“I … I suppose you mean that as a compliment.”
“Sure do, honey. Are you Jeff’s woman?”
“I’m an indentured servant, bought and paid for. I belong to him, yes, but I’m not his ‘woman.’”
“Reckon that’s your misfortune, honey. The woman who lands Jeff Rawlins is gonna be lucky indeed. We’re mighty fond uv him, I don’t mind tellin’ you. They don’t make many like him. He’s rough and rugged, sure, and meaner’n a bobcat when he’s riled up, but he’s got a heart of pure gold.”
“Indeed?”
“Don’t ever let anyone tell ya different, honey.”
“If he’s such a paragon, why does he engage in white slavery?”
“White slavery! Jeff? Nonsense! Oh, he runs women from Carolina to New Orleans, sure. Buys ’em at auction, resells ’em for a big profit, but he’s doin’ the women a favor. ’Stead o’ workin’ their tails off on some farm, they live in luxury, wear silks and satins, get paid good money for doin’ what they do. And the women he buys—honey, they ain’t lily-pure virgins. Most of ’em were walkin’ the streets before they was well into their teens. Ain’t a one of ’em wuzn’t grateful to him—”
Maria cut herself short as a young girl came into the room carrying an enormous wooden barrel, placing it in the center of the bright, multicolored rag rug that covered most of the floor. Surely no more than sixteen, the girl was slender with delicate features and lovely indigo-blue eyes. Soft, silvery-brown hair fell about her shoulders in rich profusion. Barefooted, she wore a faded pink calico dress with a pattern of tiny blue flowers almost exactly the color of her eyes.
“This here’s Lita,” Maria said. “Lita, this is Miss Danver, a friend of Jeff’s.”
The girl smiled. “Hello,” she said shyly.
I returned the smile. She was a beautiful creature, fragile, tender, poignantly young. Lowering her eyes, she scurried out of the room, her soft brown hair bouncing.
“Lita’s got a cause to be grateful to Jeff, too,” Maria continued. “Sixteen years old she is, thirteen when Jeff brung her to us. She an’ her folks were goin’ down the Trace three years ago. Th’ Chickasaws fell on ’em, killed her parents and little brother, took Lita captive. A search party went after the renegades who done it, but they gave up after a week or so, said there was no chance of findin’ the girl, said she was prob’ly already dead anyway. They gave up the search, but not Jeff Rawlins. No, he kept on after the Indians, all by himself. It took him two and a half months, but he found ’em. There was half a dozen of ’em, renegades who’d broken away from the tribe. Jeff rescued the girl, had to kill three braves in the process.”
“That was a very brave thing to do.”
“He didn’t take her and put her in no whorehouse, honey. He brought her to me and Eb, asked us to take care of her. You shoulda seen him with her. Gentle as a lamb he was, talkin’ real soft, tellin’ her not to be afraid. If you coulda seen him—” Maria shook her head, her dark eyes pensive as she recalled the scene.
The girl came back into the room carrying two enormous kettles of steaming water. She gave me another shy smile as she poured the water into the barrel. It was appalling to think that such a lovely, gentle creature had been in the hands of savages for almost three months. She must have endured horrors, I thought, but they had left no visible signs. The girl seemed to radiate a blissful contentment. Taking up the empty kettles, she left again. Maria sighed.
“Jeff Rawlins is a fine man, and don’t you forget it. I don’t know what kinda plans he has for you, but you can bet you’ll end up the better for ’em, whatever they might be. He’s a rogue, all right, but he ain’t got a mean bone in his body.”
She left, and I was surprised to find that some of my numbness had worn off. I had been quite touched by the story of Lita, by the girl herself, and I found myself admiring Jeff Rawlins for what he had done. How many men would have risked their lives to rescue a young girl everyone else had already given up on? I was beginning to see him in an entirely new light. I realized that Maria was prejudiced in his favor, and I didn’t for one minute accept her version of his nefarious trade, yet I realized that no one was all bad. Rawlins undoubtedly had many redeeming qualities. The story of Lita proved that.
The girl returned again with another kettle of water, soap, a large white towel, and the pack Rawlins had taken from the mule. Setting the other things on a chair, she emptied the water into the barrel. It was more than half full, the water steaming visibly.
“Your bath is ready now,” Lita said. “If you need anything else, you just let me know.”
“Thank you, Lita. Is Mr. Rawlins still downstairs?”
Lita nodded. “He gave me the pack, said your clothes were in it. I imagine he’ll be down in the taproom for quite a spell, talking with Eb and the other men.” Her eyes seemed to glow as she spoke of him.
“You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?” I asked.
The question seemed to surprise her. “I love him,” she said. “Doesn’t everyone?”
The girl left the room then, closing the door behind her. The water needed to cool a bit, so I stepped into the adjoining bedroom. It was small, with a low, sloping roof. There was barely enough room for the bed with its patchwork quilt and the dressing table with a musky, tarnished mirror hanging over it. If these were the best rooms in the inn, I reflected, the others must be small indeed. The furniture was all obviously homemade by Crawley himself, the quilt, the rag rug in the other room no doubt Maria’s handiwork. There was great charm nevertheless, a snug, homey atmosphere that was most welcoming.
Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I frowned. My face was streaked with dirt, my hair wildly disarrayed. I couldn’t believe I had let myself fall into such a wretched condition. Something stirred inside of me as I stood there, a will to survive, a will to succeed, and the last vestiges of that deadening numbness seemed to melt away. I would never see Derek Hawke again. Heartlessly, he had thrust me into the hands of a man he knew would sell me to a brothel, and I had given up, had accepted my fate with meek submission, not caring what happened. How could I have been so passive?
The spirit seemed to swell up inside of me, and I knew then that I was going to fight. I had been dejected, mentally and emotionally destroyed by what had happened, but that was behind me now. I would never get over what had happened, would never be able to forget Derek Hawke or what he had done to me, just as I would never be able to stop loving him, but I was no longer prepared to give up. I was going to fight. I felt alive for the first time in two weeks, gloriously alive. Perhaps it was merely the contrast to the lethargy that had gripped me before, but it seemed every fiber of my being vibrated with life, and I had never felt stronger, more determined.
Stepping back into the sitting room, I opened the pack and pulled out the Italian peasant blouse and the leaf-brown skirt I had worn that day of the auction, such a long time ago it seemed now. Laying the garments out on the chair, I undressed and, clutching the bar of soap in my hand, climbed into the enormous barrel. It was exceedingly uncomfortable, but there was enough room to sit if I drew my legs up. The water was marvelously warm, and the liquid warmth seemed to steal through me, relaxing me, driving away all tension and care.
I bathed thoroughly and washed my hair, reveling in the warmth, the rich lather, the sweet scent of lilac soap that seemed to fill the room. My body seemed to glow with cleanliness as I rinsed away the suds and let warm water spill over my shoulders and breasts. I had been in the tub for almost half an hour and was just getting ready to climb out when the door opened. Jeff Rawlins strolled casually into the room, quirking one brow when he saw me in the barrel, arms crossed over my breasts. He grinned then, closing the door behind him.
“You look better already,” he remarked.
“I should have locked the door!”
“I’d have broken it down. My, my, you are a sight. Never seen so much wet flesh in my life. Makes a man hungry to see even more.”
&
nbsp; “Are you going to just stand there?”
“No. Reckon I’ll hand you the towel. Want me to help dry you off?”
“You—”
“Ah, your cheeks are burning. Your eyes are flashing with anger, full of blue fires. You don’t know how glad I am to see that, wench. Thought I was going to have to take strong measures to snap you out of your—”
“Hand me the towel!”
“Yes, ma’am. Here you are.”
Defiantly, I stood up and stepped out of the tub. Rawlins watched me, warm brown eyes dancing with amusement, that infuriating grin still curling on his wide pink mouth. I wanted to slap it off his face. Dripping on the rag rug, I wrapped the towel securely around me.
“Reckon I’ll take a bath myself,” Rawlins remarked. “No sense wastin’ all that water.”
“Go right ahead!”
I dropped the bar of soap back into the barrel and reached for the skirt and blouse I had spread over the chair. As I did so, the towel slipped, almost dropping to the floor before I caught it. Rawlins guffawed and began to pull off his buckskin tunic. I hurried into the bedroom and was dismayed to discover that there was no door I could slam shut between the two rooms. I discovered, too, that I had forgotten to get my petticoat from the pack. My cheeks were still burning, but, strangely enough, the anger was almost pleasant. Anything was better than that terrible numb lethargy.
There was a loud splash as Rawlins climbed into the barrel. Hesitating only a moment, I stepped back into the sitting room, the towel tucked securely around me. Rawlins was in the tub, scrubbing himself vigorously, his hair soaking wet and plastered over his head in pointed locks. He reminded me of a frisky puppy splashing about, and I almost smiled in spite of myself. Opening the pack again, I pulled out the multilayered petticoat I needed. Rawlins let out a little yelp as the bar of soap slipped out of his hand and went skittering across the room.
“Damn! Be a dear. Fetch me the soap.”
“Get it yourself!” I snapped.
“You really want me to? You want me to climb out and—”
“I’ll get it!”
He smiled as I handed it to him. Why did I feel myself warming to this man? I had every reason to hate him. Why did I want to smile back at him and smooth those damp locks away from his brow? He intended to sell me to a brothel in New Orleans. Despite his engaging manner, despite his charm, he was my enemy. I had to remember that. I had to keep that in mind at all times. To succumb to his charm would be a fatal mistake. Rawlins looked up at me with those merry brown eyes, utterly disarming.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said, “don’t know what caused you to come back to life, but I sure am glad to see you comin’ round. Meek women bore the pants off me. I have a feelin’ I ain’t gonna be bored no longer.”
“I’m hungry, Mr. Rawlins. I suggest you hurry with your bath so we can go downstairs and eat.”
“Righto,” he said. “Won’t take me more’n a few minutes.”
Leaving him to his bath, I went back into the bedroom and, standing well out of sight of the open doorway, dried my body thoroughly and then vigorously toweled my hair, ridding it of most of the dampness. I could hear him splashing away as I dressed. He was humming a jaunty tune, enjoying himself immensely.
“Hey!” he cried. “I need that towel.”
I took it in to him and fetched my shoes.
“It’s all damp,” he protested.
“I’m sorry about that. You’ll just have to make do.”
“Inconsiderate wench,” he grumbled.
He heaved himself out of the barrel, dripping rivulets of water all over the rug. I hurried back into the bedroom and put on my shoes. There was an old hairbrush on top of the dressing table and, sitting down in front of the mirror, I began to brush my hair. Soon it was almost dry, soft and feathery and wonderfully clean. The glow I had felt earlier still remained inside. The grief, the desolation were there as well, but they were tightly contained, locked away. I was no longer willing to let them render me helpless.
Rawlins stepped to the doorway and peered in at me. He had tied the towel clumsily about his waist. Seeing him like that reminded me of pictures I had seen of the early Roman gladiators. He was superbly built, lean and muscular, exceedingly virile and emanating a hearty confidence much as the gladiators must have done before entering the arena. Hearty, audacious, he grinned at me, those wet, sharp-pointed locks covering his head like a sleek helmet. I put the brush down and stood up, looking at him with calm blue eyes.
“Just thought I’d tell you I’m almost ready,” he remarked. “All I have to do is slip into some fresh buckskins. You look stunning, Marietta. Uh … we don’t have to go down for supper …” His eyes took in the bed.
“I think we’d better,” I said coldly.
Rawlins gave a good-natured shrug and stepped back into the sitting room to put on fresh buckskins identical to those he had been wearing before, only cleaner. Instead of boots, he wore soft buckskin moccasins. As we went down to the taproom, he seemed as jolly and exuberant as an Oxford youth turned loose on the city with a pocketful of money. Hair still damp, eyes merry, he led me into the dimly lighted, smoke-filled taproom. There were well over a dozen rough-looking men gathered around the tables, and all of them watched with considerable envy as Rawlins led me to a corner table.
“Hey, Rawlins,” one of them called, “you in a sellin’ mood?”
“No chance,” he retorted. “This one’s special.”
“Keepin’ her for yourself?”
“You’re smarter’n you look, Benson.”
Maria served us herself. The food was delicious: sugar-cured ham, hot bread, golden yams, greens. I was famished and dug into the food with great relish, as did Rawlins. He drank ale from a pewter mug with his food, and I wondered how much he had had before he came up to the room, how much of his jaunty humor was caused by the alcohol. Maria brought hot apple pie with cream after we had finished, and Rawlins leaped up to give her a mighty hug, claiming it was his favorite and she was a living angel. Maria blushed with pleasure, girlishly coy for all her great girth.
Eb Crawley came to sit with us for a few minutes after we had finished dessert. His ruddy face was grim as he took the mug of ale his wife brought.
“Another for me, too,” Rawlins requested.
“You’ve already had enough, you rascal. You’re not going to be able to get back upstairs!”
“Aw, don’t get bossy, Maria. Just bring me the ale.”
Maria moved away, red skirt swishing. Her husband’s dark eyes were filled with grave concern as he inquired if we intended to push on tomorrow morning.
“Don’t see why not,” Rawlins replied. “Hell, there’s always talk of Indian uprisin’s. I ain’t sayin’ they didn’t murder that family and burn their wagon, but it was probably no more’n half a dozen braves just feelin’ their oats. They’ve probably left the area by this time.”
Maria banged a pewter mug down on the table in front of him, foamy ale splashing over the rim. Rawlins scowled at her, then lifted the mug to his lips.
“If I was scared uv Indians, I’d never have ventured down the Trace the first time,” he continued. “I got two powerful rifles, and a pistol as well, and there ain’t a man around ’s a better shot than I am.”
“Be that as it may, I think you should reconsider. We got a whole slew of men here who’re coolin’ their heels, waitin’ for things to calm down ’fore they go on. It ain’t just the Indians, Jeff. I hear the Brennan boys are at it again. Talk is they waylaid a couple trappers not more’n fifty miles on down the road. Murdered ’em both.”
“You mean them skunks is still loose and livin’? I’da thought someone would’ve put a bullet through their skulls ’fore this time. I knew Jim was outa jail, but I thought Billy was locked up in Natchez.”
“He broke out. His brother helped him. They killed the jailer, shot another man, too. They don’t make ’em any meaner’n the Brennans. If I had my choice of r
unnin’ up against a pack of Chickasaws or runnin’ up against the Brennan brothers, I’d pick the Indians every time. Didn’t you have a run in with ’em a couple years back?”
“Sure did. Beat the shit outa Billy, put a slug of lead in Jim’s shoulder. I’d welcome a chance to finish the job up proper. It’s scum like them that gives the Trace such a bad name.”
Eb Crawley frowned, clearly displeased. “If it was just you, I’d say go on, get yourself scalped or shot up, but—hell, Jeff, you got the wench here to consider. You don’t wanna take no chances with her along. If the Brennans got a-hold of her—”
“They ain’t about to,” Rawlins replied, finishing his ale. He slammed the mug down and climbed unsteadily to his feet. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Eb. You’re talkin’ like some frightened dude, and you one of the meanest critters ever drew breath.”
“It ain’t a jokin’ matter, Jeff. These other chaps—”
“I’m tired talkin’ about it,” Rawlins interrupted. “Come on, Marietta, let’s go on upstairs.”
He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. All that ale had quite obviously gone to his head. He was weaving slightly as we left the taproom, and he stumbled as we climbed the stairs, crashing against the wall with considerable impact. When we reached the upper hall, he flung his arm around my shoulders, leaning heavily against me as we moved on down the hall. As soon as we stepped into the sitting room, he plopped down in the chair, looking flushed but still quite merry. The barrel was gone, I noticed, and so were our dirty clothes.
“Lita’s launderin’ ’em for us,” he explained when I commented about it. “She’ll have ’em all freshly ironed and ready to pack away when we get ready to leave in the morning. She always cleans my buckskins for me, has ’em smellin’ like new.”
“That’s very thoughtful of her.”
“Lita’s a swell kid. I did her a favor once. This is her way of payin’ me back. Hey, all that talk didn’t upset you, did it? I mean all that jawin’ about the Brennans and the Indians.”
“Not—not particularly, but Mr. Crawley seemed—”
Love's Tender Fury Page 23
