Ride the Fire (Blakewell/Kenleigh Family Trilogy, #3)

by Pamela Clare

  Slowly he sat, waited to catch his breath, his heart drumming.

  Although the sun had risen, she was still asleep. Even in the dim light, he could see dark circles beneath her eyes, and he knew she’d slept poorly out of fear of him. If his gut hadn’t told him this, the pistol she clutched tightly in her hand—his pistol—certainly would have.

  She looked helpless, very young and utterly innocent. Her smoky lashes rested on her creamy cheeks. Her long braid had come unbound, leaving her hair to tangle in thick, honey-colored coils against her pillow. She had slept fully clothed, as if to be ready for anything at any moment. Her blankets were twisted in disarray around her thighs, proof she’d had a restless night.

  It wasn’t his damned fault if she was still afraid of him. He’d given her his word. What more could he do?

  He fought to ignore the pricking of his conscience, was about to drag his gaze from her when he noticed something that stopped him. Beneath the plain gray cloth of her gown where it stretched across her rounded belly, he could actually see her baby move. At first he thought he’d imagined it. But as he watched, it happened again—an abrupt movement, almost like a twitch, beneath her gown.

  Without thinking, he pressed his hand against the surprising hardness of her abdomen. And there it was—a light pressure against his palm, faint at first, then stronger, as if the child could feel his touch and was pushing back. His throat grew tight with unexpected emotion.

  A baby. His baby.

  Conceived in hatred, it had died before birth. He had killed it, as surely as he’d driven its mother to her death.

  Nicholas fought to push the unwelcome memories from his mind, tried to force them back behind the carefully forged steel wall that separated him from his past.

  The gentle pressure against his palm increased, undeniable, persistent, as if in tender mockery of his attempts to forget. It held him in thrall.

  A gasp. A flurry of blankets and gray skirts.

  And Nicholas found himself staring down the barrel of his own pistol.

  Chapter 4

  “Dinnae touch me! Get away from me!” Eyes wide with alarm, she sprang from the opposite side of the bed, backed away from him as if he were a copperhead.

  But her aim did not waver.

  Nicholas didn’t know what angered him more—his own inexplicable behavior moments earlier or the fact that he was about to be killed with his own damned pistol. Had he not been so weak, he could easily have taken it from her. But in this state, he’d probably only succeed in getting himself shot.

  He mumbled something he intended to be an apology, tried to get to his feet. Sharp pain shot through his right thigh, and he came close to sinking back to the floor. But he needed air. He needed to be alone, away from her, away from whatever had just happened.

  He grasped the edge of the table for balance, ignored the strained pounding of his heart, willed his bandaged leg to bear his weight despite the pain. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his back on her. Then he limped to the door, threw it open, and walked out into the bracing chill of morning.

  Bethie watched him walk outside, lowered the pistol when the door shut behind him. Only then did she realize she’d been holding her breath.

  Trembling, she sat on the bed, exhaled.

  She’d been in a dreamless sleep when she’d opened her eyes to find him touching her belly. At first, she’d been too sleepy to be afraid. As if in a dream, she had watched him. The look on his face had been one of wonder or grief—or both. She had smiled to see him so lost in her baby’s tiny movements—until, with a jolt, she’d come fully awake, remembered who he was.

  How dare he touch her in her sleep! How dare he touch her with such familiarity! He was lucky she hadn’t pulled the trigger!

  She pressed her palms to the hard curve of her abdomen where the warmth of his touch lingered. Strange that she didn’t feel the revulsion and fear a man’s hands usually aroused in her. Perhaps her mind was still fogged with sleep.

  She glanced toward the window, realized with a start that it was already well past sunrise. How could she have slept so long when there was work to be done?

  “Bethie! For shame!” For a moment her voice seemed to take on her mother’s unforgiving tones.

  She rose, hurried around the bed, set the pistol down on the table with a wary glance toward the closed door.

  Where had he gone? She hoped he’d get on his horse, ride far away, and never return. His very presence unnerved her. She didn’t want him anywhere near her when the baby came.

  What was he doing out there? He’d catch his death for sure walking about in this chill barefoot, in half a pair of breeches with no coat or cloak.

  Why did she care? She cared because she’d be forced to tend him if he fell sick, and already she’d had more than her fill of him.

  Quickly, she combed her fingers through her tangled hair, worked it into a braid. Satisfied her hair would stay out of her face, she built up the fire, took her shawl from its peg, wrapped it around her shoulders. Then she picked up his pistol, slipped it into her apron pocket.

  While he’d slept, she’d hidden his other weapons—a rifle, another pistol, a bayonet, and the two hunting knives—under the loose floorboard to the right of the fireplace. They were fine weapons, the pistols graced with intricate inlaid handles, surely far beyond the means of a simple trapper. She’d kept one pistol for her own protection. Easier to wield than Andrew’s rifle, it would be just as deadly if Master Kenleigh’s promise proved worthless. The bayonet told her he was a soldier, perhaps a deserter who had wearied of war and fled west.

  Slowly, cautiously, Bethie opened the door.

  She half expected to find him sprawled unconscious on the ground or lying in wait near the door. Instead, he stood by the well, drinking deeply from the tin dipper. He did not turn to her, did not acknowledge her.

  She hurried past him to the poultry pens, tried to act as if his presence didn’t bother her. When she came back out from the chicken coop, the morning’s eggs in her apron, he was nowhere to be seen. She found him when she went to milk old Dorcas, her favorite cow.

  He stood in the barn, tending his horse. He spoke reassuringly to the animal, brushed its chestnut flanks with sure strokes.

  Bethie faltered on the threshold, uneasy at the idea of being in a dark, confined space near him. But there was nothing to be done about it. Drawing reassurance from the weight of the pistol in her apron pocket, she went about her work, doing her best to ignore him.

  She had just settled on the milking stool when he spoke.

  “Return my weapons, and I’ll sleep here in the barn.” His voice was deep and soft as velvet.

  ’Twas surely just such a voice Satan had used when he’d enticed Eve. And his suggestion was tempting. She’d sleep so much better with him out of the cabin. Or would she? Once he had his weapons, there was nothing to stop him from using them against her again. “I’ll return them when you ride away.”

  For a moment there was no sound but the hiss of milk against tin.

  “Some would say that to deprive a man of his firearms is a grave and dangerous offense.” This time his voice carried an edge of warning.

  A shiver of fear raced along her spine. She knew she was playing with fire. Her fingers grew awkward, earned an angry swish of Dorcas’s tail. “And some would say a woman who doesna protect herself against strange men on the frontier is daft and deservin’ of whatever befalls her.”

  He chuckled, a warm sound so contrary to his rough and callous character that it surprised her. “Let no man daresay you’re daft, Mistress Stewart.”

  Bethie stood, untied Dorcas so the cow could wander back to her new calf, which lay nearby curled up in the straw, watching its mother with soft, brown eyes. Then she lifted the pail of fresh milk by its handle and let herself out of the stall.

  He was still brushing his stallion’s chestnut coat, his back to her.

  “If you’ve the strength to feed and water the horses and l
oose them in the paddock, you can give your stallion a portion of my oats and hay. I’ll have porridge ready by the time you’re done.”

  * * *

  She had his weapons, and she wasn’t going to give them back.

  If she’d been a man, Nicholas would have settled the issue with his fists. On the frontier, the only law all men acknowledged was the right of each man to arm himself. Any man stupid enough to trifle with another man’s firearms could expect to wind up as fodder for wolves and ravens.

  But she wasn’t a man. She was a young woman heavy with child—alone and desperately vulnerable. And she was doing her best to stay alive.

  She should not be here. What a fool her husband had been to drag her out here, to put her in harm’s way and then leave her defenseless! She should be in the care of her family in some safe little town back east with older women to fuss over her, not left to fend for herself in a land without pity.

  He released the second of her two gray mares into the paddock with a slap on the rump, turned back for Zeus, fighting dizziness.

  It would not be hard to take the pistol from her by force. He could easily overpower her without hurting her, take it back, end this whole damned game. Once he had it, she would almost certainly tell him where she’d hidden the rest of his belongings.

  But she would probably view any such action as a breach of his vow. And that bothered him. He had not yet slipped so far as to break his word to anyone.

  Damn it to hell!

  Did she not realize that he would be better able to defend both of them if he were armed? Did she truly believe she could keep him at bay with one stupid pistol? If he were the kind of man she feared he was, she would have already suffered whatever fate he had chosen for her.

  Zeus was restless, no doubt attracted to the mares, though neither appeared to be in season. The stallion stamped, snorted, dropped his phallus, his sleek body rippling with tension. He was unfamiliar with confined spaces, unused to the company of mares, though clearly eager for it.

  Nicholas led the stallion from its stall, knew it would not be long before Zeus covered both mares and mingled his more noble Arabian bloodlines with theirs. “Behave yourself, boy. Mistress Stewart probably wouldn’t approve of what you’ve got in mind.”

  By the time he had fed and watered the three horses, what little strength he’d had was gone. He walked slowly back to the cabin, cursing his weakness with each painful step. Only once in his life had he been so weak.

  No, then it had been far worse.

  As soon as he opened the cabin door, the rich smell of fried pork made his mouth water and his stomach growl. How long had it been since he’d had a meal?

  She placed a wooden bowl on the table beside a spoon and a wooden tray of fried pork. “It’s no’ much, but I thought it might help to build up your blood.”

  Revived by a sudden onslaught of appetite, he sat, dug into the porridge, which was in truth but ordinary cornmeal mush. It was hot, almost too hot, but he was ravenous. Never had such simple fare seemed so delicious.

  He was aware of her gaze upon him as he ate. She watched him guardedly, stood well beyond his reach, as if she expected him to lunge for her at any moment. After what he’d done earlier today, he could not blame her. What had he been thinking? What had induced him to touch her?

  He emptied his bowl and ate several slices of pork before fatigue again began to overwhelm him. He swallowed his last gulp of tea, fought to stand. Then some part of him remembered his long-forsaken table manners. “Thank you for breakfast, Mistress Stewart.”

  He had just enough strength to spread his bedroll on the floor in the far corner before exhaustion claimed him.

  * * *

  Bethie stopped to catch her breath, rubbed the ache in her back. The sky was clear blue, and the air held the first whispered promise of spring. In the forest, the beeches and maples had begun to bud. Soon cardinals, bluebirds, and mockingbirds would return to nest in their branches and the forest floor would burst into flower. The long, cold winter was almost past.

  She looked down at the small pile of chopped firewood. She would need much more than this to see her through the night. She lifted another piece of wood onto the tree stump and swung the ax, let her mind wander.

  A stew of rabbit and winter vegetables cooked over the fire, the work of preparing dinner largely behind her. Master Kenleigh had caught the rabbit in one of his snares this morning, had dressed it, and surprised her with it, handing it to her without a word.

  Almost two weeks had passed since he’d arrived near death on her doorstep. He was getting stronger each day and would soon leave—and the sooner the better. Though he had not touched her again, his gaze followed her everywhere. She could feel his eyes upon her when she drew water from the well, cooked dinner, sat at her spinning wheel.

  Bethie did not like to be noticed by men. Nothing good ever came of it.

  And although the two of them had reached a truce, it was an uneasy truce. They barely spoke a word to each other, yet she knew he wanted his weapons back, and he knew she was not going to return them until he departed. To his credit, he had not tried to take them from her, though she suspected he wanted very much to do just that. She had not really expected him to keep his promise.

  He ought to be grateful. She had tended him, fed him, shared her medicines with him. What’s more, she continued to allow him to shelter under her roof. She might just as easily have forced him to sleep with his horse or demanded that he pack up his goods and gear and depart. Though he was still weak and sitting on horseback was painful for him, he’d not die from it.

  Why hadn’t she forced him to ride on? Had the sight of him dismounting tight-lipped and in obvious pain after his short ride yesterday aroused sympathy in her heart? Or could it be that, although she did not entirely trust him, she felt a wee bit safer with him beneath her roof? Because he had kept his word thus far, did some part of her hope that he’d keep the second half of his promise—to protect her—as well?

  Perhaps. But she didn’t want to think about that.

  He was getting stronger, but it was clear his health was not yet fully restored. His face was still pale, and his strength seemed to fade much faster than she would have expected for a man of his size and apparent vigor. He slept a lengthy portion of each afternoon, taking to his bedroll when it seemed he could no longer stay on his feet.

  And so their days had taken on a rhythm. Each day, he greased and repaired his traps, tended the horses, worked on a new pair of leather leggings, and slept, while she saw to the other animals, prepared meals, spun wool, chopped wood. And each night, he slept in the far corner on the floor, while she slept in her clothes, his pistol in her hand.

  Bethie lifted the ax, was about to swing again, when a sharp pain spread across her lower belly. She gasped, lowered the ax, pressed her free hand against the pain. Quickly, the twinge lessened, began to pass.

  ’Twas not yet her labor, at least she didn’t think so. She’d had pains like these before, though they were becoming more frequent now. Her mother, who had borne nine children of which only Bethie had survived, had never shared with her the mysteries of birth, except to say it was a woman’s duty and God’s curse upon all women for the sins of Eve. And so Bethie did not know what to expect beyond great pain.

  “You shouldn’t be doing that.” His deep voice startled her.

  Without bothering to glance his way, she snapped at him. “I dinnae fear hard work, Master Kenleigh.”

  She’d started to lift the ax again, when his large hand closed over hers on the wooden handle.

  “Let me.”

  The heat of his touch scorched her. She let go, stepped back, overwhelmed to be so near him. But when she looked up at his face, her breath left her.

  He had shaved away his thick beard to reveal a face that was far bonnier than she could have imagined, with a strong chin, full lips, and cheekbones that now seemed sculpted and high. His scar looked more prominent, a thin line of white tha
t ran the length of his left temple and cheekbone. His blue eyes seemed larger, more penetrating.

  His hair hung damp and unbound to his waist, dark as a raven’s wing. He wore his new leggings and a fresh shirt of linsey-woolsey dyed a deep indigo blue. The ties at his throat were undone, exposing a sliver of tanned flesh and a scattering of soft, dark hair. At his side in its sheath hung a knife—one she had not discovered among his possessions.

  She’d been afraid of him before, but now she was positively terrified. That was the only way to explain this strange and rapid beating of her heart.

  Then it dawned on her. She felt her apron pocket. The pistol was still there.

  “Aye, I could have taken it from you, but I did not.” He lifted a large piece of wood to the stump, lifted the ax, swung. The force of his blow split the wood cleanly in half, sent the pieces flying. “But an ax makes a deadly weapon, as well.”

  He lifted another piece of wood onto the stump, raised the ax. Then, in a blink, he turned toward her, hurled the ax end over end like a tomahawk.

  Bethie gasped, heard it whistle past her, missing her by inches.

  Nicholas saw the blood leave her face, saw her sway on her feet. Cursing under his breath, he crossed the distance between them, slipped an arm around her waist, pulled her against him to steady her. “I did not do this to frighten you, Mistress Stewart, but to make a point. If I had wanted to kill you, I could easily have done so at any time—with the ax, the hayfork, the poker in your fireplace, this knife, or my bare hands. It’s time you trusted me and gave up this foolishness.”

  She looked up at him through terrified violet eyes, her breast rising with each rapid breath. Then color flooded her cheeks, and she seemed to find her tongue. “L-let go of me!”

  He released her, stepped toward the cabin, jerked the ax free from the log in which it was embedded. He had not intended to deal so forcefully with her, but the moccasin prints he’d discovered at the river, where he’d gone to bathe, had changed his mind. He needed his weapons back—for both their sakes. “You’re lucky it was I who came upon you and not one of the Delaware warriors who just passed by a mile north of here. They had arrows, spears, and rifles—more than a match for a woman with one pistol.”