"Oh, yes, the mark."
"I don't care if she got it because she tried to escape from the Indians. I still think it's ugly."
Drew's attention sharpened. "Who told you that's how she got it?"
"She did. She said that was how they punished her when she tried to run away."
So Cassie had tried to escape. But when had she done that? And had she taken Julia with her?
"She won't mark me like that if I'm bad, will she, Papa?" Meggie asked in a very small voice.
Meggie's tone banished Drew's concerns about the past. Taking an uneven breath, he wrapped his arms around Meggie and bound her back against him. "Of course she won't mark you!" he whispered, rocking her against him, pressing his cheek against her hair. "Cassie would never hurt you. She's one of the kindest, gentlest people I've ever known. She likes little girls, and in time she will come to love you every bit as much as your mother did."
The thought of Meggie being marked the way Cassie was, of her falling into the clutches of the Indians as Julia had, lay in his belly like a canister of grapeshot. Meggie was his child, his responsibility. He would do whatever he had to do to keep her safe.
"No, Meggie," he reassured her, rocking again. "Cassie's a good, kind woman. She would never hurt you. She'll take excellent care of you when I'm away."
"But what if she doesn't?"
For a moment Drew was confused by Meggie's continued concern. What else could he say to reassure her?
"What if she doesn't, Papa?" Meggie persisted.
Drew heard how her tone had lightened and realized he was supposed to threaten something outrageous. "Well," Drew drawled. "I could wait until Cassie's asleep and paint her green."
Meggie giggled.
"Or I could—make her eat carrots every meal for a month." Meggie hated carrots.
"Or I could tickle her."
Meggie laughed outright. "I think you should make her eat carrots. Green's too pretty a color, and Cassie might not be ticklish."
"Maybe we should go ask her," Drew suggested, slinging Meggie over his shoulder and getting to his feet. "Besides, aren't picnics supposed to have food?"
This picnic did. Cassie served up a concoction of tinned beef, potatoes, beans, onions, and desiccated vegetables with dumplings on top. Drew couldn't imagine how she'd managed to make something so delicious out of the army's nearly inedible ingredients. When the stew was gone, there were apples from the bottom of the apple barrel. Though Drew cut out the bad spots, they were pretty sorry specimens.
While Cassie was cleaning up and Meggie was picking up deadfall along the riverbank to build up the fire, Drew took out his paint box and pinned a paper in place. The buttes intrigued him, the subtle shadings in the stone, the hulking shapes, the contrast of the rusty red against the fields of winter white. He was mixing colors with water from his canteen when Cassandra wandered over to see what he was doing.
"I didn't know you painted," she said with some surprise. "You never did anything like that when we were growing up."
"It's something I started at West Point. They taught classes in drawing and mapmaking, and since I seemed to have an aptitude for scribbling, I decided to try my hand at watercolor."
"Will you show me something you've painted?"
Drew shrugged. He never showed his paintings to anyone. "Maybe later," he said, deliberately putting her off.
"Do you mind if I watch?"
He did mind. His paintings were something he did for himself. They were private, an outlet for thoughts and feelings he didn't know how else to express. For all that he'd taken her as his wife, he didn't want her to be part of this.
Meggie's scream cut off any evasion he might have made.
Drew and Cassie wheeled toward the river. Nearly forty yards from shore, Meggie hung half in and half out of the water, clinging to a branch embedded in the ice.
"Oh Jesus!" Drew moaned. "I never thought to warn her—" He tossed his paints aside and bolted down the bank.
"Hang on, Meggie!" he yelled to her. "I'm coming!"
"Hurry, Papa!" the child yelled back.
"Be careful," Cassie called after him.
Drew ran through the rime of snow and the yards-deep margin of dried grass at the edge of the river, slowing only when the ice turned slick and treacherous beneath his boots.
"Hang on, Meggie!" he could hear Cassie shouting. "Just hang on!"
Meggie hung on, her eyes wide in her pale, pinched face, her red-mittened hands bright against silvery wood.
Fear clawed deep in Drew's chest as he scuffled forward, desperate to save his little girl.
"Papa, hurry!" Meggie begged.
"I'm coming as fast as I can."
The ice turned from cloudy white to translucent gray. Bubbles swelled and slid beneath the surface.
"Papa's coming," he promised.
The ice beneath him creaked and shimmied. Then everything shifted. The branch Meggie had been holding dropped, rebounded, and snapped with the report of a pistol shot.
Drew dived flat out across the ice.
Meggie screamed, and her shrill went silent as the cold, dark water closed over her head.
He scrambled closer to the hole on his hands and knees.
"Oh, God! Oh, Jesus, please!" he pleaded, fear shrieking through him. Would the weight of Meggie's clothes pull her right to the bottom? Would the current take her? Would she be trapped beneath the ice?
"Meggie! Meggie!" Cassandra bellowed the little girl's name as if by sheer force of will she could order her back.
Then miraculously Meggie bobbed to the surface at the far side of the hole, coughing and sputtering.
Drew slithered nearer and felt the ice dip beneath him, all but dumping him into the river. He dug in with his knees, his fingers, and the toes of his boots. He hung there breathing hard, still too far away to reach his daughter.
From somewhere off to his right Cassie was screaming his name. He turned to look and saw that she was out on the ice.
"Go back," he ordered her, "Go back!"
Cassie shook her head. "I don't weigh as much as you. I have a better chance of reaching her."
Drew ignored her, needing to find a way to get to Meggie himself. He shifted toward the hole again. Icy water lapped over the lip of the ice and flooded beneath him.
"Papa, get me!" Meggie wailed. "Papa, please!"
"Damnit, Drew, get back!" Cassie shrieked.
She was sprawled on her belly and squirming toward the hole from the opposite side. Even he could see she had a better chance of reaching his daughter than he did.
Cursing under his breath, Drew inched back.
Somehow Meggie was managing to cling to the slippery ledge of ice at the edge of the hole, to stay afloat in spite of the drag of her skirts and coat.
"Papa?" she mewed. "Papa?"
She was pale as parchment. Her lips were blue.
Drew's heart seized up inside of him. "Cassie's coming," he reassured her. "You hang on until she gets there."
Back where the ice was thicker, Drew scrambled to his feet. From there he could see Cassie wriggling closer and closer to his daughter. She was six feet away. Three feet. Less.
She stretched out her arms.
Meggie made a grab for one of Cassie's hands. She missed and sank beneath the water again.
"Meggie!" Drew yelled and bolted forward. His daughter was going to drown. He'd failed again.
Cassie lunged for the hole and thrust both arms shoulder-deep into the water.
"I've got hold of her sleeve," she shouted and began creeping backward.
Drew stood frozen, helpless. He prayed Cassie didn't lose her grip on Meggie's coat, that the current didn't drag both of them down.
It seemed like forever before Meggie surfaced. Cassie wrapped her hands around both the little girl's wrists and began to pull her up through the hole in the ice.
Drew started forward to help, and Cassie warned him back again.
He could hear Cass babblin
g reassurances as she crab-crawled backward. He could see Cassie's back arch, sense how the muscles of her shoulders and arms were straining against the drag of Meggie's weight and the river current.
Gradually Cassie reclaimed his daughter. Her shoulders came first, then her back as far as her waist. Meggie's legs and feet appeared. She was kicking a little as if trying to help.
The two of them sprawled flat out on the ice, as if they never meant to move. Then slowly Cassie climbed to her knees and pulled his daughter toward her. She bound the child up tight in her arms, soothing her with words Drew could not hear, swaying gently.
Drew sucked in a ragged draught of air. He wiped the sweat from his face with one shaking hand and went out to meet them.
He caught Meggie roughly in his arms, surprised by how much he needed to feel that small shuddering body against his chest.
"Why?" he whispered against her, light-headed with relief when he should have been angry. "Why did you go out on the ice?"
"To see the eagles."
"The eagles?" he breathed, and hugged her tighter. "Oh, Meggie." Drew carried her back to the fire.
"We've got to get her out of those wet clothes," Cass said, gathering up Drew's discarded overcoat. "We've got to get her wrapped in this."
Working together they stripped off the little girl's things and rubbed the circulation back into her hands and feet. Meggie accepted their ministrations, shuddering and blinking in white-faced confusion.
"She's going to be all right, isn't she?" Drew mumbled, opening his own wet tunic and shirt and binding his daughter against his chest. Cassie draped Drew's overcoat around them and buttoned it tight.
"We need to get her to the fort."
They made the ride in record time. Meggie was still trembling violently when they got back. While Cassie bathed his daughter in a steaming bath with pungent herbs, Drew got down his whiskey bottle and made a sweet, weak toddy. He fed it to Meggie with a spoon.
He was still shaking inside, berating himself for not seeing the danger, furious at Meggie for scaring him, angry with Cassie for being able to rescue Meggie when he could not. He hated the panic that flowed in him. He hated being so naked to the world. He'd vowed not to care this much about anyone ever again.
Once they had scrubbed and dosed a modicum of warmth back into the little girl, Cassie eased her out of the tub, rubbed her dry, and bundled her into a nightdress. Meggie was limp when Cass was done. She lifted the child in her arms and carried her to her own small bed.
Drew sat stiff and still at the edge of the larger one, his own mug of whiskey clasped between his hands. Cassie turned to him when Meggie was tucked up tight and sound asleep.
"She's going to be all right, isn't she?" He hated needing reassurance, but couldn't seem to help asking.
Cassie looked down at him with compassion in her eyes. "I think she'll be fine. I don't see any sign of permanent injury, but you can have one of the medical orderlies take a look at her if you like."
"She won't get pneumonia?" He heard the quaver in his voice and cursed himself. "Laura died of pneumonia."
Cassie stepped nearer and stroked his hair. It took everything he had not to grab her and just hang on.
"I can't tell for sure," Cassie answered him honestly, "but her lungs seem clear so far."
He leaned his head against her midriff, accepting her touch, welcoming her tenderness. He could never remember being so shaken, so down-to-the-bone weary.
"Thank you for what you did," he mumbled against her ribs. "I'm not sure I could have reached her. I'm not sure I would have known what to do once we got her out of the river."
"At least we won't have to worry about her walking out on the ice again," Cassie said with what sounded like a smile.
"No," Drew agreed. "But there's no telling what mischief she'll come up with tomorrow."
"Then, I guess we'll have to be ready for anything."
As Cassie spoke, Drew felt her reach for the buttons on his uniform blouse.
"What in hell are you doing?" he demanded, pulling back.
Cass looked down at him with tenderness in her eyes. "This tunic's nearly as wet as Meggie's things. And I suppose those trousers are, too. I want you to put on something dry, then stretch out on the bed for a little while."
"It's not even dark," he argued, as he came to his feet and stripped his shirttail out of his pants. The effort made his head reel and his knees feel rubbery.
"But you're exhausted, aren't you? Being scared to death does that even to big, strong men like you."
Sometimes this new Cassie was entirely too wise. He couldn't bring himself to admit either that or how frightened he'd been. Not while she was standing there, watching him. Not while the ripples were still settling. Yet somehow he was glad she understood.
She gathered up his clothes as he removed them and waited while he tugged on a fresh pair of underdrawers. He sat down on the bed to put on his socks then glanced across to the alcove where Meggie was fast asleep.
"She's going to be all right," Cassie reassured him. "And so are you."
He looked up into that pale, marked face, drawing warmth and courage from her eyes. Perhaps it was his momentary weakness, his need for comfort and concern that prevented him from resisting when she laid one hand against his shoulder and pressed him back onto the bed. Perhaps it was why he agreed to close his eyes, at least for a little while.
He heard her take the extra blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed, felt her drape the woolly folds over him.
"I want to take care of you, too, Drew," she told him so softly he wasn't sure he was meant to hear her.
At another juncture in his life he might have welcomed her offer. He just wasn't sure he could let her close enough to do that now.
* * *
Even as she rose through the hazy veil of sleep, Cassandra sensed that Drew was watching her. She fancied she could feel his gaze slide across her skin, from the crest of her brow to the curve of her cheek, from the slope of her throat to the rise of her breast. She fancied that she heard him breathe her name.
She turned to where he lay beside her in the moonlit darkness of their bedchamber. She could tell he was awake. She could hear the faint, uneasy flutter of each breath, feel his motionless rigidity. He was staring out of hollow, shaded eyes, looking back from some cold, dark place inside himself. It was as if he had been watching her for hours, intent and pensive—yet detached.
"Drew?" she whispered. "Drew?"
As if he were willing a world of distance between them, he shifted on the feather tick and rolled onto his back.
Cassie refused to allow the withdrawal, not with her own man, not in her own bed. Not when the dark pressed close around them, and they both seemed suddenly so very far from sleep.
She let the shift of his weight spill her against him. As she braced a hand against his chest, her fingertips hummed with a faint, focused resonance of a man in pain.
She curled against him, instinctively seeking to soothe him with the strong, sure contact of her own flesh. She drew him closer and he came, big and broad, resisting and relenting. His skin was hot and damp. He smelled of desolation, old terrors, and bad dreams. Of a boy's haunting memories and a man's new fears.
She whispered his name, calling out the torment deep inside of him. A breath ripped raw up the back of his throat as he tried to resist, and then his hands were on her, clawing at her hair, gathering the fabric of her nightdress in his fists. He shuddered, he sighed. He gave his emotions up to her.
They flowed over her, jumbled and incoherent, raging and hot. She fought down a need to protect herself. She had demanded that he show her where it hurt, and now she refused to look away.
He gave up the words in a whisper as frayed and fragile as the ribbon in a family Bible. "Oh, God, Cassie," he gasped. "I could have lost her. She could have drowned."
His shudder racked through them both.
"It's all right, Drew," Cassie murmured back, holding him as
tightly as she could. "We got her. We saved her. Meggie's safe."
"Safe." He scoffed a jagged laugh. "No one's safe. No one's ever safe. Not Meggie or Laura. Not Julia or you. I've never been able to keep anyone safe."
With those whispered words, she recognized the parched, brittle agony of his soul.
After Julia died, she had eaten and slept and breathed this shame and futility. She had wanted to stop feeling and thinking and waking every day. Yet somehow she had groped her way beyond it. She could help Drew do that, too.
"Oh Drew," she whispered, holding him more tightly than before. "Let this go. Forgive yourself and stop remembering. Let me help you."
Deliberately, she stretched up along his body and sought his mouth—his sweet, soft mouth, draped in the fine dark silk of his reddish mustache. A score of memories returned with the taste of him, memories of slow, tart kisses stolen in an apple tree. Of snuggling in the hayloft the night she turned fifteen. Of a sun-warmed rock beneath her back as they made love. And with them came the need to make more memories. New memories. Memories potent enough to warm a night when the wind blew cold and the future lay shrouded in uncertainty.
Cassie set about that task, trailing her fingers over him, testing the texture of his flesh with her fingertips. She skimmed them down along his side, then up along the arc of his ribs. She sought the dark, flat disk of his nipples in a nest of downy hair. She entwined her legs with his and pressed close.
Drew gasped and shuddered as she touched him. She felt him strain beneath her hands, his muscles tightening. As she stroked him and held him and soothed him, she sensed the need for forgetfulness grow in him. It was as if he wanted to lose himself, to forfeit the guilt and responsibility for a little while.
They both needed that—to touch on a more than physical plane, to obliterate the past in a rush of new pleasure, to share the bliss they could find together. She wanted this joining, this loving both for Drew and for herself.
And he seemed to want it as fiercely as she. He grabbed her hard, his arms enfolding her, his hands splayed against her back. He rolled above her.
"I need you, Cassie," he whispered.
She felt as if she had been waiting half her life to hear the words. Drew needed her, to love and pleasure him, to understand and heal him. To be his wife in every way.
So Wide the Sky Page 14