Love's Tender Fury

by Jennifer Wilde

He looked up at me and grinned mysteriously, and I had the curious feeling that these mysterious plans concerned me in some way. He clearly had no intention of going into detail, and I was too stubborn to ask. He took the fish up, and after it had cooled we ate it. The meat was juicy and succulent, quite the best fish I had ever eaten, but perhaps that was because I was so hungry. I went over to the river to wash my hands when I had finished, and it was as I was drying them off that I heard the horse neighing.

  I was startled, too startled to be frightened at first. I hurried back to Jeff. His face was grim. He looked like a different person, the amiable rogue replaced by a deadly sober man with tight mouth and hard, fierce eyes. He held the rifle ready to fire, the barrel pointing toward the area on the other side of the stream where the sound had come from. The fear gripped me then. I could feel the color leaving my cheeks.

  “Get over there behind those trees,” he ordered. “Stay out of sight.”

  “What—”

  “Do as I say!” he snapped.

  I quickly obeyed, darting behind the trees and peering around one of the trunks to watch, my heart pounding. The horse neighed again, and the sound of hooves rang loud and clear. A moment later a horseman rode into sight, a string of four pack mules trailing behind. Thin and rangy, the man had a long, pale face with beard as black and lanky as his hair. He wore a raccoon-skin cap with tail dangling down in back and buckskins similar to those Jeff wore, only much dirtier. Jeff held the rifle steady for a moment, and then he lowered it and let out an exuberant whoop that caused birds perching nearby to break into flight. The man on the horse, showing no reaction, calmly walked his horse across the stream.

  “It’s all right, Marietta!” Jeff called. “You can come on out. Jackson’s a friend of mine. Jackson, you ol’ son of a bitch! What th’ hell are you doin’ in these parts?”

  “On my way to Carolina,” the man replied. “Got four mules here loaded down with goods. Aim to sell to them folks you ain’t already cheated. If there are any,” he added.

  “Christ, man, you gave us a scare!”

  Jackson dismounted. He was tall, taller than Jeff, even, and so thin he looked unhealthy. The buckskins seemed to hang limply on his bony frame. The straggly beard and long hair were very dark, emphasizing his pallor. He glanced about the campsite with lazy blue eyes, showing not the least surprise when I approached from the trees. As I drew nearer I could smell him. It was difficult not to recoil. He smelled of grease and sweat and leather and various other odors, all of them blending into an exceedingly pungent whole.

  “Heard that yell an’ thought I was ridin’ into a camp of savages,” he said lazily. “You got any whiskey?”

  “You know I always carry a quart, you bastard. You probably have half a dozen bottles stashed away in them packs yourself—just wanna mooch offa me. Reckon I can spare a shot or two.”

  “Be mighty obliged,” Jackson drawled.

  Jeff pulled the bottle out of one of the packs, and the two men drank, tilting the bottle back with relish. Jackson’s horse nibbled at the grass. One of his mules brayed. The bottle was half empty before Jeff finally put the cap back on and slipped it into the pack.

  “Mighty good,” Jackson remarked.

  “Particularly as it didn’t cost you nothin’.”

  “Could have somethin’ to do with it. You-all headin’ for Natchez?”

  Jeff nodded. “Left Carolina ’bout two weeks ago. Hear there might be Indian trouble up the trail. Crawley was certain they was gonna attack at any minute. See any signs of ’em?”

  Jackson hesitated, glancing at me. He scratched the side of his head, his blue eyes filled with indecision as he debated whether or not to speak. After a moment he frowned and spoke in a guarded voice.

  “Band of renegades. Couldn’t be more’n ten or twelve of ’em, I figure. The rest of the tribe’s moved on up country, fifty miles or so from the Trace. This bunch—they ain’t up to no good. The McKenney family was murdered. I reckon Crawley heard about that. These braves’re out to kill any white they can get their hands on.”

  Jeff was grave. “You run into ’em?”

  “I saw ’em,” Jackson said. “I’d camped for the night, had the horse and mules tethered. I heard ’em in the distance, heard ’em whoopin’ and hollerin’. I crept through the woods to investigate, hid behind some bushes on the edge of their camp. They was all painted up, wearin’ their feathers, dancin’ ’round their fire. Joe Pearson—” He darted another glance at me, the crease between his brows digging deeper. “Joe started out a couple days ’fore I did. He—he was in th’ fire, lashed to a stake, screamin’ his lungs out. Wuzn’t nothin’ I could do but get th’ hell outa there quick as I could. I backtracked and made a wide detour.”

  Both men were silent for a while. I was horrified by what I had heard. The river continued to rush along with a pleasant gurgling noise. Insects hummed. Sunlight and shadow played on the ground as tree limbs swayed gently in the breeze. The spot that had seemed so peaceful and lovely just a short while ago seemed suddenly ominous, threatening. I felt vulnerable and exposed, felt hostile eyes were observing us even as we stood there.

  “How long ago was that?” Jeff asked.

  “’Bout a week and a half ago.”

  “Chances are they’ve moved out of the area by this time.”

  “It’s likely,” Jackson admitted. “Still, if you intend goin’ on, you want to keep your rifle handy. You might make sure the woman has a gun handy, too.”

  Jeff nodded again. Jackson’s expression was impassive. He was clearly a man who felt little emotion, a man long inured to hardship and horror. In his filthy buckskins and raccoon cap, with his lanky locks and shaggy black beard, he was nevertheless an impressive figure in a way I couldn’t quite define. If there was such a thing as an “American” type, Jackson was uniquely so.

  “Guess I better be pushin’ on,” he drawled. “Reckon there’s another hour or so ’fore dark. Want to get as far up the road as I can.”

  “You haven’t seen anything of the Brennans, have you?”

  “You mean Jim and Billy?”

  “Crawley claims they’re in the area, claims they murdered a couple trappers.”

  “Wouldn’t doubt it. Trappers were probably carryin’ a rich load of furs. Them Brennan boys is bad news. I ain’t seen ’em, but that don’t mean they ain’t around. If they are, you wanna watch out. Reckon they bear you a pretty strong grudge after the way you shot up Jim and whupped Billy.”

  “Reckon they might,” Jeff agreed.

  Jackson mounted his horse, swinging lazily into the saddle. “Don’t wanna dawdle. Take care, Rawlins.”

  “You, too.”

  He walked the horse slowly out of the clearing, the mules trailing behind. Just before he passed out of sight behind a line of trees, he turned around in the saddle and gazed at us with a pale, impassive face, then lifted his arm in farewell. Jeff was silent for a long while, a thoughtful look in his eyes, and then, seeing my expression, he broke into one of those wide, merry grins.

  “Aw, come on now, don’t look so scared. I’ll protect you.”

  “It—it’s just so frightening.”

  “Hell, them Indians have probably cleared out—that was more’n a week ago. As for the Brennans, I reckon I could handle ’em any day of the week. If they know what’s good for ’em, they’ll steer clear. Don’t you worry about it.”

  “That poor man—”

  He looked puzzled. “Jackson?”

  “Joe Pearson, the one the Indians—” I hesitated, shuddering.

  “Burnin’ at the stake’s downright gentle compared to some of the things they do to captives. Usually they keep a man alive as long as possible. He dies a thousand deaths before—I’m upsettin’ you. Tell you what, why don’t we have a little target practice?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You ever fired a rifle?”

  “I’ve never even touched one.”

  “High time
you had a few lessons. Not that you’re likely to be usin’ it against Indians,” he added hastily. “I might get tired of goin’ out for game one day, might decide to send you out to round up dinner. Everyone oughta know how to use a rifle. You’ll soon get the hang of it.”

  Jeff fetched powder horn and rifle from one of the packs. He showed me how to load the thing, how to hold it. Unenthusiastic, I watched, and when he thrust it at me I held it nervously, afraid it would explode in my arms. Jeff stepped behind me and, reaching around, helped me get the proper hold. I leaned back against him, my arms shaking a bit from the weight of the rifle. His cheek was almost touching mine, and I could feel his muscles tighten as he lifted my arms up higher.

  “Like this, ya see? Hold it like this. Let the butt rest against your shoulder. Relax, Marietta, it ain’t gonna bite you. Okay, now look through the sight.”

  “The sight?”

  “That tiny piece of metal stickin’ up on the end of th’ barrel. Don’t you know anything? That’s the sight. You get whatever you intend to hit lined up with it. Then you just pull the trigger—and if you ask me what the trigger is I’m gonna strangle you here and now.”

  “I know what the trigger is,” I said wearily.

  Jeff let go of my arms and strolled several paces away to my right. The rifle was much heavier than I had thought it would be. It was difficult to hold it steady.

  “All right,” he said, “you’re ready to fire.”

  “What am I going to fire at?”

  Still holding the rifle, I turned innocently toward him. His face turned ashen. His eyes widened in alarm. He gave a yell and almost fell over backwards getting out of the way. I realized that the rifle had been pointing directly at him and I was unable to resist a smile. Jeff scowled, not at all amused. Still shaken, he pushed his hair from his forehead.

  “That thing’s loaded. You coulda blown my head off!”

  “This was your idea,” I told him.

  He came up behind me again, evidently deciding that was the safest place to be.

  “See that log across the river there?” he said. “There’s a great big branch stickin’ up there on the end. Fire at it. You couldn’t possibly miss it, not from this distance. Remember to get it lined up in your sight.”

  My arms were already aching dreadfully from the strain of holding the rifle, and I was even more nervous than before. Nevertheless, I took very careful aim, determined to show him I wasn’t a complete idiot. My finger rested loosely on the trigger. Tense, my body rigid, I closed my eyes. I squeezed. The explosion was deafening. The recoil almost knocked me over. I would have fallen had Jeff not been there to throw his arms around me. He held me tightly as the smoke cleared, and then he gave an exasperated sigh.

  “Did I hit it?”

  “’Fraid not,” he replied, “but you sure as hell messed up that clump of flowers over there.”

  He handed me the powder horn and insisted that I load the rifle again. I hadn’t been paying enough attention earlier. I botched it terribly, spilling powder all over the ground. Jeff jerked the rifle out of my hands and loaded it himself, showing me how all over again, threatening to beat me if I made a mess of it the next time. He handed the rifle back to me and made me hoist it up into position without any help.

  Again I took aim. I was more relaxed this time, not letting the weight of the rifle bother me so much, not nearly so rigid as I had been before. I covered the branch with the sight. I pulled the trigger, keeping my eyes open this time, steadying myself against the recoil. There was another deafening explosion, another great puff of acrid smoke. A rock in the middle of the stream shattered into bits.

  “You probably hit a fish!” he exclaimed.

  “I’m trying!” I retorted. “I didn’t want to fire the bloody thing in the first place!”

  “You’re gonna be a crack shot before I get through with you!”

  “Is that right!”

  “It damn sure is!” he thundered.

  We glared at each other, tempers high, eyes flashing, and then, unable to maintain his anger, Jeff broke into a sheepish grin. I began to smile. We both laughed, and then he clapped me on the back good-naturedly and gave me the powder horn again. I didn’t spill a drop this time. I shot at the branch. I missed. He merely shook his head. We continued target practice for another fifteen minutes, and although I never once hit the branch, I did manage to do considerable damage to the area nearby. Jeff cleaned the rifle and put it away.

  “At least we’re making some progress,” he remarked. “You’re not afraid of it any more. Tomorrow you might even be able to hit something.”

  The sunlight was almost gone. Thick shadows were beginning to spread over the ground. Jeff checked on the mules and then spread blankets out over the grass beneath the boughs of a tree. The fire had long since gone out. I smoothed back my hair, feeling much better now. Jeff took me in his arms and kissed me soundly, and then he led me over to the blankets. Darkness fell as we made love, wrestling lustily, enjoying each other immensely. Jeff fell asleep immediately afterwards, his arms still wrapped around me, his head resting on my shoulder. The stream gurgled. Leaves rustled. The forest was filled with night noises. Through the branches of the tree I could see the dark sky frosted with stars that blinked and glittered brightly.

  Jeff stirred, groaning, tightening his grip on me. I stroked the back of his head, loving his weight, his warmth, wishing I could feel safe and secure here in his arms. I couldn’t. Despite all my efforts to put it out of my mind, I kept thinking about that poor man lashed to the stake while the flames crackled and the Indians howled. No matter what Jeff might say, I knew we were going to be in constant danger until we finally put this savage country behind us.

  XIV

  I hadn’t become a crack shot, not by any means, but after four days of lessons I handled the rifle with some assurance and could usually hit whatever target Jeff indicated. He was quite pleased with me. His spare rifle was now mine for the duration of the trip. Sheathed in a long, shabby leather holster, the rifle was affixed to Jenny’s saddle and I had my own powder horn within easy reach as well. It gave me a certain feeling of security, for although four days had passed without the least sign of Indians, I couldn’t rid myself of the fear we would encounter them before the jurney was over.

  We rode hard. I found that I was growing accustomed to it and not complaining nearly as much. Although we got up before dawn and resumed our travel while the sunrise was still staining the sky, Jeff was usually content to stop for the night quite early, providing we had made good time during the day. I was growing accustomed to the land, too. It still seemed ominous and forbidding, but I was beginning to appreciate the savage splendor, the startling variety of trees, the sparkling streams strewn with gray and golden-gray boulders, the rough, ruggedly beautiful vistas we saw whenever we momentarily left the dense forest.

  Five days after our encounter with Jackson, we spent the entire morning laboriously moving up the side of a vast mountain thickly covered with towering pine trees, the trail winding gradually and carrying us higher and higher. I was amazed that Jeff, or anyone else for that matter, was able to stay on the Trace, for ever since we had left Crawley’s Inn, the trail had grown much less distinct, vanishing altogether at times, it seemed, invisible to all but the most trained eye. I would never have been able to keep to it on my own, would have gotten lost immediately. But Jeff was confident, and even when there seemed to be no trail at all, he forged on through the forest without the least hesitation.

  The sun was directly overhead as we neared the top of the mountain. I was exhausted, my white blouse damp with perspiration and clinging to my bosom, my brown skirt limp and dusty. I had caught my hair on a low-hanging branch earlier on, and I knew my auburn tresses must resemble those of a witch. We moved on up through the dense maze of pines, trunks a grayish brown, needles a vivid green, each branch studded with rich brown cones. The reddish earth was strewn with dry needles and spread with soft blue shadows,
a few brilliant yellow-white rays of sunlight slanting through the branches. Birds called. The scent of pines was glorious.

  “How much further?” I called.

  “Just a little ways,” Jeff retorted. “We should reach the top in fifteen minutes or so. From there on it’s easy going.”

  “I believe that,” I said ruefully.

  “You complaining again? I thought I broke you of that.”

  “Jenny keeps stumbling. She’s exhausted, too.”

  “We’ll take a rest once we reach level ground.”

  The top of the mountain was amazingly flat. The land seemed to stretch straight ahead to the distant horizon, and Jeff explained that we would be traveling along the crest of a small range of mountains for the next two or three days. True to his word, he dismounted and then, taking my hand, helped me dismount. I was so weary I almost fell. He clutched me to him, grinning, and then he gave me a hearty kiss. His buckskins were slightly damp, too, and his hair was wet with perspiration, making it an even darker gold. I clung to him a moment, savoring his strength, and then he pushed me gently away.

  “Time for that kinda thing when we stop for the night,” he teased.

  “I wasn’t even—”

  “Wasn’t cravin’ my body?” he interrupted.

  “Not in the least. You’re filthy and sweaty and smell like—”

  “You ain’t a bloomin’ rose, yourself.”

  “I don’t imagine I am. I haven’t had a bath since we left the inn, and these clothes—”

  “There’s a dandy little stream a few miles up ahead, runs right over a bunch of boulders and makes a small waterfall. We’ll stop there. Maybe we’ll bathe together.”

  “I thought we’d never reach the top,” I said wearily.

  “Yeah, it was pretty rugged. You’re holdin’ up well.”

  “Think so?”

  He nodded, his warm brown eyes merry. “I’m beginnin’ to admire you so much I’m thinkin’ I ain’t gonna be able to give you up. I’m gettin’ used to havin’ you around, gettin’ to like it.”

  I made a face and went to stretch out under the shade of a tree. Jeff tethered the three mules under yet another tree, and then he came to flop down on the ground beside me, stretching his legs out and cradling his arms behind his head. The trees were much less dense here, and we could see great patches of sky as pale and lovely as pale-blue silk. I closed my eyes, relaxed, content to be here, content to have him beside me, warm, friendly, comforting. I thought of what he had said about not being able to give me up, and I wondered if he had been serious.