy on one arm. His wails had subsided to hiccups and an occasional sob of indignation. “Let me guess,” Rachel said solemnly. “You tried to make biscuits and burned them.”

“Corn bread.” Chance grimaced. “And it didn't burn—at least, it didn't burn in the pan.”

“How do you figure that?”

“The batter overflowed. I couldn't take the pan out because the bread wasn't brown, but what was on the bottom of the oven kept smoking.”

“How full did you make the pan?”

He threw her such a dirty look that she burst into peals of laughter.

“What's so funny? It could happen to anyone.”

She snickered. “First you dive through my parlor window, then you shoot out another, and now you blacken my house with smoke.”

“I saved your derriere, Mrs. Irons, and don't you forget it.”

She nodded. “That you did. Let me take Davy upstairs and tuck him into his cradle, and I'll help you clean up the mess.”

“Deal.”

“And this time I'll make the breakfast, if you don't mind.”

Twenty minutes later, after caring for Davy, she rejoined Chance in the kitchen. Most of the smoke was gone, but black smudges stained the ceiling and walls, and remained on his face.

“You look like Quantrill,” she teased. “He couldn't do this much damage on his worst raid.” Dirty bowls and utensils littered the table. Eggshells, cornmeal, and coffee grounds spilled over onto the rug. The stove glowed red, and a pan of burnt eggs sat on the reservoir lid. A second cast-iron frying pan contained what must have been bacon; that, too, was blackened to a crisp.

“A mess,” Chance said, handing her a cup of coffee. “I hope it's not too strong.”

Rachel took a sip and puckered up her mouth. “Needs milk and sugar,” she gasped. When he looked hurt, she added, “But I like my coffee strong.” And then she couldn't resist teasing him. “Of course, this would melt horseshoes.”

“Fine, insult my efforts.”

She turned the stovepipe damper to reduce the fire and began to gather the dirty dishes. Then she noticed a handful of violets in a teacup in the center of the table and glanced at Chance questioningly.

“For you,” he admitted. “The trouble started when I went to pick the damn flowers. Bacon and eggs with corn bread didn't look so hard to do.”

“Thank you.” A scratchy feeling in her eyes made her tear up. “It's been a long time since anyone's brought me flowers.” She rubbed her cheek absently, and Chance chuckled.

“You've got flour on your face,” he said. “No, higher,” he said as she tried to brush it off. “Let me do it.”

He moved closer and she tilted her head up. He's going to kiss me, she thought. Her lips tingled, and she closed her eyes in anticipation.

Instead, Chance scooped up some of the spilled flour off the table and tossed it into her face.

“Why, you!” She sneezed once and again, and lunged for him. “You sneaky devil!” she cried.