by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
“And why shouldn’t I be?”
Dole spat in the grass. “You think you can get away with foul murder, don’t you? Everyone’s coming ‘round and saying you was innocent.” Dole shook his head. “Oh, they may listen to the captain for now. Folks respect Murray. But the man’s faith in you be misplaced. Someday they’ll learn that fact.”
Jack forced himself to stay calm as he met Dole’s seething stare. “Goodman, I must get on with my work. I’ll ask you to leave my property now.”
Dole glared at him. “You’ll hang yet, Hunter!” He spun around and stalked toward the lane.
When the churning was done, Lucy sent Simon off to the field with a basket of fresh biscuits and butter and a jug of sweet cider. Once he was gone, she took a basin of water into the bedchamber, where she bathed and washed her hair, then put on her Sunday gown.
True, she liked to bathe on Saturday, but she usually waited until after the evening work was done and the supper dishes put away. And she certainly never wore her Sunday best to the table on Saturday. But tonight was special; she could feel it.
She took her workbasket out to the stump Jack used for a chopping block. It was behind the house, where there was no chance of the men seeing her from the hayfield, or passersby in the lane getting a glimpse of her with her hair unbound. As the fresh breeze of early September dried her tresses, she mended her stockings and put a button on Jack’s gray linsey shirt.
Her husband had brought her flowers. The sight of them had startled her, and when she questioned Simon, he had admitted that the master had sneaked in with the posies just after dinnertime.
Lucy hummed as she secured the button with neat, tight stitches. Things were beginning to progress in her marriage at last. Thank You, Father.
After supper Jack again led the three of them in worship. It seemed to Lucy that his eyes strayed from the Bible to her face more often than ever, and as soon as they had read a chapter and offered prayer, he sent Simon to the barn.
“Wash well, mind you,” Lucy called after the boy.
“Never fear,” Simon replied.
Jack rose and set the Bible carefully on the chest. “Be you ready to stroll, Goody Hunter?”
Lucy smiled. “I am.”
“It seems I’m walking out with the loveliest lady in Maine this night,” he said, his eyes dancing.
Lucy ducked her head but could not suppress her joy.
“You’ll want your shawl,” Jack said, and before she could protest, he went to the peg near the door and fetched it, then wrapped it snugly around her shoulders.
He stood very close to her, and Lucy’s pulse raced. “Thank you.”
The moon was rising over the pasture as they stepped outside.
“You’re leaving the sheep out tonight,” she observed.
“Aye. Sir Walter has become a good shepherd. If any predators come around, he’ll advise me.”
She laughed. “With strident barking, no doubt.”
Jack crooked his arm, and Lucy slipped her hand through it. “Would you like to walk to the creek?” he asked. “It’s pretty by moonlight.”
Lucy’s heart sang as they ambled toward the little stream. Her hand felt warm in the bend of Jack’s elbow.
He covered her fingers with his other hand. “Many a time over the years I’ve wished to walk thus with you.”
Her stomach flipped, and she dared to look up at him. My dear husband, she thought.
Jack stopped at the edge of the water, where the creek widened and formed a pool. “I shall have to bring Simon fishing here one morning.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
After a long silence, Jack took her hand in his and walked along the edge of the water. She sensed that he was on edge and wondered if his earlier confidence had deserted him when he found himself alone with her.
“So,” he said at last. “I want you to know….”
“Yes?” she prompted.
“You’ve made me very happy, Lucy.”
She smiled up at him. “I’m glad.”
“You’ve done everything I asked you to. You’ve worked hard and been frugal. You’ve never once complained.”
“I have nothing to complain of.”
He swung around slowly, and she realized with mild disappointment that they were heading back toward the house. When they came into the dooryard, Sir Walter raised his head and woofed.
“Hush,” Jack said.
He opened the door, and Lucy stepped inside. She took off her shawl and hung it on its peg. Jack went to the fireplace and stirred up the coals, then dropped another log on them.
“Will you want a fire in your room tonight?” he asked.
My room, Lucy thought, once more disappointed. “Nay, I’ll be fine.”
“Very well, then.”
She wondered how long this strained courtship would continue. She supposed she could put an end to it now by telling him to speak his mind or go up to his straw tick and leave her alone.
“Thank you for the flowers,” she said.
“Oh, aye. I’m glad …” He halted and stooped for another stick of firewood.
“Jack …”
“Lucy, I want you to know …” He straightened and tossed the stick into the fire, then brushed off his hands. “I’m not doing this very well, but I had it all planned out.”
“What, Jack?”
He looked into her eyes and caught his breath. “I wanted to tell you that if your father were alive now, I’d go and speak to him again. But this time I’d reason with him, and I’d make him see that I’m not the ruffian he thought me.”
“Oh, Jack.” She stepped toward him and touched his sleeve. “I think that if Father were alive, we’d find a way to let him see the true Jack Hunter. That doesn’t still distress you, does it?”
“I suppose it does, some. I botched things badly with your father, and instead of trying to make amends, I—”
“That’s past, Jack. Please do not speak of it again.”
“All right.” He eyed her anxiously.
Lucy wondered how they’d strayed so far from the cozy, romantic feeling she’d had earlier.
“So may I call upon you again tomorrow evening, ma’am?” he asked.
“Well, yes … certainly.”
Jack’s smile appeared far from assured, and she thought his hand trembled as he took her arm and guided her toward her bedroom door.
“Good night, then, Jack,” she whispered, looking up into his eyes.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. Even in the dim light, she could see the troubled yearning his eyes held. “Lucy …”
Wondering if she was doing the right thing, she reached up and touched his beard. He stood very still and lowered his eyelids, as if waiting to see what she would do. With agonizing slowness, she furrowed her fingers into his beard and stroked his cheek. “I enjoyed this time with you, Jack.”
“Oh, Lucy.” He pulled her toward him and stooped to nestle his face into the curve of her neck.
Warm satisfaction swept over her. She slipped her arms around his neck and held on to him, eyes closed, soaking up the pleasant assurance she craved. She felt his lips on her cheek, feathering soft, sweet kisses toward the corner of her mouth. She turned her head toward him. Their lips met in a shock of culmination. His arms tightened about her, and she rested in his embrace, relishing the riotous exuberance that shot through her.
He released her at last and leaned back, breathing in ragged gasps. “Dearest Lucy!”
She smiled at the glow in his eyes and stroked the back of his neck, feeling suddenly languid.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Jack whispered.
“Aye.” She was a bit surprised at this turn of the conversation.
“We shall have to rise early to do the chores before meeting.”
“So we shall.”
He frowned. “And I’ll have to put the hay in later. I expect Dole will come around and malign me for Sabbath breaking, but if I don’t make this hay crop
—”
She laid her index finger on his lips. “I don’t fault you if you need to do some labor on the Lord’s Day. Sometimes it is necessary. Even Christ said such.”
“I’ll only do what I have to, but if we leave the hay out and it gets rained on …”
Lucy nodded, wondering at his anxiety. “Do what you must, Jack.”
He drew a deep breath, his eyes still fretful. Reaching up to his neck, he pulled her hands away gently and carried them to his lips. “So I’ll court you again tomorrow, dear Lucy.”
Ah, now she understood. He was saying a regretful good night, with a promise of something more on Sunday evening.
“I shall be waiting,” she whispered.
He kissed her once more, a lingering, thorough kiss, and they clung to each other for one warm, sweet moment. Then he stepped away and climbed the ladder.
Chapter 18
Breakfast was a hasty affair between the chores and preparation to go to the meetinghouse. After eating, Jack washed up in the kitchen and Simon disappeared to the barn, both to don their Sunday clothes. Lucy came from the bedchamber just as Jack finished dressing, and he surveyed her with pleasure. It was the first moment they’d had alone since their parting last evening, and she came toward him smiling. “You look fine this morning, Goodman Hunter. No one would know you’d been injured.”
He pushed back a tendril of golden hair that peeked from beneath her bonnet. “I’m still amazed at how blessed I am. I’m walking to meeting with an angel.”
“Hush,” she said, turning her face away, but he noted both a blush and a smile on her face.
He wondered if he could steal a kiss this morning. It was a bit shocking to have such a thought, but after all, they were alone in their own house. He seized her hand and tugged her gently toward him. As she came willingly into his arms, a loud knock reverberated through the room.
Lucy stepped away from him, looking toward the door in confusion. “Who can that be?”
As though in answer to her question, a deep voice shouted, “Hunter? Be you in there? Open, I say!”
Jack’s pulse hammered at the unfamiliar voice. Was some official coming to arrest him again and drag him off to prison? He sent up a quick prayer: God, give me grace!
He strode to the door and flung it open. The stranger on his doorstep stared at him, and Jack stared back without flinching. The man was between thirty-five and forty years old, Jack guessed, and the sun glinted on his reddish hair.
“I’m Jack Hunter.”
“Where’s my boy?”
Jack looked him up and down with mingled relief and chagrin. There was no doubt this was Simon’s father—the stocky build, the green eyes, and the auburn hair were the same.
“And who be you?”
“I’m Edward Brady. The boy’s father.”
Jack nearly looked past him, toward the barn, but forced himself to continue looking Brady in the eye. “What is your boy’s name?”
“Stop toying with me, you knave!” Brady’s face grew red. He raised a fist and shook it in Jack’s face. “I heered my boy is living in a murderer’s household, and I won’t have it. You give me back my son!”
It was all Jack could do to refrain from punching him, but he felt Lucy stepping up behind him. Her small, warm hand touched his shoulder.
“Mr. Brady,” Jack said, “my wife and I were about to leave for church. Would you care to walk along with us?”
“I’ll go nowhere with you! Don’t try to deny that my son is here. Your village parson said the boy was at the meetinghouse last Sunday, and he told me how to find your farm. Now, where is Simon?”
Jack hesitated. He didn’t want to betray the boy, yet he had to be honest with the man. He wished he had pressed Simon more on reconciling with his family, but he had delayed, hoping the lad would write to his father soon and reveal his whereabouts.
“I’ll take you to him,” Jack said.
Brady stepped back, and Jack went outside just as the barn door swung open.
Simon walked forward with a slow, wooden pace, but he came on his own. Jack felt a wave of pride and anguish. He didn’t want to lose the boy, but if he must, he’d rather it be this way than by having to force Simon to show himself.
“I’m here, Father.”
Brady looked his son over. Jack was glad Lucy had washed and mended the boy’s breeches. He wished she’d had time to weave the cloth for a new suit. Jack’s shirt was too large for the boy, but at least he was clean, and his hair was neatly trimmed.
The father marched toward Simon and stopped a couple of feet from him. “I should thrash you this instant.”
Simon cringed but stood his ground. “I’m sorry, Father.”
“Oh, are you? You ran away, breaking your mother’s heart, and stayed away months on end. Oh, I’ve heard the tale. You wanted to join the militia but were turned away, so you found a berth in a murderer’s house. What do you do here?”
Simon swallowed hard. “I work, Father.”
Brady glanced at the structure behind Simon. “They make you sleep in the barn?”
“I’m comfortable there, and Goodman Hunter said when the nights get cold I can sleep in the loft of their house.”
Jack threw an apologetic smile at Lucy. He hadn’t had a chance to discuss that plan with her.
Brady glared at his son. “Well, you are coming home with me today. Do you have any things to gather?”
Simon shook his head. “Only my old shirt. Goody Hunter gave me this one.”
“Get your old one and give this one back to her.”
Lucy came down the doorstep. “There’s no need, sir. Simon’s been a good boy, and he’s worked hard for my husband.”
“For what wage?” Brady glowered at Jack.
Before Jack could speak, Simon said, “Goodman Hunter says he’ll start giving me a penny a week soon.”
Brady advanced toward Jack. “Here you are, a criminal who’s somehow escaped the hangman’s noose, making a slave of my boy!” He drew back his hand as if to strike Jack.
“I wouldn’t do that, sir.” Jack put steel into his voice and prepared to counter the blow if it fell.
Brady backed off a step. “Aye, from what I hear about you, it’s probably best not to anger you.”
“My husband is not a murderer!”
Jack started as Lucy leaped forward, placing herself between him and Brady. He reached out and took her arm gently. “Easy, wife. Let Mr. Brady take his leave in peace.” Tears streamed down Lucy’s face. “Does Simon have to go?”
Jack wasn’t sure if she was pleading with him or the boy’s father, but he said, “Yes, I’m afraid he does.”
“Don’t you whip him,” she cried.
Brady stared at Jack in mock horror. “You’d best study how to keep your wife in check.”
“He is a good boy,” Lucy said. “If you treat him well, he’ll give you the same devotion and hard work he gave us.”
Brady grabbed Simon’s arm and pulled the boy with him down the path. Jack and Lucy stood watching in silence.
“He forgot his shirt,” Lucy said as they disappeared out of sight. She burst into tears.
Jack gathered her into his arms. “There, now, wife. We knew he couldn’t stay.”
“Did we?”
Jack stroked her back. “I thought to have him write and apologize to his parents, but …”
Lucy sobbed a bit more, then straightened and wiped her cheek with her sleeve. “I’ve mussed your clean shirt.”
“It will dry.”
“I wish …” She looked up at him.
“What?”
“I wish we had a right to keep him. I was getting rather fond of Simon.”
“Aye. But we can’t refuse to let his father take him.”
Lucy grimaced. “I don’t suppose we want any trouble with the law just now.”
Jack pushed back a lock of her hair. “Perhaps one day we’ll have a plucky boy like that.” He looked deep into her eyes, and her fac
e turned crimson.
“If we do,” she said, looking down the path, “I hope his father will teach him not to run away or steal from folks.”
He smiled. “I’m sure his mother will make him love his home so much he’ll never want to leave it.”
“Shall we go now?” Her voice quivered.
Jack considered their options. “We’re already a few minutes late. Perhaps we should sit down and calm ourselves. I don’t want you going into the meeting all distressed.”
Lucy took a gulp of air. “I’ll be all right.”
He squeezed her and rubbed the top of her head with his chin. “The parson will call for a psalm in an hour. We’ll go in then.” He kept his arm around her waist and guided her into the kitchen.
“Do you want tea?” she asked.
“Nay, don’t trouble yourself.”
They sat at the table, and Jack eyed her uncertainly. “I … I’ve been wondering … if you’ve a mind to pray together.”
“Yes, please!”
His heart leaped, and he reached across the table to take her hands in his. As he bowed his head, he sent up a silent word of gratitude for his wife.
“Dear Father in heaven,” he said, “give us peace this day. I pray also for Simon, that You would calm his spirit and give him contentment so he may live with his family in harmony. And, Lord, give Your wisdom to Lucy and me. If there is anything further we can do to help that boy, please show us.” He paused, trying to think if he’d left anything of importance unsaid, then whispered, “In the name of our Lord Jesus, amen.”
“Amen,” Lucy said with a sob.
Jack opened his eyes. Her sad smile moved him to leave his stool and kneel beside her. “Dearest Lucy. God has given you a mother’s heart for that boy, and I am thankful that it is so. He has heard our petition for Simon.”
“Yes,” she whispered, leaning against his shoulder. “Oh, Jack, do you think he’ll be all right?”
An authoritative knock rattled the little house. Brady’s strident voice called, “Open up, Hunter!”
Lucy drew back and stared at Jack. The blood drained from her face. “What can he want? Surely he’s not brought the constables to arrest you?”
Fear coursed through Jack’s veins, but he pushed it aside and squeezed her hands. “God is in this, dear wife. Pray now.”
