The Great Alone

by Janet Dailey

  And he’d asked to come back. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to smother the laughter that rippled from her throat. She spun into the room, hugging her arms tightly to her chest, feeling she was going to burst inside.

  “He has gone?”

  “Babushka.” Abruptly, self-consciously, she halted her gay dance. “I thought you were asleep.” Quickly, she turned to the samovar. “There is some tea left. Shall I pour you a cup?”

  “Yes.” Tasha waited until Larissa brought the cup to the cot and sat down beside her. “Do not let yourself care for him, my child. He will leave soon. They always leave.”

  “I know.” Larissa avoided her grandmother’s pleading look. She didn’t want to upset her by arguing that she knew it wasn’t going to happen to her.

  Again Caleb dined at the governor’s residence with Baranov. It was a sumptuous feast—roasted wild geese, venison, halibut, Russian bread, pickles, cakes, and the famous bowl of hot spiked punch sitting in the center of the long banquet table. But Caleb had difficulty concentrating on the old Russian’s company. Over Baranov’s objections, he called an early end to the night and took his leave of the Russian American governor who had dressed for the occasion in a black silk waistcoat, silver-buckled slippers, and a black dress wig that didn’t fit him much better than the old one.

  A heavy fog rolled off the sound and swirled over the veranda, concealing the top of the flagstaff that stood in the center of the knoll’s parade ground. High overhead, the beacon light pierced the gray layers to throw out its signal. The sentry’s call, echoing from post to post, sounded hollow and eerie in the fog-wrapped stillness.

  At the top of the steps, Caleb paused to look around. It occurred to him that Larissa had probably gone to sleep hours ago. He sighed and started down the stone stairs.

  The dinner with Baranov had started him wondering if there might not be an advantage to having a Russian wife. Thus far, no merchant, not even John Jacob Astor, had succeeded in persuading Baranov to sign an exclusive contract to buy supplies only from him. A contract like that would be a coup for any trader. With it, he could buy a fleet of ships. Baranov just might look favorably on a man who married a Russian woman.

  The idea appealed to Caleb, more so because it provided justification for the strong attraction he already felt toward Larissa. It wasn’t enough to have a beautiful, exciting wife. A man must choose wisely as well. He was whistling a tune as he headed for the strip of beach where his boat crew stood by the yawl.

  “Boston man.” A low voice called softly to him. “Caleb Stone.”

  He halted and peered into the swirling mist. A figure appeared—a Tlingit woman dressed in some strange faded robe that seemed oddly familiar.

  “What do you want?” He was in no mood to be solicited by some native whore.

  Instead of answering, she walked closer. Caleb frowned, knowing he had seen those black, black eyes somewhere before but unable to identify her. A boy about five or six years old leaned heavily against her side, almost too tired to stand.

  “Do you not remember Raven?” she murmured.

  The name finally jarred his memory. He smiled without humor and rubbed his left arm. “I still carry the scar of your knife,” he said.

  “Is that all you remember?”

  “No.” But he hadn’t the slightest desire to resume their past relationship. “Is that why you wanted to see me?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “Maybe I think you want to see your son.”

  “My what?”

  She tipped the boy’s chin up so he could see the child’s sleepy face. “See his eyes. They are like yours.”

  “That proves nothing. Just because your bastard has blue eyes doesn’t make me his father,” Caleb scoffed.

  “Maybe that Larissa woman will think it does. I see you with her today, putting flowers in her hair. Your son grows all the time. He needs food, clothes. Caleb has many things on his ship. Keep son a long time.”

  “Are you trying to blackmail me?” He took a threatening step toward her.

  A sudden shout in Russian distracted Caleb. A man loomed out of the fog. Moving quickly, he planted himself between Caleb and Raven.

  “What happens here?” the Russian demanded.

  “That Indian bitch is trying to convince me I fathered that bastard of hers so I’ll pay her off.”

  A look of shock widened the Russian’s eyes. Caleb saw their blue color and instantly recognized the man as the survivor of the massacre he’d picked up that same summer. Zachar Tarakanov was his name. He remembered it all clearly now—even Raven’s admission that she’d been the Russian’s woman.

  “You?” The man’s voice wavered.

  “It’s a lie, Zachar. Yes, I remember you.” Caleb guessed the man believed the boy was his son. “She’s probably played this trick on a half dozen men. If anyone’s likely to be the father, you are.”

  Zachar stared at him, his eyes clouded with doubt. At last, he turned away and scooped the child into his arms, holding him tightly. He muttered something to Raven, then reached out and shoved her toward the village after she failed to move on her own. The fog quickly swallowed them. As his anger faded, Caleb felt the first pang of worry that Raven might carry out her threat to tell Larissa. Larissa. Her last name was Tarakanov, too. And he started wondering whether she was related to Zachar.

  * * *

  In the cabin, Zachar laid the boy on the cot. Wolf was asleep almost as soon as Zachar tucked the blanket around him. For a long time he stood by the cot and stared at the boy he’d grown to love so deeply.

  “Is Wolf my son?” He could barely get the words out. His mind echoed and re-echoed with the tormenting question. He turned to face Raven, tortured by doubt. He vibrated with the hate he felt for her. It consumed him as love once had. “Am I his father?” Zachar demanded hoarsely.

  She turned her back to him. He charged across the room, grabbed her by the shoulders, and spun her around. She offered no resistance as he violently shook her.

  “Answer me!”

  But no sound came from her. His chest hurt so much it felt like an invisible hand was squeezing him. Each breath was a half-sob of pain. He stopped, although he unconsciously continued to dig his fingers into her flesh. Her head was thrown far back, exposing her throat. He longed to choke the answer out of her. The defiant contempt in her face mocked him, dared him to try.

  Her silence defeated him. Zachar let her go as his lower lip quivered and tears stung his eyes. He felt impotent, stripped of pride and honor.

  “You are a stupid man,” Raven jeered. “I could have got many things from that Boston man.”

  “Why? Is Wolf his son?”

  “If I say no, how will you know that is truth?”

  He stared at her as the cruel realization hit him. No matter what answer she gave him, the doubt would always be there. He could no longer believe her. Wolf might be his son, but he’d never know for certain, because he couldn’t take her word for it and no one else could give him the answer.

  “The Yankee denied he was the father. He wouldn’t have paid you anything.” Zachar retaliated, trying to undermine her confidence.

  “He has eyes for the daughter of your dead wife.”

  “Larissa?”

  “I could have had many pretty things—pretty like this robe he gave me once.” She rubbed her hand over the worn and faded garment, stained and shabby from wear.

  “He gave you that?” Zachar stared at the damning evidence that she had been with him that summer of the massacre. In a fit of rage, he ripped it off her, the rotting threads tearing easily, and threw it on the smoldering logs in the fireplace, indifferent to the rake of her nails as she tried to stop him.

  Smoke billowed thickly around the torn robe. An instant later, flames exploded to blacken forever the brightly striped cloth. The sudden flare of light illuminated Raven’s now naked body, but the sight of it no longer aroused his lust.

  “I can get others. I can get many ot
hers,” she announced defiantly. “Caleb will give them to me or I will tell her.”

  This time he grabbed her by the throat. “No, you won’t. From now on you will be satisfied with what I give you, because if I ever learn that you have tried to get presents from another man—or if I hear that you have spread this lie about my son to any member of my family or my friends—I will kill you.”

  He flung her away from him. Raven stumbled sideways, crashing into the fireplace and striking her cheek against a rough stone. For a moment the whole room went black in front of her eyes. She cupped her hand against her cheek and felt the warm blood running from the cut. Loathing and contempt rose within her as she watched the stupid Russian walk to the cot.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Larissa and Caleb strolled along the shore path that was so often frequented by Baranov. They walked close together, their arms occasionally brushing, the fullness of her long skirt sweeping against his leg. The smell of rain was in the air. Already they could see the gray sheets falling on the slopes of Mount Edgecumbe.

  “I suppose we should hurry,” Caleb suggested reluctantly. “Those clouds are going to let loose any moment.”

  “We should.” But she slowed her steps.

  Caleb watched her push the near side of the loosely hooding wool scarf away from her face. She smiled at him, her dark eyes shining. She looked so beautiful to him.

  It had been something of a shock to him when he’d learned earlier in the week that Zachar Tarakanov was her father, but he’d been reassured by the fact that she had very little contact with him. Knowing Raven as he did, Caleb was glad Zachar kept the two apart. It lessened the chances of Raven causing trouble.

  In the last week, Caleb had spent every possible hour he could courting her more ardently than he had any woman in his life. Larissa exhibited a rare combination of serenity and vitality that was like a heady wine to him. She soothed and excited him at the same time. With each passing day, Caleb had become more convinced of her suitability, both practically and passionately.

  “Soon the repairs to your ship will be finished.” The regret in her voice was unmistakable.

  “I’ve nearly run out of things to have fixed,” he admitted. “Three days. Maybe I can stretch it to four.”

  “Then you will leave to trade with the Kolosh for furs.” She kept her head down as she walked two more steps. “I will miss you.”

  Caleb halted. “Larissa.” She stopped as well and gazed longingly at him. “I never realized how very lonely my life has been until I shared this last week with you.” He hesitated. “Am I speaking too soon?”

  “No,” she said quickly, unconsciously straining toward him.

  Not once had he dared any more than a lingering kiss on her hand. Now he kissed her lips. He felt their tremor of innocence and uncertainty. But her hesitation was fleeting as she responded with warm, eager pressure. He forgot his restraint and kissed her hard, gathering her tightly into his embrace.

  She arched back from him, her hands pushing at his chest. Caleb immediately released her, angry with himself for having frightened her with his passion. A pelting rain struck before he had a chance to apologize and beg her forgiveness. She turned and started running toward the settlement.

  “Larissa, wait.” Caleb ran after her.

  The rain came down hard. The muslin shirt under her sarafan was already drenched by the time Caleb draped his coat over her head and around her shoulders. They ran together toward her cabin.

  As they arrived there, she reached for the latch. “Larissa, wait.” Rain ran down his face and plastered his shirt against his skin. She paused without turning from the door. Her grandmother was inside, maybe her uncle as well. He couldn’t tell her the things he wanted to say in front of them. Abruptly, she swept off his coat and pushed it into his hands. “I didn’t mean—”

  Her fingers touched his lips to silence him. Just as quickly she raised up on her toes and kissed him, giving him a taste of her own passion. Her action stunned him. By the time he reached for her, all his hand touched was the slippery cloth of her wet skirt as she darted inside the cabin.

  Caleb stared at the door for a minute, then he smiled widely, his spirits suddenly soaring. He hadn’t frightened her after all, he realized, and walked away from the cabin chuckling to himself, indifferent to the drenching rain and his wet clothes.

  “She will not be good for you. She will never please you the way I have.” Raven’s taunting voice caught him in midstride.

  The laughter died in his throat as Caleb turned toward the blanket-wrapped figure huddled in the narrow space between two buildings. After a quick glance over his shoulder at the cabin to make sure he wasn’t observed, he stepped off the planked walk into the open passage.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Raven lifted back the hooding blanket and turned her head to show him her right cheek. A purpling bruise radiated from the angry red cut on her cheek. “Zachar did this.”

  “You deserved it. I would have done more than that.”

  “Yes.” She turned, showing him the perfect side of her face, her black eyes glowing, her lips curving in a near smile. “You are the only man to fight me and win. You made me cry out in pain—and in pleasure.” She moved toward him, her tawny face shining with the rainwater. “I know your ship will be finished in two days. Take me with you.”

  “No.”

  “We are alike, Caleb. You wish to trade for furs. I will show you the villages that have many.”

  “Which villages?”

  “They trade only for guns. Do you have guns?”

  “Yes.” Caleb had no intention of complying with Baranov’s edict against selling them to the Indians. “Where are the villages?”

  “I will show you.”

  “I don’t need a guide.”

  “I can trade for you. Get many furs for one gun,” she reasoned, then quickly switched to another tactic when she saw the first wasn’t working. “Zachar is leaving soon to go to some island far to the north. He wishes to take me. But I have no wish to leave the land of my people. I go with you. You take me from here.”

  “No.” Caleb shook his head. “If you want to leave Zachar, go back to your people. Or don’t they want your kind either?”

  Her expression grew cold. “Maybe I talk to Larissa.”

  “That boy isn’t mine. But if you open your mouth to her I’ll tell the first shaman I meet that you’re a witch and that it is you who keeps your people from taking this land back from the Russians.” He watched the color drain from her face as fear leaped into her eyes.

  Once he’d seen a Tlingit medicine man expose a witch to the tribe. She had confessed her guilt only after he’d held her under water until she’d nearly drowned, then set her naked on a bed of hot ashes. The tribe had hanged her.

  Raven’s silence satisfied Caleb that she wouldn’t carry out her threat. He left her and walked back to the boardwalk. There was no one on the street as he stepped from between the two buildings and headed toward the harbor.

  The shipbuilder informed Caleb that the Sea Gypsy’s repairs would be completed on the morrow, a day earlier than he’d originally thought, and exactly when Raven had claimed. He spent an idle moment wondering how she had known before dismissing it as unimportant.

  At best he could stall another day. After nearly two weeks in port, the novelty of the place had worn off for his crew. They were getting restless. This was the trading season, and other merchant ships were getting the jump on them, while they didn’t have a single pelt in their hold. He’d have trouble with the crew if he tried to delay any longer. In truth, he couldn’t afford to lose more of the season, not on his first voyage as skipper and owner of the brig.

  Resolutely he pushed off and started across the street. Everything glistened in the sun-dazzled morning. The rainwashed clarity of the air gave a jewel-like sparkle to the sapphire waters of the bay and the emerald forests of the islands. Even the timbered buildings in town had a polished look to
them.

  The Russian town bustled with activity. It seemed everyone was eager to be outside in the sunlight after yesterday’s confining rain.

  Old Tasha Tarakanov sat on a chair in the front yard of her log home letting the sunlight warm her frail bones. Caleb was conscious of the way she watched him. He suspected she disapproved of him, although she had said or done nothing to indicate it. And it was her approval that he needed. He’d known all along that she played the major role in Larissa’s life. Her father was of minor importance. In the little time he’d had, he’d done his best to win the old woman over, but he wasn’t sure he’d succeeded.

  Caleb spied Larissa hoeing out the weeds in the vegetable garden, a task that earned her a ruble a day from the company. The bright silk scarf covering her head was tied at the nape of her neck, and a belt girded the loose-fitting sarafan at her waistline. She looked up as if she’d been expecting him and dropped the hoe to come hurrying to meet him.

  “I hoped you would come.” Her eyes sparkled.

  “You knew I would,” Caleb mocked lightly.

  Her smile widened. She made a small movement toward him, then hesitated and glanced over her shoulder as if suddenly remembering her grandmother. She took him by the arm and led him up the path to the old woman.

  “Good morning, Babushka.” From the start, he’d taken the liberty of calling her by the Russian word for grandmother, hoping to endear himself to her. “You look like you are enjoying this fine weather. The sunshine will do you good.”

  Larissa began a translation before he finished speaking, then did the same when her grandmother replied. “She greets you and agrees it is a fine morning.”