Violet Fire (28 page)

“Turning tail on me, Grace?” he asked quietly.

“No!”

“You wouldn't run from Rawlins' threats—you even lied to brave them. But now you want to run. Why?”

“I'm afraid,” she breathed, clinging.

He held her close. “Don't be afraid. I won't let anything happen to you—I promise.”

“It's not me I'm worried about! It's you! Ford is evil, Rathe, he's going to do something. Putting a bullet in your back wouldn't be beneath him.”

He didn't smile. “You still don't have any faith in me, do you? From the moment we met, you pegged me a cad, a rogue, a philanderer, a gambler—am I missing any epithets?”

She wanted to tell him she loved him, but she was afraid. Instead she stood frozen with apprehension.

“Do you think me a coward, too?”

“No!”

“If I ran, that is what I would be. Things are not finished between me and Sheriff Ford, and until they are, I can't leave.” He started to walk away from her.

Grace ran after him. “Rathe, be sensible. Cowardice has nothing to do with this. This is common sense! Why provoke Ford?”

“I'm not running from this, Grace. I won't run from any man.”

“Damn you! You're going to get yourself killed!”

He turned slowly. She was sobbing into her hands. He was stunned. He went to her, took her hands, wet with her tears, in his. “You're afraid for me.”

“Yes!”

“You care for me.”

“Yes!”

“Enough to stand by me?”

She stared, her lashes thick and wet. The silence lengthened, and then she said, “Please, let's leave.”

His tone was hard, bitter. “Enough to marry me?”

She gasped.

His gaze was diamond-hard.

“What are you saying?”

“Will you marry me, Grace? Do you care enough to marry me?”

Her heart was beating so hard she couldn't concentrate. “I—I—Rathe! I have to think.”

His nostrils flared. “I believe,” he said, as cold as ice, “that's what you said the last time.”

“Rathe,” she pleaded, grabbing his hand as he turned away. “We don't suit! You know we don't suit.”

“We don't suit,” he said. “Funny, I thought we suited very well.”

“You know what I mean! You're twisting the words all around!”

“Am I? You're the one who is so precise with words—so to the point.”

“Rathe, look at what just happened. Can you honestly tell me that you'd have let me teach the children if you'd known about it?”

He exploded. “What the hell does that have to do with us!”

“Everything!”

“You know damn well what you did was foolish. And you lied to me; you skulked around behind my back; you not only almost got me killed, but you almost got yourself raped in the process. You know damn well I would never have let you teach! For God's sake, Grace, Allen will be back at his job in a few weeks!”

“If we were married, you could have forbidden me to teach. And legally, I would have been bound to obey you.”

“I ask you to marry me, and we're fighting about you teaching.” His gaze was strained in his bitterness. “Nothing's changed. You've never trusted me, and you still don't.” He turned and strode away, back toward the road that they had come from town on.

She was horrified. “Rathe, wait!”

But he wouldn't stop. His long strides ate up the ground. Grace began to run. “Please, wait, Rathe!”

She caught up to him, grabbing his arm. He shook her off, not looking at her. She halted, leaning against a tree, panting. “Please,” she gasped. “Wait.”

He didn't stop. Nor did he look back.

It felt like she was mortally wounded. Grace slid to the ground at the base of the tree and wept. She had hurt him, and hurting him was worse than hurting herself. But, dear Lord, what should she have done? She hadn't even said no. She had been truthful in telling him that she needed time to think. And Lord, she did!

She knew she couldn't marry him.

He would slowly strip her of her independence, or try to, and their marriage would be one bitter fight. Eventually, wouldn't they start to hate each other?

He wanted to marry her. Did that mean he loved her? And if he did, how could he want to take away the most important things in the world to her? Worse, why was her heart begging her mind to acquiesce?

“I can never marry him.”

Spoken out loud, the words rang with truth.

Resolute, she rose to her feet.
What should she do now?

Leave
.

Grace hated herself. She did not want to leave. Should she stay here and play his paramour for the next year, until their agreement was up, waiting for the inevitable? Fighting like cats and dogs? Could she stand it, loving him, being with him, yet knowing it was doomed? And if she did leave, would he leave too? She was certain he would keep pushing at Ford as long as she was there to see it. But if she left…

It was the most hopeful thought she had had. She would
gladly sacrifice the remaining time left to them to assure his safety.

Grace found the picnic basket and bent to retrieve it. Just when she was feeling slightly less miserable, the sight of the abandoned basket brought forth fresh memories and fresh tears. If she were to be truly honest with herself, she'd admit there was only one place she wanted to be right now—in Rathe's arms, begging forgiveness, soothing away his hurt.

A few minutes later, she realized that she was not on the trail that would take her to the road to town. In her deep turmoil, she had taken a deer path of sorts. She hesitated, unsure of which way to go, then determined that the road did lie ahead, and that with luck, she would find it.

Grace walked for a few minutes, with growing worry, until she saw a clearing in the trees ahead. There was something familiar about the meadow ahead, and she felt relief. Then she stumbled to the edge, and clapped her hand to her mouth.

It was the meadow where the church she had taught in was—except the church was gone, destroyed. Nothing but cinders and dirt and scorch marks and the twisted lump of the iron wood stove remained.

Tears came to her eyes. Such violence, such destruction…such hatred. If Grace had more tears to cry she would have wept anew, but she didn't; instead, she leaned against a blackened tree and hugged herself in anguish.

She arrived back at the hotel with her heart in her mouth. She entered their room; Rathe did not look at her. He was wiping shaving cream off his face, clad only in his breeches and boots. A lump caught in her throat. “Rathe?”

No answer. He scooped up change from the bureau, putting it in his pocket.

“Rathe?”

He barely glanced at her, shrugging into his shirt.

Grace was terrified. He was leaving her. “Rathe?”

“What, Grace?”

He was so cold, it broke her heart. “Are you going out?”

This time he did look at her, with narrowed, frost-filled eyes. “Don't bother waiting up.”

She choked on her own breath, watching him give her his back, full of anger and disdain, shrugging on an ice-blue vest and a tawny jacket. He walked past her as if she were invisible. The door slammed shut behind him, and he was gone.

He didn't return until close to dawn, when the sky was just changing hue. Grace had not slept at all, and her eyes were red from crying. She lay on her side, stiffly, pretending sleep, but listening to every movement he made. She could tell instantly that he was sober, as he methodically stripped off his clothes. Her heart was frozen in her chest, and she prayed that he would come to bed, take her in his arms, tell her that he loved her. Instead, he climbed in the bed, left a gaping two feet between them, and promptly fell asleep. Crying without making a sound was the hardest thing she had ever done.

 

The next morning was a repeat of the day before and Grace couldn't stand it. He was eating breakfast and reading the newspaper, giving her more of the same cold, cruel treatment he had given her yesterday. Grace had to know what he had been doing last night. There had been no fragrance of cheap perfume when he had come to bed, and she saw no rouge on the clothes she had so carefully set aside for the laundress. But she couldn't stand the thought that he had spent the night in another woman's arms. “Did you play poker last night?”

He didn't look up. “Yes.”

She paused. “Did you win?”

He snapped the paper. “No.”

“I'm sorry.”

He threw the paper aside, his gaze burning. “Do you have something to say to me, Grace?”

“Where were you last night?” she cried. “Were you with another woman?”

His look was utterly uncompromising. “You have no right to ask.”

She gasped.

“You're not my wife,” he said, the muscles in his jaw rigid. “Only a wife has the right to ask a question like that.”

She couldn't help it, her face began to crumple.

“Shit!” Rathe exploded, rising abruptly and knocking his chair over. Then he was gone.

She should leave now, while things were like this. Yet how could she, for that very reason?

Outside their room, in the hall, Rathe leaned against the door, fighting the urge to go inside and take her into his arms. Damn her! She didn't trust him at all! She didn't trust him enough to marry him, didn't trust him to be able to handle Ford, didn't think he could stay out of a whore's bed when he wasn't with her! What kind of man did she think he was?

He stayed out until sunrise, and this time came home drunk. He had lost a thousand dollars, and he didn't care. Of course, it was all her fault, damn the red-haired witch. Damn her for not believing in him. Damn her for refusing to be his wife. Now, under the influence of alcohol, the hurt was like a gaping wound, threatening to engulf him.

She was sleeping, looking impossibly beautiful, on her side, in the filmy nightgown he had bought her, her hair cascading all around her in fiery red waves. He was suddenly stricken with the wonderfully warm memories of the day he had returned from New Orleans. God, had she been happy, like a little girl at Christmas, unable to contain her delight over a few simple gifts. He had been happy, too. They had been so damn happy, and now they were so damn miserable.

Desire filled his loins until he was swollen and aching and wanting her so badly he thought he might die. But he
wouldn't touch her, oh, no. Damned if he would show her how much he needed her, how much he wanted her.

She stirred and raised up on an elbow. “Rathe?”

Her eyes were so red and so swollen.
Am I doing this to her?
he thought with a terrible pang. He shoved the guilt and remorse away. He had offered her marriage, and she had been unsure, had told him she had to think about it, had proved she did not love him.

“Rathe?”

He steeled himself to ignore her, turning his back and stripping. Then he thought the better of removing his breeches—damn himself anyway for still wanting her! He made sure not to touch her as he crawled into the bed.

“Is every—” She gulped air. Her voice quavered, close to desperate tears. “Is everything all right?”

He closed his eyes and fought himself. He heard her ragged exhalation, and felt, rather than saw, her curl up into a little, self-contained ball. He cursed when she choked back a sob. He moved.

He leaned over her with a groan, touching her shoulders. She gasped, instantly launching herself into his arms. He held her. She cried. He stroked her. She clung. “Oh, damnit, Grace,” he groaned.

She clutched his face. “Make love to me,” she demanded, frenzied. “Rathe, please.” Her lips covered his frantically.

He opened beneath their onslaught, melting, irretrievably lost. “Grace, Grace…”

“Oh Rathe,” she cried, pushing him onto his back, straddling him, kissing his face, his eyelids, his neck, and his jaw. She grabbed hanks of his hair, anchoring him. “Rathe…”

He closed his eyes, arching back his head so her mouth could find his throat. Maybe, he was thinking, maybe this can be enough. If he could just be patient…

She stretched out on top of him, rubbing against him. Rathe was stunned at her blatant, aggressive desire. “Grace,” he cried, taking her head in his hands and shift
ing his weight, about to roll her beneath him. He could not wait. Never had he needed anyone like he needed Grace. God, he had missed her!

“No,” she gasped, on her knees, reaching down to unbutton his pants. Her hand closed around his hard, silk-and-steel length, the first time she had ever touched him there, and Rathe was helpless, lost, frantic. “Grace—please!”

She held him, rubbed herself against him, and then was impaling herself upon his full, thick length. Together, they soared.

 

She delayed leaving.

Rathe had sent another telegram to his parents, notifying them that he was postponing their arrival.

They were both clinging desperately to their new relationship. No longer were they simply man and mistress. Both were trying to endure a situation neither found acceptable, yet could not change. There had to be an end in sight, yet neither dared to consider it. It was easier to be together, and pretend that everything was as it should be, that things would never change. While their time together was as intense as before, both in bed and out, desperation and urgency underlay every moment they spent together. And they both felt it.

For this reason, Grace could not understand what Rathe was doing. The past two days he had disappeared mysteriously, claiming high-stakes poker that he couldn't afford to miss, leaving Grace alone and disappointed and hurt. Their relationship was in such a precarious state as it was, and his behavior now added to it. He was doing something behind her back—this she knew very well. Then one day Clarissa and Geoffrey appeared, a welcome relief to the unfamiliar boredom of an idle afternoon.

“You've gotta come with us, Miz Grace,” Geoff beamed, tugging her down the stairs.

“Did you bring a bonnet, Miz Grace?” Clarissa asked
from behind them. “It's real hot out there. You sure need a bonnet.”

“What is all this fuss about?” Grace asked, feeling their uncontained excitement. “No, I did not.”

“You're going to need one,” Clarissa stated. Grace ran back upstairs and retrieved a lavender hat that matched the stripes in her linen gown.

“Ah, my favorite mule, I see,” Grace said, sighting Mary bridled to a small cart. Mary didn't bat an eye. Grace gingerly patted her—she did owe the mule something, after all. Mary craned her neck around to give her a look either reproachful or incredulous—it was hard to say which.

“Well,” Grace said, “where are we off to?”

They climbed in, Clarissa picking up the reins. “It's a surprise,” she said clucking smartly, “Giddup!”

“Mist' Rathe says,” Geoff began, but Clarissa nudged him hard in the ribs with her elbow and he came to an abrupt halt.

“Rathe? What's he got to do with this?”

Geoffrey squirmed. Clarissa gave him a dark look, then proceeded to begin politely discussing the weather, then the upcoming cotton harvest, then the cut of Grace's gown. Grace finally leaned over and put a hand on her arm, silencing her. She was very, very curious.

They left Natchez behind, heading north. If Grace didn't know better, she would suspect they were heading for the burned-out ruins of the church. “Where are we going?”

“We'll be there shortly,” Clarissa said, with a smile.

Grace sat with her hands in her lap. In the summer afternoon birds sang, the trees whispered, honeysuckle and lavender hung thickly around them. She heard voices, lots of voices, mostly male. As they approached, she could distinguish much laughter and singing. She would recognize the soulful, melodious singing of the freed men anywhere. And then she heard banging, steady banging. “What is going on?” Grace asked, straining to look around the bend.

And then she knew, of course, because this was where the gutted church was.

They rounded the corner and the mule came to a stop. Grace cried out. The shining wood frame of a new building, a bit larger than the old one, greeted her. Fresh pine floors were almost completely laid down. Men were in the rafters, on the ground, hammering nails. Mules and oxen were bringing in more lumber. A shingled roof covered half of the structure already. It was wonderful.

A hundred people must have turned out, not just men, but women and children too. A big barbecue pit was going, and tables were laid out with a multitude of food on colorful, festive cloths.

Then, shocked, Grace realized not everyone was black. She spotted George Farris, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, holding a hammer and grinning as he stood by what looked like a skeleton of steps. She spotted Allen, directing the placement of the contents of a wheelbarrow, and a few other white people, including Doc Lang, Harriet and Sarah Bellsley. There were only a dozen whites there, but it was a beginning, and her heart flooded with joy.

Then she spotted him.

Rathe sat in a right angle of the frame, high up at roof level. He wore work pants and boots, but no shirt. He was slick and shining with sweat, hammering steadily away. A bright green bandanna was wrapped around his forehead, keeping hair and perspiration out of his eyes. For an instant she was caught up watching the rippling of the muscles in his back, the contours of his biceps.

“Yore man did this,” Clarissa said in her ear. “It was his idea. Now we got a brand-new church and schoolhouse, better than the ol' one.”

Emotions too intense to be contained swept her, and tears filled her eyes. He had done this. He wasn't a rogue-he was wonderful. He was the kind of man who moved mountains when they stood in his way. Hadn't she sensed that from the moment she had met him? Wasn't that why she had so selfishly pitted him against Ford? Was it pos
sible that she loved him more now than before? Was it possible she had begun falling in love with him the moment she had first seen him?