Phoebe's Valentine

by Duncan, Alice

  William sounded happy, and Phoebe didn’t know what to make of it. She guessed she should be glad. “Good night, William. Sleep tight.”

  “You, too, Aunt Phoebe.”

  She heard the boy yawn gracelessly and smiled to herself.

  “‘Night, Willy boy.”

  Phoebe frowned at Jack’s inelegant nickname for her nephew.

  “‘Night, Jack,” the cheerful William said.

  “Good night, Miss Honeycutt.”

  “Good night, Mr. Valentine.”

  Even though she was virtually prostrate from exhaustion, Phoebe couldn’t seem to get to sleep. These last few days had been so trying. Under the competent, albeit aggravating hands of Jack Valentine, perhaps now all would be well. Phoebe determined to reserve judgment on that issue.

  For some reason the past seemed to want to nag at her tonight. She stared into the sky and saw her mama and papa’s faces as if they’d been molded out of stars by a heavenly hand. Appalled, Phoebe felt a tear slip out of her eye and dribble into her ear before she could stop it.

  Oh, how she missed them, though. Her papa had been so handsome in his uniform. So had Philip and Paul. Her brothers’ handsomeness wasn’t rough and robust like Jack Valentine’s. Rather, the twins had possessed a sleek, refined beauty. They had appeared aristocratic and—although Phoebe felt just a smidgen disloyal admitting it—somewhat snobbish. They were such gallant southern gentlemen. Even though the Honeycutts annoyed many of the planters in the area, all the girls in the neighborhood used to swoon over the twins on a regular basis.

  And her sisters. Oh, mercy, how Phoebe missed them! Especially Pauline. Almost fifteen years her senior, Pauline just seemed to take Phoebe under her wing. She was as much a mother to Phoebe as their own dear mama had been.

  And then there was sweet Philippa. So refined. The gentlemen in the neighborhood sent her poems and flowers all the time. Phoebe smiled at the recollection of Gerald Pinehurst serenading under Philippa’s window one fine summer night. The twins had chased him away with the bloodhounds. What a stir that had caused, what with the hounds baying, poor Gerald hollering fit to kill, and Philippa screaming. Papa had grabbed his shotgun, sure somebody was trying to break into the house. Mercy, what a dust-up.

  Then there was Phoebe herself, the last and the least of her family. She wasn’t china-doll delicate and willowy like her sisters, and she didn’t have half the aristocratic, intellectual elegance of her brothers. She was just the plain, brown-haired, brown-eyed sister, tagging along after them and willing to bask in the reflected glory of her more perfect siblings. She remembered the girl she had been as though she were contemplating a stranger.

  And, oh dear Lord in heaven, how Phoebe missed her mama. Dear Mama. She’d had such a strong spirit and, at the end, such a weak body. Papa used to pamper her something awful, but Phoebe never blamed him for it. It made her heart ache to recall how Mama had failed so badly right before her death. And then Papa had died in that dreadful battle.

  Phoebe had to wipe another tear away.

  “Oh, bother!” She was annoyed with herself for allowing the past to send her into this dratted melancholy. There was certainly no room for melancholy in Phoebe Honeycutt’s present life.

  “Everything all right, Miss Honeycutt?”

  Jack’s soft, unexpected whisper sent a shower of sparks ricocheting through Phoebe. It felt almost as though those stars she’d grabbed had got away from her and begun to dance up and down her spine. Good heavens.

  “I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Valentine.” She hoped her voice sounded firm. At the moment she felt like a slushy puddle of maudlin emotion. What was even worse, she had the most shocking desire to have that horrid man hold her in his arms until she felt better.

  Sleep, Phoebe thought. I only need to sleep.

  And, at last, she did.

  # # #

  It was the merry fingers of dawn tickling Phoebe’s eyelids that made her wake up the following morning. When she did, she beheld a sky that look as though an artist had streaked his brush across it while he tested all the peaches, pinks, yellows, reds, and oranges in his palette. And the colorful morning sky went on forever, too. When Phoebe lifted herself on her elbow, she saw those brilliant colors until they met the flat, brown landscape what seemed like a million miles away.

  She smiled and yawned and stretched before she remembered where she was and in whose company. As soon as the unwelcome recollection slapped her, she frowned and looked around. There he was by the fire, and he was staring straight at her, too. Mercy sakes.

  “Better shake out your shoes before you put them on, Miss Honeycutt. A scorpion might have crawled into ‘em during the night.”

  Of course, the likelihood of a scorpion having tramped around after dark and climbed into Phoebe’s shoe was one of the more unlikely circumstances he could think of. But Jack had to say something ungallant to vex her or stomp over there and kiss her until she squeaked. The aggravating truth made him frown.

  He was glad when she uttered a gasp of horror and turned her piquant face away from him. She’d looked so lovely when she woke up and stretched that he’d damned near dropped the pan right in the fire.

  “Must be getting soft in the head,” he grumbled as he turned his attention back to breakfast.

  Still, he was glad he’d let her sleep. She needs it, if she expects to make it all the way to Santa Fe, he told himself, unwilling to admit he’d given in to a fit of kind-heartedness.

  He couldn’t help but watch out of the corner of his eye as Phoebe picked up her shoes, very gingerly, one at a time. Then she inspected them with exquisite care and shook them hard enough to demolish anything unlucky enough to have been caught inside. After that, she crawled out from between the blankets and scrutinized them, too. Jack caught himself smiling and stopped at once.

  Damn, but she was a delicate, pretty little thing, for all her mincing ways.

  She must have a little grit, though, if she was trying to take care of her niece and nephew all by herself. Jack, who’d seen first hand the evils a belle could do, decided he’d reserve judgment on the issue.

  “Look, Jack! Look what we caught!”

  His focus snapped back to the task at hand when William’s voice startled him. “Hey there, you two.”

  “We got four big ones, Jack!” rang Sarah’s high-pitched addendum to her brother’s announcement.

  “They’re whoppers, all right.” The children were obviously proud of their morning catch, and he was pleased they’d had such good luck.

  By the time Phoebe got dressed, a business made cumbersome by her bandaged hands, Jack and William had the fish scaled and gutted. Jack was in the process of sprinkling them with cornmeal and a little salt when he looked up to find Phoebe running toward them, a look of consternation on her face.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  Her near shriek made him wince. “Keep your voice down, Miss Honeycutt. Take a seat. I’m just getting breakfast ready.”

  “But why didn’t you wake me? I should have been up an hour ago to help William and Sarah dress. I should be the one making breakfast!”

  “Will you stop screeching at me?” Lord, this woman was exasperating. All of Jack’s prior soft feelings about her flew up into the morning air like puffs of smoke and were borne away on the breeze.

  “But—”

  “But what? How the hell did you think you could cook breakfast with your hands bound up like that? And in case it’s escaped your notice, both William and Sarah were able to dress quite nicely without any help from you.”

  Oh, damn. She had the biggest brown eyes. They reminded him of a fawn he’d made friends with once in the woods back home. Right now she looked as upset as that fawn had, too, and her expression puzzled him.

  “But—but it’s my duty to see to the children.” She made it sound as though her entire worth depended on the care of the children, and Jack’s frown deepened.

>   “You can resume your duties when your hands heal, Miss Honeycutt. Right now you can sit right there and rest until these fish are cooked.”

  “We caught them, Aunt Phoebe,” William offered, as though to make peace between the two adults.

  Jack saw Phoebe take a big gulp before she answered. “That’s fine, William dear. That’s just fine. I’m proud of you.”

  “I helped,” Sarah chimed in.

  “You helped your brother catch fish?”

  Jack’s jaw clenched and he bristled, exasperated. “This is the frontier, Miss Honeycutt. On the frontier, women have to work just as hard as the men. It’s not like life back home where you had a hundred slaves to take care of all your whims and fancies.”

  He felt a little snag of guilt about being so hard on her, especially when those pretty eyes went round and she gasped in affront.

  “My family did not own slaves, Mr. Valentine,” she told him frostily.

  Her words astounded Jack, and he didn’t know what to say. Phoebe began to fuss over Sarah. He was sure she did so to cover the uncomfortable moment.

  “Sarah, that gown is entirely unsuited to this hot climate. You need to wear a lighter weight calico, dear.”

  “But, Aunt Phoebe, you said we’d have to make do with what we had until we got to Uncle Fred’s. I was only makin’ do with this.” Sarah sounded mightily disgruntled at the inconsistencies exhibited by the grown-ups in her life.

  “Never mind, Sarah. As long as you’re already dressed, you may as well keep that gown on. Can you help me with my hair, dear? I can’t seem to get the braids out with these bandages on.”

  “Oh, yes!”

  Sarah’s obvious’ delight’ at the prospect of brushing her aunt’s hair made Jack remember how his sister Janet used to like to brush their mother’s hair. Maybe it was something little girls just did: brush big girls’ hair. In spite of himself, he smiled.

  “I’m starving, Jack,” William exaggerated. “Those fish almost done?”

  “Almost. You got the coffee ready?”

  “Sure do.”

  “William made coffee?” Phoebe gave a haughty sniff to show what she thought of that state of affairs.

  When Jack turned toward her, the caustic retort he wanted to utter got lodged somewhere in his throat, and he could only gurgle helplessly. At last he swallowed a curse word teetering on the end of his tongue and managed to mutter, “Yes.”

  Lord in heaven, the woman was stunning. Sarah had undone Phoebe’s braids and begun to brush out her long chestnut-colored locks. They now glistened around her shoulders like waves of dark chocolate.

  “My, my,” Phoebe murmured. “Women catching fish, men cooking them and making coffee. The frontier is certainly an interesting place.”

  She was trying to be sarcastic. Jack knew that. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have shot back a riposte sharp enough to cut diamonds, but his throat wouldn’t work quite yet. He only nodded and croaked, “Isn’t it?”

  Then he turned his back on Phoebe and hoped when he saw her again her hair would be up and she wouldn’t look so soft and kissable. He guessed the big ugly veil she wore all the time worked. Her complexion was flawless. He had to clear his throat before his voice would work right.

  “Here you go, Bill my boy. Take this to your aunt, and I’ll dish up some for you and your sister.” He deliberately avoided glancing at Phoebe when he handed William her plate.

  # # #

  Phoebe declined to tell Jack how delicious she found the fish. He’d fried them in bacon drippings and used the bacon as an accompaniment. Left over biscuits from last night served to make this breakfast more satisfying than any she eaten in months, if not years. For too long, her breakfasts had consisted of coffee and grits. Many a morning Phoebe had done without the grits in order that William and Sarah could eat.

  Musing about those other meager meals brought something else to mind. She’d already paid Yves Basteau most of what was left of her family’s money. He’d stolen even more. The knowledge of his perfidy sat like gall in Phoebe’s heart. And now she and her niece and nephew were in the nominal custody of Jack Valentine. As she chewed on her fish, her thoughts began to spin. How was she ever going to pay him for his help? She didn’t realize her worries showed until Sarah mentioned the fact.

  “You’re frownin’, Aunt Phoebe.” Sarah’s voice held a distinct note of censure.

  Immediately, Phoebe’s expression smoothed. “Thank you, Sarah, darlin’.”

  “What’s the matter with frowning?”

  “Frownin’ is the quickest road to wrinkles, Jack,” Sarah told him solemnly.

  “Is it now?”

  He sounded faintly disgusted and Phoebe shot him a look. Little Sarah apparently didn’t notice, because she elaborated. “Yes. And ladies must stay out of the sun or they get spots, too.”

  Jack murmured, “Lord,” and tucked into his breakfast.

  Phoebe ignored him completely and gave Sarah a pleasant smile. “Very good, Sarah, darlin’. You’ll make a proper lady yet. Even if you do have to fish for your breakfast.” Upon that acerbic note, she took another bite of fish. It tasted so good.

  “Fishin’s fun, Aunt Phoebe.”

  “That may well be true, Sarah, dear, but fishin’ is not generally considered a fit occupation for persons of a ladylike persuasion.”

  “Not even if it keeps ‘em alive?”

  Phoebe gave Jack a cold glare. “I am quite well aware that allowances must be made in circumstances like these, Mr. Valentine, when one is forced to travel in rude accommodations across the vast frontier. I’m talking about under normal circumstances, when one is living in a settled, civilized environment.”

  His barking laugh went way beyond rude, and Phoebe had to fight off another frown.

  “If you wanted a settled, civilized environment, Miss Honeycutt, you’ve got yourself headed in the wrong direction. The only thing settled and civilized west of Saint Louis is San Francisco, and lots of folks have doubts about it.”

  “What in heaven’s name do you mean, Mr. Valentine?”

  When he leveled those blue devil’s eyes at her, she found her mouth suddenly so dry she had difficulty swallowing her bite of fish.

  “I generally say what I mean, Miss Honeycutt. The west is a vast, unsettled frontier, and most good citizens in the States don’t consider it civilized in the least. I expect you, with your fusses and manners and veils, would consider it even less so than most.”

  He was being mean again, but Phoebe couldn’t afford to care at the moment. “What about Santa Fe? My uncle lives in Santa Fe. It can’t be that bad.” She could hear the optimism in her voice.

  So, apparently, could Jack because he said, “Don’t get your hopes up, Belle. Santa Fe’s in New Mexico Territory. That whole region is filled up with criminals on the run from the States, people displaced by the war, and folks who just generally don’t take to rules. Those folks and Mexicans and Indians, and they don’t much like each other.”

  “Oh.” Phoebe stared at him for several seconds. Then she dropped her head and took another bite of fish.

  Good heavens. Could it be true? Another assessing glance at Jack revealed him still gazing at her, an odd expression in those wicked eyes. While he was impolite at best, his expression seemed sincere, and she believed the grim truth he’d just unveiled.

  “What about San Francisco, Belle? It’s kind of nice there.”

  His words sounded conciliatory, as though he wished to make amends for bursting her bubble. They didn’t help, though. Even if she and her wards possessed the stamina to make it all the way to San Francisco, her resources were too slim. And, anyway, what could she do in San Francisco? She would have to work for her keep. At least in Santa Fe her uncle might be able to offer her a situation.

  Since Phoebe had no intention of revealing her straitened circumstances to Jack, she merely said, “I believe Santa Fe will suit us nicely, Mr. Valentine.”

  He offered a snort that mad
e Phoebe want to smack him. “I sincerely doubt it, Miss Honeycutt.”

  “Well, it will simply have to.”

  “Why are you going to Santa Fe, Jack?” asked William.

  “Got friends there, Bill. Isadore and Ruth Weismann. They used to live near us in New York. Now they own a jewelry store and mercantile in town. I’m going to pay ‘em a visit.”

  “Wise Man! What a funny name!” Sarah started to giggle.

  Phoebe noticed Jack grinning at the girl and grudgingly granted that he had a way with the children. It was all she was willing to grant him, however. She wondered if it was his matter-of-fact, almost bored tone of voice and simple explanations that made him acceptable to the children, while they looked upon her as a bother.

  Her inability to reach William and Sarah hurt, though. She’d tried so hard to be a mother and father to them, yet they still weren’t at ease with her. They were comfy as pie with Jack Valentine, though. And they’d only just met him. Phoebe felt the rebellious sting of tears behind her eyes. She would, however, strip herself naked and run barefoot across the desert before she allowed herself to cry in front of this beast.

  She loved them so much. She wasn’t at all sure they loved her back, though, and the uncertainty made her heart feel heavy.

  Nevertheless, there was a job to be done, and she intended to do it. After breakfast, while William and Sarah did the washing-up, Phoebe set about straightening out the wagon. She was startled when she heard Jack’s voice behind her.

  “Why didn’t you mind lying in the wagon yesterday afternoon, Miss Honeycutt? Was it just that you were too sick to protest?”

  She whirled around to face him. “What are you talking about?”

  Phoebe stared at him for a moment. She supposed he was being rude again, but his pose did not bespeak belligerence. His hands were stuffed into his back pockets and his face held only genuine interest. Even mild concern.

  “Yesterday afternoon after you fainted. You didn’t mind being in the covered wagon then.”

  Every once in a while Phoebe wished her youth had not been quite so sheltered. She knew her mother and father had only had her welfare at heart when they tried to protect her from the evils of the world. Sometimes these days, though, she wondered if she might have been better prepared to face misfortune when it came if they’d not been quite so kind.