Twice Loved (copy2)

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “Why, this’s an ice skate.”

  “For you?” Josh’s transfixed eyes grew even wider.

  “Naw, I got a pair o’ skates already.”

  “Y’ do?” Josh could scarcely drag his eyes to Rye’s face.

  “I’m just passin’ the time, like I used t’ do on the ship, skrimshanding.” Rye took another swipe at the wood with the blade, then he studied the results critically and suddenly started in surprise. “Why, this skate looks like it’s just about the size o’ your foot, boy!” It was all Rye could do to hold a straight face while Josh glanced down at his small feet, then back at the skate. “Here, let’s see.” Rye leaned over to compare the skate to Josh’s boot, and when the two complemented each other ideally, Rye mused, “Mmm ... seems t’ me I heard y’ had a birthday this week.” Without looking, Rye sensed Laura’s smile.

  After that, Josh hung beside Rye’s chair, asking questions, pointing, showing an interest in anything Rye had to tell about his years at sea. The cooper told him about the doldrums and how they were responsible for many a sailor taking up skrimshanding to pass the time. He described the Nantucket sleigh-ride, that heart-stopping ride in a whaleboat just after the whale’s been harpooned, when it tows the whalers through the boiling waters in a life and death struggle sometimes lasting for days. Eventually, Rye’s stories came around to some of the tall tales exchanged by members of the New England Whalers’ Liars Bench. Josh sat wide-eyed and eager through the fantastic yarns about the fabled deepwater sailorman Old Storm-along, who measured four fathoms from the deck to the bridge of his nose, took his whale soup in a Cape Cod dory, favored raw shark meat with the skin still on and ostrich eggs scrambled with their shells, then lay back after breakfast and picked his teeth with an oar of white oak—“Twenty-two feet long for good leverage!” Rye ended, subduing a grin as he eyed Josh askance.

  “Aw, you’re just makin’ that up!” But Josh was grinning and eager for more of such spoondrift.

  During those shared hours, as Rye entertained his son with brig yarns, he carefully slowed the speed of his whittling to extend the time while he got to know Josh better.

  Toward the end of the third day, the funnel of sheets was taken down and the rations of whiskey stopped. The blizzard had run itself out, leaving a total accumulation of fourteen inches of snow over which Dr. Foulger’s cutter delivered him safely from the far side of the island. He examined Dan and pronounced that there was nothing more he could do that had not already been done, but that Dan was definitely out of danger.

  ***

  Laura and Rye had spoken of nothing personal since that first night. They sat now, on the fourth night of their vigil, on chairs pulled up facing the fireplace. Josh had been put to bed in the linter room, and Dan seemed to be resting more comfortably, the doors of the alcove bed open.

  Laura was knitting a woolen stocking for Josh. Rye was pondering the fire, slumped down low in his chair with an ankle crossed over a knee.

  The click of the needles went on and on in the silence until Rye hunched forward, resting elbows to knees. “About the Michigan Territory ...

  The needles stopped clicking. Laura held her breath. She looked up at the side of Rye’s face, where the rough side-whiskers were burnished by the light of the fire as he stared into it.

  Slowly, he turned to look back over his shoulder. “I won’t be goin’ with DeLaine Hussey,” he announced in a deep, quiet tone.

  “Y ... you won’t?” Laura’s heart seemed to be slamming against her ribs hard enough to break them.

  “I’ll be goin’with you.”

  The blood rushed to her face. Without thinking, she glanced at the open doors of the alcove bed while her heart thrummed on as if powered by some superhuman source. Her lips dropped open as she struggled for breath, then took up knitting with a new, frantic energy.

  “That is, if y’ think y’ can leave this island.” He continued studying her over his shoulder. Still she made the needles race. “Will y’ stop that infernal knittin’,” he ordered with quiet impatience. Her hands fell to her lap, and her gaze followed. Rye sat back again, but did not touch her.

  “Laura, we’ve paid our debt t’ Dan. He’s going t’ live. But what about us?”

  She looked up. Rye watched her intensely.

  “I’ve been here with y’ for three days and nights, and I’ve seen for myself what fools we’ve been t’ let duty and guilt tell us what t’ do. We belong together. I don’t give a damn if it’s here in this house on Nantucket or in some place we’ve never seen. All I know is, you are home. For me, home is where y’ are. I love y’, and I’m through apologizin’ for it. I want no more misunderstandin’s between myself and Dan. When he wakes up, I want t’ be able to tell him the truth so we can all plan accordingly. Y’ see, I’ve already written Throckmorton and agreed t’ join his party. It leaves from Albany on April fifteenth, which means we’ll have t’ take the packet out of here at the end of March. That’s only about three months from now, and there’s a lot t’ prepare for. I’m askin’ y’ for the first and last time, Laura. Will y’ come with me t’ Michigan in the spring, you and Josh?”

  He did not smile. His eyes did not waver. His voice, though low, was steady, determined. She believed what he said ... and what he didn’t say: he would go in the spring with or without her. She knew in her heart that Rye was right. They had done the honorable thing. They’d saved Dan’s life. But then, had there really been a choice? They both loved Dan, and they both always would. But Laura had learned in the past three days that love sometimes mainifests itself in frightening and awesome ways.

  She saw again the awl sinking into Dan’s flesh, wielded by Rye’s steady hand, then Rye’s trembling shoulders when reaction set in. She heard the rage in his voice as he slapped the hot cup out of McColI’s hand, felt again the pity of witnessing the unnecessary burn on Dan’s chest. She relived the terror of that moment when her eyes had met Rye’s across Dan’s racked and wheezing body. Somehow during that emotionally charged instant when they’d considered letting Dan die, they’d both recognized the truth: they’d had to save Dan to save themselves.

  Rye was still waiting for her answer. He studied her face while the weariness of their long fight for Dan’s life was reflected in it. Yes, Dan would live, and so must they. There was only one answer Laura could give.

  “Yes, I’ll come with you, Rye. Both of us will come with you. But until then, we will not dishonor Dan in any way.”

  “O’ course not.”

  Strangely enough, they agreed to these terms in the most businesslike voices. The time for hearts to sing was not now, while Dan still lay ill. There would be time for that later, as spring came, the season of rebirth.

  Chapter 20

  DAN MORGAN AWAKENED on the fourth morning after his fall. He opened his eyes to find himself in the strangest place— Josh’s alcove bed. His hands hurt, as if each of his fingertips had been slammed in a door. He felt as if he were trying to breathe at a depth of twenty-five feet, with the water pressing painfully on his lungs. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth as if he had a horrendous hangover, and the clanging in his head went on and on like a bell buoy on rough seas.

  He turned his head gingerly. There beside the bed sat Rye.

  “Well ... hello,” Rye greeted. He looked utterly relaxed, elbows resting on the arms of a Windsor chair, an ankle slung over a knee.

  “Rye?” The word was a mere croak. Dan tried to lift himself up on his elbows, but failed.

  “Rest easy, friend. Y’ve been through an ordeal.”

  Dan let his eyes blank out the bright daylight that hurt his already throbbing head. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waitin’ for y’ t’ wake up.”

  Dan lifted an arm that felt as heavy as waterlogged driftwood. He rested it across his forehead, but the movement made his fingertips throb anew. “Is there some water?” His voice cracked.

  Immediately, Rye leaned over, slipping a hand beneathr />
  Dan’s head to lift it as the blessedly cool drink soothed his parched throat. The effort left Dan aching and breathless. “What happened?” he managed to say when the weakness passed.

  “Y’ got roarin’ drunk, fell off y’r damn feet in the worst blizzard t’ hit Nantucket in ten years, hit y’r noggin on the cobblestones, and lay there till y’r fingers froze and y’ caught pneumonia.”

  Dan opened his eyes and peered at Rye, who’d again settled back into the chair, his fingers laced over his belly. For all his brusque and scolding tone, there was a note of the old Rye once again in his voice. Somehow Dan sensed the animosity was gone. “I did it up good, did I?”

  “Aye, y’ did.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Four days.”

  “Four! ...” Dan turned his head too fast on the pillow and he grimaced at the resulting ache.

  “I wouldn’t move so fast if I was you. We’ve kept y’ stewed t’ the gills all that time, and y’re bound t’ have a hangover that’ll put all y’r others t’ shame.”

  “Where’s Laura?”

  “Out t’ the market. She’ll be back soon.”

  Dan lifted and examined the fingers of his right hand. “What did you do to these? They hurt like hell.”

  Rye chuckled. “Be happy y’ still got ’em hooked to y’r arms. They’ll heal.”

  “I take it you aren’t wasting any sympathy on me, huh, Dalton?”

  The corner of Rye’s mouth quirked up. “None at all. Pullin’ a trick like that, y’ shouldn’t by rights have either fingers or toes. Y’ ought t’ be six feet under, and y’ damn well might be, except the ground was frozen so we didn’t know where the hell we’d put y’.”

  In spite of his monumental aches and pains, Dan couldn’t help smiling. He studied Rye carefully. “You’ve been here all that time?”

  “Laura and I.”

  Dan was suddenly gripped by a spasm of coughing. Rye pressed a cloth into Dan’s hand, then sat back again, waiting for the paroxysm to pass. When it had, Rye offered Dan another drink, this time of hot ginger tea laced with vinegar and honey. He gave Dan a moment to rest, then began speaking in a straightforward manner.

  “Listen, Dan, I’ve got some things I want t’ say before Laura comes back, and—granted, the time is not exactly appropriate, but it may be the only chance we’ll have t’ be alone.” Rye pressed forward in his chair, absently chafing his knuckles together, frowning at the coral stitches on the patchwork quilt. Then he met Dan’s eyes directly. “Y’ve nearly died here in the last few days, and it’s all been y’r own doin’. I’ve watched it comin’ on, you and y’r asinine drinkin’, and there’s not a soul on this island that’d be surprised if y’d frozen t’ death where y’ dropped.” Rye leaned on his knees, scowling into Dan’s eyes. “When’re y’ going t’ see the light, man?” he demanded impatiently. “Y’r squanderin’ y’r life! Wallowin’ in self-pity and wastin’ the most precious commodity that’ll ever be given to y’, y’r health!

  “Now, I’m not sayin’ y’ haven’t had reason to worry, but do y’ know what y’r drinkin’ does t’ Laura? She’s torn by guilt every time she sees y’ stumblin’ through that door, and the majority of it’s not her fault.

  “I’m bein’ honest with y', man, and I’m trustin’ y’ to understand it’s not because of the rivalry between us for Laura, but because I want t’ see y’ pick up y’r life and make somethin’ of it again.”

  Rye’s voice rumbled on as he studied his hands, joined between widespread knees. “When spring comes, I’m goin’ to the Michigan Territory and Laura has agreed t’ go with me ... and Josh, too. Now y’ can accept that and make a man o’ yourself between now and then, or y’ can go back down t’ the Blue Anchor and drink y’rself into another stupor that lasts till spring. I don’t care. For myself, I don’t care. But I care for Laura, because if she leaves this island believin’ she’s the ruination of y’r life, it’ll be a guilt she’ll carry forever. I’m askin’ y’ to send her off without that burden. And the only way y’ can do that is t’ give up y’r drinkin’ and ... and ...”

  Suddenly, Rye exhaled a gushing breath and covered his face with both hands. “Goddamnit, I thought this’d be so simple ...” He lunged to his feet, jammed his hands into the back waistline of his pants, and stood facing the trestle table.

  His head dropped forward while Dan watched and felt a rush of something warm and nostalgic flood through him. It was the same feeling he’d had as he’d watched the Massachusetts sail away with Rye aboard.

  The tall blond man turned back toward the alcove bed. “Damnit, Dan, I don’t want t’ hurt y’, but I love that woman and we’ve done our damnest t’ fight it, but some things can’t be changed. I swear by all the saints in heaven, I haven’t laid a hand on her while I’ve been in this house and I won’t till spring. But then, I’m takin’ her with me, married or not. But I want us t’ go ... if not with y’r blessin’, at least without y’r scorn.”

  Something indefinable had changed between the two men. As Rye stood now beside Dan’s bed, they each sensed the tether of lifelong sanguinity binding them together with a strength that superseded their rivalry for the same woman. They would both always love her, but—the realization hummed between them—they would both always love one another, too. To remain on this island together was to sentence themselves to certain hurt. The time had come for final separations. The pain in Dan’s chest was, at that moment, more than just physical, and the softening of the expression in Rye’s pale blue eyes did not quite disguise a sudden glitter there.

  But at that moment the door opened and a rush of cold air ushered Laura and Josh into the keeping room. Something in Rye’s stance told the two Dan was awake.

  Josh rushed to the bedside, hung over it on his belly, and cried happily, “Papa! Papa! You’re awake!”

  Laura was right behind him, leaning to touch Dan’s brow. “Dan, thank God you’ve made it. We’ve been so worried.” She smiled down tenderly, a wealth of concern etched on her brow, but lifting somewhat as she saw his revived color. “Josh, come. We mustn’t bring the cold near Papa with our coats. Warm up by the fire first, then you can talk with him again, but only for a while. He’s got to rest.”

  “But, Mama, I got to tell Papa about my skates and about how Rye brung him here and Mr. McColl tried to—”

  “Later, Josh.”

  Dan noted Laura’s swift interruption and how assiduously she sidestepped crediting herself or Rye for saving his life. But from Josh, Dan was to learn, during the days that followed, all that had transpired. The child painted the facts very vividly, until the information formed a concise picture of all Rye and Laura had done during the time he himself had been unconscious.

  ***

  Dan’s recovery was slow and painful. He was confined to bed for two weeks, racked by a cough that at times threatened to choke him. But he grew stronger as the days passed, and he had hours and hours to lie and ponder the curious fact that when he himself was in dire need, the islanders found Rye the natural one to turn to for help; the fact that when the local apothecary proclaimed his fingers lost, Rye refused to accept his word without a fight; the fact that when McColl would have covered his chest with vicious burns, Rye’s anger raged out of control; the fact that for four nights and three days Rye and Laura had fought tenaciously to save his life. And had won.

  Dan watched the two of them together, having plenty of time to do just that, for Rye came every day to carry wood and water for Laura, to bring fresh milk from town and greetings from the islanders and an analgesic balm for Dan’s fingers and a potent medicine for his cough, though he offered no more alcoholic spirits, not even for medicinal purposes.

  Dan’s mother came every day, too, and from her Dan pieced together the few fragments of the story he was unable to glean from Josh.

  Dan could not help but note the change in Josh’s attitude toward Rye. The boy had clearly accepted Rye’s daily presence in the house, and t
hough it was Dan whom the child still referred to as Papa, there was a camaraderie between Rye and Josh that somehow had little to do with bloodlines.

  There came a day in mid-December when Josh was hunkering crosslegged at the foot of Dan’s bed and Laura was sitting in a chair nearby, hemming sheets.

  “Papa, when will you teach me to skate?” Josh inquired. Laura looked up and scolded gently, “Josh, you know that Papa’s not well enough yet to go out in the cold air.”

  Dan had not questioned Laura about Rye’s claim that she was going to the Michigan Territory in the spring, but by his closest count, this was the seventh sheet he’d seen her hemming. He watched the needle flash as she raised her hand and drew the thread tight. Then Dan turned back to Josh.

  “Why don’t you ask Rye to teach you to skate? He’s a very good skater.”

  Laura looked up in surprise.

  “He is?” Josh’s voice went several notes higher whenever skating was mentioned.

  “Oh, he’s every bit as good as I am. We did plenty of skating together when we were boys.”

  “And Mama, too?”

  Dan’s eyes moved to Laura. “Yes, and Mama, too. She went everywhere we went, Rye and I.”

  There was no sting in Dan’s words. Instead, he went on in a mellow tone, relating the story about the time they’d built a fire on the frozen surface of the pond and it melted the ice and fell through into the spring-fed water, nearly taking them all with it.

  As Dan talked, Laura felt the breath catch in her throat, and a fierce gratitude grip her heart. Dan, oh, Dan, I understand the gift you are giving, and I know what it is costing you.

  Though he would not meet her eyes, she knew Dan was aware of her studying him, listening to his every word. He was still talking when Rye arrived, to be immediately assaulted by Josh, who pitched himself against Rye’s legs, looked up, and begged, “Will you take me skating, Rye? Will you?”

  Rye glanced from Laura to Dan, then back down at the boy with the untamable rooster tail. Absently, Rye smoothed it down. “And whose idea was this?”