The Women of Jacob’s Mountain Boxed Set

by Hining, Deborah;

  She wanted to go home. There was nothing to say to this man. They were from different worlds, with different values. She would take the quick ride, then get into her little Mazda and ride back home, forgetting him as easily as she could forget the leering pimps and drug dealers back in Washington who shouted at her as she walked downtown. She was immune to such men; they were so far below her that they were not worth becoming upset over. Angrily, she mounted the mare, but as she lifted into the saddle, a sudden dizziness overcame her so that she had to cling to the horse’s mane for a moment to regain her equilibrium. Busy with the high-spirited stallion, Howard had not noticed, and determined that she should get out of this gracefully, she waited quietly until he was seated and on his way up a narrow trail.

  It wound up through a brushy, steep incline; the narrowness and roughness of it prohibited much conversation, which pleased Geneva. She rebuffed Howard’s several attempts to engage her, pretending to be concentrating on the rough trail each time he called back to her. But after they had come a few miles, the trail leveled off in a fern glade surrounded by enormous, widely spaced hardwoods. It looked like virgin forest, and Geneva felt so awed by the cool stillness that her anger abated. Perhaps Howard had another source of income.

  As soon as the trail widened, Howard dropped back to ride beside her. He glanced at her shyly, waiting for her to speak.

  “Nice place,” she commented.

  “Thanky. Thank yew,” he corrected himself. “I’m real proud of it.”

  “This is yours?” she asked, surprised. They had been riding over an hour. How much land did he own?

  He looked pleased as he nodded. “Come, on, I’ll show ye the Jump-off.” Nudging the stallion into a canter, Howard flew up the slope, across the black earth. She followed him up through the trees, across a roaring stream banked with late-blooming laurel, then back down to a rocky outcropping, where he stopped. She drew up beside him, bewitched by what she saw. They were standing on a ledge miles above a river. In the distance below her, she could hear the faint roar from a waterfall, could see the mist rising like a bridal veil shimmering in the late morning sun. As far as she could see, undulating hills gave way to mountains, which gave way to the blue and silver sky. Beyond the blue, in the corner by a far mountain, clouds the color of bruises rolled in, billowing high and angry. Before them rode a rainbow, grand, but somewhat insignificant amid the vastness of the view.

  “It’s gorgeous,” she breathed.

  “Yes,” he smiled, pleased. “I’ll never let it go, not fer any price.”

  “You own this? How far?” she gasped, incredulous, then sank back in the saddle, dumbstruck as he stretched out his arm and swept it from horizon to horizon.

  As far as ye kin see. And more beyond them hills yonder.” He seemed taller, the pride emanating from him, like a full-blooded Cherokee from the last century coming back to claim his homeland.

  She gaped at him. Despite her doubts of Howard’s honesty, she very much wanted to respect him. Hopefully, she asked, “Did you inherit all this?”

  “No,” he replied, his face still gleaming. “I bought it. Ever acre of it.”

  Geneva felt like crying. She had so wanted to like him and to give him the benefit of the doubt. She did not want to repay his kindness to her and Rachel with a display of her distaste for him, but she found the ire boiling up from her stomach, causing her throat to constrict painfully and her head to pound. She almost felt nauseated as the angry, sarcastic words snaked, unbidden, out of her mouth. “I guess the hemp business must be pretty good up here. Do a lot of trading with the Mob? Got a lot of grade-school kids trekking up this mountain to get started in the business?”

  The light left his eyes as he turned to her, horror-struck. “Oh, Miss Geneva,” he gasped, his eyes pained, “I don’t grow no hemp. Not even in the garden. Mammaw jist grows enough to keep Pappaw in tea to cure his eyes. No ma’am. I never grew no hemp,” he repeated, distressed.

  “Really?” she replied archly. “Excuse me for prying, but I would guess it would take more than anybody could make from a tobacco crop to buy all this land. And these horses. And that pretty little house back there.”

  Howard stared at her. He opened and closed his mouth twice, but did not speak. At last he shook his head sorrowfully, insisting in a soft voice, “No ma’am. I never grew no hemp. Or nuthin’ like it. And I’m sorry I told ye that lie. That wuz jist my pride atalkin’. I got money in other ways.”

  She waited, but he did not speak again. “Bootlegging?” she finally asked.

  The quiet voice was insistent. “No ma’am.” he replied, his eyes on the ground.

  She sighed. “Farming, then? Logging?’

  He shook his head. “Not exactly.”

  She blew out her breath, exasperated. “Okay, Howard, I believe you.” And she wanted to believe him, but she felt too irritable and tired to hear any explanation. She was hot, and she just wanted to go home and forget about this. “I don’t know why, but I do, and I guess it’s none of my business anyway. Now come on, let’s go back. It looks like that thunderhead will be on us in another minute.”

  The thunderhead was indeed approaching at an alarming rate. Already the wind had picked up, swaying the trees and sending leaves and twigs to the ground. Howard looked around him sharply. “It’ll be here in less than a minute. We ain’t got time to git back to the house. Come on!” He kicked the stallion in the sides and tore up the trail into the howling wind. Geneva took out after him, suddenly aware that this was no small storm approaching them. The warm sky had turned black; wind tore at her hair and clothes, and the air around them had become an eerie green. The rain had not yet reached them, but they could see it in the distance, black against the trees below. The frothy, white river had disappeared.

  They had not ridden more than a hundred yards before the rain caught up with them, driving down in torrents, hitting Geneva’s face and head so hard they hurt. And then the stinging hail came raining down. The protection of the large trees loomed ahead; Howard and Geneva made the relative safety of their high canopy, then thundering across the springy humus, they continued into the deep woods. But still the rain and hail reached them. Geneva, already drenched, began to shiver in the cooling air as she urged her horse to follow the stallion. She did not know where Howard was taking her, but she felt as if they had been galloping for a long, long time through the falling ice and rain, so long that the thundering of the horses’ hooves drilled into her brain. She hurt all over; a burning pain spewed out from her head and left a tail of venom down her spine and into all her muscles. She felt weak and faint, but she held on, throwing away the reins and slumping over the mare’s neck, not caring where she was going, but hoping that she would arrive alive.

  She did not notice when the horses stopped. She saw Howard beside her in the pouring rain, touching her shoulder and speaking to her. She was shivering violently and aching with a pain that ran from her ears to her legs. It was all she could do to look at him and gasp, “Howard, I don’t feel too well.”

  Alarmed, he looked closely at her, then he put his hands to her cheeks and forehead. “Darlin’, yew got a bad chill. Yer downright blue. Yew think ye kin make it just a little farther?”

  She strained her burning eyes toward the weeping sky. It hurt to turn her eyes upward. The rain poured into her face. Blinking against the pain and the water, she nodded mutely, then draped herself over the mare’s neck. Never had she felt so miserable.

  “Never mind. I’ll help ye. I got shelter jist up ahead,” said Howard, sliding down off the stallion’s back, then swinging himself up behind Geneva. Gently, he pulled her upright and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his body, warm and easy up against her. Geneva felt as if they were swimming through a brutal ocean frosted with ice, but Howard’s warmth and strength kept her from downing.

  They rode at a canter through the deep woods for another fifteen minutes in the pouring rain. To Geneva it seemed like hours with her head and body wr
acked by pain with each stride, but she stayed grimly mute, unwilling to cry out and let Howard know what a sissy she was. Summoning all she had merely to hang on, she let the sounds of the thunder in the distance and the more immediate thunder of the horses’ hooves wash over her as the water ran relentlessly down her head and face. Howard’s horse, lashed to her saddle horn, jerked and plunged beside her so that she feared that the saddle would be torn from her mount. She clung to Howard’s arms, keeping her head bent away from the drowning rain.

  The horses slowed. Geneva peered through the gray sheets of rain to see a cabin nestled in a hollow. Like Howard’s house, it was a fairly new log structure, though considerably smaller than the house. A porch ran around three sides; a stone chimney possessed nearly the entire fourth side. A stable stood beyond near a spruce thicket. Between the house and the stable was a clearing where a small garden lay, punished by the hailstones. Howard urged the horses right up the steps onto the wide porch, then dismounted and lashed the reins to the railing. When he turned to Geneva, she slid off her mount and clung to him while he led her inside the cabin and deposited her onto a low stool placed in the center of the room.

  She was shivering; her teeth were chattering uncontrollably, and she could do no more than watch as Howard strode to a cupboard and removed several blankets. One of these he wrapped around Geneva and her wet clothes, then he turned to a narrow bed tucked under the eaves and pulled back the covers. Underneath the wool blankets lay sheets and a mattress made of straw and ticking. It was to this he led her, pushing her gently onto the bed. He removed her shoes and socks and tucked her underneath the covers. Without speaking, he spread the remaining blankets over her as well.

  Almost immediately the warmth quieted her shivering. A wonderful scent assailed her nostrils. It occurred to her that the mattress upon which she lay was stuffed not with straw but with grasses and sweet-smelling herbs. Vaguely she recognized the scent of wild mint and lavender, perhaps some fennel. Sighing, she burrowed under the covers and hoped that the warmth would seep into her bones.

  Howard had turned to the fireplace that took up most of the wall opposite the bed. He was building a fire from an ample stock of wood and kindling stacked neatly in one corner of the room. Another corner contained a rough-hewn table and a couple of stools. All around the perimeter of the room ran a single shelf built into the wall, loaded with clothing, stores of food and equipment, and oddly, a small collection of books. Under the shelf was a row of pegs, upon which hung an assortment of clothing and gear. Geneva’s eyes roved on around the room. A number of shovels stood by the front door; the back door, securely bolted with a heavy beam, shared a wall lined with cupboards and some odd-looking wooden contraptions and buckets.

  The fire lit, Howard turned his attentions back toward Geneva. She closed her eyes against the burning and tried to pull the blankets closer. As he moved the stool nearer to the bed, Geneva realized it was only a part of a large tree stump, sawed off smoothly on the top and bottom, and it was new enough that the bark still clung all around the outside. The other stools were of the same make. Clearly, this was a camp that Howard had built himself, and despite her chills and aches, she wondered why he had provisioned it so fully. No doubt he spent considerable time here. But why? She had no idea where they were, but she knew they were deep in the forest, and very high in elevation. The trees outside were spruce and fir.

  “Ye’ll be gettin’ warmed up soon, now,” he was saying. “I got us a good fire agoin’, and in a minute, I kin give ye somethin’ ta make ye feel better. Yew just lay there, and let me dry ye off some.” As he spoke, he lifted a rough towel to her head, rubbing it briskly to soak up the wetness. Irritably, Geneva wondered how her hair would look when it dried. He did not seem to mind that his method of towel-drying would surely make her look like she was wearing a fright wig. She moved her head away.

  “There, yer about as dry as I kin get ye,” he said, rising and draping the towel on a peg near the fire. Now I’m gonna brew ye up somethin’ to warm ye up. My guess is ye’ll git fever, too.”

  He moved easily, even gracefully, as he collected two buckets beside the back door. Sliding the wooden bolt from its resting place, he stepped out onto the back porch and disappeared. Geneva closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she saw him standing by the back door, water streaming from him. He set the buckets upon the table. From one of them he dipped a small pan and a larger one full of water and placed them upon the fire.

  Then he selected several tins from the shelf and spooned some of the contents from each of them into the small pan. After a few minutes, he picked up a cup and a dishcloth, and placing the cloth over the cup, poured the liquid from the small pan into the cup. He brought it directly to her.

  “Here, Miss Geneva. Drink this,” he ordered.

  For the first time since she had entered the room, she spoke. “What is it?” she mumbled suspiciously.

  “Jist some willer bark tea, with a little mint and honey so it don’t taste so bitter.” He smiled gently. “Don’t worry. There ain’t no hemp in there.”

  She smiled weakly, too sick to be embarrassed, and dutifully took the cup from him. It was bitter despite the mint and honey, but she drank it anyway. Granny Morgan had given her willow bark tea before; she knew its benefits.

  While she drank, Howard held his hands to the fire, then returning to the bedside, he reached under the covers for her foot, drew it out, and rubbed it with his warmed hands. Geneva was a little disconcerted. As good as it felt, it seemed an awfully intimate thing to do, and it made her uneasy. She became more uncomfortable when he cupped his hands around her toes, then put his mouth to them to warm them with his breath.

  “Lordy, yore feet are as cold as them hailstones. I got a kettle on, and soon’s the water gits hot, I’ll fill ye a hot water bottle.” He reached for her other foot and gave it the same firm massage, but since his hands had grown cold, he opened his shirt and placed her freezing foot against his bare chest, wrapping his shirt and his arms tightly around it.

  Oh, God, Geneva thought miserably. Where am I? Who is this man, and what on earth is he doing to me? Oh, God! Will I make it out of this place alive? She was so frightened and sick she almost cried, but tears took too much energy, so she merely closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. At this moment, it took all her strength to do just that.

  Presently, he stood again and busied himself at the fire, then returned with several quart fruit jars filled with hot water. These he wrapped in towels and packed them around her feet, then he tucked the covers back tightly around her.

  “There,” he said, smiling. That’ll start warmin’ ye up. I got plenty of these jars, and I got water goin’. I’ll pack ‘em all around ye until ye git yer blood warmed.” Filling more jars, he tucked them close beside her all up and down her legs and torso. He instructed her to hold one in each hand, and when he finished laying the last jar up in the crook of her neck, he began again at her feet, pouring out the cooled water and filling it again from the pan in the fire. If Geneva had not felt so miserable, she would have been astonished at his ministrations. He was the most solicitous nurse she had ever seen.

  Before long, as the willow bark tea suffused her system, she began to feel a little better. She grew warmer, then ultimately, almost hot. Setting the mason jars aside, she threw off some of the blankets, scratching at the discomfort of her soggy clothing.

  “I got some dry clothes ye kin put on,” said Howard, moving to gather a flannel shirt and a pair of khaki trousers from the pegs in the wall. “Ye kin lay yer wet things over here by the fire, and they’ll dry in no time.” His eyes dropped to the floor, and for the first time since entering the cabin, he looked uneasy and unsure of himself. “I’ll jist step outside and put up the horses,” he said quietly.

  “Thank you,” she said gratefully.

  She stripped before the fire, peeling off the miserable, wet clothing, and putting on Howard’s warm, dry shirt and pants, much too big for
her, but welcome. She threaded her own leather belt through the belt loops and rolled the legs and sleeves up to a comfortable length. The new clothes smelled of wood smoke and sage. She buried her face in the soft warmth of the flannel for a moment before she gathered up her wet garments to hang them on the wall.

  Howard knocked on the door. The awkwardness between them rose up again when she admitted him. With her aches and chills abated, she had room in her mind to consider the delicacy of their position. It wouldn’t have been so bad, she thought, if she had not attacked him in that barn so many weeks ago. Neither of them knew how to establish a reasonable ground for a cordial relationship, especially now that they were alone again, stuck in a one-room cabin high in the mountains, with the rain coming down in rivers. Geneva gingerly sat on the edge of the bed and smiled as well as she could. It still hurt to breathe, and she felt so weak, her knees and arms shook.

  “This bed smells wonderful, Howard. What a good idea to stuff it with herbs.”

  He, too, was obviously uncomfortable. The graceful movements of an hour ago gave way to jerky, almost clumsy gestures as he pulled another dry shirt from the wall. He glanced at her and hesitated. Geneva could see that he was deliberating about going outside to change. Carefully, she looked out of the window.

  “Do you think it will ever stop?” she asked hoarsely. “It’s a good thing you have this place here. We’d have been drowned by the time we made it back to your house—if we’d made it back all. That hail could have killed us.”

  She glanced at him. His back was turned; he had stripped off the wet shirt. The fire gleamed upon the wet jeans and the coppery skin, giving definition to the muscle and sinew, just as the lantern light had gleamed upon him the night she had embarrassed them both so. Taking a labored breath, she decided to plunge forward and clear the air.

  “Howard.” He turned to her, absorbed in the buttons. “Howard,” she repeated nervously. “I owe you an apology. Several, in fact.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and fought the urge to crawl back under the covers. She felt so undignified, so vulnerable, and she was attempting to make things a little more comfortable between herself and this man who barely spoke the same language as she. She looked at him through a mist and wished she was far away, but she knew she owed him far more than she could repay.