“It was wonderful. The best Christmas ever,” she answered without hesitation.
“Oh, posh,” Nette laughed. “You’re just being kind. I’ll bet you have real fancy Christmases in Boston.”
A bittersweet ache filled Jemma at the memory of the Christmas celebrations she’d shared with her father.
“Tell us about it, Jemma,” Lucy urged.
Jemma looked around the table at the eager faces awaiting her description of the many Christmases she would just as soon forget. Early-morning mass was followed by a midday dinner in the dining room. Dressed in their finest, she and her father would dine at opposite ends of the table, a sea of crystal, china, sterling candelabra, and hothouse flowers separating them.
After dinner he would present her with a pile of gifts to open: more of the same sort of gowns and jewelry that already filled her room. Most often she would make something for her father, something he didn’t need or want, and buy him a book out of her allowance. He would fuss over the gifts for a moment and then hand them over to Mrs. Greene and have the housekeeper put them away.
Later, the household staff was called in, presented with Christmas bonuses, and summarily dismissed. Shortly afterward, Thomas O’Hurley would leave to go visiting, as it was his custom to deliver champagne and good cheer to his many business associates in the city. Once or twice, when Jemma was a little girl, Mrs. Greene had let her attend the gay celebration in the servants’ dining room. Until tonight, those noisy, crowded affairs had been her favorite Christmases. One Boston Christmas had blended into another—none of them very special. Not one had ever left such a warm glow in her heart.
Lucy was waiting expectantly for her to weave a grand tale.
Jemma sighed. No one wanted to relive such bleak Christmas memories. Most especially her.
“My father and I would spend a quiet day at home. That’s all there was to it.” She spread her hands wide in a gesture of apology. Everyone was expecting more.
Hunter, who had been sitting apart from the group, stepped out of the shadows. All day long, Jemma had been aware of him watching the festivities but not really joining in. Tonight, he seemed not only to be distancing himself from her, but from the rest of them as well. He had not uttered more than a few words since they had all sat down to eat, and when the meal was through, he had slipped into the background like a haunting shadow.
Committing them all to memory.
The notion shocked her. Could that have been what he was doing, she wondered? Or was he merely in a reflective mood?
“How about a walk, Jemma?”
He stood at the end of the table, holding her green wool cloak in his hands. The invitation shocked and surprised her so much that she simply sat there staring up at him.
“Are you crazy, Uncle Hunt? It’s freezin’ outside,” Junior volunteered. He was immediately hushed by his father and his mother.
“Of course, she’ll go.” Nette nudged Jemma out of her silent stupor.
“I … yes. That would be nice.” She let him slip her cloak over her shoulders, feeling a sudden warmth when he put his hand on the small of her back.
What in the world was going on? She couldn’t help but wonder why, after avoiding her so consciously, he suddenly wanted to be alone with her. Not only that, but he had just announced it to the whole family.
A deafening silence fell over the table as Hunter led her to the door. The only ones not paying them any mind were the little girls, who were still content with placing their dolls on the toy boats and shoving them across the floor. Jemma paused to look back before she stepped outside and caught everyone in a frozen tableau, smiling at her and Hunter.
“You seemed uncomfortable talking about Boston,” he said without preamble as they stepped out into the night. “I thought you might like to escape.”
“Thank you for coming to the rescue again. Did you forget I’m not paying you to look after me anymore?” She laughed and looked over at him, but her teasing hadn’t even brought a smile to his lips.
Thankful for the chance to stretch her legs after the heavy meal, Jemma noticed that Hunter had matched his long strides to her shorter ones. The air was dry and cold. Overhead, the stars had put on their most brilliant display for Christmas. With the trees towering alongside the path and the open sky above, she felt as if she were in a roofless cathedral.
Side-by-side, they headed down the snow-covered path toward the river. The sound of the rushing water mingled with the light wind blowing through the trees. She didn’t think anything could compare to the magical setting of the dense, endless forest surrounding the cabins on the bluff above the Mississippi. Certainly not Boston or New Orleans.
“It’s so beautiful here,” she said, thinking aloud. “When I first saw this place I thought it looked like an enchanted village in a fairy tale.”
“It’s a hard life out here on the edge of the world.”
His tone was so matter-of-fact, so detached, that Jemma laid a hand on his arm. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You’ve been so quiet all evening.”
They had reached the end of the trail, where it started down the steps built into the bluff that led to the landing. Hunter paused and stared across the river, taking his time answering, drinking in the sound of the water. Somewhere along the riverbank, a night owl hooted. It was a lonely, mournful sound.
A shiver ran down Jemma’s spine.
“I’m leaving, Jemma. Tomorrow morning. I wanted to tell you first, before I told the others.”
Her breath caught. She felt as helpless and adrift as she had the day she was flung headlong into the raging waters of the Homochitto. He had made it sound so final.
“Leaving? Where are you going?”
He still wouldn’t look at her. “West.”
The word said it all and yet nothing. The West was an endless expanse of uncharted land. In most minds it was still an idea more than a place.
“But isn’t this rather sudden?” A sense of panic hit her. She clasped her hands together to still their shaking. “You’re going to just up and leave? For how long?” She wanted to touch his shoulder, make him look at her.
He shrugged. “For good.”
Forever. She would never see him again. “Why, Hunter?”
He turned around. She wished he hadn’t. His tortured soul was mirrored in his eyes.
“What about the others?” What about me?
“They’ll get along. They don’t need me now.”
She stood there mute, her heart racing.
“There will hardly be any more boats headed downriver until spring. Luther can hire somebody to help put out the crops. We have plenty of men through here asking for work every spring. Thanks to you, Lucy’s doing fine. It’s not easy to explain, but I’ve just got to go, Jemma.”
He sounded panicked, as if he were trying to convince himself, not her.
She had come too far, discovered too much about herself to let him walk out of her life when she was just beginning to understand who she was and what she wanted. The wind off the river picked up a strand of her hair, threading it through her eyelashes. She brushed it away.
“What if I said I didn’t want you to leave?”
“Jesus, Jemma. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
“But, why does it have to be, Hunter? I’ve seen you with your family. You belong here.”
“More and more folks will be settling around here, wanting to build close to the post and the landing so they can ship their crops downriver. Pretty soon there will be towns, roads. I don’t like crowds, Jemma. I’m a loner. I’ve got to be on the move.”
She lashed out with anger fueled by hurt. “You might think you’re a loner, but you’re not. You’re a leader who needs people as much as they need you. You collect people, you attract them like flies to honey. Nette, Lucy. Luther and Hannah and the children. They wouldn’t have come this far if it hadn’t been for you. They want you in their lives, not just for what you can give them—”
/>
Hunter turned away and stared out at the dark water. She couldn’t give up, couldn’t let him go without a fight.
“And Noah. Hannah told me Noah’s uncomfortable around most people, that he hardly ever says a word. He won’t give folks the time of day, and yet he considers you his friend.” She took a deep breath and plunged on, reckless. “What about me? You knew I was lying. You could have left me in New Orleans, turned your back and refused to help, but you didn’t. Do you think you can ever walk away from what’s inside you, Hunter? From this ability to gather people, to guide them and help them find their way?”
“People have needed me all my life, Jemma. My pa died early and Ma needed me to take over. Then it was Luther and Hannah. Then Nette. And Lucy.”
“And me. I’m sorry I’ve been such a burden.” A deep sorrow wrenched her heart. While she had been falling in love with him, he had added her to his list of responsibilities.
“And you. But never be sorry, Jemma.” He reached out and touched her cheek, traced her dimple with his thumb—a gentle, fleeting touch, as if he couldn’t bear to linger. “I’m sure your father has a home waiting for you whenever you’re ready to go back to it.”
“So you don’t have to worry about me now, either, is that it? Oh, yes, Hunter. I have a place to live, but it’s not a home. Never a home. What I wouldn’t trade for someone needing me,” she cried. “My father needed me like a man needs a new carriage to show his friends. I was a reminder of the time he had with my mother, but his business took her place in his life, not me. I was a memento, a showpiece. He never, ever really needed me. Do you know how lucky you are to be needed? To have a family that loves you?”
“Yes. I do. But I know what I feel inside. Here.” He placed his hand over his heart. “I’ve dreamed of this for so long, of going out into the wilderness on my own. I want to make the first footprints across lands no white man has ever seen.”
She felt as if she were hanging off a cliff and her fingers were beginning to slip. She tried to calm down and not let panic overwhelm her.
“I had a dream, too, Hunter. I thought I wanted adventure. I wanted out of my old life—but what I came to realize was that I wasn’t looking for adventure. I was looking for what you have had every day of your life—a sense of belonging, and love—and I found it here.”
“If I don’t go now, I’ll never go.”
Desperation made her panic. “Then take me with you—”
“I don’t even know where I’m going.” His voice was harsh, his lips grim. He grabbed her upper arms, held her away from him. Some of his hair had escaped the leather thong. The wind whipped it across his mouth and away.
“But I’ve just found you.” A ragged sob caught in her throat. “I’ve been looking all my life—”
“What are you talking about?”
“You. You and me. Don’t you see? I love you, Hunter.”
“Don’t, Jemma. One night doesn’t give you enough experience to know whether or not you’re in love.”
He may as well have taken her heart in his hands and squeezed the life out of it. He went on before she could tell him that the words were tearing her apart.
“I thought I was in love with Amelia, but by the time she left, I was happy to see her go. I didn’t know how to end it and she saved me the trouble.”
“You’re saying you don’t care for me at all?” She had gone beyond humiliation, lost her grip and slipped over the edge. She was falling and needed to grab on to a lifeline. “I’ve seen something else in your eyes when you look at me, Hunter. Something you aren’t willing to own up to.”
“I care too much,” he said softly. “That’s why I have to leave. I can’t take your love—which is what will surely happen if I stay. I don’t want to wake up some morning knowing I made a mistake, wishing I’d gone after my dream.”
She knew all about dreams. She had wanted to follow hers so badly that she had walked out of her old life, never knowing that the respite from her father’s world would change her forever. If she went back, she knew she would no longer be content with hours of embroidery, tedious tea parties, social calls, pretentiousness.
Yes, she knew about dreams.
He was right—he had to go. She understood, and still it hurt. All of her anger and desperation ebbed to a dull ache that lodged in her heart.
“Go then,” she whispered, turning to stare across the Mississippi, furious at him, at herself, at fate. “Go after your dream, Hunter Boone.”
“Jemma—”
She felt his hand on her shoulder and shook him off.
“Don’t touch me. Please.”
“Walk back with me.”
She shook her head no. “I don’t want to be there when you tell them. I’ll … I’ll go back to Nette’s alone.”
“You can stay here in Sandy Shoals as long as you want, Jemma.”
“I know that.”
“Maybe if—”
“Don’t even say it, Hunter.” She held up her hand, the gesture a plea, a warning. “Don’t make me hope when there isn’t any.”
“Won’t you at least turn around and tell me good-bye?”
She whirled around and let him see the icy tears she had been hiding before she wiped them away. Her hands were freezing, her heart a frozen lump in her chest. She had realized that her dream, and now the very heart of it, was slipping away.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” she said.
“You know I do. Let me go, Jemma.”
“Kiss me good-bye, Hunter. Kiss me one last time so you’ll have something to think about out there on your damned frontier.”
For a heartbeat she was certain he was going to deny her. She could see him warring with his emotions, see the need flaring in his eyes—a need as deep and yearning as her own. Suddenly, as if afraid he might change his mind, Hunter reached for her, slipped his hands beneath her cloak, and dragged her into his arms. She cupped his face. His cheeks were cold. She welcomed his lips. They were warm. She threw aside restraint and melded herself against his hard length.
His mouth slashed across hers. What he demanded, she gave. What she offered, he took. This was no gentle kiss. This was an all-out assault on each other’s senses. As she opened to him, as their tongues touched, circled, delved, and tasted, she committed it all to memory.
She ran her hands through his hair. Her breath was coming hard and fast, like his. She felt him shift his stance, press his hard manhood against her. His hands slid up along her ribs; the heat of his palms through her gown rebuffed the cold night air. When his thumb teased the underside of her breast, Jemma wrapped her arms around his neck. He cupped her breasts, teased her nipples—hard, aching buds beneath the silk. Her need shot through her—lightning-swift need that rocked her and started a sweet, aching pulse between her thighs. She moaned against his mouth.
He tried to pull away.
His breath was as ragged and rough as her own. He reached up, took hold of her wrists, and pulled her arms away from his neck. Standing there in the dark, he held her wrists in his hands and stared down into her eyes. In the darkness, his eyes were colorless, black, haunted by warring needs.
“I’ve got to do this, Jemma.”
“I know,” she whispered.
She thought he was going to release her—and started to close her eyes so that she wouldn’t have to watch him walk away. Then, standing a foot away, he bent down and touched his lips to hers once more. The kiss was light as milkweed down, as quick as the tick of a clock stealing time. Then it was over.
Jemma wrapped her cloak tightly around her, its warmth wanting compared to his embrace, and left him standing there beside the river.
For the first time in his life, Hunter felt completely alone. Alone with only his dream for comfort. As he watched Jemma disappear down the path, heading toward Nette’s cabin, part of him wanted to call her back, to beg her to forgive him and forget everything he had just said. But he would only be prolonging the inevitable.
N
o matter what she said, no matter how logical her argument, they had to go their separate ways. She was from another world. Sooner or later, the novelty of life in Sandy Shoals would wear thin; when she was facing the everyday hardships without naive enthusiasm, she would think differently.
He took a deep breath and waited for the frigid air to cool his blood. He should have known better than to kiss her again, but the hard truth was that he had reached the point where he couldn’t deny her or himself any longer. Watching her throughout the celebration tonight, he knew that if he stayed one more day, if he had spent one more hour with Jemma, he would have thrown caution to the wind and taken her to his bed. There would have been no turning back. He would never have been able to leave her.
He should have asked her for the name of a saint who might help get him through the next hour. He wished like hell he could walk away right now, simply disappear into the forest. But first he needed to collect his gear and provisions. And he owed his family more. They loved him. Above all else, there was that.
He had to go back to the post and tell them that he was leaving at dawn’s first light. He had to say good-bye, kiss Hannah and the little ones, endure Nette’s tears and the abandonment in Lucy’s eyes. He had to say good-bye, knowing as he did that there was a very real possibility it would be the last time he would ever see any of them again.
Chapter 17
Upper-Missouri Wilderness, March 1817
A dream can be a very cold and lonely thing, not unlike the snow that reflected blue-white beneath the sun as Hunter rode across the open plain, leading his pack mules behind him. He had grown used to listening to the sound of his own breath, watching it fog on the sharp, cold air.
There was a storm coming on. He could feel it in his bones, smell it. After waking up mornings with no real plan except to keep moving and stay alive, he even welcomed the necessity of searching for a place to take shelter.
Squinting against the sun, he studied what appeared to be a thin, white ribbon of smoke against the sky. There were Mandan winter camps nearby; he had passed some of the villages and found the people curious and eager to trade. Hunter headed toward the smoke and finally came to a rise that overlooked a shallow valley chiseled out between two foothills. The smoke rose from a crude chimney made of river rock atop a structure half-planted into the side of a hill.
Just Once Page 24
