"You've no idea how I feel," I said coldly.
"Reckon I do, wench. I'm not the brightest chap on earth, but I know you fancied yourself in love with Hawke. A man like that—he ain't capable of appreciatin' you. Me now, I—"
"I don't care to discuss it, Mr. Rawlins."
"I've been pretty damned patient—I'm a patient chap, have the disposition of a saint—but it's been two weeks now. You're gonna have to get over it. You've been draggin' your tail like a dejected pup. Truth to tell, I'm gettin' pretty fed up."
"I'm sorry if you feel you wasted your money."
"Oh, I don't feel that. You were worth every penny. Once you get some of your spirit back, I reckon you're gonna be a handful. I'm lookin' forward to some rousin' fights."
"I don't care what happens to me."
"You say that now, but you'll feel different about it 'fore long. We get over things, you see. Takes a while, but we get over 'em every time. I reckon you'll feel better after we get to the inn and you have yourself a bath and a good meal."
When I did not reply, Rawlins merely shrugged, grinning that wide, boyish grin that was so disarming. I wished I could resent him, wished I could dislike him, even, but I felt nothing. He was simply someone who was there, a part of the dreamlike world that existed outside my numbness. The heat, the exhaustion, the discomfort of riding all day on a mule, the tough, too-tangy meat he cooked and ordered me to eat—none of it was quite real, none of it aroused any response.
"Well, I can see you're not a-mind to be friendly yet," he remarked. "I guess we'd better push on."
We rode again, the mules plodding along, occasionally balking, braying now and then. The road was rough, the hard-packed earth uneven, twisting through the forest persistently. The sun began to sink, splashing the sky with scarlet and gold, and the trees cast long shadows over the ground. There was a smoky haze in the air now, soft violet-gray, thickening as night drew closer. Rawlins was silent, riding a little ahead of me, the fringe on his jacket swaying, the fading rays of sunlight burnishing his sandy hair. I was miserably tired, yet I would have ridden all night long without protesting.
The last rays of sunlight vanished. The sky was purple-gray, not yet black, the haze thick now, like fog. The trees pressing so close were dark, tall black sentinels, and the forest noises seemed magnified. A wild creature called out hoarsely. The woods filled with rustling, crackling noises as the shadows multiplied, night almost upon us. Up ahead I saw a large clearing, and I could barely make out a stockade of sturdy logs with pointed tops. Threads of yellow light spilled out through the chinks.
"There she is!" Rawlins exclaimed. "I was beginnin' to fear we weren't gonna make it."
We rode up to the front of the stockade and dismounted. Rawlins called out and pounded on the huge solid oak door. After a moment there came a sound of footsteps, and then a tiny window set in the door flew back and a pair of eyes peered out at us.
"That you, Eb? It's me, Rawlins! Open up, fellow. Let us in. We're dead tired, and starvin' to boot, longin' for some o' Maria's cookin'. What you waitin' for?"
"Rawlins?" a husky voice growled.
"Course it's me! Can't you see? Goddammit, open up!"
There was the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back, and then the enormous door opened. Rawlins stepped inside, leading his two mules, and I followed, tugging at the reins of my own mule. As soon as we were inside, the man who had admitted us closed the great door and slid the bolt back in place. He was gigantic, dressed in buckskin trousers and a coarse white shirt, his face ruddy, his dark eyes grim, his thick red hair decidedly unruly.
"What's all this about?" Rawlins said irritably. "You think we was goin' to rob the place?"
"There's been talk of Indian trouble," the man retorted. "Me and Maria, we learned a long time ago not to take no chances."
"Hell, man, there's always talk o' Indian trouble. Never known you to act so scared, Eb."
"Get whatever things you want outta the packs, Rawlins, and I'll take the mules on into the stable. You plannin' on stayin' long?"
"We'll be leavin' in the mornin'," Rawlins replied, removing one of the packs from his mule. "You gotta room?"
"The best," Crawley replied. "You-all go on in, tell Maria I said you was to have the suite. I'll just see to these animals."
The red-haired giant led the mules away toward the stables to one side of the inn, and Rawlins shook his head. Evidently such security wasn't ordinarily taken. I glanced around at the tall log walls that completely surrounded inn and yard and stables. There was a walkway built along near the top, ladders leading up to it at intervals, and I saw long, narrow slits where a man could fire his rifle without being exposed to marauders. The stockade was built along the lines of the old fortified castles in England, rough logs taking the place of heavy stone. Warm yellow light spilled out of the windows of the inn, making soft pools on the ground, and chickens clucked and scratched about the yard, looking like tiny white ghosts in the semidarkness. Horses neighed in the stables.
"Right homey, ain't it?" Rawlins remarked. "Eb and Maria run the best inn on the whole Trace—best food, best beds, best everything. They're some of my favorite people."
"Jeffrey!"
It was more a bellow than a shout, and I was startled to see a woman in white blouse and vivid red skirt come tearing out of the inn, her heavy black braid flying behind her. Rawlins grinned and held his arms wide. The woman threw herself at him, and he gave her a bear hug that by rights should have cracked her ribs. Maria Crawley was almost as large as her husband, as tall as Rawlins and twice as stout. Her black eyes snapped and sparkled as she stepped back to look at him.
"You look just the same!" she exclaimed.
"Hell, Maria, it ain't been more'n a couple months since you saw me last."
"I miss you," she pouted. "Every day seems an eternity."
"You still got a yen for me? I swear, we're gonna have to do something 'bout that one of these days. If we could just get rid of Eb—"
"Honey, if I thought you was serious I'd poison him tomorrow. There ain't nothin' I wouldn't do to get a buck like you in my bed." The woman grinned, and Rawlins reached up to pinch her cheek. She slapped his hand, as playful as a girl.
"Stop your nonsense now," she scolded. "Hell, a rascal like you wouldn't know what to do with this much woman on your hands. Who's this you brung with you?"
"This is Marietta—Marietta Danver."
"I hate her," Maria said. "Any woman looks like that, I hate her on principle. Dress torn, face dirty, hair all tangled, and she still looks like a dream. Hi, honey. I'm Maria Crawley."
"How do you do?" I said stiffly.
Maria lifted her brows, startled by both words and accent. She gave Rawlins a questioning glance, and he merely grinned. The woman looked at me again, studying me closely, obviously mystified, and then her innate good manners took over. Smiling, she took my hand, leading me toward the porch.
"Come along, honey. You look all tuckered out. A good hot bath's what you need, that and a decent meal. I figure Jeffrey here's been feedin' you wild game and parched corn for days now."
"You got somethin' good on the stove?" Rawlins asked, following us inside.
"Honey, I always have something good on the stove. Would you believe I baked apple pies this afternoon? Just hopin' you'd drop in. We're almost full up tonight— a dozen people stayin' with us. The suite's still available, though."
"The suite's always available. Ain't no one but me fool enough to pay the price you're askin' for it. Bloody robbery, that's what it is."
"Lita!" Maria yelled. "Take a tub up to the suite and then fetch plenty of hot water. Mr. Rawlins is here! Christ, Jeff, it's good to see you. I reckon Eb told you about the Indian trouble?"
Rawlins nodded. "Place was locked up tighter'n a tick. He stared out at me for a good ten minutes 'fore he'd let us in."
"I hear it's serious this time, Jeff. A lot of the men stayin' here have decided not to go on. I understand a
party was massacred just two weeks ago. A family it was, travelin' in a covered wagon. Steve Benson found 'em. They was scalped, every last one of 'em, and the wagon was still smokin'."
"Aw, hell, Maria, I'm onto your tricks. You're just tryin' to scare us, hopin' I'll stick around a while 'cause you lust after my body. You don't fool me a minute. You take Marietta on up to the suite, why don't ya. I think I'll just pop into the taproom for a while, see if Eb's home brew is still as potent."
He sauntered on down the large foyer and pushed open a door. Maria shook her head and smiled, then motioned for me to follow her up the narrow, enclosed staircase. The inn was quite large, and it smelled of wax and polish and ale. As we moved down the upstairs hall I noticed how neat and clean everything was, perhaps to compensate for the general roughhewn appearance. Maria opened one of the doors and led me into a small sitting room with hardwood floor and whitewashed walls. An open door led into the bedroom adjoining.
"It ain't much," she said, "but it's the best we've got. Most of the rooms ain't nothin' but cubicles. Hope you'll be comfortable, honey."
"I'm sure I will be."
Maria lingered, clearly reluctant to leave. She was the largest woman I had ever seen, and although she had to be nearly fifty, I could see that she must once have been quite pretty. That plump, ravaged face still bore signs of youthful good looks—the mouth small and cherry red, the dark eyes full of warmth, reflecting her amiable nature.
"You ain't like the others," she said. "I spotted that immediately, even before you spoke. Them others he's brung through-—sometimes two or three at a time—they was tough-lookin', brassy. You're not like that at all."
"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."
"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.
Wilde, Jennifer Page 22
