The Sword (22 page)

“Five days,” Clay repeated with shock. “I’ve been out for five days?”

“Only four,” Chantel said. “Today is five days, and here you are now.”

He nodded. “I hate to trouble you, ma’am, but I’m not quite ready to crawl over to that canteen. May I have more water?”

As she poured his cup full, she studied him from the corner of her eyes. It was the first time she had really seen him. He was very handsome, she thought. His eyes were dark brown, wide-set, and fringed by thick, dark lashes. His nose was a straight English nose with a thin bridge, his cheekbones high and pronounced, his jawline firm. Though he was still pale, he looked tough, not pretty, very masculine.

She handed him the cup, and he drank slowly, not gulping. She sat down on the upturned cracker barrel and watched him.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he finally said. “May I ask your name?”

“My name is Chantel Fortier. What is yours?”

“Clay Tremayne. I’m so happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Fortier. I have a feeling that I owe you a very great debt. I haven’t been aware of too much these last days, but I do know that you have been an angel, taking care of me as you have. And—isn’t there an older gentleman?”

“Oh yes, ma grandpere. He naps in the sun, like an old lizard, he says. He’ll wake soon. He’ll be glad to see you sitting up and talking.”

“I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for you two, I believe,” Clay said gravely. “I don’t remember being shot. All I remember is lying in the mud, thinking that I was dying. I guess I would have if you hadn’t found me.”

“Do you know who shot you?” Chantel asked curiously.

Jacob had told her that when he woke up he might not remember much, might not even know who he was. Sometimes that happened to people who had head wounds.

“Oh yes, I remember that,” Clay answered drily. “But begging your pardon, Miss Fortier, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“No, no, it’s not my business, me,” she said hastily.

“It’s not that. It’s just that—let’s say it’s better if you and your grandfather don’t get involved,” Clay said quietly. “At least, no more than you already are.”

Jacob came in then, blinking in the half-light of the tent. “So sir! It’s a blessing to see you sitting up and looking so well. Thank God for His tender mercies.” He sat down on the other cot, for Chantel had set up one so Jacob could sleep in the tent as well.

“Let me introduce you, Grandpere,” Chantel said quickly. Clay’s courtly manners had impressed her, and she had learned much of polite social convention from Jacob. She introduced them, merely naming Clay as “the gentleman that has been staying with us.”

Jacob asked, “How are you feeling? How are your back and your head?”

“My back is sore, and it burns,” Clay admitted. “And my head aches. But my mind is so much clearer. I feel as if I’ve been wandering in a nightmare. Except when I woke up to see Miss Fortier, here. You have done me a great service, sir. I can only say thank you right now.”

“You are welcome, sir, and do not forget to thank the Lord, who showed great mercy to you by sending us along to find you. Is there anyone that we should send word to that you’re all right?”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Steiner.”

“What about your family?”

Clay swallowed hard. He faltered at Mr. Steiner’s query about his family. What should he say? What could he say?

He felt that he ought to lie to these people, simply to protect them. He had been left for dead, but what if it was known that he was still alive? For all he knew, he had murdered Barton Howard, and they might very well try him and hang him for that.

But looking at Jacob Steiner’s kind face and Chantel’s innocent eyes, he knew he could not lie. “Sir, I have not been a good man, and it’s possible that I may have committed a serious crime. To
tell you the truth, until I can find out—some things—I believe it would be better for my family not to be notified of my … difficult circumstances.”

“But surely, no matter what you have done, your family should not think that you may be dead!” Jacob exclaimed.

Clay shook his head and was shocked at the excruciating pain it caused. “N–no, sir. I have thought about it, and it’s almost certain that my family thinks I have traveled to the Carolinas to visit friends.”

This made perfect sense to Clay. After all, one of the Howards had shot him in the back and left him for dead in the ditch on a lonely road.

Although in the South a man might defend his sister’s honor even to the death, that was not the gentlemanly—or legal—way to do so. Clay was sure that the brothers would have told no one that they had done this. There had been such a ruckus at the hotel, Clay knew that it had caused a scandal for Belle, and it was indeed very likely that his family would think he had just left town for a few days. He had done so before.

“Very well, Mr. Tremayne, you must do as you see fit,” Jacob finally agreed.

“Thank you, sir. And I would like to assure you—that is, I’m not the kind of man—I wouldn’t—”

Jacob rose slowly. “I don’t believe you would ever do any harm to me or to Chantel,” he said evenly. “I don’t know what you have done or think that you might have done. It’s none of my business. That kind of thing is between a man and God. He alone has the right to judge you, Mr. Tremayne, not I. And I can already see that you are not the kind of man to steal from us,” he added with some amusement. “Such a man with such a horse … Even though I don’t know horses, I can see that one must have cost you a pretty penny.”

Actually, Clay had won Lightning on a bet, but somehow he was extremely reluctant to admit this to Jacob Steiner. And he was surprised. “Lightning? I figured he was long gone, either bolted or stolen.”

“No, he stays with you,” Chantel said. “Always. He’s the reason
I found you. His name is Lightning? That a good name for that horse.”

“The reason you found me?” Clay repeated. “But what—how—?” Jacob said firmly, “Mr. Tremayne, you may feel better, but I can assure you that you’re still in a very weak condition, and you are starting to look exhausted again. Rest now. Chantel and I will be here when you wake up.”

“You’re right, sir,” Clay murmured. “I do still feel very unwell.” He struggled to lie back on the cot, and Chantel helped him. “Thank you, Miss …”

“Chantel,” she said. “Everyone calls me Chantel.”

But he was already slipping into sleep.

C
lay opened his eyes to stare up at the top of the tent. He had come to know that stretch of canvas very well, even when it was dark. He knew every crease, every spot, every loose thread. He had been staring up at it for a week now. But even as he monotonously traced the familiar folds, he was grateful, at least, that he could lie on his back to look up at it.

He still had not remembered anything of those first four days after Chantel and Jacob had saved him, lying on his stomach, his back in shreds, his head banging as if a strongman were hammering on it. The only thing he had known in that dark time had been Chantel’s lovely face, her quiet voice, her soft hands. Idly he wondered how she kept her hands so soft. She worked like a man every day.

Earlier she had had to saddle Lightning for him. He had been determined to try riding, though Chantel and Jacob had warned him that he was still weak. Stubbornly he had led Lightning out to the wagon, hauled his saddle out of it—and promptly dropped it.

Without a single word, but with a dire I-told-you-so look, Chantel had picked it up and saddled Lightning.

Clay had managed to mount by himself, but after ten minutes of riding Lightning even at a slow walk, his head was pounding so hard he could hardly see through the red veil of pain. His back felt as if it were on fire. He had given up, retreated to his cot, and collapsed.

Suddenly his mouth started watering. He remembered he had eaten nothing since breakfast, and he was ravenously hungry. It might have had something to do with the fact that a thick, rich aroma of stew floated into the tent. With an effort, he rose, steeling himself against the dizziness he still felt when he stood up quickly, and went outside.

Chantel looked up from the campfire. “Going for a ride?”

“Very funny, ma’am,” Clay grumbled.

“Come over here and sit down, you.”

In the past two weeks, Chantel and Jacob had made their campsite into a homey, comfortable place under the stand of the oak trees. The trees were very old, their trunks enormous, their branches spreading and joining to make a thick roof of spring-green leaves. The cot mattresses were thin enough to bend, and they made nice comfortable seats leaned up against the trees.

Chantel had cleared a space right in the middle of the three trees for a good campfire, with a place to roast eggs and potatoes in the hot ashes and a tripod over the center. Now she bent back over, stirring the big iron pot full of beef stew. Jacob had had one roast of smoked beef that was about to ruin, so she had decided not to let it go to waste.

Clay moved one of the empty cracker boxes close to the fire, where Chantel had already placed hers. He watched her. He had never known a young woman like her before. She was the most curious combination of tomboy, toughness, sweetness, and world-weary innocence. At seventeen she was still coltish, with only hints of the grace that would surely be hers in full womanhood. He reflected how tender and gentle she had been when he was helpless, but as soon as he had come to his full senses and regained some of his strength, she had immediately withdrawn from him. She had
been polite, but she didn’t stay in the tent when he was resting or seek out his company in any way.

She glanced at him, and he could see that his scrutiny was making her uncomfortable. “Did you tell me you just turned seventeen, Chantel?” he asked casually, dropping his gaze.

“Last month I’m seventeen years. And you, Mr. Tremayne, how many years are you?”

“It’s a coincidence, I believe. My birthday is in February, too, so last month I turned twenty-five.”

“And you don’t have a wife,” she said with elaborate casualness.

“No, no wife.”

“Why not?” she asked, coming to sit by him. “Don’t you like women?”

Clay laughed shortly. “Oh yes, Chantel, I like women. I like them a lot. It’s just that I never found a woman who could put up with my wicked ways.”

Her mouth tightened. “So. You are a wicked man?”

“Guess I am.”

“Why? How are you so wicked?” she demanded.

“I don’t know,” he answered with a wry half smile. “Just too lazy to be good, I guess. I’m the black sheep in all of my family, so I can’t blame my heritage or my upbringing. What about you, Chantel? You’ve never said anything about your family.”

“Ma mere and ma pere are dead. Now Jacob is ma grandpere,” she answered shortly then jumped up. “The stew, it is done. Are you hungry?”

“The smell of that stew has been making me hungry since I opened my eyes.”

She brought him a bowl of steaming stew and a big wedge of corn bread. “I make corn bread. Grandpere loves it. Do you like it?”

“Yes, ma’am, I surely do. Thank you.”

Jacob came into the little campsite. He usually took a walk at twilight to be alone and pray. “If this were a restaurant, the aroma of that stew would bring in a full house,” he announced, seating himself on one of the cot mattresses against a tree.