She walked toward the Indians, heard Megan’s gasp and Caney’s muttered curse, and was only mildly relieved to see the old woman who had brought her Jenny, riding to the fore, her long gray braid dangling over one shoulder.
“Singing Deer—she is well?”
Singing Deer, Christy repeated to herself. So that was Jenny’s true name. “Yes,” she said, though a lump had formed in her throat and her eyes burned so badly that they might have been on fire.
“Bring,” commanded the ancient one. That she enjoyed a position of authority in her tribe there could be no doubt. The painted braves, Christy realized, were in attendance to enforce her decrees, that was all, and probably would have preferred to be elsewhere.
Christy nodded, turned, and went into the lodge. Jenny—Singing Deer—was lying happily in a basket atop the bed, diapered and clean and very fascinated with the toes on her right foot. Christy had known this moment was coming, of course, but she still felt as though she’d been dealt a knee-breaking blow. In the short time she had had the child in her care, she had fallen in love with her. Now, she would probably never see her again.
Tenderly, she lifted Singing Deer from her basket, wrapped her in a clean blanket she could not really spare, and carried her outside.
The elderly woman leaned down to collect the child. Her granddaughter, perhaps, or even her greatgranddaughter.
Christy surrendered her charge unflinchingly, although inside she was falling apart. “She likes potato broth,” she said, without intending to speak at all. It was unlikely that the visitors understood what she’d said or would have cared if they had.
The woman nodded, her gaze level. She barked out a few words in the language of her people, and one of the braves thrust a feathered spear into the ground at Christy’s feet with enough force to make her start. She sensed, rather than saw, that Caney had raised her shotgun, ready to fire.
“No!” Christy cried, with one look backward. “Caney, don’t shoot!”
A brisk exchange took place between the woman and several of the fiercer braves. Then, at her command, the party turned their ponies and rode away, vanishing into the timber.
“Wait until I tell Skye about this,” Megan enthused, reaching for the staff of the spear with the obvious intention of pulling it up to use as an exhibit.
“Leave it,” Christy said.
Megan looked at her in surprise. Caney was standing close by, one hand under Christy’s left elbow, the other clasping the shotgun.
“But it’s an Indian spear,” Megan said, with as much wonder as if the thing were the Holy Cross itself.
“Exactly,” Christy managed to gasp. Then she dropped to her knees in the tall grass, covered her face with both hands, and sobbed with sorrow and relief and any number of other emotions.
Caney was soon kneeling beside her, gathering her into her arms. “There, now. You go right ahead and cry, Miss Christy. You go right on ahead. Lord knows, you have all the reason in the world.”
“Why can’t I have the spear?” Megan persisted.
“Because it’s a sign to other Indians, that’s why,” Caney replied. “I reckon it means ‘stay away.’ Now, go fetch me some creek water and a clean cloth. Can’t you see your sister needs tendin’?”
Christy was beginning to recover a little; her sobs had turned to hiccoughs, and she didn’t need to cling quite so tightly to Caney.
“What is it, child?” Caney asked with a gruff gentleness that made Christy want to start wailing again. “I know you didn’t expect to keep that sweet little baby. You couldn’t have.”
Christy nodded. She’d known this would happen, of course, but that didn’t make it one bit easier. She’d lost Jenny, and Zachary had ridden off somewhere, looking to get himself killed. The future looked bleak indeed, a long series of black and empty days and endless lonely nights.
Chapter 7
Jake Vigil proved to be a patient man. He waited through what remained of April and all of May. He brought Christy flowers he’d gathered himself, took her for moonlight drives in his smart, gleaming buggy, and sent all the way to Chicago for his wedding gift to her, a grand piano.
All that time, Christy was in torment, and not merely because of the fruitlessness of her continuing efforts to fall truly in love with her future husband. Zachary had been gone for weeks, and as far as she knew, no one had heard from him. Christy had bad dreams nearly every night, dreams in which Zachary had been shot dead by one of the monstrous men he was hunting.
One night in early June, when Caney was in town courting Mr. Hicks, Trace came running across the footbridge and up the hillside, shouting for Christy.
She had been sitting on a stone near the creek, brushing her hair and planning to retire early and read one of a stack of books she’d borrowed from Jake’s library. Sometimes, though not always, filling her mind with someone else’s words served as a talisman of sorts, keeping the nightmares at bay.
“What is it?” she asked, even though she thought she already knew.
Trace didn’t wait for her to rise; he grabbed one of her hands and wrenched her to her feet. “Bridget’s having pains, real close together. She says the baby’s coming.”
Christy drew a deep breath to steady herself, let it out slowly. She had assisted Caney in the delivery of several babies on the wagon train but never actually brought one into the world herself. “I’ll go to her right now,” she said calmly, though inwardly she was considerably less composed than she must have seemed to Trace. “You head into town and fetch Caney back. She’ll be with Mr. Hicks.”
Trace shook his head. “I’m not leaving my wife,” he said, and it was plain by his tone that he meant it. “Skye’s off somewhere, with Noah, like most times. She can go, soon as she gets back.”
Christy followed him back across the creek and into the sprawling house. Bridget was still dressed and pacing back and forth in front of the hearth.
Although relations had been strained between the two cousins, to say the least, Christy put everything aside and took Bridget’s arm. “Trace says it’s time.”
Bridget smiled weakly and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “It’s going to be quicker than it was with Noah, I think. I felt the first pain about an hour ago, and now they’re pretty hard, with just a few seconds in between.”
Christy returned her cousin’s smile. “Let’s get down to business, then,” she said, and turned to address Bridget’s pale, wide-eyed husband. She had to admire him for insisting on staying, when he was obviously scared half out of his skin. “Trace, I’ll need plenty of hot water. And you’ll probably want to send Skye and Noah over to our place if they show up. There’s no time to fetch Caney.”
He nodded, grabbed up two buckets, and stumbled out of the cabin like a sleepwalker, headed for the creek.
Meanwhile, Christy escorted Bridget into the bedroom she and Trace shared, helped her out of her clothes, into a loose nightgown, and into bed.
“Are you scared?” Christy asked quietly, rolling up the sleeves of her dress. There was water in the pitcher on the washstand; she poured some into the basin and began to scrub her hands with yellow soap Bridget had probably made herself.
Bridget nodded. “A little,” she confessed.
“I know how to do this,” Christy said quietly in an effort to reassure her. “Caney taught me when we were with the wagon train.”
Bridget nodded again. And then the pains intensified; she doubled up in bed and moaned aloud.
Christy examined her gently. It would not be long, judging by appearances. In fact, they’d be fortunate if Trace got the water heated in time to be of any help.
“H-have you and Jake set a date yet?” Bridget asked.
Christy ached. Zachary, her heart cried, in silent sorrow. For a while, she’d played a game with herself. If Zachary returned, either penniless or prospering, and if he still wanted her, she would take it as a sign from God and marry him in spite of everything. But he hadn’t come back, and time was running ou
t. Jake wasn’t willing to wait forever.
“Yes,” she said without meeting Bridget’s eyes. “We’ll be married this coming Sunday, before church. Reverend Taylor has already agreed to perform the ceremony.”
Bridget gasped as a particularly grievous pain seized her, knotting her belly with such force that the musculature was visible even through the fabric of her nightgown. “You’re—you’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Christy said. It wasn’t precisely true, of course, but the charade might as well begin now as on her wedding day, just a few days hence. “Now, let’s talk about you. Would you like something to hold on to? I could tie sheets to the bedposts.”
Bridget shook her head. “I-I don’t think I’m going to need anything like that. The baby seems to have made up its mind.”
Christy smiled. When she examined Bridget again, she saw the crown of a tiny head. “You are quick,” she said.
Bridget lay back on her pillows, panting. “Trace— is so scared—”
“Don’t worry about Trace,” Christy said. “I gave him some busywork to keep him out from underfoot. He’ll be all right.”
Bridget’s back arched, and she gave a rasping cry.
“Push,” Christy ordered.
Bridget pushed.
“Again.” A small, perfectly formed head appeared, sporting masses of spiky golden hair. Christy’s heart soared, and she smiled, despite the inherent drama of the situation. “Almost finished, Bridge. One more push.”
The baby slipped out with the next contraction, but Bridget’s belly was still distended. So Caney had been right; no surprise there. Bridget was indeed carrying twins.
“It’s a boy,” Christy said, making sure the baby’s mouth and nose were clear and then tying off and severing the cord.
Bridget looked down, her face glistening with sweat. “Oh, God,” she moaned, “there’s another one.”
“So it would appear,” Christy replied, just as Trace bumbled into the room. “The water’s about ready,” he said.
Christy handed him his son, unwashed and hastily bundled into a towel, and turned back to Bridget, who was yelling in earnest by then.
His eyes widened with the realization that Bridget was about to give birth to a second baby. “Maybe it’s crosswise,” Trace said, looking down at his wife with a combination of joy, bewilderment, and worry, but keeping a secure hold on the babe in his arms.
Christy might have laughed if she hadn’t been so busy. “Look after your son,” she said. “We’re a little busy with number two, here.”
The girl arrived five minutes later, as blond and perfect as her brother, and Bridget finally was allowed to lie still, struggling for breath, mussed and bloody and beaming with happiness.
Christy attended to the necessary details, changed the bedsheets without dislodging Bridget, in just the way Caney had taught her to do, and quietly left the room so that Bridget and Trace could be alone with each other and the two new additions to the family.
She washed thoroughly at the kitchen washstand, though she supposed her dress was unsalvageable, and wept silently because no matter how many babies she bore Jake Vigil, she would never have what Bridget and Trace were sharing at that moment, in the very room where they had conceived their babies.
In time, she noticed the familiar McQuarry family Bible, a large volume, awaiting the day’s date—June 10—and the names of the newcomers, now squalling lustily on the other side of the parlor wall. With a reflective smile, she sat down, placed the Bible in her lap, and opened it to the pages of records in front.
The tome had been printed during the American Revolution, and it had probably cost a fortune, books being rare and very precious in that time.
Thinking of home, of Granddaddy, of Virginia, Christy ran an index finger down the long, long list of names. Births, deaths, marriages. McQuarrys all. When she reached her own generation, her breath caught in her throat, and she blinked, certain that she could not have read the copperplate handwriting correctly.
But she had.
With a snap, Christy closed the McQuarry Bible on a secret that had been right there all the time, in plain English, and she was still staring into space, assimilating all the ramifications, when Trace came out, beaming with pride, to say Bridget and the babies were sleeping.
“Did—did you decide what to call them?” she asked.
He nodded, went to wash his hands, then poured coffee for them both and came to sit in the second rocking chair in front of the fireplace. “The boy is Gideon Mitchell, the girl Rebecca Christina.”
Under any other circumstances, Christy might have resented the fact that Bridget had just laid claim to two of the best family names. Yet Bridget had given the girl Christy’s own, which was surely an olive branch of sorts, and Christy was still reeling from what she’d just discovered in the pages of the McQuarry Bible.
Granddaddy, she thought, with the beginnings of a smile, you crafty old devil, you.
Sunday morning arrived all too soon, and Christy, still keeping her discovery to herself, still debating over whether or not to reveal it to anyone, ever, dressed for her marriage with all the exuberance Marie Antoinette must have felt when grooming herself for the guillotine.
“You can still back out, you hear?” Caney hissed as she helped Christy with the pale blue silk gown they had altered to serve as a wedding dress. They were in a corner of Reverend Taylor’s tent church, behind an improvised changing screen. The parishioners would not arrive until later, after the deed had been done.
Christy sighed. Zachary hadn’t returned, which surely meant that she ought to go ahead with her plans. “Where is Megan?” she fussed. “I declare, if she’s late, I’ll wring her neck.”
“Don’t you fret, now. Miss Skye will bring her right along,” Caney said. “It’s a pity Miss Bridget can’t be here, too, but with them babies so new and all—”
Christy didn’t mind not having a large wedding; the two people she needed for support, Caney and Megan, would be there. As far as she was concerned, no other witnesses were necessary, or even desirable. She felt like someone about to commit a crime.
A stir beyond the changing screen alerted her to the arrival of her bridegroom; she peeked around and swallowed hard at the sight of Jake, so handsome in his new suit of clothes. He was accompanied by Trace, who would serve as his best man, and several of the men who worked with him in the timber enterprise.
Apparently sensing Christy’s regard, he looked up, met her gaze, and smiled.
Christy dodged behind the screen again. How could she do this? How? Jake was a decent man; he deserved a woman who truly loved him. “Caney—” she began.
Caney’s expression was eager. “What, baby?”
She thought of the big house, the money, the opportunities and security she and Megan would both enjoy because of this union. “Nothing,” she said, sighing the word.
Overhead, an unseasonable rain began to patter on the roof of the large tent. The weather was certainly in keeping with Christy’s state of mind.
The sound of a fiddle playing the opening strains of the wedding march signaled the beginning of the ceremony. Caney fussed with Christy’s hair and dress for a few more seconds, then pushed her around the edge of the screen.
Megan was standing near the altar, looking like one of the Three Graces, a bouquet of yellow and pink wildflowers clasped in both hands. Reverend Taylor was in position, prayer book in hand, and Jake stood to his left, gazing fondly at Christy, urging her forward with his eyes.
She swallowed, hesitated, took one step and then another. Somehow reached his side, although she could not feel her feet touching the sawdust-covered floor, could not feel anything except her knotted stomach.
The rain pounded at the tent top, and thunder crashed high above their heads. Jake’s arm brushed Christy’s, and he smelled pleasantly of some fine gentleman’s cologne. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again just as quickly. She prayed she wouldn’t disgrace herself and
Jake by fainting right there in front of God and creation.
“Dearly beloved,” the reverend began solemnly, “we are gathered here—”
Christy bit her upper lip.
“—in the sight of God—”
“No!” she burst out. She looked up at Jake’s bewildered face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. But I can’t do this. I can’t!” With that, she lifted her skirts, turned, and fled between the rows of roughhewn pews toward the large, open doorway of the tent. She ran out into the hammering rain, through the downpour, through the gummy mud and the puddles, utterly heedless of everything except the need to escape and with no particular destination in mind.
He was tired, he was wet to the skin, and, apparently, he was hallucinating. Christy was running toward him, head down, wearing what looked like a wedding gown. He reined in the stallion, waited, and watched. She hadn’t seen him yet; that was the only conclusion he could draw with any certainty, for the moment at least.
As she neared, he stepped down from the saddle and flung the reins loosely over the hitching rail in front of Diamond Lil’s. He’d been gone for weeks, sleeping on the ground, solemnly working his way through the stack of wanted posters he’d gathered from the walls of the marshal’s office. He’d earned a considerable sum since he’d been away, but with all that time to think, he’d had no choice but to face things about himself that he might not have looked at otherwise.
First of all, he’d explored the troubling fact that he was not only willing to marry a woman who would have him only if he had money in the bank, but half crazed with the need, and he’d asked himself if he truly cared that much. The answer was yes, and that hadn’t changed, but at some point he’d made a decision: he wouldn’t sell his soul, not even for Christy. No matter how badly it hurt to turn away, he wasn’t going to buy her love.
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