A Heart for the Taking (3 page)

He froze, his ale-befuddled brain trying to make sense of what he had heard. Another angry scream galvanized him and had him stumbling in the direction from which the cry had come. As he left the patch of wood in which he had been traveling, the sky and landscape were suddenly lit up by a tremendous, jagged bolt of lightning. It was in that brief moment, as bright as midday, that, to his amazed horror, he spied the small, wiggling bundle lying near the edge of the bluff.

In that split-second flash of light, Morely saw not another soul. Clearly the baby had been abandoned! Instinct drove Morely forward. When he reached the now squalling infant, with the exaggerated care of a man who has had too much
to drink, he set down his lantern and clumsily lifted up the swaddled form.

He’d been hoping that he’d been imagining this entire event, but the squirming, screaming baby in his arms promptly dashed that notion. Helplessly he glanced around, expecting a distraught parent to appear at any second. No one did. He was alone on the bluff in the middle of the night, in the midst of one of the worst storms he had ever experienced, with a very angry infant in his arms.

Any lingering effects of too many tankards of ale vanished, and in an instant Morely found himself stone, cold sober. His agile brain working furiously, he gazed uneasily at the dark, roiling water below him. There were only two reasons, he decided grimly, for him to have found a baby obviously abandoned on the bluff: the mother of the child had killed herself by leaping into the river, inexplicably leaving behind her infant, or the baby had been cold-bloodedly left to its fate. An even more grisly idea crossed his mind. Perhaps someone had intended the baby to disappear beneath those raging waters.

A chill snaked down his spine, and his grip on the infant tightened protectively. His young face set, he picked up his lantern and left the bluff in a swift, long-legged stride.

The baby’s cries had lessened to a heartrending little hiccup, and Morely found himself crooning a nonsensical litany of reassurance as he hurried through the night. His voice seemed to soothe the baby, and by the time they reached his cottage a few minutes later, the infant had fallen into a fitful slumber.

Carefully setting the baby in a large black leather chair near the hearth, Morely coaxed the remaining coals into life and soon had a warm, leaping fire. He lit a whale-oil lamp on the mantel and then, gently laying aside the blue-andwhite blanket, for the first time took a good look at the infant.

The baby was obviously newborn, the birthing blood barely dry on his tiny body, and Morely realized that his unexpected presence must have frightened off whoever had
been on the bluff—whether a mother who had leaped to her death or someone with something far more sinister in mind.

His eyes traveled over the baby, and Morely caught his breath when his gaze fell upon the long right foot and the six perfect toes. Except for Sam’s immediate family, he was the only one who knew the significance of those six toes. And he only knew because of his intimacy with the family.

He could remember clearly the night, some five years ago, when he and Sam had been out hunting and had been caught far from home when night—and a sudden rainstorm—had descended upon them. They had eventually taken refuge in an old hunting shack, and once they had a fire going, they had shucked aside their dripping boots and clothing. Their feet warming near the fire, Morely had noticed Sam’s six toes and had exclaimed over them. Sam had half smiled and said, “I’m pleased you think them merely odd and not a mark of the devil—as some might, if it were common knowledge.” Sam had stared ruefully at his right foot. “I suppose I should be gratified by that sixth toe. It first manifested itself with my grandfather, who by way of my father passed it on to me. You might say that it is proof of my parentage.” He had glanced over to Morely and with a slight rising of his color had muttered, “I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourself. There are many superstitious folk about, and I would not want my father and me to become objects of fear and loathing.”

Morely had ardently sworn to keep his silence. The Salem witch trials and all the horrors that had accompanied them were not so very long ago—less than fifty years—and there were still the occasional cries of “Witch!” or “Warlock!” to be heard in the Colonies. Sam and his family were wise to keep the oddity of the six toes to themselves.

His eyes still fastened on the baby’s sixth toe, Morely nodded to himself. That toe more than anything else confirmed that this child
had
to be Sam’s son. And Constance, he reminded himself uneasily, had
not
been happy about the baby that Letty was due to give birth to in a month or so. His throat grew tight. Sam was gone to Philadelphia on busi
ness, leaving Letty all alone with Constance. An ugly suspicion leaped to his mind.

He didn’t want to credit the horrifying thought that curled through his brain. He considered briefly that the baby could be Sam’s bastard, but he immediately shook that idea away. If Sam had a mistress, he’d have known about it. Sam’s devotion to Letty was legendary, and it would be too much of a coincidence for Sam to have gotten both Letty
and
another woman pregnant almost simultaneously. No. As sure as he was that the sun would rise tomorrow, he knew that he was staring at Letty and Sam’s son. A son someone had left to perish on that lonely bluff at the edge of the river.

His blue eyes anxious and undecided, Morely stared hard at the infant. What was he to do? If Constance
was
behind tonight’s mischief, he dared not approach the big house with the baby. And there were Letty’s feelings to consider—if this baby wasn’t hers, if Sam
had
gotten another woman pregnant, Morely definitely didn’t want to be the one to disillusion her about her husband. Constance’s probable involvement worried him a great deal. If she had tried to dispose of the child once, what was to stop her from trying again? And who would believe his wild accusations? With his reputation? He swallowed painfully, for the first time regretting his lackadaisical ways.

He owed everything to Sam and his family. Could he betray their many kindnesses to him by giving voice to his dark suspicions about Constance? What if he were wrong? What if the baby’s possession of six toes was just an incredible coincidence? What if Sam had had nothing to do with this child’s conception? That it was just mere chance? The only problem with that thinking was that the nearest dwellings for several miles around were at Walker Ridge, indicating that someone on Sam’s plantation had given birth. And why would anyone so callously abandon a newborn, unless there was a powerful reason—such as gaining an entire fortune?

The baby stirred and began to whimper, and Morely picked him up gently and began to rock him. He knew the
baby needed sustenance, and putting aside his unpleasant thoughts, he glanced around his small quarters for something to feed an infant. His mind was blank, until he remembered the small jug of milk that a slave from the big house had left in his larder just this evening—that and some molasses would have to do.

Feeding the baby was difficult, but using a clean cotton rag soaked in the milky concoction, Morley managed to get quite a bit down the baby. It helped that the baby suckled strongly on the cotton rag each time it was put to his mouth. When the baby finally fell asleep again, Morely laid him once more in the big chair and began to consider his next step.

If Sam were here, he’d take the baby to him—Sam would know what to do. Sam would settle the business and get to the bottom of it. But Sam was in Philadelphia and wasn’t expected back for another few weeks. Keeping the baby here in his own house was out of the question. Not only did he suspect that the child was in danger, but he had neither the knowledge nor the means to care for an infant.

Since Sam wasn’t available, Morely needed a safe place to take the baby temporarily until he could talk to Sam. But where? Whom could he trust?

His brow furrowed in thought, Morely paced the confines of the room, mentally reviewing all his various friends and relatives. Eventually his choice came down to his cousin, Andrew Walker. Andrew owned his own private little school on the outskirts of the tiny hamlet of Petersburg at the point of the Appamattuck River. Andrew was a kind man and well respected in the small settlement. And Petersburg was a perfect place for the baby—far enough away from Walker Ridge for the infant’s safety, but not so far that it would be difficult to retrieve the baby when the situation was resolved. If he were lucky, he could make it to Petersburg in under five days.
If
he were lucky.

Andrew and his wife, Martha, were perfect, too—Martha had suffered through several stillbirths, and after over ten years of marriage, they were beginning to become resigned
to being childless. The latest generation of Walkers did not seem to be very prolific, Morely conceded with a wry twist to his mouth. At any rate, Andrew and Martha would be thrilled to take care of the baby for however long it was necessary.

I must swear them to secrecy about the toes, he reminded himself suddenly. If his suspicions were correct and Constance were to learn of this baby with the six toes, it could prove dangerous. And if he gave Andrew and Martha the same reasons that Sam had given him for keeping quiet about the odd feature, he was certain they would eagerly comply. They would, no doubt, be certain that the baby was his and that
he
was dismayed and ashamed of that sixth toe.

Morely glanced at the sleeping child, and his face softened. What did it matter what they thought of him, if the babe was safe? His reputation was already in tatters. What was one more black mark?

His mind made up, Morely set about preparing for his journey. Since his position as overseer was a courtesy at best and since there were many days during which he was too drunk to work, no one would think too much of the fact that he had taken himself off for a while. Morely winced. It would simply be assumed that he was sleeping off the effects of his latest drunken stupor in the arms of one of his many light-skirted wenches.

The decision to take the child to Andrew and Martha did not come lightly to him. Athousand doubts deviled him, and he worried that he was leaping to the wrong conclusions—that there was a reasonable explanation for the newborn baby’s presence on that bluff. One fact, however, was inescapable: if he had not chanced along tonight, the infant sleeping so soundly just a few feet away from him would have died.

Grimly determined to make no mistakes with the young life placed so precipitously in his hands, Morely brooded through the remainder of the night, speculating, wondering, and worrying a great deal about the conclusions and decisions he had made. He fed the baby twice during that time,
feeling something stirring deep within his heart each moment he held that tiny, dependent life in his big hands.

When dawn came, the worst of the storm had passed, although there were still showers and a persistent drizzle to make Morely view the coming journey with a jaundiced eye. He’d been busy for the past hour or so; his horse was saddled, food for the trip and various items that he hoped would take care of the baby’s needs were packed safely in the saddlebags, and he was garbed in his greatcoat, ready to leave for Petersburg. Shrugging his broad shoulders, he finally turned away from the window where he had been contemplating the weather and crossed the room to pick up the baby, which he had wrapped up securely. Lifting the flap that covered the baby’s face, he stared down into the wide blue eyes that foggily met his.

A smile twisted Morely’s lips. “Well, little fellow, I think you have the devil’s own luck! If I hadn’t chanced along when I did, you’d have had a mighty short life.”

The baby gurgled and stuck a fist in his mouth. Morely laughed and, walking from the cabin, muttered, “There is no doubt in my mind that chance has played a large part in your life so far. When you think about it, it was pure, simple, God-given
chance
that I decided even to come home last night. Most nights I don’t! But for some reason, I did last night—to your good fortune, I might add. And, just as important—it was plain old chance that I even heard you squalling when I did. Even that big bolt of lightning that struck just then was chance—a few minutes earlier or later and I might not have seen you at all!”

Approaching his horse, a nice, sturdy bay, Morely prepared for the tricky part: mounting while holding the baby in one arm. There were no mishaps, and once in the saddle, he settled the baby more comfortably in the crook of his arm and gently urged his mount forward.

They rode several moments in silence, then Morely murmured, “You know, you
do
owe a damn lot to chance, young man. In fact, I don’t know of anyone who owes more. When you think of everything that could have gone wrong . . .”
Morely shook his head. “Doesn’t bear thinking about. But I have been thinking—you need a name. Since there ain’t anybody else about, and since you might say that I’m the nearest thing to a pa that you have right now, I get to name you.”

Morely took a deep breath and eyed the baby uncertainly. “Now you might not agree, but I’ve decided that since chance
did
play such an important part in your continuing existence, you couldn’t have a better name than that—
Chance
!”

The baby waved his arms exuberantly, and Morely grinned. “Like that notion, do you? Well, then, Chance it is! Chance Walker!”

Morely’s grin faded. “We’ll just have to hope that chance continues to smile on us, little fellow. We’ve an uncertain journey ahead of us, and I ain’t at all sure that my cousin will be overjoyed to see us.” He glanced down at the baby. “Reckon we’ll just have to leave it to chance!”