Beyond the Quiet Hills (9 page)

Jacob blinked with surprise. There was a mildness in his father's manner, a quiet sorrow that he recognized instantly. He had thought of him for years as a wild mountain man, but now he saw a sensitivity in the man that matched his own.

“I really don't think there's much more to be said,” Jacob finally spoke up.

“Probably not, and I won't bother you for long. I want you to come to Watauga more than anything, but I can't force you. I . . .” For a moment Hawk hesitated, and his eyes dropped to the polished pine floor beneath his feet. He knew how to stalk an animal in the forest and had the best skills of any frontiersman, but he had no power to put in words the feelings that were in his heart. Finally he said, “I had hoped that even after all these years we might become close. I realize it's my fault that we're not, and I again tell you how sorry I am and how foolishly I behaved.”

Jacob, for that one moment, felt himself drawn to the tall man who stood before him. He was a lonely young man who had felt himself cut off by the death of a mother he had never known and the abandonment by his father. All of his life he had envied those young people around him who had a father and a mother, even those whose parents were not completely admirable. Even though he had the love of his grandparents, who had been like a mother and father to him, the knowledge that he had been abandoned—in his mind, discarded—tore at his heart. Now as he stared at his father something rose in him, and he found himself drawn to the idea of doing what his father asked—but then the years of bitterness and loneliness bound his heart.

“I appreciate your offer,” he said, keeping his voice toneless, “but I want to stay here in Williamsburg.”

Hawk studied the youthful face before him, and it was in some ways like looking into a mirror. At one time he had been this young, this vulnerable, but his own childhood had been happy and untroubled. Now the grief that stung him for what he had done to his son was bitter and sharp, and he knew he had failed.

“We'll be leaving in three days, Jacob,” he said quietly. “If you change your mind, it would make me very happy. But you're a man now and must make your own life.” He turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Jacob stared up from the book and felt his hands trembling, and he clasped them hard to hold them still. Slowly he leaned forward and put his forehead on his clenched fists and was shocked to find that his eyes were burning with unshed tears. He thought he had cried himself out on this matter long ago, but the shock of looking at his father, of seeing him, and of finding in him a man whom he had not known really existed had shaken him. He had built up a picture in his heart and in his mind of a ruthless, harsh, and uncaring man, but he knew now that this image was an invention stemming from his own hurt and pain. For a long time he sat bent over, his forehead pressed against his fists. He was being torn by the events that had come so abruptly into his life, but he knew he could not bring himself to agree to his father's proposal. The wound was too sharp and bitter, and the long years had left a deep scar. Finally he sat up, rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, then straightened up, his mouth a thin line. He pulled the book forward and stared at it blindly, not understanding a word he read, but continued doggedly to pursue the ancient history of Greece.

Chapter Six

Betrayal

Unable to get the memory of his last talk with his father out of his mind, Jacob Spencer found himself in a strange emotional state. At times he felt he was a fool for refusing the obvious offer of love his father had made, but he had been unable to shake off the bitterness that had hardened him over the years. He kept to himself a great deal of the time, throwing himself into his studies, but his father's words echoed in his mind, coming again and again to interrupt.
I'd like nothing better than for you and me to become close
. Somehow those words could not be buried deeply enough, for they kept rising to the surface of his mind, until finally in desperation he left the house and spent long hours walking the streets of Williamsburg.

Finally, late Thursday afternoon, after two days of uncertainty, doubt, and anger at himself, he decided to visit Annabelle. The sun was dropping toward the hills in the west, but there was still plenty of daylight as he walked along the neatly paved streets until he reached the Denton house. For a moment he hesitated, then walked firmly up to the door and tapped the brass knocker.

“Why, Mr. Spencer!” the maid exclaimed. Her name was Margaret, and she smiled, tilting her head to one side as if she knew a secret. “You came calling on Mr. Tom?”

Knowing he was having his leg pulled, Jacob managed a smile. “Is he home, Margaret?”

“Yes, sir. He's in the library. I'm sure he would want you to go right in.”

Stepping inside, Jacob moved past the diminutive maid down the long, broad hallway. It was a high-ceilinged house, and the walls were adorned with rich pictures, which he did not notice as he moved along. Turning into the library, he saw Tom Denton lying on his back on a horsehair couch. His eyes were closed and a book was unfolded on his chest.

“Hard at work, I see, Tom,” Jacob said and grinned as Denton came awake with a snort and stared wildly around.

“You're a fine friend waking me up like that! I'll have you know I was meditating!”

“I can see that,” Jacob said. He moved around the library, admiring the leather-bound books, all expensively and tastefully done. He had a suspicion that Edward Denton had bought them by the yard and imagined him saying, “I'll take three yards of Homer, two feet of Montaigne, and whatever you have in a businesslike green color for this space here.” Jacob had availed himself of some of the books, but he always felt guilty leaving a gaping hole in the line. Sometimes it looked to him like a man whose front tooth had been knocked out. However, he sat down and watched as Denton ran his hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down.

When it was roughly in order, he said, “Your father left yet, Jake?”

“No. Not yet.”

“He's quite a sight. Fine-looking man. A little rough after all his years on the frontier but very handsome.”

“Do you think so?”

“Why, certainly.” Young Denton stretched, arching his back, then shrugged. “Do you suppose he's ever felt any regrets about leaving a good life here and throwing himself away in that wilderness over the mountains?”

“I don't know. I doubt it.”

“He could have been rich by now if he had stayed here and applied himself.”

“I suppose.”

Denton stared suddenly at Jacob. “What's the matter?”

Jacob had not intended to mention his father's invitation, but the two were good friends. Tom was, as a matter of fact, the only close friend Jacob had, and now he heard himself saying, “He wants me to go back to Watauga with him.”

“What?” Denton sat bolt upright and stared at his friend with consternation. “Well, he doesn't want much, does he? Here he goes off and leaves you when you were a baby. Now he pops up and says ‘Come on home, sonny. Time for me to be a daddy again.'”

Since Jacob had more or less said the same thing to his father, he could not argue his friend's comment. Nevertheless, put in those terms, it made him feel uncomfortable. He rubbed a hand across his cheekbone, then shook his head doubtfully. “He thinks he's doing the right thing.”

“The right thing? To take a budding young man like you out and bury you in the wilderness! The next thing I suppose he'll want you to marry some Indian maiden!”

“I don't think he'd go that far, Tom.” Jacob was wishing he had not brought the matter up and tried to change the subject, but Tom was not through with it.

“You're not thinking of going, are you?”

“Oh no. Nothing like that.”

“Well, that's a relief. You're not given to rash gestures, Jake, but I suppose there is a certain romance in going over the mountains.” He grinned abruptly and added, “I think you'd get tired of sitting around in moth-eaten furs and scratching fleas.” He stood suddenly and came over and clapped Jacob on the shoulder. “You gave me a fright there, old friend.” His expression changed slightly, and he motioned with his head. “Arthur Horton is here.”

“Arthur? What's he want?”

“Well, I suspect he wants Annabelle,” Tom shrugged.

Resentment flared in Jacob Spencer momentarily. Arthur Horton was nineteen, the son of a wealthy Williamsburg family, even wealthier than the Dentons. Jacob had never liked him, for Horton was an impertinent snob. He was not particularly bright, and his dislike of Jacob was long-standing, since at one of the local affairs, where the young men had tested their strength in wrestling, Jacob had put the older boy flat on his back twice, the second time so firmly that it knocked the breath completely out of young Horton's body. Since that day a coolness had hung between them that mattered not at all to Jacob Spencer.

“Perhaps I'd better go out and head him off.”

“I think it might be best.” A light of humor touched Tom's eyes, and he said, “You know, if he weren't so rich, Arthur would be quite a bore.”

Jacob grinned. “Yes, he would. It's amazing how riches make people charming and interesting, isn't it? Well, I'll see you before I go. Are we still on for the hunt tomorrow?”

“Sure. I want you to see that new gray mare I bought.”

Jacob nodded, then turned and left the room. He made his way down the hall, which made a sharp turn to the left and led to an outer door. Stepping outside, he found himself in an elaborate flower garden and arbor. Tall hedges now formed walkways, and he could hear the murmur of voices. The air was cool, but the sun was bright, and he was actually looking forward to putting Arthur Horton in his place. It amused Jacob to poke fun at the slow-witted young man. Annabelle, who was
not
slow-witted, had often giggled with Jacob later, saying, “You shouldn't make fun of Arthur like that!” But she had enjoyed it, too.

He reached the end of one hedge and stepped into the gap. The voices were plainly audible now, and he stopped suddenly. As he looked into the open area he saw Annabelle being embraced by Arthur Horton. He was surprised, for Annabelle had always made little of Arthur's attentions, yet Jacob knew she did like to be courted, and Arthur, despite his lack of brilliance, was certainly a fine catch. Annabelle, of course, was only fifteen and was flattered by the attentions of young Horton.

Jacob started to call out when suddenly he heard Arthur say, “I want you to marry me, Annabelle.”

“Marry you? Why, Arthur!”

“It can't come as a surprise to you.” Young Horton was tall and thin and had to look down on Annabelle. He was wearing an expensive suit made out of the finest dark blue wool that money could buy. “You must know what I feel for you. I've told you often enough.”

“You say that to all the girls, Arthur.”

“Why, I certainly do not!” Horton exclaimed indignantly. “I never said it before to any girl!”

“What about Mary Mullins?”

“What about her?”

“Why, you were chasing her with all your might just last year before she married Henry Ellis.”

“I was amusing myself, but what I feel for you is different.”

Jacob stood silently staring at the two, who had not heard his approach. He felt awkward for eavesdropping, but somehow he could not bring himself to make his presence known. Finally, after Horton kept urging Annabelle, he heard her say, “Why, who else would I marry but you?”

Who else would I marry but you?

The words were echoed, the exact cadence and slight lift of the voice at the end. She had spoken these very words to him, and he had taken it to mean they were committed to each other. And now she was saying the same thing to another man!

Jacob Spencer was not an impulsive young man as a rule, but a sudden anger at the girl, who stood looking up so bewitchingly at the tall man who held her, boiled over. He stepped out of the hedge, and the sound of his heels striking on the pathway startled the two and they jumped apart.

Without hesitation Jacob moved forward and struck Arthur in the face with the palm of his hand.

“Jacob, what are you doing?” Annabelle cried.

Jacob Spencer knew at that moment he had struck the wrong person. Arthur Horton had every right to his feelings for Annabelle, but
she
was the one who had betrayed him. He stood staring at her for a moment, forgetting Arthur, who was sputtering and whose face had turned pale. Jacob did not see the blow that was thrown at him by the tall young man. It caught him in the temple, and for a moment the world seemed to turn into stars that flickered and sparkled. He felt himself hit the ground but at once came to his hands and knees, then struggled upright. He had time to block a second blow, but the third one caught him flush in the mouth.

The two young men began trading blow for blow, and Annabelle circled the two, begging them to stop. More than once they fell to the ground, rolling, kicking, and striking at each other. Horton was the older of the two, and much taller, but Jacob was stronger. He was more of an outdoorsman, and long hours of riding had hardened him. He slowly began wearing his opponent down, and then he felt his arm grabbed and, out of breath, turned to see Tom Denton, who had come to step between the two of them.

“Have both of you lost your minds!” Denton exclaimed. “What do you think you're doing, Jake?”

“He came bursting in here like a madman!” Horton gasped. His breeches were stained with dirt, and he had the beginnings of a bruise over his right eye. He was furious and said, “What sort of a crazy man are you? Did you get this from that frontier father of yours?”

Jacob tried to pull his shirt closed where it had been ripped. “Keep my father out of this!”

“I think you'd better go, Jake. Cool off, and we'll talk about it later.”