But a second thought niggled, and then shouted at her. She could not show it to another living soul, lest they deduce its place of origin. A battle raging between lust for the treasure and the desire to protect Howard’s trust sprang up like a hot and violent holy war. At last she shook her head, half hoping he would insist.
“No, Howard. I’d better not. Somebody will see it and want to know where it came from.” Reluctantly, she handed it back to him.
“Oh. Then here, take some of these. Yew kin have something made out of ‘em, or sell ‘em someplace.” He tried to press several of the larger nuggets upon her.
Geneva longed for them. Never had she seen anything more beautiful than the glint of real gold in the late light, newly plucked from where it had lain for millions of years. But she shook her head again, turning away from the precious metal in his open palm. “No,” she repeated. “I’d rather remember it this way.” She released her breath, feeling righteous and cleansed.
Then she looked down at the swirling waters and felt herself go limp. Sitting down suddenly, she clutched a boulder and let her head hang between her shoulders.
He was all at once solicitous. “I’ve kept ye out too long, and workin’ to boot,” he said, chiding himself. “Kin ye make it back, or do ye want me ta carry ye?” He moved toward her.
Her brain was whirling as if she were drunk, or she thought, with a brief moment of illumination, as if she were stoned. The thought of being lifted into Howard’s powerful arms, nestled against his smooth chest, to hear his heart beat and feel the way he glided though the forest. The thoughts, the thoughts… She wasn’t sure what the thoughts were about or what they were doing to her. She looked at him mutely, appealing, wanting to feel his arms around her and be carried back to the cabin. She wanted to feel his skin on the palms of her hands…
He was standing over her, now bending close. She could smell his sweat, musky and sweet, could see the hard jaw and the stubble there, black against the copper. His cheekbones seemed carved of wood, his nose aquiline and proud. She saw red spirals rushing at her from gold light, and she reached for him.
Ten
They were moving in slow motion through long, undulating waves of sunlight and shadow. Geneva had not fainted: she had not even felt weak when she reached for him and the brightness came spiraling at her. Rather, she had felt powerful and alive, so alive it made her dizzy. Even now the light swirled around her and made her feel like she was spinning through the warm sunshine. She could feel his arms and his heart beating. She could feel the smoothness of his chest through his shirt, the muscles and sinews under his skin. So heightened were her senses that she could even feel the bones as they moved beside her head. Her ear was pressed against his chest. His heart pounded so that it felt almost painful to her, as if the blood coursed through his heart, then warmed and spiced, into her ear and through her own veins. She felt it moving through her, rising to her lips and groin. She could not stop the sound of the blood thrumming through her ears, or the rapid pulsing of her heart. Nor did she want to. It was a wonderful awfulness: she would have wept with joy or fear or pleasure if she had felt it in her power to do so. But she was stunned into immobility, as if his blood mingling with hers had rendered her unable to act on her own emotions. She was no longer her own self, rather she seemed to have become a part of this man who held her so close. They were one: floating, swirling, eddying in the sunshine through the majestic forest.
Howard laid her on the bed and washed her face with a cool, wet cloth.
“Oh, Lord God, Geneva. I’m sorry,” he was saying. “I shoulda known better than to have ye out there aworkin’ like that. Yew jist seemed a lot better, and I didn’t realize that pannin’ would strain ye. Kin ye talk? How do ye feel?”
She smiled at him through a golden mist. She was still giddy, still swirling. What was it? The gold? Howard? It didn’t matter. She sighed and lay back, enjoying the memory of the moment when she felt herself rise and take flight in his arms.
Then something clicked into place. She saw the concern in his face, and shame flooded her. Silently, she prayed that he had not seen what had been in her thoughts when she lifted her arms and clasped them around his neck. “Oh, God, I’m sorry Howard. I’m all right. I just got hot.” Her face reddened at the unconscious innuendo. “And all that rushing water. I’m sorry,” she said again. “I scared you.” She pushed back the hair falling into her face. “I’m fine, really.”
He jumped up. “Let me git ye some more water.” He handed her yet another cupful of the cold, clear water redolent with herbs.
“What is this?” she asked, sipping.
“Comfrey, a little fennel. Hit cleans out the blood.” He stroked her hair. “I thought yer fever was gone, but you’re flushed, and ye feel a little hot now. Ye got some bug, and till ye git over it, ye’ll have poisons in yer blood. This’ll do the trick, this and a little rest. Ye’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
She believed him, or rather, wanted to believe him. She hoped he was right. She had some little bug, and that, combined with the dizzying water, had made her swoon. That was all. But she trembled again at the smell of him when he leaned toward her. “Be careful!” a voice screamed in her head. She shook herself and schooled her thoughts.
“Howard, how do you know so much about the healing properties of herbs? Did Lenora teach you?”
He settled on the nearest stump. “Some. My mama taught me some, too. But I learned most of what I know from my great-grandfather. He was a healer among his people. My mama died when I was fifteen. That’s how my dad lost his legs—they were in a car wreck. I went to live with my mother’s people out in Oklahoma fer a year after the wreck. My dad was in a coma for months, and then he had to go to Harrisonburg for rehabilitation. When he was gone, I felt sort of in the way here. Lost, I guess, and I missed my mother. My grandfather asked me to come live with them for a while.”
“Your grandfather was a healer too?”
“Mostly my great-grandfather. He was the official medicine man in his tribe. He was real old when I went out there, and he remembered the old ways. His father wuz born in North Carolina at the time when the Cherokee still claimed all the land in the Blue Ridge and Nantahala. When he was five years old, him and all his family wuz run out. They walked all the way to Oklahoma.”
“You mean he walked the Trail of Tears?” Geneva had learned about that event in history, not from the classroom, but from Walk in My Heart, the third book sent from the Romance of the Month Club she had long been a member of. It was a novel about an Indian princess whose lover had been a soldier in the American army. She had read it twice.
“Yes. My great-grandfather learned healin’ ways from his father, and he taught his children, but it was my mother who took the most interest in it. Of course, I didn’t pay much attention to her when she tried to teach me. At that time I was more interested in the things of white men: fast cars, hamburger joints. But when I went to live with my grandparents, I found out what it meant to be Cherokee, and it… changed me.” He let his eyes drift toward the window and stared at something far in the distance.
She sat up. “How long did you live with your grandparents?”
“Jist a year. As Dad got better, I figured I oughtta be here, takin’ care of him. I got an older brother, but he wanted to go to college, and he had stayed with Dad while he wuz so bad off. So I came on back home. Mammaw and Pappy, they wanted me to go back to school, but I’d spent a year livin’ outside, bein’ in the woods and in the hills. Now I can’t stand bein’ cooped up. No way I could sit in a school house all day.”
“But you’ve been cooped up here. You’ve hardly been outside at all, and you haven’t seemed to mind. You sat up half the night reading. I’m surprised you didn’t want to go to school.”
He glanced at her mischievously. “Who wouldn’t mind bein’ cooped up with you, Geneva? I reckon there’d be men willin’ to fight fer that privilege.”
She dropped her eyes, cheeks flaming. �
�I better go shoot us some dinner,” he said quickly. “Yew want more squirrel, or maybe a turkey? Or fish. Hit’s a regular supermarket out here.”
Rising, she crossed to the window. “Fish,” she decided. “You have a fishing pole? I’m a pretty good fisherman myself, and I feel like just sitting by the creek.”
“No fishin’ poles. I catch ‘em the fun way. Yew really feel better? Kin ye come to the creek? I’ll show ye.”
It was a perfect day for dalliance. The mountain trout shimmered silver in the water. The sun rained down gold, and Geneva sat by the creek and combed her hair with her fingers. Howard, his pants rolled up, waded into the water after a big trout lurking in the rock pool. Laughing silently, Geneva pointed to the shadowy place where the creature lay, and quietly, stealthily, Howard crept upon it. Then, with a motion so slow that he seemed to be drifting with the current, he dipped his net into the water and scooped up a fish so big Geneva knew they both could feast on it.
She was feeling stronger, although a bit shaky, but she wanted to be useful, so she built the fire while Howard cleaned the fish. As they peeled and pan fried potatoes and onions, she felt her appetite return.
Supper, served al fresco under the deepening sky, was tasty and companionable. Afterwards, they dangled their legs off the porch, watching the sky turn from deep blue to black and the moon rise high and round.
“Boy, oh boy,” sighed Geneva as she leaned against the support pillar, “I just need one thing to make this a perfect day.”
“What’s that?” mused Howard. “Dessert? There’s huckleberries over yonder. I reckon we could make us a pie.”
“Gosh, no. I’ve eaten enough. What I really want is a bath. And a brush. And some shampoo.” She warmed to the memories of personal hygiene. “And a real toothbrush with toothpaste. Those sticks you give me to chew are okay, but I’m beginning to feel awfully dirty. And where do you wash your clothes?”
“Over in the creek, and I bathe there, too. There’s a big swimmin’ hole jist below here, right by where I git th’ mint. Hit grows wild all over, and the place always smells of it. Hit’s real perty there.” He frowned. “But I don’t reckon yew oughtta git in the creek,” he added. “No sense in you takin’ the chance of makin’ yerself sick again. We’ll see how ye do tonight. If ye don’t chill, maybe ye kin jump in fer a swim in the mornin’.” He looked at the fireflies and added. “I reckon we’ll head on back down the mountain tomorrow. Ye’ll surely be strong agin’ by then, and we don’t want yer folks to come home and worry.”
“That’s true,” admitted Geneva sorrowfully. She wished she could stay a little longer. It was so beautiful here.
“But if yer set on havin’ a bath, I kin heat ye some water up from that rain barrel, and ye kin git right down in it. I ain’t got shampoo, but I kin mix ye some soaproot and laurel tea. Just as good. Better.”
“Oh, Howard, would you? A bath would be wonderful. More than wonderful,” she sighed.
The rain barrel was already full from last night’s deluge, so Howard poured the water into a huge zinc washtub, big enough for Geneva to sit in, and built a fire under it to heat it. In the high altitude, it boiled quickly, just at the right temperature to steam in the cooling night.
“This oughtta be jist right,” he announced. “Ye cain’t git yer coffee hot enough, but boilin’ temperature’s about right fer a hot bath. Now you git on in before it cools off, and I’ll run over to the creek. Bet I git cleaner’n yew do.”
The word “pleasure” took on new meaning to Geneva as she sank into the water. Lying back, she watched the steam rise toward the stars and listened to the frogs singing their nightly chorus. They textured the lonely darkness with their cries. A whippoorwill called for his lost love, then called again and again. His voice seemed forlorn and lonely.
She lathered her hair, then soaked in the water redolent with wild ginger and wintergreen until the moon changed from her yellow robe to her white one and the water cooled. When she emerged, feeling refreshed and cleansed, she dressed in one of Howard’s flannel shirts, which hung nearly to her knees. Although she was feeling a bit sleepy and ready for her perfumed pillow, she took the time to wash her own shirt and underwear and hang them on the porch railing to dry. She would wear her own things home tomorrow.
Howard had not returned by the time she entered the cabin. She chuckled to herself, thinking of how she would tease him about lingering so long in his beauty bath. Shivering slightly, she wondered how anyone could spend time dawdling in that cold water. She sat down to wait. He would be here shortly.
He did not come. She looked out the window, but saw nothing except blackness, and she began to grow a little concerned. Surely he was on the trail back by now. She would just step off the porch and call to him.
“Howard?” she called from the porch. There was no answer. She walked a little way down the trail and called again into the night. All she could hear were the roaring sounds of the night creatures and the water rushing down the mountain. She would go as far as the edge of the mint bed and call again, she decided. What could be keeping him so long?
The moon lit her path and gave her confidence as she strolled through the chilly air. The creek lay to her right, but the water was swift here. He had said there was a swimming hole on down. No doubt it would widen and grow quieter. She stopped when she smelled mint. Knowing she was close, she opened her mouth to call to him, but when she lifted her face, her breath caught in her throat; her voice stilled.
He was standing naked on the top of a cliff on the opposite bank at least twenty feet above her head. His arms were stretched out low and slightly behind him; his back and neck were arched, while his face gazed up into the full moon. White light streamed down onto and around him, giving the illusion of a classical statue carved in marble. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and at that moment she wanted him with all her heart. Wanted him with such intensity that her whole being throbbed and pulsated with the rhythms of the night. Wanted him and knew she could not have him.
Ever. As soon as she felt her desire rising up like warm smoke, she heard again the words he had uttered to her last night. Ye ain’t content jist to look. Ye have a greedy soul. Ye have to have it. She recognized the truth in them. She was a greedy soul, wanting everything she found beautiful and good, and her greed and her pride had already caused him sorrow. She watched him needfully until he lowered his gaze to the far darkness, and then took one step forward and plunged like an arrow into the water. Noiselessly she fled back to the cabin.
Shortly afterward he returned, cheerful and damp. She watched him sorrowfully, wondering if there was a way she could love him without hurting him and herself. How could she have him and all the other things that she had yearned for all of her life? She felt half mad, trying to work out a plan that made sense. But it always came back to Impossible. Impossible. Impossible, pounding in her head.
“Wanna play checkers??”
“No. I—I think I’d like to read.”
“All right. I got poetry mostly. And philosophy. I don’t go in much fer fiction.” He perused the shelves, looking for something suitable.
“On second thought, Howard, I think I’ll just go to bed. I feel pretty worn out.” She looked around restlessly.
“Sure.” Let me make ye up some bay leaf and chamomile tea. Hit’ll help ye sleep.”
She watched him work, speaking sternly to herself, angry at the way she had felt the lust for him rise up hot and sweet. She remembered the way he had tasted the night she had kissed his mouth; it had been soft and desirable. Shivering with the recollection, she shook herself again. She was terrible. She did not know why she should be feeling so out of control.
Lying tensely in the bed, she listened while Howard strummed his guitar and sang softly. His voice, too, was warm and honeyed as he sang an old ballad she recognized:
In the clover, where I found my love
And I lay tangled in her hair
In the clover where w
e cooed like doves
And I kissed her lips like cherries fair.
In the clover, in the clover,
Our hands entwined with sweet flower chains.
But winter winds blew the blossoms away
And she left me full of sorrow and pains
When Spring comes again I’ll sing my song
Of love so sweet and true
And I’ll wait in the clover, it won’t be long
Till our love returns, then I’ll marry you.
She thought of fields of clover lying green and white in a high mountain meadow. Clover and mint. Fields of mint. She drifted off to sleep somewhere in a field of mint.
When the morning came, Geneva felt wonderful, cleansed of body and soul. Her feelings toward Howard had dissipated during the night, so that she was able to see him as merely a friend again, a good friend. One with whom she could entrust her life. One who had entrusted his most important secrets to her.
“Ye want to leave right after we eat, or wait till afternoon?” he asked. If ye don’t think ye’ll be too wore out later on, I’d like to show ye around. There’s caves up above us with ancient paintin’s. Nobody knows about ‘em but me, but I reckon I’ve already shown ye my biggest secret awready, so there’s no need to hide the rest.”
“Oh, Howard,” she breathed. “I’d love to see cave paintings. I’m in no rush to get back. We can leave as late as you like.”
Immediately after breakfast, they struck off through the forest, and after a half hour of walking, Howard guided her up a rocky draw choked with impossibly close underbrush. At the top they came to a creek, which widened as they followed it upstream. When they reached a low place where the water was very wide, still, and shallow, Howard instructed Geneva to take off her shoes and socks. “It’s straight across here,” he said.
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