Wild Yearning

by Penelope Williamson

  “Damn ye, Tyler Savitch, how dare ye sneak up on me like that!”

  Ty draped the horse’s reins over his shoulder and hooked a thumb into the waistband of his breeches, thrusting his hip out. “I didn’t sneak up on you. I walked up quite brazenly. And don’t believe a word she says, Meg honey.” He smiled down at Meg, tugging on one of her pigtails, but a second later his eyes, glinting with mischievous lights, were fastened back onto Delia’s face. “We’re not all cocky, arrogant fellows. Take me, for instance—”

  “Ha!” Delia exclaimed, her face turning berry-red. “Why, even Anne Bishop thinks you’re worse’n a turkey cock with all your strutting ways.”

  Dr. Ty looked hurt, but Meg could tell he was only pretending because of the way the corners of his mouth twitched. From Delia’s flushed face and angry eyes, Meg got a distinct impression that the woman didn’t much like the doctor. But before she could ponder the reason for this she noticed her father, with Tildy by the hand, standing alongside the trestle tables and waving her over. People were crowding around the tables, sitting down on benches, stools, and chests. Already the plates of food were being passed around, along with jugs of spruce beer and apple cider.

  “Hey, we’re eating dinner now!” she announced. The two grown-ups seemed too busy glowering at each other to notice, so after a moment she shrugged, picked up her top, and ran off.

  Delia took a step after the girl, but Ty stopped her by placing a hand on her arm. As usual his touch brought the blood rushing hot to her face and shortened her breath. What had ever made her think that becoming another man’s wife would change how she felt about this one? She would always love him, but from now on she would have to take care not to let it show, not even to him. Oh, especially not to him.

  Averting her head, she pulled away from him. “Ty, don’t … Nat’s probably waiting …” she faltered, unable to look at him.

  “In a minute,” he said. “I’d like to give you your wedding gift first.”

  That brought her head around and her chin up. Her eyes went from his mocking smile to the bay mare he had by the lead. The mare tossed her head and blew air out her nose, and Delia recognized her as the horse he had given her once before —that morning in Portsmouth when he had first said the words: Let me make love to you…

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “I gave that horse back to ye once already an’ ye can bloody well have it back again—”

  Delia’s chin had started to come up even higher and he gripped it between his thumb and finger. “The horse is for both you and Nat. And don’t keep throwing my gifts back in my face, brat. It isn’t polite.”

  Delia jerked free of his grasp. The skin burned where he had touched her and she had to quell an impulse to rub it. “You won’t mind, though, if I’m not overcome with gratitude. I’ve learned, you see, not to put a whole lot of value into the meaning of your gifts.”

  Ty’s face tightened, his nostrils flaring, and Delia instantly regretted her hurtful, nasty words. She felt small because of her churlish behavior. Before long he wouldn’t even want her for a friend.

  She swallowed hard and summoned her courage to meet his eyes directly. “I’m sorry, Ty. I was being rude. She’s a beautiful horse and a valuable gift and I thank you for it.”

  For a moment longer his mouth stayed pressed into a tight line, his eyes boring mercilessly into hers. Then his fury left him along with his pent-up breath. “Aw, Delia, I didn’t mean to anger you by giving you the horse. You seemed so excited the first time you saw her. I thought she would please you.”

  “She does please me, Ty, truly. And Nat’ll be pleased, too. She’ll be useful to us on the farm, because Nat’s only got the one horse now and she’s a mite old.”

  A delighted, boyish smile lit up Ty’s face, bringing happiness surging within her. “Actually, the truth is Nat’s already seen her. He’s planning on riding her this afternoon in the race.”

  Ty stepped over to the Bishops’ hitching post, looping the mare’s reins around the rail. He leaned back with his arms straight, his palms braced against the rough wood. He had discarded his coat somewhere, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Sunlight glinted off the golden brown hair on his tanned forearms. Yet even in this relaxed and masculine pose he seemed tense. Delia was drawn to come stand beside him. She wrapped her hands around the rail and leaned backward, locking her knees and swinging back and forth on her heels. They could be friends now, she was sure of it. Lord above us, but it felt so fine just to look at him.

  “What is this horse race you mentioned?” she asked when the silence between them began to feel too intimate. “Seems I’ve heard nothing but talk of it all afternoon.”

  The breeze snatched a lock of his hair, blowing it across his forehead, and he tossed his head back, just as the mare had done a moment ago. “It’s a tradition at all Merrymeeting frolics.”

  “I suppose it’s you who always wins.”

  “You suppose wrong. But then I don’t compete.”

  “Afraid of losing, are you?”

  His lips quivered with repressed amusement. “No, brat. I don’t compete in the race because I am the prize. Or rather the prize is a free baby.”

  “What?” Delia exclaimed, laughing. She let go of the hitching post, straightening to look at him.

  “Whoever wins the race, I help deliver his next kid free of charge. It’s a valuable prize because my services aren’t cheap. And what with the long, cold winters we have up here, folk in Merrymeeting are always having babies.”

  Unaware she was even doing it, Delia’s eyes roamed his face lovingly. “Oh, Ty,” she blurted out. “You are truly the most remarkable, wonderful man!”

  The laughter fled his face. He looked away from her, out at the thick wilderness forest that stretched into the hills. His eyes had darkened to the color of an autumn sky at dusk. “Not so wonderful … Delia, I’m sorry about those hurtful things I said to you earlier. I don’t know what—”

  “Don’t, Ty. Don’t let’s speak of it. It’s over and done with and I’m … I’m married now.” Delia’s heart felt as if it would crack in two.

  Their eyes met, then pulled apart. When he turned back he touched her again, this time squeezing her shoulder in a brief, almost impersonal caress, and yet it brought her heart thudding up into her throat. “I hope you’ll be happy, Delia,” he said, a roughness in his voice. “I wish you and Nat all the happiness in the world.”

  She nodded jerkily, unable to speak and hoping he couldn’t hear her heart thumping so heavily in her breast. Or see the tears pooling in her eyes.

  “Well …” His hand fell from her shoulder, brushing against her arm, and she had to set her jaw to keep from shivering. “We’d better get something to eat while there’s still some left.”

  He walked off, leaving her. She followed him with her eyes, aching for him, aching for herself. And still wanting what she would never have.

  Delia bunched her skirts into a wad between her knees, revealing the shapliest ankles Ty had ever seen. Grinning, he watched as she hurled the ball at the wicket—in this case a three-legged stool. Daniel Randolf swung his stick bat through the air so hard his momentum curled him around on his toes. But the ball sailed past him untouched, bowling the stool over.

  “Ha-ha!” Meg Parkes bellowed, cupping her hands around her mouth. “You missed, Daniel!”

  Daniel whipped around to glare at her. “Ye just shut up, Meg Parkes!”

  Ty glanced down at the girl’s dark head. “I thought you and young Daniel were sweet on each other.”

  “Ugh!” Meg screwed her face up into such a grimace of disgust that Ty laughed. “I hate him! He’s mean as a rabid coon and he’s uglier than a stump fence to boot.”

  Ty glanced at the lad in question. In truth, Daniel Randolf was a fine-looking boy, with a lithe, athletic body and hair so golden it outshone the sun. Give them another couple of years, Ty thought, and they’d be trading kisses instead of insults.

  Tild
y Parkes sat cross-legged on the ground in front of Ty, leaning against his legs. She removed her thumb from her mouth long enough to pipe up, “Dr. Ty? Girls can play stool-ball just as good as boys. Delia says so!”

  “She appears to be right,” Ty said. He laughed again as another Randolf boy took a good cut at Delia’s bowled ball, only to miss.

  She was a delight to look at. The sun glinted off the ruby lights in her hair, and the wind caught it, fluttering wisps like feathers against her face. Her cheeks glowed as fresh as dew-wet peaches. But especially intriguing was what the motion of throwing the ball did to her full breasts. As she pulled her arm back, they rose, pointing skyward. Then, as she flung the hand with the ball forward, they dipped down, pressing together to form a deep crease of cleavage, only to come up again, bouncing provocatively on the followthrough—

  “Delia’s my new ma,” Tildy stated proudly.

  Ty’s head jerked up like a startled stag’s. His chest felt pinched and he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. Christ, what was he doing—lusting after the girl like this? Delia wasn’t his little tavern wench any longer. She was another man’s wife.

  “Delia!”

  Nathaniel Parkes crossed the green, walking so fast his wooden foot put a big hitch in his stride. At the sound of his voice, Delia tossed the ball to one of the boys and, letting her skirts fall, ran forward to meet him. She was slightly out of breath and her breasts rose and fell quickly within the tight confines of her bodice. Ty had to force himself to look away.

  Nat didn’t seem to have any trouble resisting his new wife’s charms. “What were you doing?” he demanded angrily.

  “I was just showing the girls how to bowl—”

  “I saw that. I meant why would you make such a spectacle of yourself?” He flung his arm out from his side. “For the love of heaven, everybody’s watching.”

  It was a slight exaggeration. Most of the women were still bustling around the trestle tables, clearing away the empty plates and platters, and the men had gathered at the end of the green, getting ready for the start of the horse race.

  Delia looked up at him, her forehead creased. “But what harm—”

  “Harm! Did you give no thought to what people will think? And furthermore, Delia, I will not have you encouraging my daughters in this sort of hoydenish behavior. My Mary would never have countenanced such actions, let alone engage in them herself.”

  Delia reacted as if he’d slapped her, hunching her shoulders and dipping her head down. “I’m sorry … I didn’t think.”

  Anger washed over Ty and he opened his mouth to come to Delia’s defense, then promptly shut it. If Nat Parkes didn’t want his wife playing stoolball, it was certainly his place to forbid it. Slowly, Ty let out his breath and relaxed his fists. But he was left surprised and shaken at the burst of protectiveness he had felt for Delia.

  Nat patted the top of Delia’s head as if she were a cowering dog he’d just whipped. “Never mind. I know your intention wasn’t to shame me.”

  Just then Colonel Bishop began whacking on a triangle, summoning everybody for the start of the race. Meg, who had been watching Delia’s humiliation with a triumphant smirk, slipped away from Ty’s side and trotted up to her father. “The race is about ready to start, Papa. You don’t want to miss it.”

  Ty helped Tildy lurch to her feet and she, too, ran up to her father. Nat swung her up in the air, settling her down on his shoulders. “Let’s go then, girls.” He smiled at Ty. “Thanks to the doc’s wedding gift, this is one race I think I’m going to win.”

  Delia watched her new husband walk off with his daughters, her face tight and drawn. She turned to look at him, and Ty saw her breasts heave once as she fought down tears.

  “Lord above us, I’m such a wooden-headed fool for even thinkin’—thinking,” she corrected herself through gritted teeth, “that I’m capable of acting like a proper lady.”

  “Aw, Delia-girl …”

  Ty’s heart ached for her, for he knew exactly how she must feel—shame and pride all tangled together until it became a knot in your gut that wouldn’t go away. There had been countless times in that first year after he’d been dragged back to the Yengi world when he’d slipped up and inadvertently done something that marked him as an “Abenaki savage.” He had felt a bitter, frustrated shame at the looks of horror and disgust on the faces of those around him. But he had felt a traitor as well. As if by turning his back on the Abenaki ways, he was denying the man who for ten years had raised and loved him as a son.

  Ty wanted to wrap his arm around Delia’s shoulders and pull her against him, to kiss the tears from her eyes. But of course he couldn’t. He started to take her hand before he realized he shouldn’t be doing even that anymore. His hand clenched into a fist. “Come on, brat. Let’s go watch the race.”

  She nodded, wiping at a stray tear that had escaped to meander down her cheek. “All right, Ty,” she said, giving him a brave smile that broke his heart.

  * * *

  Ty went back to the manor house to pick up the starting pistol and was crossing the green when the Reverend Caleb Hooker joined him.

  Caleb flashed his engaging smile. “I’ve been told the prize for this affair is a free baby.”

  Ty grinned. “That’s right, Reverend. Aren’t you going to compete? A prize like that—it should be coming in handy for you and Elizabeth before too long.”

  Caleb flushed. His eyes drifted over to Elizabeth, who still sat at one of the trestle tables, talking with Anne Bishop and Hannah Randolf, the blacksmith’s pregnant wife. For a moment, a moment so brief Ty wasn’t sure if he had imagined it, the young minister’s face darkened with anguish.

  But when he turned back to Ty the crooked-toothed smile was back in place. “It appears as if Mrs. Randolf’s the one in most imminent need of the prize.”

  “With Hannah Randolf such a need is always imminent. If you want to ride, I’ve got a horse I can loan you.”

  Caleb laughed, shaking his head. He glanced wistfully at the men who were doing some last minute adjusting to saddles and stirrups before mounting up. “Somehow I don’t think my superiors back in Boston would approve of one of their ministers riding hellbent for leather in a horse race.”

  Ty wondered if the young reverend knew that there was some heavy betting being done on the race’s outcome. He probably did, Ty thought, but judiciously chose to ignore it.

  Merrymeeting horse races traditionally covered five miles. They started at the weathervaned pine tree in the middle of the green, looped around the mast house and lumber works, dipped down to the new meetinghouse and parsonage, and then followed the cart track out to the farms. Here, out of sight of witnesses, the race always turned into a free-for-all, with each contestant using every dirty trick to jockey his horse into the lead. What man couldn’t unseat, the thick and savage wilderness could. Four miles later, the race wound up back at the settlement, circling the blockhouse and finishing up at the lone pine tree. The winner was usually the horse and rider who had simply hung on to survive it, and Dr. Savitch had treated many a broken bone and abrasion following a Merrymeeting horse race.

  It was also Ty’s task to signal the start. He took his place beneath the pine, the women and children in a semicircle around him, and raised Colonel Bishop’s old pistol above his head. Ty was acutely aware that Delia had drifted over to stand beside him. For some stupid reason his heart was knocking against his rib cage and he kept forgetting to breathe.

  His voice cracked as he called out, “Gentlemen, take your marks!”

  There wasn’t exactly a starting line, so the riders pushed and shoved against each other for the best vantage, growling and swearing good-naturedly.

  Ty cocked the pistol. “Get set.”

  “Hey, Doc!” somebody yelled. “Fer Chrissakes, git on with it!”

  Laughing, Ty pulled the trigger. The crack of the gunshot bounced across the water, its echo drowned out by yells and the thundering of hooves across the green.
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  Delia, her earlier humiliation forgotten, jumped up and down with excitement. As the horses and their riders rounded the meetinghouse, heading for open country, Nat was in the lead, and Delia clutched Ty’s arm, whooping in his ear.

  “Look, Ty, look! Nat’s ahead. Oh, I hope he wins!”

  Her fingers pressing into his arm sent a jolt through Ty, drawing his head around to look into her laughing face—and the ramifications of what she had just said finally struck home, as if an angry giant had balled up a fist and landed a blow smack in the middle of his gut. The prize was a free birthing of the winner’s next child…

  And Nat’s next child would be by Delia.

  Nat won the race.

  The bay mare burst out of the forest on the stockade side of Merrymeeting, with Nat clinging to her neck and one foot dangling from the stirrup. They still had to circle the palisades before galloping to the finish, but the mare was a good three lengths ahead of the closest rival and with plenty of wind left in her. The only question was whether Nat could manage to hang on until they reached the tree.

  At last Nat and the mare careened around the pine. He hauled desperately on the reins and the mare skidded to a stop, spraying up divots of marsh grass and dirt. He fell out of the saddle, wobbling a bit as his entire weight landed briefly on his wooden foot. There was a jagged rip in one sleeve of his Sabbath-day suit and a pair of gashes on his forehead trickled blood, but his face bore a triumphant grin.

  Delia scooped up Tildy and, with Meg at her heels, ran up to Nat. She was so excited she flung her free arm around his neck, kissing him on the mouth. “Oh, Nat, Nat. Ye’ve won!” Nat stiffened and set her away from him, but the action went unnoticed for Meg had thrown herself against her father, wrapping her arms around his waist, chattering excitedly and hopping up and down.