Part 15 (1/2)
The half-mile to the house was a slow and painful ride for Christopher, filled with b.u.mps and turns that were impossible to soften. Drake pulled the cot-sled while Serena led the horses. It was dusk when they reached the front door, the sun sinking fast over the crest of the mountains. Christopher's face was pale in the fading light, a sheen of sweat making it glisten. Drake carried him to the bed, Christopher trying not to cry out, then helped Serena make him comfortable. It didn't take long for Christopher to fall into an exhausted sleep.
Serena followed Drake out into the kitchen, filled a canteen with fresh water, and wrapped some cornbread and cold venison in a cloth, tying it into a neat bundle. He hadn't eaten since noon, none of them had, and he would need strength for the long night ahead.
Drake checked the musket, loading it with powder and ramming it down, and then filled his pouch with more musket b.a.l.l.s, wanting to be prepared for anything.
He reached for the dinner pail. ”If all goes well, I should be back by mid-morning.” He pulled Serena into his arms and kissed her, both of them hanging onto the contact for a few stolen seconds. Drake picked up his musket and canteen of water and was gone.
”Be careful,” Serena whispered after him, her heartbeat still loud in her ears.
Chapter Seventeen.
The house was quiet, the wind gently fanning her cheeks through the open door. When Drake was out of sight, she turned with a sigh, her hand clutching her skirt, and went back to the bedroom to check on Christopher. She sank down on the edge of the bed beside him, searching his face for signs of fever or delirium. Her hand went to Christopher's tanned forehead and she brushed back the silky white-blond hair.
She felt horrible-guilty-her stomach in knots. Her foolishness had brought them to this. He hadn't wanted to race, didn't have the thirst for adventure that both she and Drake shared. She should have known better. In a place like this, where the line between life and death was as fragile as spun gla.s.s, where such isolation from any source of help could mean starvation, pain, long hours of suffering alone without anyone to hear or know cries for help and death even. It was a land where one had only one's self to depend upon; she should have known better.
Christopher stirred. He turned his cheek into her hand and his voice rasped out. ”Do not look so grim, Serena. This was not thy fault.”
He had read her mind. It wasn't the first time. His uncanny ability to read her had shown itself often during their long friends.h.i.+p. But this time, enveloped in the dark aloneness, still wrapped in the emotions of near tragedy, the connection from it electrified the air around them. Shaking her head, she gripped his hand. ”It was my fault . . . my foolishness . . . this is not a place for girlish whims; it is a place for survival and I have hindered thine.”
Christopher shook his head on the pillow. ”No.” And then with more emphasis, ”No.” He squeezed her hand. ”What better place for dreams? Serena, listen to me. Of course there are risks here, but so there are in Philadelphia . . . or London even. Thou couldst be run down by a carriage on the busy streets.” He smiled. ”Thou canst live in the fear that something bad will happen. Nothing good will ever come without risk. Thou knowest I speak the truth . . . thou married Drake.”
His words hung in the air-thick and alive with meaning.
”That did not seem like such a risk.”
”Did it not?” His eyes searched hers.
With gentle pressure he pulled her closer until she could see the moonlight reflected in his eyes-the clear, focused eyes of a man who knew himself and what he wanted. She would find no demons here.
”Thou gavest up everything to be with him.”
He forced her to see the truth-his truth. Pulling her closer, his eyes blazed with his need of her. The realization that he still loved her was a stunning shock. Was it true?
Standing, her breath ragged, she rushed from the room out into the yard. She ran to the nearest tree, leaned against it, sliding down until she could feel the hard ground beneath her, feeling the rough solidness of bark against her back. Eyes clenched shut, she let the night breeze cool her hot face.
After a moment her breathing slowed to normal and she opened her eyes. There, in the soft glow of the moonlight, lay what she had given up. Christopher had told her in a hundred ways how much he loved her. In the solidness of a home that would keep her warm and safe and dry. In the fields, hopeful with young spring plants. Her gaze wandered over every evidence of his labors. The hearty livestock, the fences and pens, all were proof of careful planning for their life together.
Eyes opened, she saw it as he must have every day. All the little details becoming blindingly clear. The thoughtful closeness of the stream so that she wouldn't have far to go for water. The cellar, hard-won from thin soil and solid rock. He must have imagined the harvest from her vegetable garden while he dug it out, the preserves she would put up to keep them nourished during the winter. The nearness of a town-and a church. He had been so excited over the building of the meetinghouse, a place for their family to wors.h.i.+p.
With relentless insight, she saw his dreams. Dreams he had shared with her time and time again in his quiet una.s.suming way and still, now that she was here, wanted to share with her. Just today he had spoken of his plans for a mill, a.s.suring a future for their children.
A planned inheritance.
It was all suddenly so clear. She wanted to wail. She hadn't known . . . hadn't understood the depth of Christopher's love for her. What must it be costing him now? To see her and Drake so happy and loving together. His broken leg was nothing compared with the pain she caused him every day just by being here. And yet, he had wanted them to come. Why? Was he hoping to lure her away from Drake? Had she made a terrible mistake by bringing them here?
”I am so sorry,” she breathed aloud.
That last thought left her chilled to the bone and shaking, the cool night air blowing against her, pressing her into the tree. ”What have I done?”
She closed her eyes and let tears fall onto the plain dress that was still as Quaker as she was. Desolate, she breathed deeply, seeking G.o.d's presence, seeking the Light. ”Show me Thy path, Lord.”
DRAKE'S NERVES WERE strung tight from the sharp vigilance required to ride through night wilderness. Bobcat, bear, and wolves were an ever-present danger. And while, from all accounts, the Indians had been subdued and moved further west over the mountains, at one time the Shawnee had camped in this area, and one could never be too sure. He had yet to see an Indian and wasn't quite sure what he would do if he did. He'd rather not find out alone, in the middle of the night.
It was early and the birds were up and chirping when he finally made it to the outskirts of Frederick Town. His eyes felt sand-filled and he knew he would have to get a couple hours' sleep before he could make the trek back to Christopher's home with a doctor.
Turning his equally tired mount onto a familiar street, Drake picked his way to the same inn they had stayed at before. He had to bang on the door several times before the sleepy innkeeper finally opened it. It was the same man he'd convinced of his need for a private room (by reminding him what it was like to be a newlywed) and he remembered Drake well. Drake told the man of Christopher's accident, the need for a doctor, and his more immediate need for a few hours' sleep.
”Anything will do this time, good sir. A blanket on the floor, if needs be.”
The man waved his suggestion away. ”No, no, follow me. I have a bed in an attic room.”
Drake was too tired to care that the statement meant sleeping in his clothes and sharing a bed with strangers. A couple of hours of rest and then he was a.s.sured that he could find the doctor.
AN ELBOW IN the ribs woke him. At first he thought it Serena and reached out, only to be met with the s.h.a.ggy beard of his bedmate. s.n.a.t.c.hing his hand back he came awake and sat up. Groggily, he searched for the pocket watch he now owned. It had been one of the many trades he had made-from a gold watch, elegantly inlaid with tortoisesh.e.l.l, to the plain pewter. But it worked. And truly, that was all that mattered in a place like this.
The morning light was bright with spring suns.h.i.+ne was.h.i.+ng over the little town. Small though it might be, it bustled with an economical energy the Germans were known for. Having retrieved direction to the doctor's home, Drake set out.
A brisk knock on the k.n.o.bby wood door brought round a stout woman with rosy cheeks and a wide smile. ”Might I help thee?”
A Quaker-good. ”Yes, ma'am. I was looking for the doctor. Might he be available?”
She nodded happily and motioned him in. He was led into a parlor and told, ”Make thyself comfortable. I will get the doctor.”
The wait was thankfully short. A middle-aged man with a well-fed belly, who looked utterly incapable of making the long ride on a wilderness trail, entered the room. He thrust out a hand with a friendly smile to match his wife's.
Drake introduced himself and then explained the situation. ”Can you come? My wife is hesitant to set the bone herself, and I have no experience in such matters. I fear we might make it worse.”
”Much swelling?”
Drake nodded. ”At least twice the normal size.”
”Well, there's no time like the present then. I'll get my bag and horse and meet you in front of the inn.”
IT WAS NEARING dinnertime when they finally made it to the cabin. The trip back had been uneventful, and Drake was pleased it had only taken a little longer than the journey there. The good doctor was a surprise in more ways than one. Not only could he ride with astounding grace and forbearance; he was an excellent traveling companion, full of knowledge of the area, gossip, and tidbits of information about the inhabitants. Most amazing, he carried with him the best food Drake had had since leaving London.
”My wife is French,” he'd explained, ”and trained with culinary experts before I swept her off her pudgy little feet and brought her to this country.” His obvious respect for his wife and her talents amused Drake. ”A French Quaker? Was I mistaken in her speech in surmising her to be of the Friends?”
The doctor chuckled. ”She dabbles in any and all social events. When she realized the Friends dominated the social life of the town, she joined them faster than I could gainsay her. They don't know it, but she only adheres to the language. We have plenty of French decadence in the other areas.” His bushy gray eyebrows rose into his hairline suggestively.
Drake shook his head in wonder. ”Do the Friends know?”
The man laughed so hard he almost fell off his horse. ”If they know, they look the other way where she's concerned. Her cooking is prized at the pitch-ins. My suspicion is she could cook her way into any group.”