Love and Cherish Page 14

  Cherish was astounded.

  One evening, just before she went to bed, she announced that she was going to wash clothes the next day.

  “That is if the sun is shining and the day is reasonably warm.”

  “What fer?” Juicy asked.

  “Because there won’t be many more days when we can dry the clothes out of doors,” she told him.

  “Hit’s a good idee,” True said.

  Sloan nodded agreement. “We’ll get out the boiling pot and get you set up the first thing in the morning.”

  Later that night, when the cabin was still with only the pop of the logs burning in the fireplaces to break the silence, Sloan slipped into bed beside her. This was the moment she looked forward to eagerly every day.

  Holding her in his arms, he kissed her long and leisurely before whispering into her ear: “I don’t want you to use up all your energy in the daytime. Save some for me.”

  She laughed against his face and placed her lips to his ear.

  “I can’t sit around all day and wait for you.”

  “Why not?” he murmured. He ran his hand down the length of her, feeling all the curves and warm places that only his hands had ever touched. “I want to sit in front of the fire every evening, with you on my lap, not doing anything but looking at you and touching you—here . . . and here . . . and here!”

  She wound her fingers in his hair and gave a gentle tug, pulling his head toward her parted lips. His mouth was on hers, open and exploring and caressing, and hers answered it. Her hands were on him, eager and instinctive, with none of the shyness of their first coming together. He covered her when she was ready for him, and there was bigness and hardness and motion met by her unrestrained response. His breath mingled with her breath, his moans with her moans, blending together as they reached their tempestuous completion.

  When it was over, he fell away from her for a moment before he gathered her again tenderly into his arms and held her, stroking her hair. The clock on the shelf in the other room chimed, and he continued to hold her. He kissed her mouth, her breasts.

  “I can’t seem to get enough of you,” he whispered huskily, nuzzling his face in her hair. “I’ve never felt like this and I really don’t know what to do about it. I don’t want to love you. I’ve seen what love can do to a man. Love is having your heart and soul twisted, tied and knotted and . . . stomped on.”

  Cherish was shocked at the bitterness in his voice. What had done this to him? Who had done this to him?

  “Sh . . . sh . . . we don’t have to think of that now,” she whispered, kissing him and caressing his face with her fingertips. “It’s enough that you want me like this. We can be happy together like this, can’t we? I love you, but I’ll never try to hold on to you if you should want me to go away.”

  His hold on her tightened. “I can’t think of a thing in this world that would ever cause me to want you to go away.” He moved his lips down her face. “I’ve got a bear clinging to my back, honey. Someday maybe I’ll shake it off and be able to truly love.”

  “You truly love now, my dearest one. Love comes in many shapes. You love Orah Delle and you loved your brother. You love True and Juicy in a different way.”

  “You amaze me with your goodness, sweetheart.”

  Long after he had fallen asleep, Cherish lay awake in his arms and thought about what he had said. Was it his brother’s disastrous experience, or was it something else that so tortured him? She cradled his head on her breast and stroked his hair. Would the time ever come when he would be able to tell her that he loved her? She prayed that it would, that he would appreciate love for what it was: the most binding and yet the most giving force in all the world.

  CHAPTER

  * 15 *

  Cherish was up and dressed the minute she heard the men moving about. The lamp was lit and the fire blazing when she came into the room. Sloan and True were at the trestle table drinking mugs of steaming tea.

  “It’s going to be a good day for your washing. Come have coffee and mush, or would you rather have tea and cold rabbit?”

  The smile Sloan gave her spread a warm light into his eyes and she found herself beaming with pleasure. She met his eyes and her pulses leaped in excitement. Her slightly flushed cheeks made her blue eyes seem all the brighter, clearer. Juicy was watching her with a wide smile and twinkling eyes.

  Her mind groped for something to say.

  “Landsakes! Don’t mention rabbit.”

  “What’s she so red-faced fer, Sloan?” Juicy tilted his head and peered at her in puzzlement.

  “I don’t know, unless she got sunburned lazying around out there in the sun watching us work.”

  “By George, that’s it. She’s done nothin’ I knowed of but dawdle ’round fer the last week or so.”

  “Dawdle!” Cherish snorted. “Just for that, Juicy Deverell, you can wash your own socks.”

  “Now, little missy, don’t be gettin’ yore back up. I didn’t mean dawdle, what I mean was ya been smoodlin’ ’round.”

  “Smoodlin’? What does that mean?” Cherish stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at the big man.

  “Tell her, Juicy. What does smoodlin’ mean?” Sloan urged, his broad smile showing the dimples in his cheeks.

  Juicy turned on Sloan. “With all the school larnin’ ya got and ya don’t know what smoodlin’ is? Harrumpt!” He got to his feet and pulled on his coat. “Iffn that don’t beat all,” he muttered and hastened out the door.

  Sloan laughed at Cherish’s dumbfound expression. He got to his feet and bent and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  “Guess we’re just a couple of dummies.”

  “Sloan, what—?”

  “I think he meant smooching. What we’re doing right now.” He kissed her again.

  “Do they know that we—?”

  “—I’m sure they do.”

  “Oh, my! Oh . . . my!”

  “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. There’s a whole new set of rules out here in the wilderness.”

  “I love you . . . or I wouldn’t have welcomed you to my bed.”

  “I know. Sit down and eat. True’s coming in with an armload of wood.”

  * * *

  Streaks of light lit the eastern sky when True carried the big iron boiling pot up from the barn. After partially filling the pot with the water he brought from the spring in two wooden buckets, he built a fire under it. Sloan produced a bench, which he set against the wall of the cabin. He made another trip to the barn and returned with two wooden tubs that he set on the bench.

  Cherish was amazed. “I thought I would do my wash in the river.”

  “Ain’t no call ta do that,” Juicy said, setting down two more buckets of water. “Washin’s ’ard enough, I allus say.”

  “You want more water, Cherish, sing out. We’ll be down at the new cabin.” When Sloan passed behind her, he ran his hand lingeringly down her back, from above her waist down over her hips, in a quick, sweeping, proprietorial move that left her shocked and breathless.

  By the time Orah Delle was up and dressed and had eaten her breakfast, the water in the iron pot was boiling. After cautioning the child to stay away from the fire, Cherish set to washing clothes. The white things went first into the hot suds. They were punched down into the roiling water with a wash stick again and again, then draped over bushes and along the rail fence to dry.

  Cherish washed her shawl, her blanket and the dress with the split skirt, which had been carefully mended. She washed several shirts for Sloan, pressing them to her face quickly before dipping them into the suds. Seeing the gaping holes in Juicy’s and True’s stockings, she made plans to knit each of them two pairs. She could knit a stocking in an afternoon and evening, if she set her mind on it.

  When the washing was done and spread out in the full sun, she took her suds and scrubbed the main room and everything in it, including the mantel shelf and the hearth, the furniture, bunks and shelves, until the room was soap-smelling c
lean. Then she poured the water out, well away from the cabin, so that Orah Delle wouldn’t be tempted to wade through the mud it made. She did all this and still by noonday she had carrots, cabbage, and smoked meat in the cooking pot and corn pone in the baking oven.

  “What’s that thar I smell?” Juicy sniffed as he came into the room. “That gal washin’ things again? Ain’t healthy, Sloan. Yer just gotter do somethin’ ’bout her. She’ll have everythin’ washed down to a nubbin.”

  “You just get yourself on in here, Juicy,” Cherish said, laughing, “and stop your complaining. Wash your face and hands before you come to the table. It’s about time we started to teach the baby some manners.”

  “Better march right over here, Juicy,” Sloan said solemnly, splashing water on his face. He touched his fingers to his jaw reminiscently. “You haven’t seen Cherish in a temper yet . . . I have!”

  Her face reddened and she raised her eyes to meet Sloan’s devilish gaze.

  “Golly, Sloan,” Juicy retorted. His tone was peevish but his eyes danced merrily. “Yore gonna have ta take a strap to ’er, or she just might git to thinkin’ she’s the queen bee ’round this place.”

  Sloan’s mouth twitched. “Watch out she doesn’t sting you, Juicy,” he said gleefully.

  Pure happiness swept through Cherish. Entranced, she had watched the transformation as day by day the stern-faced man she had met in the wilderness became more and more relaxed and carefree.

  True never entered into any of the teasing. He always stood back and watched, though his long serious face cracked into a grin every once in a while. Cherish knew that he liked her. He was always kind and patient and helpful, but there was an aura of sadness about him that made her want to weep. Sometimes in the early evening hours she saw him walking along the riverbank and wondered if he was thinking about his dead wife and children.

  * * *

  The days fell into a pattern. Cherish was seldom alone with Sloan except at night in her narrow bunk. Although he and Juicy often teased her, Sloan seldom made any gesture of affection toward her in front of his friends. The atmosphere in the cabin was warm and friendly, and Cherish was happy . . . happier than she even dreamed that she could be.

  They worked from dawn until late evening, Cherish in the cabin and looking after the little girl, who was becoming more and more precious to her as the days went by. Orah Delle, on her part, was so attached to Cherish she seldom left her side. The men worked outside. The new cabin was finished and furniture was being hewed from rough wood. The clay mortar in the stone fireplace was being slowly seasoned.

  The last of November was approaching. The warm spell they had enjoyed after the preseason blizzard vanished, and the days became increasingly colder. When the men were not working on the furniture for the new cabin, they chopped wood. This was stacked in a long wall between the two cabins, where it would be convenient to both.

  In the evenings, Cherish knitted. Juicy and Sloan were content to sit and watch her and tease her gently. When she was bothered by the teasing, or acted as if she were, the needles flashed faster and faster. When she made a mistake and had to pull it out, they laughed heartily.

  True was always busy, either whittling toys for Orah Delle, or making fancy combs and hairpins for Cherish. Of late he had begun making bullets in the evenings. Cherish liked to watch him, for he was as particular about it as she was about her knitting. First he shaved the lead into a broken iron pot he had found in the Shawnee town and set the pot on the hot coals. When the lead melted he ladled it out into the bullet mold. The shining stream of hot lead fascinated Cherish. Actually, it didn’t look hot at all, but silvery cool.

  “Ye’d find out iffn ya touched hit,” True told her when she mentioned that to him.

  “Oh, I know it’s hot, but it looks so pretty—not as if it could hurt you at all.”

  When the bullets cooled, True turned them out, took his knife and trimmed the roughness off. As a final step he rubbed them with an old piece of deer-skin worn slick. He went about the work slowly and easily, taking care that each one should be just right. He loved making things with his hands and took pride in the finished product.

  Each evening, sitting before the fire, Sloan held Orah Delle, playing with her before lulling her to sleep. It was plain that he adored the child. His face was never stern when he held her. She jumped boisterously on his lap, demanding attention—which he was glad to give. She laughed enchantingly at him when he romped with her.

  One evening, Juicy produced a mouth organ. To Cherish’s utter amazement he began to play the old English ballad, “Greensleeves.” It was a song her mother had taught her and she began to sing, softly at first; then, as her confidence grew, her clear sweet voice filled the room. When the song ended the men sat as if spellbound until Sloan nodded to Juicy. He raised the harmonica to his lips and played the song again. Sloan sang it in French, watching Cherish’s eyes go dreamy and her lips curve in a soft smile.

  “That was lovely. Thank you,” she said, and smiled with pure pleasure.

  Cherish had ceased to worry about True and Juicy being aware that Sloan came to her bed. She had spent countless hours worrying that they would think less of her for sleeping with Sloan without marriage vows. What they did together, loving, comforting each other, whispering words that were sometimes silly, sometimes not, seemed so right. In her heart he was her husband, her man, and nothing would ever change that.

  * * *

  On Thanksgiving morning they woke to a frozen white world. The snow that had begun the night before was still falling, the flakes drifting slowly down, the wind having blown itself out during the night.

  True and Juicy went over to the new cabin to check the mortar around the stones in the fireplace, to see if it had dried sufficiently for them to build a large enough fire to keep the cabin warm. They had kept a low fire in the hearth for days, allowing plenty of time for the mortar to dry slowly. The previous night was the last they planned to bunk in Sloan’s cabin. Both True and Juicy had cautioned Cherish, though, that she was not rid of them. Juicy said it would take a team of mules to pull him away from her table.

  Preparing for the Thanksgiving feast, Cherish had soaked dried apples and raisins for pies, mashed cooked pumpkin and added butter and nutmeg, removed the pin-feathers and finished cleaning the wild turkey Sloan had shot. She stuffed the bird with corn pone dressing seasoned with spices she found in carefully sealed jars on the shelf. Remembering her mother’s recipe for Indian pudding, she brought out the molasses, cornmeal, eggs she found stored in the cellar, butter and salt. After mixing it she added the milk, seasoned it with ginger and poured the batter in a pan to bake alongside the loaves of wheat bread.

  She had been up early, firing the oven to bake the bread and pies early so that the big bake chamber would be free for roasting the turkey. She planned to use the fancy table cover she had discovered in the chest and to wear the new dress she had secretly made from the material she had found in the wardrobe. Sloan had said for her to use what she needed, and she had chosen a soft piece of blue linsey and trimmed it with a white collar. There had been enough of the piece left for a dress for Orah Delle. While the men were away she changed into the new dress and dressed the child. She first brushed Orah Delle’s hair and tied it with a blue ribbon, then did her own, coiling it carefully and pinning it with the pins True had made for her.

  * * *

  It was mid-morning when the whiplike crack of a rifle sounded. The echoes of the shot reverberated from hill to hill and were finally lost far down the valley. More shots followed the first, then silence. Cherish had just reached the window facing the river when the door burst open. The men snatched the rifles from the slanting pegs along the wall and grabbed True’s newly made supply of bullets.

  Seconds later True and Juicy, with Brown at their heels, were out the door. Sloan turned to speak to Cherish. He checked her pistol and placed it on the mantel.

  “Bar the door after me, then close the shutters
,” he told her. “Don’t open for anyone—and I mean anyone—except me, True or Juicy. Do you understand?”

  She nodded numbly. “Is it an Indian attack?”

  “I don’t know. It could be river renegades. Just don’t open the door.” He was out the door, and by the time she slipped the bar in place and went to the window, Sloan had rejoined True and Juicy.

  Shots came from the river. The three men split up, Brown and Sloan going into the woods to the north, True loping down the hill to the river, and Juicy making his way toward the Shawnee lodge. Cherish’s heart seemed to stop beating for a moment, then began to pound like the beat of a drum.

  Something tugged at her skirt. She looked down to see Orah Delle staring up at her with wide, frightened eyes. Cherish had forgotten the child. Guiltily she gathered her up in her arms and crooned to her, trying to calm her.

  Through Cherish’s mind ran vivid pictures of all the things she had ever heard about Indian attacks—houses burning, women and children scalped or carried off screaming, men tortured to a slow, agonizing death. And Sloan was out there!

  Oh, dear God, don’t let anything happen to him! Please, God, keep him safe.

  Sloan had shown her during the first week at the cabin how to swing the shutters, which lay back against the inside walls of the cabin, together to bar the windows. She did this now to the bedroom window and the one on the side of the main room, before returning to the window facing the river.

  Clutching Orah Delle to her, she peered anxiously out the window, but she could see nothing moving. From time to time she heard scattered gunfire. When she felt she couldn’t stand the watching and waiting any longer, she sat Orah Delle on a bunk, stoked up the fire and put the turkey in the oven to bake. The normalcy of the task soothed her nerves. She gave Orah Delle a piece of bread spread with molasses for a treat, then returned to the window.

  She heard another volley of shots, this time close by. Once she thought she saw a puff of smoke rising from a clump of trees by the river. There were more shots nearby, then faintly she heard Juicy’s booming voice shouting at someone on the river.