Just Once

by Jill Marie Landis

  “I can’t take this,” Jemma said, clutching the folded quilt to her heart. “It’s one of your finest.”

  “They’re all my finest, child. But it’s not anywhere as dear to me as you are. Take it. It’s bound to get cold once in a while down there in New Orleans.”

  “You ready, Jemma?” Noah LeCroix stood waiting to help her board a huge flatboat tied up between the other boats on the shoreline.

  Her stomach turned over. The day she had dreaded so long had finally come. It was time to go. She wanted to run up the crooked wooden steps built into the bluff and hide in Hunter’s loft. She would never see the forest fully green with summer’s leaves. Timmy would take his first steps without her being there to cheer him on. One day the man Lucy was so certain she would recognize as her special mate would walk in and propose, and Jemma wouldn’t be there to share her joy.

  Jemma thought of a thousand and one excuses for not getting aboard. Noah stood there silent, his dark, unfathomable eyes watching her as she wrestled with doubt and longing.

  She had to go. A week ago, a group of travelers headed up to St. Louis had brought a letter for her from New Orleans. Her father had arrived in the city ahead of schedule, contacted the Moreaus and found her gone. The events that followed, he wrote, were too complicated to put down in a letter. He demanded her return, an explanation, and an apology. She had to go.

  Her fate was sealed. She would never see Hunter again, never look into his green eyes, never hear the sound of his laughter or the impatient tone that hid his concern. Never again would she know his touch or taste his kiss.

  She was certain of it. If she weren’t, nothing on earth could have ever made her leave. Travel up the river being what it was, there was every likelihood that she would never see the Boones, Nette, or Lucy again either.

  “Stay, Jemma,” Hannah begged. “Write your father. He’ll understand.”

  Jemma shook her head. “I can’t. I … Don’t you see, Hannah?” She glanced over at Nette, who had reached for her hand. “If I stay, I’ll just keep watching the river, walking the trail along the bluff waiting for Hunter. Every time someone walks through the door of the post, I’ll look to see if it’s him—and when it isn’t, my heart will break all over again.”

  She blinked back tears and looked over at Luther. He was helping to load passengers on top of a boat so big and so crowded with people and their possessions that it looked like a floating island with rails and a roof. Fastened on each side of the roof near the bow were immense oars. Taking charge, separating the supplies to better distribute the weight, he reminded her so much of Hunter that it was hard to watch him. Nette was squeezing her hand. Tears slipped out from beneath the old woman’s glasses.

  “I can’t stay,” Jemma whispered. “Not when everything I see or touch or hear reminds me of Hunter.”

  “What if he comes back?” Hannah wanted to know. “What will we tell him?”

  “Tell him that I had to go.” Her voice broke. Even after almost four months, the pain of missing him was still too raw. She managed to whisper, “He’ll understand.”

  If there was an ounce of hope in her heart, she would have stayed, but the words he had spoken on Christmas night were still too clearly etched in her memory. “I don’t want to wake up some morning knowing I made a mistake, wishing I’d gone after my dream.”

  Noah picked up the bundle of clothes she had tied in a length of fabric. To the naked eye it seemed she was leaving with little more than she had come with: a mended silk dress, a worn forest-green cloak, the pants and shirt Hunter had bought for her, the moccasins.

  And memories.

  Priceless memories crowded into every corner of her heart and mind. Her own memories, not her grandfather’s embellished tales. Recollections that would last a lifetime. But above all, she was leaving with a clarity of vision she had never known before. For the first time in her life, she knew who she was and what she wanted.

  All that was missing from her life was Hunter Boone, but she had survived the wilderness trek and a winter in Sandy Shoals. She could survive anything. Even a broken heart.

  Noah stepped around her, ready to shove off and pilot the flatboat through the shoals. The other travelers on board were anxious to be on their way to new horizons. Knowing that she dare not say another word, Jemma hugged Nette, then Hannah. Biting her lips to still their trembling, she turned away. Luther was just stepping onto shore. He paused, started to say something, then took her in his arms and gave her a bear hug.

  “I wish things could have been different, Jemma.” He let her go. All she could do was nod. “We’ll miss you, and we’ll never forget all you did for us. I couldn’t have gotten the crops in if you hadn’t been here to run the post.”

  She found a place to sit atop a barrel securely lashed to the rail. The river was yellow-brown with mud, running swift and high since the spring thaw. She looked down into the swirling, muddy water as the flatboat was pushed out into the current, and had a queasy feeling, along with a flash of memory of falling headlong into the Homochitto.

  She should have known better than to travel by water. The Mississippi was flowing fast and high, a churning mass of water and silt. Noah stood in the stern, watching for treacherous shoals, floating logs, or lodged debris. Hunter’s friend. In his own way, the half-breed exuded the same kind of confident capability as his gaze swept the water and he shouted directions to the men manning the broadhorns, or oars. A few yards away, Noah clung to a lifeline and hung out over the bow, agile as a cat, his gaze sweeping the angry water, calling out to the oarsmen who leaned on the broadhorns.

  As she clung to the rail, fearing for her life, a bundle of meager possessions at her feet, Jemma wished she had stayed. But she knew it was too late for wishes.

  Over the bawling of a frightened milk cow in the stern and the excited shouts of some of the other passengers, Noah bellowed commands at the oarsmen. She watched and wondered at the change in the strong, silent man. As soon as the flatboat left the shore, he had become one with the movement of the boat, the flow of the water. She now knew why he was legendary for his skill as a river pilot.

  The boat lurched and lodged, one of its corners caught on a sandbar, perilously close to having its bottom ripped out and sinking everyone’s dreams. As forward motion stopped and the craft swayed in the river, one of the women inside the cabin screamed, which set the children wailing.

  Jemma was torn, wondering whether she should try to work her way inside to help calm the frightened children or prepare to jump overboard. She had tasted the waters of the Homochitto and had no desire to launch herself into the mighty Mississippi. The woman’s shrieks had subsided to mere howls. The children were still crying. The cabin was not that far away. If she was careful, she would get there.

  Grabbing hold of a cask and an upright wagon wheel hemmed in beside it, she started for the door of the rectangular box built atop the flatboat.

  A crate full of chickens slid off the top of the cabin, hit the rail with a crash and a riot of fitful squawking, and fell overboard into the raging torrent. Crate, chickens, and all were swallowed by the river. Aghast, the terrified passengers watched for some sign of the ill-fated fowl, but not even a feather reappeared anywhere near the flatboat.

  Yellow-brown water lapped perilously close to the rail. She told herself to stay calm, that Hunter Boone was out of the savior business and wouldn’t be here to rescue her if anything happened. She was on her own.

  The men atop the cabin gave a mighty thrust against the oars and once again the flatboat started racing downriver. Jemma looked back and could still see the post, high above the river on the bluff. Her friends were gathered on the shoreline, a small huddle of humanity and love banded together on the riverbank. They were still waving, still wishing her well.

  She waved good-bye in return, but could not for the life of her muster enough joy to smile. They rounded a bend and Sandy Shoals disappeared, suddenly, irrevocably.

  Hunter’s thr
ee-day ride had lengthened to six. Preacher Childress and the Evanses had the habit of wanting to stop and set up camp early, not to mention insisting on eating three meals a day. Hauling Jemma up the Trace had been nothing compared to the last few miles of his journey home. It called to mind the trek from Ohio with Luther and Hannah and the others—but at least they had been as anxious to reach their destination as he. Since the Evanses had no notion of where they were going, they saw no reason to hurry.

  Frustrated, fighting to keep his temper even and his patience intact, Hunter had almost persuaded himself to leave them with a well-detailed map when Little Artie fell off the back of the wagon and broke his arm. Diana became hysterical, her nerves frayed, her spirit understandably low after a winter on the Ohio River. It took Hunter, Tom, and an hour of prayer and persuasion by her brother to convince her that they had to move on. An entire day of travel had been lost.

  Finally, the end of the trail was in sight. Sandy Shoals was less than a mile away. Hunter had been consumed with thoughts of Jemma, of their reunion, of the possibility that she was no longer in Sandy Shoals at all. He didn’t want to think about what his life would be like without her, not after his weeks alone up the Missouri.

  He left the Evanses behind and headed for Sandy Shoals alone. Preacher Childress followed on a slow-minded mule. Hunter nearly reined in when he passed a new homestead and the cleared land around it. On the edge of the clearing, a hickory stump was still smoldering. A man Hunter had never laid eyes on paused behind his plow to raise his hat and wave. Hunter stared, then gave a quick salute and pressed on. What other changes had occurred while he’d been gone?

  A covey of quail burst out of the undergrowth along the trail and startled his horse. Determined that nothing was going to stop him now, Hunter hung on, nearly losing his hat, and kept going.

  He passed the path that veered through the woods toward Noah’s strange pole house in the swamp. He was almost home.

  When he was in sight of the tavern, he could see the smoke pouring out of the kitchen chimney, but no other sign of life. Once he cleared the trees, one glance at the river told him all he needed to know. A flatboat, two keel-boats, and a canoe were docked at the landing.

  His horse was still moving when he slid out of the saddle and hit the ground running. The winded animal shook its head in protest when he tied it up at the hitching post. He quickly shouldered his way through three men loitering outside the door, discussing the price of tobacco, and stepped inside. The place looked different, cheerful, somehow more welcoming.

  Scanning the crowded room, he searched for Jemma but didn’t see her. A flash of color caught his eye. He looked up and saw some of Nette’s quilts hanging from his loft. They looked nice and cozy hanging there, brightening the room. A card game was going on at the end of one table. Further along, three women sipped coffee and chatted about the abundance of doves they had seen on the way downriver. There were empty bottles with spring wildflowers here and there on the tables.

  Luther was serving drinks at the counter while Lucy spoke to a portly bald man after handing him a package. As the man walked away, Hunter wondered what in the hell Lucy was doing carving a notch in the edge of the bar. Her hair was wound up in the fancy style she had taken to wearing before he left, and she had on the pink gown that Jemma had made. Her smile was gone, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy.

  Nette, Hannah, and Jemma were nowhere to be seen, but from the aroma drifting in from the kitchen, he knew they were cooking. Lucy was his first concern. He crossed the long cabin, nodding a greeting to anyone who managed to catch his eye.

  Lucy was crying. Silent, slow tears ran down her cheeks, but she merely swiped them off with the back of her hand and continued to wipe spilled whiskey off the bar. No matter how badly he wanted to rush off to the kitchen and find Jemma, he needed to see what was wrong with Lucy first.

  Jemma would understand.

  Lucy didn’t see him step up to the bar. He asked, “What are you doing carving up my counter? And why in the hell are you crying?”

  The girl looked up, startled. She went white, as if she were seeing a ghost; she didn’t move until Luther shouted, “Hunt!”

  Lucy laid down the paring knife and darted around the end of the counter toward him. Hunter thought she was going to hug him to welcome him home, so he smiled and spread his arms wide.

  She walked up to him, drew back her fist, and punched him square in the gut. The wind went out of him with a loud grunt and he staggered back against the bar.

  “What … was that for?” He barely gasped out the words.

  “That was for my friend Jemma. She waited for you, Hunter Boone. Waited until she couldn’t stand the hurt you’d dealt her anymore, and then she left.”

  The words hit him like a bucket of icy water. He found out what it meant when someone said their knees went weak. He grabbed Lucy by the upper arms, held her still. “Jemma’s gone?”

  Lucy thrust out her chin. “What did you think? That a woman like Jemma would wait forever? Do you know she’s had twenty-five proposals of marriage since you’ve been gone?”

  He let the girl go and had to reach for the counter.

  “And?”

  “She’s left, no thanks to you.”

  “Lord, Lucy, don’t be so hard on him.” Luther had come around the bar to stand beside him. He pounded him on the back in welcome. “Jemma left three days ago.”

  Proposals?

  “Is she … is she getting married?” Not to someone else. Not now. He felt like getting down on his knees, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall one single saint Jemma had ever mentioned.

  Luther went on. “Noah piloted the flatboat she was on and he’s already back from where he gets off at the ferry, so by now she’s well on her way south—”

  They were interrupted by the sound of Nette’s voice booming across the room. “Hunter Boone! As I live and breathe, I never thought I’d see you again in this lifetime!”

  Nette headed in his direction with a platter of pie slices, when she collided with Devon Childress as the young preacher cleared the threshold. Plates and pie rained down, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

  “Who is that, Hunter?” Lucy wanted to know, suddenly rooted to the floor.

  “A preacher. Picked up him and his family a ways back. I’d have been here to stop Jemma if I hadn’t.” He couldn’t keep the frustration out of his tone.

  “You came back for Jemma?” Nette left the preacher scraping up pie, and walked over to join Hunter and the others.

  Hunter nodded to her, not ashamed to openly admit what a damned fool he’d been. “I did. Did she leave any word for me?”

  His heart sank to his gut when she shook her head. “You broke her heart, Hunter. She moped around here for weeks, then she got a letter from her father, badgering her to go home.”

  “Home? Home to Boston?” It was half a world away, but no farther than he’d already been. If he had to, he’d go and beg her to forgive him.

  “She headed for New Orleans. Her pa’s set up his new business down there. Has a new house, too.”

  “So she left.” He closed his eyes.

  “It weren’t easy for her.”

  He could feel Nette and Luther watching him, waiting. He looked at Lucy, who was helping the preacher wipe up sweet-potato pie.

  “Go get her, Hunt,” Luther advised. “Before it’s really too late.”

  Hunter slipped his hand over his possibles bag. Inside lay the tarnished pendant. Just when he thought he knew who he was and where he was headed, fate had pulled the rug out from under him.

  “You really think she’ll have me now?” He focused on Luther, avoiding Nette’s silent censure.

  “You’ll never know until you ask her.”

  Chapter 19

  New Orleans, A Few Days Later

  Clutching her bundle of possessions, filled with pride and foreboding, Jemma stood on the deck of the flatboat in New Orleans, staring up at four-fo
ot-high lettering emblazoned on the riverfront side of a huge wooden warehouse. O’HURLEY IMPORTS. She had found her father without having taken a step on dry land.

  “He’p you over, ma’am?” A Negro stevedore stood waiting to assist her onto the dock. Nearly everyone had already disembarked and the men were waiting to unload the livestock.

  She nodded and gave him her hand, balancing her bundle as she lifted the tattered hem of her skirt. The trip downriver had been fairly uneventful after the near-catastrophe on the shoals. After Noah disembarked, she had made acquaintance with some of the others aboard. From then on her days and nights on the river were spent in conversation or quiet contemplation as she watched the passing shoreline, thinking of all the dear friends she had left behind.

  And of Hunter. Always Hunter.

  Knowing full well that she could never forget him, she also knew that she had to go on. The first step toward a beginning would be to make peace with her father. She took the bundle from the stevedore and thanked him. Dodging carts loaded with goods and horse-drawn wagons heavy with crates, she picked her way across the bustling, teeming road that ran along the levee.

  When she reached the open double doors of the warehouse, she paused to stare into the dim interior. Crates and barrels were piled from floor to ceiling, separated into aisles to allow passage between them. Tantalizing spices rode the air. Black markings labeled the boxes in every written language, some familiar, others so foreign that they resembled odd scribbling. The sight called to mind Grandpa Hall and his stories of exotic ports of call, adventure, danger, and new sights, sounds and smells.

  Jemma smiled. Seeing the boxes gave her no desire to escape to parts unknown. Instead of the old, familiar longing for new sights and sounds, a quiet serenity helped her marshal her courage as she stepped inside the cavernous building to locate her father’s office. Not two strides inside, she was nearly bowled over by a harried-looking young man carrying a sheaf of papers as he turned a blind corner.

  “Excuse me, miss.” He began to apologize until he took in her bedraggled gown, mud-stained moccasins, the bundle in her arms, and her tangled hair. What had been a polite smile quickly faded. “We don’t give handouts,” he said, shooing at her with the papers as if she were a pesky fly. “Get along.”