“It wasn’t. And neither was the pet goat.”
“Yes, it was,” he said, grinning at her.
She looked rebellious, then her mouth twitched. “Maybe. Maybe it was just a little funny. Not very funny.”
“I dunno. Seemed pretty funny to me.”
They argued the entire time as Dallas walked her back to the stateroom. As he left she was still smiling.
AT MIDNIGHT JULIENNE MOST definitely was not smiling. The storm had fought them all evening and night, with great deafening peals of thunder, wild wind, and rain that spattered hard against the shuttered window. The steamer rocked and pitched as the Mississippi River fought the fierce elements.
Still, Julienne was unafraid. She could feel the comforting great throck, throck of the sternwheel paddle, steady and secure. The little steamer was tight and well-built, for they had had no leaks, no water sloshing along the decks, not even dribbles from the single window in the stateroom.
But Tyla was deathly ill. Her normal rich cocoa-colored skin looked an unhealthy yellow, and her eyes were dull and feverish. As the night had worn on, she had developed a cough with thick congestion. Her coughing had gagged her, and she had vomited until she could bring up nothing else, but still she heaved. Julienne knelt by her bunk, holding her head, keeping the two blankets tucked securely around her. Tyla had grasped her hand in a death grip, gasping that she was scared they were going to wreck, that the storm would kill them. Julienne held her hand and stroked it, telling her in a soothing, soft voice that the boat was fine, that Tyla was just imagining things because she was ill, that Julienne would take care of her and not let anything happen to her. Finally Tyla had fallen back, seemingly senseless.
Julienne continued to kneel by her and hold her hand, and she felt it grow hot. She pressed her wrist against Tyla’s forehead. Tyla was going into a fever. This isn’t seasickness, Julienne thought uneasily. I wonder if she’s got the influenza? Oh, Lord, no, please not that!
Influenza had spread among the field hands at Ashby Plantation, and three men, eight women, and eleven children had died. That was why her father had been spending so much time there the last weeks. Aunt Leah, insisting it was her Christian duty, often went out to the plantation with him, nursing the sick men, women, and children. As Julienne thought of this, she wondered if Tyla had gone to the plantation too. It occurred to her that she knew very little about Tyla, that she really had no idea what she did when she wasn’t waiting on Julienne.
Tyla opened her eyes, and Julienne saw that tears welled up in them. “No, no, please don’t cry, Tyla. If you cry I’ll cry and you know how much I hate to cry. It makes your eyes red, like a Saturday night drunk.”
Tyla managed a weak smile. “I know you’re no Saturday night drunk, Miss Julienne. You never could be, you’re too strong for such nonsense. I just feel so bad, so awful, being so helpless. I’m so sorry, Miss Julienne, I’m ashamed for you to have to take care of me like this.”
“No, no! Don’t!” Julienne said harshly. “How many times have you taken care of me, Tyla? All of my life. That’s how much you’ve helped me. So stop it, stop apologizing, it’s embarrassing me. I thought you were crying because you were still scared. Are you, Tyla?”
She sighed, a weak shuddering intake of breath. “I was awfully scared, yes. But I’ve been praying, and I feel the Lord’s presence real close to me now. Who could be afraid when the God of all the earth is holding your hand? Who could fear when the Lord Jesus whispers comfort to you? Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him . . .”
Julienne didn’t know that verse. She thought that Tyla was just delirious with fever. She watched her for long moments and saw that her chest rose and fell rhythmically, and felt some of the heat lessen in Tyla’s hand. Wearily Julienne laid her head down on their clasped hands and fell into an uneasy doze.
She awoke with a start, unable to tell how much time had passed. Tyla slept peacefully, and her forehead felt a little cooler, Julienne thought. Gently untangling her hand, she stood. Or at least she tried to. She had been in an awful position, for how long now she had no idea, seated on the floor with her legs tucked under her. When she straightened them, sharp jolts of pain shot all the way up to her hips, and she would have groaned except she was afraid that she would awaken Tyla. Like a frail old woman that has fallen, she slowly pulled herself up by the bedpost. It seemed to take a long time. Then she threw her head back, massaged her burning, aching neck, and tried to straighten her back to work out the spasms.
It was only then that she noticed that it had stopped raining. The wind still groaned and beat against the wooden shutter, and long deep rolls of thunder sounded ominously. She threw open the shutter and then she saw the lightning, far off now, but splintering the sky continuously. There was a storm ahead of them, all right, but Julienne didn’t know if the one they had been in had passed over, or if this was more of Nature’s fury ahead.
The sharp cool wind blew through the stateroom, and Julienne realized how stuffy and close the room had become. And it stank of illness. Reluctantly Julienne regarded the bucket in the corner, the only bathroom facility available on the Missouri Dream, apparently. Because Tyla had been so ill it was almost full.
No, I can’t. I won’t. I don’t have to do things like that, she thought with a sudden ugly burst of anger.
But Julienne had a streak of practicality, and though she was shallow she was not a weak woman. She was strong, and right then she realized that not only could she do this chore, but she should do it. Besides, she really did want to walk, to move around, to get some blood moving back in her half-paralyzed limbs. With dark amusement she realized that she still wore her hoop skirt. It was even wider than the space between the chest and the bunks. Yanking up her heavy skirts, she untied the steel cage and dropped it, kicking it carelessly under the bunk. Because the air had been chilly, and the wind strong, she decided to wear her cloak and pulled it on quickly. Then she put the top on the bucket securely, picked it up, and gave Tyla a quick cautious look.
She slept quietly, and in the dim light Julienne even thought she saw a small smile on the girl’s face. She breathed deeply and evenly. Julienne slipped outside and walked quietly down the hall. She went up the staircase that led up to the hurricane deck, but to her disgust she couldn’t lift the hatch. Either she wasn’t strong enough, or it was locked. Climbing back down, she went down the narrow hallway outside the staterooms, carrying her stinking bucket.
“How do people do things like this?” she muttered to herself. “Why isn’t there at least one sanitary room? Or maybe there is, and I just don’t know where it is. This is so stupid!”
At last she reached the end of the hall, and the door that led out to the stairwell going down to the main deck. As she opened it the wind shrieked wildly and threw it open, banging against the wall. Julienne struggled to close it behind her. As soon as she was out on the stairs, she leaned over the railing, judging the wind, and when there was a lull she quickly emptied the bucket over the side. With relief she snapped the top back on and set it down just inside the stairwell door. She wanted to walk, to stay outside and breathe in some of the cold clean air.
Her heavy cloak flapping about her, she made her way down the stairs and to the main deck. She stood by the ornamental railing, holding onto it securely, trying to make sense of the wild night. Low black clouds scudded by, veiling the stars and an uncaring cold white half moon. Lightning still raged ahead of them, and the far-off thunder never stopped. She looked down, and the river was a raging black torrent. Instead of the ship steaming along it, Julienne thought it was more like it was riding a dangerous runaway horse.
A shadow loomed beside her, and Dallas Bronte said, “Good evening, Miss Ashby. Hope I didn’t scare you, I tried to make noise walking up but you probably couldn’t hear it with all this racket out here.”
“No, I didn’t hear you, but you d
idn’t frighten me,” Julienne answered. “I don’t scare easily.”
“Guess not. You’re not scared right now? River’s wild tonight.”
“Not really. It’s just a storm. We have them all the time, and all the steamers don’t sink.”
“No, they don’t.” He grasped the top railing and looked out, his eyes searching the distance in front of them. He was quiet for so long that Julienne began to wonder.
“Mr. Bronte, you are a riverboat pilot, correct?” she asked.
“I have my pilot’s license, yes,” he answered cautiously, still looking far away. “I don’t have a boat right now.”
“But still, you know the river. You—you aren’t trying to tell me that I should be worried, are you?”
Julienne hoped that he would immediately dismiss her doubts, but to her dismay he frowned and considered her face for a long time. “Let me tell you something, Miss Ashby. Pilots are a special breed, and not one of us is any more knowledgeable than another. Every pilot has to know this river better than he knows his own home. And he does, or he would never get his license. And so no pilot would ever presume to second-guess another pilot.”
“I didn’t want a lecture on how special pilots are,” Julienne said, turning to glance up at the pilothouse. It was not lit, of course, as the pilot inside couldn’t possibly see the darkness outside if he stood in a lit room. But she thought she could see the outlines of Kip Herrin in the lurid light of the lightning flashes. “I was just asking a question, Mr. Bronte. I thought you might know something I don’t know.”
He shook his head, a short sharp movement, and watched the vague glimpses of the landscape sliding by. Julienne stared toward the shore, too, though all she saw was a blur of black with some lighter gray splotches. She wondered what Dallas Bronte saw.
Oddly, the silence between them was not awkward. It stretched out, and they both watched and listened to this fierce world. But they were acutely aware of each other. Without consciously realizing it, Julienne moved closer to him, and at the same time he took a step toward her, looming over her as if he were shielding her.
Unbidden, suddenly, an overpowering desire to touch Dallas Bronte rose like quickfire in Julienne, and she drew in a sharp ragged breath. His strong hands were close to hers, and she wanted to grab them and pull them around her. She wanted to turn to him and press her lips against his and run her hands through his thick hair and feel the heat of his breath on her. She wanted—
The sky split, the river exploded, the world burst, or at least that’s what the next few moments seemed like to Julienne. As if she were moving in slow motion she turned to look, to see what the frightfully loud noise behind her was. But then her whole body was falling and in this slowed time she realized that Dallas Bronte had pushed her down and had thrown himself on top of her. He covered her head with his hands and forced her to press her face to the deck, and he laid his head on top of hers. She heard loud groans of metal, another explosion, then another, and things started falling out of this insane sky, crashing all around her. Through Dallas’s body she could feel at least two heavy hits on his back. Still he forced her head down.
This seemed to go on for a long time, the frightful noises, the crashes around them, the ship beneath them tilting crazily. Dallas lifted his head and let go of Julienne’s head, then grabbed her shoulders and hauled her up. To her horror she saw fire everywhere, the glass windows bursting out of the staterooms and the pilothouse, and she saw that the boat’s nose was tilting upward and she and Dallas were sliding down toward the black raging water. Before she could say a word, she was deep under, the water roiling around her and over her head. She panicked and began struggling helplessly, her heavy clothing dragging her down. She opened her mouth to scream but it filled with water and she began to choke.
A strong hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled, hurting her badly. Then she breathed air, and coughed. Roughly Dallas rolled her over onto her back and crooked one arm under her chin. “Be still,” he commanded her.
He began to swim, hauling her along like a heavy sack. His strokes were awkward, one-armed, but unbelievably strong. Julienne just lay there, concentrating on breathing, making herself relax because she realized that if she struggled the yards and yards of her dress, petticoat, and cloak would again pull her down like anchor weights. After awhile Dallas stopped and stood in hip-deep water that still swirled so fast and deep around them that Julienne couldn’t stand up. He scooped her up into his arms and waded to the shore. Gently he set her down, then stood and turned back to the river. All Julienne could see now were flames, and even in the chaos of her mind she knew that the fire was low, too near the water. The Missouri Dream was sinking fast.
Dallas took a long, deep breath, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, “Anybody there? Anybody need help?”
Julienne couldn’t hear a thing except the far-off thunder and the rushing of the river. Still Dallas waded out and started swimming toward the ship. She could see his head outlined against the flames, searching this way and that, striking out to swim a few strokes one way, and coming back.
And then the flames disappeared, and the darkness closed in. Julienne sat there, her mind dulled as if she had been given a strong drug. She began to shiver. Then Dallas was standing there and he said in a deep, painful voice. “She’s gone. No one else made it.”
Julienne looked up at him, her face white and bloodless, her eyes stretched painfully wide with shock. “No—no!” She scrambled to her feet and ran, stumbling to the water’s edge. “No! Tyla! Tyla!” she screamed and started to wade out.
But Dallas was there, and he pulled her back, and wrapped her in his arms. “Shh, shh, Julienne, don’t, don’t. They’re gone. They’re all gone.”
She clung to him and began to sob.
CHAPTER FIVE
Slowly the darkness Julienne was in lessened. She thought her eyes were opened but she wasn’t sure. The harsh blackness dissipated to a dismal gray, and sound—noises—started sounding in her ears.
She took a deep, gasping breath, and then with an effort opened her eyes. They were instantly stung with icy rain; the wind shrieked and tore at her soaked heavy skirts; and by a lightning flash she saw Dallas Bronte’s grim face above her. He was carrying her, and now against her side she could feel his harsh grunts as he struggled through the thick woods.
She reached up to touch his face and was startled by how very weak she was. “I can walk,” she tried to say, but the sound was lost in the tempest.
He looked down at her and searched her face. Her cold fingers pressed against his cheek, and gently he set her on her feet. She stumbled but didn’t fall. He leaned down close to her ear. “Are you sure you can walk?” His voice was deep and strong, so he didn’t have to yell at her. She nodded.
Still half-carrying her, they worked their way through the woods. Vines tore at her, and she felt as if she were fighting through deep, cold water. Realizing that she was about to faint again, Julienne made herself take deep, long breaths as they toiled.
After what seemed like an eternity, she could tell there was a clearing ahead. She took a step, dimly aware that Dallas was yanking her back, but then her shin hit a big log and she sprawled in the cold mud. He picked her up quickly and carried her again. Julienne was at the end of her strength. She clung to him, burying her face in his chest.
They came into a clearing where there was a tall chimney, but the farmhouse had burned. “Barn,” Dallas grunted. “At least a roof.”
He carried her into the small deserted barn. The doors had long ago rotted at the hinges, and sagged. Lying Julienne down on the mound of dirty hay left behind, he worked and worked to drag them so that they closed enough to keep out the driving rain.
Julienne struggled to sit up. “Where are we? What happened?”
Dallas turned to her, stripping off his sodden leather coat. “Th
at chimney’s a landmark on the river. We’re nine miles south of Natchez. The boilers exploded.”
“Tyla,” Julienne whispered and began to weep. She was shivering helplessly.
Dallas came to her, grasped her upper arms, and lifted her up. “Julienne. Julienne. Listen to me. You’re freezing cold, and your clothes are soaked, and I’m afraid you’re going to faint again, and then I don’t know if you’ll live through this night. Do you understand?”
She stared up at him, tears rolling down her cheeks. But her mind was clear enough to see the sense in what he was saying. “Y-yes, I understand.”
His face grew dark and stern. “You have to take this ton of clothes off, and I’m stripping down too. The only way you’re going to get warm enough is from my body warmth.”
“No, no,” Julienne said automatically. “Can’t you—can’t you light a fire?”
“There’s no wood, only hay, and if I set that on fire, the smoke would just choke us and we wouldn’t have a good warm fire anyway. Julienne, you have to trust me. This is the only way.”
Julienne stood there, looking down, shuddering so hard her teeth rattled. With the force of a blow she realized that ever since that terrible moment on the boat, her life had literally been in this man’s hands. He had saved her then, and he would save her now.
She lifted her chin and tried to unclasp her cloak fastening, but her fingers were so cold she had no feeling in them. “Will you help me, please, Dallas?” she asked pitifully.
Quickly he undid the clasp and slipped off her cloak. Then he turned her to unbutton the twenty-two buttons of her dress, which he did quickly. Then, leaving her dress resting on her shoulders, he undid the tight laces of her corset. Turning her back around as if she were a child, he gave her one reassuring, warm glance, and slipped her dress off her shoulders. “Th-thank you, I can do the rest,” she said.
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