Love's Tender Fury

by Jennifer Wilde

  “How could you do it to me?” His voice was calmer now, hard, laced with icy rage. “You knew I had to sell him. You knew how important that money was to me. Goddammit, Marietta, you knew.”

  “I had to,” I said quietly.

  “You’ve ruined me. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Derek—”

  “You’ve ruined me!”

  The man moved slowly across the yard, his hair burnished with sunlight, the fringe on his jacket swaying as he tugged the reins, forcing the mules to follow. His dark-brown eyes were amiable. He wore a merry grin. One of the mules balked. He sighed and heaved on the reins, causing the offending mule to bray loudly. Derek turned around, aware of Rawlins for the first time.

  “Afternoon, folks,” Rawlins called. “Thought I’d stop by and see if I could do a little tradin’.”

  He let go of the reins and sauntered toward us. His expression altered as he saw my tears, saw the look on Derek’s face. He stopped, a tiny frown creasing his brow.

  “I say, it … uh … it looks like I came at the wrong time,” he apologized. “I reckon I … reckon I’d better came back later.”

  “You couldn’t have come at a better time,” Derek said. His voice was steely.

  “Derek,” I whispered. “Derek, no—no, you can’t—”

  “You still interested in buying her?” Derek asked.

  Rawlins looked dumbfounded. “Hey, you’re not serious?”

  “Dead serious! I paid twenty-one hundred pounds for her,” Derek informed him. “Do you have that much on you?”

  “Afraid not, Hawke. Tradin’s been a mite slow. Eighteen hundred’s all I got to my name. I got it in one of the packs.”

  “Very well, I’ll sell her for eighteen hundred.”

  Rawlins shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. He looked at Hawke. He looked at me. And then he grinned.

  “You got yourself a deal,” he said.

  PART TWO: The Trace

  XII

  The trail was rough and rugged with trees pressing close on either side, their trunks gnarled and choked with underbrush, leaves brown and green. The mules plodded along patiently. I rode one, Jeff Rawlins rode another, and he led a third laden with packs behind him. He was fairly casual about the Indians, but I half expected a band of bloodthirsty savages to fall upon us at any moment. I would almost have welcomed it. Almost two weeks had passed, and still I was in a state of shock, trance-like, totally without spirit.

  We had been traveling hard every day, all day long, frequently into the night. It had been exhausting, but I never once complained. Nothing mattered any longer. I simply didn’t care. I obeyed Rawlins passively, rarely speaking. From the first he had treated me with the utmost respect, handling me as though I were some precious cargo. He made camp at night. He took his rifle and shot game and cooked it over an open fire. He ordered me to eat. He chatted pleasantly, and my lack of response didn’t seem to bother him at all.

  He had made no attempt to sleep with me. He seemed to respect my grief, and he tolerated my lethargy and lack of spirit with remarkable patience. I wasn’t a very pleasant companion, but Rawlins paid no mind. Still good-humored, he kept up his merry chatter, apparently enjoying himself immensely. Under other circumstances I would have found him delightful, for he was undeniably engaging, a hearty rogue with his fringed buckskins, boyish grin, and lively brown eyes.

  “We should be reaching Crawley’s Inn before night,” he informed me. “It’s gonna be nice to sleep in a real bed. This roughin’ it, sleepin’ in blankets on the ground—it ain’t been much of a treat to you, I’m sure.”

  I did not reply. Undaunted, Rawlins continued in the same cheery vein.

  “You’ll be able to have a bath, too. Reckon you’ll welcome that. And a home-cooked meal. That’ll be a relief after all this wild game. Crawley’s Inn is the last bit of civilization we’ll see for a long time. This is Daniel Boone country.”

  “Daniel Boone?”

  “Ol’ Dan started explorin’ these parts ’bout ten years ago. This land used to belong to the French, but they ceded it to the British back in ’63. Reckon the British’ll lose it ’fore too long—likely to lose everything the way things are shapin’ up back east. Tennessee’s a wilderness now, but William Bean built him a cabin on the Watauga River just a year ago. I figure there’ll be a regular settlement soon. Them folks up east don’t like all them rules and restrictions and taxes the British impose. They keep pushin’ on to get away from ’em.”

  I paid little attention to what he was saying. I kept remembering that terrible day and Derek’s anger, a nightmare I lived over and over again in memory. Rawlins had given him the money, and Derek had handed over the Articles of Indenture, and I had been numb with grief and shock ever since. I could barely remember packing my few clothes up.

  We were on the Natchez Trace now, and in a few weeks we would be in New Orleans and Rawlins would sell me to one of the brothels for a huge profit, and I simply couldn’t care. Life was over. Life without Derek was unthinkable. This deadening numbness had held on for days, and even my grief was something distant and removed, an emotion I observed objectively, as though someone else were feeling it. I wondered if I would ever be able to feel again.

  “It’s sometimes called the Chickasaw Trace,” Rawlins was saying. “We pass through Chickasaw country—I told yuh that before—and then as we get furtha south we enter the land of the Choctaws. The Indians mostly leave us alone, but I’ve had a couple scrapes. Almost lost my scalp one time, year or so ago. Some of the younger braves resent us passin’ through their land. They can be pretty vicious when they get riled up.”

  The mule I was riding stumbled, throwing me forward. I clung to the reins, regaining my balance. A small animal streaked across the road. The birds sang lustily. Leaves rustled. I could hear water in the distance. The sky was a pale blue-gray, the sun a blazing silver ball pouring down heat. I was still wearing the red dress. I hadn’t bothered to change. It was deplorably soiled now, the hem ragged, and my hair was a wild auburn tangle. I felt certain my face must be streaked with dirt, but I was beyond caring.

  “Not the Indians, but the robbers,” Rawlins continued. “The Trace is a solid nest of ’em, cutthroats ready to rob and plunder at the drop of a hat. Soon slit a man’s throat as look at him, that lot. Many a man’s left Natchez and started for Nashville and was never heard of again. It’s a real problem, but don’t worry—I’ll protect you. They have better sense than to fool with ol’ Rawlins, know I’m even more onery than they are. I’ve been travelin’ the Trace for quite a spell, and those boys know me by sight, know they’d better steer clear.”

  After a while he suggested we stop for a few minutes. Dutifully, I dismounted. Rawlins stretched and rubbed his backside, grinning. The mules stood in the shade of a tree, placid. A squirrel chattered at us from the branch of a tree, and a beautiful red cardinal swept through the air like a crimson arrow. Deep forest surrounded us, the narrow trail hewn out of the wilderness, already beaten flat and rutted with hundreds of hooves and wagon wheels.

  “The men who floated their flatboats down the Mississippi, they had to get back upstream by land,” Rawlins said. “That’s how the Trace got started in the first place. It’s become a regular thoroughfare—everyone uses it now. Ordinarily there’s lots uv traffic—pioneers, settlers, traders, dandies, ladies of fashion—anyone who needs to get cross country. This time a year there ain’t so many people usin’ it, but I reckon we’ll run into some interestin’ types ’fore we get to Natchez.”

  I brushed a twig from my skirt, paying little attention to his talk.

  “I meant what I said back there. You’re gonna have to snap out of it. I know you ain’t exactly happy ’bout the turn of events, but you can’t just shut yourself out forever. I know how you feel, but—”

  “You’ve no idea how I feel,” I said coldly.

  “Reckon I do, wench. I’m not the brightest chap on earth, but I know you fan
cied yourself in love with Hawke. A man like that—he ain’t capable of appreciatin’ you. Me now, I—”

  “I don’t care to discuss it, Mr. Rawlins.”

  “I’ve been pretty damned patient—I’m a patient chap, have the disposition of a saint—but it’s been two weeks now. You’re gonna have to get over it. You’ve been draggin’ your tail like a dejected pup. Truth to tell, I’m gettin’ pretty fed up.”

  “I’m sorry if you feel you wasted your money.”

  “Oh, I don’t feel that. You were worth every penny. Once you get some of your spirit back, I reckon you’re gonna be a handful. I’m lookin’ forward to some rousin’ fights.”

  “I don’t care what happens to me.”

  “You say that now, but you’ll feel different about it ’fore long. We get over things, you see. Takes a while, but we get over ’em every time. I reckon you’ll feel better after we get to the inn and you have yourself a bath and a good meal.”

  When I did not reply, Rawlins merely shrugged, grinning that wide, boyish grin that was so disarming. I wished I could resent him, wished I could dislike him, even, but I felt nothing. He was simply someone who was there, a part of the dreamlike world that existed outside my numbness. The heat, the exhaustion, the discomfort of riding all day on a mule, the tough, too-tangy meat he cooked and ordered me to eat—none of it was quite real, none of it aroused any response.

  “Well, I can see you’re not a-mind to be friendly yet,” he remarked. “I guess we’d better push on.”

  We rode again, the mules plodding along, occasionally balking, braying now and then. The road was rough, the hard-packed earth uneven, twisting through the forest persistently. The sun began to sink, splashing the sky with scarlet and gold, and the trees cast long shadows over the ground. There was a smoky haze in the air now, soft violet-gray, thickening as night drew closer. Rawlins was silent, riding a little ahead of me, the fringe on his jacket swaying, the fading rays of sunlight burnishing his sandy hair. I was miserably tired, yet I would have ridden all night long without protesting.

  The last rays of sunlight vanished. The sky was purple-gray, not yet black, the haze thick now, like fog. The trees pressing so close were dark, tall black sentinels, and the forest noises seemed magnified. A wild creature called out hoarsely. The woods filled with rustling, crackling noises as the shadows multiplied, night almost upon us. Up ahead I saw a large clearing, and I could barely make out a stockade of sturdy logs with pointed tops. Threads of yellow light spilled out through the chinks.

  “There she is!” Rawlins exclaimed. “I was beginnin’ to fear we weren’t gonna make it.”

  We rode up to the front of the stockade and dismounted. Rawlins called out and pounded on the huge solid oak door. After a moment there came a sound of footsteps, and then a tiny window set in the door flew back and a pair of eyes peered out at us.

  “That you, Eb? It’s me, Rawlins! Open up, fellow. Let us in. We’re dead tired, and starvin’ to boot, longin’ for some o’ Maria’s cookin’. What you waitin’ for?”

  “Rawlins?” a husky voice growled.

  “Course it’s me! Can’t you see? Goddammit, open up!”

  There was the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back, and then the enormous door opened. Rawlins stepped inside, leading his two mules, and I followed, tugging at the reins of my own mule. As soon as we were inside, the man who had admitted us closed the great door and slid the bolt back in place. He was gigantic, dressed in buckskin trousers and a coarse white shirt, his face ruddy, his dark eyes grim, his thick red hair decidedly unruly.

  “What’s all this about?” Rawlins said irritably. “You think we was goin’ to rob the place?”

  “There’s been talk of Indian trouble,” the man retorted. “Me and Maria, we learned a long time ago not to take no chances.”

  “Hell, man, there’s always talk o’ Indian trouble. Never known you to act so scared, Eb.”

  “Get whatever things you want outta the packs, Rawlins, and I’ll take the mules on into the stable. You plannin’ on stayin’ long?”

  “We’ll be leavin’ in the mornin’,” Rawlins replied, removing one of the packs from his mule. “You gotta room?”

  “The best,” Crawley replied. “You-all go on in, tell Maria I said you was to have the suite. I’ll just see to these animals.”

  The red-haired giant led the mules away toward the stables to one side of the inn, and Rawlins shook his head. Evidently such security wasn’t ordinarily taken. I glanced around at the tall log walls that completely surrounded inn and yard and stables. There was a walkway built along near the top, ladders leading up to it at intervals, and I saw long, narrow slits where a man could fire his rifle without being exposed to marauders. The stockade was built along the lines of the old fortified castles in England, rough logs taking the place of heavy stone. Warm yellow light spilled out of the windows of the inn, making soft pools on the ground, and chickens clucked and scratched about the yard, looking like tiny white ghosts in the semidarkness. Horses neighed in the stables.

  “Right homey, ain’t it?” Rawlins remarked. “Eb and Maria run the best inn on the whole Trace—best food, best beds, best everything. They’re some of my favorite people.”

  “Jeffrey!”

  It was more a bellow than a shout, and I was startled to see a woman in white blouse and vivid red skirt come tearing out of the inn, her heavy black braid flying behind her. Rawlins grinned and held his arms wide. The woman threw herself at him, and he gave her a bear hug that by rights should have cracked her ribs. Maria Crawley was almost as large as her husband, as tall as Rawlins and twice as stout. Her black eyes snapped and sparkled as she stepped back to look at him.

  “You look just the same!” she exclaimed.

  “Hell, Maria, it ain’t been more’n a couple months since you saw me last.”

  “I miss you,” she pouted. “Every day seems an eternity.”

  “You still got a yen for me? I swear, we’re gonna have to do something ’bout that one of these days. If we could just get rid of Eb—”

  “Honey, if I thought you was serious I’d poison him tomorrow. There ain’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do to get a buck like you in my bed.” The woman grinned, and Rawlins reached up to pinch her cheek. She slapped his hand, as playful as a girl.

  “Stop your nonsense now,” she scolded. “Hell, a rascal like you wouldn’t know what to do with this much woman on your hands. Who’s this you brung with you?”

  “This is Marietta—Marietta Danver.”

  “I hate her,” Maria said. “Any woman looks like that, I hate her on principle. Dress torn, face dirty, hair all tangled, and she still looks like a dream. Hi, honey. I’m Maria Crawley.”

  “How do you do?” I said stiffly.

  Maria lifted her brows, startled by both words and accent. She gave Rawlins a questioning glance, and he merely grinned. The woman looked at me again, studying me closely, obviously mystified, and then her innate good manners took over. Smiling, she took my hand, leading me toward the porch.

  “Come along, honey. You look all tuckered out. A good hot bath’s what you need, that and a decent meal. I figure Jeffrey here’s been feedin’ you wild game and parched corn for days now.”

  “You got somethin’ good on the stove?” Rawlins asked, following us inside.

  “Honey, I always have something good on the stove. Would you believe I baked apple pies this afternoon? Just hopin’ you’d drop in. We’re almost full up tonight—a dozen people stayin’ with us. The suite’s still available, though.”

  “The suite’s always available. Ain’t no one but me fool enough to pay the price you’re askin’ for it. Bloody robbery, that’s what it is.”

  “Lita!” Maria yelled. “Take a tub up to the suite and then fetch plenty of hot water. Mr. Rawlins is here! Christ, Jeff, it’s good to see you. I reckon Eb told you about the Indian trouble?”

  Rawlins nodded. “Place was locked up tighter’n a tick. He stared out at me
for a good ten minutes ’fore he’d let us in.”

  “I hear it’s serious this time, Jeff. A lot of the men stayin’ here have decided not to go on. I understand a party was massacred just two weeks ago. A family it was, travelin’ in a covered wagon. Steve Benson found ’em. They was scalped, every last one of ’em, and the wagon was still smokin’.”

  “Aw, hell, Maria, I’m onto your tricks. You’re just tryin’ to scare us, hopin’ I’ll stick around a while ’cause you lust after my body. You don’t fool me a minute. You take Marietta on up to the suite, why don’t ya. I think I’ll just pop into the taproom for a while, see if Eb’s home brew is still as potent.”

  He sauntered on down the large foyer and pushed open a door. Maria shook her head and smiled, then motioned for me to follow her up the narrow, enclosed staircase. The inn was quite large, and it smelled of wax and polish and ale. As we moved down the upstairs hall I noticed how neat and clean everything was, perhaps to compensate for the general roughhewn appearance. Maria opened one of the doors and led me into a small sitting room with hardwood floor and whitewashed walls. An open door led into the bedroom adjoining.

  “It ain’t much,” she said, “but it’s the best we’ve got. Most of the rooms ain’t nothin’ but cubicles. Hope you’ll be comfortable, honey.”

  “I’m sure I will be.”

  Maria lingered, clearly reluctant to leave. She was the largest woman I had ever seen, and although she had to be nearly fifty, I could see that she must once have been quite pretty. That plump, ravaged face still bore signs of youthful good looks—the mouth small and cherry red, the dark eyes full of warmth, reflecting her amiable nature.

  “You ain’t like the others,” she said. “I spotted that immediately, even before you spoke. Them others he’s brung through—sometimes two or three at a time—they was tough-lookin’, brassy. You’re not like that at all.”