“Won’t be long now.” He smiled, leaning into the current rather than away.
Ariah returned the smile, causing his insides to tighten. Her head swiveled as a piercing whistle cleaved the air.
“That’s the train to Yamhill,” he said. “The tracks pass quite close here.”
The team broke out of the trees into a clearing. The wide stream meandering through was easy to spot, shining silver and orange in the last rays of sunlight. Dusk hovered, adding mystery and intrigue to the lonely spot.
Bartholomew brought the horses to a halt well off the road. He jumped to the ground and hurried around the wagon before Ariah could climb down. Looking up at her, he held up his hands. Without a moment’s hesitation, she placed her palms on his shoulders and let him lift her into the air.
His hands were so broad they embraced her entire midriff, the tips of his thumbs nearly reaching the under sides of her breasts. His breathing quickened. For several seconds he battled an impulse to pull her against him. If Ariah noticed that he held her longer than necessary before setting her down, or if she heard the wild hammering of his heart, she gave no sign. Her hands slid slowly down his muscular arms, coming to rest lightly below his elbows while she gazed up at him through the fading light.
The sight of those lips so close to his blocked sanity and reason from his mind. Caught up in the romance of twilight and blazing sunset, Bartholomew lowered his head toward hers.
“Hey! Bartholomew, is that you?”
Bartholomew’s head snapped up. His hands fell from Ariah’s tiny waist and he jerked himself away as though caught pilfering coins from a collection box.
A horse and rider appeared out of the darkness along the riverbank. Bartholomew stepped out from the wagon for a closer look. His heart, which had dropped into his stomach, fell the rest of the way to his feet.
“It’s me,” he said. “How are you, Joe?”
Joe Olwell pulled up a few yards short of the wagon and slid to the ground. A few years older than Bartholomew, he was taller but only half as wide. “Good, by golly. Good as a Sunday afternoon with chicken frying, the kids off chasing roosters and the wife smiling that ‘Let’s make hay’ smile o’ hers. Don’t get no better’n that, do it?”
Bartholomew chuckled. “I reckon not. But what are you doing here?”
“Fishing, what else? It’s Saturday, ain’t it?”
Bartholomew nodded and shook Joe’s hand. Fishing was Joe Olwell’s passion. Every Saturday night found him waist deep in slow running water, a pole in his hand and hope in his heart. He didn’t do it the easy way like the twins did, with fat wriggling worms few fish could resist. Joe tied his own flies. Trout killers, he called them.
For Nehemiah and Lemuel—like Bartholomew—it was the pheasants, with their spectacular red eye-patches and iridescent rust-hued feathers, but in Joe’s eyes nothing was prettier than a big sly trout.
Ariah stepped out from behind the wagon and Joe gave a soft, wordless exclamation of appreciation.
“What the G-golly dickens you got here, Bartholomew?”
Bartholomew’s heart, which had settled down somewhat, kicked up a notch. The fat was in the fire; there would be no way to get out of spending the night at the Olwell’s now.
“My wife’s nephew, Pritchard…you remember me telling you he came to work at the station as Second Assistant Keeper? He’s getting married. This is his bride, Miss Ariah Scott.”
Joe snatched his battered hat off his head and gave Ariah an awkward bow, his wide, nearly drooling gaze never leaving her face. She smiled and nodded, her hands clasped behind her back. The heavy knitted shawl she’d wrapped around her to ward off the evening chill parted, awarding the men a view of her slender, curvaceous figure set off by her brightly colored traveling suit.
Bartholomew heard Joe’s sharply indrawn breath and sympathized. Although he had had an entire day to get used to the sight of her, his body still reacted to Ariah’s beauty and sweetness with shock and sudden heat.
Joe sidled closer and whispered. “What’s she doing here with you, Bartholomew? Running away with her, are ya?”
Bartholomew made a sound in his throat that could have been a chuckle but came closer to a choked gasp.
“No, Joe. She arrived in Portland this morning on the train. Since I had to see a crate of pheasants off to Kentucky, Pritchard asked me to pick her up and bring her back with me.”
“G-golly dang, if you ain’t the lucky one.” Louder, he said, “Well now, you wasn’t getting set to make camp here, was you? The house ain’t no more’n a whisper away. You know the folks’d be hurt if you didn’t spend the night with ‘em.”
Bartholomew bit back a grimace and brushed his hand down the back of his neck. “Didn’t want to impose, Joe.”
“Horse—” Joe flashed a glance at Ariah and didn’t finish the colorful expletive. “You know Ma’d never call it imposing, even if you brought along half a dozen folks.”
Joe gave the girl another long look and grinned. “And the twins…well, now, reckon they’re gonna consider this ‘bout on a par with a Christmas morn.”
Bartholomew frowned. He hadn’t even considered the twins. They must be seventeen now, blond masculine replicas of their pretty mother, and all rampant sexuality. He took a protective step closer to Ariah, but before he could think of a reasonable excuse to refuse, she spoke up.
“We’d love to visit your family, Mister . . .”
Realizing his lapse in manners, Bartholomew quickly filled in, “Olwell, Joe Olwell.”
Ariah blessed them both with a tantalizing smile. “Mr. Olwell, it’s very kind of you to offer us shelter for the night.”
Joe crushed his hat in both hands. Color suffused his face as he shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Naw, ’taint nothing. Plain food and a bit of Bible reading from Pa is all, but you’re welcome.” He backed toward his horse. “Let’s get going then.”
Joe patted a wicker basket tied to the back of his saddle, along with a two-piece bamboo pole that cleverly fit back together when needed. “Got me the finest passel o’ trout you ever seen. Ma’ll be waiting with a hot frying pan when we get there.” He winked at Bartholomew. “Better’n pheasant breasts fried in fresh churned butter.”
Bartholomew let the jibe pass, not feeling particularly jovial at the moment. His fate was set. All he could do was lift Ariah back onto the wagon, follow Joe across the stream and on to the Olwell homestead.
Chapter Four
Ariah glanced about, wondering why Bartholomew had brought the wagon to a halt. In the distance, she spotted three small yellow squares of lamplight and knew they had at last arrived at the Olwell house.
For the last few miles it had been all she could do to keep from slumping against Bartholomew's shoulder and giving in to the exhaustion that demanded her to close her eyes and sleep. Strangely, now that they were here, the sight of the house with its warm glow of welcome in the windows brought the itch of tears to the backs of her eyes instead of relief. Her hunger had gone beyond the growling stage. Her body felt as though she had been dragged every bit of the way behind the wagon, and her emotions were riding appallingly close to the surface.
When Bartholomew lifted her to the ground, fatigue and the long hours of sitting caused her knees to buckle. He caught her and held her tightly to him. Joe's voice, as he spoke to a boy who had raced out to take his catch, drifted to them on the brisk night wind. Nearer, beneath her ear, came the steady, reassuring thump of Bartholomew's heartbeat. She knew she should move away. But his strong arms felt so good around her, comforting, safe, and warm.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
Ariah nodded and forced herself to step back. He did not entirely relinquish her, but kept his hands on her slender arms.
"Can you make it into the house on your own?" He bent down, trying to read her face in the darkness.
"I'll be fine. Truly," she added when he did not move. "Go on and see to the horses."
"All right. Go on
in. I'll bring your bag."
Guided by the lamplight in the windows, she started toward the house. She had gone only a few feet when she heard the first low throaty snarl. Ariah froze.
"Miss Scott?" Bartholomew's voice came from behind her, along with the clank of metal from the doubletree he had just unhooked. "Why are you standing there like that?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Her vocal chords were solid ice, and as frozen as the blood in her veins. Only her heart still worked, and it was pumping double time.
Another snarl came out of the night. When Ariah staggered backward, the dog lunged directly onto the path in front of her. Big. Black. Bloodchilling.
Ariah felt its fangs sink into her flesh, though it moved no closer. She felt the pain, the terror, the ooze of blood from the nonexistent wound. In her mind she no longer stood on a dark Oregon road, but on a street near the Cincinnati home she had lived in until she turned seven. Memories of horror washed over her. Her mother's panicked wails. The doctor, who came, shook his head and left again. Days of waiting, of being watched, expected to foam at the mouth, howl at the sight of water. Expected to die.
The shuddering of her body and Bartholomew's hand on her shoulder brought her back to the present, but failed to banish the terror on her face.
Then he saw the dog. "Why, hello, Pudding." He brushed past Ariah to kneel in front of the Labrador.
Ariah sucked in her breath. Her hand inched up to her throat. Bartholomew would be attacked. She should warn him, say something, but all she could think was . . .Pudding?
"How are you, girl?" Bartholomew scratched the sleek dark head. To Ariah's amazement, the dog neither snapped, snarled, nor bit. Its tail wagged furiously as it attempted to bestow a sloppy lick on the man’s face.
Bartholomew ruffled the dog's fur and rose to his feet. In the reflected light from the windows he caught a glimpse of Ariah's face. Stark, staring eyes, grim open mouth. Terror. His smile faded. "Miss Scott?"
Her gaze never left the dog that sat now, perfectly calm, at Bartholomew's feet. He put his hand on her arm and felt her tremble. "Are you afraid of Pudding?"
Ariah didn't answer, didn't move.
"Good hell, woman . . ." Not knowing what else to do, he pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back. "It's all right. Pudding is harmless as a kitten. Believe me."
She shivered and swallowed hard. Tilting up her chin with his finger, he forced her to take her eyes from the dog and look at him.
"Dog," she said in a low quavering voice. "When I was five . . .rabid . . .it bit me."
Gently, he said, "If it had been rabid, you'd be dead."
She made a small jerky movement with her head. "But it was days and days until they knew. The bite festered and . . ." Her voice trailed off.
Bartholomew felt helpless. Never before had he held a nearly hysterical woman in his arms. He wanted desperately to ease her fears. To make her feel safe. What he didn't want was to let her go. Embracing her was like embracing spring. All freshness and sweet, sweet softness. He thought how different his homecoming would be if this girl were waiting for him instead of Hester. Ariah would greet him with a kiss and he would take her in his arms and rejoice in the knowledge that she was his, only his. No separate bedrooms, no waking up at night alone and miserable, his soul and body aching for completion.
"Bartholomew?" said a female voice in the darkness.
He whirled guiltily, releasing Ariah and putting space between them at the same time.
In the shadows stood a tall, solidly built woman some years younger than he, and a good deal older than Ariah. Toots Olwell's gaze went from him to the girl and back again. The rigidity of her body spoke of suspicion and animosity. Anger and guilt warred inside Bartholomew. He had done nothing wrong, except perhaps in his mind, and even if he had done more than that, Toots had no right to accuse him. She was only a friend, like Nehemiah or Joe, whatever else she might wish for. "Hello, Toots. We ran into Joe up river, and he insisted we spend the night."
Her gaze remained on Ariah. "Kipp said his pa had rode in. Didn't expect to find you out here though."
Bartholomew glanced down at the woman at his side. The terror had left her eyes but she still looked dazed. Almost against his will, knowing full well it was an idiotic move, he reached out to draw her near. "This is Ariah Scott. She just arrived in Portland today from Cincinnati."
Toots' eyes on Ariah were hard and cold. Blast the woman. Hoping to head off trouble, he said, "Miss Scott and my nephew are to be married."
"What's she doing with you then?"
Impatience had him shuffling his feet. How many more times would he have to explain? "I picked her up from the train station. Just now I was reassuring her because Pudding frightened her."
Toots snorted. "That dog wouldn't hurt a dang spider."
"Miss Scott didn't know that. She was bitten as a child and is afraid of dogs. Understandably, I'd say."
Toots gave him a hard, protracted glare. "Don't look that scared to me." She turned and started back to the house. "Bring yer carcasses on in, we're about to eat."
"I have to see to the horses." He put his hand to Ariah's back and urged her forward with gentle pressure. "Go with Toots. I'll be along shortly."
Having sensed the other woman's enmity, Ariah preferred waiting for Bartholomew, but she forced her feet to follow Toots Olwell to the door. Pudding trotted alongside, tail wagging, tongue lolling.
The house was a shambling, haphazard affair. As the family grew, rooms had been added to the original one-room cabin, sometimes a step higher or lower than the last. When Bartholomew came in, he found Ariah standing inside the door, abandoned and alone with over a dozen pairs of eyes riveted on her. When one of the children discovered him, there was a mad dash as they all raced to leap on top of him. In the middle of the fracas, Nehemiah's wife appeared in the kitchen doorway near an enormous L-shaped dining table. She had hair as black as soot and a face like a dried peach, all ruddy and wrinkled.
"Food's on, get washed up, the bunch of you," she said. Surprisingly bright eyes swept the room, pausing momentarily on Ariah before zeroing in on Bartholomew. "Bart, you handsome devil, you. Where'd you blow in from?"
With children clinging to every limb and hanging about his thick neck, Bartholomew nearly stumbled as he tried to go to the old woman. She strode to him instead, her skirts, as scandalously short as ever, swirling about her calves above oversized work boots. Youngsters scattered, shrieking, as the two adults clasped one another in an enthusiastic bear hug.
"Effie, you old doll, how are you?"
Effie slapped him playfully on the arm. "Watch that 'old' stuff, if you want to eat any of my vittles, boy."
"Okay, young'un." Bartholomew gave her a smacking kiss on her withered cheek.
"That's better." She sidled a glance at Ariah. Not bothering to lower her voice, she said, "She with you?"
"This is Miss Ariah Scott, Effie. She and Hester's nephew are to be married."
"You mean that young scamp, Pritchard? What kinda husband material is he gonna make? All he ever wants to do is play that stickball game."
"Baseball, Effie. It's very popular now, especially back east. He's a good hurler. That means he throws the balls for the strikers to hit. I think he's a better striker than he is a hurler, though. He often hits them clear out of the field, and gets a home run."
She gave an indelicate snort. "Waste of good time, if you ask me."
"Nobody asked." A big man with hunched shoulders and white hair rose from a deep chair by the fire.
Bartholomew withdrew from Effie and crossed the room to shake the old man's hand. "Hello, Nehemiah."
"Hello yerself." Nehemiah motioned to the children who had re-gathered about the fire. "You young'uns do as yer grandma said and get washed. Rest o' ya go on in to eat." He glanced at Ariah. "Bartholomew, like to have a few words with ya, if ya don't mind."
Ariah heard the hint of censure in the old man's tone.
The rigidity in Bartholomew's shoulders as he followed Mr. Olwell from the room suggested that he too expected some sort of lecture. Because of her? She wished she could eavesdrop, but Effie was already dragging her toward the kitchen.
Toots handled the seating arrangements so Ariah wasn't surprised to find herself at the opposite end of the table from Bartholomew—once he’d rejoined them—between twin teenage boys. The other woman took the seat next to him and proceeded, following a lengthy prayer from Nehemiah, to fill his plate as though it was her right. Bartholomew accepted the dish in silence and avoided meeting Ariah's gaze.
And still she felt Toots' animosity. It radiated toward her like the smell of the fried fish and the draft from the ill-fitted window at her back. Throughout the meal, Ariah kept one eye on them, wondering what was between the two. It confused her to realize how much it disturbed her to think they might be lovers. It was none of her concern who Mr. Monteer's uncle bedded. Yet she liked Bartholomew. Knowing he was involved that way with Toots Olwell would mar the respect she now held for him.
Toots was not unattractive. Her curves were generous and well distributed her face soft and feminine. But there was crassness about her, in her speech, even in the way she ate her food—open-mouthed and oblivious to drool. Ariah firmly believed, no matter how outwardly obnoxious, everyone possessed some pleasant trait, something likable. Toots was a challenge. Right now she reminded Ariah of the frigate birds who steal their food from others, rather than find their own.
After the supper dishes were washed and Nehemiah had finished the evening's Bible reading, he dismissed the family and ordered a pallet made up for Bartholomew in the parlor. Miss Scott, he said, could share Toots' bed. Toots stiffened. Her eyes on Ariah filled with resentment.
The thought of spending any more time with the woman than was absolutely necessary tied Ariah's stomach in knots. "Oh please, I don't want to put anyone out." She glanced about the large room until she spotted the couch in front of the fire. "I could sleep on the couch, it looks more than adequate."
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