The Drifter

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by Susan Wiggs


  They went inside, hearing a whir of wings as a thrush fled through the window. The mossy smell of the woods permeated everything. Making a heap of ancient tinder, Jackson lit a fire in the grate. Within moments, a big half-burned log caught and the flames danced, creating a cozy atmosphere as rain spattered the roof.

  He spread one of the blankets in front of the hearth. Leah sat down, hugging her knees to her chest and staring at the flames. Jackson, in turn, stared at her. She was as dark and lovely as the sunset, deeply contemplative as she sat motionless. He lifted his finger, traced it from her temple down to her jaw, her chin; then he turned her face toward him.

  “Leah. You know why I brought you here.”

  “To test the schooner. To see how she runs and to check that cave.”

  To Jackson’s surprise, he felt nervous, too. He didn’t want to hurt her. God, he didn’t. But he didn’t know how to avoid it. “I could have done that without you,” he admitted. “But I wanted to bring you here—” he kept hold of her chin so she wouldn’t look away “—to make love to you. These days, that’s pretty much all I think about, Doc.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I mean it, Leah. Can’t you tell I mean it?” He took her hand and guided it down to touch him. Her eyes flared wide and her lips parted, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He leaned forward and kissed her more roughly than he’d planned because the urgency inside him kept trying to claw its way out. She kissed him back just as fiercely, her hands pulling at his clothing. He forced himself to slacken his hold on her, to slow down. He pressed her to the blanket, fanning her hair out around her face. “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “We don’t have to hurry.” He lifted his head a little to glance out the door. “The rain’s going to go on all afternoon. It’s no fun sailing home in the rain.”

  “What if we get stuck here all night?”

  He bent to nibble her neck. The texture of her skin was like silk, but softer, more giving. “That’d be a damned shame. I’d be forced to keep you here and do this all night long.”

  “Do what?”

  He slipped his finger up her thigh. “This.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “And...this.” He moved his hand in a pulsing rhythm. She rewarded him with a small sound of passion, a shifting of her hips on the blanket.

  He sat up and undressed her garment by garment, stopping to kiss the places he bared and pausing to hastily discard his own clothes. He lingered over her breasts, cupping the pale smoothness in his hands and then bending low to taste her until she arched helplessly toward him. Then he moved on, turning her over, massaging her back and kissing the nape of her neck and then pushing her legs apart to enter her, pulling her up beneath him and using his hands to make her cry out in dizzy surprise. When she spasmed to climax, he forced himself to wait. He turned her back and took her in his arms, letting her whimper and cling to him in a way he found curiously touching. With barely a pause, he started making love to her again, caressing her breasts and belly until she writhed against him.

  “Enough,” she whispered.

  “It’s never enough,” he said, lowering his head, kissing her breasts. “I can’t get enough of you.”

  “But I—”

  He kept kissing her. His hand cupped her thigh, slid suggestively upward.

  “I—”

  “Hush. I tried to do this the first time we came here. You’re not going to talk me out of it now.”

  He braced himself above her, hearing the swish of rain outside and the hiss of blood in his ears, and just before he plunged into her, he smiled. He could make her stop thinking, drive her mindless with desire and anticipation and, finally, ecstasy. He could feel the latent ripples of the pleasure they’d just shared, and like gathering waves, the strength of them revived him, and the passion started to happen all over again.

  Until Leah, he would not have thought himself capable of loving a woman so long and so well. Because, he now knew, with Leah it was more than just a physical affair. His heart was engaged. His mind and his soul. It was a new experience for him. With Leah, he felt a oneness that was completely strange. He didn’t understand it, didn’t know what it meant, but she lifted him up, drew him close to a light source he’d never seen before. He saw it now, covering her upraised hands with his palms, then weaving their fingers together in a tight, fierce bond. She brought him up and over in a long, drawn-out moment that passed far too quickly. He lowered himself, blanketing her body with his, feeling the warmth of the fire on one side and burying his face in her silky dark hair.

  “Ah, Leah. You’re so soft. So damned soft.”

  She lay quiet, and eventually he left her, then drew a second blanket over them and cushioned her head on his shoulder. “We should go back,” she murmured sleepily.

  “Yeah, we should.”

  But they didn’t. They drifted off to sleep for a time, awakened to the rain again, made love and then lay holding each other until the fire died to embers. As the feeble glow from the hearth wavered to nothingness, Jackson knew he had to quit putting off the inevitable.

  “Leah.” His throat felt harsh with what he was about to say.

  “Mmm?”

  “Honey, I have to leave.”

  “But it’s still raining—”

  “I mean for good.”

  She didn’t move, but he felt a shifting between them, a chill, a stiffening. A long silence stretched out the tension. Then she said, “Where are you going? And why now?”

  “I’ve been here too damned long. Best I disappear before trouble finds me.”

  “What makes you so certain trouble will find you?”

  “Trust me, I know. If it was just me, I wouldn’t much care, but I’m thinking of you. I don’t want to destroy the life you worked so hard to build here. I won’t do that to you. I won’t take that risk.”

  “What if I want you to?”

  “Believe me, honey, you don’t.”

  “You are like the lightning,” she said bleakly. “Don’t deny it. You never strike in the same place.”

  “I can’t be something I’m not, Leah. I can’t be the sort of man you need.”

  She extracted herself from his embrace. Matter-of-factly, without any false modesty, she stood and put on her clothes with unhurried movements. He would always think of her like this—strong, slender limbs and creamy skin, a natural grace and assurance to every movement.

  This was harder, he decided, than tears and hysteria. He had no idea how to cope with this dignity. He fumbled into his clothes. “Leah,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I never asked for promises, Jackson,” she said. “I never asked you to stay.”

  But if I could, would you want me? He wouldn’t let himself ask it aloud.

  He admired the fluid economy of her movements. She was so unaffected. So pretty, with her round, dark-tipped breasts and her brown eyes. It was a daily amazement to him that men didn’t line up to call on her, didn’t beg for her favors like dogs after scraps.

  They were afraid, he thought. Afraid of her mind, afraid they didn’t have what she wanted. And, he thought in selfish gratitude, they didn’t.

  The rain had stopped and late sunshine shot through the glistening trees. The lowering daylight outlined her profile as she bent to draw on her stocking. In that moment, as he watched her do something so simple yet so precious to him, his heart filled and the words came up through him, unstoppable, not waiting to be thought out. “Come with me, Leah.”

  She froze. He recognized that complete stillness; he knew her mind was working like pistons in a steam engine. And he knew he’d just made a huge mistake.

  “Leave my practice? My home? Just pick up and go?”

  “You said you’d take a risk.”

  She nodded. �
��Perhaps I would. But what exactly are you offering me?”

  My heart. But he panicked and didn’t say it. Such words held a promise he couldn’t keep. “Honey, it was a bad idea. But seeing you like this—” his gaze tracked over her stockinged leg “—has me thinking with something other than my head.”

  Instead of being offended, she turned to face him, her gaze as direct as the summer sun. “Do you love me, Jackson?”

  There it was. The big test. His big chance. She was telling him what she needed from him; the one thing that could make her follow him anywhere. Away from here. Into the sunset.

  With a grin that usually worked on her, he held out his arms. “Leah, come here.”

  She stood rigid, her hands clenched at her sides. “Answer the question, Jackson.”

  He couldn’t lie to her and he couldn’t tell her the truth. So he dropped his arms and said, “How the hell is someone like me supposed to love anybody?” Before she could comment, he added, “Leah, no matter what I feel for you, I can’t give you what you already have—you’re among people you can care for. Whether or not they show you the proper respect doesn’t seem to matter, but you need them as much as they need you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  He crossed the room and took her gently by the shoulders. “I dare you to deny it. I dare you to say it isn’t so.”

  She dropped her gaze, giving him a sweet-sad smile that tore at his heart. “You know me well, Jackson. We’d better get back.”

  “I’ll miss you,” he said, taking her face between his hands and kissing her hard and deeply as if to imprint himself upon her. He wanted to say a lot more. He wanted to ask her to forgive him, to wait for him, to hold out the hope that one day he’d come back to her, a redeemed man who would fit into a place like Coupeville.

  I love you. Say it, he urged himself. Three simple words. But he couldn’t do that to Leah, couldn’t give her a promise he’d never keep. Perhaps some knight in shining armor would find her one day, a respectable man who could give her everything she needed without ripping apart her life.

  As they left the forest house behind, he looked back once, and a bleak feeling came over him. He had felt this queasy emptiness only one other time in his life. He had been five years old, told to sit quietly on the stoop of St. Ignatius in Chicago while he watched his mother walk out of his life forever.

  Since then, he always made sure he did the leaving, not the other way around. But he’d never known this feeling before. Never known it hurt just as much to leave as to be left behind.

  * * *

  Come with me, Leah. The memory of Jackson’s words—whether he meant them or not—haunted her all during the short voyage back to the harbor. The waves slapping the hull echoed the phrase. The wind, pushing at the sails, whispered it through the rigging of the schooner.

  In a canvas chair on the foredeck, she sat silent because she knew if she spoke she would say, “Yes, yes, take me with you.”

  But she was too practical. She knew he didn’t mean it. They would always have this fire between them, but eventually the pleasure would not be enough, not without the full commitment of his love. And he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—give her that. That was what her practical side told her.

  She told herself she’d get used to his absence. But her impractical side, the side that worshiped Jackson T. Underhill, watched him working the sail and holding the wheel, knew she would love him until the end of time. He had no idea how magnificent he looked with his shirt open, painted by the colors of the sunset, the sea rising at his back. If she could be certain of his love, she would follow him anywhere.

  She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the canvas chair. Missionaries, she thought wildly. They could be missionaries. The natives of the Sandwich Islands needed help. They died like flies, ravaged by white men’s diseases. She might be able to help them.

  Would he take her there? Would he settle down?

  She knew better than to ask him. He had only been here a short time, and already he couldn’t wait to leave.

  Ah, but if he knew how little a nudge she needed to say yes.

  They sailed into the harbor and she helped him take in the sails and tie up. Davy Morgan, watching from the harbormaster’s office, gave her a thumbs-up sign of approval. The westering sun spread a pink glow over the town and distant tree-topped bluffs.

  She and Jackson walked up through the village. At the Coupeville cash store, she paused to look in the display window.

  “See anything you like?” he asked.

  “The globe,” she admitted. “I’ve had my eye on it for a while. It was hand painted in Venice.” She gazed at the enameled orb, whimsically designed with faces in the clouds and sea serpents in the oceans. Then she shrugged and moved on. “But I’d just as soon enjoy it in a shop window. I can’t think what use I’d ever have for a painted globe.”

  * * *

  It took Leah many long, sleepless hours to reach her decision. Just when she was about to admit Jackson was right about her commitment to her life here and her practice on the island, she came to a realization that would change everything.

  For her, at least. It remained to be seen if Jackson could be swayed.

  She looked around the quiet, orderly room and felt a shiver of apprehension. Then she squared her shoulders. Who would miss her after all, except perhaps Bowie and Iona? Those two were young, and despite their disabilities, they would get on better than most because they had one thing in abundance—a sense that they were exactly where they belonged.

  She would travel light. Her medical bag, of course—she never went anywhere without that. She filled a valise with just a few things. She hesitated before a small framed photograph of herself with her father standing on the wooden walkway in Atlantic City. She wore her customary worried smile, and he wore his usual chilly hauteur.

  “No,” she said aloud, turning from the photo. “That part of me stays here.” She felt good about the decision. She was going on a voyage to discover who she was. Who she’d been in the past had no place on this journey.

  She was going away with Jackson. She pictured his face when she told him her decision. Would he feel as light with joy as she did? She closed her eyes, thinking of the way she would make love to him with passionate intensity, and imagining the two of them living on some unspoiled tropical isle. But was that the real dream? Was it the life that would fulfill and sustain them forever? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t let it matter.

  A secret smile curved her mouth. Correction, she told herself. It would not just be the two of them.

  Her hand stole down over her stomach. She had suspected it for a week or two; this morning she was sure. She was going to have Jackson’s baby.

  Fourteen

  Jackson awakened to the soft thump of waves against the hull of the Teatime. He lay still for a moment, gazing up at the curved stern end of the stateroom. The pink light of a summer dawn glimmered through the thick panes of bottle glass.

  He’d been dreaming of Leah—that came as no surprise. He always dreamed of Leah lately. She consumed him, obsessed him, haunted him.

  And he had to tell her goodbye.

  Feeling lonely already, he rose and went to wash up, then looked longingly at the coffeepot. He had to leave. He’d delayed long enough. It was time to weigh anchor. He thought of the adventure novels he used to read as a boy, those tales of danger and excitement he used to dream about.

  Finally, he was pursuing his dream. He had a boat of his own, fair weather and a brisk summer wind, and he was about to embark on an adventure he’d dreamed about all his life.

  So why didn’t he feel more eager to get on with it?

  “Stupid question,” he muttered to himself. He knew damned well why. Because of a woman.

  Women. In one way or another,
they’d made his life hell from the very beginning. His mother, abandoning him on a filthy doorstep. Carrie, leading him on a chase that had taken him years to finish. And now Leah, seeing into his heart with a velvet-soft gaze...

  He would be better off without anyone, he told himself as he washed and shaved, preparing to walk into town one last time. He was a fool to even consider uprooting Leah from this place she called home and taking her to a destination he couldn’t even name.

  She loved him, yes, he knew that. Knew it with no vanity or pride, a mere knowledge of fact. But she needed her medical practice, too. Being a physician sustained her, fulfilled her, and he wasn’t about to take her away from all that. He couldn’t give her that sort of fulfillment. Couldn’t give her much of anything other than his heart. And who the hell would want that? It was the ultimate vanity to think sailing off with him could take the place of saving lives, bringing babies into the world, healing the sick.

  Jackson walked to the head of the landing and leaned against a hitch rail. Wisps of smoke arose from the Indian shake houses along the water across Penn Cove. Morning light gilded the town as shopkeepers and fishermen began to stir along Front Street. Deputy MacPhail stood outside the sheriff’s office with its adjacent stone jailhouse, lighting a cheroot. He waved nonchalantly at Jackson, then stepped inside.

  A moment later, Lemuel St. Croix came out. He wore a new black felt fedora, and a gold watch chain caught the sunlight as it dangled from the pocket of his waistcoat.

  “Morning, Jackson,” he said, unsmiling.

  “Sheriff,” Jackson said, not smiling, either. It was no coincidence that Lemuel would come out when Jackson appeared—was it? He felt as if every nerve had caught fire. Suspicion prickled like a rash over his neck. He watched St. Croix’s hands. If they so much as flickered toward the tooled gun belt, Jackson knew he was a goner. This town and what he’d found here had changed him. His own gun was no longer the first thing he put on in the morning and the last thing he took off at night. “Everything okay with you?” he asked conversationally.

 

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