Rachel's Choice (2 page)

In the shallows, amid a tangle of crab trap, rope, and muddy grass, lay a naked man. The stranger's back was to her, but his blond hair and upper body were streaked with blood.

Rachel took another step toward the creek bank, preparing to plunge in and help him. But then caution overrode her instinct to go to the man. Hadn't two escaped prisoners from Fort Delaware murdered a fisherman off Broadkill Beach last month?

“Hold him!” she shouted to the dogs. “Stay!” Then, heedless of her advanced pregnancy, she turned and ran back toward the house.

“Shhh, shhh. Easy,” Chance whispered hoarsely to the dogs. The incessant barking had penetrated his fog of exhaustion and forced him to open his eyes and drag himself up from unconsciousness.

Two dogs. Not a pack, but only two. Real, flesh-and-blood animals, not the devil's hounds his fevered mind had conjured up from his escape at Pea Patch Island.

Futilely Chance tugged at the snarled line that held his legs as he murmured to the black mastiff that threatened to tear him limb from limb.

The collie might give alarm with her yapping, but she wasn't vicious. Her eyes lacked a killer's gleam. It was the black one he had to worry about.

The snarling beast stood as tall as a six-month-old calf,
and his lips were curled back to reveal ivory fangs that could snap a man's leg bone like tinder.

“Good dog,” he soothed.

Somewhere in the long rainy night, Chance had been certain that he'd died and gone to hell. Only hell wasn't fiery hot as the preachers claimed; it was bitter cold.

He hadn't cared much. He was past caring whether he survived or not. The pain in his arm had driven him beyond the point of wanting to live. He could feel the poison pumping through his veins with every beat of his heart. Soon there would be only blessed blackness and an end to fighting the water.

He didn't know how long it had been since he'd fled the Union prison. Days and nights had run together in his fevered brain. He hadn't eaten, and he hadn't been warm—not once. Hunger didn't tear at him, but thirst did. All this water around him and none to drink … The Delaware River and Bay were salty; not even his periods of dementia had made him crazy enough to drink from them.

He'd thought the river would take him; he'd almost hoped that the water would close over his head one last time. But now it seemed he wasn't meant to die by drowning. He was about to be devoured by dogs.

The collie's barking took on a hysterical note, and the hair on the black mastiff's neck stood up. “Easy,” Chance repeated. “Good dog.”

And then, behind him, he heard the ominous click of cold steel. “Don't move!” a woman's throaty voice commanded. “Put your hands in the air.”

Chance twisted around to stare into the double barrels of a twelve-gauge shotgun. “Miss,” he began. Her thumb
rested on one hammer. A slender finger tightened on the trigger.

Her brown eyes widened in shock. Her already flushed cheeks burned a deeper crimson, and Chance realized that the ruins of his trousers were caught in the crab trap. Awkwardly he tried to cover his shriveled sex with his good hand.

“I … I said, get your hands up!”

He sat down in the water.

Her voice trembled, but the twin barrels of her shotgun held steady. “Are you deaf? Or do you want me to shoot?”

“Miss … ma'am …” Chance's head was thumping like a drum, and waves of nausea washed over him. But even in his impaired state, he could see that the lady was dark-haired, comely, and great with child. Her charms meant little at this moment. But since she was holding a gun on him and seemed confident she could hit what she aimed at, no sensible man would infuriate her any more than necessary. Therefore, prudence was in order. “As you can see, I'm—”

“Naked as a blue jay?”

“I've had … an accident. If you'd just call off your dogs, I can explain—”

“How you're an escaped rebel prisoner from Fort Delaware?”

“No, ma'am.” In spite of his chills, he could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck. “No, ma'am, I'm not.” Lies were pouring out of his mouth faster than a horse could trot, but he could see that she wasn't believing a word of it. “My boat sank. I'm a merchant from … from London, on my way to Philadelphia and—”

“Save your breath, Johnny Reb. Your fine Southern accent
gives you away. Not Maryland. Virginia? Richmond, maybe?”

He winced at the accuracy of her barb. “No, ma'am, I told you, I'm British. My business is in London, but my family hails from the Indies.”

“And I'm President Lincoln.” She cocked the second hammer. “You thought if you got rid of your gray uniform, I wouldn't have the sense to know what you are?”

A wave of weakness swept over Chance, and he gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering.

She was right again. He had stripped off his coat and shirt that first night he'd gone into the water. He'd meant to steal some other clothes, but he'd never gotten the opportunity.

“Out of the creek,” she ordered, “before I let you have a belly full of buckshot.”

“I can't.”

She took a step closer. “Don't mess with me, Reb. I'll drop you where you—”

“No! Don't shoot. I'm tangled in this line.” It was getting harder and harder to summon the strength to speak. He was so damned cold, and the sun reflected off the water so that spots of light danced across his brain. “I don't mean you any harm.”

“More lies?”

It was hard to keep his eyes open. “If you mean to shoot me, then do it. Just give me a drink of water first.”

“Why should I?”

“A lady should—”

Her obsidian eyes narrowed. “How dare you tell me what I should do for you, you traitor?”

“If you won't give me a drink, then shoot and be damned.”

“Maybe I will. I'm sure there's a bounty on your head.”

“You're a hard woman to deny a man a drop of water before you send him to his Maker.”

“You take me for a fool? A fisherman was murdered near here last month by escaped rebel scum. And before Christmas a woman just across the bay was ravaged by two others.”

Chance rubbed his swollen eyes. It was hard to think with his head hurting so, and it was harder still to make his words come out straight.

Fine lawyer I am, he thought. My life is hanging on the verdict, and I can't match wits with a barefoot farmer's wench.

“Do I look like I'm in any condition to commit rape?”

“That's the first honest thing you've said to me.”

Wearily he sagged until his chin touched the water. He was so tired. If he rested for just a few minutes, maybe he could summon the strength to break loose and fight his way past the dogs.

“Stay there,” she said.

The irony made him smile. Where did she think he was going? The black humor brought a chuckle from deep in his gut. He slumped forward into the shallow water and drifted into oblivion.

Minutes or hours later—he had no way of knowing which—pain knifed through his bad arm. He gasped and tried to open his eyes.

“Get up!” the woman ordered. “I can't carry you.” She struck him sharply across the face. “Get on your feet and walk!”

“Go to hell.”

The palm of her hand cracked across his cheek again, and he staggered to his feet.

“That's it. You can do it. A little more,” she urged, tugging at his good arm.

His left foot slipped, and she couldn't hold his weight. He sprawled face down in the mud, and his wounded arm felt as though it were on fire. He spat out a mouthful of dirt and tried to bite back a scream of agony.

The hurting became a hell of jumbled sounds and pain. Once Chance fancied he felt himself being dragged over the ground. He smelled the dogs, and a woman's newly washed hair.

Dark … it was dark hair, he remembered. Dark brown with a hint of chestnut where the sunlight sparkled on it.

And then he sank into a cushion of black forgetfulness where the only intrusion was the occasional bark of a dog and the blessed taste of freshwater in his parched mouth.

Chance opened his eyes and looked around the semi-darkened room. He lay on a daybed in a kitchen. The only light came from an oil lamp hanging over the table and a glow from the belly of the woodstove. Near the doorway, in the shadows, he could see the outline of a woman sitting in a rocking chair.

He felt awful.

The wound in his arm throbbed, and his head was still pounding. When he tried to rise off the pillow, he was shocked at his own weakness.

Worse, he needed to relieve himself. The dull ache in his belly would not be denied, and he hadn't wet his pants since he was three years old. “Help me,” he said hoarsely.

The woman rose from the chair and padded quietly toward him. “Are you thirsty?” Almond-shaped eyes watched him fiercely, and he suspected she would shoot him if he made a wrong move.

As if he could. He took a deep breath, swallowed, and reminded himself that she wasn't pointing a gun at him at the moment.

“I've need … need of the necessary.” No gentleman should ever mention such a condition to a lady, but he
was past that. How much greater his shame if he were to soil her blankets?

“You've not the strength to stand. I'll bring you a chamber pot.”

A rumbling growl rose from the darkness beyond the stove.

“Quiet,” the woman commanded. She didn't raise her voice, but the dog lay back down.

“I don't want a pot,” Chance protested. “I need to go out to your—”

“If you were well enough to walk, you'd run.” She laid a palm on his forehead, and her touch was strangely gentle despite her work-worn hand. “Your fever is rising again,” she said. “It's no wonder you need to pass water. You've drunk half my well dry.”

Tongue lolling, the rust-and-white collie he had seen at the creek came to stand at her side. She patted the animal. “It's all right, Lady. Stay.”

The woman left the room and returned minutes later carrying a covered chamber pot. “Use this. I'll empty it for you, but I'll not assist you in filling it.”

Chance held back an oath as he fumbled with the china container. “Will you have the decency to leave me in private?”

She went out without replying. The collie followed her, but the ominous shadow beyond the stove remained. Chance fancied he could hear the black mastiff breathing. He knew the creature was watching him, and he knew the dog would attack at the slightest provocation.

Chance struggled to complete his task without soaking himself and the bed. His one arm was useless, his good hand as weak as an infant's. The effort left him exhausted, but at least the pressure on his bladder had eased.

The woman came back and covered the pot with a towel. Embarrassed, he turned his face to the wall as she carried it away.

Time passed. He slept fitfully. The night hours slipped away, broken only by her hand on his forehead or the taste of water on his lips. Dawn broke through the kitchen window, streaking the floor with rays of pale sunlight, and the woman was still with him.

She rose from the rocker and went to the lamp. He heard a slight puff, and the flame extinguished. “Are you awake?” she asked him.

“Yes.”

“Your arm is very bad.”

He bit his lower lip.

“It may mean your life.”

“Where … where are the soldiers? Did your … your husband go for them?”

“No.”

Chance swallowed. He would not allow himself to hope. “If you'd let me rest here, I—”

“I've never seen a wound that bad that didn't kill the patient.”

He made a sound of derision. “You've seen a lot of bullet wounds?”

“No. I haven't.” She went to the woodstove and used a mitt to pick up an iron lifter. Deliberately she raised one of the round lids and pushed a short length of kindling into the firebox.

“I'd rather die than lose my arm.”

“You may get your wish, Reb.” She eased the lid back in place and returned the handle to its resting spot on a hook beside the stove.

“I have a name. It's William Chancellor. My friends call me Chance.”

She pumped water and washed her hands thoroughly with soap, then dried them on a towel. “I'm not your friend. It's my duty to shoot you or turn you over to the authorities.”

“If I could just talk to your husband,” he stalled.

The room was becoming lighter now, and he could see that she was tired. She wasn't as young as he'd first thought, maybe mid-twenties. Her oval face was handsome rather than pretty and was dominated by high cheekbones and huge brown, expressive eyes framed in thick, dark lashes. Her lips were well shaped, the lower slightly fuller than the top, and she possessed a nose too strong for real beauty. She was tall for a woman, and she carried herself with a proud grace despite her advanced pregnancy.

“I appreciate what you've done for me, ma'am,” he managed, “but I—”

“I've done no more than I'd do for a hurt animal,” she said. “Don't make more of my tending you than it is. And you can stop trying to butter me up. I'm not one of your fancy Virginia belles. I'm plain Rachel Irons, Mrs. Rachel Irons.”

“Has your husband gone to war?” Each word was an effort. He could feel the sickness in his arm pulling him down into unconsciousness, but he fought it.

Common sense told him that the soldiers should have been here to arrest him by now. If they weren't here, then perhaps she didn't mean to report him. And if the soldiers didn't come, then he might still make it south to freedom.

“James will make short work of you when he returns,” she said. “He has no sympathy for your kind.”

“James? Your husband?” Chance knotted his good hand into a fist and concentrated on what he was saying. “Will he be back soon?”