Wilde, Jennifer (34 page)

In
the meantime, I could do nothing but stick closely to him until we left this
wilderness behind. If one
had
to travel through this godforsaken
country, I could think of no better traveling companion. For one thing, I was
confident in his ability to get us through safely, and, for another, he was
undeniably engaging and entertaining, constantly telling tall tales of his
exploits and those of Daniel Boone. Boone, one of the first to explore these
parts, was obviously one of his heroes. I might be exhausted, I might be
uncomfortable and frequently irritated, but with Jeff Rawlins I was never
bored.

There
was the physical part, too. He was a superb lover. I couldn't deny that. Even
on blankets spread over the rough ground, he was superb, and I gave myself to
him willingly. It was all part of my plan. By the time we reached civilization,
he would be completely sure of me, convinced I couldn't do without him, and he
was bound to grow lax, seeing no reason to keep a close watch over me. It would
make my escape all the easier. I justified it to myself this way, but the fact
remained that I enjoyed our lovemaking as much as he. My mother's blood?
Perhaps, but I wasn't particularly concerned. There was no place for moralizing
in the middle of the wilderness.

We
had been climbing the trail for some time, and soon we were on the crest of a
hill, the trail winding down in front of us. Jeff came to a halt, and I drew
Jenny up beside him. A spectacular vista unfolded before us. Against a
pale-blue, sun-drenched sky we could see the tops of distant mountains, a hazy
violet-gray, the slopes covered with trees, a patchwork of greens and browns.
There was a stream below, sparkling silvery blue, now visible, now hidden by
the trees, and the land itself was a rusty reddish brown. It was incredibly
beautiful. I could sense Jeff's response. He loved this land. He was at home
here. It was a part of him.

"It's
really somethin', ain't it?" he said quietly.

"It's
quite lovely. If you like wilderness," I added.

"Someday
it's all gonna be ours."

"Ours?"

"It's
gonna belong to us—the people. We're the ones who're gonna conquer it, settle
it. The French, the British, all them bloody politicians with their grants and
deeds— they're gonna have to pick up their papers and go back home."

"You
don't consider yourself British?"

"Hell,
no! My folks were, sure; they came to Virginia fifteen years before I was born.
I was born there, in the American Colonies. I'm an American. That's what the

British
call us, usually with a sneer. If things keep goin' like they have in Boston
and Philadelphia and them parts, the redcoats ain't gonna be so disdainful.
Reckon the 'Americans' will throw 'em out."

"That
sounds suspiciously like treason," I remarked.

"Could
be," he replied amiably. "Me, I couldn't care less about politics and
such. I can get along wherever I happen to be—English territory, French,
Spanish, don't much matter. But I hear talk. People up in that part of the
country are gettin' fed up, tired uv bein' subjects of a distant king who's
batty in the head."

King
George was, indeed, quite mad at times. Everyone knew that. It was said he
frequently had amiable chats with oak trees and claimed they chatted back, and
he was kept confined for long periods of time, yet he was still our Monarch. I
felt a fierce loyalty to the homeland, which was surprising after my experience
with the English legal system. Still, here in the middle of this overwhelming
wilderness, everything else seemed remote and unimportant. Men like Jeff were
more concerned with living than law, and what took place in England and the
eastern Colonies didn't affect them much one way or the other. He continued to
gaze at the land unfolding before us, savoring its wild beauty as he would
savor the beauty of a woman, and then he prodded his mule gently and started
down the trail, leading the other mule behind.

Groaning,
I followed. The trail was steep, and I bounced viciously, but soon we were on
semilevel ground again, the lovely vista gone, trees growing thickly on either
side, blotting out any view. It seemed an eternity before we finally reached
the bank of the small stream. There was a grassy clearing shaded by trees,
clusters of orange and reddish-orange wild flowers sprinkled over the ground.
The stream was shallow, making a pleasant, melodic sound as it rushed over the
large yellow-brown rocks scattered about the bed. There was at least two hours
of daylight left, and I was surprised when Jeff suggested we stop for the
night.

"Looks
like a good place to camp," he said, "and I don't wanna tire you out
too much—for selfish reasons. We'll stop early, then get a good start in the
mornin'."

"I've
no intention of arguing," I retorted, eagerly dismounting.

Jeff
swung himself off his mule and grinned. "You got a lot of stamina, ya know
that? Oh, you complain a lot, always groanin' and beggin' me to stop for a
while, but you keep right on pluggin'."

"There's
not much else I can do under the circumstances."

"Some
of the women I've hauled through these parts— you wouldn't believe the trouble
they were."

"I
can imagine," I said dryly.

As
he fed and watered the mules, I thought of Maria Crawley and the way she had
tried to justify the trade he engaged in. It was quite true that most of the
women who came over on the prison ships were prostitutes, or worse, and I
supposed any one of them would much prefer working in a brothel in New Orleans
to doing the kind of hard manual labor they were likely to have to do
otherwise. Angie, for example, would have jumped at the chance. That made it
none the less unsavory. He knew that I wasn't a prostitute, yet he intended to
sell me just as he had sold the others.

"How
many women have you taken to New Orleans?" I inquired.

"Oh,
couple dozen, I guess. No sense wastin' my time with them who ain't young and
pretty, and not too many young and pretty women come over on the ships."

"I
suppose some of them fell in love with you."

"Reckon
a few of them did. Quite a nuisance."

"You've—never
been in love?" I asked.

"Never
had time, too busy makin' a livin'. I figure a woman's like a good meal or a
glass o' fine whiskey— somethin' to be enjoyed wholeheartedly but nothin' to
lose your head over."

"I'll
keep that in mind."

"Say,
you ain't fallin' in love with me, are you?"

"Not
a chance," I retorted.

He
looked relieved. "Wouldn't wanna complicate things," he said.

It
would be all too easy for most women to fall in love with him. He was
exceedingly attractive physically. Superbly built, he did indeed resemble an
early Roman gladiator, one incongruously dressed in fringed buckskins and
moccasins. There was the charm, too, and the jaunty, easygoing manner. He was,
I knew, as rugged and virile as they came, yet there was a gentility about him
as well. Rawlins would not be afraid to show tenderness. Though he delighted in
teasing me, he had been extremely considerate from the first. So unlike Derek
in every way... I had loved, and I had been deeply wounded, and I was never
going to love again, certainly not a man who intended to place me in a brothel
for profit. Sleeping with him was one thing. Loving him was something
altogether different, and there wasn't a chance of it.

"How'd
you like some fresh fish for supper?" he inquired.

"Fish?"

"This
stream's full of 'em, just waitin' to be caught. Tell you what, you build a
fire—you've seen me do it enough times to know how—and I'll catch us some fish
to cook."

Pulling
his hunting knife out of his scabbard, he examined the branches of a tree
growing nearby, selected one and cut it off, then began to sharpen one end. When
he was finished, he had a crude but serviceable spear. Taking off his
moccasins, he stepped into the stream and, spear held aloft, gazed intently at
the water. A moment later he brought the spear down quickly. There was a mighty
splash, and when he held the spear aloft again a large, silvery fish was
writhing on the point. He gave a shout of triumph and slung the fish on the
bank, where it flopped for a moment and then grew still.

"Trick
I learned from the Indians," he called.

"Clever,"
I retorted.

He
splashed about in the stream, as happy and excited as a boy, spearing three
more fish while I fetched the shovel from the pack, dug a narrow hole in the
ground, lined it with rocks and then placed wood on top of the rocks. After
gathering up more wood and some dry brush, I attempted to light the fire with
the flint. It wasn't nearly as easy as it looked, and it took me a good five
minutes to ignite the brush with a spark. By the time I had finished, Jeff had
decapitated the four fish and was scraping scales off. He deboned them and,
looking inordinately pleased with himself, took an old iron skillet from his
pack and began cooking the fish, turning them with a long metal fork he'd also
removed from the pack. I watched, feeling quite relaxed and at ease.

"You're
quite handy to have around," I remarked.

"Reckon
I am," he admitted. "A wench could do worse."

"I
imagine she could. You've done a lot in your life, haven't you?"

"I've
knocked around quite a lot. Left home when I was thirteen, struck out on my
own. Took a lot of odd jobs. In '55 I joined Captain Waddell's Carolina
Militia. That's when I first met Daniel Boone. He was twenty-one, four years
older'n me. Joined up as a wagoner, Dan did. Both of us went with General
Braddock's expedition to drive the French from Fort Duquesne. We were ambushed
by Indians as we were advancin' on the fort. The whole damn expedition was
almost wiped out—me and Dan and a handful of others were the only ones to get
away with our scalps. Lost any interest in the military life after that, I can
tell ya for sure."

"You've
already told me about the French and Indian conflict," I reminded him.
"What did you do after that?"

"Did
a bit of scoutin', bit of trail-blazin', but I didn't have the knack, not like
Boone. I finally ended up in Louisiana Territory, great place for an ambitious
young man. Spent most of my time in and around New Orleans. It belonged to the
French then. They ceded all territory west of the Mississippi to Spain in '62,
includin' New Orleans. Hell, this land changes hands so often a chap never
knows who it belongs to."

"What
did you do in New Orleans?"

"Did
a bit of tradin'. Raised hell mostly. Then I started makin' these expeditions
to Carolina to see what the ships brought in, peddlin' goods as I went along.
Reckon this is my last trip. I'm gettin' tired of all this travelin' back and
forth. I got plans—"

He
looked up at me and grinned mysteriously, and I had the curious feeling that
these mysterious plans concerned me in some way. He clearly had no intention of
going into detail, and I was too stubborn to ask. He took the fish up, and
after it had cooled we ate it. The meat was juicy and succulent, quite the best
fish I had ever eaten, but perhaps that was because I was so hungry. I went
over to the river to wash my hands when I had finished, and it was as I was
drying them off that I heard the horse neighing.

I
was startled, too startled to be frightened at first. I hurried back to Jeff.
His face was grim. He looked like a different person, the amiable rogue
replaced by a deadly sober man with tight mouth and hard, fierce eyes. He held
the rifle ready to fire, the barrel pointing toward the area on the other side
of the stream where the sound had come from. The fear gripped me then. I could
feel the color leaving my cheeks.

"Get
over there behind those trees," he ordered. "Stay out of sight."

"What—"

"Do
as I say!" he snapped.

I
quickly obeyed, darting behind the trees and peering around one of the trunks
to watch, my heart pounding. The horse neighed again, and the sound of hooves
rang loud and clear. A moment later a horseman rode into sight, a string of
four pack mules trailing behind. Thin and rangy, the man had a long, pale face
with beard as black and lanky as his hair. He wore a raccoon-skin cap with tail
dangling down in back and buckskins similar to those Jeff wore, only much
dirtier. Jeff held the rifle steady for a moment, and then he lowered it and
let out an exuberant whoop that caused birds perching nearby to break into
flight. The man on the horse, showing no reaction, calmly walked his horse
across the stream.

"It's
all right, Marietta!" Jeff called. "You can come on out. Jackson's a
friend of mine. Jackson, you ol'
son of a bitch! What th' hell are you
doin' in these parts?"

"On
my way to Carolina," the man replied. "Got four mules here loaded
down with goods. Aim to sell to them folks you ain't already cheated. If there
are any," he added.

"Christ,
man, you gave us a scare!"

Jackson
dismounted. He was tall, taller than Jeff, even, and so thin he looked unhealthy.
The buckskins seemed to hang limply on his bony frame. The straggly beard and
long hair were very dark, emphasizing his pallor. He glanced about the campsite
with lazy blue eyes, showing not the least surprise when I approached from the
trees. As I drew nearer I could smell him. It was difficult not to recoil. He
smelled of grease and sweat and leather and various other odors, all of them
blending into an exceedingly pungent whole.