Faith Hope and Love (A Homespun Romance)

by Kakade, Geeta

  "Hush," he ordered again, hauling air into his lungs, as he held her head against his chest. "Just go back to sleep."

  He rocked her like a baby, waiting for her to calm down. When he finally laid her back on the pillows, she had a half smile on her face. For the first time since he had seen her, Rachel Carstairs looked at peace.

  An awesome fierceness welled up in him. Strong, protective, overwhelming. He tried to shake it off. Impulses had no room in a practical man's thoughts.

  Checking to see if she had a fever, brushing a stray tendril off her face, tucking her in again, had all been done automatically. He had returned to his sleeping bag but not to sleep.

  Luke looked at Gordie on the rug of his study. His nephew had managed to haul himself to his feet, holding on to the seat of a chair. Round navy eyes scanned the area for anything more interesting than mere toys. Luke handed him a ball. It was brushed aside.

  Rachel Carstairs was an enigma. He couldn't rest till he knew why she had wanted Gordie. Why she didn't even want to see the baby now. Luke had an idea that the answers would be hard to come by. She wasn't going to help.

  He checked on her at dinner time but she was fast asleep. Tucking the bedclothes around her he paused and placed a hand against her cheek. Amazingly enough her skin was soft and creamy. Luke thought of the picture he'd had of a leathery ogre and a corner of his mouth tilted up. So much for misconceptions.

  He remembered Chris mentioning once that her cousin had joined MRA right after high school. Luke wondered what had motivated Rachel to alienate herself from everything that was familiar.

  CHAPTER 3

  Rachel awoke before dawn. It took a few minutes for her mind to marshal her thoughts into order. Luke had brought her here Friday night. She had met Hannah Saturday evening. Sunday was a vague blur of resting, being sponged down, changed, and having her hair brushed gently. Every time she opened her eyes she'd been coaxed to eat or drink something. Once she had woken to find Luke by the window, his back to her. Maybe drifting in and out of sleep for most of the day had been self-defense.

  Someone had thoughtfully placed a clock on her night stand. Luminescent hands pointed to four a.m. Monday morning. It was cold. So cold. She needed to use the bathroom. Quiet as a summer breeze she crept from the room.

  Rachel's gaze passed over the pretty wallpaper, the marble washbasin, the gilt edged mirror, the lush plants, in the enormous bathroom and settled on the tub. Sunk into the floor the perfect green oval beckoned like an oasis in the desert. Irresistible.

  A quick survey showed no other doors in the corridor. If she didn't turn on the taps full blast she really shouldn't disturb anyone.

  It felt so good to slide into the hot water. Her muscles shivered at first contact with the balmy warmth and then relaxed. The scent of lavender rose soothingly with the steam. Hoping fleetingly no one would mind her lavish use of bath oil and crystals, Rachel slid deeper into the water and sighed with satisfaction.

  Heaven should be so nice.

  Luke waited a while. After five minutes the sleeping bag he had used the last two nights on the floor of her room seemed too confining. What if she had fainted in there? Dr. Andrews had been very explicit about her condition. Sliding out of the sleeping bag he got to his feet.

  He tapped on the door of the bathroom. Once, twice. There was no answer.

  "Rachel?"

  He heard a small splash and realized what he had interrupted. The faint music he could identify as country stopped as she switched off the little radio in the bathroom. Luke opened his mouth to apologize and explain.

  "Yes?"

  Her voice from just behind the door held anxiety. Luke wondered what it was about him that produced this reaction. Could a recollection of what had passed between them her first night here be the reason for her uneasiness around him all day yesterday?

  "I was just checking on you. I thought maybe you weren't feeling well again."

  Guilt laced her next words heavily, "I'm sorry if I woke you. There were no other doors..... I thought it would be okay......"

  "Don't stay in there too long," Luke ordered softly, "You might catch cold."

  Resisting the impulse to snatch her up when she came out and carry her back to her bed as if she were Gordie's age, was hard.

  "I'm almost done."

  The retreating footsteps told her he had gone back to bed. Taking her mood with him. Toweling herself dry, Rachel used a washcloth to clean the sides of the tub.

  Jet lag. That was it. It did strange things to people. It accounted for why she felt so jumpy whenever Luke Summers was around.

  Rinsing the washcloth she spread it on a rack to dry.

  Dropping the towel Rachel looked around for her nightdress. Her reflection in the mirror above the washbasin claimed her attention. Wiping the steam away, Rachel looked at her body with a kind of detached curiosity. The last time she had seen herself full length had been in a river. The murkiness had been kind. This clear glass wasn't. She examined the hollows of her neck, the skinny body, detachedly.

  Nothing there to write home about.

  Hesitating a moment, she reached for the talc. Might as well go the whole bit. Where she was going, it would be a while before she could indulge herself like this again.

  Sheer surprise halted her in the doorway of her room. The lamp beside her bed threw a golden glow on the sleeping bag on the floor, the man in it. Rachel gaped at the picture he presented. Tousled hair, sleep laden eyes and a wickedly delicious chest. Luke Summers was playing Florence Nightingale.

  "You don't have to sleep in here," she said stiffly, "I'm fine." He must be uncomfortable sleeping in his jeans.

  The quivers running up and down her spine had to be malaria. It had been a rotten idea to bathe at this hour. Rachel's gaze got tangled up in the nest of hair on Luke's chest. Speech got tangled up somewhere deep inside.

  "That's okay." The way he dismissed sleeping on the ground reminded her of the scene in court. He had minimized everything he'd done for Gordie as well. "I'm perfectly fine now, so you don't have to sleep here anymore."

  In her line of work she had seen plenty of naked torsos. Of every size, shape and color. None of them had made her want to sink out of sight or wish for the vital statistics of a beauty pageant contestant.

  "Its four thirty now," his tone held calm quiet reason. "Hannah's a very light sleeper. Going back to my room now will wake her and she won't be able to go back to sleep."

  There was nothing more to say. Rachel got into bed quietly, hoping he didn't have the same problem as Hannah.

  "Would you like some warm milk?"

  Her eyes landed on the tray on the nightstand. A mug and two pieces of toast nestled on a white embroidered cloth.

  "Please." The tears weren't far away. "You don't have to do all this." No one ever had before. A starved heart was likely to blow it out of all proportion.

  "Try the milk. It will help you sleep."

  She mightn't have spoken at all. He was doing his bulldozer bit again.

  Rachel tried to get through to him again. "I'm fine. One hundred percent fit. Tomorrow when we go into town I'll catch a bus back to L.A. I have to let someone at MRA know where I am."

  That was it? She was just going to up and leave? Shock made him sit up, speak his thoughts aloud, "What about Gordie?"

  For a while she was so quiet he thought she hadn't heard. But she had. Her voice when she answered him wasn't quite even. It held the raspy edge he'd heard before. "I'm sure you and the Diamond Bar are what are best for him."

  "Don't you even want to see him?"

  Rachel struggled with herself. The negative trembled on her lips, but she didn't let it out. Always sensitive to emotion she could almost put her hand out and touch Luke's leashed anger now. He had every right to be exasperated. First she took him to court for the child, and then she acted as if she didn't even want to see Chris' son.

  Rachel bit her lip, "I'll see him in the morning."

  Something
didn't add up right. Luke asked himself why Rachel Carstairs was no longer interested in Gordie. It was too quick a switch to make sense. Hauling a deep breath of air into his lungs he let it out slowly. Trying to understand her was like trying to gather a fistful of cobwebs.

  In the few seconds she had stood in the doorway he was reminded of a child play acting again. The scent of lavender had teased his nostrils and her eyes had looked like tar pits. He hadn't missed the quiver of her lips or the way she had sidled past the sleeping bag. Hannah's baggy gown was much too large for her, which wasn't surprising since the housekeeper was at least a hundred pounds heavier. The scrubbed shiny look brought to mind the littlest angel in a recent television show. With a halo that was definitely askew.

  "Don't you want to spend a while here, get to know Gordie?"

  Hannah's oft spoken, stern reminder to him and Rob all through their teens, came to mind. A gentleman didn't pester a lady. Only he wasn't ready to be gentlemanly about this. There was something unreal about Rachel Carstairs. Something that got past his veneer of civilization and touched a primitive core he hadn't known existed.

  "No." The treble intensified, the knuckles showed white against the mug.

  "Why not?"

  She had to say something to shut him up. Once and for all. Truth popped out. "It'll be easier this way."

  So, that was it. Rachel Carstairs didn't want to risk getting attached to Gordie. But why? The judge's decision had freed her to pursue the work she loved and visit Gordie as often as she liked. Unless...Luke wondered if she had decided half a loaf was no good. If she couldn't have it all she wanted nothing. He frowned. No, he didn't think that was it. There had been that odd rasp in her voice again that he was beginning to recognize as a sign of stress. The only other explanation was that Rachel was afraid of getting involved with the child now. Afraid of loving.

  She put her mug back on the tray wiped her milk moustache off with the back of her hand, slipped back into bed, and switched off the light. Luke lay back and laced his fingers under his head.

  In half an hour the house would come to life. Gordie always woke at six. It was usually his chirrups that started Luke's day. They shared the first half hour of the day together. Right after his first bottle Gordie was at his best.

  If anyone had told Luke six months ago that a baby's gurgling and cooing could make such a difference to a day he would have thought them insane. Now it was the only way to start the day.

  No vice presidency could ever take precedence over his soon-to-be son in deed. The child represented his brother's dreams. A sacred trust. Anything else came second. The ranch was the best place for the boy to grow up. A child needed fresh air, open spaces. There had been no regret, no futile reluctance. Making decisions had always been easy for him.

  Until now. Until Rachel Carstairs.

  He could let her go like she wanted to. But inside him was this deep powerful tide of feeling that told him he wasn't going to.

  Luke sighed and looked over in her direction. She was a mere slice in that big bed. He could barely make her out. As usual her stillness bothered him. It was as if she felt that by being quiet the world would pass her by instead of picking on her. Somewhere along the line, Rachel had to have suffered badly. He intended to do something about it.

  "Penny for them?"

  He knew she was awake. Never any good at pretense, Rachel cleared her throat. Dawn offered gentle encouragement, lighting outlines not details. What she had to say needed that camouflage. Her face was always a dead giveaway.

  "I'll leave an address where you can reach me. If ever anything happens to change your mind about Gordie, let me know." She was proud of her voice. Impersonal, cool, brisk. "In town tomorrow I'll open a joint account in all three of our names and transfer my money into it. It's not much but please don't hesitate to use it for Gordie. From time to time I'll send more." She could have done without that betraying wobble at the end, but at least it was said.

  `What on earth?' thought Luke.

  She was talking as if she never expected to see any of them again. As if it didn't matter to her. Was her other life so important? Was this Tim fellow waiting for her back there?

  "Tell me about your work."

  Relief he wasn't going to argue her decision washed over Rachel. "I'm part of a medical relief team that just goes wherever we're needed."

  "How many people are there in this team?"

  "Two doctors, two nurses, two aides."

  "How many countries have you worked in?"

  "I've spent all my time in Bangladesh, in different villages."

  "What kind of work do you do there?"

  "We have a field clinic that's open twenty four hours more or less. In addition we try to teach the people a few basic facts about family planning, health and hygiene."

  She didn't tell him that at times they were all doctors. Rachel had incised sores, stitched wounds, even pulled out teeth. When you were all there was between life and suffering, you did anything and everything.

  "You must like your work very much. You've been with MRA five years now. Most people do what? A two year stint?"

  "One year. I've only been there four and a half years, not five. Dr. Tim Atwell, my boss, has been with MRA since its inception in the early seventies."

  Her boss. Not her lover. Rachel's tone would have told him if he was.

  "Don't you ever want to come home for good?"

  Home? There had never been a place that fitted that word. Not in her entire life. In the barren emptiness of her life from ten to eighteen, there had been one bright spot. The summer she had spent with her father's sister in Wisconsin. Mary Jennings had wanted to adopt her, but her father had refused angrily. During that one summer on the dairy farm Rachel had known love. Aunt Mary's daughter, Christina, a year older than her had offered her both friendship and affection, and a starved Rachel had collected every crumb and stored it, to make up for all the years she had gone without.

  Christina had been generous. She had shared her parents, her pets, her clothes, without any reservations. In the sunshine of her easy going nature, Rachel had blossomed, learned to laugh, even put on a little weight. They had sworn to be sisters forever.

  They had never met again. Letters had been their only link. Her father had refused to let her go to her aunt’s again saying she had been too much trouble.

  Rachel's father had died when she was nineteen soon after the first anniversary of her arrival in Bangladesh. A massive heart attack, Christina had written Rachel. A neighbor had called the police alarmed by his dog's frantic barking at Les Carstairs' door. The police had found him dead, contacted his sister whose name and address they had located by the telephone.

  Rachel had cried when she'd heard the news. For a man who hadn't known how to be a father. For what might have been. She had waited for more news, clung to the hope that he would have left a letter for her, told her what he couldn't during his lifetime. That he had indeed cared for her.

  But happy endings, Rachel had once again had to acknowledge, belonged only in fiction. Aunt Mary had written that all his things had been disposed of. There had been no personal effects worth keeping. The money her father had left her, she didn't even think of as hers. It was no substitute for the love she had craved.

  Chris had kept in touch. Twice a year Rachel had received long gossipy letters about Chris' secretarial classes, the men in her life. She had moved to California after her mother's death, and taken up a job in the University of California, Santa Barbara. Time and again she'd asked Rachel to return. They would share a flat. Rachel could take some classes; maybe even get a job in the University. The letters always ended the same way. Tons of love and kisses. Intangible love.

  Rachel hadn't been able to put her thoughts into words. That she was where she belonged. That she was afraid to risk failing in a one on one relationship again. Her brief scrawled postcards kept communication open but the door to her real feelings closed.

  Then Chris had me
t Rob Summers. He had come to the university for some forms for the daughter of a friend. It had been love at first sight.

  After she was married, Chris' letters had become more insistent. She wanted Rachel to come and spend a vacation at the ranch, get to know her new family. They were wonderful people. Rachel would love them. Rachel had chosen not to try and find out.

  Lost in her own thoughts she forgot Luke had asked her a question.

  What had he said now to send her back into her shell? Hannah and the doctor were both right. She was a mass of nerves.

  "Rachel?" Propping himself on an elbow he wondered if she hadn't fallen asleep again.

  "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

  "Don't you ever want to come home for good?"

  "There's nothing for me here, now."

  The stark statement was like a knife in his gut. Questions bombarded his brain but he didn't let them out. Getting to know Rachel Carstairs, coaxing her trust, couldn't be accomplished in one talk. It would take more than a knight in shining armor to solve this particular riddle. It was suddenly of paramount importance that he should do so as quickly as possible.

  Luke lay back, linking his fingers under his head. Any successful campaign needed a plan.

  Gordie sucked on his first bottle of the day with vigor. Changed and fresh he smelt like rain washed flowers. His skin was like crushed silk. Dark eyes, exactly like Luke's were fixed on his uncle's face. From time to time a hand came up and patted one cheek. Sturdy legs flailed the air. He was in a hurry to be done, to get on with the day.

  "Easy champ, easy," Luke coaxed. "You're going to get sick if you drink it down so fast."

  Gordie didn't alter his pace and a few minutes later Luke put his nephew on his shoulder patting him till he burped. Once, twice.

  A sound in the kitchen doorway alerted him to her presence. She was wearing the skirt of her pink suit with a sleeveless blouse. She looked chilled.

  The sunshine feinted warmth, but the outdoor thermometer read forty-two. December mornings could be very cold here.