Marna (28 page)

Filling the basin with warm water from the pitcher,
Marna washed her face with the perfumed soap and
changed into her homespun gown. In the downy
smoothness of the feather bed and the silky feel of the
sheets, she fell asleep to the low hum of voices below in
the gambling rooms and the rumble of coaches on the
cobbled streets.

The winter days dragged on, each one colder than the
last. Matt was as gaunt as Caleb now. Every day they
hunted or chopped wood. And though the men kept
warm enough, the steady diet of nothing but wild meat
was gradually killing them off. Each day there were
more sick to tend to.

Matt frowned at his reflection in the small scrap of
mirror as he scraped off a week's growth of whiskers.

Caleb, watching him from his seat on the hearth,
jokingly remarked, "I don't know why you go to the
bother of shaving, Matt. You plannin' on runnin' into
some good-lookin' woman?"

Matt grinned. "You never can tell. I sure as hell wish
I could. I'm randier than an old goat. How long have I
been here, anyway?"

"Around two months, I think. One of the boys has
been _cuttin a notch in a stick every day so's we can
keep track of time."

Caleb started to say something else but was interrupted by a sudden sound coming from a bunk in a
corner. He jerked erect and cocked his head to listen.
In just a second it came again. A deep chest rattle,
sifting eerily through the silence. He was on his feet
immediately, rushing to the man's side. The others sat
quietly, staring gloomily into the flames. Would one of
them be next?

Matt watched Caleb and marveled at his tenderness
in handling the soldier who struggled for a breath of air. He was as gentle as a woman as he supported the
man against his chest and shoulder.

At last the rack of bones gave a shuddering sigh and
grew still. Silently laying the body back down, Caleb
closed the staring eyes. His eyes were wet as he pulled
the ragged blanket up over the shaggy head. He returned to the fire and rasped out, "Dammit, Matt, if we
don't get hold of some medicine and proper food pretty
soon, we're all gonna die."

He kicked angrily at a burning log. "I'd give everything I own to have some of old Hertha's herbs and
roots. If she was here with that bag of hers, she'd have
these men on their feet in no time."

"Old Hertha," Matt mused with acute lonesomeness.
What a fine woman. At one time or the other she must
have doctored every man, woman, and child in the
hills. He was sorry he hadn't gone to tell her good-bye
before rushing off to the war.

Caleb stood up and stretched. "We'd better get to
bed, men. We gotta get up early in the mornin'. Gotta
bury our comrade before we leave on the hunt."

The soldier Jimspoke up. "We barely got them last
graves dug, the ground was so hard. We only went three
feet as it is."

"Damn, I forgot about that," Caleb said, scratching
his head. He turned to Matt. "What are gonna do with
the poor devil?"

"We could do what the Indians do," Matt answered.

"What's that?" they all chorused.

"Wrap him tight in a blanket and put him up in a
tree. When the weather warms and the ground thaws
out, we can give him a Christian burial."

Caleb's eyes were skeptical. "I don't know, Matt. It
don't hardly seem decent."

"Why not? The Indians have done it that way all
their lives. Anyway, I don't know what else you can do. We can't keep him in here. And if you put him outside,
the wolves will get him."

"I guess you're right," Caleb relented weakly. Moving to his bunk, he said wearily, "Come on men, let's
get some sleep."

The next morning, after sharing their usual fare, they
turned to the dead man. Caleb tended to wrapping the
body, then turned the rest of the operation over to
Matt. Outside, Matt climbed midway up a sturdy cedar,
and Caleb and Jim hoisted the body up to him. Wedging it between two heavy limbs, he secured it safely
with strips of rawhide.

Returning to the ground, he brushed the snow off his
shoulders and stood with bowed head while Caleb said
a short prayer.

"Just in case none of us get back here in the spring,"
Caleb said sheepishly as they walked toward the stable.

The men were gone four days before returning with
three large bucks. Bone tired, and eyes red from the
glare of the snow, the hunters slept for twelve straight
hours. After they awakened and had eaten sparingly of
the meat they had brought back from the hunt, Jim
informed them that the wood supply was low. "I hate
to ask, but if you men feel up to it and don't have
anything important planned-" He lets his words trail
away, unable to finish his request.

Caleb glanced over at Matt and remarked cynically,
"Did you have somethin' important to do, Matt? Like
goin' to the tavern for a few drinks, or maybe visitin'
Betsy's place?"

Matt grinned and reached for his coat. "I sure as hell
could stand a night at Betsy's."

As the weeks dragged on, it seemed to Matt that all
he did was chop wood and scrounge the forest for food.
In between he helped Caleb with the sick, doing what he
could to make them more comfortable. Each day new
ones came down, and soon the body in the cedar had
been joined by four more.

One night as Matt sat staring vacantly into the fire,
an idea crept into his mind. He was still mulling the
thought around when Caleb came stamping in and
plopped down beside him.

"I just came from number ten cabin. Four more sick
ones. Seems like every time we come back from a hunt,
the sick have doubled." He leaned back on his elbows
and said wearily, "Half the camp is down, Matt, and
I'm so damn tired I could sleep for a week."

Matt rose and stood with his back to the fire. "Caleb,
I've come to a decision. After I've rested up a bit and
caught a few hours' sleep, I'm goin' back to the hills
and get some medicine from Hertha. Do you think you
could keep the men hangin' on until I get back?"

Caleb had jerked himself off his spine. "I don't
know, Matt. It would take some doin'. It will take you
at least two weeks to go there and return."

"Well, do you have any other ideas? It's plain we're
not gonna get any help from the army. Jim's been up to
talk to Washington, and he just keeps sayin', `You men
gotta hang in there until spring.'"

Caleb had been jabbing at the fire absentmindedly,
his brow furrowed. He straightened then and returned
the poker to the hearth. "I been wonderin', Matt, if you
could sneak into Philadelphia and see if you could
scrounge up some medicine there." Before Matt could
answer, he added, "You'd have to be awfully careful.
The streets are full of British soldiers."

Matt began unlacing his moccasins. "I could get
around that. I'd just say I was a hunter down from
Canada. But I have my doubts about finding an apothecary that would let me have the amount of medicine we
need. They'll be wantin' a high price even if I find one
that's willin'."

"I think it's worth a try, Matt. You could always
blow out his brains and just take what we need."

"I could that." Matt grinned, then asked, "How far
do you think it is to Philadelphia?"

"Not far. Just a couple days' ride."

Matt stretched his long frame out before the fire.
Pillowing his head on his arms, he said, "It's settled,
then. I'll leave early in the morning."

Two months had passed since Marna's arrival in Philadelphia. To her it seemed more like two years.

Although it was well past noon, she still lay in bed
this winter day, lingering over a cup of black coffee.
The delicate china cup rattled slightly in its saucer as
she set it back on the tray. Untasted eggs and muffins
lay cooling on a plate.

She leaned back in the pillows, rubbing her brow.
She had a headache that was blinding. If only she dared
ask Grandma for a powder.

She sighed. It wouldn't be worth the scolding she
would receive in exchange for her request. Grandma
wasn't happy with her these days. And rightly so, she
had to admit. For the fourth evening this week she had
drunk too much wine.

It had been almost daylight when her escort brought
her home, and they had laughed too loudly as they
made their uncertain way up the steps to the front door.
Windows had banged open up and down the street, and
she had giggled. The high-nosed bitches would have
new stories to tell about her as they sipped their breakfast tea.

Marna grimaced at the thought and placed her tray
on the floor. Stretching down into the covers, she continued to rub her throbbing temples gently. She would
never drink wine again, she vowed.

But staring up at the ceiling, she commented to herself that she had made these vows before, only to break
them by the next evening. Bored and lonesome, she
would give in to some man's plea that she attend some ball or party with him. Wine would be pressed into her
hand, and to defy the sly watching eyes of Philadelphia's best, she would deliberately drink too much. Before the evening was out she would flirt too openly and
laugh too loudly.

In Philadelphia's high society, she was the talk of the
city. Everything she did or said was discussed by the
scandal carriers. These gossip mongers included the
worn-out dowager, the haughty single girl looking for a
husband, and even the male members who haunted the
Traver's door.

It had been so since her first appearance in society.
At first, bewildered by the gossip and hurt by the cool
reception she received from Philadelphia's high society,
Marna had withdrawn and refused to go out. But the
vicious gossip about her had continued, and after a
while she had grown tired to being called a trollop for
no reason. She had finally reached the point where she
had turned on the great ladies of rank and position. She
now went forward to meet her adversaries. Adopting an
insolent, patrician bearing, she would sweep into a ballroom or gathering and deliberately lure the men to her
side. She was always careful that her escort was high
enough up the ladder that he wouldn't be asked to leave
on her account. In that endeavor she had no problems.
They were always underfoot.

But her laughing, uncaring manner hid a trembling
and uncertainty in her young and unhappy breast. She
was so lonely and miserable. Some days she thought
she could not bear it.

Marna sighed and sat up, thinking that it all seemed
so long ago. She turned her head to the noise going on
next door. Betsy was stirring around in her room. She
was surprised to hear her up so early. Betsy's bed had
still been bouncing early that morning. And her pa
wasn't discreet in his lovemaking, either. His grunts and
groans could be heard all over the apartment.

Hearing these sounds all the time and seeing the contented glow that Betsy's face always wore had turned
Marna's thoughts more and more to her one night of
love with Matt. She awakened often in the middle of
the night, her loins and breasts aching. She yearned with
a fierce eagerness to have the ache stroked away by
caressing fingers and lips. To have her body flattened
by a hard, muscular body bearing down heavier and
heavier.

Lately she had had recurring dreams the intensity of
which would remain with her for hours. They would
always begin with Matt making love to her. But then,
when she reached for that unbelievable crest that Matt
had brought her to, another face would hang over her.
She would utter a small, distressed sound, wanting Matt
back in her arms. But a pair of black eyes would bore
into her own, and a husky voice would murmur, "Don't
fight me, my lovely."

Unable to help herself then, she would relax, and a
slim, hard body would come down on her.

Marna stretched herself in the warm glow of remembering. She knew this man who made such wild love to
her in her dreams. His name was Aaron Laker, Her
father's best and most trusted dealer.