Rachel's Choice

by Judith French

  Davy smacked his lips and waved his chubby arms excitedly.

  “See,” Chance said. “He loves it.”

  “You’re impossible.” She held out her arms. “Give him to me.” She carried Davy to the rocker and sat down, draping herself in a shawl so that she could nurse him without exposing her breast. “Did the nasty old reb give my darlin’ yucky old rhubarb pie?” she murmured.

  Chance rose and came to stand beside her. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “I like to watch.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm, but she made no protest as he removed the shawl. Instead, she turned her attention to Davy and tried to ignore Chance’s gaze.

  “How much do you need?” he asked, suddenly serious.

  “Altogether?” Rachel tightened her fingers around the hem of Davy’s linen gown. “Including last year’s taxes and this year’s, three hundred eighty-seven dollars and sixty cents.”

  “That’s all?”

  She stiffened in surprise, and her nipple slipped from the baby’s mouth. Davy squealed angrily, and she cradled him against her, guiding his head until he found her milk again. Then Rachel glared at Chance. “I can see you’ve never tried to live off the land. That may not be a huge amount to a rich lawyer, but it’s enough to see Davy and me lose everything we’ve got.”

  He rubbed unconsciously at the scar on his shoulder. “Surely your friends …”

  “My friends are as poor as I am.”

  “Your father left you nothing when he died?”

  She swallowed, uncertain as to how she could explain her father to Chance. “He left me his instruments and personal belongings. His money went to a nephew. Father forgave me for my dark skin, but not for ignoring his wishes. He didn’t want me to marry. He wanted me to continue my education and become a teacher. When I wed James, Father swore I’d live to regret it.”

  “A hard man.”

  “No,” she murmured, “just stubborn.”

  “He should have provided for you,” Chance insisted. “Most of our family money is tied up in property in Richmond and Atlanta. Not the best investments at the moment. But I do have funds on deposit with a London bank. I can give you enough to pay off your note. Hell, I can give you twice that. I—”

  “I don’t want your money!”

  “Don’t be stupid. I mean to make a will, leaving what’s left to you and Davy. I can draw up the document myself, but we’ll need witnesses to make it stand up in a court of law.”

  “No, you won’t,” she said. “I didn’t tell you about the debts so that I could beg money off you.”

  “Funny, I didn’t hear you beg. I made you the offer.”

  “And I told you that I won’t take your money,” she snapped back at him. “There’s a name for women who take money for what I’ve given you freely.”

  “And I’d better not hear it from your lips,” he warned her. “It’s not like that with us, Rach.”

  “I hope not!”

  Two hours’ weeding in the garden cooled her temper, and now she wondered if she’d been hasty. But accepting Chance’s offer would make her feel cheap, as if she were no better than the camp whores that James had boasted of having. It’s my problem, she thought. Mine, not his, and I’ll find a way to work through it.

  She bent over a plant and pulled off a potato bug, mashing it under her bare heel.

  “I’ll finish this row,” Chance said, coming up behind her and putting his arms around her. “It’s too hot out here for you.”

  She turned, and her straw hat slipped back off her head. “A fine farmer you’d make,” she teased as she slipped her arms around his neck and began to knead the corded muscles at the top of his spine. “This is a fair day.”

  He bent and kissed her mouth.

  “Chance, I’m hot and sweaty,” she murmured. Yet, she pressed herself against him, molding the curves of her body to his and savoring the giddy feeling of euphoria that wafted through her.

  She wanted him to go on holding her. She wanted the three of them to capture this day and hold it forever. Here in her farmyard there were no battles, no scent of blood, and no bitter politics that divided neighbors and made waste of rich fields and lovely cities.

  “It’s too pretty a day to work,” she said between kisses. “If you’ll finish this row and the next, I’ll make us a basket dinner, and we can eat it down by the creek.”

  He looked down at her with a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Hmmm,” he teased. “I don’t know. That’s a difficult decision. It’s hard to find something more enjoyable than hoeing vegetables.”

  She stood on tiptoe and whispered a bold invitation in his ear, and his arms tightened around her.

  “That might convince me,” he answered solemnly.

  “It might?” She stepped away from him. “That’s my final offer, sir. Take it or leave it.”

  He chuckled. “I’d have to be a bigger fool than I am to leave it, wouldn’t I?”

  Later they lay on a blanket beneath the trees on the banks of Indian Creek and shared hard-boiled eggs and a wedge of sharp cheddar. Rachel stretched out on her back and stared up at the green canopy of leaves overhead while Chance carefully sliced the cheese and fed it to her, bite by bite.

  “Ummm, excellent.” He finished off the last crumb and reached for a dill pickle. “Did you make these?” he asked.

  “No, mine from last year are all gone. I bought those from the store.”

  She rolled over onto her stomach, leaned on one elbow, and looked over at Davy. The baby was still asleep, napping soundly in a split-oak laundry basket on the far side of the blanket. Bear sprawled beside the baby, his eyes on the food, hoping for a handout.

  It was much cooler beside the creek, and the trill of flowing water added to the sensual pleasure of the lazy afternoon. “You’ve told me nothing about your family,” Rachel said. “Are you certain you’re not hiding a wife and six children?”

  Chance grinned. “No, Rachel. No wife, no children. None but Davy.” He glanced at the dozing infant. “The amount of trouble he put me to, I should at least be able to claim him as my godson.”

  “I suppose you are his godfather,” she agreed as a rush of warmth engulfed her at his words. “But he’s a Methodist, not a Catholic.”

  “He can’t be a Methodist. You haven’t had him christened in the church.”

  “You have more arguments—”

  “Than a Richmond lawyer?” he finished, and they laughed together.

  “You were saying,” she prompted. “Your family?”

  “No awful secrets,” he replied. “No mad aunts hidden in the attic of the family mansion. One father, deceased, one mother, currently residing in London with my stepfather, and—”

  “London?”

  “Yes. She went to visit my older sister, Annabelle, and found a husband within six months. Annabelle made off with a peer of the realm, Sir George Randall, and Mother captured the heart of Lord Whitfield. My stepfather was a banker before his older brother choked on a chicken bone. Now he’s Earl of Whitfield.”

  Chance spread his hands. “Had enough?” Rachel shook her head. “All right,” he continued, “but you did ask for it. Our baby sister, Katherine, is twelve, lives with Mother, and is as fiery a rebel as you’ll find south of the Mason-Dixon line. Then I have several uncles and aunts, one surviving grandmother—also in England—and scores of cousins.”

  “All rebels, I suppose?”

  Chance grimaced. “I’m afraid so, all but the English lot, and they lean to the Confederacy as well. Tradition, family bloodlines, and cheap cotton. Yes, they’re definitely not fans of your Mr. Lincoln.”

  “President Lincoln,” Rachel corrected.

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” he conceded. “But there was a great deal of hanky-panky in the vote counting. Some observers believe the election was stolen.”

  “You Virginians need to find an excuse for your treason.”

  “We’re treacherous,” he said. “You need to keep your ey
es on us every moment.” His own eyes twinkled merrily as he trailed a hand lightly over her ankle and up her calf.

  Rachel shivered. Chance had only to touch her, and her thoughts turned lecherous. She closed her eyes and tried to lie still as his fingertips caressed her bare knee.

  “Even an innocent, unsuspecting Yankee maiden sleeping by the creek?” she murmured. “And then?”

  She squealed as Chance uttered a mock growl and pounced on her. For a moment they wrestled playfully on the blanket, and then he kissed her and began to pull the pins from her hair, one by one.

  “Chance!” she protested.

  “I like your hair,” he whispered. “And I like your upper lip.” He leaned close, traced the outline of her mouth with the tip of his finger, and then kissed it. “And I’m wild about your throat.”

  She sighed with pleasure as he unfurled a ribbon of soft, moist kisses along her neck. “And …”

  “And what?” she asked.

  “And you wear entirely too many clothes.” He lifted a heavy section of her hair and kissed the hollow behind her ear and she laughed.

  “That tickles.”

  “I’ve something for you that tickles more than that.”

  She stroked his jaw and ran her fingers over his muscular shoulders. She could feel the heat of him pressing against her thighs, burning through the layers of clothing that kept them from touching skin to skin.

  “Let’s go swimming,” he whispered in her ear.

  “I’m quite happy where I am.”

  “Swimming is good exercise.”

  “You just want to get my clothes off.” The air, which had seemed so cool and refreshing, was suddenly warm. Moisture formed in the crease between her breasts, and it was hard to breathe.

  “Smart woman.” He rolled off her and took her hand. “Come on,” he urged, tugging her along.

  “Chance Chancellor, you are insatiable,” she teased. But so was she. She couldn’t get enough of him. And every moment that they were apart, thoughts of Chance filled her head. Just hearing his voice made her go all soft inside.

  “I warn you. You’re my prisoner,” he threatened. “Come peaceably, or I’ll be forced to—”

  Bear’s bark cut him off. Rachel jerked free of his hand and heard the pounding of hooves from the direction of the farmyard. Davy began to wail.

  “Into the water,” she cried. “Pretend you’re pulling the crab traps.” She scooped up his ragged hat and tossed it to him, then began to pin up her disheveled hair.

  Cora Wright’s grandson Solomon galloped toward them on a sleek black horse. “Miss Rachel! Miss Rachel! Soldiers coming!”

  “Did they come to your grandmother’s place?” Rachel asked as she picked up the crying baby.

  “Just before nooning, but Granny dreamed it last night. She had Pharaoh hide her stock in the swamp. She says hide your horse and cow. They’re taking everything with four legs for the army.” He pulled off his straw hat and wiped away the sweat.

  Rachel handed Solomon a jar of honey water, and he drank every drop. “How far away are they?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy answered. “I heard shooting at Miller’s farm, so I cut through the woods. Mr. Miller has two sons fighting for Lee, so Pharaoh says.” He stared at Chance. “That your hired man?”

  “Yes. He’s strong, but as dumb as an onion.”

  “Soldiers might take him. They took Gideon Freeman.”

  “They won’t want Abner. He can’t talk at all, just makes noises.” She tapped her head. “I think he’s a few bricks short of a load.”

  “I got to go, Miss Rachel. They’d take me for sure, if they see me.”

  “Where are you riding to next?”

  “The swamp. Pharaoh’s camped out there. He says he can stay there until judgment day if he has to.”

  “Can you take Susan?” Rachel pointed to her cow grazing in the far corner of the meadow. “She’s got a halter on. You can cross Indian Creek at the bend and follow that path through the marsh. Once you’re in the cattails, no one will see you.” She snatched up a loaf of bread. “Take this. You won’t be able to bake in the swamp.”

  “Thanks, Miss Rachel.” He tucked the bread into a saddlebag. “And Granny says for you to take care. These soldiers may not be Johnny Rebs, but it’s still not safe for a woman alone.”

  “Tell her to look after herself. And tell her that I’m not alone. I have Abner.”

  Solomon kicked the black horse into a run and jumped the pasture fence. He rode toward Susan, caught her, and looped a rope through her halter. Then he pulled down two rails of the fence to lead her out of the field.

  Rachel watched anxiously until they entered the woods; then she turned to Chance. “We have to hide the horse,” she said. “You heard?”

  He nodded.

  “Go and get Blackie. You’ll have to take him into the woods. I—”

  He splashed through the shallows and climbed the bank. “Like hell, I will. I’m not leaving you and Davy to face the Yankees by yourselves.” He reached for the baby. “It might be best for the three of us to hide and let them have the horse.”

  “Are you out of your mind? Blackie isn’t even my horse! And, to my way of thinking, we’re in more danger with you than without you.”

  “Give me Davy.”

  “No. You get Blackie.”

  Chance shook his head. “Not unless you take him somewhere safe.” His face darkened with anger. “Hell, woman, this is no time for you to be obstinate. You could take Davy in the boat and row—”

  “And let them steal everything in the house? Not on your life,” she replied hotly.

  “Rachel …” He put a hand on her shoulder. She whirled and began to run toward the farmhouse.

  “Be rational!” he shouted after her.

  She hesitated for an instant and glanced back at him. “If I was rational, I’d never have risked my neck to save yours, would I? Now, do something about my horse!”

  Chapter 17

  A half hour later Rachel stepped out into the yard wearing a clean black skirt, a matching high-necked blouse, and a snowy white apron. She’d pinned her hair up severely and topped her widow’s attire with a black straw bonnet and a pewter cross fastened at her collar.

  A half-dozen mounted soldiers in Union blue milled in her yard, stirring up dust. Behind them, in the lane, came a heavy wagon with two civilians on the seat. One Rachel recognized as the county sheriff, John Voshell; the other man, gray-haired and dressed in working clothes, was a stranger.

  Rachel shielded her eyes from the bright afternoon sun, smiled, and addressed a sergeant who seemed to be in charge. “Good morning, Lieutenant. Won’t you step down and take some refreshment on this hot day?”

  “Sergeant, ma’am,” he corrected her in a clipped Yankee twang. “Sergeant Henry Pyle. Collecting livestock for our brave boys.” He consulted a small pad of paper. “Your neighbors tell me you have a good cow.”

  Rachel sighed. “Had a cow. I leased one from Judge Ridgely in Dover, but somehow …” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “The judge sent his hired man to collect the Jersey last night. It’s quite distressing, I can assure you. I’d planned on—”

  Sergeant Pyle drew a line across his pad with a stubby pencil. “You wouldn’t try to deceive us, would you, ma’am?”

  “Me?” She tried to look surprised. “Not at all. I was hoping you’d come by. There’s the matter of payment for the livestock that was appropriated earlier this year. I was promised—”

  “Not my affair, Mrs.—”

  “Irons,” she supplied. “My dear husband James, God rest his soul, died in defense of his country. I should hope that I would not withhold anything which would help defeat the Southern rebels.” She waved at the sheriff. “There’s Sheriff Voshell. He can vouch for me. Sheriff! Will you tell this gentleman that my loyalty to the cause is unwavering?”

  The sergeant glanced at the sheriff. “Do you know this woman?”

  Sheri
ff Voshell nodded. “Afternoon, Miz Irons.”

  “Sheriff.” She smiled at him. “I hope you haven’t come about my taxes. I know I’m late, but—”

  “Not today, Miz Irons. This is an unofficial visit on my part, a courtesy to the military. I haven’t wanted to press you about the back taxes, due to your loss, but I can’t continue to ignore your delinquency.”

  “I know, and I’m grateful for your kindness, sir. But I’m expecting James’s death benefits from the government any day. I’ll pay in full as soon as they come in.”

  The sheriff nodded. “It better be soon, ma’am.”

  “It will be, I promise you,” Rachel replied.

  Pyle broke in. “So she’s a genuine war widow?”

  “Yep, but I’d search her barn for the cow just the same.” The sheriff doffed his hat. “No offense, ma’am. Just doin’ my job.”

  Rachel smiled at him. “And none taken, I’m sure.”

  “Who’s here?” Pyle asked her.

  “Just me, my son, and Abner Potts, my hired hand. Please don’t frighten Abner. He can’t speak, and he’s …” She tapped her head with her index finger.

  “Never heard of this Potts,” Sheriff Voshell said.

  “My cousin sent him down from New Castle,” Rachel explained. “He’s a godsend, I can tell you. Before Abner came, I didn’t know how I’d manage, what with the new baby.”

  Four of the soldiers dismounted. One went into the chicken house, another headed for the pigpen. The others entered the barn.

  Please, God, don’t let Chance or Blackie be in there, Rachel prayed silently. Goose bumps rose on her arms, and she forced herself to remain composed.

  Upstairs Bear kept barking at the window, and Rachel could hear Davy crying. She was glad of the noise. With luck, the racket would cover the sound of the chickens she’d hidden in the crawl space under the kitchen floor. Enough was enough, she’d decided. President Lincoln would get no more of her poultry or her livestock.

  “Nothing in there,” a young soldier called from the doorway of the chicken house. “Corn, chicken poop, and feathers, but no chickens.”

  “Ma’am?” The sergeant scowled. “Have you hidden your birds? Private Billings has found evidence of poultry.”