To Taste The Wine

by Fern Michaels

  A broken branch here, her handkerchief there, a shred of her dress somewhere else—all clues for Harlow to follow, all leading away from Tingari and Gaby.

  Onward. Forward. Don’t look back. Never look back. The devil was back there, a devil who wanted to kill her and her child. Faster. Forward. Don’t look back—a sound! What was it? A bird in the brush, some small mountain animal. What kind of animal? Chelsea wondered fearfully. A snake! Please God, no snakes. Faster, Faster.

  Her breath was coming in ragged gasps as she pushed higher and higher up the steep incline. Her hands were raw and bleeding, but she took no notice; in fact, she almost welcomed the pain. She deserved the pain, not Tingari or Gaby.

  Again she heard the sound, this time closer. Trapped like a wild rabbit in a snare, she dove headlong into a patch of thick brush, then clapped a hand over her mouth to still her harsh breathing. It was someone on foot, someone walking fast. Harlow? Dear God, how had he found her so quickly? Where was his horse? What would he do when he saw that Gaby wasn’t with her? Tingari, she prayed silently, keep my baby safe.

  Bitter tears of frustration mingled with the perspiration coursing down Chelsea’s cheeks. It was hopeless. She should have known that from the beginning. Her shoulders drooped, and she huddled into herself, holding her breath. He was closer. Brush was rustling, leaf mold sailing upward in thin spirals in his wake. Another minute and he would be almost upon her. How intent would his gaze be? Would he think to look down? When was the last time she had left a broken twig, a clue? It seemed hours and hours ago. Time had no meaning to her now.

  Childishly, she clapped her free hand over her eyes. She wouldn’t look at him until she had to. Then, unable to do what she wanted, she peeked between her fingers. He was almost abreast of her. Her hand fell away. Harlow didn’t wear kidskin boots—he wore heavy work shoes with copper tips!

  “Luke!” she cried, crawling out from the brush. “Luke!” She was being helped to her feet; strong arms, familiar arms, were crushing her in a powerful embrace. The breath was being driven from her body, but she didn’t care. Luke. Dear God. “How did you find me?”

  The lump in Luke’s throat made it impossible for him to respond. He had to swallow twice before he could manage to croak a few words. “You left a trail that any fool could follow.”

  “You were never a fool—I was the fool. My God, can you ever forgive me?”

  He placed a finger on her lips. “Shhh, there’s no need for blame. I’m as guilty as you.”

  “Harlow wants to kill me and my baby. Luke, he’s mad! I tried, my God, how I tried. It wasn’t enough. You can’t let him kill my baby.”

  “Our baby,” Luke said hoarsely. “Tingari told me. Where is she, Chelsea?”

  “I’m not sure. I lost my bearings, and I don’t even know how long I’ve been out here. I sent her out first with Gaby in a different direction. She knows how to survive.”

  “You’re exhausted,” Luke said gently.

  “Not anymore. I could go on forever.”

  Luke took stock of his surroundings. He thought of Tingari, who knew the mountains. Which way would she go—up or down to the ravine? It was hard to second guess the Aboriginal, who had his daughter’s fate in her hands. Then, of course, there was Harlow.

  “Chelsea, listen to me. I want you to climb down, go into the ravine. I’m going to climb; I’ll leave a trail, and then I’ll double back and follow you. Be careful. Don’t worry about me, I’ll find you. Harlow won’t think we’d go into the ravine because technically we’d be trapped there. This is the only way out. Trust me, Chelsea.”

  “I do. You know I do. Tingari—”

  “Neither of us needs to worry about Tingari. She knows these mountains. We have to trust her.” He leaned over and kissed Chelsea lightly on the lips.

  Chelsea sighed. “I think, Luke Tanner, that your soul just touched mine. Is that possible?”

  “Tingari would say it is. Go now. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  All weariness gone now, Luke climbed the mountain at a vigorous pace, his breathing harsh but even. His life had purpose now; he could do whatever had to be done. He climbed steadily for over an hour, leaving little clues the way Chelsea had done. How clever of her, how brave of her, to offer her life in place of their child. But she was no match for Harlow Kane. He didn’t think his heart had ever been so full. With a devilish gleam in his eye, he stooped down and squatted on his heels to view the trail he had just climbed. If he was any judge, Kane would be sitting in this same spot a few hours from now.

  Panting with exhaustion, Chelsea dropped to the ground. She couldn’t go one step farther—she needed water. A tree sapling seemed to reach out to her, offering her comfort. She reached for the feathery, leaf-covered branch, swaying for a moment. No, she couldn’t go on. The branch left her bloody hands with a swish. She would rest for just a moment. A moment wasn’t very long. She wouldn’t even close her eyes; she’d just lean back against the tree and wait for Luke….

  Just the thought of his name made her crawl to her feet. He would be so disappointed in her if she gave in now. He’d said to go on, that he would find her. She foraged ahead, unmindful of the branches and brambles that attacked her already tattered dress. It was cooler here, she thought vaguely. The smell was different, too—a smell she hadn’t been aware of for months. Dampness. Dampness meant water. The river—of course! She must be close.

  Luke found her sitting along the river bank, and an expression of amusement settled briefly over his features. From the back, she looked as though she were on a summer outing. The only things missing were the blanket and the picnic basket.

  Chelsea whirled about when he called to her and fell into his arms, crying his name over and over to make sure he was real and not some figment of her imagination.

  “We’ll rest for a little while, then try to move north. Not long, Chelsea,” Luke said gently.

  “I know. I just needed some water. I’m fine now, really I am.”

  “It will be dark soon.”

  “Did you see any sign of Harlow or Tingari?”

  “None. But then I didn’t expect any. I’m going to take off my boots and soak myself. You do the same. Tooley Joe said there was rain north of us, in Queensland. The river here is fairly high. A pity it hasn’t trickled down to the riverbed. We could have used this water months ago.”

  Chelsea slipped off her shoes and a moment later was floating in the water with Luke holding on to her shoulders. Their bodies were buoyant in the swirling river water, and each strained toward the other. It was enough for Chelsea to be with Luke. For now nothing else mattered. There would always be later.

  Harlow stood on the edge of the ravine and watched Tanner as he slid down the steep, rocky incline. A grim smile stretched across his face. Tanner was doing it the hard way. If he’d gone just a little farther, he could have followed the track that led to the river. He’d been up here not too long ago trying to figure out ways to get the water to his vineyard, but the river was as low as it was at Bellefleur.

  It was good, they were all together now. Did that fool really think he was going to go up the mountain and follow his little trail of clues? He’d simply sat back on his horse, sipping from his flask as he waited and watched. He’d known that Tanner was trying to throw him off the trail. That had been his first mistake. His second mistake was going down into the ravine. There was only one way out from there.

  Harlow sat for a long time, getting a feel for the wind. When he was satisfied, he prodded his horse to the trail that would take him to the foot of the ravine. He waited till he was almost at the bottom, then reined in the horse, slipped effortlessly from the saddle, and dug around in his saddlebags. He withdrew a flint and in moments had a long, dry branch in his hands. A sound to his left made him jerk around. A wild animal of some kind. But he’d been diverted from his actions, which had given him enough time to contemplate what he was about to do.

  Murder. He was going to kill his wife an
d her lover. He turned, disoriented for a moment, wondering if he could really light the dry branch and kill two people in cold blood—possibly four, if Tingari and the brat were anywhere near.

  Harlow argued with himself, bringing the flint to within an inch of the dry branch, only to take it away. Murder. It would be on his conscience. He wouldn’t have to hide out at Bellefleur in shame if there remained no reminders of what had happened. He’d start over; he was strong and healthy—and he knew the thought was a lie.

  His shoulders slumped. He’d never understood why he was driven the way he was. Irmaline had tried to tell him, to help him be the man she’d said she wanted, but he’d ignored her the way he’d ignored Chelsea. No one, not even the reverend, had ever been able to explain to him why he loved the land and the vines more than his family. He’d wanted to love Chelsea, but he didn’t know how, just as he hadn’t known how to love Irmaline and his children.

  He was so tired, and the horse was weary. He smoothed down the sweaty hide of the animal’s head. His touch was gentle, tender for the animal that had been carrying him and his guilt. He laid his own sweaty cheek next to the animal and was rewarded with a soft wicker. Animals were loyal and never betrayed their masters.

  In the end all a man had left was pride. When others judged him, he had to be able to stand proud. If his vineyards died out, so would hundreds of others. Their owners would be in the same position he was … only they would have wives and family at their side to make a new beginning. They would all know that his wife had betrayed him, had given birth to another man’s child. If Chelsea and Tanner died, no one would blame him … especially if they were found locked in each other’s arms; an adulteress and her lover. He would grieve and be the recipient of everyone’s sympathy.

  Yes, it was the only way. Harlow struck the flint, and the branch flared. He held it aloft as he climbed into the saddle, then spurred his horse forward slowly as he bent over, dragging the burning branch behind him. His eyes gleamed triumphantly as flames shot up in the rear. The horse whinnied and reared at the smell of smoke. Harlow kept his seat as he watched the wind carry sparks and set other fires. The whole ravine would soon go up in flames, and he was guarding the only way out. He felt calm, his face betraying no emotion as the flames licked upward. There would be no survivors.

  Chelsea and Luke slept peacefully as the fire crept closer, spewing smoke and ash in all directions, destroying everything it touched. Chelsea stirred first, coughing and sputtering. “Luke! Luke, wake up! I smell smoke.”

  Startled, Luke opened his eyes, took in the scene, felt Chelsea’s horror, and was immediately on his feet. “The son of a bitch is trying to burn us out of here! Run, Chelsea, to the river. Hurry!” he shouted to be heard above the crackling flames. “If you lose me in the smoke, just head for the river. It’s the only place we’ll be safe. Straight, Chelsea—don’t waver to the right or left, or you’ll get lost. Run!”

  “What about you?” Chelsea cried over her shoulder. “I can’t go without you.”

  “Just do as I tell you. Now go!”

  The fear in Luke’s voice spurred her forward. She ran as though the hounds of hell were at her heels. Twice she had to stop to beat at the flames that licked at her dirty dress, which now hung in tatters about her knees. She smelled the river before she saw it and splashed headlong into the water, floundering wildly. Gasping and coughing, she tried to stay afloat as Luke had shown her. Panic engulfed her as she slipped beneath the black water, only to struggle to the surface seconds later. Always she emerged with Luke’s name on her lips, as if it were a prayer. And when she felt her hair being pulled, she realized her prayer had been answered.

  “Don’t fight the water, Chelsea, or you’ll go under again. Lean on me. I’ll hold you up.”

  “Luke, Tingari and Gaby … is the fire just here in the ravine or in the foothills, too?” Chelsea asked fearfully.

  “I don’t know,” Luke replied. “My guess would be that Harlow set this fire. This is just a guess, mind you, but I do believe he thinks we’re all together. If that’s true, Tingari and Gaby are safe. Tingari will smell the smoke and simply move to higher ground. We’re too low, the fire will be contained here.”

  “We can’t get out, can we?”

  “No, Chelsea, we can’t. If the wind changes, we might have a chance, but that seems unlikely. We’ve had an east wind for days now. I’d wager Clonmerra that Kane is sitting at the top of the ravine waiting for us to try and get out. We’re staying right here, here in the river.”

  “How long?” Chelsea managed to whisper.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Chelsea. For as long as it takes. It could be days, it could be a week. The whole ravine is going to have to burn itself out. This is the only place we’re safe.”

  “I don’t understand. If the river is this high, there must have been rain. The trees and brush must be wet. Wet wood doesn’t burn.”

  “This river runs hundreds of miles north. I told you it rained in Queensland. This river is now almost full, and ours will be, too, when this manages to run down to our land. Everything here is dry. I know it feels damp and wet, but that’s just around and near the river’s edge. The trees and brush are bone dry. Listen to the crackling of the flames as the trees burn.”

  Chelsea tried to pierce the orange light, but all she could see were hungry flames dancing upward, driving the hot air through the burning trees. The air was scalding hot, and periodically Luke pulled her beneath the water. The sky was one wall of black smoke, and against that darkness, along the crest of the ridge by the ravine, flickered an angry phalanx of red. Smoke swirled toward them, so thick it made them choke and cough. Luke reached down and brought up Chelsea’s wet skirt to cover her mouth and nose.

  The strong wind roared over the ridges like a cascading waterfall and created a powerful wheel of racing down-drafts above the river itself. Smoke and sparks and burning fragments flew high into the air, spit out by the force of the conflagration. A tall tree near the river’s edge suddenly flared like a torch as the fire crossed the river to the other side. Thickening smoke flowed up the deep channel of the ravine.

  Chelsea pulled her skirt away—it was dry now from the hot air—and wetted it again, securing it over her mouth and nose. Luke squinted against the cinders and soot, stunned that the fire had come upon them so quickly. The strong wind was responsible—he could almost envision Harlow waiting for just the right moment before he’d set the fire that was to kill them.

  “Over the ridges, to the south, look!” Luke shouted above the roar. Heavy smoke, propelled by a vicious downdraft, rolled toward them. If the fire didn’t kill them, he thought, the smoke would. Again and again they slid beneath the water, only to emerge to flames and an impenetrable, noxious pall of smoke.

  It seemed such a long time, perhaps hours, during which Chelsea realized she could barely open her eyes. Her shoulders and face were seared from the intense heat. Fire was everywhere, above them, surrounding them, feeding itself on young saplings and brush. The oils within the eucalyptus trees burned a white-hot blue and seemed to flare forever before their hollow shanks were also consumed by the greedy flames. Insatiable, it raged on and on, exploding trees and running through brush until it seemed the earth itself would burn. But they endured passively, for there was no other choice. They remained in the watery fortress, their only hope for survival. Only their heads broke the water’s surface; they crouched in the warm depths like animals, waiting for the fire to burn itself out. Time lost all meaning; day seemed the same as night. Except for the orange-red glare of the flames, there was no reality.

  Suddenly Chelsea tightened her grip on Luke’s shoulder. He turned to see the entire face of the hill they had climbed down turn into a towering wall of flames, which licked at the sky like sharp-tongued serpents. For the space of one wild moment, Luke felt as though the burning wall were going to topple down upon them; then the smoke closed in again, and the massive blaze was lost to the sky.

&nb
sp; Time moved on, and the roaring, thundering flames filled their world with fear. The fire was a stampeding herd of buffalo, and they were in the path of the pounding hooves. The branches that landed upright in the water with their ends burning reminded Chelsea of the sacred candles Tingari burned in the dark of night.

  They choked and coughed, and the only air they could breathe safely was the draft directly on top of the water. Invariably, Chelsea would get her nose full of gaseous vapor and Luke would have to slap her on the back. But they endured, and somehow the day passed once more into night.

  During the long midnight hours, while Chelsea dozed on Luke’s shoulder, the fire seemed to Luke to be reborn in the darkness all about them. It burned fiercely and, like an angry dog, snapped and snarled at everything in its path. Eventually, however, Luke thought he heard a new tempo in the fire’s song. Was it beginning to burn itself out? He could only hope. He was too weary to think now; all he could do was try to keep Chelsea’s head above water and his as well. At times it was a losing battle, as his eyes would close and he’d begin to slip beneath the water. Then Chelsea’s cries of fright would awaken him, and again he would watch the fire like the sentinel he was.

  It wasn’t his imagination: the light in the sky was a new dawn. He could see the new day, he thought jubilantly. But only the thought was jubilant; his body was too weary to respond. Still, they were alive, and that was all that mattered.

  Harlow Kane sat on his horse at the edge of the ravine for two straight days, watching with an eerie calm as the ravine below him burned to cinders. Nothing, no one, could live through that inferno. Now it was time to go down and see for himself the results of his handiwork.