by Susan Wiggs
Luke looked at Hance for the first time in seven years. Hance's agony was so genuine that Luke found himself not caring about all the old enmity. Hance had saved his life and was convulsed with grief over Ben.
Hance held out his arms. "Luke," he choked, his face streaming with tears. "Little brother, come here."
Their hands clasped desperately, hopelessly, frozen with grief and agony and a sudden understanding that had eluded them all their lives until this moment.
Until the twin clicks of rifles shattered the agonized silence of their reunion.
"We've got the two of you now," raged Wiley Harper's son Caleb. "You owe us for what you done to our daddy," he said furiously. "Both of you." Caleb looked over at his brother.
"What say, Spruce," he inquired casually. "Do we finish 'em here and now?"
Spruce shook his head. "Not now, Caleb. First they're gonna watch what we do to their womenfolk."
Luke heard Hance's hiss of indrawn breath and felt him tense. He gripped Hance's arm.
"Not yet," he whispered.
"Right," Caleb agreed. "We got some things to do before we put you to rest."
"Damned right you do," growled a voice from behind.
Slowly, the four men looked up. Upon a winded horse sat Roarke Adair, magnificent in his rage, like a great flame-and silver-haired avenging angel. He was flanked by Israel and Gideon, also armed and angry.
Keeping his gun ready, Roarke dismounted. Never had he looked so fiercely protective.
"Drop your guns," he told the Harpers. "If you can manage to get out of my sight in five seconds, I won't kill you. I'll give you until sundown to leave the county."
The Harpers didn't hesitate. Hurling their weapons to the ground, they scampered into the woods.
Roarke drew an unsteady breath. Without looking right or left, he went straight to Benjamin. Gathering the limp form into his arms, he leaned down and kissed the boy's cheek. Then he approached Luke.
"Son," he said brokenly, "son, what can I say? What can I do?"
Luke took the boy from him, feeling his insides splinter into shards of sorrow. Tears streamed from his eyes as he started toward the house. He paused a few yards from Roarke and turned back, just as the last supporting beams of the barn collapsed and were engulfed by the fire.
"You can help me bury my boy, Pa," he said.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Tick, tock.
The clock above the mantel sent a quiet rhythm through the house. Genevieve glanced at it, reflecting. The timepiece had witnessed all the events of her life in America, from her struggles to wrest a living from Virginia's soil to the present moment. The little halfpenny moon in the dial was privy to all the family's blessed triumphs and bitter disappointments, its joys and its tragedies.
Tick, tock.
Genevieve stepped out on the porch and inhaled the sharp, cold air of the fall morning. Hoarfrost, a creature of the low, moist clouds, clung to grass and trees and hung in the valleys of the distant hills. Pulling her shawl more tightly around her, Genevieve shivered, feeling her age.
Tick, tock.
Not that fifty-eight was such a bad age to be. She was comfortable in a body that had served her well, from the backbreaking toil of her first tobacco farm, through the birth of five children—four of whom survived, praise God— and into the settling twilight of her life.
Tick, tock.
Feeling a familiar presence behind her, Genevieve leaned back against Roarke's broad frame. Always he was there, sensing when she needed him. They stood in comfortable silence, breathing the cold air and listening to the clock, fingers laced together.
A creaking sound intruded upon the moment. As one, they turned and watched an ox-drawn wagon lumbering toward them, its canvas hood arching above the passengers like a halo.
A lump rose in Genevieve's throat. Roarke slid his arm around her waist and drew her to him.
"I never thought it'd be Luke leaving us," she said.
"I think I did, Gennie. Ben's death only made it happen sooner." Roarke sighed warmly into her hair. "This land's not big enough for a man like Luke. It's gotten damned crowded these past few years. Luke needs a place with room to grow, a place where he can make his mark. His farm's just a piece of land now."
Genevieve nodded. Even after an estrangement that had lasted seven years, Roarke understood his son.
"Do you think he'll find what he's looking for in Missouri country?" she asked.
"I don't think it's so much a question of looking as it is of creating something." Roarke moved his hands slowly upon her shoulders. "At least I've made my peace with him. I couldn't have stood it if he'd left before I came to my senses."
Genevieve turned to lean up and kiss him. "You were magnificent with him about Benjamin."
But Roarke shook his head. "There's no comforting a man who's lost his son, especially like that."
"Still, you managed to reach him when no one else could." She smiled sadly. "We were all a little shocked when you took him fishing right after the funeral, but it worked."
"We had a lot to catch up on. In his grief, Luke forgot he had a damned fine wife and two other children who needed him."
The covered wagon was joined on the road by Hance's elegant chaise. He sat flanked by Ivy and Sarah, both of whom were flushed and plump with early pregnancy. The two vehicles rolled to a stop in front of the house.
"Hance left us so many times," Genevieve said. "It never surprised me. But Luke…" She blinked fast. "Luke was the steadfast one. The one we could depend on."
"We leaned too hard on him," Roarke admitted, his voice rough with regret. " 'Tis a miracle he's forgiven us." Arm in arm, they started down the porch steps.
Rebecca and Israel joined the family in the yard. For a while, the men stood smoking, talking about conditions on the western trails. The women spoke of more homey things: Did Mariah have enough flour and lard, bacon and coffee? What about tonics for dosing the children? Cotton scraps for stitching extra quilts?
Gideon Parker hung back from the group, flushing to his ears when Mariah announced proudly that he had won a place at Joshua Fry's renowned school in Danville. He would be preparing to study the medical arts. The farm, worked by Luke's foreman, would be Gideon's when the boy came of age.
The rising sun touched the frosted grass, turning it to a field of glistening green. Luke glanced up at the sun, and then at Mariah. An unspoken message passed between them, which everyone felt. The family drew together.
Luke gave a final tug on one of Sarah's ringlets, and for once, she didn't scold him. Rebecca embraced Mariah, murmuring how wrong she had been to let her old fears rule her.
"I cheated myself out of the chance to know you," she said.
"Look after Gideon for me," Mariah said. "Do that, and we'll always be friends."
Hance bowed to Mariah. He and Luke shook hands. Then, both of them laughing, they abandoned formality and yanked each other into a bear hug. Sitting on the steps, Israel held Hattie and Dylan on his lap, allowing the children to explore his wooden leg one last time before relinquishing them to their grandparents.
Genevieve stroked Hattie's silky hair, then, with shaking hands, tied her poke bonnet in a crooked bow beneath her chin. She gathered both children to her breast. Her aching senses devoured them, absorbing their smell, the texture of their skin, their sweet voices. They were children of an American family, as much a product of the land as they were of her and Roarke. She knew Luke would teach them to love the land, to make their mark in a way that would do homage to the nation Roarke had fought for, bled for and nearly died for.
She straightened up and kissed Mariah, whose face was stiff in a losing battle against tears. Nearby, Roarke and Luke shook hands, and the love and forgiveness that flowed between father and son was written on their rugged, unsmiling faces.
Genevieve broke away from Mariah and went into the house. She returned a moment later with the beautiful old clock and placed it in the back of the wagon.<
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"Mama, no," Luke protested. "The clock belongs to you."
She shook her head and struggled to speak through the thickness of tears. "It belongs to all of us, Luke. Having the clock will remind you that you'll always be a part of us."
"Thank you, Mama." Luke closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lord, this is hard."
Suddenly Genevieve was in her son's arms. There was nothing left to be said; they had talked of this move for many weeks. So she whispered, "I love you. I'll think of you every day." And then she let him go.
As Luke and his family climbed into the wagon, Genevieve took Roarke's arm. They walked back into the house, to the quiet of their sitting room, never again to hear the click of the halfpenny moon. But their heartbeats matched the steady echo of the clock, marking another milestone in their lives, another parting. There had been so many of them.
Genevieve gazed out the open door at the wagon lumbering westward along the road. The rising sun swept the landscape in a blanket of gold, and her heart swelled as she lifted her hand in a last farewell.
Roarke's arm slid around her shoulders. She leaned her head against his broad chest. "We'll never see them again, will we, Roarke?" she asked.
He smiled down at her. "That depends, Gennie love, on how you feel about traveling."