Embrace the Day

by Susan Wiggs

  Luke was nowhere in sight. Mariah explained that he was out hewing logs for a new harrow and would be back in time for supper. Ivy followed her into the kitchen while Hance stayed on the porch, talking to the children, delighted them with a description of a street show he'd seen in London.

  Ivy inhaled the warm, fresh smell of bread and watched Mariah as she moved quickly about the room, preparing the evening meal.

  "Luke doesn't know we've come," Ivy stated with sudden insight.

  Mariah almost dropped the knife she was using to slice the bread. "I—No, he doesn't. In fact, when he heard Hance had returned to Lexington, he wanted to run him out of town."

  "You shouldn't have done this, Mariah."

  "I had to. It's bad enough Luke and his father haven't seen each other in seven years; this family doesn't need another rift. Besides, it's up to me to forgive Hance." Her eyes were bright with determination. "And I have, Ivy. We both know he's not like that creature who attacked me. He's changed. We all have."

  "They'll fight. They've always fought."

  "I don't think so. Not this time. Too much has happened."

  They worked in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the children's laughter on the porch and the occasional trill of a mockingbird in the dooryard. Ivy poured cream from an urn into a small pitcher while Mariah checked the roast. The routine chores of preparing the meal seemed to calm the women, although both were still tense about what would happen when the two brothers met.

  Two shots rang out. Ivy's urn fell to the floor and shattered. Mariah gasped. Even in her darkest imaginings, she hadn't believed Luke would react like this.

  Together she and Ivy raced to the porch. Hance had pushed the children into the house.

  "Where's a gun?" he demanded tautly.

  Mariah stiffened. "No, Hance. I'm not going to let you settle things this way."

  He grasped her by the shoulders. "It's not Luke, damn it. The Harpers are outside. They must have seen Ivy and me, and followed us here."

  Mariah's blood chilled as she looked out the window. She saw riders in the trees at the sides of the slopes. Buckskin-garbed riders. The Harpers with their stringy hair and gap-toothed grins and hard-drinking ways. There were four of them—Wiley and Micajah, and Wiley's two sons, Caleb and Spruce. Without another word, Mariah went to a cabinet and took out a rifle, handing it to Hance.

  She took the children to the root cellar, a tiny underground cave behind the kitchen. Ivy hesitated, placing her hand on Hance's arm as he loaded the gun.

  "Hance—"

  He paused and gave her a grim look. "I know. I'll be careful. Now, see to the children."

  Gulping air, Ivy went back through the kitchen. Mariah was holding the slanted wooden door open as she spoke calmly to Hattie, instructing her to keep Dylan quiet. Benjamin hung back, loath to enter the cellar.

  "What about Papa?" he asked.

  Mariah swallowed. She'd never told Luke about killing Elk Harper, nor about the more recent encounter with Wiley and Micajah in town. Those were things she didn't want to share with her husband, to heap on him like an unwelcome burden. "He's all right, Ben," she forced herself to say.

  "But he doesn't know about the Harpers, Mama. He could walk right into this. And what about the animals? I saw one of the men going down toward the barn." Suddenly, Ben began to shift from foot to foot.

  "Get in the cellar, Ben," Mariah ordered.

  "Just a minute, Mama. I—I gotta—" He pointed at the privy across the yard.

  Mariah felt frustration grip her as another shot sizzled through the air. "Be quick about it."

  Ben scampered off. Too late, Mariah realized his ruse. He bypassed the outhouse and ran down a path toward the woods, disappearing into a stand of elm trees. Mariah called his name and nearly went after him when her attention was diverted. To her right, Gideon was thundering away on his Chickasaw pony.

  Inwardly cursing the two willful, foolish boys, Mariah settled Ivy, Hattie, and Dylan into the cellar.

  "Stay quiet," she cautioned them again, placing her hand on the door.

  "Where are you going?" Ivy asked.

  "Back inside. Hance won't be able to handle the four of them alone."

  "Then I'm coming, too."

  Mariah shook her head. "You don't know how to shoot, Ivy. And the little ones need you." She closed the door firmly and ran back to the house.

  One blast had shattered a window. Hance was crouched beneath it, trying to draw a bead on the elusive targets that hung slyly back, in range but out of sight. Hearing Mariah loading another gun, he swiveled around. He was about to object when he noticed how smoothly she fitted the ramrod into the barrel and checked the firing pan.

  "I'm sorry about this, Mariah," Hance said gruffly. "I'm sorry about everything."

  She squeezed his hand and set the rifle butt against her shoulder.

  Israel's uneven gait added its rhythm to the ticking of the hooded wall clock. The sound brought Genevieve to her feet. "Welcome home," she said, hurrying out on the porch to take his arm. "I thought the university had swallowed you up."

  Israel grinned and allowed her to help him into the sitting room. She insisted on fussing over him, even though he could now walk and even sit a horse with his peg leg. All Lexington had buzzed in admiration when Israel had danced with Bridie Farrell's flamboyant sister Margaret at a recent cornshucking.

  "Roarke," Genevieve called, "Rebecca, come see who's here for Sunday dinner."

  They sat together in the quiet of a soft summer afternoon, talking and smiling, wrapped in the comfortable peace of familiar closeness. They spoke of the farm, of Israel's career teaching theology, and Sarah's recent social triumph of hostessing her first formal party as Mrs. Nathaniel Caddick.

  Talk meandered around to Hance. Hance, whom they'd thought lost to them forever. It was a different man who'd ridden home to them, with new lines of maturity and understanding etched on his face. A man who had done a lot of soulsearching and had come up wanting. And had finally decided to do something about it.

  He was content now, with Ivy at his side in their handsome house in High Street. The old restlessness was gone. Hance was happy.

  As were all the Adairs… almost. Genevieve could accept Israel's disability and Rebecca's reticence. The young woman had become almost a recluse, folding in on herself, poring over her Bible and her copies of the Home Missionary. Sarah, too, had her flaws, which included her utter delight in the fact that she was now mistress of several slaves. Yet she remained a loving girl, still close to the parents who were no longer her social equals.

  The only thing Genevieve couldn't accept was the estrangement between Luke and Roarke. It simply wasn't meant to be, yet the rift hung over them and tinged her life with melancholy. So many times she'd argued, begged, and browbeaten Roarke, only to encounter the cold wall of his hatred and prejudice. She tried to play on his softer emotions, regaling him with anecdotes about the grandchildren he refused to know.

  Somehow he managed not to hear. He didn't care that Ben had shot his first wild turkey, that Hattie was reading by the age of five, or that Dylan was miserable with the croup… Still Genevieve tried. She would never stop trying to pull her family together.

  The sound of hooves pounding up the drive startled them. Sundays were generally quiet, the hands in town for some time off and the family together for their supper.

  Rebecca parted the drapes and gasped. "An Injun, Pa," she breathed. Her eyes were wide and the edge of hysteria was there in her voice—the hysteria that always surfaced when she saw an Indian.

  Roarke grabbed his rifle with a curse. But Genevieve recognized the visitor.

  "Put that down, Roarke," she ordered sharply. "It's Gideon Parker."

  "He's not welcome here."

  Genevieve brushed past him and opened the door. "He wouldn't have come without good reason."

  Roarke allowed her to go out on the porch, but he kept his rifle trained on the boy. Gideon was handsome and
self-assured as he dropped from his horse, his face a placid, unreadable mask.

  Rebecca began to whimper. Disgusted, Israel silenced her with a sharp order and joined his mother on the porch.

  Gideon noticed Roarke's rifle, but he showed no fear. He nodded at Genevieve and then at Roarke.

  "Luke needs you," he said simply.

  Anger flared in Roarke's eyes. "Luke hasn't needed me since he disgraced this family by marrying a Shawnee."

  "The Harpers are attacking the farm, Mr. Adair."

  Roarke hesitated. Genevieve heard his sharp intake of breath. The Harpers' reputation was known—and feared— throughout Lexington; even back in Dancer's Meadow, they'd been a wild and unprincipled family.

  Still… Roarke looked at Genevieve. She threw back her head and sent him a challenging stare. Israel limped down the steps, already armed and heading for his horse. Roarke's expression wavered in indecision.

  It was Rebecca who made up his mind for him. Hesitantly at first, then boldly, she went to Gideon and touched his sleeve, giving him a smile that trembled but was full of conviction. It was the first time she'd touched another human being outside her family since her return from Indian country.

  Then she turned to Roarke with tears in her eyes.

  "Go to them, Papa. Please. I've been selfish long enough."

  The words propelled her father to the stables, to fetch his horse.

  Just before Roarke mounted, Genevieve kissed him, smiling with pride.

  "Ah, God, Gennie," he said, rubbing his cheek on her hair. "I've been more a fool than a man has any call to be."

  She nodded her head, eyes shining.

  "But I love you, Roarke Adair," she said.

  Luke scowled, thinking the shots he'd heard were from Ben and Gideon. He hadn't given them permission to go out hunting. Angrily, he put up his whipsaw and brass rule and mounted his horse. The boys knew better than to be shooting so close to the house.

  His anger dissipated when he spied Ben running toward him. The boy gulped air, chest heaving with exertion.

  "The Harpers, Pa! They're attacking the place!"

  Luke reached down and swung Ben into the saddle in front of him. A fearsome tightness gripped his chest. "What's happening?" he demanded.

  "Uncle Hance says there's four of them—"

  "Hance?"

  Ben bobbed his head. "He and Aunt Ivy came for sup."

  Luke felt a prickle of displeasure but a more pressing emergency was at hand. He hadn't trusted the Harpers since Caleb and Spruce had tried to take Ben's dog; he'd forbidden the boys to go near the dilapidated farm after that. Naomi Harper had come by selling eggs one day, trying to conceal livid bruises on her face beneath the brim of a battered poke bonnet, confirming the rumor that the brothers treated their women with indiscriminate brutality. The Harpers were stupid, unpredictable, and dangerous.

  Luke drew the horse up on the crest of the big slope in front of the house. On either side he could see movement, but the Harpers seemed to be lying low. Cautious devils.

  And then he saw the reason for their caution. The two front windows of the house had been shot out, the curtains wafting outward on the breeze. A rifle barrel protruded from each of the windows. Just for a fraction of a second, he saw the blue-black sheen of Mariah's hair.

  Terror thundered through Luke's vitals, robbing him of breath. This was no casual game of aggression but an all-out battle.

  Almost unconsciously, Luke wrapped his arms about Ben, inhaling the scent of the boy's hair. He smelled of the summer breeze and boyish sweat and innocence. Leaning down, Luke kissed Ben's cheek.

  "You've got to go, son," he said quietly. "There'll be no getting back to the house now, so I want you to take the path down behind the barn. If things get out of hand, you take to the river, you hear me?"

  "But I want to stay with you, Pa."

  Luke shook his head grimly. "All I've got is this pistol and enough shot for a few rounds. I can't trust myself to defend the both of us."

  "But—" Another shot cracked through the air. One of Mariah's flower boxes dropped to the ground below the window.

  "Go, Ben," Luke said urgently. He kissed the boy again and plucked him from the horse, sending him on his way with a firm pat on the shoulder.

  Ben hesitated. "Pa?"

  "What, son?"

  Ben blinked his eyes and swallowed. "You're a brave man, Pa, and I love you."

  Luke lifted the corners of his mouth in an attempt to smile. And then Ben was gone down the path.

  Luke tethered his horse and primed his pistol. Then he crept through the woods, crouching low to keep out of sight. The breeze brought on it an ominous crackling sound and the scent of burning. Pulling himself up into a tulip poplar, he looked down into the hollow. A savage curse exploded from him.

  One of the Harpers had set fire to the stock barn, the first place accessible from the slope. Already a plume of smoke rose from the rear section, and flames were licking up its back wall. A horse squealed, panicked by the scent of smoke.

  Luke cursed again. All that livestock. The shoats he'd borrowed money to buy. Mariah's gentle milch cow. Ben's pony, and his cats. The boy's most prized possessions.

  The cats … Suddenly, Luke dropped from the tree and hit the ground running. If Ben knew the barn was burning, he'd head straight for it, to free the animals. Luke ran so hard he could barely see. Vaguely, he was aware that he'd been spotted; a ball tore a large splintered bite in the trunk of a tree as he passed. But he didn't care. He was sure Ben would try to get to the barn, and—

  He arrived to see the rear part of the roof and wall in flames. Even from a distance he could feel the heat and hear the dreadful roar. Thankfully, Ben was nowhere in sight. Luke stopped and looked around. There was no noise but the squealing and bellowing of panicked animals and the roar of the inferno.

  Then the barn door swung open. A huge cloud of smoke issued from the barn, and the fire inside, fueled by the rush of fresh air, grew redder and hotter. Animals burst from the building: one of the cats with a kit clamped firmly between her jaws, the shoats, running with uncharacteristic speed to safety, the milch cow. Then, finally, Ben's Indian pony and the dun mare, both squealing and pawing the air before thundering down to the blessed coolness of the creek.

  Luke's relief was only momentary. He knew the animals' escape could only mean one thing: that someone was inside. Forgetting caution again, he ran toward the door of the barn.

  Heat issued from the building. The inside was an unholy inferno fed by dry hay and timber. In the back several roof beams had collapsed and the ones in the front didn't have long to stand.

  A gust of wind blew the smoke aside for a moment, and almost choking with terror, Luke made out a small form running toward him.

  Ben.

  Beneath splotches of soot his face was dark red and contorted. His arms were full of kittens; he was determined to save the whole litter.

  A crossbeam flared and crackled and then collapsed just behind the boy. The one in front of that was about to do likewise.

  Luke heard himself screaming at Ben to run, and then he was running, too, toward the raging heat. The falling beams seemed to be chasing Ben. The boy eluded every one, managing to hold the kittens as he ran for his life.

  Before Luke reached the barn, Ben emerged. Spying his father, he let go of the kittens, which scattered in all directions. Luke dropped to his knees and stretched out his arms toward the boy, thanking God and all the stars of heaven that his gentle, brave, foolish son was safe.

  In dropping to his knees, Luke eluded the bullet that had been aimed at the middle of his back.

  It hit Ben instead.

  The boy was just a yard from his father's arms. His feet left the ground as the explosion rent the air. The impact threw him back. He died instantly, even before the blood started to blossom from his shattered chest.

  Luke couldn't stop to grieve over his son's body. That would come later, after he reacted to the maniacal ra
ge that possessed him. Somehow he found his pistol.

  His body was not his own. It belonged to the cold, demonic hatred that possessed him, not allowing him to think or feel anything but rage and determination.

  Micajah Harper had fired the shot. He was looking with dreadful amazement at Luke.

  Micajah ran. Then Luke cocked his gun, and he froze.

  "Turn around, Harper," Luke ordered coldly. "I want to see your face when I kill you." Slowly, sobbing, Micajah turned.

  Luke felt no cathartic rush as his bullet bored into Micajah's head, blowing off the back of his skull. Justice had been done, but that didn't change the fact that Ben was dead. Luke felt nothing but a cold wind blowing through his heart.

  When Wylie Harper appeared, assessing the situation with a quick glance, he shouldered a gleaming rifle and aimed at Luke.

  "You're goin' to die," he informed Luke.

  "I know." Luke supposed Wiley wanted him to be terrified, but he wasn't. His impending death would merely spare him the pain of living without Ben. He found himself almost eager for the release.

  Until he remembered Mariah and the others. They needed him, more than ever now that Ben was gone. But it was too late. Wylie was aiming his rifle, and Luke refused to beg for his life. He planted his feet and waited for the impact of the bullet as Wylie squeezed the trigger.

  The shot that rang out didn't issue from Wylie's weapon. Luke watched, dumbfounded, as Wylie crumpled, shot through the gut from the back. Blood bubbled from his mouth and midsection as he slithered, cursing, to the ground.

  Hance emerged from a cover of bushes near the path from the house. The blood drained from his face when he saw Ben's body.

  "Oh, God, Luke, they shot your boy."