Wilde, Jennifer (32 page)

"You
ain't like the others," she said. "I spotted that immediately, even
before you spoke. Them others he's brung through-—sometimes two or three at a
time—they was tough-lookin', brassy. You're not like that at all."

"I...
I suppose you mean that as a compliment."

"Sure
do, honey. Are you Jeff's woman?"

"I'm
an indentured servant, bought and paid for. I belong to him, yes, but I'm not
his 'woman.'"

"Reckon
that's your misfortune, honey. The woman who lands Jeff Rawlins is gonna be
lucky indeed. We're mighty fond uv him, I don't mind tellin' you. They don't
make many like him. He's rough and rugged, sure, and meaner'n a bobcat when
he's riled up, but he's got a heart of pure gold."

"Indeed?"

"Don't
ever let anyone tell ya different, honey."

"If
he's such a paragon, why does he engage in white slavery?"

"White
slavery!
Jeff? Nonsense! Oh, he runs women from Carolina to New Orleans,
sure. Buys 'em at auction, resells 'em for a big profit, but he's doin' the
women a favor. 'Stead o' workin' their tails off on some farm, they live in
luxury, wear silks and satins, get paid good money for doin' what they do. And
the women he buys—honey, they ain't lily-pure virgins. Most of 'em were walkin'
the streets before they was well into their teens. Ain't a one of 'em wuzn't
grateful to him—"

Maria
cut herself short as a young girl came into the room carrying an enormous
wooden barrel, placing it in the center of the bright, multicolored rag rug
that covered most of the floor. Surely no more than sixteen, the girl was
slender with delicate features and lovely indigo-blue eyes. Soft, silvery-brown
hair fell about her shoulders in rich profusion. Barefooted, she wore a faded
pink calico dress with a pattern of tiny blue flowers almost exactly the color
of her eyes.

"This
here's Lita," Maria said. "Lita, this is Miss Danver, a friend of
Jeff's."

The
girl smiled. "Hello," she said shyly.

I
returned the smile. She was a beautiful creature, fragile, tender, poignantly
young. Lowering her eyes, she scurried out of the room, her soft brown hair
bouncing.

"Lita's
got a cause to be grateful to Jeff, too," Maria continued. "Sixteen
years old she is, thirteen when Jeff brung her to us. She an' her folks were
goin' down the Trace three years ago. Th' Chickasaws fell on 'em, killed her
parents and little brother, took Lita captive. A search party went after the
renegades who done it, but they gave up after a week or so, said there was no
chance of findin' the girl, said she was prob'ly already dead anyway. They gave
up the search, but not Jeff Rawlins. No, he kept on after the Indians, all by
himself. It took him two and a half months, but he found 'em. There was half a
dozen of 'em, renegades who'd broken away from the tribe. Jeff rescued the
girl, had to kill three braves in the process."

"That
was a very brave thing to do."

"He
didn't take her and put her in no whorehouse, honey. He brought her to me and
Eb, asked us to take care of her. You shoulda seen him with her. Gentle as a lamb
he was, talkin' real soft, tellin' her not to be afraid. If you coulda seen
him—" Maria shook her head, her dark eyes pensive as she recalled the
scene.

The
girl came back into the room carrying two enormous kettles of steaming water.
She gave me another shy smile as she poured the water into the barrel. It was
appalling to think that such a lovely, gentle creature had been in the hands of
savages for almost three months. She must have endured horrors, I thought, but
they had left no visible signs. The girl seemed to radiate a blissful
contentment. Taking up the empty kettles, she left again. Maria sighed.

"Jeff
Rawlins is a fine man, and don't you forget it. I don't know what kinda plans
he has for you, but you can bet you'll end up the better for 'em, whatever they
might be. He's a rogue, all right, but he ain't got a mean bone in his
body."

She
left, and I was surprised to find that some of my numbness had worn off. I had
been quite touched by the story of Lita, by the girl herself, and I found myself
admiring Jeff Rawlins for what he had done. How many men would have risked
their lives to rescue a young girl everyone else had already given up on? I was
beginning to see him in an entirely new light. I realized that Maria was
prejudiced in his favor, and I didn't for one minute accept her version of his
nefarious trade, yet I realized that no one was all bad. Rawlins undoubtedly
had many redeeming qualities. The story of Lita proved that.

The
girl returned again with another kettle of water, soap, a large white towel,
and the pack Rawlins had taken from the mule. Setting the other things on a
chair, she emptied the water into the barrel. It was more than half full, the
water steaming visibly.

"Your
bath is ready now," Lita said. "If you need anything else, you just
let me know."

"Thank
you, Lita. Is Mr. Rawlins still downstairs?"

Lita
nodded. "He gave me the pack, said your clothes were in it. I imagine
he'll be down in the taproom for quite a spell, talking with Eb and the other
men." Her eyes seemed to glow as she spoke of him.

"You're
very fond of him, aren't you?" I asked.

The
question seemed to surprise her. "I love him," she said.
"Doesn't everyone?"

The
girl left the room then, closing the door behind her. The water needed to cool
a bit, so I stepped into the adjoining bedroom. It was small, with a low,
sloping roof. There was barely enough room for the bed with its patchwork quilt
and the dressing table with a musky, tarnished mirror hanging over it. If these
were the best rooms in the inn, I reflected, the others must be small indeed.
The furniture was all obviously homemade by Crawley himself, the quilt, the rag
rug in the other room no doubt Maria's handiwork. There was great charm
nevertheless, a snug, homey atmosphere that was most welcoming.

Catching
a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I frowned. My face was streaked with dirt,
my hair wildly disarrayed. I couldn't believe I had let myself fall into such a
wretched condition. Something stirred inside of me as I stood there, a will to
survive, a will to succeed, and the last vestiges of that deadening numbness
seemed to melt away. I would never see Derek Hawke again. Heartlessly, he had
thrust me into the hands of a man he knew would sell me to a brothel, and I had
given up, had accepted my fate with meek submission, not caring what happened.
How could I have been so passive?

The
spirit seemed to swell up inside of me, and I knew then that I was going to
fight. I had been dejected, mentally and emotionally destroyed by what had
happened, but that was behind me now. I would never get over what had happened,
would never be able to forget Derek Hawke or what he had done to me, just as I
would never be able to stop loving him, but I was no longer prepared to give
up. I was going to fight. I felt alive for the first time in two weeks,
gloriously alive. Perhaps it was merely the contrast to the lethargy that had
gripped me before, but it seemed every fiber of my being vibrated with life,
and I had never felt stronger, more determined.

Stepping
back into the sitting room, I opened the pack and pulled out the Italian
peasant blouse and the leaf-brown skirt I had worn that day of the auction,
such a long time ago it seemed now. Laying the garments out on the chair, I
undressed and, clutching the bar of soap in my hand, climbed into the enormous
barrel. It was exceedingly uncomfortable, but there was enough room to sit if I
drew my legs up. The water was marvelously warm, and the liquid warmth seemed
to steal through me, relaxing me, driving away all tension and care.

I
bathed
thoroughly and washed my hair, reveling in the warmth, the rich lather, the
sweet scent of lilac soap that seemed to fill the room. My body seemed to glow
with cleanliness as I rinsed away the suds and let warm water spill over my
shoulders and breasts. I had been in the tub for almost half an hour and was
just getting ready to climb out when the door opened. Jeff Rawlins strolled
casually into the room, quirking one brow when he saw me in the barrel, arms
crossed over my breasts. He grinned then, closing the door behind him.

"You
look better already," he remarked.

"I
should have locked the door!"

"I'd
have broken it down. My, my, you are a sight. Never seen so much wet flesh in
my life. Makes a man hungry to see even more."

"Are
you going to just stand there?"

"No.
Reckon I'll hand you the towel. Want me to help dry you off?"

"You—"

"Ah,
your cheeks are burning. Your eyes are flashing with anger, full of blue fires.
You don't know how glad I am to see that, wench. Thought I was going to have to
take strong measures to snap you out of your—"

"Hand
me the towel!"

"Yes,
ma'am. Here you are."

Defiantly,
I stood up and stepped out of the tub. Rawlins watched me, warm brown eyes
dancing with amusement, that infuriating grin still curling on his wide pink mouth.
I wanted to slap it off his face. Dripping on the rag rug, I wrapped the towel
securely around me.

"Reckon
I'll take a bath myself," Rawlins remarked. "No sense wastin' all
that water."

"Go
right ahead!"

I
dropped the bar of soap back into the barrel and reached for the skirt and
blouse I had spread over the chair. As I did so, the towel slipped, almost
dropping to the floor before I caught it. Rawlins guffawed and began to pull
off his buckskin tunic. I hurried into the bedroom and was dismayed to discover
that there was no door I could slam shut between the two rooms. I discovered,
too, that I had forgotten to get my petticoat from the pack. My cheeks were
still burning, but, strangely enough, the anger was almost pleasant. Anything
was better than that terrible numb lethargy.

There
was a loud splash as Rawlins climbed into the barrel. Hesitating only a moment,
I stepped back into the sitting room, the towel tucked securely around me.
Rawlins was in the tub, scrubbing himself vigorously, his hair soaking wet and
plastered over his head in pointed locks. He reminded me of a frisky puppy
splashing about, and I almost smiled in spite of myself. Opening the pack
again, I pulled out the multilayered petticoat I needed. Rawlins let out a
little yelp as the bar of soap slipped out of his hand and went skittering
across the room.

"Damn!
Be a dear. Fetch me the soap."

"Get
it yourself!" I snapped.

"You
really want me to? You want me to climb out and—"

"I'll
get it!"

He
smiled as I handed it to him. Why did I feel myself warming to this man? I had
every reason to hate him. Why did I want to smile back at him and smooth those
damp locks away from his brow? He intended to sell me to a brothel in New
Orleans. Despite his engaging manner, despite his charm, he was my enemy. I had
to remember that. I had to keep that in mind at all times. To succumb to his
charm would be a fatal mistake. Rawlins looked up at me with those merry brown
eyes, utterly disarming.

"I
don't know what happened," he said, "don't know what caused you to
come back to life, but I sure am glad to see you comin' round. Meek women bore
the pants off me. I have a feelin' I ain't gonna be bored no longer."

"I'm
hungry, Mr. Rawlins. I suggest you hurry with your bath so we can go downstairs
and eat."

"Righto,"
he said. "Won't take me more'n a few minutes."

Leaving
him to his bath, I went back into the bedroom and, standing well out of sight
of the open doorway, dried my body thoroughly and then vigorously toweled my
hair, ridding it of most of the dampness. I could hear him splashing away as I
dressed. He was humming a jaunty tune, enjoying himself immensely.

"Hey!"
he cried. "I need that towel."

I
took it in to him and fetched my shoes.

"It's
all damp," he protested.

"I'm
sorry about that. You'll just have to make do."

"Inconsiderate
wench," he grumbled.

He
heaved himself out of the barrel, dripping rivulets of water all over the rug.
I hurried back into the bedroom and put on my shoes. There was an old hairbrush
on top of the dressing table and, sitting down in front of the mirror, I began
to brush my hair. Soon it was almost dry, soft and feathery and wonderfully
clean. The glow I had felt earlier still remained inside. The grief, the
desolation were there as well, but they were tightly contained, locked away. I
was no longer willing to let them render me helpless.

Rawlins
stepped to the doorway and peered in at me.

He
had tied the towel clumsily about his waist. Seeing him like that reminded me
of pictures I had seen of the early Roman gladiators. He was superbly built,
lean and muscular, exceedingly virile and emanating a hearty confidence much as
the gladiators must have done before entering the arena. Hearty, audacious, he
grinned at me, those wet, sharp-pointed locks covering his head like a sleek
helmet. I put the brush down and stood up, looking at him with calm blue eyes.