The Drifter
Page 28
“What’s going on here?” she managed to ask.
“Sophie said you’ve never been courted.”
“Sophie talks too much.”
“I decided to show you what it’s like.”
“So this is courting,” she said.
“Like it?”
She took a bite of warm bread. “I think so. But aren’t we doing this out of sequence?”
“What do you mean?”
“I always thought the courtship came first. Then the seduction.” She lowered her voice, leaned forward across the table. “We’re already lovers, Jackson. It might be a little late for courtship.”
“I sure hope not.” He took a deep breath. Then he took a long drink of his sherry. “Leah.”
“Jackson.”
They both spoke at once. She laughed softly. “You make me nervous.”
“I could say the same, Doc.”
“What were you going to say?”
“Ladies first.”
She hesitated. More time. She needed more time to come up with the words to tell him she was pregnant. Because deep inside she was terrified that he’d look at her in shock, tell her he didn’t want a baby. “I defer to the gentleman.”
He put down his goblet and reached across the table for her hand. “Leah, I want to stay. I think there’s a way for me to—”
“You think I don’t understand what it’s like, being on the move all the time.” She realized she was babbling, but she couldn’t stop herself. “But I do, truly. And you’re right. It’s one of the truest things my father taught me. That you can’t stay longer than—”
“Leah, honey, I want to marry you.”
That did it. The flood tide of tears finally burst free. There was no warning, no preamble, not even for Leah herself. She simply started sobbing. She would have covered her face with her hands, but he held them fast.
He wanted to marry her. Jackson Underhill wanted to marry her. Just when she’d convinced herself that marriage was the last thing she could expect, the one thing she didn’t need, out of the blue came this stunning proposal, and it was too much. He hadn’t said he loved her. But that hardly mattered.
“Leah?” He got up and came around the table, sinking to one knee in front of her. “What are you crying for? Don’t you want to marry me?”
She swabbed her face with her napkin. “Yes.”
“So why’re you crying? A simple yes will do.”
“I’m afraid,” she said.
“Afraid of what? The murder charge?”
How could she tell him, how could she explain? She was terrified of being this happy. Because if it ever ended, she would want to die.
She blinked away a fresh flood of tears. “Wasn’t it easier just being lovers?”
He smiled. “Sugar, that’s about the easiest thing I ever did.”
“Then why would you want to complicate it by getting married?”
“Because you convinced me to try clearing my name. And even if I can’t, I’ll stay, live a decent life, deal with the past if it ever catches up with me. Unless you’re saying you won’t have me.”
She touched his face, the smooth-shaven cheek, the slight mark where the unaccustomed collar cut into him. “I’m saying we have a lot to talk about before we make any plans.”
“I’m listening.”
She hardly knew where to begin. But he had been bold; he’d come right out with what was on his mind. She owed him that much at least. “I have something to tell you, too,” she said.
“All I want to hear you say is ‘Yes.’”
She took a deep breath. “You’re still free to change your mind when I explain this to you.”
“Leah, for once in my damned life, I’m not going to change my mind. Now, just say yes and we can finish eating.”
She fought the urge to smile. “This is important, Jackson. Really. I’m—”
“Jackson?” a voice called from the evening shadows.
Even before Leah’s mind recognized the speaker, her instinct did. She felt a fluttering of horrified amazement in her chest, felt her lungs empty in a painful whoosh.
For a split second, she denied what she had heard. She looked at Jackson, at the face that owned her dreams. His smile slid away. His eyes, which had been lit with hope and confusion and the beginnings of love, changed even as she watched. Something in him died.
He straightened up and walked to the edge of the porch. “Carrie?” His voice faltered with disbelief. “My God, is that you?”
A slender shadow slipped up the hill from the front drive. She looked as fragile and willowy as a reed in the wind, a beautiful silk gown fitting her like a glove, her pale blond hair drifting around her face in loose tendrils. Wraithlike, she skimmed across the lawn toward them.
“It’s me, Jackson,” she called softly. “I’m back. I just came in on the steamer.”
Leah saw him wince slightly, as if from a blow.
He ran down the stairs. “My God! We thought you’d died, honey.”
She flung her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his chest. “Oh, Jackson, I’ve missed you so.”
He returned the embrace, the muscles in his arms straining against the fine fabric of his new shirt.
Leah’s thoughts whirled. The healer in her exalted—a patient, back from the dead! But at the same time, she wanted to look away from the forbidden intimacy of the moment. She wanted to pry them apart, to scream, to lament, to shake her fist. Everything she wanted had lain within her grasp, and now all of her dreams poured away like sand through her fingers.
All she could do was sit there and watch, wondering what miracle had resurrected Carrie, wondering about the past these two shared, the secrets they guarded in their hearts. Things Jackson had never told her, things that kept him separate from her no matter what he said.
“I had to come back,” Carrie was saying against his chest. With nervous fingers, she toyed with the ribbons of her bonnet. “You’re the only one who can keep me safe, the only one, Jackson.”
“What the hell happened? We found Armstrong’s boat, burned to the waterline.”
Carrie shuddered. “We were both injured—burned.” She held up her hand. Slick scars marred the milky skin.
“What started the fire?”
She turned away, though she still clung to Jackson with one hand. Her other hand still tugged absently at the bonnet ribbons. “I’m not certain. A problem with the steam engine, perhaps. Indians rescued us, can you imagine? They came out in their canoes. They must’ve seen the flames. And they took us to the mainland north of Seattle.”
“But why didn’t you come back right away, let me know you were all right?”
She lifted one shoulder demurely. “I wasn’t certain you’d want me back after I ran off like I did. But I just couldn’t stay away. I need you. I always, always have.”
“What about Armstrong? Did he live?”
“He’s not like you. He doesn’t keep me safe.” She pulled at her ribbon so hard the bonnet fell askew, revealing too-bright eyes and hectic spots of color in her cheeks.
Leah’s skin chilled. She could hear the strained, animated tones in Carrie’s voice. Could see the stark bones in her underfed body. Carrie was taking narcotics again.
“It’s so good to be back,” she murmured with that blurred sweetness Leah had come to recognize and dread. “So, so good to be back.” Then she looked up at Leah, seeming to notice her for the first time. “Hello, Dr. Mundy. I’m back.”
“I see. It truly is a miracle.”
“Isn’t it?” She snuggled against Jackson.
“Are you healed from your injuries?” Leah asked. Her voice sounded hollow.
“I’m fine...now.” Carrie’s gaze swept over the candlelit tab
le, the half-eaten dinner.
“Are you hungry?” Leah asked. “Can I get you something to eat?”
“No, just...I’m tired, is all. Is our room ready?” Carrie clung to Jackson, addressing her question to him.
Our room. The words slashed into Leah’s heart.
“I’ve been staying on the boat,” he said.
“The room’s vacant.” Leah felt an enormous weariness come over her. “Do you have a bag?”
“A bag...” Carrie touched the tip of her finger to her full lower lip. “I left it at the steamer landing. The harbormaster’s boy can bring it up in the morning.” She yawned and pressed her cheek against Jackson’s upper arm.
Leah watched his broad, strong hands supporting her, and she felt something vital drain out of her. Hope. She was losing hope like a patient losing blood. Jackson’s marriage proposal would remain forever unanswered—unless he cold-bloodedly divorced Carrie. But Jackson would never do that.
“I’d like to lie down, if I could. Would that be all right, Jackson? And you’ll come up later? I was wrong to go.” Carrie spoke rapidly, hardly pausing for breath. “I’ll never, ever leave you again. I’m so sorry. Oh, but it’s good to feel safe with you. Jackson, my Jack—” She broke off, swaying into him.
He caught her, bringing his arm behind her knees and swinging her up. Backlit by the bruised twilight sky, they looked like a romantic painting, the willowy damsel swooning in the arms of her hero.
Without a word, Leah held the door open. Jackson stared straight ahead, his face expressionless. Together they put Carrie to bed. She smiled and sighed, giggling softly as Jackson took off her little leather top boots. Leah smelled the sweetish base of the patent tonic, turned her head in distaste, and then felt instantly ashamed of herself. She was a doctor, a healer, and to let a patient disgust her went against all of her training. Carrie was desperately ill. She needed help. It was Leah’s duty to help her.
* * *
For the better part of an hour, Jackson sat unmoving at Carrie’s bedside. Here she was, a living, breathing miracle. He couldn’t believe she’d come back. He had reconciled himself to the death of this fragile, damaged woman. He’d convinced himself that she was in a better place, the only place she could find perfect peace. Now Carrie had come back to him as she had always come to him, right from the very first.
He remembered vividly the nights in St. I’s when she would seek him out, crawl into bed with him, and sob against his chest, accusing the other children and the masters of all sorts of monstrous things, real and imagined. She always came to him. She always would.
He watched her until her hand, clinging to his, went slack and her breathing evened out. He watched her until the last of the light disappeared and the big clock in the parlor rang ten. He watched her until his eyes burned with weariness.
And then he got up and went downstairs. Battle Douglas and Aunt Leafy sat in the parlor, glaring at each other over a cribbage board. They glanced up as he passed, and he could feel their stares of disapproval jabbing at him.
“I’m not saying I’m sorry she survived, but I thought you were done with that bit of baggage,” Battle remarked.
“Yeah, well, she came back,” Jackson said, and went out onto the porch.
Leah was still there, seated at the table Perpetua had set so beautifully. The candle had burned to a stub, the flowers had wilted, and the meal lay forgotten.
Leah had no reaction to his arrival. She simply sat staring at the harbor lights, her chin uptilted, her back held very straight. Her stoic strength touched him more deeply than a fit of weeping.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be,” she replied evenly. “We should be rejoicing. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Seems like I’ve been apologizing for Carrie my whole life.”
Finally, she turned to him, doe eyes wide and deceptively soft. “And has it helped?”
He blinked, stung by the velvet-soft dart. “If there’s nothing to apologize for, why are you so mad?”
“I’m not angry, Jackson.” She got up and walked to the corner of the porch where it wrapped around to the east. “How can I get angry with a sick woman and still call myself a doctor?”
“You can, Leah, and you should.”
“Because you’re going to take her back.” Her statement thudded into the silence. “At least I’m spared from answering your proposal.”
Jackson felt a hollowness in his chest. “She’s so damned helpless. Now more than ever. God knows what Armstrong put her through, but she came back to me.”
“You must feel flattered.”
He could tell from the slight trembling of her shoulders that she teetered on the verge of tears. Earlier in the evening, he’d made her weep from happiness. Now he was making her weep from hurt. “Leah, every single thing I’ve ever done in my life has turned out a failure. But with Carrie, I could actually accomplish something. Keep her safe, protect her. With her coming back so unexpectedly, it’s like I’ve been given a second chance. I have to take that chance, Leah—”
“No!” She spun around, eyes blazing in a way he’d never seen before. “I won’t listen to this! I love you with all my heart, Jackson. But I won’t keep on this way. I won’t go on with this never-ending Carrie problem. I can’t do it. I just...can’t.”
She loved him. Hearing her say the words seared his soul. Yet she used that love like a blade, making him walk the razor’s edge.
“Don’t ask me to choose,” he said in a low, gravelly voice.
“Because I’ll lose, won’t I?”
“What can I do?”
“She’s sick. Chronically sick. She belongs in a hospital or sanitarium.”
“An institution.” St. Ignatius was an institution. Waves of memory swamped him, the smells, the screams, the reaching hands, the horrors in the dark. “Christ, I can’t do that to her. I can’t lock her up.”
She watched him for a very long time. The candle on the table guttered and died. Finally she spoke. “How can you do this to us?”
* * *
“You look a little better today,” Joel Santana said to Armstrong.
The timber baron had joined him for breakfast at the J & M. “Thanks.”
“Think your wife’s gone for good?”
“Oh, yeah. I never should have married her in the first place. But she...dazzled me. Had that effect on everyone, it seemed. As soon as we recovered from the boating accident, I married her.” He took a cautious sip of his coffee. “I was a fool to think a spoken vow was enough to hold her.”
“Any idea where she went?”
“Back to that cardsharp fellow. There was no pleasing her, but he came as close as she’d ever found, I think.”
“So where will she find him?”
“Last we saw him was on Whidbey Island across the Sound.”
* * *
At midnight, Jackson waited in the shadows of a brake of alder trees outside the sheriff’s house. He wondered if Davy Morgan would do his part. Earlier, Jackson had done something he never would have considered a few months ago—he’d put his trust in someone, telling Davy his suspicions and asking for his help.
He shouldn’t have wondered about Morgan. The youth was as honest and reliable as a country preacher, showing up at a run and pounding on St. Croix’s front door.
The sheriff took his time answering. Jackson couldn’t hear what Davy said, but the kid sounded convincing, his voice low and urgent. He was supposed to say there was trouble with some of the Indians south of town. St. Croix spoke gruffly, irritably, but after a few minutes he came out, going to the barn and cursing as he cranked the Panhard to life. Davy held a lantern as the gasoline carriage lumbered along the gravel road toward the other side of the island. The youth stared straight ahead.
Baskets of potatoes and apples stored in straw and charcoal. Sacks of onions and winter vegetables. Boxes of wax candles. Exactly what one would expect to see.
The match burned down and Jackson dropped it, swearing. He stood for a moment in the dark until the damp earth smell grew oppressive; then he moved toward the slanting doors. As he did, his shoulder brushed something. He frowned, lighting another match. A smear of powdery clay marked his shoulder.
He thought of the day he’d seen St. Croix in a soiled coat and recalled thinking how unusual it was for the fussy sheriff. Jackson lit one of the candles for a closer perusal. The wall where his shoulder had brushed was a false one, a thin layer of earth over a wooden door that opened outward.
He stood back, surveying his discovery and swearing between his teeth. Lemuel St. Croix was no better than the scum who sold the stolen guns to the Indians.
* * *
In the morning, there was something else Jackson had to take care of before he tackled the problem of the sheriff. He went to see Carrie, explaining that he’d spent the night on the boat. She asked him why.
“I just got used to it,” he explained. “After you...left, there was no point taking up space at the boardinghouse.”
“I hate boats. I don’t know how you can stand sleeping there.” She looked as pink and white as a bouquet of roses in the morning light. She used to be like an icon to him. But Leah had opened his eyes. Carrie was sick, a spoiled girl who wheedled favors from him one moment, then forgot him the next. She was his responsibility, but not his dream.
Not in the way Leah was.
The rampant color in Carrie’s cheeks gave him the first clue that she was under the influence. Until Leah had proven the truth about Carrie, Jackson had missed the signs. He’d thought the bright eyes, the dilated pupils, the manic activity were part of Carrie’s naturally vivacious personality.
Ah, Leah, he thought. Was it only last night that he’d asked her to marry him? It seemed a lifetime ago. She’d had something to tell him, something to share, and he’d never even let her get the words out. He wondered what it was.