Delia couldn’t resist adding, “After all, you attended the muster days when your Mary was alive and she didn’t mind.”
The coat clashed sharply with the dark green of his buckskin breeches, which were part of his militia uniform. Delia had been surprised when Nat had told her he was to attend the muster days in Wells tomorrow with the other able-bodied men of Merrymeeting. “The fine’s five shillings if you don’t turn up,” he had said when she questioned him.
“But surely a man who’s missing a foot should be exempted,” she protested, forgetting to guard her tongue. Nat had reacted predictably.
His chin jutted forward with pride. “I might not be able to rehearse the military manual with the others, Delia, but I can still contribute my time. Colonel Bishop has me serving as his adjutant. My Mary and I thought it was the least I could do.”
Delia started to explain that she hadn’t meant her comment as a criticism of his physical abilities, but she held her tongue. She had learned from bitter experience that with Nat her explanations only made matters worse.
Now, Delia wordlessly took the hat off her dark head and put it on her husband’s blond one. She’d decorated the brim with a sprig of pine and a ribbon cockade. Handing him his musket, she followed him out the barn door. A group of men waited in the yard, their hearty laughter filling the air. They were like young boys, Delia thought, all set to go on an outing and wound up tight with the excitement of it.
For the men of Merrymeeting the muster meant a five-day excursion. A day by coastal sloop to get to Wells, three days there, and another day back. From what the other women had said, Delia suspected the muster was an excuse for the men to carouse away from their wives’ censoring eyes as much as to rehearse the military manual. The mornings were reserved for drilling, true, but the afternoons were filled with horse races, shooting matches, and other manly sporting pursuits. The evenings were spent in drinking bouts during which gallons of flips were consumed. Only Colonel Bishop, who had command responsibilities, and Nat, who didn’t drink anything stronger than spruce beer, seemed to take the militia muster seriously.
Nat went inside to tell the girls goodbye and pick up the rest of his equipment—shot pouch, powder horn, tomahawk, and wooden canteen. Delia searched the men in the yard, looking for a particular dark head and sharp-boned, handsome face. Instead a flash of distinctive red hair caught her eye.
She advanced on the burly blacksmith with her fists on her hips. “What are you doing here, Sam Randolf? I thought your Hannah was expecting any day now.”
Sam whipped around to face her, his big jowls coloring. “Aw shucks, Mrs. Parkes …”
“She’s already freshening,” Obadiah Kemble put in, his tiny black eyes darting back and forth. “And it’s a breech birth, so it’s hard tellin’ when the brat’ll get here. We got ourselves a pool going and right now your Nat looks to be the winner if it comes tomorrow, as the doc’s predictin’.”
Delia scowled, not bothering to hide her disapproval. “All the more reason for you to remain at your wife’s side, Mr. Randolf.”
Sam looked at the ground, shuffling his feet. “Aw heck, Mrs. Parkes. Hannah’ll be all right. She’s birthed me seven lusty boys with barely a whimper. She don’t need me. I’d only get in the way. An’ Doc is stayin’ with her.”
“Hunh! I’m surprised he isn’t going with the lot of you.”
“Normally he does,” Obadiah put in. “Even though physicians are supposed to be excused from the militia. But him being so wilderness-wise and all, the colonel likes to use him as a scout. Besides, you know the doc. He doesn’t want to miss out on all the, er, mustering.”
Nat emerged from the house just then, carrying a chattering Tildy in his arms and with Meg at his side. Tildy clutched her new doll tightly in her fist, an Indian girl with a deerskin dress, a tiny shell necklace, and a cap made of wampum—the purple-dyed seashells the Abenaki used for money.
Ty had brought the doll around the day after Gretchen had been lost, but Delia missed him because she had been inside, trying to work Mary’s spinning wheel and producing nothing but slubs. Later, when Tildy had proudly shown her the doll, Delia had astounded everyone by bursting into tears and running into the inner room, slamming the door behind her.
When she emerged later that evening, Nat told her Tildy had named the doll Hildegarde. “Where does she come up with these names?” he’d asked her with a nervous laugh, eyeing her askance and no doubt wondering if she were about to start blubbering again.
Delia couldn’t explain even to herself why Ty’s generosity had made her behave like a wooden-headed fool. Every time she looked at the doll, she wanted to weep with a mixture of pride in Ty and an aching regret that she would never have the joy of presenting him with a child of their own to cuddle and spoil.
But Delia wore a smile now as Nat and the girls came out of the house. He kissed Tildy before handing her to Delia, squatting to give Meg a hug. “You girls behave and mind Delia.”
Meg said nothing, but Delia saw the girl’s chin take on a stubborn jut and she repressed a sigh.
Nat shouldered his musket as he and the men started down the trail toward the bay, where the coastal sloop waited to sail down the estuary on the forenoon tide. At the edge of the forest, he turned and waved. Delia and the girls waved back.
“Bye, bye Papa!” Tildy cried, blasting Delia’s eardrum.
When Nat’s figure had disappeared around the bend, Meg turned to Delia, a slight smirk on her face. “How come you aren’t crying? Ma always cried when Papa went to Wells for muster days.”
“She did?” Delia asked, surprised. She couldn’t imagine the paragon Mary Parkes succumbing to the weakness of tears.
“He didn’t kiss you goodbye,” Meg said, her eyes on Delia’s face to gauge her reaction. “He always kissed Ma goodbye.”
Delia sighed. “Don’t you have chores to do, Meg Parkes?”
Delia decided to chop wood that afternoon.
The morning had begun with a dense fog that left everything wet and smelling of the sea. But by the time Nat left, the fog had been melted by the sun, although a shimmering haze still swathed the horizon. It was September now; the days were growing shorter and the trees were beginning to get a tinge of color on the ridges. The corn was high in the fields; it would be tasseling soon.
Delia had thought this morning that the nights were coming on cool and it would soon be time to take the extra blankets out of the calfskin chest in the inner room. She decided to surprise Nat by laying up a good stack of firewood while he was gone— hickory, because it produced the best and hottest fire.
She worked behind the barn, piling the chopped wood onto a sledge to be hauled into the shed and stacked later. The thunk of the ax biting into the wood bounced off the thick trees of the surrounding forest. When she paused to rest, Delia could detect the pungent smell of moldering pine needles and hear a partridge rustling through the nearby cornrows.
She thought of Ty. Thunk! The ax split the wood with a resounding blow. She imagined it was his head she pounded.
He was at the Randolf house right now, attending to Hannah. Delia was tempted to walk there, to call on Hannah and offer her help, maybe bring a pot of baked beans or a pan of pone with jelly. But she knew if she did such a thing it would really be an excuse to see Ty and she couldn’t lie to herself in that way.
Thunk! This time it was her own head she imagined she struck.
It had been three weeks since Ty had fished her from the Kennebec and though she hadn’t seen him once during all that time, there wasn’t a minute when she hadn’t thought about him, reliving that kiss over and over in her mind. She could still feel the heat of his lips on hers, as if he had left a permanent, searing brand. She was furious with him for thinking he could use her in that way—as a happy answer to his manly desires. She was furious with herself for still loving him, for kissing him back and wanting him so shamelessly. Was she no better than he thought her to be—no better than a two
-shilling tart, a way for a man to spend a quick hour or two of his time?
Thunk! She worked her frustration out on Nat’s head now. Nat, her so-called husband, who still slept on the shakedown in the linter. Who couldn’t even give her a peck on the cheek when he was going away for five whole days. There might not be any love between them, but they were man and wife. Maybe if Nat became her husband in fact as well as name, she could get Tyler Savitch out of her blood, out of her mind, out of her heart.
Out—thunk! Out—thunk! Out—thunk!
The ax Delia used had a head made of brittle iron that often cracked in cold weather. It was heavy and hard to swing, wobbling as it approached the mark. Delia didn’t notice that the wobbling was becoming worse and worse with each swing she made … until the head came flying off the helve.
The ax head flew through the air, slicing into Delia’s petticoat and thigh in passing. She stood looking at the headless handle in shock, feeling nothing—and then a burning, searing pain tore a scream from her throat.
She pressed a hand to her thigh. It came away dripping with blood. Flinging the ax helve to the ground, she limped over to lean against the bevel of the chopping stump. The pain was so fierce it darkened her vision and sent the breath wheezing from her lungs. She set her teeth to keep from fainting and lifted her skirt, afraid of what she would see.
What she saw made her reel dizzily and she almost fell off the stump. The cut was jagged and deep, and blood welled out of it, satiny and glutinous, so dark a red it looked almost black. Shuddering, she pressed the heel of her hand to the gash, trying to stop the bleeding.
She heard the linter door slam and Meg’s high-pitched voice, calling her name. She opened her mouth to answer, but couldn’t summon the strength. The dark edges around her vision were spreading. She blinked and looked into Meg’s horrified face. “Get Dr. Ty … he’s at … baby … Hannah Randolf …”
The darkness covered the world now except for two tiny pinpricks of light. Then even they winked out.
Minutes, or perhaps it was only seconds later, Delia felt wet lips brush her cheek. She forced open her eyes to find a dimpled face pressed close to hers. “Did you cut yourself with the ax, Delia?” Tildy whispered loudly. “Are you going to have to get a wooden foot like Papa?”
Delia smiled, or thought she did. The world had gone black again.
Dr. Tyler Savitch willed his hands to stop shaking as he tied the tourniquet around Delia’s slender thigh. He tried not to think that if the ax had sliced so much as an inch deeper, it would have severed the artery and she would have bled to death long before he could have gotten to her in time.
Christ, why did she keep doing this to him? He had tried so hard to protect his heart, to distance himself from her so that he couldn’t be hurt. But it had all been to no avail—he cared, cared too damn much, in spite of himself. It was as if she were deliberately dancing with death to flaunt in his face the fact that if he lost her he wouldn’t be able to bear it.
Against his will, his bloodied fingers drifted up, hovering over her precious features. They were twisted in pain and Ty would have sawed off his own leg to spare her this. He suddenly realized she was more valuable to him than his own life. He would sacrifice anything for her. Anything.
Her lids fluttered open. “Ty …?”
He leaned over, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I’m here, my love.”
“The ax broke, Ty. It cut my leg.”
“You’ll be all right. I’m going to sew it up in a minute. But first I’ll have to carry you into the house.”
He positioned her arms around his neck and lifted her slowly, but still she cried out. He thought she might have fainted again by the time he got her inside and laid her down on the inner room bed, but he saw that her eyes were open, although they were dark with pain.
“I’m sorry I keep gettin’ myself into these predicaments, Ty. I’m such trouble t’ ye all the time.”
“I’m used to trouble from you,” he said, brushing her cheek with his knuckles. “You and trouble seem to go together like fleas on a mule.”
A weak smile trembled on Delia’s lips as her eyes drifted closed. Ty turned around to Meg, who hovered in the doorway, a wide-eyed Tildy clinging to her hand. “Does your father have any rum or brandy in the house?”
Meg’s head jerked. “Y-you mean the big bottle of medicine?”
“Yes. That’s probably it … Bring a mug, too. And put some water on to boil.”
Meg came back with a brandy bottle and a noggin. “Take Tildy and wait out in the keeping room. Shut the door.” Ty held a nogginful of brandy up to Delia’s lips. “I’m going to make you good and drunk, Delia-girl.”
Her mouth curled into another smile. “You wouldn’t be tryin’ t’ take advantage of me, would ye, Tyler Savitch?”
Ty’s throat closed up. He couldn’t answer her; he couldn’t even smile.
In spite of her protests, he relentlessly poured the brandy down her throat until she was close to passing out. He cleaned the gash thoroughly before sewing it up with a bone needle and a piece of the sheep gut that he carried in his physician’s bag for such a purpose. She whimpered only a little as he did it, although she was still conscious. He spoke to her while he worked, telling her she was the gutsiest wench he’d ever known.
With Meg’s help, he found Nat’s hoard of pigtails—the small, twisted ropes of tobacco used for smoking and chewing. He opened the twists, picking apart the tobacco leaves. These, combined with some puffball fungus he had in his bag, would act as an astringent. He packed it all around the cut, then wrapped her thigh with a bandage made from an old torn sheet. When he was finished he stood above her, looking down with an unconscious scowl on his face.
Her golden eyes glittered brightly back at him, glazed from a combination of the brandy and the pain. “Don’ ye start shoutin’ a’ me, Ty,” she slurred.
“We’ll discuss your carelessness later,” he said sternly.
“ ’Twasna my fault … Shouldn’t ye be wi’ Hannah?”
“She had the baby an hour ago. It’s a girl.”
“Oh, tha’s nice. I wish I could have a baby.” She added something that sounded like “your baby,” but he couldn’t be sure, she had slurred the words so.
He eased down carefully beside her on the bed, positioning her so that she leaned against his chest, her hair spread over him like a black lace fan. He wrapped one arm around her waist, his hand resting on her stomach. He felt her sigh.
She peeled his hand off her stomach and held it out, matching her slender white fingers to his long, dark ones. Suddenly she erupted into a drunken little giggle. “Ye have magic hands, Ty. Since the first, I felt those magic hands an’ I fell right in love wi’ ye, wooden-headed fool tha’ I am.”
Uncomfortable with her words, with the frightening feelings they evoked within him, Ty’s fingers closed around hers. He brought their clasped hands back to her lap and changed the subject. “Your leg’s going to hurt like hell for a few days. You’ll have to stay off it. Maybe I’d better send someone to fetch Nat back.”
She stiffened in his arms, twisting her head around. “N-no, Ty. Don’ do tha’. Don’ send for Nat. Pleassse.”
Ty felt cold with sudden dread. She could expect Nat to give her what-for over her carelessness, but fear of a scolding didn’t provoke that sort of panic in a wife. Unconsciously, his arm tightened around her and he brought her closer against him. “Delia, why are you so afraid of Nat? Does he beat you?”
She slung her head from side to side, bouncing against his chest. “No, no … Da used his fists on me alla time. Not Nat. He never so mush as touches me.” Her ragged laughter ended on a hiccup. “Nat don’ touch me a-tall.”
He stared into her face. Her tawny eyes impaled him, piercing his heart.
“Nat don’ love me, Ty. He still loves his wife. An’ ye don’t love me. Nobody loves me.”
He could feel her heart trembling beneath his hand. His own chest rose and fel
l, rose and fell. The movement fluttered the ruby-faceted strands of her hair. Her skin was so pale it was almost transparent. Her lips … her lips … Ty’s head dipped; he had to taste those lips…
“Why don’ ye love me, Ty?”
His mouth hovered, but didn’t fall. He was so afraid, so goddamn afraid. “Ah God, Delia, I—” … do love you.
The words, although they caught in his throat, resounded in his heart.
I do love you.
* * *
Delia opened the door onto Ty’s dark and scowling face. He stood before her, looking incredibly handsome and overpoweringly masculine in his fringed hunting shirt, open almost to the waist, and his tight buckskin breeches and knee-length boots.
“What the hell are you doing up?” he demanded.
As always the color leaped to her face at the first sight of him; there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. To cover her consternation, she wet her lips with her tongue, drawing his eyes to her mouth. “Oh, Ty. I couldn’t stay in that bed another minute. And, besides, Nat’s due home this evening and I’m way behind with my chores.”
His eyes remained fixed on her mouth. Then his jaw clamped tightly shut, his brows lowered, and his scowl deepened. With no warning, he swung her into his arms and headed for the bedroom. It always felt so wonderful being held, being touched by him. For the briefest second she let her cheek fall against his broad chest. The rough linen of his hunting shirt was warm and smelled like him.
Damn the man.
“Ty, put me down!” she cried. “In a minute.”
She suspected from the stiff way he held her that he might have wanted to dump her on the bed like a sack of turnips, but he laid her down gently. He pressed his hand against her forehead. “Damn it, Delia, you’ve got a fever.”
“I’m only hot because it’s so muggy today.” She pushed herself up on her elbows. “Ty, I’ve got a million things—”
He pressed her back down. “Nat won’t be home this evening. There’s a bad storm brewing, a nor’ easter by the looks of it. The sloop won’t have set out with weather like this on the way.”
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