by Susan Wiggs
"Well, well," Hance drawled, approaching slowly, julep in hand. "It's the little squaw from Nellie's." His eyes flicked indolently over Mariah.
"Nellie's?" Genevieve whispered.
Hance grinned. "Don't suppose my little brother told you that, did he? She works for Nell Wingfield. Were it not for the ladies present, I'd elaborate…"
Roarke's voice grew thunderous. "You would bring an Injun whore into this family?"
Luke's fist was a blur as it sped through the air, connecting with his father's jaw. Roarke stumbled back less stunned by the blow than by the fact that his son had just struck him. Genevieve's hand flew to her mouth.
At the same moment, Ivy entered the room, her arm linked with Rebecca's. Ivy stopped, sensing immediately that something was amiss. Rebecca's gaze moved about the room, to the music ensemble that had finally fallen silent, then to her father and brother, both of whom were red-faced and breathing fast and sharp.
And then she saw Mariah. Her eyes fastened on the sunburst pattern on the buckskin dress, on the greased braids, the worn moccasins.
Her screams tore through the air, making even the staunchest of guests shiver with the piercing terror of it. Rebecca screamed ceaselessly, in hysterical panic, clutching her arms around her waist and backing away from Mariah until her back was against the hand-painted wallpaper.
Although Rebecca's screams were incoherent, it was clear her lapse into hysteria sprang from the sight of Mariah—her hair braided, her features so frankly Indian, the bold beaded designs on her dress. Every feature was a reminder of the savagery Black Bear had dealt Rebecca.
While Genevieve rushed over to calm her daughter, Roarke leveled a murderous gaze at Luke.
"Get her out of here," he growled.
But by the time Luke turned to Mariah, she was gone.
Sunlight streamed into the brown and yellow bedroom of the neat clapboard farmhouse, laying golden illumination over the profusion of wicker baskets that Hannah Redwine kept for gathering. Luke moved restlessly about the room, cursing softly when his knee cracked against one of the porcelain knobs of the highboy. He raised a whiskey bottle to his lips, only to find that he'd emptied it hours ago.
Hannah stirred and propped herself up on one elbow, brushing aside her blond hair. She looked pretty in the morning Luke thought. The lines of care etched on her features were soft now, giving her face an endearing quality, especially when she was smiling.
She wasn't smiling now. Her brow was furrowed in concern.
"Something's wrong."
He lifted the corner of his mouth in the ghost of a smile. "I figured you'd notice."
She drew her knees up and hugged them to her chest. Her eyes were soft, but he knew she was looking at him keenly, studying his every move.
"You were gone so long. I'd just about let go of you, Luke, thinking you'd found someone else."
Luke said nothing. He didn't know anymore. He just didn't know.
"We've been together a long time," Hannah continued, her voice strangely tight. "And it's been good." She drew in a long, shuddering breath. "But I've decided it's not enough for me, Luke. After all is said and done, it's not enough. I need more than just a few hours of closeness whenever the mood strikes you. I need you here, Luke, by my side. All the time."
His mouth went dry. This was not what he'd come to hear. Hannah's words weren't spoken as a strident demand, which he would have found easy to reject. Instead, she spoke softly, a compelling plea.
"What do you want from me, Hannah?" he whispered hoarsely, gripping the door frame and edging unconsciously toward it.
Hannah saw the slight withdrawing movement, the weary ambivalence in his face. And she understood. Her eyes filled with tears.
"Never mind, Luke," she said thickly. "I guess I was afraid to find out until now."
She was brave. So brave she wouldn't allow her tears to fall while he was there. Luke swallowed hard.
"Hannah, I—"
She waved her hand. "Don't worry, Luke. And stop looking so damned guilty. I'll be fine."
"Will you, Hannah?"
Her head descended in a slow nod. "Yes, Luke. I knew this day would come; I knew it from the start." She straightened her shoulders and faced him squarely. "I'm going to marry Zach Houseman. We'll be moving back east."
He looked at her in surprise. "Houseman? He's an old man, Hannah."
A smile twitched about her lips. "Anybody's old compared to you, Luke. Zach is a good man, a decent man. I've never been one to care much about money, but I know I'll appreciate his wealth in my old age."
There was something so melancholy about her whole plan that Luke felt guilty.
"Don't look that way, Luke." She rose and crossed the room, taking a leather portfolio from her letter box.
"Here are the titles to this farm," she said, thrusting the packet into Luke's hands. "I want you to have it."
"Hannah, no. I won't take your farm."
"You've never taken a thing from me, Luke," she said sadly. "At least let me give you this. I know you've always admired the land. With your knowledge of farming, you could make it into something special one day. Indulge me, Luke. Please."
"I'll pay you for it—"
She nearly lost control then, bringing her fists hard against his chest. "Damn it, Luke Adair, don't do this to me. I never asked a thing from you. The least you can do is let me give you the farm."
He'd never seen her like this. Why was it so important that he take her farm?
"I simply want you to have it," she said, answering his unspoken question. "I want to know I've given you something real, something you can hold on to."
"But—"
She gave him a weak smile. "I haven't lost you, Luke. I haven't lost you because I never had you in the first place." He started to speak again, but she held up her hand. "The farm will make you happy in a way I never could, Luke. Don't deprive me of the chance to give it to you."
Mariah's hands tightened around her washboard when she glimpsed a familiar figure with a wide-brimmed hat riding up Water Street toward Nellie's. Leaping to her feet, she went in through the back door and ran through the passageway to the front room, where Jack was cleaning ashes from an iron stove.
"I need your help," she said, nervously looking outside. Luke had dismounted and was lashing his horse to the hitch-ing rail. She gestured at him, and the burly man straightened up, adjusting his breeches.
"I can't—I don't want to see him. Please, will you tell him that?"
"Sure thing, Mariah," Jack said with a grin. He went to the door and motioned for her to stay in the parlor. Flexing big hands, he reached for the brass doorknob.
"Don't hurt him, Jack," Mariah said.
He frowned a little and then nodded.
Mariah hung back, tensing against the chintz curtains, listening. The door opened.
"Christ," she heard Luke mutter, and she could imagine his keen look of irritation when he saw Jack.
"We're closed until sundown," Jack said mildly.
"I'm here to see Mariah Parker," Luke informed him.
"Sorry, friend. She doesn't want to see you."
"Why don't you let her tell me that herself?"
"Now look friend—"
Mariah cringed as she heard the sickening thud of a blow, then an agonized grunt. Finally, the sound of a body hitting the pine-plank floor brought her running from the parlor.
"Jack, I told you not to—"
"Not to what, Mariah?" Luke drawled, inspecting his reddened knuckles.
She backed against the far wall of the entrance way, nearly stumbling over Jack, who was groaning and rubbing his jaw. Above the foyer, Belle and Doreen had run to the railing. They were speaking in rapid whispers and pointing admiringly at Luke.
"Please go away, Luke," Mariah said. "We have nothing to say to each other."
"Yes, we have, Mariah. I want to explain about last night."
She lifted her chin. "You needn't. I found out everything I need
to know when I saw your family."
"You don't understand them, Mariah."
"I certainly do," she insisted. "They hate me. They hate me because of what the Shawnee did to your sister. And because I live here. Your older brother has them believing I'm a whore. My presence in your life would go against everything they believe, everything they are."
"They'll get used to the idea, Mariah. Give them a chance."
"Do you love your family, Luke?" She saw the look in his eyes and shook her head. "Never mind, of course you do. You've spent your whole life being their son, pleasing them, building a life with them. It's not in you to hurt them, Luke. I know it."
He took a step toward her. "You're right, Mariah," he said quietly. "I do love my family. They're important to me." He gripped her shoulders. She gasped and tried to wrench away, thrown off balance by his sudden touch. Luke continued with the same quiet insistence.
"It's you I want to build a life with, and to hell with what anybody thinks."
She groped for calm. "But you have everything—a good family, the respect of your friends and neighbors—"
"I don't have you. And you're all I want."
"Why, Luke?"
"Because I love you, damn it!"
He almost shouted the words, and was answered by applause and giggles from above. Mariah felt a familiar, welcome jolt as Luke crushed her against him, bringing his mouth down on hers with stunning, fierce tenderness. Suddenly, she knew that nothing could keep them apart, come what may. Gladness and love radiated through her as she returned Luke's kiss with a sweet fervor that matched his own.
Jack groaned again and staggered to his feet, working his jaw. Above, the two girls continued to titter.
"Is everything all right?" Jack asked.
Mariah smiled and laid her cheek against Luke's chest. "Everything's fine, Jack," she said softly. "Everything's just fine."
The amber light of evening bathed the Adair farm in its rich glow, gilding the white house and Genevieve's mountain laurel bushes, which adorned the front of the railed porch. A catbird called and rose from the lawn, winging westward. Luke saw to his horse and trudged up the walk. He'd been over and over what he was going to say to his family. He would be as honest with them as he knew how to be; it was up to them to open their hearts and minds and accept his decision.
The family was at supper when Luke stepped into the dining room, having paused only to remove his hat and splash water over his face and hair. They were all there, even Hance, who had already taken up residence in his nearly finished town house. He was the first to speak.
"So the prodigal son has returned," he drawled.
Luke felt a prickle of irritation, but he swallowed it. Pettiness had no place in this discussion. He took his usual seat between Israel and Sarah, across from Rebecca. She was pale but appeared calm and had eaten a good portion of corn pudding and ham.
"Are you all right?" he asked her.
Rebecca swallowed and nodded her head. But Roarke set down his fork and growled, "She hardly slept at all last night, Luke."
"I'm sorry you were upset, Becky." His gaze moved over the faces of his family, and he took a bracing gulp of cider.
"I didn't quite go about this right," he admitted. "Seeing Mariah again made me a little crazy, because I'd been trying so hard to get used to the idea that she was gone. I should have made the announcement at a more appropriate time."
"You shouldn't have made the announcement at all," Roarke said. "I've never known you to do a fool thing in your life, Luke."
"The Attwaters were a bit put out," Genevieve added, not unkindly. "Their party fell apart after you left."
Luke looked across the table at Hance. "I'm sorry for that," he said.
Hance glowered. "I've spent weeks trying to persuade the Attwaters that my family is better than poor dirt farmers.
They were ready to believe it until last night. Now Mrs. Attwater is taking Ivy on an extended trip to Boston. They seem to be having second thoughts about letting Ivy marry a man whose sister is batty and whose brother has taken up with an Injun whore."
"Hance," Genevieve began, covering Rebecca's hand with hers as the girl's eyes filled with tears.
Luke clenched his fists hard, quelling a longing to smash his fist into Hance's angry face. There had been enough of that last night. Instead, he lashed out with words.
"Maybe you shouldn't worry so much about what the Atrwaters think of Becky and me," he said with quiet anger. "Maybe it's their opinion of you that you should concern yourself with. If you're so all-fired certain of your own perfection you wouldn't worry about your family."
Luke saw that he'd hit his mark. Fury flamed in Hance's eyes, and he flung his napkin down on the table. His chair scraped savagely on the floor, and he stalked from the room.
"He's very sensitive, Luke," Genevieve said, her eyes troubled. "Please leave him be."
"Oh, yes," Luke drawled angrily. "Let him paint a rosy picture for the Attwaters so they'll never know what he is."
Genevieve's eyes hardened. "What he is," she said determinedly, "is a fine man who wants to forget the mistakes of the past. And he will. He will, if you let him."
Luke let out a sigh of resignation. "I'm sorry, Ma. I didn't come here to stir up trouble with Hance." He looked at her and then at Roarke. "I wanted to tell you about Mariah."
Everything stopped. Rebecca's fork dropped to her plate with a clatter, and she ran from the room, sobbing against the back of her hand.
Roarke clenched his teeth, and his fist closed around the base of his cider cup. "Damn it, Luke—"
"She's going to have to get used to hearing Mariah's name. And her face and her voice and the fact that her father was a Shawnee."
Luke's words threw his family into disbelieving silence. He cleared his throat, fighting anger. "I didn't mean to cause trouble last night, but I meant what I said, every word of it. I'm married to Mariah. I mean to register it officially as soon as it can be arranged."
Roarke cursed and looked away. Sarah emitted a horrified little gasp, and Israel refilled his mug with an unsteady hand. Genevieve sat and slowly moved her head from side to side.
Anger burst from Luke in a resentful tide. "When a man announces he's been married, he expects a better reaction from his family."
Genevieve looked up, her eyes wet, her sadness tearing at his heart. "How can you do this, Luke? How can you say you've married a Shawnee? Her people ripped this family in two, nearly killing you, taking Becky and turning her into a frightened, confused creature. We'll never be able to look at that woman without thinking of all that the Shawnee brought upon us. We'll never forget, Luke."
"Nor will Mariah," he said heatedly. "She'll never forget the fact that white men murdered her family while she watched. Yet she somehow found it in her heart to live with that."
Roarke gazed at his son, eyes smoldering with fury. "We're different, Luke. We can't forgive what the Shawnee did to this family. And we won't forgive you if you insist on living with that woman."
The words hit Luke with a jolt of red-hot pain. Pressing his knuckles against the surface of the table, he stood up, his eyes growing hard and cold as he looked at the people he'd worked all his life to please.
"Is that it, then?" he asked.
Roarke looked suddenly weary. "Aye. I wish it could be otherwise, Luke, but there you have it. We won't have a Shawnee in our family. And we won't have you if you take up with her."
Genevieve began to sob. Luke went to the doorway.
"I'll be getting my things," he growled. "You're making a big mistake, turning Mariah out before you've given her a chance. It's no great loss losing me, but you're fools to deny yourselves the chance to know Mariah."
He turned on his boot heel and stalked from the room with a silent vow that he would never appear at his father's table again unless Mariah were welcome there, too. He slammed the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Luke felt a tug, a vague long
ing that occupied the place in his heart where his family had been until two months before. Already he missed his father's masculine friendship, the long talks with Israel, even Sarah's pretty pouting when he teased her too much. But most of all he missed Genevieve, her laughter, her utter delight in the things he did and said.
Yet now Luke knew how shallow it had all been, the encouragement, the approval. His family's acceptance extended only to things he did that pleased them. The one time he'd done something for himself, they'd withdrawn their approval. They could only love that which they understood, which fit into their way of thinking.
All thoughts of his family fled when he looked over at Mariah, who rode in tense silence in the cart beside him. He brushed his fingers over the slight furrows that marred the fineness of her brow.
"What is it, honey?!"
She took his hand and clasped it against her cheek. "I wish today could have been different for you. A man's wedding day should be something special."
He rubbed his knuckles over her trembling lips. "Honey, we already had the grandest marriage in all creation on the banks of the Wabash, with the moon and the stars as our only witnesses. Today's little ceremony was just a formality, to get our union on the books."
"Today was perfect," she maintained. "Nell and the girls made me feel like a princess with all their fussing and silliness. But I couldn't help thinking of your family, Luke. They should have been there. All along I never really believed they could stay away."
"But they did," Luke said, dropping his hand.
Mariah's eyes filled with tears, and she looked away. "I'm afraid, Luke," she stated.
Her tremulous admission tore at his heart. "Of what, honey?"
"I'm afraid one day you'll wake up and realize I'm all you have. Your family has turned from you because of me. I'm afraid you'll resent me for that eventually."
He kissed away the sparkle of tears in her eyes. "God, Mariah, don't say that. Don't ever say that." He took her face between his hands. "You're my whole world, Mariah. I love you. I could live fifty years on one of your smiles."