Sweetbriar

by Jude Deveraux

  “She’s alive, but just barely,” he said when Agnes appeared.

  “Let’s get her home. She ain’t too heavy for you?” Doyle cast a contemptuous look at his mother. Would she never realize he was a grown man? He held her close to him, trying to warm her with his own body. She was as cold and stiff as a piece of iron, only, thank God, not as heavy. They reached the cabin quickly, and his mother motioned him to put her on the bed that she pulled nearer the fire.

  “Now go out and find Lonnie and your pa. I’ll get her warmed.” Doyle left quickly, wondering if anything as frozen as Linnet would ever be alive again. Agnes had to cut the dress from her, the cloth too cold to handle. Then she wrapped the girl in one of her own enormous flannel nightgowns, rubbing the little body all over with a coarse woolen blanket.

  The door opened and Doyle, his father and the eight-year-old Lonnie entered. “She looks awful, Ma. She dead?” Lonnie asked.

  “No,” Agnes snapped. “She ain’t dead and she ain’t gonna be. Lyttle,” she addressed her husband, “you rub her feet and, Doyle, you make some hot sassafras tea.”

  “What can I do?” Lonnie asked eagerly.

  “You rub her hands. Think you can do that?”

  “Sure, Ma.” He began his job. “Look at ’em; they’re so little and they’re a funny color, ain’t they?”

  Agnes sat on the bed, Linnet’s head cradled in her lap.

  “Why don’t she say somethin’, Ma? How come she just keeps layin’ there like she was dead?”

  “Because she’s cold, Lonnie, and we need to get her warm.”

  Lonnie held Linnet’s hands in his and blew on them, then looked to his mother for encouragement.

  Agnes gave her young son a faint smile, but everyone could see she was worried.

  “I’m gonna wrap her feet up,” Lyttle said. “Maybe we could put a lot of quilts on her and stoke up the fire.” Before the words were out, Doyle threw another log on the fire.

  “Ma,” Lonnie said, and when he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “I don’t want her to die. She’s nice, and Mac’d be real mad if she died.”

  “She won’t die!” Agnes said with a force that startled even herself. “We won’t let her die.”

  Lyttle held a stack of quilts and began spreading them over Linnet. Agnes stretched out and pulled the cold girl close to her and Lyttle covered them both. Lonnie lifted the edge of the quilts.

  “Lonnie! What are you doing? We want to get her warm.”

  “I know,” the boy said seriously. “I’m gonna get in front.” He climbed under the covers and pressed the back of his little body to Linnet’s. “She sure is cold, ain’t she, Ma?”

  “She sure is, Lonnie,” Agnes whispered as she felt her heart swell in pride for her son.

  Chapter Seven

  LINNET OPENED HER EYES SLOWLY, AGNES BENT over the fire stirring something that smelled delicious in a big black pot. She turned and smiled at Linnet.

  “It’s good to have you back again.”

  Linnet tried to move one arm and found her muscles were incredibly sore. “What am I doing here?”

  “You don’t remember?” Agnes replaced the lid on the kettle and stood up. “Cord come to the house yesterday and said you was lost in the storm and could we help find you.”

  “Cord did that?” Linnet said with contempt, remembering all.

  Agnes lifted one eyebrow. “Cord ain’t all bad, just seems to be sometimes. Although I never heard no young girl complain about him afore.”

  “You have now.” Linnet obviously did not want to discuss Cord.

  “Here, I want you to drink this.” Agnes held a steaming mug before her. “You’re gonna be pretty weak and sore for a few days, I reckon, but we’ll take good care of you.”

  “Agnes, I can’t stay here.” Linnet tried to sit up, but Agnes quickly came to give her some much-needed support.

  “It seems to me I heard all this afore when you first come to Sweetbriar and I don’t want to hear it again.”

  Linnet laughed but stopped because the gesture made her stomach muscles hurt.

  Agnes smiled at her. “Now that that’s done, let’s get some food in you.”

  Linnet took another stitch in the stretched quilt. She’d been at Agnes’ house for nearly a week, and each time she mentioned leaving, the whole family refused to listen to her. She’d heard that Devon had returned, but he’d not come to visit her. Agnes, on the other side of the frame, ran her hand over the work and eyed it critically.

  “Rose of Sharon’s always been one of my favorite patterns. It was Mrs. Macalister’s?” Linnet asked as she paused in her sewing.

  “Mac’s ma, ’cept she wouldn’t let her boys call her Ma. They had to say ‘Mother.’ ”

  Linnet looked back at the quilt. Devon hadn’t been to see her since she’d been ill, but then there was no reason for him to visit. “You knew his mother, then. What was she like?”

  “Oh, she was a real fancy lady. Slade, that’s Mac’s pa, went north to see if he could get some money to open a tradin’ post in the new Kentucky territory. All of us, the Tuckers, the Starks, and Lyttle and me lived in North Carolina then. None of us was even married, just friends and neighbors. Like I said, Slade went up north. Ah.” Agnes paused and sighed. “Now Slade Macalister was a good-lookin’ man, tall, handsome, dark hair, broad shoulders, walked as quiet as a cat.”

  “Like Devon,” Linnet whispered to herself.

  Agnes paused but gave no other sign she heard Linnet’s comment. “When Slade come back from the north, he had hisself a bride, pretty little thing, talked all funny and had the funniest ways about her.” She eyed Linnet again, noticing the way the English girl made the crude mug of tea seem like a piece of translucent porcelain. “She was expectin’ already when they got back home and as soon as her twin boys was born, a whole passel of us lit out for the new land of Kentucky. Right off, Slade’s wife had troubles. She complained all the time about the travel, about all the work; near drove us crazy, but Slade sure loved her. I never seen no man dote on a woman like he done.” Agnes chuckled at some private joke. “At least that wife of his seemed to be good for somethin’, ’cause many a mornin’ Slade’d get up tireder’n when he went to bed.”

  Linnet kept her head bent, hiding her stained cheeks.

  “I reckon you can’t blame the woman too much. Slade told me she grew up in a house with ropes on the walls, and when you pulled one of those ropes, some man or woman came runnin’ just to see what they could do fer you.”

  Linnet looked at Agnes, startled. She could very well say that her own life had been like that until her father’s mines had been exhausted and the land sold to pay the debts. “What about Devon?” she asked quietly.

  “Those boys! They might have been twins, but two more opposites there couldn’t have been. Kevin looked just like his ma, yellow curly hair, white skin, while Mac was like his pa, dark but with them blue eyes. After a while, Slade began to stay away from Sweetbriar. I guess his wife’s complainin’ finally started to get to him, but then the real fights came with the Indians.”

  “What Indians?”

  “Slade’s ma was a pure Shawnee, some kind of higher-up in the tribe, and all the time her relatives was comin’ to see the twins. The Indians frightened the boys’ ma and she started to keep the boys in the house, never lettin’ ’em outside. Slade and her had a big row about that, could hear it a mile away. But after the boys started walkin’, they solved their own problems, at least Mac did.” She laughed.

  “How did Devon do that?”

  “That young’un was slipperier’n a greased pig. Couldn’t no room hold him inside. I ’member one time Slade nearly whaled the tar out of him when he found him on top of the roof. He was only four years old, and we never did figure out how he got up there.” Agnes laughed to herself and continued sewing.

  “But what happened to his mother, and where is Kevin?”

  Agnes sighed. “That was a real sad story. When the boys
were about five and Mrs. Macalister had long since quit tryin’ to keep Mac inside the cabin, she found him hunkered down in the dirt with a young Indian boy, both dressed in those little leather breech cloths and the boy was teachin’ Mac some Shawnee words. That pore woman started screamin’ till she like to have lost her mind.”

  “But why?” Linnet asked honestly.

  Agnes smiled at her fondly. Even after her time with the Indians, Linnet still didn’t hate them as some folks did. “I reckoned it was ’cause you couldn’t tell her son from the Indian babies runnin’ around the store. Now with Kevin it was different; he always obeyed his ma. But not Mac. That night we heard her screechin’ at Slade that she was goin’ back east and takin’ her boys with her. Two days later some missionaries come through, headin’ east, and she took Kevin and went back. We never saw her again.”

  “But what about Devon? How could she leave her little boy?”

  Agnes shook her head. “I don’t rightly know, but she did. She hugged him and kissed him and told him over and over that she loved him, and then she got on a wagon and left.”

  “And Devon?” Linnet asked quietly.

  “He was just five then, and he just stood there a minute and then went back in the store. We all thought he was too little to understand what was goin’ on.”

  “But he wasn’t,” Linnet said flatly.

  Agnes shook her head sadly. “He sure wasn’t. A few hours later Slade missed him and began to search. We all searched. Two days later one of his Indian cousins brought him back, and the little boy looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten in all that time. Slade just stood there, and we all thought he was gonna whup him, but he just knelt down and put his arms out and Mac ran to him.” Agnes paused to wipe away a tear. “It was just awful. That little boy cried for so many hours Slade had to give him whiskey to make him sleep.”

  “And did he see his mother again?”

  “Never, but three years ago when Slade died, I wrote his brother and sent one of Mac’s carvin’s. Kevin wrote back, said their mother’d died recently and sent Mac some carving tools all the way from Germany. I keep hopin’ that Kevin will show up here someday.”

  They were quiet for a while, listening to the steady rhythm of Doyle chopping wood. The heavy snow outside made an unnatural quietness even in the house.

  “Why does Devon hate Cord?” Linnet kept her head bowed. She wanted to know, needed to know, and she couldn’t risk Agnes’ censure.

  Agnes seemed to be having the same thoughts. “Mac didn’t meet Cord until he was eighteen, and they took one look at each other and become enemies, but for a while they was friendly enemies. Ever’ summer we get a few batches of people travelin’ west through here, and Cord and Mac always tried to see who could get the most girls to fall in love with ’em.”

  Linnet looked at Agnes incredulously, and Agnes grinned back. “I know. It was awful of ’em. I talked to Slade about it, but you could never reason with him about Mac. He thought the sun rose and set on that boy of his. I was just tired of seein’ weepin’ girls and Mac and Cord grinnin’ at each other. But then last summer things was different. A little girl named Amy Trulock come through, and Mac fell in love with her real hard.”

  Agnes ignored Linnet’s wide-eyed stare. “Cord wasn’t around then, but when he come back he turned real charmin’ to the girl, just like always, ’cept to Mac this was different. I wouldn’t a’ knowed what happened, ’cept Lyttle and Mac was out huntin’, and they saw the girl together with Cord—swimmin’ with no clothes on. Ever since then, Cord can’t do nothin’ ’cept it don’t make Mac mad.”

  They didn’t talk for a few minutes, and Agnes found herself watching Linnet’s bent head. She wondered what the girl thought of Mac, what had happened between her and Cord. She knew that Mac hadn’t visited because he felt sure he knew what had gone on between them. That time with Amy Trulock had hurt him more than he knew, and Agnes guessed he wasn’t ready to even think about loving anybody again, especially after Linnet had spent so long in the woods with Cord. Mac wouldn’t risk getting hurt again.

  Early the next morning, Linnet walked the mile back to her own cabin. She had some difficulty convincing Agnes and the rest of the Emersons that she was perfectly well and did not need anyone to walk with her. Finally she had given an exasperated look to Agnes, and the older woman had understood that Linnet wanted to be alone.

  Now, she stepped lightly through the rich, muddy earth, the cold air refreshing after the long week in the cabin. Little patches of snow showed in places, but it had nearly all melted. Linnet breathed deeply and set out at a brisk pace. Since Agnes’ story of the day before, she had thought of nothing else but Devon’s life, of the little boy crying for his mother and the grown man seeing the girl he loved swimming nude with his cousin. She realized now why Devon hadn’t visited her, hadn’t inquired about her to her knowledge—he had judged her and found her guilty of the same crime as Amy Trulock. Of course what she could do was go directly to him and tell him the truth, the entire story of what had happened between her and Cord.

  But why should she? Yes, why should she? If she went now and begged him to believe her, and she knew it would take a while to convince Devon of her innocence, she would set a pattern. Forever afterward, she would have to explain herself to him. Briefly she visualized the future: Devon fifty years old, coming to her cabin for his reading lesson and accusing her, a gray-haired lady, of being interested in another man. No! She wiped away the absurd vision. He must accept her as she was, and if he thought she spent nights with men, then he must do so. He had to see she was Linnet Tyler and not Amy Trulock. A brief moment of panic swept her as she realized what her decision meant. Devon could be so angry he could walk away from her. She tried to tell herself that if he was that shallow a man then she was well rid of him. She laughed aloud at the absurdity of that statement, because she knew what she’d do if it came to losing Devon.

  The clearing came into view, and she realized there was smoke coming from the chimney of her little cabin. So short a time she had lived there, but how sweet a home it was. She picked up her skirts and ran to the door. She was out of breath when she entered, her back against the closed door, and she surveyed the little room. The fire burned brightly on the hearth, the floor had been swept and everything was tidy with none of the week’s dust she had expected.

  Four objects on the end of the table made her walk toward them. Her eyes blurred for a moment, both from relief and happiness, for they were four of Devon’s carved figures. She held the first one, feeling the curves, the delicate lines. She stared for a time before she realized the figure was an exact likeness of Agnes Emerson. Agnes stood with her shoulders thrust back, her energy and vitality felt even in the four inches of wood.

  Linnet quickly turned to the other carvings, curiosity eating her. The next figure was the four Stark twins in a circle, holding hands, their swirling skirts showing the motion of their bodies. The girls seemed to be identical, but Linnet knew instantly which girl was Sarah. She smiled, fascinated by the carving.

  The next sculpture was easy to recognize. Doll and Gaylon sat on a bench, Gaylon bent over, whittling a stick, Doll with eyes alight, his mouth open in laughter.

  The last work puzzled Linnet. It was a young girl looking down at Jessie Tucker, Jessie’s pockets bulging, but Linnet did not recognize the girl and thought immediately of Amy Trulock. The girl had a slight smile on her face and looked as if nothing else in the world mattered except whatever Jessie was saying. Linnet didn’t particularly care for a statue of Amy Trulock, but she loved the other three. She lovingly set them on the mantel, the one of Jessie and the girl a little apart, and all day, as she kneaded bread, peeled vegetables, filled the box with more firewood, she looked at them, was reassured by them.

  The evening light was fading, and Linnet nervously smoothed her skirt and hair as she opened the door to the knock. Devon stood there and she stared up at him for a moment, unable to speak.

  “You go
nna let me freeze out here or you gonna let me in?” He smiled at her and she stepped back.

  “Of course, please come in.”

  He walked past her and looked about the cabin. “You find ever’thin’ all right when you got back?”

  She went to stir the stew in the pot over the fire. Devon was acting as if she’d been visiting relatives. “Yes.” She smiled. “Everything was perfect. Thank you for taking care of the cabin, and especially for these.” Her hand lightly touched the three figures, stopping before the last one.

  Devon saw the gesture and he had a hurt look in his eyes. He came to stand beside her and lifted the fourth sculpture, holding it lightly. “You don’t like this one?” he asked quietly.

  “I…Well, yes, it is very nice,” she said hesitantly.

  “Jessie wasn’t so easy, his face changes all the time, but you were real easy.”

  She stopped in the middle of setting the table. “Me?” she asked incredulously.

  Devon looked at her in surprise. “Maybe I didn’t get you so good. You didn’t know it was you?”

  She put the plate down and took the statue from him, studying the girl. She had no idea she looked like that, so young, so naive. “No, I didn’t know it was me,” she said quietly as she looked up at Devon.

  He grinned and noticed the way her fingers curled around the dark wood. He swung a long leg over the bench. “I’m ready to eat. Gaylon tried to kill me with his cookin’ while you was gone.”

  As she served him enormous helpings of everything, she realized he was going to ignore the whole incident with Cord. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry.

  “Who’d you think it was?” he asked through mouthfuls. “Ain’t nobody else here looks like that.”

  “I…I didn’t know. I thought she was someone you had…known another time.”

  He frowned. “You’re not a very good liar.”

  There was silence between them. “Devon, I want to tell you…”