He had been wrong, he told himself, wrong about Faith and about Andrew and about everything. She was here in his arms and they were moving toward the bed on the far side of the room and the logs in the fireplace crackled, and this moment was all that was real, all that mattered.
Chapter 2
Things were better for a while after that. Davis stayed close to home for a couple of weeks, and Andrew came around only occasionally; when he did show up, he stayed a short time and then left.
Davis might have thought that all his suspicions were unfounded if he had not noticed the way Faith tried to watch Andrew ride off each time without being obvious about it. He saw the way her eyes moved to one side and followed the dwindling figure on horseback.
He tried to tell himself that it was only his imagination, but he knew it wasn't. The longing was still there in Faith's eyes.
If that was all it was, he could live with it. Whenever Andrew wasn't around, Faith was pleasant to him, smiling and laughing, good with the children. Anyone watching her would have thought she was happy. Anyone except Davis, and he knew better.
But life slipped back into its familiar patterns after that momentary lurch, and like the rolling of a wagon over a smooth road, it lulled Davis into a sense that things were going to be all right after all.
January turned to February, and with the new month came snow that moved in over High Knob and the Shenandoah Mountains to the west. The first storm merely dusted the fields with a spotty layer of white, but the second, following close on its heels, brought half a foot of heavy wet flakes.
This was the time of year for folks to stay inside and sit by the fire, and that was what Davis did. Mary, Laurel, and Theodore rapidly grew bored, and Faith's eyes took on a restless sheen, too.
Davis didn't seem to mind being cooped up in the cabin . . . but that was a pose. Inside, he seethed with the need for spring to arrive. He wanted to smell damp, freshly turned earth and feel it cling to his fingers as he pressed seeds into the ground, working itself into the lines of his flesh so that it left behind dark trails when he brushed his hands off.
That time was still weeks away, however, and all he could do until then was to make the best of the situation.
He might have made it to the spring, and everything might have been all right, if Jonas Kirby hadn't ridden up one afternoon, his horse leaving deep hoofprints in the snow. Davis didn't know Kirby was anywhere around until the man let out a yell.
"Hello, the cabin! Are you to home, Hallam?"
Davis was sitting at the table, smoking. He lifted his head and then stood up. Faith was molding johnnycake dough onto the shovel that would be placed in the fireplace so the dough could bake. The children were on the other side of the room playing some sort of game; Davis hadn't been paying enough attention to know exactly what it was. He walked to the door. The windows were shuttered for the winter and too much trouble to open just to see who was there. Besides, he thought he recognized the voice.
"Hello, Kirby," Davis said as he stepped out and closed the door behind him. He had not put on his coat and the temperature was still below freezing, but the thick homespun shirt he wore would keep him warm enough for a few minutes. The wind had laid down earlier in the day and no longer cut through anyone foolish enough to venture out into it.
"'Spose you're wonderin' what brings me here?"
Davis shrugged. He and Jonas Kirby were not friends, not by any stretch of the imagination. Davis couldn't have said what caused the friction between them, because nothing had ever happened to make them enemies. It was more a matter of nature, like the color of a man's eyes or the shape of his ears. Kirby was the same way. But the two men tolerated each other because they were neighbors and neighbors had to get along.
"There's trouble down at Bristow's place," Kirby said. "He's hurt his leg again."
Davis shook his head. "That's a damned shame. What happened?"
"I'm not sure myself," Kirby said. "Mordecai Duncan stopped by my place and told me about it. Thought I'd ride down there and see what Bristow needs. Want to ride with me?"
Davis hesitated, surprised by the invitation. More than likely, Kirby didn't want to go alone because a horse could slip and break a leg on the icy lane. It was better to travel in pairs during weather like this.
Davis cast a glance at the sky; there were patches of blue between the grayish-white clouds, but the sunlight was weak and watery and held no warmth. Kirby was right. It was no day for a man to be out alone.
"I’ll get my coat and saddle my horse," Davis said. "Get down and come inside where it's warm. My wife has some tea."
"Much obliged."
Davis turned and opened the door. "Here's Jonas Kirby," he told Faith. "We're going down to Bristow's place. Bristow's hurt himself again. I told Jonas he could have some tea."
"Of course." Faith reached for a cup, then smiled at Kirby as the man clomped through the doorway past Davis. "Hello, Mr. Kirby."
Without closing the door, Davis picked up his hat and coat, then carried them outside to put them on. Mary closed the door behind him. He went to the barn, saddled the roan, and led the horse around to the front of the cabin.
By that time, Kirby was stepping outside again. He was a lantern-jawed man whose gray hair and chin whiskers made him look older than he really was. He climbed onto his own horse again as Davis swung up onto the roan.
For the most part, they were silent as they rode south along the lane toward William Bristow's farm. The hooves of the horses made soft thudding sounds against the frozen, snow-covered ground.
The mountains of the Blue Ridge were mantled with white in the distance, and Davis thought they were pretty. The same was true of the Shenandoah to the west.
The river wasn't frozen, but it was more sluggish than usual. In a couple of months, Davis thought, once the spring thaw hit, the river would flow fast and muddy from all the snow that melted and ran off. Every creek, every tiny rivulet, would be full and the whispery, chuckling sound of water flowing over mud and rock could be heard night and day. Green buds would begin to appear on the trees, delicate swellings that would soon burst into life. Shoots of fresh grass would appear in the meadows. It was one of Davis's favorite times of year.
They reached Bristow's farm and Davis called out to let the inhabitants of the cabin know someone was coming. There hadn't been any Indian trouble around this part of Virginia for quite a few years, but no one with any sense rode up to a man's cabin without announcing himself. Bristow's wife came out of the door with a rifle cradled in her arms. She was a tall, angular woman, her face hardened by work and child-bearing. Her features eased slightly as she recognized the visitors.
Davis reined in and nodded politely to her. "Howdy, ma'am. Hear Bristow's laid up again."
"He decided he had to get out and chop some ice," Mrs. Bristow said, her voice disapproving. "Slipped and twisted his bad leg, he did. Now he can't get around at all."
Kirby swung down from his saddle. "If you need some ice, Hallam and me will chop it for you."
"And anything else you need done," Davis added as he dismounted.
"That's mighty kind of you. We don't like other folks havin' to do for us."
Davis said, "That's what neighbors are for, to help out when we need it."
Pride and gratitude warred for a moment on the woman's lined face, then she nodded. "We'd be much obliged for anything you'd care to do."
Davis and Kirby spent the next couple of hours doing chores around the Bristow farm, aided by the three children who were big enough to help out. When they were through, they went inside and talked to Bristow, who was sheepish over his new injury and apologetic about taking the two men away from their own work. Davis assured him it hadn't been any bother. Mrs. Bristow fed them tea and biscuits before they started back.
Davis experienced an odd feeling of camaraderie as he rode toward his own farm with Jonas Kirby. They didn't say much, but Davis thought Kirby felt the same thing. They reached the Hall
am farm first, and Kirby started on down the lane toward his home with a friendly wave.
The cabin was still over a hundred yards away. Davis started toward it, then reined in sharply. Like birds searching for seeds, his three children were scurrying around the snow-covered pasture, leaving trails behind them in the white blanket. He could hear their laughter.
Nothing wrong with children going out to play in the snow, Davis told himself. It didn't have to mean a damned thing except that Mary, Laurel, and Theodore had grown so bored that they couldn't stay inside the cabin any longer. The fact that they were outside didn't really matter, as long as they were bundled up well.
The horse tied up at the cabin—that was what mattered.
It was Andrew Paxton's horse.
Davis's pulse was like a mallet striking his skull in a deadly rhythm. The cold air filled his throat, choking him. Andrew must have been watching the place. As soon as he had ridden away with Jonas Kirby, Andrew had come running. That was the way it must have been.
His stomach clenched, sending waves of sickness through him. What had been clean, crisp air only seconds earlier was now sour, filled with a stench that disgusted him. Bile rose in his throat. He had been betrayed, and it was the worst feeling of his life.
He couldn't let them get away with it.
His movements jerky, Davis slid down from the saddle and grasped the horse's reins. He started leading it across the pasture toward the cabin. The children saw him and started running toward him, but he waved them back and motioned for them to be quiet.
Snow crunched underneath his boots as he walked. He had started breathing again without really being aware of it, and small clouds of steam hung in the frigid air in front of his face. He moved through them, feeling the condensation from his own breath wrap around his head. It smelled bad to him, too, as if there was something rotten inside him.
He had no idea what he was going to do once he got to the cabin, but he knew he had to do something.
He was aware of the knife in its sheath pressing against his hip. Faith might not be so interested in Andrew if his features were carved into something that resembled a statue hacked out of wood, much like Davis's.
It was just a thought, but Davis's pulse quickened even more as it went through his head.
Maybe he was wrong and he would find them sitting at the table and drinking tea, nothing more. If that was the case, he would look foolish bursting in on them, his face dark with fury and a knife clutched in his hand. His fingers wanted to wrap themselves around the hilt of the blade, but he held them back.
He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. Once again he told himself that maybe he was wrong about them . . .
But as he let go of the horse's reins and strode quickly over the last few yards and reached for the latch on the door, he knew he had been right all along.
They must have heard his footsteps, must have known he was coming. There had been time enough for Faith to sit up in the bunk and for Andrew to leap out and reach for his breeches. But then Davis threw open the door and saw them there, Faith clutching the quilt around her, Andrew groping for his clothes. Faith's blond curls were disarrayed and her mouth had a bruised look.
"Wait a minute, Davis!" Andrew said desperately. "You don't understand!"
He might have lived if he had kept his damned mouth shut, Davis thought. But at the sound of Andrew's voice, all of Davis's rage welled up his throat and out of his body in a horrible roar as he lunged at Andrew.
Davis's fist crashed into his half-brother's jaw, knocking Andrew back away from the chair. Andrew caught his balance before he could fall to the floor.
Davis went after him, arms swinging wildly as he threw punch after punch. Most of the blows didn't connect. Andrew was faster than he was. Stepping close to Davis, Andrew hit him twice in the belly. Davis grabbed his shoulders, swung him around, and gave him a hard shove. The push sent Andrew staggering next to the chair where his clothes lay.
Davis reached underneath his coat and pulled his knife from its sheath.
Faith came up out of the bed with a flicker of pale flesh, a scream ripping from her throat. "No, Davis!" she cried. At the same instant, Andrew plucked a small pistol from underneath his clothes. He twisted at the waist, turning toward Davis and bringing up the weapon.
His thumb found the hammer and drew it back as the gun rose. His finger was already tightening on the trigger. Davis saw it all in shattered little instants of time. He saw Faith throw herself between him and Andrew, felt her hand against his chest pushing him back with a strength he would not have guessed she possessed.
And then she was turning toward Andrew, her mouth opening to say something, but the words never came because the pistol cracked spitefully and Faith's head jerked back and blood bubbled from her throat where the lead ball had torn the soft flesh. She stumbled backward toward Davis and he dropped the knife to try to catch her. Her nude form filled his arms and sagged lifelessly against him. His eyes widened in horror as his rough palms pressed against her breasts and he felt the warm crimson flow of her blood washing over them.
Andrew dropped the smoking pistol and sprang forward. He clubbed his hands together and swung them as hard as he could at Davis, who was still holding his wife's body and had no chance to ward off the attack.
Andrew's fists smashed into the side of Davis's head and drove him against the wall. Faith slipped out of his grip to fall onto the puncheon floor, landing in a pool of her own blood. Before Davis could recover, Andrew hit him again, then kicked him in the groin. Agony flooded through Davis and he folded up, pitching forward to land beside his wife. Andrew kicked him again in the head, just for good measure.
Through the red haze that settled down over Davis's eyes, he saw Andrew frenziedly pulling on his clothes. Then, faintly, as if from a great distance, he heard his half-brother shouting, "Oh, God, Davis, what have you done?"
There were cries from outside the cabin. The children! Davis thought with the tiny portion of his brain that was still working. The children couldn't see this.
But then Andrew threw the door open and said, "Stay back! Oh, Lord, don't look!", but of course they did and Mary and Laurel began to scream and Theodore cried, "Mama!", and Andrew pushed them out of the doorway saying, "He went mad, your father went mad! He killed her and he tried to kill me!"
Davis tried to push himself up off the floor, tried to call out to his children and tell them that Andrew was lying, but the red haze filled his head now like blood-stained cotton and pain radiated out from his midsection to engulf his body.
Faith was lying right there beside him, her face pale and lifeless, her eyes glazed in death, the pale pink tip of her tongue protruding just a little between her open lips.
His fingers moved a little, inched toward her face. But just as he reached her and his fingertips brushed against her waxy cheek, darkness claimed him and carried him away and the last thing he was aware of were the screams and cries of his children.
Chapter 3
Something hard was underneath Davis's head. That was the first thing he was aware of as consciousness began to seep back into his head like melting snow. Whatever he was lying on prodded painfully against his skull. He groaned and tried to sit up but found that his muscles lacked the strength.
"You're awake, are you? Good." The unfamiliar voice held a savage pleasure. Davis was not able to sit up, but he could roll toward the voice. Doing so, he discovered, took some of the pressure off the back of his head. He was able to pry his eyes open, but the effort required so much struggle that beads of sweat popped out on his face and slid slickly across his skin.
A grim-featured man with iron-gray hair pulled back tightly from his forehead was leaning over Davis and peering intently at him. Hatred was in the man's eyes. Davis had never seen him before.
Davis's tongue was like a piece of firewood in his mouth. His throat burned and was dry. He wondered if he had vomited. That was what it felt like. He said, "Wh-where . . .
who . . .?"
"I'm Constable Peter Abernathy, if that's what you're asking. And you're in my jail at Elkton."
Elkton. It was a settlement down the valley from his farm, Davis recalled. He and Faith and the children went there occasionally to pick up what few supplies had to be bought. The farm was, by and large, self-sufficient, and that was the way Davis liked it. For the life of him, he could not figure out why he would be waking up in Elkton's jail.
Faith.
The memory struck Davis like a sudden, unexpected blow. Everything that had happened in his cabin came flooding back into his brain, sweeping away the pain before it. An aching head was nothing compared to the misery that wrenched at his guts. He curled up against it, vaguely realizing that he was lying on a bunk next to a stone wall. Weak light came through a barred window over his head.
"I'd be sick, too," Abernathy said as he straightened.
"Did . . . did you find him?"
"Who?"
"My brother . .. Andrew Paxton." Davis could barely force the name past his lips. It wanted to cling there like something foul and sticky.
Abernathy snorted. "Didn't have to find him. He found me. Came a-riding in here and said that you'd gone mad and killed your wife."
"No!" Davis cried. "It was him—"
"That's what he told me you'd say." Abernathy shook his head. His eyes were like stones from the bottom of a stream that had been polished to a high, dead gloss. "Said you came busting into your own cabin shouting like a madman. You beat him, then you ripped her clothes off and shot her even though Paxton tried to stop you. He was too late for that, but he managed to knock you out and tied you up so he could get your poor children away from there and fetch me. That how it all happened, Hallam?"
The Wilderness Road Page 2