Forever Mine

by Charlene Raddon

  Until Ariah entered his life and made him feel again.

  Now, staring into her sweet, delicate face, he didn't try to fool himself into thinking that she loved him. It wasn't that simple. Ariah Scott cared about people. Hell, she had more concern for animals than some people did for humans. But that didn't lessen the gratitude he felt for the caring he saw in her eyes at that moment. Instead, he drank it into his soul, like a dry sea sponge in water, and felt a tiny part of himself come back to life, the part all the years of nursing sick parents had drained, the part Hester had nearly killed.

  The urge to take Ariah into his arms, to try to absorb her into his starving body, to lay his claim on her and make her his, was so strong he shook with the effort to hold himself still. He couldn't speak. Didn't dare speak. Didn't dare move. Except to give the reins a flick and shout, "Gee-up."

  The wagon eased into motion and the world took on a semblance of normalcy until a rear wheel skidded in the slime and began to slip toward the embankment on the riverside. Ariah clasped her hands once more over her mouth and buried her face against his shoulder.

  "Steady, steady," Bartholomew crooned to the horses.

  The wheel wobbled, and then sank back down into an old rut carved by frequent use. Ariah let out her breath, straightened and dropped her hands to her lap. Gazing down at her, his control once more in place, Bartholomew flashed an encouraging smile.

  "We're all right." He laid his big gloved hand over her smaller one and gave it a squeeze. "I've driven this stretch a dozen times in weather like this, and as you can see, I'm still here to tell about it."

  She peeked up at him from under the hood of her slicker and bravely returned his smile. He debated whether or not to explain their options and let her choose. The ideal, as far as he was concerned, would be their own camp on the river. Alone. Foul weather precluded that; they had no tent, nothing to give them shelter except the wagon and a gutta percha tarp, which wasn't nearly good enough. The only other option, besides John Upham's place, was Trask House, five miles beyond. The Crenshaws would undoubtedly be curious about his traveling with a young woman, but they'd be too busy taking care of customers to do much prying, so Bartholomew would have Ariah mostly to himself until bedtime anyway. It was more than he'd have at John Upham's.

  The question was, how bad was the road ahead? Darkness impeded his view. He couldn't allow his need to be alone with Ariah to place her in danger. Bartholomew glanced at her out the side of his eye, his mouth a hard straight line as he struggled with his conscience. The right thing would be to stop at John's like he'd said he would. The right thing would be to stop thinking of Ariah Scott as his.

  Good hell, was that what he was doing?

  There was no denying it; his need for her was becoming as great as that for food or breath. He had tried to fight it, but from the moment he first laid eyes on her, his soul had been soaking up her sweetness until he could think of nothing else. She was like an addiction now, worse than morphine to a wounded soldier.

  His indecision carried them past Upham's. The road grew steadily worse. The instinct to survive took over his thinking processes, though he spared a moment now and then to curse himself for not getting Ariah to safety when he had the chance.

  Two miles past Upham's the wagon rounded another bend and rolled toward an inward curve where memory told him a bridge crossed a rocky ravine. Full dark was upon them and Bartholomew's vision in the driving rain was poor.

  Suddenly the lead horses pulled up short. Whinnying in panic, they tried to back into the horses behind them. Cursing under his breath, Bartholomew took firm hold of the reins and strained to see what was frightening them while he brought them under control. He saw nothing of the bridge or the road ahead. The flooding river was roaring so loudly he had to shout into Ariah's ear to be heard.

  "Can't see what the problem is. Have to get down and take a look."

  Ariah held tightly onto her terror as she watched him set the brake, secure the reins and climb down. He soothed each horse with a pat on the rump as he made his way past. Watching, Ariah prayed that should he slip, he would be able to grab hold of the traces and keep from plummeting into the swirling, raging waters below.

  Mud sucked tenaciously at Bartholomew's boots as he worked his way to the lead horses. The wind lifted the hood of his slicker from his head and whistled shrilly in his ears. He swiped rain from his eyes and squinted into the murky darkness, seeing nothing. He dug a match out of his pocket and struck it on a bit of metal on the undercarriage that he hoped was dry. The match flared to life, creating a dim circle of light.

  He peered into the rain and swore.

  Where the old wooden trestle should have been—mere inches from where he stood—the road ended in a torrent of water and debris that plummeted wildly down a rocky gorge into the river below.

  The bridge was gone.

  Chapter Six

  Bartholomew blinked against the onslaught of rain, and shouted, "Bridge is washed out. I'm going to back the wagon up, in case part of the road goes too. Keep a firm grip on the reins while I direct the horses from down here."

  Ariah retrieved the reins from the brake handle with trembling fingers and nodded to let him know she understood. Rain poured down his face, slowing when it reached his jaw where his beard was coming in thick and dark, even though he'd shaved that morning. The moisture pooled at the tip of his strong chin and dropped onto his yellow slicker to merge with the water already beaded on the sleek surface. Beneath her own slicker her heart pounded with fear. Adrenaline hummed in her veins, demanding action. Somehow she had to hide her panic and help Bartholomew. Later there would be time to think about how close they had come to falling into that chasm and the raging water below. How easily they still could.

  Time and terror sat on her shoulders like twin gargoyles of doom, weighing her down as she struggled to catch the orders Bartholomew bellowed and the wind tried to snatch away. The thought of backing the wagon around the curve on this slippery road was even more horrifying than trying to turn it completely around. On one side was the sheer rise of the mountain, on the other, the drop-off to the river, with barely enough room for a rider to get by. She tried to remember if they had passed any spots along the dugway wide enough to turn around in and found her mind a blank.

  The horses continued to whinny their own fright, but Bartholomew's calm voice and sure hands kept them under control. The wagon jarred as the wheels fought to break out of the old ruts and go straight instead of following the curve of the road.

  Ariah's breath caught. She craned to see how close they were getting to the edge. Wind whipped rain into her face. She blinked to clear her eyes. Beyond the end of the wagon everything was black. Any moment she expected to feel a wheel drop over. If that happened, she must contain her terror and jump off the far side. But hysteria was already riding the surface of her flesh, like spiders, making her skin prickle.

  The wagon jolted again, nearly throwing her off the seat. The rear wheel lifted. When it dropped back down she felt it slide, jerking the wagon closer to the ravine. Her stomach hung mid-air and for a moment she felt sickeningly as though she were already falling.

  "Bartholomew!"

  Moisture filled her mouth as she screamed. His slicker was a pale yellow blur in the distance. Still clinging to the reins, she scooted along the wagon seat to the far side, preparing to jump. Above the sound of the rain she heard a faint rumble. The rear of the wagon on the river side dipped suddenly.

  "It's going!" she screamed. "Bartholomew!"

  The wagon jerked to a sudden halt, tumbling her backwards. She scrabbled frantically to grab onto something and screamed again and again.

  "I've got you, I've got you."

  A thick arm came around her waist. She found herself lifted out and crushed against Bartholomew's broad chest, and murmured a silent prayer of thanks.

  "I'm sorry." Frantically, he pressed his lips to her cool, wet skin, covering her with desperate kisses. "Oh God, I nea
rly lost you. The edge crumbled and the wagon almost went over. God help me, if I'd lost you I don’t know what I wouldn’t done."

  His lips felt amazingly warm on her cheek. Warm and alive. She wrapped her arms around him, ignoring the stiff slickers bunched up between them. The roar of the water faded. Fear receded. Time hung suspended. They were safe, and together.

  "You're shaking." Bartholomew couldn't tell if she was crying or if it was only rain pouring down her cheeks. He pulled the yellow oilcloth back onto her head and tucked her hair inside. His throat felt tight. The thought of her plunging into the river made his knees weak, his stomach queasy. All he could think was thank God, thank God.

  Too soon Ariah felt herself lifted back into the wagon. Cold and desolation set in the moment he let go of her. Her eyes clung to his dark face. If he stepped out of sight, she would die.

  He had to shout to make her hear him. The world and the storm had returned. "Put whatever you'll need for the next few days into your valise. We'll have to leave the wagon here."

  "Where will we go?"

  "I have friends two miles back. We'll ride the horses, it won't take long."

  As she gathered together what they would need, her ears searched out the faint clink of metal and the nervous snorts of the horses as Bartholomew unhitched the team, needing the confirmation of his presence. He had kissed her. Again and again. Not on her lips but all over her face. She didn’t know what it meant, but those little kisses filled her with happiness. He belonged to another woman, she to another man. Yet she could not stop her heart for yearning for Bartholomew.

  She stuffed the oilcloth-wrapped leftovers from their noon meal into her valise along with a change of clothing. On impulse, she fished among her dresses until she found a framed photograph of her parents and a beaded bag that contained her old baby brush and spoon, swaddled in her mother's hand crocheted dresser scarf. To lose those, should the wagon end up in the river, would be more than she could bear. Bad enough to leave behind her books and the gaily colored plates her mother had brought from Greece. But the bag would only hold so much. For a moment she stroked the satiny glazed surface of a plate and gnawed her lip as she eyed Bartholomew's battered leather satchel.

  By craning her neck, she could see that he was still busy with the horses. Knowing her mother would scold her for her impulsiveness she tucked first one plate, then another among his garments. By the time she'd fit in all four, protected by Bartholomew's shirts and—she blushed to think of it—his underwear, the bag was so full it nearly refused to fasten shut.

  "Are you ready?"

  Ariah whirled guiltily at the sound of his voice beside the wagon. "Yes."

  "Good, can you ride bareback?"

  "I-I've never ridden a horse before."

  "In that case, you'll have to ride with me. Hand me the bags."

  With a rope he had scrounged from the wagon he tied the two bags together, frowning in puzzlement as he hefted his own. He slung them across one of the horses’ broad rumps like saddlebags. After fetching his rifle from beneath the wagon seat, he mounted the mare. He laid a folded blanket over the harness gear in front of him to make a more comfortable seat and helped Ariah on. While she arranged her skirts to cover her legs, Bartholomew slid his arms around her waist and took up the reins.

  Ariah could have sworn it took them a week to travel those two miles to the Upham place. The dampness and cold had seeped into her bones, chilling her thoroughly inside and out. Her bottom and inner thighs ached. And her mind insisted on dwelling on what had happened between her and Bartholomew. What did it mean? What could or should they do about it? She comforted herself with thoughts of hot coffee and a warm bath when they reached Bartholomew's friends.

  While they rode, Bartholomew told her how he and John Upham had grown up together in Tillamook, not only to keep her distracted, but to distract himself as well. No matter how wrong he knew it was, he couldn’t regret having kissed Ariah. But he dared not let it happen again. His self-control was weak and she was an innocent. It was up to him to do the right thing and put what happened behind them. Forget it happened.

  "Heaven only knows why we became friends,” he told Ariah. “John used to complain of what a bore I was, because I always had my nose in a book." Bartholomew chuckled. "All he cared about was having his own farm someday. The only true common ground we shared was animals; him to raise and profit by them, me to doctor and shelter them."

  "Doctor them?"

  "Yes. I wanted to go to veterinarian school. After my mother died, I went to Corvallis University to complete my schooling, but a few months later my father was gored in the spine by a bull. It left him paralyzed and I had to return home to take care of the farm."

  "Didn't you have brothers or sisters to help?"

  "Two brothers, one sister, but they were all married and gone. Hester was there to see to the house and most of the nursing, though. She came shortly before my mother passed away and stayed on as housekeeper for my father."

  "I see."

  Bartholomew glanced down and saw the question in her unforgettable blue eyes. He smiled ruefully. "I was young and full of resentment. Hester had had a rough life. It seemed to create a bond between us." He shrugged. "Anyway, after my father died, I married her."

  A mile or so down a track that veered off from the road, they came to a log house. No light shone from the windows. Ariah moaned in dismay. "No one's home."

  "It's all right, the door won't be locked."

  Ariah resisted the urge to kiss the puncheon floor on which she found herself standing when she stepped inside. Within a few moments, Bartholomew had a kerosene lamp lit. The light spilling across the floor gave a welcome sense of comfort and cheer.

  "You'd best get out of those wet clothes." He added a log to the small blaze he got started in the fireplace. "I have to get the horses in the barn. Maybe there'll be something there to tell me where John and the family are."

  Ariah was holding her hands out to the blaze and studying several framed photographs displayed on the mantel when she noticed a paper propped against a vase. "There's a note here addressed to you."

  Bartholomew carried the letter to the lamp and turned up the light.

  Bart,

  Sorree we could not be hear when you come back. Littil Johnny took a bad fall from the barn loft and brok his leg bad. We ar taking him to Doc Woolsey. Mak urself to hom if we do not get back in time. Mabe we will see you on the road.

  Yore friend

  John

  P.S. Shud be hom tomoro but we wood be gratful if you cud feed stock.

  Bartholomew chuckled and handed the note to Ariah. "Since spelling has nothing to do with the price of hay or the production of cheese, John pays little attention to it. The way he looks at it, it's pure foolishness to waste time worrying about silent e's when the only sensible way to do it in the first place is phonetically."

  With the Uphams in Tillamook—on the other side of the washed-out bridge—Bartholomew and Ariah would have the house entirely to themselves. Bartholomew felt as though he had been given a thousand silver dollars. And a temptation he could not give in to.

  Ariah handed back the note, and pulled the pins from her hair. She bent from the waist, letting the wet strands hang over her face to the hearth while she finger-combed them in the heat of the fire. Steam rose from the thick tresses and even from her skirt, filling the room with the smell of damp wool and lily of the valley.

  Bartholomew clenched the paper tightly to keep from plunging his own hands into the fire-tinted mass of her hair, so absorbed in the sight that he was barely aware she had spoken. "What?"

  "You usually stay with them, don't you?" she repeated.

  He walked closer, drawn to her like a bee to pollen. "Usually. I'd stopped on my way in to Portland so they knew I'd be passing by again on my way home."

  "Was it because of me you didn't stop this time?"

  She looked up and he saw the distress in her eyes. Cursing silently, he said, "The
inn was only a bit farther. I thought you'd prefer the comfort of a bed." He gestured to the single bed in the corner behind a bright calico curtain, and the ladder that led to the loft overhead. "Here we would have been sleeping on the floor."

  The lie was a small one. Olivia would never allow a lady to sleep on the floor. She'd have put John there instead and shared the bed with Ariah. With relief, Bartholomew watched to see the frown ease from Ariah's brow. But it was still there when she turned away.

  "I feel a tad guilty enjoying their home when they aren't even here," she said.

  "Don't. John would have skinned me alive if I hadn't felt at home enough to stay. Olivia will be sorry to have missed you, though. She loves getting to visit with another woman. It's a treat out here where they're so isolated. You'd best get into dry clothes now. I'll see to the horses."

  After he was gone, Ariah went into the bedroom. She placed her valise on top of the high bed and sat down to test the firmness of the mattress. What she wouldn't give to take a bath, climb beneath those lovely quilts and sleep for twelve hours straight. She didn't think she'd ever been so tired. But she needed to wipe up the mud they'd tracked in and fix them something to eat.

  She couldn’t say why she suspected Bartholomew had not been entirely honest about his reasons for not stopping here in the first place. Nor could she help wondering if he’d wanted the same thing she did—for them to be alone together.

  It was so wrong. Guilt filled her, making her chest feel thick and heavy and tight. She had promised herself to Pritchard Monteer. And Bartholomew was unobtainable. For the sake of both their souls, she must douse the flame that had been growing between them. To that end she busied herself with task that needed doing, and that kept her from thinking.