Dream Song

by Linda Ladd

  Luke stared at her with incredulous eyes, then to Bethany's surprise, he laughed. "A lot of people think that's exactly who I am."

  "I'm not a lot of people, Luke. I'm your wife, and I do love you. No matter what you think or say or do, I always will."

  Luke stared at her for another moment, then pulled her against him, holding her tight in his arms, his voice gruff. "Why do you have to love me? I have to leave, and I'll hurt you."

  Bethany laid her head on his chest, her own voice broken with emotion.

  "I can't help it, Luke. You made me love you when you came back for Petie, and when you saved Michelle from the Hacketts, and when you came for me in jail when I was so afraid. And when you taught me to read and when you let me be your wife. You make me feel beautiful, like a real lady."

  Luke shut his eyes, then lifted her, one hand tangled in her hair, one clamping her against him.

  "I swore a long time ago that I would never love a woman again," he muttered against her hair, "and I tried like hell not to love you, Beth. I thought if I stayed away from you these last weeks it would be easy to leave you, that you would want me gone and out of your life. Don't you see? I can't stay with you. I'll always have to go back west; it's something inside me, something I can't help."

  "Take us with you. I'll go anywhere with you," Bethany whispered.

  "Beth, Beth, I can't. It's too wild and dangerous and full of hardship. I don't want you and Pete to have to suffer through it. Don't ask me why I have to go. I don't even know myself."

  "Then, all I ask is for you to come back to us," Bethany murmured breathlessly.

  She pulled him down onto the bed, wrapping her fingers in his thick curls, wanting him so much, loving him so deeply. He rose to strip off the rest of his clothes, and when he lay beside her, Bethany pressed up against his dark-haired chest, her arms around his neck, craving his touch, his mouth, his strength. She had missed the way his hands moved over her skin, sometimes with caresses so soft and gentle that she quivered uncontrollably, sometimes fiercely and possessively, as if he thought she would disappear unless he thoroughly claimed her. She luxuriated in the feel of his hard muscles contracting beneath her kneading fingers as they touched and kissed and loved.

  Luke held her as tightly as he could, giving full rein to the yearnings he had forced himself to contain, to the hungry, all-encompassing need of her that had been ripping him apart for days.

  He wanted her, needed her, and as hard as he had fought his own traitorous feelings, he knew he loved her. He loved her as he had never loved anyone. There was no one like Bethany, no other woman who could make him laugh the way she could, or make him ache with desire the way she could. Lying with her, touching her, was like being in a safe, warm haven. Her silky flesh against him was a balm to heal the loneliness of his soul. Yet, he knew he would leave her.

  They moved as one, bodies entangled, lips burning with long-starved desire until ecstasy took hold of them, hurtling them through dark skies among sparkling, swirling constellations as they reached the bliss they sought, crying out together, clutching each other, so that it would not end. When it did end, they lay contentedly side by side, drained and sated, and one as never before.

  During the next week, Bethany tried hard not to think about Luke's impending departure. She banished such thoughts from her mind, unwilling to ruin their last days together.

  He remained at Cantigny with her and made love to her often, slowly, lingeringly, with a tenderness that she cherished. She knew in her heart that these would be the memories she would hug to her after he was gone. She savored each smile, each caress, each murmured endearment, storing them away for when she lay alone in her bed beneath the filmy white baire.

  But, the day of departure eventually arrived with Andrew riding in early from town, then disappearing with Luke into the library. Agony tore at Bethany's heart as she sat with Peeto on the gallery facing the river, determined to see her husband off without the clinging, possessive display of emotion that she knew he dreaded. It was something she had to do for him, for herself, and for Peeto. She didn't understand why Luke felt he must return to his mountains, and in truth, she wasn't sure he understood it himself. It was something he felt he had to do or he wouldn't be going. She had no choice, but to accept it.

  Peeto and Luke had been getting along much better lately, ever since Luke had given the boy a pony and taken time to teach him how to ride. But, Luke had not yet been willing to broach the subject of Peeto's mother with his son, though Bethany had made sure Peeto knew her death had been an awful accident. Luke should have reassured Peeto of that himself, and told him more about his mother and her life with her tribe. But now, just when they were nearing a point where they could start to build a close father-and-son relationship, Luke was leaving, and Peeto would feel abandoned by him again.

  Bethany put her arm around the child, looking over his dark head to where Onyx, the great stallion, stood saddled and ready for the long journey along the Mississippi River, then over the vast plains that Luke had described to her with such glowing eyes, to the mountains where he had grown to manhood. Be brave, Bethany told herself sternly. Luke will admire you for that. But, he's leaving us, her mind countered with horrible bleakness.

  "He'll come back," Bethany said beneath her breath, and when Peeto looked up at her with big green eyes, so solemn and sad, she forced a smile. "I know he will."

  Peeto didn't answer, and they sat silently together until Luke appeared at the end of the gallery. Bethany's throat tightened. He was wearing his buckskins, the soft tan leather molding his thighs, the long, beaded fringe moving as he walked. He looked as he had when she first saw him in Natchez, so big and strong and virile.

  Overpowering emotions rocked through her as she watched him walk toward them, and she tried desperately to memorize every part of him, the vertical line in his cheeks that deepened into grooves when he smiled, the wayward lock of hair that always fell-over his forehead, his long silent strides. She let her thoughts caress him as her fingertips had the night before in their bed, when she had traced the strong angle of his jaw and his fine, straight profile. Her heart clenched like a fist when she remembered how his lips had closed around her fingertip as she had moved it over his mouth.

  Luke stopped in front of them, and no one could find words until Bethany forced herself to smile. "Are you ready? Did you get everything we packed for you?"

  Luke nodded, his eyes shifting to Peeto, who refused to look at him. He placed his palm on the top of his son's dark head, then squatted down beside him. He lifted Peeto's chin with his fingers until the boy was forced to meet his gaze.

  "You be a good boy while I'm gone, you hear. Take care of Beth for me until I get back."

  Peeto's head dipped in a single nod, and Bethany bit her lip as the boy leaned forward and threw his arms around Luke's neck for a brief moment before he bolted away, running down the porch and disappearing around the corner.

  Luke watched the place where his son had disappeared, as if he was reluctant to turn to Bethany.

  "He'll be all right," she said softly. "I'll take good care of him for you."

  Luke turned to her. "I know," he murmured, reaching out to pull her into his embrace, and Bethany closed her eyes, not sure she could bear the pain twisting her heart.

  "I don't think I'll be much good without you," she whispered in a choked voice as Luke sat down, setting her on his lap. He stroked her hair gently, as if wanting to remember its fine, silky texture.

  "If you need or want anything, Andrew will always be here to help you. I mean anything you ever want. All I have is yours."

  I want you, I want you, nothing else, Bethany thought over and over.

  "Andy will handle Hugh when he arrives," Luke continued. "He'll make sure the charges are dropped, but I want you to promise me that you'll be careful. It's unlikely the Hacketts are around anymore; no one's seen them, but you must take every precaution as if they were. All of you, you hear me?"

&nb
sp; Bethany listened, her dry eyes burning with her desire to weep, wondering how he could be thinking of so many trivial, businesslike details when she was obsessed with the fact that he was leaving. Why couldn't she look at it the way he did? Why was her heart breaking in two?

  "When will you be back?" she murmured, her face hidden in his shoulder.

  Luke hesitated, then his own voice came with a trace of gruffness. "A year, two at the most."

  "I'll be here, waiting for you," Bethany whispered, and Luke's arms tightened around her for another moment before he released her and strode away with long steps then swung up into the saddle. He looked back at her, and Bethany waved, swallowing hard as he turned Onyx toward the levee road.

  Her pent-up tears began to fall as he galloped away, and a sob escaped when he reined up a good distance down the avenue of oaks and lifted his arm in a last farewell. Bethany dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, angry at herself for shedding tears. He would be back. He would. And right now, Peeto needed her. He understood Luke's need to return west even less than Bethany did.

  She climbed the stairs to the second floor, her steps weary and dispirited, glad no servants were around to see her anguish. She felt she couldn't bear for even one person to express sympathy. Not yet. The wound was too fresh.

  She went straight to Peeto's room, fairly certain she would find him beneath his bed. To her surprise, he sat huddled in the loose cushions of the window seat, crying his eyes out. Bethany went to him, sitting close beside him as she wordlessly put her arms around him. Peeto buried his face in her shoulder, and she patted his back, fingering his raven-colored curls in the same way she had so often caressed Luke's dark hair.

  "I thought I'd be glad when he went away," Peeto muttered with a broken sob. "But, I'm not glad. I don't want him to go."

  "I know, Petie. I don't either."

  She rocked to and fro with him held tight in her arms, her own tears rolling down her cheeks. After a while, Peeto's weeping calmed to a quiet sniffling.

  "Why did he have to leave us, Beth? Doesn't he love us at all?"

  "Yes, he loves us, but sometimes people have to do things that other people don't understand. We just have to let him be himself and love him anyway, just like we do each other."

  "But, I don't understand why he has to go away for so long!"

  Bethany leaned her head against the wall, staring out the open window toward the river. Sunlight glittered on the surface of the water, and she could see a tall mast moving past Cantigny's landing toward the sea.

  "Remember when you first came to St. Louis, Petie? When you were very little and afraid?"

  His head moved up and down against her breast.

  "Remember how you didn't like me to shut your door? You never could sleep if your bedchamber door was closed all the way." She stopped, then went on softly, "That's how Luke feels, I think. He needs to have a door open somewhere, so he doesn't feel all trapped inside. If we give him that door and let him go when he wants, I think he'll come back to us. Do you see what I mean?"

  "But, doesn't he care how we feel?" Peeto asked, more tears oozing from beneath his long black lashes.

  Bethany wiped them away with gentle fingers, "Of course, he does. But, he knows we have each other to love until he comes back."

  She kept her eyes on the never-ending flow of the mighty river, determined to believe her own reassuring words. But, a year without Luke seemed an eternity of lonely torture, and it had only just begun.

  Chapter 17

  Almost a fortnight after Luke left, Louis Benoist died peacefully in his sleep. Bethany and Andrew accompanied Michelle to the old St. Louis Cemetery on Ramparts Street to pay their final respects to the old Creole gentleman. As the funeral bell tolled slowly and mournfully, Bethany kept her arm around her bereaved friend, who wept openly beneath her heavy black veil. Michelle had not been allowed to join the funeral procession a short distance away where Philippe stood, surrounded by many black-clad Creole friends and acquaintances.

  Umbrellas were unfurled against the drizzling cold rain, and Bethany was disquieted by the spongy, soggy ground that sunk beneath their boots. The whole place seemed bizarre and foreboding to her, nothing like the peaceful graveyards in St. Louis with their grassy lawns and shady poplar trees. In New Orleans, where underground water lay only feet below the surface, the burial grounds were crowded mazes of tall marble tombs and crypts of white-washed brick, the flat tops overgrown with grass and weeds. Most strange to Bethany were the ovens, stacked casket like crypts, often five or six atop each other, built against the outside walls of the cemetery. Andrew had told her that many were only rented: oftentimes the bones of one corpse were swept out and burned to make room for the next.

  Bethany shivered. It was like a city for the dead, with each of the deceased encased in his or her own small stone house, and Bethany felt a strange and awful presentiment of doom. She tried to shake such macabre musings as the priest droned on with his lengthy eulogy, but the dark skies and ominous rumblings of thunder only added to her uneasiness.

  What if something had happened to Luke? Even the idea filled her with dread, and she realized if he should ever be hurt or killed, she would probably never know. She would wait and wait, never sure if he was dead or alive. She mustn't let herself think that way, she told herself firmly. Luke would be back. But, the last two weeks had been the longest, most miserable she had ever experienced. As each day passed, she wondered how much longer she could stand it, how much longer she could put on the brave, cheerful mask that Peeto needed so desperately to see.

  Bethany looked up as the casket was pushed inside the small opening of the six-foot-high white marble crypt. The iron doors were closed and secured with a turn of a heavy metal bolt, and the mourners began to file away. When only Philippe was left near the tomb, Andrew led Michelle forward. Bethany and Peeto followed, standing back as Michelle placed a single gardenia in a brass urn among the other flowers.

  "I'm very sorry about your father," Bethany told Philippe.

  He looked toward where Michelle still knelt in front of their father's grave. "I'm only glad I let him see Michelle before it was too late."

  "Michelle will miss him."

  "As will I," Philippe said, his blue eyes searching Bethany's face. "I'm truly sorry for getting you involved in the race and all that. I guess I've been pretty selfish."

  Bethany was too polite to agree with his assessment of his behavior, but she didn't disagree, either.

  "I'm going back to Pensacola for a time," Philippe said then, "but if there's anything I can do for you, please let me know."

  "Thank you, but Luke has provided for us until his return. I'm glad Michelle is coming back to Cantigny with us. Petie and I need her now."

  Michelle did come to Cantigny, but even her presence could not lessen Bethany's growing distress about Luke's absence. One mild afternoon, as Bethany and Michelle strolled along the levee, Bethany's thoughts seemed to reach a low point. They sat together on the grass, and Bethany sighed, her eyes on the small sailing craft making its way upriver toward the city.

  Michelle looked at her friend, knowing full well the extent of her suffering, although Bethany rarely expressed her feelings aloud.

  "Perhaps, Luke will change his mind and return," she suggested softly.

  Bethany's second sigh was heavy. "I've been praying for that, but it's so hard, Michelle. It hurts so bad, almost as if he took my heart away with him."

  "Perhaps, he did."

  Bethany smiled a little, grateful for her friend's quiet, comforting presence, thinking about all they had been through together in the last few months. It seemed strange to think that just a year ago Bethany hadn't even known Michelle, or Luke, existed.

  "I'm sorry, Michelle, about that night at the quadroon ballroom," Bethany said suddenly. "I knew you ran away with Etienne so you wouldn't have to go there, yet I didn't even think how awful it would be for you until Luke made me see."

  Michelle reached out
to touch Bethany's arm. "It was so little for me to do, after all you've done for me. I should never have left New Orleans and Papa in the first place, and I suffered for it. I think that now I am able to accept my place here. I am an octoroon by birth. There's nothing I can do about it. Running away certainly won't change it."

  Bethany smiled. "There will always be a place for you here at Cantigny. I need you, you know. You always make me feel better."

  Later that night, Bethany paced the carpeted floor of her bedchamber. It was always worse after dark, when everyone else was abed. The loneliness would rush in like a spring flood on the river, rising and rising until Bethany thought she was drowning.

  Throughout each and every day, she labored to be brave, to smile until she thought her face would crack, but when she looked at the big empty four-poster bed where she had lain so close and intimate in Luke's strong arms, her false cheer crumbled away like dry mortar, stripping her emotions bare, raw, and bleeding.

  Thunder gave an ominous rumble somewhere far downriver, sounding as hollow as her heart, and Bethany moved to the open French doors. Rain fell steadily, and she closed her eyes as the storm-cooled wind lifted her loosened ringlets, molding her pale blue silk nightdress to her slender legs. It was a strange kind of winter, with no snow or frost. She wondered if it was snowing in St. Louis, or wherever Luke was.

  A bolt of lightning lit the dark sky, the brief flash illuminating the blowing trees for a mere second. A loud crack of thunder sounded, and Bethany hurried across the room, afraid it might have awakened Peeto. The little child lay fast asleep in his bed, however, his best friend, Raffy, breathing evenly on a small cot nearby. Bethany closed the gallery doors against the blowing rain, then leaned her cheek against the smooth wood of the bedpost and gazed down at Luke's son.

  Peeto looked so much like his father, more every day, she thought with a curious mingling of pride and pain. She smoothed back his hair from his forehead, remembering how she had done the same thing for Luke as he slept the night before he left. Her heart tightened into a knot of despair.