Just Once

by Jill Marie Landis

  “Not that sister. Where’s Callie?”

  “Probably under the bed,” he shouted back.

  Jemma knelt down—nearly dropping the squirming, screaming Timmy—lifted the quilt, and peered beneath the bed. “Come out of there, Callie.” She tried a gentler tone. “You gave me quite a fright.”

  “No.”

  Jemma blinked. No? “Callie, come out of there right now or … or … I’ll be really upset.”

  Callie scooted closer to the wall and tightened like a sow bug.

  Her knees were aching. Jemma stood up and shifted Timmy to her other shoulder. She turned around in time to see Sadie crawl out from under the table and run headlong toward the door, her arms outstretched, screaming, “Mama! Mama!” as she went.

  “Here, Sadie. Not the door,” Jemma said. “Come with me.” She took hold of Sadie’s wrist with her free hand and gently tried to tug the child away from the door. Sadie had pressed herself up against the wood panels like a spider, arms thrown wide, sobbing brokenheartedly.

  Jemma took a deep breath and blew the wayward strands of hair out of her face. Timmy’s screams had ebbed to occasional bursts and hiccups. She had successfully pulled Sadie halfway across the floor when she glanced up and spied Luther Junior with his hand in a heavy crockery jar that was teetering on the edge of a high shelf.

  “Junior, watch out!” Her warning came just as the crock tipped over and fell, thankfully missing Junior, but smashing against the floor and breaking into four huge, jagged hunks. Honey spattered and oozed over the floor.

  “Don’t touch that,” Jemma cried. Callie suddenly appeared from beneath the bed to stand over the broken shards of crockery with her arms folded across her chest. With wide hazel eyes she stood there staring up at Jemma.

  “Mama’s not going to like this one bit! Junior Boone, you’re in deep trouble,” Callie predicted.

  Junior jumped down off the chair. “No, I ain’t.” He bullied up to his sister, his bottom lip out, his arms folded in imitation of hers.

  Jemma kept an eye on the two combatants while she edged Sadie closer to the bed. Timmy was almost calm as he watched his older siblings’ performance. She put the baby down in the center of the bed, lifted Sadie up, and set her beside Timmy.

  “Don’t move,” Jemma admonished Sadie, who immediately started howling again, but stayed put.

  “Callie’s bleeding,” Junior yelled.

  Jemma spun around and saw Callie holding one of the ceramic shards, her lower lip trembling at the sight of the small cut on the forefinger of her opposite hand.

  “Luther, get something to wipe her hand with. Callie, come here and let me see.” Jemma cradled Callie’s hand in hers and led her over to the bed. Sadie crawled over to inspect the drop of blood along the cut on her sister’s finger. Callie was sniffling and whining. “Ow, it hurts.”

  Junior came running back with one of his mother’s aprons. “Here.” He thrust it at Jemma. “Wipe it with this.” He leaned close to stare at the cut. “Is she bleeding to death?”

  Callie screamed, a short, earsplitting burst of sound.

  “No!” Jemma yelled. “She’s not even close to bleeding to death. She’s barely bleeding at all. Take this back and get me a dishrag or something and don’t step in that honey, Luther Junior, or I’ll tell your Mama.”

  Junior took the apron and started off to do her bidding; then he paused in the middle of the room and smiled. “You sounded a little like Mama, just then.”

  Jemma wondered how Hannah kept her sanity. She offered up a quick, short plea to St. Felicity, a martyr who had seven sons.

  When Junior came back with a wet rag, Jemma pressed it to the tiny cut on Callie’s finger. She was holding the girl’s hand in hers when the door opened and Hunter stepped in, whipping the door closed behind him to keep the frigid air out.

  His cheeks were red with cold, his eyes shining above the muffler around the lower half of his face. He took two steps and halted before he stepped into the honey.

  Pulling off the muffler, his eyes met Jemma’s from across the room.

  “What happened?”

  Junior stiffened. His gaze shot to Jemma’s.

  “An accident,” Jemma told Hunter. “The crock fell. I didn’t have time to clean it up.”

  Callie was too preoccupied with her cut to tattle on Junior. Hunter crossed the room and stood over Jemma, watching her tend Callie’s wound. Suddenly, Jemma felt her hands begin to tremble. He was too near, watching her too closely. She would rather face another thirty minutes alone with these screaming banshees than have Hunter hovering nearby.

  “Callie cut her finger,” Junior announced.

  “It’s just a little cut,” Callie informed her uncle. “Jemma said I’m not bleeding to death.”

  Hunter smiled. “I don’t reckon you are.”

  “Bleedin’,” little Sadie mumbled.

  “You need any help?” Hunter asked Jemma. She wanted to leap in the air and shout for joy. Instead, calm and collected again, she smiled up at him.

  “Everything seems to be fine now, but if you care to stay and watch the others while Luther and I clean up that honey, I would appreciate it.”

  Baby Timmy had fallen asleep with his thumb in his mouth. Hunter smoothed the little boy’s hair back off his sweaty face and gently shifted the infant toward the wall to make room on the bed.

  “Come here, Sades,” he said, stretching out, planting Sadie on his stomach, where she began bouncing up and down. Callie climbed up beside him, holding her wounded finger in the air like a hard-won battle trophy. She lay her head on Hunter’s shoulder and joined him in watching Jemma and Luther as they scrubbed up the spilled honey.

  Hunter found the view enchanting. Jemma was on all fours, wiping up the honey-smeared floor with soapy water, carefully instructing Junior, deftly making the boy think he was doing all the work.

  When they finished, Junior insisted that they all had to have baths before they could be tucked into bed.

  “Are you up to it?” Hunter asked

  Jemma had pulled up a chair, slumped down into it, and stared over at the four children lounging on the bed with him.

  She shook her head. “How does Hannah do this day in and day out?”

  “A labor of love. Besides, she’s used to it,” Hunter told her, wondering what Jemma would do with a houseful of dimpled children that took after her.

  “She’s a saint,” Jemma mumbled.

  “I’ll help bathe them,” Hunter volunteered, knowing what torture he would have to endure in such close, homey confines with Jemma, watching her every move, listening to the honeyed tones of her voice, drinking in her loveliness. He had denied himself the pleasure of her company for so long now that his senses were singing.

  Determination stiffened her shoulders. She rolled up her sleeves. “What do we do?”

  “You tell them one of your stories while I heat some water and fill the tub,” he suggested as he eased himself off the bed.

  He turned and pointed to each of the older children in turn. “You stay put and don’t give Jemma a minute’s grief while I fill the water buckets, you hear?”

  “Yes, Uncle Hunt,” they chorused in unison.

  “How did you do that?” Jemma whispered as he walked past her.

  He leaned close and whispered, “I’m bigger and I look meaner.”

  An hour later, Junior, Sadie, and Callie were bathed and dressed in their nightclothes and tucked into bed. Hunter decided it would be best not to disturb Timmy, and Jemma quickly agreed. Finally, the washtub had been emptied and the floor mopped again. She poured him a cup of coffee and they sat at the table, reveling in the quiet.

  Hunter stared across at Jemma and tried to imagine her in the life she must have led in Boston. He’d been to Philadelphia once, seen the grand homes there lined up row upon row, marveled at the lacquered carriages, admired the fine, tailored clothes of the city folk.

  “You ever scrubbed a floor before?” He spoke the
thought aloud, before he realized what he was doing.

  Startled out of her quiet thoughts, she looked up. One of her dimples appeared in her cheek. “Whatever makes you ask?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  Her finger traced the lip of her coffee cup. “No. I never scrubbed a floor before. Did I do something wrong?” She glanced over at the floor beneath the shelves, presenting him with a view of her lovely profile.

  “Perfect,” he whispered. Hunter cleared his throat. “You did just fine.”

  Even in the soft glow of the lamplight, he saw her blush.

  “You’ve done well here, Jemma, getting along, helping out Nette and everyone else.” He meant the compliment sincerely. She had affected them all. In a few weeks’ time she had drawn Lucy out and given the girl new confidence. She had become Nette’s companion and lightened the old woman’s heart and load. She was anywhere and everywhere anyone needed her.

  Jemma was silent for so long that he thought she hadn’t been listening, but when she looked up at him again, there were tears glistening in her eyes. Her smile was radiant. He watched her reach across the table, move her hand slowly toward his. He held his breath, waiting for her touch.

  “I’ve never been needed in my life, never knew what it meant to really belong. My father … well, my father never had any time for me. He hired nannies and tutors and then eventually sent me off to convent school. You can pay someone to work, but you can’t pay them to care. My grandfather came to live with us for a time, and we grew close, but shortly after that he died. You and your family have given me something I didn’t even know I was looking for when I left New Orleans. No matter what happens, I’ll always be grateful to you for that.”

  He felt his heart stumble when she tenderly touched the back of his hand and had to look away from the intensity in her eyes. She made it seem so right, so easy, this opening one’s heart and sharing deep feelings. She was adept at weaving ties that threatened to bind a man, to make him feel like settling down.

  The warmth of her hand seeped through the back of his, burning him with her touch, stirring up feelings he didn’t want to acknowledge any more than he had wanted to walk into this cabin earlier, knowing she was here, unwilling to stay away. When Lucy told him Jemma was alone with the children, he had hurried right over, not to see if he could help, but because after so long a period of self-imposed denial, he had to see her.

  If this kept up, he wasn’t going to be able to fight it much longer. Slowly he withdrew his hand, watched her draw hers back and finger the rim of her cup.

  It was so tempting, picturing quiet nights like this alone with her. With Amelia, he had never known peace. After the first heat of passion was satisfied, there had been nothing left but the cold ashes of desire. If he let himself go, if he set aside his dreams again and opened his heart to Jemma, her love would no doubt lull him into a cocoon of quiet serenity. Would he be happy forever? Or would he wake up one morning too old for new frontiers, forced to live with the regret of never reaching for his dream?

  “You seem so far away, Hunter,” she said softly. “What are you thinking?” The hope in her eyes told him she longed for far more than he could give.

  Words from the heart didn’t come easy to him. They never had. He was unwilling to let them slip out, knowing it would be impossible to call them back.

  “I’m thinking it’s time I head back to the trading post and see what’s keeping Luther and Hannah.”

  Avoiding her gaze, he pushed away from the table, stood up, and rolled his shoulders to work out the stiffness there. He had spent a long, cold day checking beaver traps with Noah. He knew it would be far more pleasant just sitting there looking at Jemma, spending time thinking of what could be and what shouldn’t be, but it was time to go.

  Jemma left her chair, unable to keep from staring up at him.

  The light and shadows flickered and played over his strong features. He appeared larger than life, a man no cabin walls could ever confine. What would her father think of him? Thomas O’Hurley respected power, wealth, and influence. Would the fact that Hunter had sculpted a life out of sheer wilderness mean anything at all to her father?

  She could not imagine Hunter Boone in any other setting, certainly not in the restricting parlors of Boston or trapped behind a desk at the warehouse. The notion that he might one day don wool and linen and spend his days tallying receipts and accounts was not only absurd, it was appalling. Setting her sights on a future with Hunter would mean giving up the life she had always known.

  Their eyes met. Their gazes held and locked. In that instant she knew that she would follow this man to the ends of the earth if he would have her.

  Convincing him that that was what he wanted would be another matter all together.

  “Hunter, I want to thank you for what you said to Lucy.”

  “It needed saying.”

  “Something you told her cleared up a lot of things for me, too. When you said you were doing the best you knew how, I realized my father was only doing what he thought best. He had no idea what I wanted when he arranged that marriage for me. He had no inkling of my own hopes and dreams. He never asked and I never told him.”

  “You’ll be heading back soon.” It was a statement, not a question.

  She wanted him to tell her that she could stay indefinitely. More than that, she wanted him to tell her that he didn’t want her to ever leave. But of course, the words never came. Finally, she said, “I’ll stay until I’ve heard Father has moved to New Orleans.”

  He stood there as if debating what to do and then filled the awkward pause. “I’d best be getting back.”

  She wanted to kiss him. Wanted to throw her arms around his neck, kiss him long enough and hard enough to keep him from walking away. Longing to hear him say that he had missed seeing her, she knew she had to content herself with the knowledge that at least he hadn’t announced he would be leaving anytime soon.

  Unwilling to risk the short fall from impulsiveness to humiliation, she decided that she would leave the kissing up to Hunter. The next move would be his.

  He walked around the table, took his coat off an empty chair, and put it on. She watched him, drinking in his every move. She thought he was about to reach for her when he balled his hand into a fist and took a step back.

  “You have that look on your face again,” he said.

  “What look?”

  “The one you get when you’re thinking about … things you shouldn’t think about.”

  “You know me too well,” she said with a soft laugh.

  She wanted him to know her better than anyone on earth, wanted him to taste and touch and feel every inch of her.

  “Will you be all right until Luther and Hannah come home?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured him after a glance at the sleeping children.

  He left her then, stepped out into the cold and closed the door quietly behind him. As soon as she heard the latch fall, Jemma went back to the table, sat down and cradled her head in the crook of her arm, and let the tears flow.

  Chapter 16

  Christmas with the Boones was an assault on the senses. Jemma sat at a long table in the trading post crowded with everyone—Luther and Hannah and the children, Nette and Lucy, Hunter and even Noah LeCroix. As she listened to the sound of the children’s laughter, she wished the night could go on forever. The remains of a Christmas feast littered the table; the aromas of popcorn and cider, cinnamon, pumpkin pie, and hickory smoke laced the air. After entering into a constant flurry of activity that had begun at dawn—cooking, baking, decorating, and secreting brown paper packages into the post—tonight everyone seemed content to linger.

  Not far away, the older children sat on the floor playing with the new wooden toys Luther and Hunter had made for them. Dolls, miniature horses, and small wagons piqued their imaginations. There was even a toy flatboat and a keelboat that Noah had carved.

  “I’m as full as a tick on a fat dog.” Luth
er laughed and sat back, patting his flat stomach with both hands. It started everyone chuckling.

  Even Nette was in no mood to clear the table. “That was the biggest turkey I think we’ve ever had. Couldn’t hardly get her on the spit. Next year, you boys have to hunt down one that’s a mite smaller.”

  Luther readily agreed.

  Junior sidled over to Nette. When the boy leaned against her, she slipped an arm around his shoulders. “Nette, remember you said I could have the turkey feathers so’s I could make a hat like Jemma’s Indian?” Junior reminded her.

  Across the room Callie cradled her new doll, complete with a carved wooden head and a dress made out of treasures from Nette’s scrap basket. Motherhood had not stifled her ability to bellow. “You said I could have some, too!”

  “Hush, Callie, or you’ll wake Timothy.” Hannah was sitting beside Luther. The baby was fast asleep in a cradle near the table. “Nette won’t forget. She doesn’t forget anything.”

  “Jemma and I’ll help you make Choctaw turbans tomorrow,” Lucy promised. She looked like a Christmas angel who had chosen to spend an evening on earth. Her light-brown hair shone in the firelight. The new pink gown that Jemma had made set off the glow of her cheeks.

  After his initial shock had worn off, Noah LeCroix hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off Lucy. He had chosen a seat directly across the table from her, the best vantage point for staring. If she had noticed his attention, she wasn’t letting on.

  Jemma was wearing her own gown tonight, the ice-blue silk she had worn in New Orleans. Hannah had washed, pressed, and mended it for her as a Christmas surprise, but when she had slipped it on earlier, she felt as if a different person had once worn it. She couldn’t believe she had ever taken the elegant feel of the expensive material for granted. Although everyone proclaimed her lovely, she felt overdressed and out of place.

  As the conversation hummed about her, Jemma was content to sit back and listen, loving every boisterous moment.

  Hannah shifted away from Luther long enough to cut herself another sliver of pumpkin pie. “How did you like your first Kentucky Christmas, Jemma?”