Christie

by Veronica Sattler

  Jesse stared into the fire for a long while without answering. At last, he spoke.

  "There was someone . . . once. I met her the summer I was twenty-five. . . . She had hair the color of a copper penny, and eyes like warm brown sherry. . . . When I met her on her parents' estate, I didn't realize she was merely sixteen. Too young to wed, her parents said—and I reluctantly agreed, promising to wait at least a year. . . ."

  He grew quiet, and Christie sensed this was difficult for him. At length, he continued.

  "During the year, we exchanged letters, each more full of love than the last, and then, one day, a letter came, but in her father's hand, not hers. It was not in her hand because she could no longer write—or laugh, or cry, or breathe the sweet air. She had died that spring—of the smallpox."

  The room grew very still, and except for the crackling of the wood in the fire, there was no sound until finally, some minutes later, Jesse turned to face her. His face still bore some traces of pain as he spoke.

  "And so, Christie, if at times I seem to be a little overbearing in urging you to take life by the horns and contend with it, it is because I have felt the bite of those horns, that came from waiting when I should have acted."

  "You would have taken just that one year with her?" she questioned softly.

  "Yes! Or a month, even a week! At least we'd have given our love some life! Ah, Christie, that's why sometimes, when I see others, like Garrett, throwing their lives away when they should be tasting, relishing, every sacred minute, I want to reach out to them, tell them—"

  "Like Garrett. And like me?" she asked soberly.

  "Garrett, more than anyone. You? Not if you refuse to let it happen, Christie. You're very young yet. And I see in you someone capable of living life in all its varied depths and richness. You have that kind of a spirit. And I'm sure it was largely that which Garrett saw also, although he may not realize it yet.

  So, grab hold of those horns, Christie, and don't let go!"

  With that, he gave her a quick hug about the shoulders, and saying he had something to attend to, left the room.

  Charles reached Riverlea a few days before Christmas, arriving, unannounced, in the unusually warm, late afternoon, just as Jesse led Thunder up the path to visit with Christie in the garden. The two men introduced themselves to each other, and then, at Jesse's suggestion, Charles was given the big horse to take to his daughter.

  So it was, that as Christie turned to pour tea, her back to the path as she heard Thunder's approach, she asked, "Would you like your tea now, Jesse?" And the low male baritone that answered said, "Jesse will be along shortly, darlin'', but you can fix me a cup with the usual two sugars." With a squeal, she dropped the cup she was holding, letting it crash to the ground, as she whirled and ran to her father's open arms; and for several minutes, there was only laughter, and embracing, and more than a few happy tears.

  Finally, when they had each calmed sufficiently to speak, Charles withdrew a pace and looked at her, and his face grew very still.

  "So this was your reason?" he asked softly. "Oh, thank God!" he breathed, again holding her in a tight embrace. "Christie, darlin', you had me so worried!-1 thought it must be something terrible! And now, to my complete delight, I find you are about to make me a grandfather!"

  Christie's sigh of relief was blatantly audible, and the tears that followed, a welcome release.

  "Oh, Father, I love you so very much!" she cried. "You won't mind having a grandchild who might never see his father?"

  "All the more reason he'll need his grandfather, love! As for his father, let's not go making assumptions before all our facts are in. But I don't want to talk about that just now. Let's talk about you! When is the babe due? How do you feel? What's Jesse Randall like? Looks like a very likable fellow from what I've seen already. . . ."

  And so, with a host of such questions to answer, and some of her own to ask, daughter sat down with father; more than an hour passed before Jesse joined them, and the three went happily to dinner.

  Chapter Twenty One

  A few nights later, on Christmas Eve, with the house a hubbub of merry activity, Jesse was in the large entry foyer, wrestling with a huge yule log he had just carried in. Having summoned Lula, he had just sent her to fetch Christie, who had asked that she be allowed to join him in helping to decorate the fireplace where it was to be installed. It had been raining, and Jesse was just wondering how long it might take for the wood to dry out again, when the front door swung open, and there, in the entryway, stood a wet and dripping Garrett Randall.

  "Merry Christmas, Jess!" He grinned.

  "Merry Christmas, yourself, you wretched nomad!" chuckled Jesse, after the second's recovery he had required to adjust to his brother's surprise arrival. "You might have let a man know you were coming. Wait'll I catch hold of Carlisle for not warning me I'd be saddled with your noble presence again!"

  "I didn't stop at Carlisle's this time," said Garrett, removing the dripping coat he wore. "Took straight off for Riverlea so I could make it in time for—"

  Lula was just making the bend in the staircase. "She says she'll be right along, Mr. Jesse. She just needs a minute to finish one last garland and—oh, Lord—"

  Garrett's eyes narrowed, becoming green slits, and the muscles of his jaw went tight and rigid, but his voice remained frighteningly quiet as he asked, "Where is she?"

  "Wait a minute, Garrett," said Jesse. "Before you see anybody, there are some things you ought to know—"

  "I said, where is she? Where is my wife?"

  The last word was ground out between clenched jaws, its intonation ominous and threatening.

  At that moment, her arms full of green garlands hung with clusters of red berries, Christie came sailing toward the top of the stairs, pausing in disbelief at the top step as she heard her brother-in-law speak.

  "Look, Garrett, I think you ought to know Christie's here at my invitation and, as such, she enjoys my complete protection—" He paused as he saw the green eyes dart to the head of the stairs, the face go hard and colder than before.

  As their eyes met, Christie froze, dropping the large armful of garlands she carried and leaving Garrett an unobstructed view of her protruding abdomen.

  Taking a step forward, Garrett studied her for a long moment, turned to glance at his brother, then back at her, not speaking a word. Finally, turning toward Jesse again, a cruel, mirthless smile on his lips, he spoke, his voice bitterly icy.

  "An appropriate term, 'protection,' brother. It couldn't have taken you too long to become my wife's 'protector,' I see. The swelling of your mark of ownership is all too apparent."

  "Garrett, for God's sake, what are you talking about?" asked Jesse, concern in his voice. "Christie is here because she—"

  "Because she carries your bastard!" snarled Garrett.

  At her husband's words, Christie had slumped with despair over the highly polished banister, and because his own eyes had followed her movements, eager to see the hurt she might show at his words, both missed the sudden movement at Garrett's side, as an angry fist shot through the air and connected with his jaw, sending his huge form toppling to the floor.

  "There are limits, Brother," said a quiet voice as Jesse observed the unconscious body lying before him at the base of the stairs. But his attention was now on Christie as she silently pushed Lula away and ran for her room.

  Bounding up the stairs after her, Jesse cried, "Lula, you attend to him if he needs it! I'll go after Christie!"

  He caught up with her at the door to her room, and together they entered, whereupon Christie headed straight for the large highboy, opening a drawer to remove some of her clothes. Dry-eyed and silent, she took them to the bed and then turned to face Jesse.

  "You'll have someone fetch my bags, Jesse?"

  "Christie, no! You cannot run away again. Please sit down for a moment. Think about what you're doing."

  She looked at him for a moment, her face a portrait in pain, and at last the
tears came, welling up in huge sobs which racked her whole body as she threw herself into his arms.

  "Oh, Jesse, it was a mistake, a mistake to ever stay here, to hope that—oh, I don't know what, but whatever hopes I had, they are dashed to fragments now." She sobbed. "I must leave! Can't you see—"

  "It's running away again, Christie. Running away, instead of grabbing the horns—"

  "No, Jesse. I don't think so," she said, looking up at him through her tears. "This time I must leave because of others, not because of myself. Don't you see? My love for him has brought enough pain into my own life as well as discomfort to his—and my father's. But now it threatens to bring dissension between the two of you! I cannot allow that, Jesse. I must not threaten the love between you two brothers!"

  "And if I tell you that, despite everything looking as black as it does now, I believe that won't happen, that the bond between Garrett and me goes deeper than his rage of the moment, will you listen and believe what I say? I know my brother. He may have said some unspeakable things just now, but it's why he said them that gives me faith in what the future may hold for the two of you—for all of us."

  "Faith! How?"

  "Yes, faith! Christie, I saw my brother's face tonight; I saw his eyes as they were unguarded for a moment, and what I saw there was hurt and—yes, pain. Those are things I long assumed not to exist for him any longer, to lie dead and buried with the events of twenty years ago! But now I know they're not. You, Christie, have taught him to feel again. And that means, if he can be hurt by a woman, he can love again, too. Now," he added, taking her gently by the shoulders and looking down into her uncertain face, "isn't that worth staying for?"

  Gnawing doubt fought with dawning hope as indecision marked Christie's face. Her feelings at first seeing him again had been chaotically unsettling, far more so than she had ever prepared herself for in all these lonely months without him. As it was, the mere sound of his voice, his tall, heart-stopping presence there in the entryway, had instantly swept her back to that earlier time, those ephemeral, fleeting moments when they had been briefly happy, and she had been prepared to run to him, begging a chance to try again, to love him even in the face of his inability to love her back, if only they could be together. But in seconds he had arrested that blind, momentary hope that such things could ever be, and she had then resolved to leave and to end their tortured relationship.

  Now at Jesse's words, the tug of hope was once again assaulting her heartstrings, and she wondered how much more they could bear of such conflicting pulls before they finally snapped and broke.

  At last she said, "I hope you're right, Jesse. God knows, you've got to be right! I—I'll stay."

  Lula's dark face alternately shimmered and faded, but slowly came into focus as Garrett regained consciousness.

  "Your brother's fist sure knows its business," murmured Lula as she wrung out a cold towel and placed it over his bruised jaw.

  Wincing as he raised himself to a sitting position, Garrett threw her a shriveling look.

  "You will not call him 'brother' to my face again, woman. Understand?"

  "Captain Randall, please, you can't mean what you just said. That baby your wife's carrying—"

  "Enough, Lula! It seems that while your speech has altered, clearly your loyalties haven't. I'll hear no more of my wife or her bastard, either!"

  He rose unsteadily to his feet and went to retrieve his coat where it lay on a chest near the door.

  "But, Captain, the baby's coming in March! You can't be thinking it belongs to anyone but—"

  "Silence your tongue or suffer the consequences, woman!" he snarled. "I've had my fill of female lies!"

  Then, in one stride, he reached the door and opened it before turning briefly in her direction.

  "I'm leaving. If anyone needs to reach me, a message may be sent through Carlisle's office."

  And turning once more, he stepped through the door, slammed it shut, and was gone.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The days of the new year passed as winter spun its gray, rainy course in the Carolinas, and with the coming of spring, as Christie's time drew near, bits of color and greenery began to emerge and lend hope to the dreary landscape.

  Word came that Garrett was living in Charleston, and when Jesse learned he had taken lodgings at Lucille Baker's "Setting Sun," a lavish brothel on the western end of the city, he did not mention it to anyone.

  Charles stayed on at Riverlea, sending a message to Barnaby Rutledge to inform him of the current state of things and to ask him to take care of their affairs in his absence. He found himself extremely apprehensive about the coming birth of the child, owing to his own memories of Christie's arrival at the cost of Jennifer's life, and, realizing this, through what seemed to her an increased sensitivity to others, Christie devoted much of her energy toward attempts at allaying his fears.

  Lula and Laughing Bear gave signs of moving toward a formal cementing of their relationship, although little was said about the exact form that would take. Not the least happy over this was Jasper, who began to be seen frequently in the company of the Indian, or the brave and his mother. Sometimes the three of them would take an excursion into the mountains of Cherokee country, at others the red man taught the boy to ride, fish, and hunt in the ways of his people. Lula herself reached a competent degree of proficiency at riding and caring for horses, and while she loudly made it known she would never love the beasts, there appeared a curiously proud gleam in her eyes whenever she sat astride the perky little mare she called "Hoss-Sense," her gift from Laughing Bear.

  One evening in early March, as Christie was sitting with Jesse and Charles in the informal parlor, the discussion turned to a topic of interest to all of them—horses.

  "Did you ever find that blooded stud with strong Arabian lines to use in your breeding program?" asked Charles. He sat in a tall comb-back Windsor armchair near the fire, drawing thoughtfully on a pipe as he spoke.

  "No, believe it or not," answered Jesse, stretching his long legs toward the fire from his seat on the settle next to Christie. "With my brother's absence, I'm afraid there's been an appalling lack of thought put to that business, and you remind me of how remiss I've been in this. There was a black for sale upriver from here last summer, but he's long gone, and, to tell the truth, I've no other prospects lined up."

  A mischievous twinkle in her eye, Christie looked askance at her father, saying, "Once the babe arrives, I don't suppose I'll have as much time to go riding, and I hate to see Thunder standing around doing nothing. Of course, Jesse, you've been good enough to keep him exercised for me during these months of my—limited activity—but don't you think—"

  "Christianna Marcy, you tenacious little wench, you wouldn't be hinting about breeding that stallion of yours again, now, would you?" queried Charles.

  "Well," replied Christie, "it's just that Jesse was telling me only yesterday, that his mare, Gypsy, is coming into season soon, and I've had a good look at her lines, and—"

  "And you were just thinking that mayhap you could persuade me to change my mind about Thunder," finished Charles.

  "Oh, Father, think of the exciting possibilities!" she said, animation coloring her voice. "Take the match of Thunder with Gypsy, for example. You've not looked at her that closely, I know. As a matter of fact, I had planned to take you on a tour past her stall this morning, but this miserable backache prevented it. Perhaps, tomorrow, if you'll just take a careful look at her—"

  Suddenly, her face gone pale, she bent forward, clutching the tiny gown she had been embroidering.

  "Christie! What is it? Are you—?"

  "Is it the babe coming?" asked Jesse, interrupting quietly when he heard the alarm in her father's voice.

  "I—I think so," she answered, her words coming out short and breathless, "although I've been told the early pains aren't too severe, this one," she added, straightening, "was hardly what I'd call a trifle."

  "I'll call Mattie," said Jesse, turn
ing toward her to help her up. "But first, let's get you upstairs."

  "What about the midwife?" asked Charles, his own face ashen, "or the doctor—maybe a doctor would be best."

  "Nonsense, Father," said Christie, standing now, and leaning on Jesse's arm. "Mistress Andrews lives on a neighboring farm, and the doctor is miles away. Besides, it's all been planned. Now, would you please fetch Lula for me, Father?"

  "Of course, of course," said Charles, hastening to do her bidding, "but I still think a doctor standing by cannot do any harm," he called over his shoulder as he left the room.

  When he had gone, Christie bit her lip as she clung to Jesse's arm, her knuckles white on his sleeve.

  "Christie?" asked Jesse. "Are you—?"

  Then, seeing the pain was too great for her to answer, he swung his arm under her and began to carry her swiftly toward the stairs at the end of the room.

  "Mattie!" he yelled, as the white-haired woman appeared in the doorway Charles had just gone through. "Alert everyone. Mistress Randall's gone into labor!"

  Jesse carried her to her room as the house became a throbbing swarm of activity. Leaving her there with Lula while he sent for the midwife, he then went to check on Charles who, he suspected, might need every bit as much tending as his daughter before this night was over.

  Mistress Andrews arrived two hours later and joined Lula in the vigil, which was expected to last for many hours yet, and Jesse took Charles to his study, where he plied him liberally with brandy and small talk.