Runaway

by Donna Cooner

  Robert met them at the door to the tavern, winking quickly, lifting her spirits. It seemed that he would be accompanying them as well. Jarrett didn’t have anything further to say to her, and he seemed to prefer that she walk ahead of him, idly conversing with Robert as they made their way back to the Magda. But even as she exchanged meaningless pleasantries with Robert, she could feel Jarrett behind her. Feel his eyes, his heat.

  His disappointment.

  Where had he slept last night?

  She was glad to see Josh and Nancy waiting on the dock. Tara had barely gotten to know Nancy the night before, but she had discovered a genuine warmth within the pretty young woman, and she already felt as if she were being torn away from a friend.

  “It was so wonderful to meet you!” Nancy assured her, coming forward to give Tara a hug even as Josh called out to Jarrett, “She’s well loaded down with the best we could do on such short notice. I think you’ll find all that you need for the time coming.”

  Tara barely heard the two men. She was looking at the tawdry little place called Tampa and thinking that it suddenly seemed like the greatest of cities. She didn’t want to leave.

  “It was wonderful to meet you,” she assured Nancy. She asked herself what would happen if she went hysterical on the dock and started to scream and swear that she simply would not be massacred by Indians.

  She would probably be massacred by Jarrett, then and there.

  She didn’t scream. She tried to smile as Nancy told her that she had filled crates with what fabrics and patterns she’d had in the store and sent new corsets, petticoats, pantalettes, and all that she could find. “Jarrett said that you left New Orleans rather quickly and that your baggage was left behind. I think you’ll be pleased. Jarrett’s laundress, Cota, is also an exceptional seamstress if you don’t sew.”

  “I do sew,” Tara murmured simply. She realized that Nancy must assume she had come from an important, well-to-do family. She didn’t want to explain exactly why she was so adept with a needle and thread.

  “God bless you, then! I’m delighted for Jarrett’s sake that you’re with him, and I’ll pray for you! Of course, he will keep you safe, he must simply adore you, we are still so very stunned that he actually married—oh, dear, forgive me, I do wander on!”

  Not nearly enough! Tara thought with an inward groan, but Nancy was already rushing on again. “When I can, I’ll visit. And you’ll come back. It’s only two days by river and not much longer by horseback or wagon. We’re really not so very far!”

  “Nancy.” Jarrett touched the vivacious brunette on the shoulder. She kissed his cheek, and he held her warmly for a moment.

  “God keep you, Jarrett. We love you.”

  “You too,” he told her affectionately. He shook hands with Josh, and Robert said his farewells to Nancy and Josh as well. With Jarrett’s hand at her back Tara boarded the Magda again, turning to look at the shore and fighting the temptation to flee for what now seemed familiar and warm.

  She wasn’t going anywhere. He remained at her back while his crew ran about, easing the ship from the dock. She could feel his strong hands set lightly upon her hips.

  “My congratulations, my love,” he whispered softly at her ear.

  “On what?” she murmured dully.

  “Your chin was high—and you didn’t dive into the river.”

  “The river’s still there.”

  “Ah, yes, but we are going farther and farther away from civilization.”

  She didn’t reply but heard his soft groan of exasperation as she shivered despite herself.

  Angered and defensive, Tara cried and started to lash out at him again. “How can you not see—” she began.

  “And how can you give me no faith whatsoever, when I’ve yet to betray you, despite the fact that you are all too willing to run again?”

  “This is entirely different,” she tried.

  “No, it is not!” he snapped, and suddenly he was gone, calling out an order to Leo, leaving her at the rail and leaping with a seaman’s sure agility to the helm.

  She could still see Nancy and Josh, waving good-bye.

  And just beyond Nancy and Josh and some of the other civilians who lined the shore, she could see the blond man in the crisp military attire and broad-rimmed hat who had stopped Jarrett yesterday: the man who had tried to have him take a commission.

  The man saw her. He lifted his hat and bowed gravely. Tara hesitated, then lifted a hand and waved good-bye.

  Slowly, those on the shore began to disappear, and as they headed along the river, civilization vanished as well.

  Gradually the foliage became more and more dense. And indeed, it seemed that she was sailing into a savage land.

  The going was much slower by river than it had been on the open sea, but Tara stood by the ship’s rail for hours as the morning passed by, watching the shoreline. Trees grew thickly along much of the river, their boughs dipping over it. Silvery cloaks of moss covered much of the boughs. The river became a darker green, and for a while it seemed that the world itself was all decked in green. The embankment, the water, and even the sky seemed to take on the hue. Yet there were other colors as well, fascinating, intriguing. Here and there, wildflowers grew, their petals creating bursts and riots of color. The river here was wide and deep, and the breeze was with them. The sails filled gently, then began to puff out tightly.

  She started at a sudden cawing sound and realized that birds within the tangled foliage were giving off the sometimes shrill, sometimes plaintive calls.

  The sky was darkening. They were in for rain again, she thought. The wild foliage on the shoreline began to writhe and undulate, and when she saw a sudden fluttering of color, she was certain that she was seeing a befeathered Indian stalking them from the concealment of the green bank. The trees began to bow deeper, their cloaks of moss stretching out like webs, their branches like skeletal fingers. She inhaled on a harsh breath, watching.

  A bird whistled out a cry and soared out of the bushes. She had seen a feather—but one attached to a living creature. She exhaled on a shaky breath, then nearly screamed aloud when she felt a touch on her shoulder. She spun around. The wind caught her hair and whipped it free. Jarrett held her shoulders. He had stripped down to his breeches only, even his feet were bare, and he seemed as bronze as an Indian himself as he shouted to her, making his voice stronger than the growing moan of the wind.

  “Get to the cabin, you’ll be soaked in a moment!”

  She stared at him with no reply and he frowned, touching her cheek. “You’re snow white!”

  “I—thought I saw a feather.”

  “And?” he queried somewhat harshly, a brow arched high.

  “It was—a feather.”

  “You turned white over a feather?”

  “I thought it was part of an Indian.”

  “I don’t know what they told you wherever you come from, Tara, but Indians do not grow feathers.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, I didn’t think that it grew on an Indian, I thought that it was part of a headdress. Unless you’re going to tell me that Florida Indians do not ever make use of bird feathers?”

  “They make use of feathers,” he said evenly. “But since you are not screaming and have not plunged into the river I assume that you didn’t see an Indian?”

  “No.”

  “You mean that the feather was actually part of a bird?” he inquired.

  She lifted her chin, swept up her skirts, and shook off his touch as she started by him. “Excuse me,” she murmured regally, “I think that I will avoid the rain—and any other nasty and irritating things to be found on deck.”

  Jarrett clenched his teeth and almost stopped her, but he let her walk by.

  The rain started. It was light at first. Hands on his hips, he stared at the shoreline.

  He’d had no right to taunt her, and he was damned glad that what she’d seen had turned out to be a bird.

  Because the Indians were out there. Wa
tching him. And they would watch him all the way home.

  The rain fell throughout the day, light upon occasion, heavy, then nothing more than a drizzle. Tara was able to spend most of the day going through what Nancy had considerately delivered to the captain’s cabin. She was pleased to discover that Nancy had indeed done well for her, and she was grateful for the many fabrics and patterns and underthings she found within the boxes. She spent much of the day absorbed in cutting and pinning fabric and adding her own touches. When the afternoon began to wane and she heard footsteps, she hurriedly wrapped up her work and returned everything to a box, but the footsteps went on by her.

  Soon, however, Nathan came with a dinner tray for her, and she discovered she was starving. She ate quickly, then paced the cabin. She stepped outside to realize that the rain had stopped. It seemed that they moved at a crawl, and she shivered fiercely as she stood on the deck. Night had fallen. She stared at the shoreline and thought that she had never seen anything so horribly dark. Yet the darkness rustled. She wondered if half-naked bodies were moving within the foliage, and after a moment she hurried back inside the cabin. For a while she paced again, certain that she would never sleep. The ship had slowed to a mere crawl, and she could dimly hear the men talking at the helm, their voices low one moment, bursting into husky laughter the next.

  The later it grew, the more uncomfortable she felt in her clothing. She had loathed the idea of undressing this night; she was still angry over the night that had passed, still aching with puzzlement about just where her husband had slept.

  Where—and with whom.

  But at length she undressed and donned a matronly calico nightgown and curled up on the bunk. She laid her head down and began to mentally torture herself all over again, one minute listening for an Indian attack, the next wondering if her husband intended to return to his cabin tonight.

  She must have slept. She found herself in a thick, silent green forest. Her feet were bare, and she was running. She was listening and listening. She could hear the pounding of her heart. It was a pulse that blocked out all else. Instinct warned her of sound. The sound of breaking twigs, of footfalls against the hard-packed earth.

  William was there, ahead of her. She tried to call out to him: she was desperate to reach him and escape the savage mutilation promised her by the pursuing Indian.

  He carried a tomahawk. His head was adorned with a feathered band. His eyes and hair were pitch black; he was bare chested, running after her in a pair of doeskin breeches, nothing more. The expression on his face was determined and grim, and with each passing second he was closer to her. He was an Indian, she thought. One moment, yes … then he was Jarrett. She tried to scream, and still there was nothing but silence. She tripped on a root sprawling out from one of the tall, moss-covered trees. Her gown blew behind her as she fell in a slow and terrible motion. She looked up. The tomahawk, adorned with endless little leather dangles that held the blond and brown scalps of white men, began to fall. She tried to scream again.…

  Chapter 8

  She must have screamed, because the next thing she knew, she was being shaken awake. For a moment she thought she was staring into the eyes of the Indian of her dream, but soon recognized her husband’s eyes and taut features, shadowed in the low-burning candlelight. His hair had been tied back in a queue. In a wild panic she fought his grasp, then heard his voice.

  “Tara! What in God’s name is it?”

  She stared at him and wrenched back from his grasp. The dream was still so horribly real!

  “Tara, you were dreaming.”

  “Dreaming the truth!” she cried out, so affected by the dream that she was shaking like the moss-laden tree branches in the storm winds.

  “Tara—” He reached out to her again, but she shook her head wildly, avoiding his touch as if he had the plague, curling as far as she could into the corner of the bunk as she hugged her knees to her chest. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” she whispered. “You don’t know—you don’t care! You’re just sailing blindly into the midst of them.”

  He swore, rising. For a moment she hated herself. He had reached out to her. She hadn’t been able to let him touch her, not at that moment. Now, as he stood before her, naked torso gleaming in the candlelight, muscles rippling, eyes afire with their ebony fury, she was bleakly sorry.

  “The only blind thing I have done, madam, is marry you.” He spun around with those words, and she was startled to hear herself cry out.

  “Where are you going?”

  He turned back, a brow arched. “Where I may sit—without touching you,” he told her. With an exaggerated movement he drew out his captain’s chair from beneath his desk and sat on it, still staring at her as he poured himself a long drink from the rum bottle in his bottom drawer. Taking a swig from it he settled back, propping his legs up on the desk. He suddenly let his feet fall to the floor and stared hard at her. “Unless, of course, you want me entirely out of the cabin?”

  She stared at him in silence.

  “Ah!” he murmured. “Exactly what I thought. I’m not to leave you alone now that I’ve so wretchedly dragged you out here, but I am to keep my distance!”

  She remained stubbornly silent. In his present mood there was little she could say.

  “Go to sleep!” he told her after a moment.

  “McKenzie—”

  “Damn it, Tara!” His voice was like a low growl. “Go to sleep!”

  Stiffly she stretched out, turning away from him. She lay awake, so intensely aware that he was there, his eyes burning into her back. She would not sleep again. She listened to his movements and thought about her dream. The man chasing her had been an Indian, but so like Jarrett.

  She listened to him breathe, listened to him drink straight from the rum bottle. He would weary of his vigil sometime soon, she thought. He would come and lie beside her, and even if he was angry, he would touch her again. And he would hold her.

  But he didn’t come to lie down beside her. In the morning she realized that he must have spent the entire night in his chair. He had said that he would not touch her, and seemingly had meant it.

  Wretchedly, she rose. She washed and dressed and came out on deck. She waved to Nathan, who had climbed up the main mast and looked out over the riverbanks.

  Looking for savages? Surely.

  But he waved back to her cheerfully. She nodded and started for the helm. Jarrett was at the wheel, and he still wore the outfit—or lack of one—that made her think he was part savage himself. His feet remained bare, as did his torso, and all that clothed him were the form-hugging breeches. Strands of black hair fell over his forehead this morning, and when his gaze met hers it seemed both black fire and ice. She winced inwardly, aware that he was not fond of her at the moment.

  “Ah, good morning, my love. How did you sleep?”

  “Fine. And you?”

  “Very well. A rum bottle can be an excellent companion. Surprisingly warm, when bodies that should be are not!”

  She might have responded richly to the taunt, but she chose not to.

  “Any more Indians in your dreams?”

  “Any in real life, McKenzie?”

  “Lots of them,” he assured her, inclining his head toward the riverbank. His eyes shot to hers again. “But none you need worry about.”

  “I am immune?” she inquired with polite sarcasm.

  “You are.”

  She strode to the rail. Yesterday’s rain had drenched today with beauty. The greens were all the richer. Purple wildflowers twisted from the trees. The sun shone overhead in a dazzling golden brilliance, and the winds had died completely.

  “Admit it!” he called to her softly. “It is beautiful; it is paradise.”

  He was right. It was a strange beauty, savage, different, very far removed from civilization. Its very danger seemed compelling, and still she couldn’t bring herself to agree in any way when he was so determined to mock and taunt her.

  She spun around. “One m
an’s paradise is another’s hell!” she reminded him.

  His lips curled into a smile that held little humor, and she lowered her eyes quickly, then hurried past him. She ran back to their cabin and forced herself to once again spend her day sewing.

  Jarrett stayed out of the cabin until it was very late. She closed her eyes and feigned sleep, and he took his seat at his desk once again.

  And slept with the warmth of his rum bottle.

  Tara did not sleep so easily. She lay awake and wretchedly wondered why she couldn’t just reach out herself.

  But wondering about his activities in Tampa plagued her, cut her heart, wounded her pride. She couldn’t reach out.

  And so she lay awake.

  She slept very late the following morning. Indeed, she only awoke because she could hear the sounds of so many shouts. The crew called out—voices answered from elsewhere.

  She realized that the Magda had ceased her constant rolling, and that the ship had docked.

  She leapt up and ran to the cabin door, throwing it open, heedless of her nightdress. They had come to a dock, a very large and grand one, stretching into the river for well over two hundred feet along a strip of cleared, rich green grass. Small wooden buildings lay at either end of the dock, one windowless and one with windows. Yet between those two buildings she was given a perfect view of an exceptionally beautiful and grand house, built upon a piece of land nicely elevated above the river. The house was handsomely built in the customary colonial style, with its rear porch to the river, a porch with massive white columns. The house itself seemed huge to her, larger than anything she had seen in the North or the South, with numerous chimneys, a trail of outbuildings, and the most graceful lines she had ever seen. She narrowed her eyes, thinking that the structure itself had been crafted with greatest care, the walls sturdily built of some form of concrete and brick, the columns and porches made of native woods that had been whitewashed and now glistened beneath the sun. There were huge breezeway doors entering into the house from the rear porch, and she was certain, from the house’s symmetry, that duplicate doors would open out to the front porch, and that an open hallway would extend between the sets of doors. The idea was to catch the breezes from the river and cool the house, and she was certain that this house would function perfectly with the river, the breeze, and the landscape. Above the porch a balcony stretched out across the upper story of the house. Doorways led from the higher rooms out to the balcony. She could imagine the beauty, looking out over that balcony at night, with the stars and the moon casting down soft light upon the river. She could imagine the mystery as well, for the balcony also gave a fine view of the deep, lush forests that began far across the expanse of the rear lawn.