Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (13 page)

“Libby! I swan to goodness. If ya ain’t the beatin’est woman I ever did see. Why’re ya so dead set on stayin’ here fer? Ya ain’t took a shine to Colby or Quill, have ya? Ya can’t be thinkin’ a bein’ so foolish as to set yore cap fer one of them fellers. They ain’t got nothin’ but this place out here’n the middle of nowhere.”

“I’ve not set my cap for anyone,” she said testily. “Who would want me, Papa? He’d have to take in you and Amy too. I’ve decided that I’m going to stay right here because this place is going to grow into a town someday and I’ll have been one of the first.”

“A town? When? Ya’ll be dead ’n gone afore a town’s here. How’re we goin’ to live? Ya ain’t meanin’ to run a travel inn ’n grow crops too, are ya?”

“Yes, I’m aiming to do just that. Didn’t you see the patch the Sufferites put in? This is good fertile land, Papa. We’ll grow what we can and trade what we don’t need for goods or cash money.”

“Trade! Fer cryin’ out loud! There ain’t nobody to trade with!”

“There must be. The people here are trading with someone. Maybe they’re trading at Vincennes or sending their crops downriver.”

“Lordy, mercy me. Ya want me to break my back agrowin’ corn, wheat ’n punkins on the chance we can send ’em downriver?”

“And a garden,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve got the seed. Drink your tea, Papa. I’m going out to see about the children.”

“That’s another thin’. What’s Quill agoin’ to do with them younguns, anyways? If’n ya ain’t careful, he’ll shove ’em off on you, Libby. We didn’t find ’em. It ain’t up to us to look out fer ’em. We can’t hardly feed our ownselves. If’n ya’d had your own younguns ya’d not been so set on pullin’ up ’n comin’ out to the wilds fer ’em to be took by the savages. Not that I’m thinkin’ Jubal was man enough—”

Liberty slipped through the door and walked hastily from the cabin before she said something she would be sorry for later. There were times when she could take her father’s complaining, cantankerous ways and other times, like now, when she wished he were a million miles away.

She heard Mercy’s squeals of happy laughter coming from the barn and wished fervently for the carefree days of her own childhood. Then she thought of Daniel and his unhappy, fearful association with his father. No doubt his young mother had many times shielded him from the harsh discipline of the old man, taking the brunt of his anger herself. When she tossed him from the wagon into the berry bushes, she had probably cautioned him to stay quiet. He was used to obeying, and that training was what had saved his life.

Mercy’s laughter rang out again. What a difference a couple of years made in the life of a child, Liberty thought. Mercy had been taken from the security of her family the same as Daniel had been. Yet in just a few days she had adjusted to a new family and could run and play and laugh. Daniel was old enough to remember and to realize what had happened to his mother who had made up his whole world. All of Liberty’s womanly impulses urged her to lift the burden from his little heart and to make him feel he belonged to someone.

She headed for the barn, but when she saw Farr coming from the pen where he had enclosed the cows, she veered sharply and went toward him.

“Farr,” she called. “Papa said you sent Colby and Rain to get our wagon. I—”

“I didn’t
send
them. They insisted on going.”

“What if they can’t find it?”

Farr grinned. “Don’t worry. Between the two of them they could find a flea on the back of a buffalo. They’ll not have any trouble finding a wagon and a couple of oxen.”

“I hope so. I hate to think of wearing this dress much longer without washing it.”

“I’ve got an extra pair of buckskins.”

His twinkling green eyes teased her all the way down to her toes. The awakening of some emotion she didn’t quite understand coursed through her as she looked into the clear green pools. She wanted to laugh. Instead, she eyed him with an odd smile and, as if being alerted by his close scrutiny, her heartbeat quickened. She felt light-headed and foolish, and her eyes clung to his. She didn’t know why, but she had never been less articulate in her life, or more comfortable and relaxed, even if Farr did excite her. In fact she had never felt so acutely aware of a man before. It was as if she had been carrying a hollow spot inside of her that was suddenly filled. It didn’t make sense. She didn’t understand it or want to analyze it. She just wanted to enjoy it.

“Mercy!”

Amy’s yell broke the spell that throbbed between them, and reluctantly, Liberty turned to see the child run from the barn. Daniel darted out after her. He caught her just before she slipped beneath the rails and into the pen where the cows had stopped chewing their cuds to watch her.

“No, no, Mercy. You’d get yourself hurt in there.” He took her hand and gently but firmly led her back to Amy. Mercy protested briefly, then obediently trotted alongside him as he led her back to the barn.

“He’s such a good little boy,” Liberty said absently.

“You like little ones, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You didn’t have any.”

Liberty felt the heat of the blood that rushed to her cheeks. She swallowed hard and, before thinking too much about it said, “I was married only a year.”

They were quiet for a long while. Liberty could feel the warmth of his body, far too close to hers, and the warmth of the telltale blood that covered her face and neck. To hide it, she bent her head and looked down at her hands clasped in front of her and occupied herself with trying to think of something to say. When the words finally came the relief was enormous that they came out evenly.

“The children need clothes.”

“There are bolts of cloth in the warehouse.”

“They need shoes too.”

“Rain and Juicy will make them some moccasins.”

She turned to look up at him and was almost frightened by the quiet strength in his face, but not too frightened to say, “I’ll accept the shoes, but not the cloth. I’ll use Jubal’s things to make clothes for Daniel, and Amy’s outgrown things for Mercy. We’ll not be dependent upon you, Mr. Quill.” His face changed, not to anger, but to sheer amusement. He burst into hearty laughter. “What did I say that was so funny?” she asked quietly. When he didn’t answer, she said, “You laugh at the most inappropriate times!”

“I’m sorry, Liberty,” he said, still laughing. “But you get your back up over the strangest things.” He tilted his head to look into her eyes.

“I’m happy to know that I amuse you,” she said stiffly. His green eyes and sensuous mouth were far too close. She backed away, hoping he didn’t know just how much she was bothered by his closeness.

His hand closed over her wrist. “Don’t run away. I need to talk to you.”

The touch of his hand on her arm caused her nerves to dance along the entire length of her spine. She felt again the warmth, but this time she also felt a sense of connection. It pulsed powerfully between them through the warm pressure of his flesh on hers. Oh, dear God, she thought. She must not get to liking him too much. A woman would be like a millstone around his neck, he had told her. He had rivers to cross and mountains to climb. Yet he was so gentle, so sweet, so . . . strong. A small light exploded in her heart. She wanted to reach out, lay her head on his shoulder, and say that she was tired; for him to please take care of her, love her. . . .

“Walk with me to the spring.”

They walked alongside the rail fence toward a small stone building, sharing companionable silence. The sun fell warm and golden on Liberty’s face. Suddenly she decided that whatever came later for her, she was going to enjoy herself. She felt light and young and was unable to deny herself the excitement of being with him. The future would have to take care of itself; today was hers.

One of the geese waddled up beside them, scampered ahead, and strolled majestically down the path ahead of them. Liberty looked up at Farr and laughed.

“I like geese. They’re as good as a watchdog. They set up a terrible racket if they hear something in the night they don’t understand.”

“They’re better than a watchdog,” he said and smiled down at her. “And you can eat them too.”

The springhouse was backed up to a low stone rise. Farr opened the door and Liberty looked inside. Water cascaded out of the rocks, ran into a trough that passed under the door, and spilled down to form a small stream that flowed toward the river. It was cool and damp inside the building. A shelf was built along one wall. Several covered crocks sat on the shelf. This must have been where Juicy had come to get the milk.

Farr lifted the end of the log that had been halved and scooped out to form a trough and moved it so that water could run from the spring into a stone-lined pond that extended inside the cow pen.

“What a lovely spring. Does it run all year?” Liberty asked.

“It has for the last five. Sometimes during January and February we have to chip the ice from around it. It gets pretty cold here.”

“Couldn’t be worse than upper New York. We had so much snow that at times we didn’t get out of the house for weeks.”

They leaned on the rail fence and watched the pond slowly fill.

“There are a few things I want you to know before you decide to stay here, Liberty.”

She glanced up at him. His face had turned serious and his voice had deepened.

“Farr, I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me again about the danger of the Indian uprising. Papa has already told me that you’re going to build a stockade around this place.”

“It’s got to be done, Libby. There’s bound to be a major uprising, if not this year, surely by next summer. Meanwhile there will be some overanxious young warriors who’ll not wait for a word from Tecumseh or Prophet. They’ll raid up and down the river. You and Amy will be much safer in Vincennes.” His eyes held hers as her mind absorbed the meaning of his words.

Her retort was quick. “I don’t want to go to Vincennes. I want to stay here.” Instinctively she reached out to place her hand on his arm. “We’ll be safe inside your stockade.” She said the words simply, trustingly.

“You’d be a mile from the stockade, Libby. There may come a time when you can’t get here. You’ll have to be alert every minute. The warriors will come by river or through the woods behind the house. They’ll kill your stock, burn your crops and kill you if they can. I want you to know that.”

“What about the other settlers? Will they leave? Will they give up all they’ve worked for and let the land go back to the Indians?”

“That’s what I intend to find out. Before Colby and Rain left to fetch your wagon, they started the word for the settlers to gather here—”

“Started the word?”

She had forgotten that her hand still gripped his arm. And Farr, without being completely aware of it, moved his hand to cover hers. Her gaze lifted to his. There was a mesmerizing fascination in the soft, sweet smile that curved her lips and was reflected in her eyes. His own eyes mirrored his admiration.

“Colby started it to the south, Rain to the north. They left word at the first farm. It will be passed from farm to farm and by night everyone within five or six miles will know that there’s something they should know, or I’d not have called the meeting.”

“Will some of them pull out?”

“I don’t know. Most of them have put a lot of sweat and blood into their farms and won’t want to leave. I must make them understand that we have to protect ourselves. We’ll not have any help from the militia.”

“How do you know that? The territorial governor wouldn’t abandon us—would he?”

“Governor Harrison says that he doesn’t have enough troops to protect the whole frontier. It’s up to us to protect ourselves, or leave.”

“Do you know him?”

“I know him, and I know Tecumseh. Both are stubborn, proud men. But the outcome is inevitable. The Indians can’t hope to stand against the hordes of whites coming in. I can’t blame them for fighting for what has always been theirs, yet I can’t excuse the killing of innocent women and children.”

“You sound as if that makes you sad, Farr.”

“It does, in a way. I have good friends among the Indians—Tecumseh, John Spotted Elk, whom I’ve known all my life, and a chief named Blue Jacket who is a white man adopted by the Shawnee when he was a lad. His white name is Marmaduke Van Swearingen.” He watched the smile light her eyes.

“That’s a mouthful. It’s no wonder they call him Blue Jacket.” The smile dimpled her cheeks and Farr almost forgot what he was talking about.

“Rain was raised by my friend John Spotted Elk.”

“Is he Indian?”

“No. He and his mother were captured up north and taken south to be sold as slaves. John Spotted Elk bought them, fell in love with Rain’s mother and married her. John’s mother was white. About four years ago, while Rain’s mother lay dying, she pleaded with John to let Rain be raised among his own people. John sent for me, and I promised her I would take care of the lad until he was old enough to fend for himself. At that time he could choose. Rain is about as much Indian as he is white. It will be hard for him to fight his Indian brothers and hard for him to go against me and Colby and Juicy.”

Liberty looked down at the hand that lay atop hers. Her gaze lifted involuntarily to his and saw that under slanting dark brows, Farr’s green eyes were clear and searching. She made no attempt to loosen her hand from his or look away from him. The discovery that she enjoyed this sensual contact with him caused a shudder to ripple under her skin as she tried to retain her composure.

How strange, Farr thought, that he’d known her for such a short time, and yet they could be together like this. Aside from being pleasant to look upon, she was a listening woman as well as an independent, spunky one. It was as if she understood him and shared the feeling he had for the land. A huge feeling of protectiveness came over him, and then a sudden deep hunger for the soft warmth and tenderness, the sweetness of her. Crowding in on this emotion was an agonizing wave of guilt that he could feel this way about a woman after knowing the sweetness of Fawnella.

“I’d better be getting back—” She left the last word hanging, not really wanting this time with him to end.