"Mealtime's fer eatin', outlander," she finally said and sopped up meat juice with a piece of cornbread. "Thar's a place fer talkin', and the table ain't it."
"But conversation can make a meal more pleasurable. Food should be enjoyed at a leisurely pace. Savored."
"You eat the way you want, and leave me to eat the way I want. I enjoy my meals jist fine."
"Well, at any rate, thank you for the breakfast. I don't think I've ever had meat as tender as that was."
"Bahr meat allus eats good iffen you cook it right."
Saxon glanced at his empty plate, the meat he'd eaten suddenly heavy in his stomach. "Why didn't you tell me it was bear? I thought it was—well I don't know what I thought it was, but I had no idea it was bear!"
She picked at her teeth with her nail. "Didn't think it'd differ. Ain't bahr meat good enough fer a outlander?"
"Why do you keep calling me that?"
"It's what you are, ain't it?" she answered smoothly.
"Yes, but the way you say it makes it sound like it's an undesirable thing to be."
Chickadee leaned back in her chair and studied him. Again, her insides seemed to coil. "What's it like, a-bein' a outlander? You live in a big, fancy city?"
"I live in Boston," he replied, scrutinizing her just as blatantly. "And I don't think there's any way to define what an outlander is. It's all a matter of what you're used to."
"You been around the world? You ever seed a real Chinaman?" She leaned forward expectantly.
Saxon watched her breasts strain against the closing of her shirt. "I've seen Chinese people. Does China interest you?"
"What about Mexicans? You seed them too?"
"Yes, I've seen Mexicans too."
"You ever shooted a elephant?"
Saxon grinned. "Why would I want to do that?"
"Fer them teeth. I seed a paintin' o' one one time, and I ain't never fergot them long white teeth that stick outen thur mouths. Wonder how many bullets it'd take to brang one of 'em down?"
"Is that all you ever think about? Killing things?"
Chickadee pondered his question, her hand absently rubbing Khan's head. "I ain't never kilt nothin' that didn't insist on it. I kill to eat or to keep from a-bein' et mysef. I like them elephants' teeth, but I wouldn't really shoot one jist fer that. I ain't much fer people who hunt fer the sport of it. Feels real wrong to me."
Saxon watched Khan lay his huge head on Chickadee's dainty lap. "I wasn't aware white wolves lived here."
"Khan's from Canada. A while back thur was this trapper who come up here. Said he'd been up in Canada and shooted a wolf thar. Felt bad about it when he seed her babies come a-runnin' out to her. One run away, but Khan stayed by his mama. When that trapper come here, he give him to me. Said he couldn't take keer o' him no more."
"How did you come up with his name?"
"Didn't. The trapper did. I woulda named him snow on account o' he blends right in with the snow."
"Khan suits him better. It's a much more noble-sounding name than Snow." Saxon continued to watch her tanned fingers slip in and out of the thick fur on Khan's neck and couldn't help wondering how those same fingers would feel playing through his own hair.
"His middle name's Snow," she decided quite suddenly, determined to make her preference clear to Saxon. "Khan Snow McBride. Onliest family I got,"
"What happened to your parents?"
Chickadee's features clouded. "Mama died four years ago. Tuk real sick, and not even all them yarbs Betty Jane used could keep the breath from a-slackin' in her throat. Never did even find out what ailed her."
Saxon reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. He realized he liked holding it, so he rubbed his thumb over it in a slow, light caress. "I'm sorry. It must have been hard for you."
Her hand began to perspire in his. "I managed. Betty Jane and George Franklin looked after me till I growed."
"You lived with them?"
"Lived right here. I was only thirteen, but I knowed how to take keer o' mysef. Betty Jane did thangs like a-makin' my clothes and soap, but I fed mysef."
"What about your father?"
Her expression darkened, "His name's Barton Winslow, but I never knowed him. He was from up North. Maybe New York, but I ain't shore. Anyhow, he wandered up here a-lookin' fer gold in the streams, and Mama? Well, she tuk a heart-burnin' to him. Warn't no preacher-parson around, but up here a man's word's his bond, and Barton Winslow tole Mama he was gwine marry her. But when she was a-childin' with me? Well, he jist up and tuk off, a-takin' ever'thang Mama had. Even her little bit o' gold."
She cleared the table, her face still troubled. "I never knowed what Mama was like afore I was born, but Betty Jane says she was the happiest woman in these here parts. But after Barton Winslow left her, she was low in the mind. She was a good enough mama, but she didn't smile much that I can recall. One day I'm gwine find Barton Winslow and make him suffer the way he made Mama suffer."
"Murder is against the law, Chickadee."
"Didn't never say I'd kill the man. 'Course, never said I wouldn't, neither. Y'see, I got a mind to git out and see this country one day, Saxon. Ain't never gwine leave these hills ferever, but thur's a passel o' thangs I don't know nothin' about. And who knows? Maybe whilst I'm a-travelin', I'll come acrost ole Barton Winslow. The world's big, but thur's only so many places a man can hide."
Saxon folded his arms across his chest. Funny, he almost pitied this Barton Winslow. Like she said—there were only so many places a man could hide.
And woe unto the man who really angered Chickadee McBride.
*
Saxon spent the day alone in the cabin, Chickadee having gone out to do God only knew what. He'd wanted to go with her, but she was adamant that he stay and rest, and she stationed Khan at the door to make sure that's exactly what he did.
She left him a flask of the same potion Betty Jane had given him. When she returned he was asleep, the empty bottle still in his hand. "Cain't hold yore likker, Saxon Blackwell." She laughed to herself, and after starting supper she went back outside, Khan trotting behind her.
Saxon woke just in time to see her and the guard wolf leave. Having been imprisoned in the cabin all day, he seized the opportunity to escape. Not knowing where else to go, he followed Chickadee.
She stopped at a bubbling creek. Like a lover's hands, the mountain wind caressed her skin as she shed her clothes. Inhaling deeply of the earthy perfume of her woods, she tested the water, smiling when it bubbled around her toes.
Saxon crouched behind some brush and grappled for a thick stem when Chickadee's bareness was revealed to him. She wasn't the first nude woman he'd ever seen, but she was undoubtedly the most perfectly shaped one. There wasn't an extra ounce of flesh on her; her skin covered her form like a tight satin sheath.
As she bathed, Saxon tore his mind from her loveliness and thought about how well she fit in with her environment. This particular place, like Chickadee, was as yet untouched by encroaching civilization. With her mass of wild red hair, smattering of tawny freckles, emerald eyes, and untamed personality, she blended into this uncultivated paradise as well as any native animal.
She soon emerged from the stream and began to dress. Saxon hurried back to the cabin and was feigning sleep as she walked through the door. He watched through slitted eyelids. Her shirt was damp, and her breasts were wonderfully outlined. He let out a sleepy moan. "You're back."
"'Pears so."
"What's for dinner?"
"What you got a taste fer?"
He folded his arms beneath his head. "Lobster."
Her brow furrowed. "Ain't never heared of it, and what I ain't never heared of, I don't eat. We're a-havin' chicken and dumplin's."
Saxon ate heartily and wondered if it was Chickadee's cooking or the fresh mountain air that gave him such an appetite. "What did you do all day?" he asked.
"Chopped some wood fer Betty Jane and George Franklin, then tuk Khan up to whar we both like to go. We jist
set thar fer a spell afore we come back down and went to check on ole Widder Tucker. She's ailin', y'know."
"But you were gone all day. Is that all you did?"
"Is that all? It's a right fur piece up to whar me and Khan like to be. And wood choppin' ain't somethin' nobody can do in jist a few minutes. You ever chopped wood?"
A simple question, innocently asked, but it made him feel ashamed. "No, I never have."
"What do you do?"
He leaned back and thought of his fine Boston and New York offices. He was proud of the successes he'd made for Blackwell Enterprises but bitter that Araminta forced the work on him. He knew the satisfaction he gained from his accomplishments would be much sweeter if he were staying with the company of his own free will and not because Araminta chained him to it.
Still, his way of life would appear grand to Chickadee. And for some reason, he wanted to impress her. "I dabble in various ventures. My grandmother owns several businesses, and I help her run them."
She detected a sour note in his voice. Something was bothering this man. If she riled him, perhaps she'd find out what it was. "You don't really do nothin', do you?"
He scowled. "I just told you I—"
"What kinds o' businesses does yore granny have?"
Certain he was about to stagger her, Saxon made her wait a few moments before he answered. "She has a fleet of steamboats, an iron factory, a—"
"But you don't never go out and work on them boats. And you ain't never been in that fact'ry neither. Never dirtied yore hands with the real work that makes them businesses work fer you." She watched his face redden and prepared to go for the kill. "It's them workers you hire who make the money. Thur hands that bleed and blister——"
"But I run those damn businesses! Do you realize how much work is—"
"A-workin' with a pile o' papers ain't no real job." Her soft lips quivered with a restrained grin.
Saxon's ire rose. What the hell did she know about the business world? "Those piles of paper are very imp—"
"You go off to play in the mornin's. Them businesses ain't nothin but games people is allus a-tryin' to win. The winner is whoever has the mostest money in the end."
"Now see here, miss—"
"You ain't never done a lick o' hard work in yore whole life, Saxon Blackwell. Ain't never muscled up nothin' heavier'n that fancy saddle you ride on."
"I'll have you know that—"
"You fight in the War Amongst Us?"
Saxon snatched his fingers through his hair. Dammit! Why couldn't he seem to beat her at this match of wits? "Yes. I fought in the Civil War. Is that sort of work acceptable to you?"
Again, she grinned at his discomposure. "I tuk keer o' one o' them Yankees. He was bad hurt, and me and Betty Jane cured him. 'Course, I did the same thang fer a Confederate. I didn't take no sides. Heared tell lots o' people up here did though. Some sided with the South, and others jined up with the North. And some families was divided. The McGills? Well, one o' them boys weared blue, and the other weared gray. Sad story, that one. They both come home a-wantin' to visit thur mama, and when they seed each other, they drawed thur shootin'-arns and farred. The youngest died, and the oldest laid down on his brother and cried over what he done."
Saxon's anger dissipated. Sheer waste. That's what the war had been. "Did you have much trouble up here?"
"'Cept fer them two soldiers I tole you about, this place warn't bothered a'tall."
"You are rather alone up here. Why don't you live closer to a town?"
"Don't need much from no town. And ever' time I go to git bullets, salt, or sugar, I allus git made fun of. I don't let it bother me too much, but I git ill over it sometimes."
"You get sick?"
"Sick?"
"You said you get ill."
"Sick means sick and ill means agger-pervoked. Them folks make me ill on account o' thur so frio-minded."
Saxon hid his grin by rubbing the two-day growth of stubble on his face. He'd traveled through several mountain towns on his way up here and spoken with many of the people in them. But Chickadee was of a different breed altogether. Sure, she was a mountain person, just as they were, but in comparison she was half wild.
Well, she couldn't help it. She lived alone in near isolation, and losing her mother the way she had... She really did quite well considering no one had ever taught her the proper way to behave. From what he'd observed, Betty Jane and George Franklin had little control over her. Yes, Chickadee McBride was certainly an enigma.
But she was a delightful one, albeit a bit saucy.
She watched how his eyes sparkled when he was deep in thought and decided she could get used to looking into eyes like his. Strange. Eyes were eyes, the way she'd seen it. But no one else's eyes had ever made her feel this way. "I seed you a-watchin' me when I tuk my bath."
He wasn't sure he'd heard right. "What?"
"Saxon, when yore a-feelin' a mite stronger, I'm gwine larn you now to creep around these here woods jist as quiet-like as a Indian. You don't stand no chance a-tryin' to hide from nothin' as much racket as you make. Yore lucky I knowed it was you or else I'd a let Khan tar you up."
He didn't know whether to laugh or be embarrassed.
"You gwine sleep in the corner agin?" She took a drink of her water and swished it around her mouth.
Again, he resisted the temptation to laugh at her. She was so ill-mannered, but it was so entertaining to watch her. "Tell me something, young lady. Would you really have let me make love to you last night?"
"Nope."
He grinned broadly. "Then why did you say—"
"Knowed iffen I called yore bluff, you'd back down."
Chapter 3
Saxon tried to keep count of the days as they passed, but as they became weeks, the mountain tranquility eased his concern about time. And because he'd advised Araminta the turpentine research would take him months, he remained confident her greed would prevent her from doing Desdemona any harm.
Though he still tired more easily than usual, his wounds healed rapidly. But he didn't know whether it was his nature to heal quickly or if the magic mountain medicines had brought about his swift recovery.
Chickadee, never having been this close to a man before, didn't quite know how to take Saxon. His city ways often confused her, and she wondered about that melancholy, haunted look she saw in his eyes occasionally. The sight of him mesmerized her in a way she didn't understand. Many times she caught herself staring at him, quickly looking away when he gave her a knowing smile.
Because Saxon's strength was returning, they began taking long strolls along the winding paths. On one such stroll, Chickadee pointed to the sun-crowned mountain in the distance. "When I was a little girl, I used to thank them sunbeams over thar was God a-comin' down to earth," she said and sat on the ridge. Picking up a stick, she wrote in the dirt. "That's my name, Saxon. That trapper who give me Khan larnt me to write it."
Saxon sat and saw her childish scrawl and misspelled name. "You've never gone to school?"
"I reckon thur's a few schools around here, but thur too fur to git to ever'day. I'm too old now anyhow."
"You're never too old to learn. If you could go to school, what would you want to study?"
"I'd ask the teacher how to spell my real name."
"Chickadee isn't your real name?"
"You ever knowed a person named Chickadee fer real? Naw, Chickadee's only a name Mama used to call me. She said that the day I was born, thar was this little chickadee outside the winder jist a-sangin' its heart out. From then on, Mama called me Chickadee."
He smiled and reached for her twig. Their fingers touched, and they both let go of the stick as if it were on fire. Saxon had no idea what Chickadee was thinking, but he pondered the reaction he'd had to the touch of her finger. Such a simple, innocent touch, and yet it warmed him all over.
He looked back down at the twig, trying to remember what it was he had been planning to do with it. "What's your real name?"<
br />
His deep, melodic voice waltzed through her mind, its music causing those unfamiliar feelings to sing through her again. "Keely," she said, unaware she was whispering.
Her thickly fringed eyes held him captive. He tried and failed to think of even one porcelain-fine Bostonian woman who could compare to this freckled, enchanting girl beside him.
"Ain't you gwine write my real name?"
He forced his eyes from her face and concentrated on the task at hand. "Keely is a beautiful name. Wouldn't you rather me call you that?"
"Suit yoresef. I'll answer to either one." Careful not to touch his fingers again, she took the stick back from him and painstakingly copied what he'd written.
"What do you do for money, Keely?"
For a few moments she watched two blue jays frolic in the birch tree that shaded her. "Never need much money, but when I do, I sell sang."
"Sang? Is that some sort of animal skin?"
She lowered her head and giggled. "Lord o' mercy, Saxon. Sang ain't no animule. It's a plant! Smells good, the leaves grow in bunches o' five, and it's got little red berries. Got to be real keerful to get the roots."
"What's it used for?"
"Medicine. Heared tell they ship it over to China. Them China folks must want it somethin' fierce. I git a good price fer it. Come late summer I'll take you a-huntin' fer sang. I know whar it grows real good, and I'll take you thar iffen you promise not to tell nobody whar my spot is."
He smiled with sudden comprehension. Ginseng. That's what sang was.
Law, the man had a handsome smile, Chickadee mused. A lazy grin that was sort of teasing. It made her smile back at him. "And when tree leaves commence a-turnin' yaller, I go a-galaxin'. Galax has purty heart-shaped leaves and grows good under rock cliffs. I pack it in wet moss till I can git it to market."
"Do you know what galax is used for?"
The Barefoot Bride Page 4