But my journal is gone, and it seems like a little piece of my life disappeared with it.
“Oh well,” she muttered. “It’s time to go on. I’ll put in an order for Trader Jake to bring me a blank journal on his next voyage, and I’ll start all over.” She wished she felt as positive and hopeful as those words sounded.
With the mention of his name, visions of Trader Jake forced her to see the tall and powerful man with a broad smile he displayed only when he chose to be pleasant. Sensual images also entered unbidden, those of his deeply-tanned face, charcoal eyes, sun-bleached hair, and of course, his hard and sinewy body. Unable to forget how his muscles rippled and bunched in his chest and back when she watched him from her hotel room last year as he wrestled with several trappers at the rendezvous, she recalled how the setting sun cast a glistening sheen on those wonderful muscles. He had been bathed in a golden glow.
“Oh, stop it.” She stamped her booted foot. Dismayed she would think of the rude man, she was appalled that sensuous memories of him invaded her private reverie. Continuing her introspective, Belle faced the reality of her current predicament. With no home, no man to provide for her, no one to love her, and no one to love except for her child, she was more alone than when she first stepped foot in Texas. Tears came when she remembered trying to breastfeed Johnathan over the past few weeks. Whether due to depression, loneliness, or some other reason, her milk had slowly dried up.
Finding it so distressing to have to say no to her child’s sweet, innocent face and to deny such a reasonable and normal request she saw in his eyes, she felt like her heart had broken. Realizing all she could do now was hold him close to her heart, she hoped he could somehow understand, and that he would know it was only her flow of milk that stopped.
My love for you is constant. It is the one thing that will never change.
She entered a small copse of trees to shield her body from sight while she relieved herself and was startled when she heard a wagon bouncing along on the rutted trail. So seldom to see a horse and rider on that trail into the settlement, let alone a wagon, she could barely contain her excitement. After adjusting her clothing, she peered through leafless branches to see Trader Jake driving the team. Small trunks teetered in a high pile, leaving little room for the wagon’s passengers, a tight knot of three women in varying sizes. One woman had gray hair, snugged into a chignon at the base of her neck.
That must be Mrs. Burcham. But who could the others be? Oh, could Trader Jake have taken a wife?
She evaluated why a woman would want to marry the rude man. Certainly because he was a sea captain, Trader Jake could be considered mysterious. He was wealthy and quite a virile man, handsome in a rugged sort of way. She finally conceded he might be a good catch, but she wondered if he would be a good husband to the new woman.
Or maybe he married two women to keep him satisfied. Her hands flew to her face, and a blush warmed her cheeks. “Indeed,” she whispered, chastising herself, “where ever is your mind, woman?”
After the wagon passed, Belle smoothed her skirt and left the trees, intent on returning to the hotel and to let Absalom know how much the meditative walk meant to her. To show her appreciation to the young man for tending Johnathan while she stretched her legs and spent a quiet time alone, she planned to make Absalom’s favorite dessert—a buckle made of dried peaches.
As she neared the hotel, another wagon came along beside her, loaded with trunks and barrels, a battered sea chest, crates of guns, and four laughing boys. The young boys and the skinny driver waved a greeting.
“Want a ride, lady?”
She motioned them on since she was only a short distance from the two-story building, the new home she had known lately. Excited for Mr. Burcham to have his family together and looking forward to meeting his wife and their boys, Belle forced a smile.
Now that they’re here, I wonder where I might be calling home next.
Chapter Twenty-Six
After depositing the ship’s passengers to the porch of his hotel for Mr. Burcham to greet, Trader Jake left instructions for Absalom to unload both wagons. Walking at a quick pace down the dirt street to the livery where he saddled his favorite roan, Jake gave the big horse his head in the direction of River Bend. With wind whipping the roan’s mane, Jake crammed his hat farther down on his head, the gesture as determined as the hard look he wore.
“Yes,” he said, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the galloping horse. “It’s time to confront Stephen. He has several things to answer for.” Angry enough for blood to boil in his veins, Jake calculated his half-brother’s horrible deeds and berated himself that he hadn’t confronted his brother earlier about Strong’s death. Recalling his conversation on the ferry with a talkative trapper, Jake winced. The trapper informed him of the destruction of Belle’s dugout and her subsequent residence at River Bend.
“I’ll have to remove her from the plantation to a safer haven if she happens to still be a houseguest there.”
When he reached the natural arbor of the tree-lined drive at River Bend, Jake slowed his horse to a walk. In front of the imposing white house, he dismounted and looped the horse’s reins through a brass ring on one of the decorative hitching posts, waving away a trained servant who offered to take the lathered animal to the stable.
Jake bounded up the porch steps, his long legs taking the steps two at a time. He raised the door’s large, brass knocker to announce his uninvited presence, but before he could bang it to ask admittance, the massive door opened. He looked Old Bailey in the face and gave the aged servant a gentle bear hug.
“How are you, Old Bailey?”
“Jest fine, Masta Jake. Jest fine.” The servant displayed his pearly smile.
Jake walked in, then frowned at the black gentleman who then smiled even wider. “Old Bailey, you old codger, you remember what I’ve always told you about that master business.”
Still smiling, Old Bailey nodded and shut the polished door behind Jake.
His voice barely above a whisper, Jake asked Old Bailey, “Is Mrs. Strong here right now?”
The smile faded from the old man’s face. “No, suh, she done moved out—she and that sweet babe of hers.” He leaned back to look Jake in the eye. “I miss her so. All’s us does. She was a ray of sunshine ’round this place. Yas, suh, she was.”
The tall man’s heart went out to the old servant, a family friend of his forever. So, she has the same effect on others as she has on me. Once we meet her, we don’t want to let her go.
Before he could ask where Belle was and what had happened to drive her away from this beautiful mansion, Jake heard Stephen’s voice boom from the library.
“Old Bailey, who’s at my door?”
“Shh.” Jake put his finger to his lips to silence the servant. Striding into the plantation owner’s library, Jake enjoyed the shocked look on his half-brother’s face.
“You’re back,” Stephen managed to blurt out. “Was your trip successful?”
With a curt wave of his sun-tanned hand, Jake dismissed him. “Forget the trip. Forget the business, and forget we’re brothers while you’re at it.”
With a sneer on his face, Stephen rose up from his desk chair. “What’s this about?”
Jake strode across the room and placed his palms on top of the expensive desk, giving Stephen a cold look. “It’s about a lot of things. It’s about you and what you are, and it’s about what you’ve done to Michael Strong.” He paused long enough to let that sink in. “And it’s about whatever you may have done to Strong’s widow, too.”
Stephen’s eyes blazed at every word, his anger and hatred easily revealed to his young half-brother. “Get out of my house.”
His voice controlled and deadly, Jake countered, “Not without some answers.”
Stephen’s face turned scarlet with fury. “I’ll have you forcibly removed from the premises.”
Jake laughed at the threat, a mirthless and cruel sound emanating from his big frame. “N
o one on this plantation would raise a hand to me, and you know it.” He smiled with satisfaction when he saw doubt in Stephen’s eyes. They were both large, commanding men, but although Stephen owned the slaves, they were more loyal to Jake who had treated them with equanimity all the years he had known them.
Stephen reached toward the top right-hand drawer of his desk.
“Don’t do it.” Jake warned his brother while pulling his gun from its holster in a lightning-fast move.
Stephen halted.
“I’ve always known you,” Jake said, “to keep a loaded weapon in your desk, and I’m not surprised you reached for it. What I wonder is why. What do you have to hide?”
Stephen maintained silence.
“Now, some answers,” Jake said. “Starting with the death of Michael Strong.”
Beads of perspiration on Stephen’s forehead shone in the reflected light of the afternoon sun. “Our differences can never be resolved. This needs to be finished.”
Jake heard the anger in Stephen’s voice. But there’s more. His rage seems to be replaced by what? Maybe resignation?
“So, where was Strong—Michael Strong—murdered?”
Stephen winced at the word and cleared his throat before answering. “On the east side of that horseshoe-shaped bend of the river, west of the settlement. Near that ancient oak tree, the one that’s dead on one side, and its trunk is too big for any man to reach around.”
“I know the place,” Jake said, his voice hard as steel.
“Be there at four o’clock.”
“Done.” With that, Jake holstered his gun, turned away, and strode out of the house, his back a perfect target.
Later, Jake approached the river’s edge and found Stephen already there, sitting cross-legged on a large limb on the dead side of the massive tree. Jake dismounted and let the reins drop. Walking closer, he spotted a gun lying in Stephen’s lap.
“Good,” Jake said. “He’s taking this seriously, as well he might.” Eager to hear how Stephen explained away the story Absalom related aboard ship, Jake also wanted to know what happened at River Bend to drive Belle Strong away. Whisking thoughts aside of the green-eyed widow, Jake concentrated on his brother who was expounding in his prudish, aristocratic tone and offering little more than drivel. After a few moments, his rambling contained saner statements.
“People do not realize how difficult it is to be without a woman,” Stephen was saying. “My dear wife, the royal socialite, found this fertile land too wild for her refined taste and returned to her wealthy family in Richmond. She took with her my hopes of siring heirs for my own fortune.” He paused. “Loneliness ruled my life for a while.”
“You have money enough to have brought a woman in. Some men could not have afforded to do so. Or,” Jake said, undisguised contempt in his voice, “you could have bedded a slave.” He watched a look of indignance creep over Stephen’s face.
“Never.”
“All right, I’ll grant you that. You’ve always left the slaves alone, or have you? Maybe, only the males attracted you.”
“That’s a damned lie,” Stephen retorted. “I’ve never touched any slave.” He wore a tortured look on his face. “You’ll never understand. It wasn’t like that with Michael. We were close, we cared for each other, and we spent wonderful times together.” His voice broken, he continued, “Michael was my dearest friend. He was like the son I never had—never will have.”
‘If you loved him so much, why did you kill him?”
“I didn’t, Jake. It was an accident.”
“Sure.”
“Honest, it was. I stopped him on his way to the ferry to pick up his bride and begged him to send her back. I had asked before, and that time, I implored him to send her home. But he wouldn’t hear of it. Can you imagine? Rich and influential, yet I must beg a poor dirt farmer. I did because I needed him more than anyone I’ve ever known.” His lip curled with disgust. “She was in the middle of our happiness.”
“So, you shot him?”
“I begged him, but he wouldn’t budge. I would have given him part of River Bend, but he wanted to clear his own little parcel of land, and he wanted a family.” His voice turned angry. “He didn’t love her. He told me that. Why, he hardly knew the girl, but she was young and strong enough to help him farm and give him sons. Those were the two things he wanted most in life—his land and sons to carry on his name. I was so infuriated and heartsick that I pulled a gun on him.”
“You did shoot him.”
“Even though I was shaking with rage, I never would have shot him. I wanted to frighten him and make him come to his senses. Never in this world did I intend to harm him, but my horse reared when a snake rattled its tail. I was thrown, and my gun hit the ground. It discharged, and the bullet struck Michael.”
“Why didn’t you take him to the doctor?”
“Why, I was in shock. I couldn’t believe it happened. I caught my horse and raced back to River Bend so I could send a slave. Knowing he would find Michael’s wagon and take him into town.”
“Yet, you acted like nothing was wrong, Stephen, like nothing had happened when you met us at the ferry.”
“I honestly thought Michael would live,” Stephen choked out. “I thought he would come to and forgive me.”
Jake shook his head in disbelief. “You deserve to be hanged.”
“But it was an accident, I tell you.”
“No. The discharge of your weapon, maybe, but not the fact you drew down on him. That was no accident. You were right earlier—this needs to be finished.” Jake patted his holster. “I’d shoot you now and be done with it, but that’s too good for the likes of you.”
Stephen pulled the pistol from his lap, levelled it at his younger brother, and sneered. “But you won’t be telling anybody about this now.” He laughed, a hollow sound coming from deep within his chest. “You can take my secret to the grave,” he roared. “Yours.” He laughed again, cackling like a man gone mad.
A loud, resounding crack shattered the stillness as the mighty oak separated at its wide base, the dead part teetering over the edge of the river, rotted roots no longer able to support both trunks. Stephen fired a shot at his brother who drew his own gun and rolled aside, but not before Stephen’s bullet slammed into Jake’s left shoulder.
The decayed half of the oak groaned when it leaned and fell into the placid, sienna water, taking Stephen with it. He tried to jump free but became entangled in the mass of branches. Snapping away many of them, he ran out of time to escape the wooden cage. His desperate movements drove him deeper into the river’s water and its shifting sand.
With his right hand, Jake tried to stem the flow of blood from his gaping, shoulder wound and cried out for his half-brother to stand still until he could get to him, but Stephen panicked.
Each frantic struggle pulled him farther into the grainy pool of suction, that dreaded part of the river capable of swallowing entire wagons and animals and sometimes refusing to release them even after death. The river never remained constant, not even the main stream. The current in the center of the river ran several years on the reverse side while this side allowed a bed of quicksand to form, lying dormant and innocent until today where Stephen Owens fought for his life. If he would only remain still, he would not be dragged in, and living along the river ever since planning River Bend, he knew that. But he was oblivious to caution and to Jake’s instructions.
Stephen must have realized he would not escape the natural vacuum, because he released a loud scream that tore through the stillness just before he disappeared. The whirlpool of sand, mixed with the blood-red color of the water, sucked him down into its cavity. He had taken his last breath.
Although there were too many branches in the way to throw a rope, Jake tried to reach his sibling by crawling out onto the sinking tree trunk, but to no avail. Stephen had entered that place of no return, drawn under by a force much greater than he, and more evil, because it cared not who or what its victim might
be.
After a weak and bleeding Jake made it back to the river’s bank, he watched the quicksand swallow the dead half of the massive oak tree, breaking off twigs and branches, twisting and turning the trunk until it vanished.
“Ironic,” he spoke in a hoarse whisper, “that Stephen wanted River Bend to be his last resting place, although he was never truly happy there.” Jake’s breathing becoming more labored, he added, “Maybe now, brother, you will have no pain.” He stopped talking and succumbed to a coughing spasm that racked his weakening frame. Finally able to continue, he said, “May you rest in peace, brother, in a true river bend.”
Horrified to see how much of his blood had pooled around him, Jake applied direct pressure to the wound, trying to stop the flow. His clothes were saturated with the deep-red liquid that sustained life. He could utilize a tourniquet if it were an extremity but not a shoulder.
“I’ve got to get help before I bleed to death,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “or I’ll die out here with Stephen.”
Determined to reach his favorite horse and struggling to mount him, the wounded man’s blood smeared and blended into the red coat of the roan.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The man named String paced endlessly when his captain and friend, Trader Jake, had not returned to the hotel, not even for the supper repast. The mismatched group of new friends at the hotel cast an occasional glance at the old sideboard that held remnants of a delicious evening meal, food now cold and some of it unpalatable.
Except for the large family of Campbells, Belle had never been around so many people at once, and they were all chattering away as if they had known one another for years. Anyone viewing the scene in the hotel lobby would swear they were all part of one big family. All except String, who was like a panther in a cage, or maybe like his name, a string about to break.
River Bend Page 14