by Tracey Lyons
He’d done the right thing by reporting Amos’s trespassing to the sheriff. Chase had gone out to the mine because it was necessary to remind Amos who was in charge. But, by God, he’d never expected Hannah to follow him. He thought she’d stayed back at the homestead tending to her lame horse. How was he going to explain to her that he’d only acted out of fear for her safety?
The all too familiar feeling of frustration filled him once more. He couldn’t tell her. To tell her would mean blowing the entire customs operation wide open. He couldn’t risk that, not when he was so close to finally getting Harold Tyler and Amos Smithson behind bars.
He glanced toward the closed pine door that separated him from Hannah. Mrs. Jackson had been tending to her granddaughter’s needs for the better part of an hour. She’d shooed him from the bedroom right after he carefully laid Hannah on top of her buttercup-colored quilt. He’d offered to go for the doctor, but after a swift look at Hannah’s wounds, Mrs. Jackson had declared that the cut was nothing she herself couldn’t stitch closed.
The silence coming from the room worried him. What if she’d fallen into a feverish state? He’d heard of things like that happening—especially in the wilderness. If they were in New York City he’d have sent for one of the finest doctors to treat Hannah. He leaned against the windowsill and sipped his coffee, watching the storm. Brooding. It was the first time he’d ever thought of them together in New York.
The image of her in his home brought an unexpected smile to his lips. He doubted very much that the Hannah he knew would like the city, even though she’d spent time living in Boston at her fancy boarding school. Still and all, Boston was no New York.
He sighed. Hannah was deeply rooted in her Great Northern Wilderness. It wasn’t just a place to live. Hannah’s spirit and soul existed here. The air and trees, every hill and mountaintop, all of it belonged to her. He couldn’t say as he blamed her, either. Though he was loath to admit it, this place was beginning to grow on him.
Another streak of lightning slashed through the darkness and the thunder rumbled in accompaniment, rattling the windowpanes. He turned as Hannah’s bedroom door squeaked open.
His brow furrowed in worry, he asked, “Mrs. Jackson, how is she?”
She placed the needle and thread on the oak sideboard, then went to the sink to wash her hands. He followed her into the alcove.
She turned to him. “Our girl is going to be fine. We’re going to have to keep a bedside vigil, though. She needs to be awakened every two hours or so. You can’t take any chances with injuries to the head.” She patted her hands dry on the striped cotton towel that hung above the sink.
“How many stitches did she need?”
“Six.”
His face must have betrayed his feelings, for she patted his arm reassuringly. “She didn’t feel a thing. Hannah barely even made a sound the whole time I was with her.”
Mrs. Jackson bustled about her kitchen, gathering a deep wooden bowl and several white towels before going to the stove and checking the coffeepot. “Now here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll make us a fresh pot of coffee, unless you prefer tea?”
He shook his head.
“Coffee it is, then. I need you to fetch some water from the pump outside. You can use the bucket on the back stoop.”
Chase hurried about to do the task. He grabbed an oilskin coat off a hook before he ran out into the rain. He found the bucket just where she’d said it would be, filled it at the pump and brought it into the kitchen.
He shrugged off the slicker, ruffled his hair to get the last of the raindrops from it and asked, “Can I see her now?”
The older woman led the way. Three lamps burned brightly in the room. He stood just inside the doorway, unable to bring himself any farther. Hannah’s accident was all his fault. If only he’d been honest with her from the very start, then possibly none of this would have happened. If only he’d told her earlier today about his working for the government—if only.
Mrs. Jackson came back to pull him gently into the room. “There’s no use blaming yourself for this accident, Mr. Malone. My girl would have gone to that McCleary mine today whether or not you told her to stay away. She’s stubborn. Takes after her grandfather.”
They stopped at the bedside. Mrs. Jackson stood with her hands folded in front of her, looking down at Hannah as if she were admiring a baby in a cradle. “She’s going to be fine.”
Hannah lay still in the double bed. Her grandmother had gotten her out of the wet, soggy clothes and put a nightgown on in their place. The white gown had tiny pearl buttons down the front. The cotton fabric fluttered up and down with her even breathing. Her face was pale, though not as white as the gown. Her dark hair lay splayed out on the pillow that cushioned her head.
Already a nasty blue-black bruise was beginning to spread across her smooth brow. Thankfully, the gash and the stitches were covered by a clean white dressing. Chase didn’t know if he could bear to see the black thread sticking out of Hannah’s flawless skin.
“Here, sit down.”
He didn’t take his gaze from Hannah, feeling his way back to sit in the rocking chair Mrs. Jackson pulled alongside the bed. She told him she was going out to the kitchen to make up some chicken soup then turned down two of the lamps, leaving only the one on the nightstand lit. Leaving Hannah and Chase alone.
The minutes seemed to crawl by. Hannah lay so still, if not for the shallow rise and fall of her chest he would have thought her dead. He should be doing something—but what?
Mrs. Jackson’s steady voice drifted into the room from the kitchen. “Talk to her, Mr. Malone.” Had she read his mind? One thing was for certain, that woman had an uncanny knack of knowing what was inside a person’s head.
“Hannah…” His voice sounded strange to his ears, reverberating off the white walls of Hannah’s bedroom and mixing with the thunder and the wind.
He cleared his throat, starting again. “Hannah. I sure wish you’d open those pretty sapphire eyes and look at me.”
He wasn’t certain, but he thought she’d stirred some. Reaching for her hand, he cradled it inside his and began to stroke her thumb with his. “I know that you can hear me—you can feel me next to you. Come on, Miss Jackson, look at me.” His words must have penetrated into her unconscious state, for in the next moment her long dark lashes fluttered and her eyes opened.
“Hey, there.” He didn’t know what else to say. Now was certainly not the time for apologies or recriminations. Those would come soon enough.
Hannah looked at him with those sapphire pools, not uttering a sound then her eyes closed once more. Several minutes had passed when, much to his surprise, she gave his hand a quick squeeze.
“You are going to be fine, Miss Jackson. Just fine.” To reassure himself, he brought her slender fingers to his lips and kissed them one at a time. Her mouth curved into a slow smile. Then she was still. He watched over her as she slept, keeping her hand tucked inside his. This young woman, who in the beginning was just a thorn in his side, was now someone he’d come to care for very much. He could hardly keep from trembling when he thought about how differently this day could have ended.
He continued to stroke his thumb along the inside of her wrist. Closing his eyes, he tried to shut out the sight of the rocks tumbling down the mountainside. He’d almost had her in his grip then in the next minute she was lying under a pile of rubble. She’d been so still, for one horrible second he’d thought her dead.
Opening his eyes, he stared down in wonder at her. He couldn’t live without her; she had gotten under his skin. Hannah was in his thoughts all the time. He wondered how her body would feel molded next to his. Already he’d tasted the sweetness of her kisses. But her kisses would never be enough—they would never satisfy his need to have all of her.
The rhythmic chop of Clara’s knife hitting the cutting board penetrated his thoughts. A hard gust of wind shook the rafters of the house, making even the flame on the lamp’s wick flicker.
The lace curtains covering the closed windows fluttered.
Mrs. Jackson’s steady voice carried to him from the kitchen as the savory smell of the chicken soup began to fill the house. “Dear me, Mr. Malone, I think we’re in for a long night.”
“Chase?” The sound of Hannah’s weak voice brought his attention back to the bed.
“I’m right here, Hannah.” He watched her intently, realizing that she was semiconscious. He squeezed her hand.
“You can’t have it.”
“I can’t have what, Hannah?” He had to lean in close to her mouth to hear her, though he knew what her reply would be.
“My land.” The two words were spoken in a whisper.
He smiled ruefully; even in this weakened condition she still continued to fight him.
“Hannah, honey. I don’t want your land.” Leaning close to her ear he said quietly, “I want you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He let it go at that. There would be time enough to convince her of his feelings.
For a while longer there was only the sound of the storm and Clara puttering around her kitchen.
“It’s cold in here.”
He looked down to find Hannah looking up at him with those clear blue eyes. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he’d seen a flash of anger in those eyes. Eyes that now so carefully regarded him.
“I’ll get you another blanket.” He rose from the rocker and went to the foot of the bed to retrieve the crocheted blanket. He covered the length of her body with the soft material. “There, is that better?”
“Yes,” came her weak reply. “My head hurts.” She placed her hand over the bandage. “Doesn’t Grandmother have any powders she can give me?”
Chase frowned at her discomfort. “Sorry. The powders would only complicate your condition.”
Her mouth moved. “Oh.” A single tear slipped from the corner of her left eye and trailed down her cheek.
He reached out to wipe away the tear. Her skin felt cool as his rough finger ran the length of her jaw. She bit her lower lip to still its trembling. He watched helplessly as Hannah’s eyes filled with more tears.
“God, Hannah. I wish I could take away your pain.” The words tore from his throat. He reached for her hand and gripped it in his.
“Where’s Gram?”
“I’m here, dear.”
Chase turned in surprise at the sound of Mrs. Jackson’s voice behind him. He hadn’t heard her enter the room.
“I’ve made you some soup. Perhaps a little broth might make you feel better.” The bed creaked as she sat on the opposite side. Reaching out a veined hand, she began to stroke Hannah’s brow, smoothing back the silky strands of black hair. This simple action seemed to have an almost immediate soothing effect on Hannah, for in a few minutes she fell back to sleep.
The raindrops drummed on the tin roof. Chase felt a profound sense of frustration building up inside him. If only he’d been honest with Hannah from the very start, then none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t be lying here in such pain. He should have told her that he worked for the government and not Tyler Mining Company.
From the very first day they’d met, he should have been honest. How well he remembered Hannah on that day. She came out onto her grandparents’ front porch looking so sweet and innocent, offering him the glass of lemonade like it was the finest champagne. And he’d been greedy in his thirst, only to discover, too late, that Matthew Jackson’s dear sweet granddaughter had not been so sweet after all. Chase had to suppress a grimace as he remembered the bitter taste of the unsweetened lemonade. Oh, how Hannah’s sapphire eyes had twinkled mischievously on that hot summer afternoon!
He had to hand it to her, she had spunk. In all his travels he’d never come across a woman with such principles. Hannah was one of the most courageous people he’d ever known.
His thoughts were interrupted by her grandmother’s voice. “Mr. Malone, why don’t you go on out into the kitchen and help yourself to some soup? I’ll sit a spell with Hannah.”
Reluctantly he left the room and forced himself to eat the bowl of soup. On any other day he would have enjoyed the home cooking, but now all he could think about was going back into that bedroom, and keeping Hannah safe.
Chapter Twelve
The gingerbread clock on the mantle chimed five times. Hannah couldn’t imagine why on earth she would be in bed at the supper hour. She struggled to open her eyes, but even the dim light made her head hurt. Hurt was an understatement! Her head pounded like a merry band of Indians were doing a rain dance on top of her scalp.
Carefully she raised her hand from underneath the mountain of blankets that were piled on her and touched the spot where the bandage covered her head. For several moments she lay there with her eyes closed, trying to remember what had happened. The effort served only to make the pain behind her eyes sharper. Her thoughts were jumbled; she had a vague recollection of being with Chase, and that was all.
Hannah opened her eyes and looked around her room. The first thing that struck her as odd was the fact that for supper time the house was extremely quiet. There was no sound coming from the kitchen at all. She looked at the window. Through the drawn curtains came the rosy glow that surrounded the house in the early morning hours. It wasn’t five o’clock in the evening. It was five o’clock in the morning!
“Oh, my!” Hannah continued to look around her bedroom while at the same time struggling to prop herself up against the headboard. How could this be? Where had yesterday gone? Pain shot through her temple.
Another “Oh, my!” escaped her as her gaze fell to the rocking chair next to her bed. There sat Chase, asleep with his head resting against the back of the cushioned rocker.
She watched him. Judging from the dark circles under his eyes, it appeared he’d had very little sleep in the past few hours. His chest rose and fell in shallow, even movements, keeping time with the ticking of the mantle clock.
He was so handsome! The temptation to run her fingers through those wonderful dark curls was so great Hannah had to grip the edge of the feather mattress to keep from reaching out. His arms were folded across his chest and his long muscular legs were stretched out in front of him.
“Ugh!” A wave of dizziness, accompanied by a feeling of nausea the likes of which she’d never known, hit her with a vengeance. Resting her head back against the headboard, she inhaled deeply and then forced the air out through her open mouth and waited for the feeling to subside.
“Hannah?”
His voice seemed to come from very far away, but when Hannah turned to look at him, she found him sitting on the edge of her bed. His cloudy gray eyes still held the shadow of sleep. His chambray shirt and denim jeans were rumpled. How long had she been here—and more importantly, how long had he been here?
“You look like you could use a strong cup of coffee,” she managed weakly.
Running a hand through his unruly hair, he smiled down at her. “I’m more worried about how you are feeling today.”
“What day is it?”
“It’s Wednesday.”
“What happened to Tuesday?” She struggled to remember.
“You don’t remember anything at all about yesterday?”
She thought Chase looked relieved at her lack of recall of the past twenty-four hours.
“I bumped my head,” was all she could think to say.
He laughed at her remark. His eyes crinkled up at the corners as he did and his lips parted just a little to show his straight, white teeth. Funny, she’d never noticed how white his teeth were before. His expression turned serious, but the laughter lingered in his eyes.
“If you think for a little bit, perhaps you could tell me what you do remember.”
She turned her head away from his scrutiny to stare out the porch window. The sunlight had changed from rose to a yellow hue. The wind rustled the leaves on the oak tree outside the window and raindrops fell on the tin roof.
Without looking back at
him, she said, “There was a storm coming. Yesterday was so very hot—the air was so heavy and humid. Bonnie came up lame with a pebble wedged in her shoe.” Closing her eyes, she could see Chase’s face. “You were angry with me. I can’t seem to remember why, though.”
“I’m so sorry.” His voice was deep and quiet, yet it seemed to fill the room. Even without looking at him, she knew he meant the words.
“We were arguing about the mine—the damned mine is always between us! Everything we do seems to come down to you, me and the mine!” He gripped her hand.
“I went to the mine.” Only then did she turn to look at him to see his reaction. “Later in the morning I went to the mine. To find you. You were with Amos. I can’t remember what you were saying exactly. You were angry at him. You were angry at me.”
Hannah rubbed her arms as if she could still feel the grip of his hands upon her body. She wanted to know why he was so angry with her, but she couldn’t seem to bring herself to ask him. She was afraid of what he might tell her. She watched Chase’s face, his eyes. They lost their warmth it was as if a dark shroud fell over them. He seemed distant once more. It was as if he were closing some part of himself off from her, from the rest of the world.
Her head began to ache and she rubbed her temples. “I don’t know quite what happened after I saw you. There was a loud clap of thunder—it shook the ground like an explosion. Everything was dark afterwards.”
Chase sat very still on the edge of her bed. Then he reached into the wooden bowl on the night stand near the bed and gently wrung out the cloth, placing the cool compress on her forehead. He took her hand in one of his as he did so. Bringing her hand to his mouth, he kissed the tip of each finger in turn. It was a simple gesture, one that meant so much. No matter what strife was between them, Hannah knew deep down that he cared for her.
Slowly he bent his head toward hers until their lips touched. It was a kiss in the purist form—tender, sweet.