Love and Cherish Page 12

  “Her’s jist as feisty as a ring-tailed coon in the spring. Hit was fer certain the tyke missed ya.”

  Sloan stretched his arms high above his head.

  “I’m going to get some sleep. Sit with her.” He nodded toward Cherish. “She may be frightened when she wakes up in a strange place. Her name is Cherish—Cherish Riley.”

  “Cherish?” Juicy said. “Who’s ever heard a name like that?”

  “You have, now.” Sloan grinned. “And I’ll bet a gold piece that you’ll be eating out of her hand in less time than it’ll take to tell about it.”

  “Wal, now, I dunno as ta that,” Juicy retorted. “Ain’t seen no woman yet I can’t turn me back on. The all-fired purty ones don’t usual have no brains. Can’t see this’n be no different.”

  “Well, if you feel that way, I guess True will have to do all the watching over her.”

  “Thar ye go. Ye just hold on a dadburned minute. I never said I ain’t gonna take keer of the little ol’ bag a bones. I jist said—”

  Sloan laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I know what you said, Juicy. Lord, I’m tired. Call me if she wakes up.”

  He went to the far end of the room, climbed into a bunk and gratefully pulled the warm blankets over him. He fell instantly into the first truly peaceful sleep he had had since leaving the homestead more than three weeks before.

  CHAPTER

  * 13 *

  Cherish was in a dreamless state halfway between sleep and reality. She heard a voice asking for water. An arm raised her head and a cup was placed to her lips. She drank deeply and opened her eyes. She saw the fire in the hearth and the candle on the table.

  “Home,” she whispered. “I’m home.”

  A black-bearded face drifted into her line of vision. She reached out and her small hand was engulfed by a huge calloused one.

  “Papa! Oh, Papa—” She closed her eyes and was floating, floating in the warm bed.

  Juicy looked anxiously at the girl’s face. “What’a ya think, True? Reckon we ort ta call Sloan?”

  “Naw.” True placed the palm of his hand on Cherish’s forehead. “She ain’t got no fever. She jist plain tuckered out. Pore little ol’ mite. Her jist ain’t built for trailin’.” He shook his head. “She’s jist as purty as a covey a’ quail, an’ her’d make jist ’bout as big a mouthful.”

  “Ain’t no use of us both missin’ sleep,” Juicy said. “I’ll sit an’ I’ll call ya.”

  True turned away. “Ya call me an’ I’ll sit.”

  Cherish woke hours later. The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was Sloan sitting in a chair by the bed, a doll-like child on his lap. The child’s head was covered with a mass of dark curls and she was staring at Cherish with wide light-gray eyes. The resemblance to Sloan was so strong that Cherish’s mind fought frantically to recall Sloan’s words. He had said the child was his brother’s—hadn’t he?

  The little girl had her thumb in her mouth and was rhythmically bumping the back of her head against Sloan’s chest. He was gazing over the child’s head at some distant point in the room.

  Cherish peeked at him through her lashes. He didn’t look like the same man she had met in the woods beside the Kentucky River. The blue shirt he was wearing was made of a soft, beautifully woven material. It fit his broad shoulders and chest exactly. The sleeves of the shirt were full and gathered at the wrist. His face was clean-shaven but showed lines of fatigue. The child on his lap wore a dark-red dress of wool linsey. Peeking from beneath the skirt were leather fur-lined shoes that laced high on the small legs.

  Cherish moved her hands from under the cover and Sloan’s eyes swung to her immediately.

  “So, you finally woke up.” He smiled. “I’ve been having a hard time keeping this scamp from jumping right on top of you.” He removed the child’s thumb from her mouth. “How do you feel?”

  Before she could speak, her stomach made a gurgling sound, reminding her of its emptiness.

  “All right . . . except I’m terribly hungry.”

  “Good.” He set the child on her feet beside the bed. “Sit up and I’ll bring you a bowl of True’s stew.”

  Cherish sat up and smiled tentatively at the child, who stared back at her without the slightest flicker of an eyelid. Cherish could not get over the child’s startling resemblance to Sloan. She wondered if he and his brother had looked much alike.

  “I think you have her treed, Cherish. I’ve never seen her so quiet.” Sloan placed a board with a large bowl of stew on it across Cherish’s lap. “Come to think of it, she’s hypnotized. She’s never seen a woman like you before.”

  “What do you mean . . . a woman like me?” She spooned the stew into her mouth hungrily.

  “I mean a white woman. No, I mean a pretty white woman with red hair. We have people from the river stop from time to time, but, well, no one like you.” He gently removed the child’s thumb from her mouth again. “She’s never seen hair like yours or such white skin.”

  Cherish emptied the bowl. “That was so good. My stomach must have shrunk,” she laughed. “I’m full.”

  “Your things are in the other room,” Sloan said. “I’ll take in warm water so you can wash. You probably want to be dressed before Juicy and True get back.”

  Hesitantly, Cherish placed her feet on the floor. Pulling and tugging at the blanket, she managed to get it wrapped about her. She was surprisingly weak when she got to her feet, but she walked steadily across the floor and into the adjoining room. Sloan followed her with a copper kettle and poured hot water into a large china basin.

  Orah Delle came with him, her tiny hand holding tightly to the buckskin of his britches. When he poured the water, her arms circled his leg and she peeped around at Cherish.

  Cherish held out her hand. “Orah Delle, would you like to stay with me?”

  The child hid shyly behind Sloan.

  “Don’t you want to stay with the lady and get acquainted, sweeting?” Sloan put down the kettle and picked up the child. He sat her on a chair beside the washstand. “It’ll take her a while to get used to you,” he told Cherish.

  As soon as he was gone, Cherish looked around the room. It was not as large as the main room, but, as in the other, the chinks between the logs had been filled with clay and the walls covered with white birch bark. A large stone fireplace was set into the wall at the end of the room and a log crackled and popped on the grate. Cherish didn’t think she had ever been in a nicer room, but what caught her eyes were the furnishings and the glass window, unusual in a wilderness cabin.

  A walnut chest with four large drawers and two small ones stood near the window. On the washstand was an elaborately decorated pitcher and bowl set. A massive wardrobe stood against the wall opposite the chest. The rest of the furnishings included a rocking chair by the fireplace, the straight chair—from which Orah Delle sat quietly gazing at her—and the bunks. There were three of them, their heads nailed to the unbroken wall. The middle one was child-size with rails on three sides; the other two were long and narrow, the head and one side against the wall. All looked comfortable with filled mattresses and woven coverlets.

  Cherish stared at the bunks. Involuntarily her eyes closed and she recalled the haven Sloan had made for them during the blizzard. He had not meant that to happen. She knew that now. A desperate weariness enveloped her and she began to tremble. She must not forget: Sloan wanted a nursemaid . . . nothing more.

  Ashamed, she opened her eyes and turned away from the bunks. She was being unfair. Sloan had explained his position clearly. He needed a nursemaid for the child—Cherish glanced at Orah Delle. What had happened between them on the trail simply hadn’t meant to him what it did to her. It couldn’t.

  Her belongings lay on one of the bunks. She shook out her spare dress, examined the shift and decided it was wearable, although part of it had been torn away to be used for bandages for her feet. She found towels, soap, and cloth by the washstand. After stripping off her cloth
es, she washed herself from head to toe. Dressed again, she unbraided her hair and ran her fingers through it to remove the snarls.

  She had almost forgotten the child was in the room and was startled when the small hand tugged at her skirt. Staring up with large solemn eyes, the little girl timidly held out a large silver-handled hairbrush. Impulsively, Cherish knelt and gathered the small body in her arms.

  “Why, thank you, lovey. That’s just what I need. But how did you know? Let’s sit here in the chair and we’ll brush it together.”

  Holding the child’s hand, she led her to the rocking chair. As soon as she was seated the little girl climbed into her lap and snuggled against her. A rush of sympathy came over Cherish. She hugged the small warm body, marveling again at the silky dark curls, the wide gray eyes with their fringe of dark lashes that were so like Sloan’s. So like her beloved Sloan’s.

  Cherish brushed her hair and let it hang down over her shoulders and breasts. With an impish smile on her face, Orah Delle reached out and wound the shiny hair around her chubby fist.

  “I know a game we can play,” Cherish said. “Here . . . you sit on my knees and I’ll hold your hands. We’ll play like you’re riding a horsey.” She positioned the child and grasped her hands. When she lifted her knees up and down, Orah Delle bounced. A giggle burst from her rosebud mouth. Encouraged, Cherish began to sing.

  Ride a little horsey go down town,

  Ride a little horsey go down town.

  Ride a little horsey go down town . . .

  To get Orah Delle a dolly . . . oh!

  The small face was transformed with laughter. It rang merrily through the room. Each time Cherish sang the song she ended it with something different for Orah Delle—a dog, a toy, a sweet. When Cherish’s legs got so tired she could no longer bounce her, the little girl threw her arms about her neck and hugged her tightly. The longing for a mother’s love was so evident that Cherish had to squeeze her eyes shut to hold back the tears.

  “I’ll be a good mama to you, my baby,” she said impulsively. “I’ll be your mama and you’ll be my precious little girl.”

  The child leaned back and looked up into her face. “Mama. Mama . . . Mama . . .”

  A sound drew Cherish’s attention to the doorway. Sloan stood there with such an odd look on his face that she couldn’t tell if he was pleased, angry or indifferent as he witnessed the scene.

  She hesitated, then asked, “Is it all right? Do you mind if she calls me Mama?”

  He came further into the room. His expression still told her nothing and she began to feel acute embarrassment.

  “If that’s what you want. True’s been telling her I had gone to get her a mama.” He reached down and lifted Orah Delle from Cherish’s lap. “You’ll have Cherish worn out, sweeting.”

  “Mama,” the small voice insisted. “Mama.”

  “All right. Mama. You’ll have your new mama worn out.” Sloan was smiling when he said it.

  “Papa . . . Papa!” Orah Delle threw her arms around Sloan’s neck.

  “I was beginning to think she didn’t talk. She’s not said a word but she . . . laughed,” Cherish finished lamely.

  “Oh, she talks. Between True and Juicy’s mountain lingo and mine, I think she’s confused.” He nuzzled Orah Delle’s neck and she giggled.

  Cherish felt a faint pang of jealousy and was immediately ashamed. The little girl was obviously starved for love and companionship. Cherish was sure she could love the child and be loved by her, even if she couldn’t be loved by Sloan.

  She stood and began coiling her hair, then remembered that she had no pins to hold it up. She groaned and released the shimmering mass. It fell like a waterfall about her shoulders and down her back.

  Sloan gazed at her, his expression giving away nothing.

  “I forgot that I lost my hairpins.” She tried to keep her voice light. In the back of her mind she remembered her mother saying that no respectable woman would let a man other than her husband see her with her hair loose.

  Sloan went to the wardrobe and opened the double doors. Attached to one of the doors was a long mirror. Cherish saw for the first time in her life her full reflection, head to toe. At first she failed to recognize herself. When she did, she looked away in embarrassment.

  Sloan pulled out drawers—one of sewing supplies, and another filled with small garments for the child. A third drawer contained lengths of dress goods, ribbons and tatted laces. Another had spun wool rolled in tight balls ready for knitting. Cherish had never seen such an array of tempting items.

  “Use anything here you need.”

  Her eyes went round with surprise. “Oh, my. I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just couldn’t,” she repeated, shaking her head. “They’re . . . it’s just too fine.”

  “I insist, Cherish,” Sloan said sternly. “This is your home now. I want you to feel comfortable in it and to use anything that’s here as if it were your own.”

  “Thank you,” she said in a small voice, then added. “If I use anything, I’ll use it . . . sparingly.”

  “I’m not poor. You don’t have to be miserly.” He rummaged in a drawer. “There’s a lot of things here, but I don’t think you’ll find any hairpins.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “I’ll braid my hair again.”

  “I’ll whittle you a couple of pegs to get you by for now. True is the best whittler in the country. In no time at all he’ll have you supplied with fancy combs and pins.”

  “I couldn’t ask him to do that. But I would like some pegs. Back home, Mama and I used thorns Papa cut from the thorn tree. I lost mine the night I ran away from the Burgesses.”

  Sloan came close to her and gathered up a handful of her bright hair.

  “Leave it down for now. I’m going to enjoy seeing the looks on the faces of two old goats when they see it. I’m sure their mouths will drop open a foot.” His eyes were concealed by dark lashes and she couldn’t read their expression to know if he was joking or serious.

  They stood looking at each other. Sloan fingered her hair. Orah Delle, sitting on his arm, reached out to feel it too.

  The sound of the cabin door opening, followed by the heavy stomping of boots on the plank floor, broke the spell between them. Cherish’s heart was dancing wildly in her breast and her cheeks were flushed as she followed Sloan, carrying Orah Delle, out of the room.

  The two men who entered took off fur robes and hung them on pegs beside the door. One, with a shiny black beard that rested on his chest, was the largest man Cherish had ever seen. As tall as Sloan, he was at least three times as big around. His bright blue eyes twinkled as he looked at her. It was impossible to tell if he was young or old.

  The other man was tall and terribly thin. His face had a razor sharpness to it and his eyes were sunk deep in his head. From the lines in his face Cherish guessed that he had suffered immense pain. He must be the one Sloan said had lost his family to the fever.

  Cherish hung back, suddenly realizing that she was standing before Sloan’s friends in her stocking feet, wearing a faded, wrinkled dress, her hair hanging down her back. She was completely unaware that she was a vision of loveliness such as men dream about but seldom see. The fact that these men didn’t say anything increased her discomfort.

  Sloan moved to her side, and made a courtly bow.

  “Gentlemen, may I present Mistress Cherish Riley?” He glanced at her and winked. “Cherish, meet my two good friends, Juicy Deverell and Truman Beauchamp, better known as True.”

  Cherish stepped forward and held out her hand. The two men stood as if they were glued to the spot. Sloan nudged Juicy, whose huge hand then swallowed Cherish’s small one.

  “How do you do, Mister Deverell,” she said and smiled up at the man who towered over her. “I woke up once in the night and you were sitting beside me. It was good of you to give up your sleep to care for me.”

  “Ma’am,” Juicy’s voice
was as soft as if he were speaking to a small bird. “Twarn’t nothin’. Twarn’t nothin’ a’tall.”

  “Well, I do thank you.”

  Cherish turned and smiled at the tall, thin, serious-faced man. She gave him her hand.

  “Mr. Beauchamp, your stew was delicious. I’ve never tasted anything so good in all my life. Will you tell me what all you put in it?”

  “Harrumpt!” The derogatory sound came from Juicy.

  True ignored him and bowed over Cherish’s hand. “I’m glad to meet ya, ma’am,” he said in a soft, slurring voice. “I’d be more’n glad ta do it.”

  “There’s so much I need to know. I’ve never cooked at a fancy fireplace and I’ve never even seen a baking chamber as fancy as this one. If you’ll be patient with me until I learn, I’ll be a help to you.”

  Sloan, holding Orah Delle, stood behind her. He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. The two men had eyes only for Cherish. As he had predicted, she had completely captivated them without even trying or being aware of it.

  “While you stand there jawing and gawking,” he said, “I’m going to whittle some pegs for Cherish’s hair. She lost her pins days ago.”

  “Ya ain’t no good at whittlin’,” Juicy protested.

  “Yo’re worse,” True said quietly.

  “Well, somebody’s got to do it or her hair will catch on fire when she leans over the cook pot.” Sloan caught Cherish’s eye and winked.

  “I’ll do it,” True said, taking out a long thin-bladed knife and going to the wood box.

  Cherish sat in the fur-lined chair by the fire. Orah Delle came and climbed into her lap. The room’s white birch-bark walls were adorned with various trophies of the hunt. Several beautiful fur pelts were stretched and nailed to the walls, as were bows, arrows, tomahawks and knives. The wide-spread antlers of a noble buck occupied a space on the wall, as did a sturdy shelf that held a wooden clock, its pendulum swaying gently back and forth. Flat stones were set in the masonry of the fireplace to serve as a mantel that held candles and gun clutter. An iron-doored baking oven was built into one side of the fireplace. On the other side of the room was a low chest and above it were pegs for hanging clothes.