Cherish looked at him dully.
“Snakes, Mademoiselle,” he explained. “Best to make sure, so close to the river.”
She shuddered, but her exhausted body refused to budge from where she stood. Sloan came out of the cave, his eyes searching her face. It was impossible to keep her lips from trembling and she looked away from him, not wanting him to see the tears in her eyes.
He swung her up in his arms. Too tired to protest, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut and rested her head against his shoulder. He carried her into the cave and laid her down upon a bed of soft leaves. Miraculously, a soft blanket was wrapped around her, and she was instantly asleep.
It was dark when Cherish woke, but the campfire at the opening of the cave cast a wavering light on the two men sitting beside it. She felt stiff and sore and her throat was parched. A chill rippled over her when she sat up and the blanket fell away. The air was cold even in the shelter.
Brown lay close to her. When Cherish reached out and stroked his rough head, he whined appreciatively. The sound brought Sloan from the campfire. He had to stoop to enter the cave.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Starved.” Cherish smiled up at him. “My stomach thinks I’ve deserted it.”
“Pierre has your meal ready, but first I want to tend to your feet.”
He left the cave and returned with a container of warm water. As on the first night he sat down and drew her legs across his lap. He took off her moccasins and carefully looked at her feet, then washed them and applied the soothing salve as before. He rewrapped them and put her moccasins back on.
When he handed her the soft damp cloth to wash her face and hands, amusement glittered in his eyes. The fabric was a piece from her chemise. She met his eyes with a twinkle in her own before he left her to return to the campfire.
A pack had been pulled up close to the fire for Cherish when she joined them after she and Brown had gone into the woods so she could empty her swollen bladder. Oh, what blessed comfort, she thought as she sat down and held her hands to the warmth of the flames, to be in the company of men who were so thoughtful.
At that moment she felt the unreality of her situation more keenly than at any time since she had made her escape from the Burgesses. These two men, these strangers, had shown more consideration for her than she had received in all her short life up to now.
Out of the coals of the campfire Pierre dug what appeared to be a hard-baked clump of earth. A quick blow from his knife popped open the clump of baked clay and the tantalizing aroma of river catfish reached Cherish. Proudly Pierre served her the fish and a lightly browned corn pone. He stood waiting while she tasted it.
“It’s delicious!” she exclaimed. “How did you catch it? I didn’t think they would bite at night.”
“Not catch, chérie.” He produced a long slim pointed stick, which he quickly stuck into the ground. “Spear. That is the way to get big fat lazy catfish.”
Watching Pierre, Sloan chuckled. “Pierre is a lover, Cherish, not a hunter.”
“Mon Dieu, Sloan,” Pierre responded, pleased at the gentle teasing. “Cannot a man be both?”
Watching the two men, Cherish realized how deep the friendship between them must be to allow them to talk this way to each other.
“Of course,” Sloan said, with a teasing look at Cherish. “When the time is right.”
She felt the color rise up and flood her face. It was Pierre’s turn to chuckle and he turned toward his pack singing softly, but distinctly:
And . . . so the brave hunter was caught, was caught.
And . . . so the brave hunter was caught, but not—
By the beast that he stalked, he stalked . . .
As the implication of the words dawned on Cherish, she felt a growing thrill of excitement that was quickly squelched when she glanced at Sloan. His expression was stern again, and not a trace of the teasing sparkle remained in his eyes.
He doesn’t want to be caught. He needs me and is willing to sacrifice his freedom for his child. The thought passed coldly through her mind. Suddenly she had a fierce need to know all about the child and the place Sloan was taking her. She wanted desperately to ask about the woman Pierre had mentioned. Ada couldn’t be the child’s mother. No one would speak ill of the dead no matter how bad a person she had been.
To still the urge to question she filled her mouth with the warm corn pone and drank thirstily of the hot sweet tea. She knew that regardless of what he might tell her about the child, the woman, or where they were going, she would go with him. That he would let her go with Pierre to the Ohio River and back to Virginia if she asked, she had no doubt. But the thought of leaving him dismayed her, and although she craved more than casual affection, she knew she would stay and be grateful for even that much from him.
Before morning, Cherish understood the reason for the long march to the cave. Sloan had sensed the approaching storm. She awoke to hear rain pelting down and wind shaking the trees. Branches broke and plummeted to the ground. A flash of lightning illuminated the cave. She could see the sleeping forms of Sloan and Pierre wrapped in their blankets, heads resting on their packs. Faithful Brown lay beside her. She snuggled her hand under the warm fur of his head. He acknowledged the touch with a wet lick of his tongue, then rested his head on her hand. Cherish closed her eyes again and, feeling as safe as if she were in the log cabin in Virginia, gave herself up to the security of her warm blanket.
She woke again just before daylight and lay listening to the heavy stillness of the rain-sodden forest. In the predawn, when the first faint light tinted the east, Sloan got up. He covered her with his own blanket and started a small fire with dry sticks he had placed in the cave the night before. Setting water to heat for tea, he took out the rabbit, then rerolled his pack.
Cherish sat near the campfire and unbraided her hair. In the light of the small fire it looked like molten red gold as it cascaded down her back. She could feel Pierre’s eyes on her and glanced at him with a quick smile. The look on his face made her blush.
She was running her fingers through her hair, trying to loosen the snarls, when Sloan produced her comb from the inside of his shirt and handed it to her. Both men now had stopped their activities to watch her. With fingers that were not quite steady, she deftly parted her hair in the back, made two braids and swung them forward over her breasts. She tied the ends with a bit of rawhide string Pierre cut from his vest. When she finished, Pierre heaved a huge sigh.
“Ah, chérie, never have I witnessed anything so beautiful. It warms my heart to see hair like the morning sun; so soft, so alive.”
Confused, not knowing what to say, she murmured, “Thank you.”
Not until they had shouldered their packs and were ready to leave the camp did Cherish realize that they were parting from Pierre that morning. Rather than follow the deep bow in the river, he would cut through the dense forest, meet the river again and follow it to the Ohio. Sloan and Cherish would walk the river bank until they found a place to cross and head west to where the Salt flowed into the great Ohio.
“Pierre, will we see you again?” she asked anxiously.
“Oui, chérie.” He winked at Sloan. “I will come to be sure this rogue be treating you as a beautiful woman should be treated.” He kissed his fingertips to her.
Cherish didn’t dare look at Sloan, but she heard his chuckle.
“You come to fill your belly with True’s stew, gamble with Juicy and bake your feet before my fire.”
Pierre’s laugh was boisterous. He rubbed his stomach and smacked his lips.
“That too, my friend. Say a word to those two mangy old wolves for Pierre. I will be in Carrolltown I think before the river freezes and bring Christmas gifts to the beautiful Mademoiselle and the enfant.”
Sloan held out his hand. “Come winter with us and we will run our trap lines together like old times. You’ve put on weight, my friend, and should be able to outwrestle John Spotted Elk.”
“Ho
! But I love my neck too much to wrestle that Indian again.”
The two shook hands warmly, then Pierre doffed his fur cap and bowed to Cherish.
“Such a beautiful bait he dangle before my eyes! It is an offer beyond my power to refuse.” His dark eyes danced as he looked at her.
Cherish’s cheeks were burning, but she managed a laugh and held out her hand.
“We’ll look for you before Christmas,” she said boldly.
“Before Christmas, Mademoiselle.” He bowed over her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it reverently. His mischievous eyes smiled into hers.
Smiling broadly, Cherish glanced at Sloan. His eyes had narrowed as he watched her and Pierre. Abruptly he signaled to Brown and, with a slight wave of his hand to his friend, started down the hill. Confused by his sudden departure, Cherish looked from Pierre to Sloan’s retreating figure and back again. The Frenchman winked and jerked his head toward Sloan and the dog. Cherish turned and hurried after them.
After a few paces she paused and looked back over her shoulder. Pierre threw her a kiss and raised his arm in farewell.
CHAPTER
* 7 *
It was a dull, gray morning. Along the riverbank the trail was narrow and steep. To Cherish’s embarrassment, Sloan had to stop several times and wait for her to catch up. The wet grass dragged at her skirt and at times the ground was slippery, making footing uncertain and causing her to slow down. About an hour after they had started, the sun shone palely through the cloudy sky. It gradually ate away the gloom and opened up the distances.
They came to a rocky beach. Sloan stopped and shucked his pack.
“We may be able to ford here,” he told her. “It’s low for this time of year.”
Dubious, Cherish looked at the river; it didn’t look very promising to her. She waited beside Sloan’s pack while he walked on along the bank, studying the river currents. Presently he came back.
“Well, Cherish?”
“Do we walk across?” she asked, trying not to sound worried.
“No way to cross but walk or raft. I think we can walk here.” He pulled the buckskin shirt over his head. “I’ll go first, but I’m going to strip. I don’t fancy wearing wet clothes the rest of the day.”
She stood in shocked silence and quickly averted her eyes as his big brown hands reached to unlace his britches. Unseen by her, he grinned at the straight back and the redness that covered her neck, but he understood that what he found natural, she did not.
He came to stand in front of her. Cherish forced herself to look at him and was relieved that he was wearing a leather breechcloth, Indian fashion. He was like some pagan god, she thought, sun-coppered, lean and powerful. His hairless skin was firm over the strong bones of his chest and shoulders. Nothing in Cherish’s experience had prepared her for the strange excitement and pleasure she felt looking at his near-naked, perfect male body. His confident, unashamed masculinity left her breathless.
If Sloan was aware of her reaction, he didn’t show it.
“Brown will stay with you,” he said. “If I can walk across, it will save the time of building a raft.”
She nodded wordlessly, taking the rifle he handed to her.
“Sloan!” she called as he moved out into the river. “Be careful.”
He waded steadily on, not acknowledging her hesitant warning. Soon he was submerged up to his chest. He kept on, moving slowly, steadily. Suddenly he was struggling for balance and Cherish’s heart leaped into her throat as he disappeared from sight only to surface several yards downriver, swimming strongly.
Sloan made several trips into the river before he found a route that allowed him to walk across, although at one point he was submerged up to his neck. He came at last, dripping wet, out of the river. Drops of water slid from his hair to his forehead and down his cheeks and into his dimples, for he was smiling. He had enjoyed the challenge.
“We can do it.” His eyes sparkled and she knew he was reading her thoughts again.
Surely he didn’t expect her to take off her clothes in front of him.
He placed a cold wet finger on her hot cheek and laughed.
“I’ll carry our things across and come back for you. You can ride across on my shoulders.”
“Oh,” was all she could manage, and he chuckled.
No longer embarrassed by his nakedness, Cherish watched him balance his pack on his head and, choosing each step carefully, start out across the river. He swam back, using powerful strokes, and made the distance in half the time.
“One more trip and I’ll come back for you,” he said. “Now, give me your pack and your moccasins. On the last trip I’ll carry you and you can carry the rifle.”
Brown watched his master intently as Sloan went—more confidently now—into the water.
He was in the middle of the river when Brown raised his ears, cocked his head in the familiar listening position and turned to face the woods. The dog growled deep in his throat, and Cherish’s heart missed a beat as she realized Brown was alert to what he considered danger. She looked over at Sloan. He was neck-deep in the river, and although she wanted to cry out to him, she knew she must keep still.
Brown was tense. The hair stood stiff and straight on his back. Cherish clutched the rifle, her eyes trying to penetrate the darkness of the woods. Every few seconds she glanced anxiously toward Sloan’s dark head bobbing in the water. She strained her ears, but could hear no sound. Brown was plainly agitated now. He turned his big head once in the direction of his master but stood his ground, legs stiffened for action.
Cherish’s heart pounded so rapidly she was afraid she would be sick. She looked to where Sloan’s broad shoulders and muscled arms were emerging slowly out of the water on the other side of the river. Faintly now she could hear voices. She waited for Sloan to turn and look in her direction, but he leisurely picked his way to where he had left his own pack on his first trip across. Cherish moved to the very edge of the water, waiting. Finally he turned and looked over at her.
She motioned frantically with her arms and the rifle. Sloan ran to the water and plunged in. Cherish turned then and gave all her attention to Brown and the woods, from which the voices now sounded quite clearly.
Above the soft sounds of the river rippling over the rocks and the swish of dry leaves, she heard a man’s voice, loud and off-key, singing:
Come now, oh mighty King. Let me your praises sing.
Come now, oh mighty King. Come now, oh mighty King.
Come now, oh mighty King—
These seemed to be all the words the singer knew of the song, or cared to sing. With every repeated “Oh mighty King” the voice was louder.
Sloan was slicing through the water with powerful strokes. He came out of the river at the same time the singer and his party came out of the woods. Cherish went to him. He took the rifle and moved slightly in front of her. He spoke a word in French to Brown and the dog stayed in an alert position.
Sloan and Cherish must have been a startling sight to the newcomers. They stopped still and gaped at the wet young giant who could be either white or Indian and the beautiful red-haired girl who was definitely white but looked more like a porcelain doll than a flesh-and-blood girl.
There were four men, three women and two children—whose ages might have been eight and ten—in the party. Two of the men each led an ox, pulling a two-wheeled cart. That they were new to the country was obvious even to Cherish’s inexperienced eyes.
The women wore black sunbonnets tied firmly under their chins, heavy woolen black skirts and fitted black jackets. The men were dressed to match in black wool pants, coats, and straight-brimmed hats that sat squarely on their heads. Not one touch of color showed on the group.
Cherish noticed that the women kept their eyes averted from Sloan, and she had to suppress a giggle at their embarrassment, forgetting her own of only a short time before.
A tall portly man with a remarkable flowing white beard stepped forward from the group a
nd extended his hand.
“Brother, we—come—in—peace.” He paused after each word as if he clearly believed that they didn’t understand English.
Sloan gave another command to Brown in French. The dog relaxed and came to stand beside them. Then Sloan took the hand offered him and spoke in his soft, educated voice.
“It is obvious, sir, that you are in no position to do anything else.”
The other man raised bushy white brows and looked at him sharply.
“Ah, yes . . . er,” he stammered. “Aninus Mackanib, minister. My flock and I are carrying the Presbyterian gospel into the wilderness.”
“Sloan Benedict Carroll,” Sloan said politely, “and Mistress Cherish Riley.”
The minister glanced at Cherish fleetingly, then back to Sloan, as if she were of no importance.
“We are going to Harrodsburg, at the invitation of Mister John Harrod, himself. Ah, it is indeed gratifying to be allowed to bring the message to the poor lost heathens in this godforsaken place.”
Cherish was fascinated by the man’s booming voice. That he loved to talk was certain, for he didn’t introduce the members of his “flock,” and none of them uttered a word.
“I would suggest, sir, that if you and your people wish to reach Harrodsburg with your hair in place you go about it quietly. In another week these woods will be alive with Cherokee going south.”
“We are wrapped in the cloak of God, my friend. We have no fear for he is with us.”
“Are you a marrying preacher?” Sloan asked.
The minister’s big head came up. The white whiskers cleared his chest as he boomed his reply:
“I have joined more maids and men together than any preacher west of the Saint Lawrence River. I have sent hundreds on their way to live in wedded bliss in the eyes of the Lord and man. They have promised to cleave to each other and to let no man put them asunder.”
Love and Cherish Page 6
