She moaned, her fingers knotting in his shirtfront. "Did you see the mountain lion?" Tears spilled down her face. "He jumped at me from there in the rocks."
Baird wrapped her more tightly against him, dizzy with relief.
"I—I don't know where he came from," she sobbed. "All at once Primrose screamed and bolted. And when I looked—"
"I'm sorry."
"—the lion was on the rock looking down at me." She burrowed against his shoulder.
"I'm sorry." His hands trembled as they moved over her, needing to touch her everywhere. "I'm sorry."
"I—I pulled the pistol out of my bag, but I was afraid—afraid I couldn't fire. Afraid I couldn't hit him even if I did. I—I didn't see him until he was right above my head!"
She quivered against him, her tears falling faster. "It was just what you warned me about."
He had to tell her. After failing her, he didn't have any choice. But, dear God! If he admitted how he'd failed her, he'd have to tell her all of it.
Baird dragged her closer, clinging to her as if she was the one offering consolation. Not even the solidity of her body in his arms could quench the dread of what had might have happened, of what he needed now to say to her.
"Ardith," he said, easing her away so he could look into her face. "Ardith."
She took a shuddery breath and nodded.
"I saw the cat stalking you." He said on a single breath, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I saw him."
"You—you did? Why didn't you warn me?"
Her next question was inevitable.
"Why didn't you shoot him?"
Baird shoved to his feet and turned away. He didn't want to see the expression in her eyes when he told her the rest.
"Baird?" He hadn't heard her move, hadn't heard her climb to her feet and come to him. All at once she was just standing before him, tears drying on her cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Ardith. I'm so sorry."
"It's all right."
"No." The guilt raged through him. His heart contracted with the weight of another failure. He didn't want to tell Ardith why he'd stood immobile when she was in danger. He didn't want to tell her about Bram, about Burma. But his weakness had earned her the right to hear the truth.
He stepped past her, moved a little farther down the stream. "Do you know why I didn't shoot him?"
"No." The frailty of her voice tore at him.
He forced the words up his throat. "You know when you asked me about my cousin Bram, the one who was killed last fall in Burma?"
He heard her come up close behind him. "Yes."
He was shaking with the effort of putting those memories into words. "Do you know how it happened?"
"Cullen said a tiger got him."
Bile rose in his throat. "That is what happened—in a way."
He'd only told the story twice—once through the blessed numbness of a whiskey haze to the Burmese authorities, then again stone-cold sober to his uncle. Even now the memories were so strong that once he began to speak they'd suck him down like a leaf in a whirlpool.
"Bram and I were hunting together," he started slowly, "tracking a tiger that had been killing cattle."
The oppressive Burmese heat had sent sweat trickling down his face and ribs. Air the temperature of tea had caught and rasped in his throat as they made their way up the narrow valley. He remembered how the jungle hills had mounded in lush terraces of tangled growth on the right of the track, how rocks the size of boxcars were scattered to the left.
They had set out at daybreak, the two of them and a score of beaters, determined to rid the village of the tiger that had been depriving the people of their livelihood. The beast had led them deeper and deeper into the jungle where the smell of earth and corruption came rancid in their nostrils. For miles there had been the droning cacophony of monkeys and birds in the trees, and Baird didn't know if it had been the sudden silence or the shiver of premonition sliding up his neck that warned him.
Fear kicked hard in his gut, just like it had that day last fall. His pulse jumped and his breathing accelerated.
"Bram was a dozen yards ahead of me," he said, his voice rasping in his ears. "He was down on his knees examining the tracks in the sand. He didn't see the tiger. I only caught a glimpse of it myself. It was poised on the branch just above him. As it jumped, I pulled up my rifle and fired—"
Baird hesitated, fighting to say the words, the gunpowder sting strong in his nostrils.
"But you missed." Ardith finished for him. She was trying to spare him the pain at having to say the words. "Oh, Baird. Surely every hunter misses." She touched his arm, and the muscles quivered beneath her hand. "I know you must blame yourself for what happened to Bram, but—"
Baird's head throbbed with the vividness of the memory, the colors shimmering before his eyes, the gunshot echoing. He had to tell her.
"I didn't miss exactly."
"What?"
He turned to her. He wanted to see her face when he told her the worst of it. He wanted to see the horror dawn in her eyes. He needed to punish himself by watching it.
"I shot Bram. I shot my cousin instead of the tiger."
She paled, her skin going translucent, as if he could hold her up to a light and see right through her.
"The tiger was on him an instant later, tearing out his throat, pulling him..."
His voice seemed to come from somewhere outside himself. He fought down a swell of nausea. The story didn't get any easier with the telling.
"Oh, Baird," she whispered, still looking up at him. "Oh, Baird."
"There was so much blood even I didn't even know I'd shot Bram until they began to prepare him for burial. He must have come to his feet just as I fired. And then the tiger was upon him."
Ardith reached for him but he shrugged away.
The sight of that blood-soaked grass, the miasma of heat and death, the muffling black weight of his own remorse rose through him every time he touched a gun. Every night when he closed his eyes.
"But it was an accident," she insisted softly. "An accident. You didn't mean for it to happen the way it did."
He heard the throb of compassion in her voice, saw pity and understanding shining up at him from the rainwater-clear depths of her eyes. She lifted her paint-speckled hand and laid it at the center of his chest. Her touch seared like cautery. His nerves and muscles jumped, rippling with the agony of that simple contact. He closed his eyes, basking in the pure-white pain of it.
Then that touch began to dispel the pain, to soak into him, spread through him. It took every ounce of his will not to drag her into his arms and cling to her. But a man bore the burden of what he'd done. He didn't accept sanctuary unless he'd earned the right to it.
He turned away. "I was just too sure of myself," he insisted, desperate that she understand. "Just too damned—"
"Oh, Baird, no." She followed him and spread her palm against his back. "All you did was make a mistake."
Though he knew he was weak, he ached for absolution. He was so tired of living with the specter of Bram's death, so tired of feeling empty inside. He closed his eyes, fighting the agony and the bliss of what she was offering. If he let himself believe her words, he might find a modicum of peace. But he didn't deserve that, did he?
"It was a mistake, Baird," she murmured. "All you were was human."
After how he'd shamed her, after everything he'd done to hurt her, how could Ardith willingly offer him consolation? Why had she stood there and heard him out, when Ariel had lured him with her body rather than let him speak the truth? If even his own wife had refused to listen, why would Ardith be willing to give him this?
How could she be so generous to a man who'd nearly cost her her life this afternoon?
He drew himself up, denying the comfort she was offering. "I only told you about Bram because I wanted you to understand why I couldn't..."
She eased closer, leaning into him again. It was as if she understood how much he needed the contac
t he refused to allow himself.
"I know it took a great deal of courage for you to tell me this. I know you'd have sold your soul to spare Bram."
"I'd never missed," he insisted, his voice gone low. "Before that day, I'd never missed."
She pressed her face into his shoulder. He could feel the imprint of her forehead, her nose and chin. Her breath condensed against his skin.
"You're only a man," she whispered, "a brave but fallible man. You can't expect more of yourself than that."
He stood with her pressed close against his back, her hand splayed against him, pressing and circling. Bit by bit her compassion seeped into him, staining him in some strange, indelible way.
He let himself absorb her touch because he needed what she was offering so desperately. Because he wasn't sure he could live without it.
Gradually the memories of the jungle receded. He let himself lean into her. The contact soothed him, spreading deep, warming him all the way to his bones. He closed his eyes and let himself drift.
He felt safe with her in a way he couldn't ever remember feeling safe. Safe to be fallible, safe to be weak. Safe to be his wholly irredeemable self.
By slow degrees, Baird became aware of the spatter of water drizzling down the face of the cliff, the scent of pine and sage drifting in the wind. He let out his breath, feeling as if he'd been holding it for a very long time.
He straightened and turned to her. "Are you all right? Are you ready to go?"
She nodded and tried to smile. "Oh, I think I've done quite enough painting for today."
Only now could he see how fragile she was, feel that her paint-stained hands were trembling. In spite of the incredible gift she'd given him, she was dazed and overwhelmed.
With a murmur of reassurance, he bound her to him, giving her the bulwark of his body to lean on, creating the gossamer illusion of physical safety. It was all he had to give her, but for the moment it seemed enough.
He settled her on one of the rocks and hunkered down to gather up the brushes and tubes of paint. He found the pistol where she'd dropped it and tucked it away.
Once he had tied everything to Dandy's saddle, he helped her mount. "Do you think Primrose is all right?" she asked.
"He's probably stopped to graze somewhere between here and camp. We'll pick him up on our way in."
He swung up behind her and pulled her back against his chest. He liked the way she nestled into him. Liked the hum of awareness that seemed suddenly to resonate between them.
He moved his mouth to within an inch of her ear. "Thank you," he whispered.
He thought he heard a smile in her voice when she answered. "You're welcome."
Chapter 10
Maybe Baird was right, Ardith reflected as she stomped in the direction of the creek. Maybe she'd made a mistake in bringing the children to visit at the summer camp. God knew they were a good deal harder to keep track of than cattle. Not ten minutes before, she'd looked up from the mending she and China had agreed to do for some of the hands and realized Khy wasn't where he was supposed to be. Right after breakfast, Jubal had put Khy to work helping him mix and cut out biscuit dough. Now at mid-morning, the boy had disappeared.
She ranged along the edge of the stream, hoping she'd find him down here somewhere. She wasn't eager to tell Baird Khy had misplaced himself again. Baird had had quite enough to contend with these last three weeks—the cows they'd lost to wolves, the demands the children made on him, and her run-in with the mountain lion just yesterday.
Ardith shivered with the memory-—not just of facing the big cat, but of what had come after. She could still hear the thick, ragged timbre of Baird's voice as he talked about Bram. See how his eyes had gone dark with self-loathing. Feel him shiver as the memories took him. It had taken courage to tell her what he had, to trust her with his secrets. She only hoped he'd been able to find comfort in what she'd said, or in the closeness they'd shared—something that would help assuage the terrible responsibility he felt for his cousin's death.
Baird had seemed like his usual gruff self this morning, except that while he was explaining to Khy why mixing biscuits with Jubal was far more diverting than setting out poison for wolves, he'd winked at her. So perhaps he was feeling better after all.
She was on her way back from a fruitless search of the creek when she realized that Khy's pony was missing from the picket line. "Can Khy saddle that pony himself?" she asked Durban as she hurried into camp.
Durban looked up from where he was practicing with a rope. "Sure he can. Why?"
Ardith told him.
"I bet he went after Father. I heard Khy ask about riding out with him."
"And I heard your father tell him no."
Durban gave her a superior grin. "Can you remember one time when someone telling him 'no' has stopped Khy from doing anything?"
"I guess I'll have to go after him," Ardith conceded. "Your father won't be happy if he finds out Khy has disobeyed again."
"Is it all right if I go with you?"
Not five minutes later they were riding north. As they picked their way across a meadow filled with grazing cattle, Ardith turned to Durban. "It seems as if you've come to like it here."
Her nephew nodded. "Sure I do. Matt's been nice about letting me ride with him. He's teaching me how to carve cattle."
That such a blatantly Western expression had crept into the English boy's speech, made Ardith smile. "How are you doing?"
"Not all that well. I keep falling off when the pony changes direction."
"You'll figure it out," she assured him. "Are you seeing much of Mr. McKay?"
Durban's shoulders hunched. "Mr. McKay has more time for me than Father does."
The hairs along her arms prickled. "Just how much are you seeing of Mr. McKay?"
The boy never answered. Instead he gestured off to the west. "That's Father, isn't it? And it looks like he's leading Khy's pony."
"That can't be good," Ardith murmured and kicked Primrose forward. As she and Durban closed the distance between them, Ardith could see Baird was cradling Khy against him.
"What happened?" Ardith cried as they caught up.
"A rabbit ran across his path, and the pony bolted," Baird said, his face drawn with worry. "Khy went over backward."
"How come you let something like that happen?" Durban yelled at his father.
"This isn't his fault," Ardith said. "How could anyone have prevented it?" She reached across to make her own assessment of Khy's condition. He was waxy and limp in his father's arms. His skin was damp.
"Has he been awake at all?" she asked him.
Ardith saw the turmoil in Baird's eyes. "He was awake when I first got to him. But, Ardith, he—he looked right at me and didn't know who I was."
Clearly Baird was scared to death. "When did he fall asleep?"
"Right after he chucked up his breakfast."
Ardith nodded as if she'd had experience with injured children and told Baird what he needed to hear. "Khy will be fine," she said, "but we need to get back to camp."
She sent Durban on ahead so Jubal could unpack the medical supplies. Then she reached across and laid her hand against her nephew's ashen cheek. Khy stirred in Baird's arms, blinked twice at his father, then threw up all down his pant leg.
"Where's my pony?" he whimpered, his voice high-pitched and petulant. Then his eyes drooped closed again.
"That isn't good, him dropping off like that, is it?" Baird asked her.
"I don't think it will hurt to let him sleep," she answered, her own uncertainties nagging her. "Let's get back to camp."
Everything was ready when they arrived. Baird carried Khy into the tent and laid him carefully on his cot. Ardith went down on her knees beside it. Seeing Khy so quiet and still frightened her more than anything.
Jubal squatted down on the opposite side of the bed, and Ardith silently blessed him for being there. Many cooks picked up a little doctoring one place or another, but Jubal Devereau was more ski
lled than most. It was part of what made him so valuable to the Sugar Creek.
"Did the boy bump anything 'sides his head?" he asked.
"I didn't think to check," Baird answered, poised at the foot of the cot. The older children bobbed at his elbow.
Jubal's dark, bony hands moved over Khy, checking for broken bones and internal injuries. While he did that, Ardith stripped off Khy's clothes. She took a damp cloth from a basin of water beside the bed and began to wash him down.
"Are you awake, Khy?" she asked as she worked over him. "Can you hear me?" He squirmed a little as she washed his face. "Come on, Khy, open your eyes and talk to me."
The boy's lids fluttered. He stared up at her, his eyes unfocused and vacant. "Where's my pony?" he whined, his face losing color. "I want to ride my pony."
Ardith snatched up the slop bucket just in time and helped Khy use it. When he was done, she laid him back on the cot, wiped his mouth and smoothed his sweat-damp hair. He was restless, whimpering, and only half conscious.
She sent Durban running for fresh water and wished she had something to keep Baird occupied. He hovered at the end of the bed like a hunting falcon tied to a perch, fluttering a little and then settling, restless but unable to leave.
Jubal finished his evaluation just as she was considering whether to take Khy back to the ranch. "My little brother back in Biloxi got knocked on the head one time," the cook recalled. "Mama just let him sleep a little, and woke him up. Let him sleep a little more and woke him again. He was sick a time or two, but by morning he was well again."
"The boy looks like hell," Baird said miserably, his eyes afire.
"So do you, Marse Northcross," Jubal said with a slow half-smile, "if you don't much mind me saying so."
That set Baird pacing back and forth between the end of the cot and the tent flaps.
"Are you sure that's all we can do?" Ardith asked. "He doesn't need a doctor?"
"Pretty soon you'll be missing all this peace and quiet," the cook assured her. "'Sides, you won't make it back to the ranch 'fore nightfall, and you ain't likely to get a doctor to see him 'til midday tomorrow."
Jubal was right, of course, and there was no sense chancing even the lower trails in the dark.
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