Ride the Fire (9 page)

“Thank you.”

He said nothing.

“If no’ for you, I dinnae think I’d have made it. You were my anchor. You saved Isabelle. You saved us both.”

He fought to subdue the maelstrom inside him, forced himself to speak.

“I’m glad I was able to help.”

In the month since little Belle’s birth, laundry had become an almost daily chore. There were Belle’s many diaper cloths. There were also the linen cloths Bethie used to stanch her flow. There were bed linens stained with blood and milk, and Bethie’s stained shifts, too. Nicholas had cleaned and rehung the heavy iron cauldron, which was suspended over a fire pit dug midway between the cabin and barn. Now Bethie was able to boil a large amount of laundry at once. There was only so much she could do over the hearth fire, and it took time away from cooking.

She reached down, picked up the pile of bloodstained linens, dropped them in the cauldron, glad Nicholas was off in the forest setting his traps and not here to see them. She felt somehow uncomfortable that he should see something so private. And yet hadn’t he seen everything? Aye, he had. He had even put his fingers inside her.

Heat rushed into Bethie’s face, and her stomach turned. She fought the nausea, fought the clammy sense of dread that threatened to close over her. Nicholas was nothing like her stepbrother. He was nothing like Richard Sorley. He’d done what he’d done for her sake and that of her baby, not to slake his own lust.

She stirred the contents of the cauldron, forced her mind along different paths.

Nicholas was unlike any other man she had known. He was a big man and strong, like her stepfather, but, although he smiled but rarely and was not given to many words, he did not use his strength in fits of violence. Though he was more thoughtful than Andrew, he was also stronger and more virile, a man for whom hard work offered no challenge. And though he was but a trapper, he spoke in surprisingly cultured tones.

How unexpected that he, a rough stranger from the wild, had been her lifeline during her travail, his encouraging words and the soothing tone of his voice her only comfort. For so gruff and cold a man, he’d been surprisingly gentle and caring, and she remembered him calling her “love” more than once.

“Bethie, love,” he’d said.

She knew he hadn’t meant it, that he’d simply been trying to console her in her desperation. But the sound of those words on his lips filled her memory.

When her milk had come in and her breasts had grown hard and painful, he’d given her heated cloths to press against them though she’d not complained. And when her nipples had become chapped and sore from nursing, he’d shared a special ointment with her, one that magically relieved the pain and quickly healed them.

He had shown her every kindness a woman could hope for from a husband, and yet he was not her husband. Nor was he Belle’s father, though clearly he was besotted with the baby. He had taken an old wooden chest, strengthened it and built legs for it, turning it into a little cradle, which he’d lined with soft rabbit fur. And just last night he’d presented Bethie with two pairs of moccasins that he’d made from the salvaged leather of his ruined breeches—one lined with gray rabbit fur that fit her, and another pair so tiny that the sight of them had made Bethie laugh. They, too, were lined with soft fur, and though they were the smallest pair of shoes Bethie had ever seen, they were still too large for her newborn daughter.

“Room to grow,” he’d said, before turning and heading silently back outside.

Bethie set her stirring stick aside, smoothed her skirts, walked back toward the cabin to check on Belle, the soft feel of fur against her feet. She’d never had moccasins before. Her stepfather would have considered them sinful, as they came from the heathen Indian. And Andrew had no skill to make such things. For most of her life, her shoes had been nothing more than smooth blocks of wood with a leather shell nailed on top. Moccasins were much warmer, much more agreeable to her feet.

It was strange to think that Isabelle was also Andrew’s baby. Belle’s skin was fairest cream, her hair soft gold, while Andrew’s complexion had been ruddy, his hair sandy brown. With a shock, Bethie found herself struggling to remember his face.

Silently she chided herself, ashamed. Andrew had been a kind husband. He had rescued her from a life of misery and shame. He had forgiven her unspeakable taint. He had never hurt her or raised his voice at her. And only rarely had he taken his pleasure with her.

“I must have sons, Bethie, lass,” he would say by way of apology. Then he would reach for her in the dark, lift her gown, climb upon her, finish silently and quickly.

Bethie had not enjoyed it, but then she couldn’t imagine any woman did. Hadn’t her mother said as much? “Tis a Christian wife’s duty, though it often seem a curse,” she’d said on the day Bethie had left to become Andrew’s wife. And so Bethie had never complained, had never refused him. It was his due as her husband, and her feelings about it mattered little.

Bethie said a silent prayer for Andrew’s soul, added more wood to the fire. Then she picked up a large wooden bowl, checked on Belle one last time and started toward the river. She needed more moss to line the baby’s diaper cloths. If she was lucky, she might even find milkweed pods from last fall. Once the seeds were removed, the silk would make an even softer lining than moss.

It was truly a lovely day. Birds filled the sky, and the forest was rich with their tuneful chatter. Violets and bluebells bloomed beneath her feet, and a green mist of newborn leaves hovered on the branches of the trees. As she walked along the path to the river, Bethie found herself wondering when she’d last felt this carefree or happy. Only one thing marred her joy—the knowledge that Nicholas would soon be leaving. As disturbing as he might be, she was all but certain he would not go back on his word. He would not harm her or Belle. And he would protect them from any man who tried to do so. As long as he was with her, she’d be as safe as any woman could be in this untamed land.

But she could tell he felt restless. He seemed distracted, overwrought, as if many matters weighed on his mind. She realized she knew nothing about him—where he’d come from, whether he’d truly lived with the Indians, whether he had a wife and children waiting for him somewhere. She tried to forgive herself if in moments of fear she hoped there was no one waiting for him, wished he had no other life to return to, for she could only stay here as long as he remained.

Yet his mind seemed to stray far from here. She could see it in the way his gaze always sought the dark wall of the forest, in the tense lines of his face and the impatience that seemed to boil beneath his skin. Now that he was again hale and hearty, there was no reason for him to stay. And that meant that the uncertain future Bethie had been trying so hard to avoid was closing in on her.

He waded back to the riverbank, startled a breeding pair of mallards from the shelter of new reeds, reached for the leather pouch he’d dropped there. He dug to the bottom, withdrew soap and a sharpened knife. He spread the soap on his face, scraped the knife over his skin with quick strokes, felt the day’s growth of whiskers give way. It was strange to shave regularly now, when he had forsaken the habit for almost six years. He didn’t want to think about what had motivated him to start again—or admit that Bethie’s reaction when she’d first seen him clean shaven had affected him. His shaving was a whim, nothing more.

He rinsed his face, took up the soap again, began to wash his body.

The river was running high and fast this year. Heavy snows had fallen in the mountains this past winter, and he expected that by the middle of next month, the river would overflow its banks. He’d have to wait to take Bethie back east until the middle of June. They had several rivers and creeks to cross to reach Paxton, and he wouldn’t risk losing her or the baby to raging flood waters.

Of course, he hated to wait that long. Spring had brought new life, but by summertime the Ohio wilderness was going to again be rank with death. He didn’t want Bethie and Belle anywhere near here when the Indians attacked. Even Paxton was too far west for his tastes. He’d rather see her settled in Philadelphia, which enjoyed the protection of an entire British garrison. But she belonged with her family, so he would take her to Paxton.

Still, the delay was giving her time to heal. Already much of her strength had returned, though she tired easily due to night feedings and she hadn’t yet stopped bleeding. He hadn’t discussed his plan with her yet, but he was certain she’d be grateful for his help in returning home. He knew she was afraid to be here, knew it hadn’t been her idea to come west in the first place. He remembered the look of terror on her face when she’d turned, her arms full of firewood, and discovered him that first morning. It was only a matter of time before that scenario played itself out again, only next time the man on the horse would be someone else.

Aye, she’d be grateful to be safely at home again. God’s blood, but he couldn’t quit thinking of her. He’d believed her lovely before, but now she was positively breathtaking. Her waistline was pleasingly slender again, her hips rounded, her breasts full with milk. And she glowed with love for little Belle, happiness shining on her sweet face like a sunrise.

Unnerved by his reaction to her, he’d been doing his best to keep his distance. Fortunately, she seemed to want to stay as far away from him as possible. Skittish, easily startled, she pulled away from him if he accidentally brushed his hand against hers. How she could still fear him, he knew not, but he’d begun to suspect that her husband was the kind of man who hurt women. It gave Nicholas yet another reason to despise the man.

Still, Nicholas supposed her fearfulness was for the best.

If he were left to follow his own impulses, she’d soon find herself with another babe in her belly. More than once, he’d found himself wanting to kiss the lush curve of her lips, to run his fingers through the long silk of her golden hair, to cup the soft weight of her breasts in his hands, taste their rosy tips, savor their milky nectar. But he tried to slam the door on such thoughts the instant they arose. To give in to such fantasies would only make his need for her worse. Already his body was growing persistent, demanding. He felt like a boy of seventeen again, his cock hard more often than not.

And if there were moments late at night when he watched Bethie nurse her baby in the light of the hearth and wished for all the world both mother and child were his? Twas only proof that he had not been himself lately. Bethie was no whore who earned her living off of men’s lust. And lust was all Nicholas could ever truly give her. As soon as he could safely see Bethie and her baby girl to her family’s farm, he’d take his leave of them and return to the only life he was fit to live.