Patricia Rice

by Wayward Angel

"If thou couldst sell one hog and hire a good worker, I can hold my own in a few weeks. Thou couldst go thy own way, then. I would not keep thee against thy will."

  Her voice was stiff and unnatural, and Pace gave her a sharp look. "Obviously, your opinion of me is as high as everyone else's. I don't thank you for the offer."

  Dora stared down at her plate. She didn't feel like eating. Her insides roiled in misery. She hadn't meant for dinner to go this way. But everything she said, he turned against her. She knotted her fingers in her lap and whispered, "Then what can I offer thee?"

  "Nothing, Dora," he answered tiredly. "I don't want anything from you or anyone else. I just want to be left alone."

  "I see." But she didn't. Scraping her chair back from the table, Dora wished she could understand what went through his head, but that gentle connection that had always existed between them had long since disappeared. She felt as if she floated helplessly in space, desperately grabbing for someone or something for support, and only finding air. She was drowning all over again, and this time, no one could save her.

  As she started to leave, Pace shoved his chair back and stood up. "Dora, wait!"

  She kept on going. She was tired of being everything to everybody. She was tired of reaching out and coming up empty-handed. She was just plain tired.

  The gunshots and yells outside rang out just as she set foot on the stairs.

  Chapter 28

  It is easy to fly into a passion—anybody can do that—but to be angry with the right person to the right extent and at the right time and with the right object and in the right way—that is not easy, and it is not everyone who can do it.

  ~ Aristotle, Nicomacbean Ethics (4th c. bc.)

  "Dora, get upstairs!" Pace knocked his chair over as he ran for the rifle in his study.

  Dora looked from the man running for his weapons to the front door. Exhaustion exploded into fury. Ignoring Pace's command, she set her shoes in the direction of the front door. She was sick and tired of being bullied. She saw little difference between this nighttime terrorism and the earl's abuse. To survive, she must put a stop to it.

  "Payson Nicholls, get your damned hide out here!" She didn't recognize the voice, but Dora didn't care. A few people around here needed to learn some manners.

  She heard Pace's roar of warning as she threw open the front door, but she ignored that too. All her life she had been bullied—by her brother, her father, her religion, the people of town. They'd told her what to do and how to do it and punished her if she didn't do it to suit them. She was tired of it.

  She knew how to survive. She knew it wasn't by fighting people larger than her. She was tired of just surviving.

  The men on their horses looked surprised when Dora emerged from the lamplight shining through the front door. She could see their shock and recognized the faces of one or two. She saw Randolph and his brother Sam. She remembered them shoving her around in town when Papa John lay dying. She didn't recognize the man in front, but from his porcine appearance, she figured he was some cousin of Homer's. He looked more than half drunk. She glared at his unfastened waistcoat and gravy-stained neckcloth.

  Putting her hands on her hips, she demanded, "What dost thee want? There are people sleeping here, and thy caterwauling will wake them."

  The fact that Pace hadn't come from behind to shove her back inside surprised her. She had expected it, and she was prepared to fight him too. The fury boiling inside her was directed at him more than at these strangers. But he'd obviously kept the sense to stay out of her way.

  "We want Pace, Dora. Call him out here, or is he such a coward he hides behind a woman's skirts?"

  "Thy mother taught thee better than that, Randolph. If thou wishest to see Pace, then thou must knock at the door like a civilized human being. And thou must leave thy weapons on the outside. This is a genteel household and not a saloon."

  "Randolph, go check the barn. Sam, you take the slave shacks. I'm going to rope up that bastard if it's the last thing I do."

  Dora saw the shadow step from the corner of the veranda before the others did. She didn't fear these overgrown bullies, but she feared Pace and his temper. She knew he carried that deadly rifle of his. She knew every time he pulled that trigger, it took a piece of his soul.

  With a shriek of aggravated impatience, she dashed down the steps and grabbed the riding crop from the porky one's drunken fingers. Then she slashed it down over his horse's rump until the sluggish animal reared and backed away despite his rider's screams and kicks.

  "This is my house and my home and thou wilt not trespass! Be gone with thee before I am sorry that I did not let Pace riddle thy worthless skins."

  Astonished by her attack, all three men clung to their nervous horses and stared down at her. A chuckle from the veranda swung their attention to the dark shadow behind the morning glory vines.

  "Gentlemen, I have never seen my wife quite so angry and I've known her for a real long time. She's quite likely to burst a seam and do something she'll be sorry for in the morning if you don't move on out. You know how women are when they have young ones to protect. Not quite rational, you might say. So why don't you just skedaddle on out of here and sleep it off? If you've got a bone to pick with me, you can do it in the morning, when you're sober, in the company of the sheriff."

  The fat one loosed a stream of invectives that brought a spurt of gunfire at his horse's hooves from Pace's weapon. The horse reared and bolted, and its rider slid to the ground with a solid thump.

  Dora smacked the porch column with the riding whip and glared at Pace. "Stop that, Pace! I will not have thee shooting any more idiots. They are not worth the damage to thy soul." With the toe of her shoe, she jabbed at the groaning man on the ground. "Get thyself out of here before I have thee trussed and delivered to the sheriff." She glared up at the other two men. "And thee too. Get him out of here. I'll not hear any more of this nonsense."

  The men looked from Pace's powerful figure leaning idly against a column to the tiny irate woman standing boldly on the heels of their horses. Apparently deciding this resembled a scene from Bedlam more than a terrified household, they gathered up their drunken companion, threw him over his horse, and with a few muttered warnings, they departed.

  Dora was still too furious to see straight. Giving her husband's lounging form a glare, she turned and stalked into the house, slamming the door after her. He followed, slamming the door after him. The windows shook with the double blows.

  "Dora, get your ass the hell back down here before I have to come up and get it!" he yelled as she climbed the stairs.

  She glared over the banister at him. "You cannot bully me any longer, Pace Nicholls! And if you lay one miserable hand on me, I shall take this to you too!" She waved her purloined riding crop.

  Pace halted in shock at her words. He looked at her riding crop. He looked at the rifle in his hand. Then he noted the way his fingers had clenched into fists. When he looked back at her, his face had filled with pain.

  Quietly, he carried the rifle into his study and closed the door.

  Dora nearly cried. The sobs welling up inside her threatened to tear her apart. All the furious energy that had kept her going dissipated as if it had never been, and she was more tired than she had ever been in her life. And empty. She felt as if every ounce of her soul had drained away, and she had no certainty it had been worth the effort. She didn't think she had accomplished anything but to make an enormous fool of herself.

  She glanced at the closed study door, then wearily turned up the stairs. She couldn't help Pace now. She could barely help herself.

  Violence begets violence, Papa John had said. It seemed most likely that violence just killed the soul.

  * * *

  Pace listened to her walk away, then slowly returned the rifle to its rack. He didn't understand what was happening. He'd never in his life meant to hurt Dora. He wanted to protect her, to take care of her, to give her all the things she wanted. But he'd be damned i
f he knew what she wanted. He had never seen her act like this before.

  There had been those times as a little girl she'd come racing to his defense, he supposed. She had been cute and a little annoying. She'd grown up, however. She'd become this quiet, modest little waif who talked in hushed tones and never gave evidence of anger except in an occasional disapproving glare. The wild person who had raged and ranted at armed men tonight was not the Dora he knew. Had childbirth changed her so?

  But he found even his own reactions strange. Instead of charging out there, dragging Dora back in the house, and driving the bastards off at the end of his gun, he'd let her rage. He'd almost admired the way she threw herself at them, making them look the fools they were.

  And she hadn't needed a gun to do it. He had been proud of her, until she turned her back on him.

  He knew why she'd turned her back on him. And he didn't like it. Pace put his boots up on the desk and stared at the guns hanging on the wall. He'd come a long way since fists and pitchforks were his only choice of weapons. He wasn't smaller than the other boys any longer. He could beat the tar out of them even with his crippled arm. But the war had taught him how to shoot, and how to shoot well. Returning to anything less effective seemed foolish.

  But he recognized the hunger in him for what it was. He wanted Dora's approval. She was the only person in this world who had ever looked at him with complete acceptance and approbation. He felt that shelter of approval deteriorating rapidly. It left him naked and vulnerable. He didn't know how one little woman could do that to him, and he didn't think he liked it.

  He didn't need her. He could ride out of here tomorrow and make a life for himself anywhere he went. He was an educated man. Somewhere out there he could find a place that needed a gimpy-armed lawyer.

  He could even find other women. Women were easy. He knew more beautiful women than Dora, voluptuous, passionate women who could give him the sex he'd been deprived of all these months. Maybe that was half his problem. He needed a physical release Dora couldn't give him. But all he had to do was remember why Dora couldn't give him what he wanted, and he knew he couldn't leave.

  He had a daughter now, a child he hadn't wanted and Dora certainly hadn't asked for, but his own flesh and blood just the same. He knew what not being wanted felt like. His father had made it painfully clear that he considered Pace an unpleasant surprise. He wouldn't allow any child of his to ever feel that way. Frances would have the home and loving parents he'd never had. Dora would show him how to do it.

  It gave him something worth living for. Dora could always find a better husband, but Frances could never have another real father, one who would love her just because she was his. He could do that. He would do that, just as soon as he figured out how to keep Dora from throwing things at him.

  He heard his daughter's hungry cries and smiled. He and Frances were in this together. Dora couldn't resist both of them.

  As he climbed the stairs, Pace knew he wasn't doing Dora any favors. He would make a rotten husband. He had a bad temper, and he was a lousy farmer. But she had seen something worthwhile in him once. Perhaps he could make her see it again. And then maybe he could figure out what it was and go back to the path he'd lost somewhere along the line.

  Dora looked up with surprise when he entered the bedroom, but if there was fear in her eyes, she hid it. She didn't smile but returned her attention to the nursing infant. Pace felt a tug at his groin as his gaze fell to her breast. It had been a damned long time since he'd suckled there. The desire that hit him now shouldn't be so remarkable. He'd gone without a woman for nine long months. After Dora, he'd not had the desire for camp whores. The remarkable part was that he hadn't felt desire for any other woman except this one for a damned long time.

  He didn't even know why he desired her. She was small and delicately made, scarcely the voluptuous type he'd preferred in the past. She had no coloring to speak of. Her hair was so fair as to be almost silver, and her cheeks were as translucent as his mother's best porcelain. But when she looked at him with those glorious blue eyes, he saw an angel, and he had no desire for anyone else. When given heaven, who would settle for second best?

  He'd obviously stuffed his brain with too much poetry in school, and it came out now when he was tired. But he continued on his chosen course, sitting in the armchair to remove his boots, hanging his coat in the wardrobe. Dora had left the lamp on, and he knew she followed his movements, but neither of them spoke.

  He waited until the child finished before approaching the bed. He'd disposed of his shirt and wore only trousers for decency. He felt Dora's hesitation when he removed the infant from her arms, but she surrendered her burden without protest, allowing him to place Frances in the cradle. He kissed the squirming infant on the forehead, then lay her on her side and rocked her until she settled. She would have his hair, he decided. He hoped she would have her mother's eyes.

  When he came back to the bed, Dora blew out the lamp. Pace smiled at her belated modesty, but he didn't chide her for it. He felt a trifle nervous himself, and for no significant reason that he could think of. He knew it was too soon after the child's birth to force himself upon her. He didn't know how soon he could take her in that way. She was too frail to bear the burden of too many children. He'd have to be careful with her.

  He wished he knew who to ask about these things, but Dora was the only person he knew who might have the answers. He didn't think it an appropriate conversation at the moment.

  He left on his drawers so as not to alarm her unduly. He climbed into bed and felt her resisting the sagging of the mattress toward his heavier weight.

  "I thank you for trying to protect me," he said gravely.

  To Pace's surprise, Dora burst into tears and turned her back on him, burying her head in the pillow to muffle the sound.

  He knew he was being facetious when he said it, but he hadn't expected such an emotional reaction. Actually, he'd hoped she would laugh. He hadn't heard Dora laugh in a long time. He supposed the blame for that lay with him too.

  Cautiously, he touched her arm. She didn't pull away, but she didn't turn to him either. "I'm sorry, Dora. You just surprised me, that's all. I scarcely knew it was you out there."

  "I didn't know myself," she wept. "I don't know who I am anymore. I feel awful inside. I hate those men and all the others like them. I'm tired of their threats and insults. I want to fight back, but I can't. I can't do anything. I'm so perfectly, awfully useless, and I don't know what to do about it."

  She pounded her pillow until Pace thought the feathers would fly. He grabbed her fist and held it wrapped in his own. "Dora, if someone is threatening you, I want to know about it. We're in this together. You're not alone anymore. When you were little, you bashed your doll over the heads of my enemies. Give me the right to do the same to yours now."

  She sniffled and allowed him to hold her, but she didn't turn to face him. "The whole world is a threat to me, and I'm tired of facing it. You can't help me, Pace. I have to do it myself."

  She still wore her hair short, but it had grown long enough to curl at her nape and form in wisps around her face. Pace smoothed them back with his large hand. "You felt safe with the Quakers, didn't you?"

  She grew silent in thought, then answered, "Yes, I suppose. At least, I did not feel so alone with them, and they offered no harm."

  A world where men and women spoke softly and never carried weapons was a world totally alien to the one Pace knew. He felt an odd longing for the peace such a world offered, but he knew he would never fit in. Obedience wasn't his strong suit. He had strong opinions and acted on them without need of consulting others.

  The Quakers would no doubt break their own rules to shoot him should he ever attempt to join their numbers. But Dora had found security with them, something she couldn't find with him. After tonight, he didn't think she needed that security as much as she thought she did. But he wasn't the one to correct her.

  "Would it help... Do you think you w
ould like to attend church with me?" he asked cautiously.

  That brought her around. She turned and stared at him through the darkness. "Thou never attended church in thy life. Pace Nicholls."

  He shrugged. "I was baptized in one once. My mother used to attend. Josie goes upon occasion. It might not be such a bad idea. You could get out and about more, meet people, make new friends. Then maybe you wouldn't feel so alone."

  The thought frightened her. Pace could tell it from the way she stiffened beneath his touch. He couldn't blame her. The godly people in church despised him for the most part. She wouldn't find it easy facing those people who had mocked her speech and habits all these years. He didn't know why he had suggested it in the first place, except that he'd felt guilty at depriving her of the solace of her Meeting and friends across the river. It had been a bad idea. He'd look for other ways to make her accepted.

  "Dost thou think... Mayhap thy mother would go?"

  Ahh, damn, now he'd done it. Now he would not only be stuck going to church, he would have to take his damned mother with him. He'd rather face a squadron of armed soldiers.

  Chapter 29

  There are three modes of bearing the ills of life:

  by indifference, by philosophy, and by religion.

  ~ Charles Caleb Colton Lacon (1825)

  Easter services had already passed, and it was too soon for Frances to go out the first Sunday after Pace made his incredible offer. But on the second Sunday, Dora made it clear that she would take him up on it.

  She couldn't talk Harriet into getting dressed and appearing in public, but she dressed Frances in a long cotton gown adorned with eyelet and lace and a matching bonnet and daringly made over an old gown of Josie's for herself. She wouldn't have chosen jonquil yellow for herself, but it was a far cry from the shades of gray she'd worn these last years. Dora felt extraordinarily feminine wearing the layers of old-fashioned petticoats Josie had discarded. She felt even more so when she saw Pace looking up at her with desire in his eyes when she descended the staircase.