Felicia Andrews

by Moonwitch

  "I see . " He glanced idly around the clearing. "They told me at the house you were here . "

  "They aren't supposed to tell anyone. "

  He turned his full smile on her. "I'm not known for being put off, Amanda. You, of all people, should know that. "

  "What do you want?"

  He jerked his head back, startled. "What? Why, to see you, of course. Don't . . . do you know how long it's been, Amanda?"

  "I know."

  "And now I'm here! I'm here, Amanda, and I'm not going to leave!"

  She felt the breeze plucking at her black clothes, puffing her hair over her shoulders and across her face like a mourning veil.

  "Amanda, did you hear me? I said I was here, just like I told you in the letter, and I'm staying! I'm working for Wilder, and r m going to be-"

  "The letter," she said, finally moving toward him. "The letter, Trevor. One. In how many months? Eight? Nine?" She was standing directly in front of him, the swell of her breasts nearly brushing against his chest. "One lousy letter, and you want me to throw myself into your arms as though . . . as though it's been only a week since I've seen you last?"

  She did not feel his hands come up and rest on her shoulders; she could only see the delight in his winter-blue eyes and the comers of his mouth twitch in a repressed smile. When he bent his head to kiss her, she did not move away, nor did she respond.

  But the touch was soft, was warm; and in spite of herself she felt a stirring in her stomach, felt her arms trembling as they fought to decide whether or not to embrace him.

  She closed her eyes. She felt the fabric of her shirt being drawn snugly across her back as his hand worked at the buttons, one by one, slowly, peeling the shirt away to expose her flesh to the air. She put one arm around his neck, felt him stiffen for a moment before pulling the shirt from her waistband.

  The buttons of his waistcoat were cold against her stomach, and she removed the source; the turquoise-and-silver buckle of his ornate belt dug into the plane of her flesh, and she removed the irritation.

  The grass was soft, was cool, was buoyant beneath her back, and she waited in silence until he loomed over her, blocking out the sun and the sky and the dancing green leaves, replacing them with the staring blue of his eyes.

  She stretched her arms back over her head and dug her fingers into the soft spring earth, tilting back her head to give his lips her neck, her breasts, the flat of her stomach. Her muscles jumped at the fire-breath that lingered; her skin tightened and added to the clearing's redolence the sharp tang of perspiration. She sighed. She heard him chuckle deep in his throat, like an animal prowling, and she reached down to grab a handful of his hair, pulling and twisting until he gasped and shook loose. An eagle soared momentarily overhead, and she strained to join its effortless flight, rising above herself until she could look down upon the earth and see the coupling in the grass.

  She sighed. She buried the fingers of both hands into his hair and guided him this way, ordering him to spark the long-dormant embers that had been waiting for his return. She sensed his rebellion and yanked once, gently, to bring him back to the purpose of his visit, the purpose of her acceptance. He grunted, and she smiled broadly, her eyes closed now, feeling the sun warm upon her lids, giving birth to painful spirals of colors that blended into spectrum-whirling and made her dizzy.

  She sighed. Languorously she snuggled herself to fit the curve of his body; slowly she allowed him to complete the consummation, knowing that he was fighting to maintain the rhythm she had set.

  And then she placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing at him slightly until he raised his head. His face was so filled with a mixture of astonishment and impending anger that she had to smile.

  "Why?" she asked, tweaking his right ear playfully.

  "Why what?" Anger was growing.

  She turned her head from side to side, to indicate the place, and the woman.

  "For God's sake, Amanda!" he groaned.

  "No, " she said. "For my sake, Trevor."

  He closed his eyes in slow exasperation, swallowed, and opened them again. "Because you are extraordinary," he said, spacing his words to give them emphasis. "Because you are the most desirable woman I have ever met in my life."

  She nodded. Then, suddenly, she yanked his face into the hollow of her shoulder and she released him, and herself, to continue.

  And to end.

  And when they were dressed again, silent and awkward, she stared at his profile thoughtfully.

  "Trevor, " she said then, "tell me about Wilder. "

  Diane sat alone in her room, a lavender peignoir lavishly frilled with red bows barely hiding the fact that she wore nothing else. She was perched on the edge of her bed, one leg raised, her cheek against her knee while she worked a stiff-bristled brush over her toenails. She smiled. She liked red. It stood out vividly against the pale cast of her skin, and she knew that the men liked it, too. She giggled. Not that she cared much what any of them liked; they were all dirty and grubby and couldn't wait to get their filthy hands on her. The only thing about most of them that she liked was the color of their gold, the gleam of their silver. In a small double-locked chest under her bed was an iron-bound chest, and in it a stack of money that she knew the men would say could choke a horse. Any day now she was going to tell that old bag, Sophie, what she could do with her place, and the men, and she was going to take the next stage to any place at all. Any place where she could buy herself a first-class ticket on the fastest train to New York.

  She looked up dreamily. Now that, she thought, was a city to live in. Rich men dressed in oil-bought velvets, drenching their women in diamonds and rubies and emeralds and pearls. There was no question at all that New York was where she was meant to be at the last. And all that wealth . . . she sighed, examined her nails critically, and nearly screamed when someone knocked lightly at her window.

  "You," Trevor said, standing and stretching, "have a lot more things to worry about than an old fart like Ephraim Wilder. "

  She was leaning against the slender bole of a solitary gray birch, fastening her headband and smoothing down her hair. "What are you talking about?"

  He knelt in front of her, his eyes earnest. "Amanda, I confess that I did not race out here as soon as I came in on the train. I took my room at the hotel--the same as before, as a matter of fact-and listened to some gossip. "

  Her face clouded, and she looked away from his staring. "It's been . . . a little difficult. Some bad luck, that's all. "

  " I assume Carl is all right."

  She shrugged. "He does the best he can, but he's not the same. He jumps at shadows. "

  "And so would I , for crying out loud. H e should b e thankful, though, that he's still alive. "

  "He is. But still, it's hard. And with the cattle coming down . . . Well, he's not a young man anymore, and Alex tries as best he can, but the place is too large, and he still doesn't know as much as he thinks he does. "

  Trevor patted her knee in sympathy, and she smiled at him softly, held out a hand, and waited until he had hauled her to her feet. "You didn't walk all the way out here. "

  He laughed. "I left my horse back there. I wanted to surprise you . "

  She whistled sharply, and Wind trotted obediently to her. After gaining his back, she nodded for Trevor to walk ahead of her, knowing that the palomino would take no one on his back except her. And once they were both mounted and riding slowly back toward the main house, she eased Wind so that she rode just slightly behind him. There was something different about him this time that she could not put her finger on, something that had made their recent lovemaking a frightening shade less than perfect.

  Not that she thought it was serious enough for her to broach him. He would most likely laugh it off as her Indian imagination. And perhaps that was it, she thought as they crossed a narrow wooden bridge over a fast and swift stream. Perhaps it was his laugh that was different--or his smile.

  Or, she thought as she grinned to her
self, perhaps it was her Indian imagination.

  Absently she lay a hand against her stomach. She should have been overjoyed to see him, or at least feeling something of an afterglow from their lovemaking in the clearing. Yet, as hard as she tried to recapture the ecstasy she had experienced, it was as fleeting as the wind-here, and gone, before she knew what had happened.

  They rode up to the house from the front, and she was about to suggest that he stay for dinner when the front door was flung open and Hope stood there, waiting.

  God, now what? Amanda wondered and lightly touched Wind's flank with a heel. He jolted forward into a quick run, stopped himself at the steps, and turned sideways while Hope, with a raised eyebrow at Eagleton, hurried up to meet her.

  "Don't tell me," Amanda said wearily. "There's been a fire. A flood. A landslide. Do I get more choices?"

  Hope could not hold back a smile, her eyes catching the last of the sun and matching the glow of her cheeks. Her lips were trembling, and her hands scrubbed themselves dryly in front of her.

  "Doc Manley was just here," she said, her voice unnaturally high and sharp.

  Amanda quickly swung down from Wind's back, tossing the reins over the hitching post carelessly before bounding up the steps. "Alex?" she asked as she headed for the door. "What's happened to him?''

  "Nothing," Hope said. "Nothing at all."

  Amanda poked her head inside, spun around, and stared at Trevor, who had remained in his saddle.

  "Who, then?" Amanda demanded. "For God's sake, Hope, is--"

  "'Me."

  Amanda blinked as if she had been slapped. She ran her eyes swiftly over the young woman, searching for signs of injury, frowning deeply at the inane grin that kept her lips taut.

  "Amanda," Trevor said quietly.

  "Trevor, please!"

  "Amanda, if you'd just calm down a moment, I think your daughter-in-law has somehing to tell you."

  Hope's eyes darkened for just a moment-though it was long enough for Amanda to see it and be puzzled-before she shrugged and began scuffing a foot against the flooring. Amanda saw the nervous gesture, was reminded instantly of Alex and the night he had told his mother of his plans to marry Hope. So much alike, she thought with a sudden rush of indefinable love; so very much alike.

  "Alex," Hope said, staring at the house. "He wanted me to tell you . "

  "Fine, " she said, hands o n hips. "Tell m e . . . " Her eyes widened, and the sting of tears was felt and immediately ignored. "Doc Manley, " she said.

  Hope nodded. Her own eyes were brimming.

  "When?"

  "October. November. "

  They fell into each other's arms, weeping unashamedly their inarticulate joy.

  "I don't believe it," she whispered into the folds of flaxen hair.

  "You'd better, or Alex is going to be awfully disappointed. "

  TWENTY-THREE

  Euphoria lasted until well into June, and the only thing that kept Amanda from losing her temper at being called "grandma" was the expression of quiet pride that affected her son's features. He moved about the ranch as vigorously as always, yet somehow managed to be within constant earshot of his wife. He was, in fact, so much underfoot that both Amanda and Fae took to chasing him from the house simply out of principle, without bothering to ask him what his business was.

  And Amanda temporarily submerged her fear, and her equivocal feelings about Trevor, under a continuous flow of advice to her daughter-in-law. She knew she was hovering too much, knew she was dogging the poor girl like a sun-born shadow-but she could not help it. She knew what Hope was feeling, what sensations greeted her every waking day when she would cast aside the mask of sleep and realize anew that there was life, another life burgeoning in her worn b. They spoke of these things seldomly, but communication had achieved a more profound, often mystical level; and it occurred most often when Bess was in the same room with them, sending Amanda back to the months when she had carried her daughter and still managed to keep at her husband's side in the running of Four Aces.

  There was, too, no lack of consultations from the women of the town, often conflicting and often bordering on the comical. Factions demanding that Hope-as they had demanded of Amanda--confine herself for the term of the pregnancy clashed with those who believed that life did not stop simply because a miracle was in the process.

  "Listen, my dears, " said Eleanor Kurtz one afternoon in the middle of the month. ''I've raised four sons in this miserable little town, and not once did I hide behind Nate's coattails. I stood at that hotel desk ten hours a day just like I did when we were first married. And with the third one, Arnold-he's living in St. Paul, did you know that?-it was right in the middle of registering a guest that he decided he'd had enough and came into this world. Course, I don't recommend that for everyone, but you think about it, my dears. You think about it. "

  Emily Trowbridge, whose husband had been killed at the Chancellorville courthouse, caught them while they were waiting at the feed store for a supply of grain. "Now you wouldn't know it," she told them as though it were a secret no one in the world had been told before, "but I had a daughter once. Oh yes, I did, don't look at me that way. Right after Tim went off to join Grant, I found out I was carryin'. I listened to Eleanor, y'know, and worked with Daddy on that paper until I could barely stand on my own two feet. Came early, she did. Dead of winter. Couldn't do nothin' for her; she was gone by spring. You listen to me, child, and stay inside until that baby of yours is well into livin'. Mark my words, it don't do you no good traipsing around like this, like there was nothin' in there at all. "

  Doc Manley told her to watch her diet, stay away from lifting anything too heavy, and ride as little as she could. Other than that, he said, she was on her own.

  "The only babies I've ever lost," he told her, "were those whose mothers didn't have two brains to rub together to start an idea . "

  By the end o f the month Hope had decided that her sanity required her staying away from Coreville. Not that the decision prevented the women from visiting her on occasion, but at least she did not freely throw herself into their whirlwinds of sage and folklore advice.

  And by that time Amanda had been forced to face the fact that the young woman was indeed an adult, that she could handle herself with tact when it was needed, and with a biting tongue when biddies like Eleanor took one step too far. In doing so, however, she was able to see her own role in Hope's growth and the unconscious meddling she herself was performing. It sobered her greatly, and for several days filled her with a regret that bordered on emotional flagellation. They did not need her, she told herself when she lay down in her bed; they were a unit complete unto themselves, and they did not need her.

  She sulked. She moped. She snapped at the slightest hint of reproof or contradiction, and it wasn't until Sam quarreled with her that she understood what had happened.

  She had been out at the rocks called the Devil's Breath, overseeing the preparations for a new shaft for the mine. When she returned at twilight, the Sioux was waiting for her at the corral, a brush of straw in his hand and a scowl on his face. She slid off Wind's back, curious, then shocked when he took the bridle roughly from her hands and slapped the palomino into his stall.

  "Sam!"

  He ignored her. Taking a lantern from its shelf on the wall, he held it over the stall's gate and stared at her until she looked in at the horse. Perspiration ran down its sides, and there were flecks of foam along the heaving muscles.

  "You ride him to death," he said.

  "That's not true!" But she felt a crawling flush of guilt working its way to her neck from her chest.

  "You ride every day. You come back late, it is cool, this beast is hot. You leave him . " He turned to look at her for the first time. Pits of shadow had replaced his eyes. "You feel sorry inside. You do not think. "

  "I--" She quieted and looked away. As she made her way outside, she heard the quiet swish of the straw over Wind's back, the silent murmurings of the Sioux's
voice as he spoke to the animal. She knew what he was saying; he was asking Wind to forgive her, for she had temporarily lost her mind. And when she looked up at the clear purpling sky, she felt as though she were no taller than a grasshopper, a mite, a speck of dust clinging to a root.

  There was nothing she could say to anyone, no words that would adequately frame the apology she felt was needed, but she decided before she had reached the house that deeds were the only things that would make clear how she felt.

  From that moment on, then, she returned to her role as the ranch's mistress, losing herself in the daily operation, joking with Hope and teasing Alex until one afternoon he told her that he was beginning to wish she would act like a cantankerous old woman again.