Just Once

by Jill Marie Landis

  “I’ve been on an adventure,” she said, rubbing her temple, “and it was a bit more than I had bargained on.”

  Lucy appeared to relax some, so much so that she pulled up a chair and perched, rather than sat, on the edge of it, as if she might flee at any moment. Jemma tried to put her at ease.

  “I was in New Orleans, running away from …” as soon as she recognized the fascination and trust in Lucy’s eyes, Jemma couldn’t bring herself to launch into the ludicrous fabrication about the emir’s men and her escape from Algiers.

  “I had to get out of there in a hurry. I saw Hunter on the street and he appeared to be a man who could be trusted, as well as capable—you’ve seen that big knife he wears and that rifle he carries?”

  Lucy nodded.

  “So I persuaded him to escort me this far. I told him I was on my way to Canada, to meet my father and brother.”

  “But that’s not the truth?” Lucy was hanging on her every word.

  For a moment Jemma thought that Lucy had seen through her, but then realized the girl had merely picked up on the way she had phrased her words. “I … yes, I was … I am headed to Canada.”

  Jemma wondered how convincing she could sound when, with all her heart, she wished she had never mentioned Canada. She studied Nette’s cabin, which was crowded with a table and chairs, the corner bed, a spinning wheel, and, beneath the only window in the room, a quilting frame. The place was warm and cozy, as tidy as the inside of a well-organized butler’s pantry. A basket of shiny apples stood on the table and a fire burned low in the stone fireplace opposite the bed. Adventure be damned. Jemma wished she could strip off her dirty clothes, crawl beneath the covers, and sleep for a week.

  Before she had to evade any more of Lucy’s questions, there came a knock on the door and the girl hurried to open it. Nette crossed the threshold. She held a tray with a plate piled high with ham, fresh bread slathered with butter, string beans cooked with bacon, and a tall glass of milk.

  Jemma’s mouth watered. Nette fussed and fluttered around her, carefully centering the tray on her lap and setting the milk on the stool Lucy had vacated.

  “Now, while you eat up, I’m going to have Hunter fill you a tub of hot water and then you’re gonna take a nice long soak and go to sleep.” She bustled over to the fireplace and hefted a heavy black pot off the hook and was out the door before Jemma could say a word.

  “Looks like you’re staying,” Lucy said softly, watching as Jemma shoveled a heaping forkful of dripping green beans into her mouth.

  Swallowing, Jemma agreed. “It certainly seems that way. Do you mind my being here?”

  Lucy continued to stare at Jemma for what seemed a very long time. Standing stoop-shouldered, her limp hair hanging in her eyes, the awkward young girl cupped her elbows with her hands as if she had been reduced to hugging herself because no one else ever did. Not even a hint of a smile flickered across Lucy’s face.

  Maybe she’s jealous, Jemma thought. Perhaps the girl was afraid she would usurp Hunter and Nette’s time. Jemma wanted to assure Lucy that any worries she had along those lines were unfounded.

  She set down her fork. “You don’t mind my staying here, do you, Lucy? It’ll probably only be for a little while.”

  Lucy made a high strangled sound. Her throat worked as she swallowed twice, her brown eyes filled with tears. Her words rushed out in a choked whisper.

  “I’ve been waiting for a friend near my own age for so long, I thought God might have forgotten all about me.”

  Chapter 11

  All things considered, she was fed up with adventure.

  Scrubbed and combed, fluffed and stuffed full of Nette’s luscious food, Jemma sat in the corner bed feeling more pampered and fussed-over than ever before in her life. She pulled the beautiful patchwork quilt up and snuggled under it, tracing the intricate pattern and near-invisible stitches with her fingertips. Dressed in a borrowed nightgown of Nette’s, she felt clean, cozy, and cosseted. The white gown was smocked and embroidered by Nette’s own hand. Jemma complimented Nette first on the quilt and then on the handiwork on the gown.

  “Did it years ago,” Nette admitted. “Back then I liked to sew clothes. Now I make ’em because I have to, but I’d rather be quilting.”

  Jemma hadn’t seen Hunter since he’d deposited her on the bed. Nor had Lucy White reappeared since her heart-wrenching declaration. Luther had come in with a tub for her bath, toting the heavy pots of boiling water and buckets of cold while Nette stood over her like a sentry.

  “I’ll not have you passin’ out and hittin’ your head on anything or drowning in that tub,” Nette had said. She became a willing and able attendant, waiting nearby while Jemma soaked and scrubbed off weeks of grime. The woman bundled up her filthy traveling clothes along with the ice-blue silk dress and cape she had been wearing in New Orleans and whisked them away, promising they’d be as good as new after a long soak.

  Tucking Jemma in, Nette set her moccasins beside the bed and told her to rest, assuring her that for tonight she would sleep right there in Nette’s own bed because it was closer to the fire.

  “I don’t want you climbing that ladder up to the loft tonight,” she had warned. “Tomorrow’ll be soon enough for you to bunk up in the loft with Lucy.”

  Jemma had tried to protest, but Nette wouldn’t hear of it. When the woman pulled up the quilt and gave her a motherly pat on the cheek, a warmth spread through Jemma the likes of which she had never known through all her years with nannies or even with the caring nuns at the convent school. She decided not to argue with the formidable little woman and contented herself with settling back and observing her hostess’s comings and goings. Considering it impolite to ask Nette her age, Jemma decided the woman could be fifty or she could be eighty; there was no way to tell. Nette’s hair was almost completely white and her face was well lined, but she had the energy of a much younger woman. Rarely did she walk sedately; instead, she bustled back and forth across the cabin at a quick trot.

  Tucking herself into a wool coat, Nette had bid Jemma sit tight while she went out to put out the fire in the kitchen cabin and close it up for the night. The fire in Nette’s own fireplace crackled cheerily, filling the room with a woody scent. Left alone to reflect, Jemma leaned back against the pillow, tired but feeling much better.

  It had been nearly a month since she had exchanged places with the mysterious dark-haired girl hiding in the shadows of the cathedral. She wondered if her father was still in London or if he had sailed back to Boston. If by chance he arrived in New Orleans before he was expected, she didn’t want him suffering—not when she was safe and well cared for—at least for the time being. She would have to write him very soon.

  Jemma closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, thankful for the respite here at Sandy Shoals. Still, no matter how much she didn’t want to leave Hunter, she couldn’t very well stay on indefinitely, living off his and Nette’s generosity, without doing something in return.

  Boarding a river craft any time soon and aimlessly heading off in search of more adventure seemed like a nightmare. After a harrowing month of hard riding, walking for miles, and swimming through muddy river crossings, the idea of staying put seemed the most intelligent thing to do.

  If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the heart-stopping terror of her near-drowning or the helplessness she had experienced when she thought she might have to live out her life as a slave in the Choctaw settlement. She was sick of dealing with dirt, insects, and all manner of creatures.

  The thing to do would be to confess to Hunter that she had been living a lie from the moment they met. Then she would have to swallow her pride and admit to him and to herself that the journey was over. She would ask him if she could stay in Sandy Shoals until she could face the trip back to New Orleans and seek out her father.

  That would be the wisest thing to do.

  But telling Hunter the truth wouldn’t be easy, not after all this time. And leaving he
re would mean saying goodbye to him, something she definitely wasn’t ready to face. The tenor of their relationship had changed, no matter how much they tried to deny it. They had shared something profound, something hot and raw and so elemental that the memory of that night in his arms not only excited her, but made her ache every time she looked at him.

  She was a fallen woman and it truly surprised her how little she cared. In fact, she knew she was more than ready to fall again. And again.

  Running from a husband and marriage, she had found Hunter. In his arms she had glimpsed the promise of an adventure greater than any trek around the globe. She had already experienced an escapade filled with the timeless secrets of wonder and passion.

  To experience that adventure again, she wouldn’t have to travel another mile.

  Don’t be crazy, Jemma gal. Don’t quit on me now.

  Jemma groaned aloud in the empty room and tried to ignore the memory of her grandfather’s voice. Grandpa Hall’s tall tales might have gotten her into this fix, but now it was up to her to get herself out. She thought about starting with a few well-placed prayers, but just then the door opened and Nette bustled in out of the twilight. Trailing close behind her were a boy and girl who looked just like miniatures of Luther and Hannah.

  Nette walked directly to the bedside. She reached down and felt Jemma’s forehead, then nodded with satisfaction.

  “You don’t feel like you’re running a fever and your color’s good,” Nette assured her. “You’ll be fit as a fiddle in the morning.”

  The children crowded up close—the little girl hanging onto Nette’s skirt, peering at Jemma with shy curiosity, while the boy, a bit older, much bolder, leaned his elbows against the bed and propped his head on his hands. He stared at her as if she were a new bauble on display in the trading post. She couldn’t help but notice that he had Hunter and Luther’s deep green eyes and light hair. When he frowned at her intently with his fine child’s brows drawn together, she thought he took after Hunter more than Luther.

  “Why is she in bed so early?” The boy craned his neck and looked up at Nette.

  “She’s restin’ up because your uncle dragged her from hither to yon and plumb wore her out, is why,” Nette explained.

  “What’s her name?” he wanted to know.

  Before Nette could tell him, Jemma smiled and said, “I’m Jemma.” She was as curious about him as he was about her.

  “Tell her your name, boy,” Nette said, ruffling his near-white hair with one hand while she reached behind her skirts and drew the little girl forward with the other.

  The boy straightened away from the bed and stood at attention. “Luther Alexander Boone, Junior.”

  When he finally flashed her a grin, Jemma noticed that his front tooth was missing. “I’m pleased to meet you, Luther Alexander Boone, Junior.” She held out her hand.

  He gave it a hardy shake. “Folks just call me Junior, leastways they do around here.”

  “Then I’ll remember to call you Junior, too,” Jemma assured him.

  “These two scallywags belong to Hannah and Luther,” Nette told her. “They’re the oldest. Got two more babies at home. This here’s Callie.” Nette smoothed one of Callie’s light-brown braids. “She’s a big help to her ma already and she’s only four.”

  “Hello, Callie,” Jemma said softly, half-afraid she might frighten the little girl staring up at her with wide hazel eyes. Callie popped her thumb in her mouth and gazed at Jemma over her fist.

  Nette asked her to keep an eye on them while she hurried out to the “necessary.” Jemma didn’t have time to warn her that what she knew about children could fill a thimble.

  “Can I sit on the bed with you?” Junior was already climbing up beside Jemma when he asked.

  “Certainly.” She scooted closer to the wall to make room, curious to see what the boy would do next.

  “Me, too!” Callie shouted.

  Amazed that the girl had suddenly found her voice—and it was a loud one at that—Jemma watched in awe as a battle for the unlikely privilege of sitting beside her blossomed into a heated argument. Within seconds a shoving match had ensued and threatened to evolve into a full-fledged battle.

  “I wanna sit next to her!” Callie tried to wedge her way in between Jemma and Junior, but the boy would have nothing of the sort.

  “I was here first!” Junior gave his sister a shove that resulted in Callie bursting into a hysterical spate of tears.

  Jemma tried to make herself heard over the shrieking. “I don’t think … someone could get … Don’t do that, Junior!”

  “Why not?” He was intent on dispensing with Callie by shoving her toward the edge of the bed with his feet while the little girl kicked and screamed, her mouth gaping, her face red as a beet.

  Jemma threw back her side of the covers, wrestling with the tangled sheets, forced to her knees in order to separate the two battling children. She tried to reason with Junior while she reached for Callie, who was slipping precariously near the edge of the bed, a whirlwind of arms and legs that still managed to produce shrieks of injustice, the most frequent being, “That’s not fair, Junior Boone! That’s not faaaaair!”

  Jemma had Junior by the collar and Callie—who was dangling over the side of the bed—by the upper arm when the door opened.

  “Thank heavens you’re back, Nette.” Relieved, she started to explain what happened, glanced up, and found herself looking straight into Hunter’s eyes. He was quickly bearing down on all three of them with a bundle in his arms.

  When he reached the bedside, he set his package on the table and moved as swiftly as lightning, grabbing Luther’s son by the waist and hauling him up and off the bed before he scooped up the little girl and stood her on her feet beside her brother.

  Miraculously, Callie stopped weeping and wailing the minute Hunter touched her. Her face was streaked with tears and mottled red, but she didn’t make a single sound except for an occasional hiccuping sob. She did, however, continue to cast dark glances in her brother’s direction.

  When Hunter turned his gaze on her, Jemma felt as penitent as the children looked. On her hands and knees in the middle of the bed with her nightgown hiked up, revealing her calves and bare feet, she felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair. Not a word passed between them while she managed to right herself and crawl back under the covers. She whipped the quilt over her with a snap.

  Hunter towered over the two children like an avenging angel, hands on his hips, feet astride.

  “Which one of you wants to tell me what was going on here a minute ago?”

  Callie pointed at Junior, who was already pointing at her.

  “Junior, you’re the oldest. Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Hunter urged.

  The two were quaking in their sturdy, scuffed shoes, so Jemma started to explain. “They both wanted to—”

  Hunter whipped around and snapped, “I asked Junior. He ought to be man enough to tell me what happened.”

  “I’ll thank you not to speak to me in that tone, Hunter Boone,” she fired back.

  Not only Hunter, but both children were staring at her, Hunter with a fearsome scowl and the children in wide-eyed amazement.

  “Uh-oh,” Callie whispered.

  “She’s in trouble now,” Luther Junior announced.

  No one, it seemed, talked back to Hunter Boone.

  Jemma wasn’t afraid to stare him down.

  “Both of them wanted to sit next to me and before I could do anything, they started shoving and yelling and I tried to pull them apart and then … you walked in.” She had almost faltered, half-expecting him to dole out to her whatever punishment he had in store for the former combatants.

  “Is that all?” He shifted his stance and glanced down at the upturned faces, but the children were mute.

  “No.” Jemma threw him another challenge. “I’d like to add that I don’t particularly like the way you’re standing there with your arms crossed, glaring at all of us l
ike a mad dog.”

  She thought she detected the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth, but wasn’t sure.

  “I take it you’re feeling better.”

  “Yes. Much,” she told him coolly.

  “You’re sure?” His tone had gentled. She realized now he had reacted with anger spawned by concern.

  “Then scoot over to the center of the bed,” he told her.

  She had lost her concentration after staring up into his eyes. “Do what?”

  “Scoot over to the center of the bed.” This time he pronounced each word slowly and distinctly.

  “He wants you to sit in the middle,” Junior clarified with a gap-toothed smile.

  Callie had lost interest and began fidgeting with the hem of her dress.

  Jemma made a great show of lifting the covers, sliding over, and rearranging the bedclothes. Finally she looked up at him and crossed her arms over her smocked bodice.

  “There.”

  Hunter turned to the children, who were still staring up at him, awaiting their fate. “Jemma had a hard day. She isn’t feeling all that well—”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” she insisted.

  He ignored her. “She shouldn’t be crawling around after you two, putting up with all that caterwauling and fighting. I’m going to let you sit by Jemma if you can mind your manners and not act like wild heathens. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Luther nodded, all seriousness.

  “Yes, ma’am, Uncle Hunt.”

  Hunter didn’t say another word, but simply lifted Callie, swung her over the edge of the bed all the way across Jemma and planted her on the opposite side against the wall. Callie primly pulled her skirt down over her stockings to her ankles, crossed her arms in imitation of Jemma, and smiled triumphantly at Junior.

  “Don’t move your feet and get Nette’s quilt dirty or she won’t let you come visiting again.” Hunter plucked Luther Junior off the floor and set him on Jemma’s other side.

  “Now,” Hunter said, straightening and running a hand through his hair, “is everybody happy?”