The Barefoot Bride (45 page)

A cold dread settled over him. He shivered, sat up, and then stood. "The ghosts are gone," he stated flatly.

She stared up at him apprehensively. "And—and now?"

She was begging for his love, he knew. She'd worked so hard for it. She already had all of it, but she deserved the happiness he had no way of giving her here. She'd taught him the real meaning of love, shown him that love was generous in all respects. Love gave; it did not take. True love was honorable and selfless.

He turned from her, guilt consuming him. He'd been such a self-seeking beast with her. From the very beginning, he'd thought only of himself, his own needs, his own goals. Her love for him had allowed her to bear it all.

And his love for her would take that burden away forever.

He turned to her again and forced himself to narrow his eyes. Willed more coldness into his voice. "And now..."

She waited in vain for him to continue, wondering what to do, what to say and, in the taut silence, she felt foreboding replace hope.

"Keely, what happened tonight," he started and swallowed. "It changes nothing between us." At the look of protest on her face, he knelt beside her and took her hand. "You aren't happy here. You never will be. You must return to the only place where you can find joy and peace. Boston can never be that place for you."

"But—"

"No arguments."

She yanked her hand from him, fury exploding within her. "Yore so dumb, you'd hold a fish under water to drown it! When you got love, Saxon, thur ain't nothin' in this here world that can lick it. Whatever problems you thank thur are, we can mend 'em!"

She wasn't going to bend, he realized, wasn't going to accept his decision. They could argue until Judgment Day, and she'd still be fighting it.

Anguish pierced him. He would have to hurt her deeply to make her leave. She was like that bear cub of so long ago. She'd had to throw sticks and small rocks at it to make it find its freedom. She'd made it hate her for its own good. It had run away, and it had never returned.

He stood and choked down his horror at what he was about to do. "You've given me no other choice but to tell you the truth, Keely. I tried to be gentle, tried to make you leave without resorting to this, but you wouldn't listen. The problem,
mountain
girl, cannot be mended. The problem,
mountain
girl, is you."

A hint of hurt swam into her eyes. "Me?" she whispered.

"You. You want me to love you, but I never will. We are of two separate breeds. I've enjoyed your company, but love you? No. Not ever. You don't fit into my life."

Slowly, she rose and reached for him, tears filling her eyes when he stepped away. "Tell me... tell me yore a-lyin'."

He clenched his jaw before he could go on. "I cannot love someone like you. That's why I tried so hard to make a lady of you. When I failed to do that, I realized you would never be the lady I need by my side. Do you understand that?
You will never be a lady!"

She stared at him, tears dripping from her face to her breasts.

He made himself stare back, his gaze hard and cold as ice, his heart withering at the lies he had to invent, at the thought of making her loathe him. "Because of you, society is banishing me," he pressed on relentlessly. "During the past months my name has been dragged down with yours in every gossip session held in this city. I can no longer stand the scorn, the unending ridicule. Only with your departure will it cease." He tensed, waiting for the attack that would surely follow.

But she only began to tremble, a slight quiver that became a violent shaking that nearly sent her to the floor. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. She raised her chin and threw her shoulders back. In her eyes was a look of pride and courage.

Saxon knew any other woman would have broken down completely at hearing such hurtful things from the man she loved. But not Chickadee McBride. She would not degrade herself by shouting out the hatred he knew she felt for him now. He should have realized that. By God, there had never been and never would be another woman like her.

She was a lady in the true sense of the word.

Chickadee went to the dresser, slipped into her homemade clothes, and quickly packed the rest of her meager belongings from home. She then reached for her sterling silver brush but snapped back her hand in an instant and ran her fingers through her hair instead. Her emerald wedding band snagged on a curl. She removed it from her finger, turned toward Saxon, and tossed it to him.

"Where are you going?" he asked when she headed for the door.

"Downstairs," she answered, her hand on the doorknob. "I ain't gwine leave the house, so you ain't got to worry about that. Jist let me be, Saxon."

"Keely—"

"You done what you had to do, said what you had to say. I ain't gwine have no hollerin' match with you over it. What good would that do? I tole you once that folks should larn the difference betwixt thangs they can do somethin' about and thangs they ain't got no control over. I larnt that a long time ago. Cain't unlarn it now jist on account o' I don't like it. Come mornin' you can come down fer me, and I'll be ready."

She left Saxon then; yet she remained with him. He saw her everywhere he looked.

He knew it would always be so.

*

Daybreak found him standing by the window, where he'd stood the entire night. In his hand was a raccoon tail. He'd held it for hours while he'd prayed for this morning never to come. But the sun was up, its light pouring over him. The day would start with Chickadee by his side, where she'd been for months now. Before night came, she'd be gone. Forever and always.

He bathed slowly. He cleaned and polished his boots until they gleamed, and he saw his own sad reflection in them. He dressed with the same purposeful leisure. He even tidied up the room something he'd never done before. When it was as orderly as he could make it, when he could find no other reason to delay, he left and headed downstairs.

He found her in the library, sitting by the dying fire. It looked as if she was stitching something. Upon approaching her, he saw she was sewing furiously. "What are you making?" He could think of nothing else to say.

She slid her needle through the quilt again. "Started this here quilt with Desi long, long ago. Been a-sewin' on it all night."

"You're trying to finish it?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she rethreaded her needle and continued to sew for a while longer. Saxon, not knowing what else to do, sat across from her and waited.

"You was right," she said abruptly, startling him from his melancholy contemplation. "I got to go. Back to the only place on God's green earth whar thur's any chance of a-bein' happy. Thur ain't nothin' here in this dang-blasted city but misery of the grandest kind."

His heart lurched. She was really and truly leaving, and by her own lips he heard she was eager to do so. And why shouldn't she be anxious to leave him? She hated him for the things he'd told her last night. This calm, unruffled behavior was merely her way of saving her pride. It was so typical of her. "Uh, of course you're right. You must leave. The boat is ready."

"Miseries and heartache. That's all that's here. But home? Well, the Appalachia... I'm a-honin' fer it somethin' fierce. A-pinin' away fer its smell, its green, green purtiness, its freedom. It's whar my heartease is a-waitin' on me."

Her heartease, he mused. She'd find it again. He felt glad for her, miserable for himself.

Quickly, deftly, she put the finishing touches on the picture she'd embroidered on the back of the quilt. She folded it neatly, placed it on the floor, reached for her bag of belongings, and stood. "I'm ready to go now."

Saxon rose also. "You've said goodbye to Desdemona?"

She nodded.

"She's going to be all right? She accepted this situation?"

"That all depends on you."

He nodded.

They left for the wharf.

*

The
Sea Siren
sounded its shrill whistle; the white-capped waves of the harbor pounded in answer. Cold, cold was the morning air. It wrapped around Chickadee and Saxon like a cloak of pure ice.

"Saxon, don't fergit to give them goodbye letters I writ to Bunny, Killian, Shane, and Gallagher. They ain't writ good, but—"

"I'll deliver them all personally."

"And tell Bunny to keep on a-rubbin' that scarf over her hand. She'll know what you mean."

Saxon tightened his wool muffler around his neck. But it was abysmal emptiness that strangled his voice. "I will." Viciously, he kicked at a stray piece of rope and watched it fall into the harbor to bob along on the waves. "If there's anything I can ever do for you..."

"Saxon, I done jist fine afore you come along, didn't I? But thur's somethin' I can give to you. It ain't nothin' you can put in yore pocket, it ain't nothin' you can see, but it'll come to you when yore a-needin' it most."

She withdrew her hand from her bearskin coat and touched Saxon's cold-pinkened cheek. "It's jist a piece of advice. Sorter a tale. The onliest thang I have to give you. The onliest thang I can thank of that'll keep this here city from a-mellerin' the life plumb outen you."

Did her goodness have no bounds? he wondered. Despite the loathing he knew she felt for him, her tremendous compassion demanded she continue to worry about him. Her unique mettle enabled her to accept all the pain he'd been forced to give her. Thank God she possessed that strength—it would see her through anything. "A tale? A story?" he asked.

"Saxon, life ain't really nothin' but a strang. You can yank on it, allus a-tryin' to find whar it leads. But you ain't never gwine know lessen you jist up and foller it. And I cain't tell you no more'n that on account o' yore gwine have to figger it outen all by yore lonesome. But Saxon, the day you quit a-tuggin' on it, that strang's gwine take you to whar you was allus meant to be."

His brow rippled into a frown in a desperate attempt to understand her parting words. "String? What—"

"Like I done tole you time and time agin, some thangs is better larnt by yoresef. Jist keep them eyes in yore heart open wide, and you'll see all you need to see jist when you need to see it."

She kissed his forehead and smiled at him wistfully. Their gazes locked for a moment that was over all too soon for Saxon. "Goodbye," she said softly, but her whisper thundered through him. Snapping her fingers for Khan, she began to ascend the ramp that led to the steamboat.

Saxon watched her every move. He returned her wave until she disappeared from his sight and then felt the frigid dampness of the day settle into the marrow of his bones. The swirl of her copper hair was the last he saw of her.

"Sort of red, sort of orange, sort of gold. Goodbye, mountain girl."

In moments the
Sea Siren
was slicing through the water. With only memory for a companion, Saxon stood on the dock and watched until he could no longer hear Khan's mournful howl, until the vessel was eaten up by the hungry mist of the harbor.

The brisk wind blasted past him, blowing away the tears he never realized he'd shed.

Chapter 24

"Your grandson has returned," Thatcher announced from the hallway outside of Araminta's bedroom.

"And you are absolutely sure the girl is gone?"

"As you instructed, I followed them. They went to the docks, she got on the boat, and I watched it leave."

Araminta scratched her chin, went to her dressing table, and dabbed some powder on her pallid face. "Have my coach brought around. Boston must be informed that the heathen is gone. Though there were some who actually
liked
her... Well, never mind
those
stupid fools. Those who matter will be relieved to know society is again safe. And the sooner that information is spread, the sooner Saxon will be accepted again."

Thatcher turned to do as she bade him.

"Oh, and Thatcher?"

"Yes, madame?"

"Throw away this powder," she said, scratching the reddened area beneath her mouth again. "It's making my chin itch."

Days. Weeks. Months. Paying no heed to time, Saxon buried himself in his work. Invitations to dozens of social gatherings arrived daily, but he crushed them all into tight wads, without even bothering to send his regrets. He left for his office at daybreak, rarely returning home before midnight. Many nights he failed to come home at all, finding the sofa in his office preferable to his big, empty bed.

His obsession with work, his ruthless business dealings, soon brought in an astonishing profit. Like rain pouring into an already swollen ocean, money streamed into the Blackwell accounts. But though Araminta was overjoyed that he was increasing the family fortune, she worried. She realized his fixation with Blackwell Enterprises was an effort to forget Chickadee. The business was the only thing in his life that did not remind him of her, the one thing Chickadee had not shared with him.

Araminta also knew his mania with work would soon wane, and then he would begin to dwell on the rustic once more. Something had to be done before that happened.