Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (13 page)

He moved on to study a larger painting of a Negro family in front of a neat cottage with glass windows and flowers around the door. The mother sat in a rocking chair with a small child at her breast. The father, with several children around him, seemed to be telling a story. All the characters in the painting were smiling. It was a happy scene.

George seldom painted a white person or allowed anyone other than Daniel and Liberty Quill to see his pictures. Liberty had discovered his talent by accident and had encouraged him by taking him to Vincennes to see the paintings at Grouseland, the home of Governor and Mrs. Harrison. She had bought canvas, brushes, and paints and challenged him to see what he could do with them.

Eight years ago Liberty and Farr had heard that Sugar Tree and George were in a village north and west of Vincennes and that Sugar Tree was ill. They loaded a wagon with supplies and went in search of them. Sugar Tree’s father and brothers were dead, and she had George, a lad of nine years, to hunt for her. Liberty and Farr brought George and his mother back to Quill’s Station where Liberty cared for her Indian friend who died a few months later.

Daniel went around to stand in front of the unfinished painting that faced the window. It was a picture of an angel with a cloud of white hair, rosy cheeks and lips, and startling blue eyes. It was Liberty’s face. The body of the angel was in a swirl of clouds, but her arms reached down toward a group of children standing on green grass. The Negro and white children were dressed in fine clothes, and each wore a pair of shiny black shoes. Indian children were dressed in elaborately beaded and fringed buckskins. All the children wore happy smiles on their faces.

The image of the hauntingly lovely picture stayed in Daniel’s mind after he had closed the door to George’s room and had gone back downstairs. He had no doubt that if George had been born white, he would someday be recognized for his talent. It was grossly unfair that the boy felt the need to hide his paintings rather than have them ridiculed because of the color of his skin.

*   *   *

A low rumble of thunder came from the southwest as Daniel took the path through the woods to the Quill house. His mind was active with the problems Mercy faced, and he wondered how she had managed to fill the day. As he neared the house, his ever watchful eyes noted at once that it was in total darkness, that not a light shone from the windows. He quickly scanned the area, then broke into a hard run.

Daniel leaped upon the porch, pausing at the front door to listen. When he heard nothing except the rumble of the thunder, he opened the door and slipped inside to stand with his back to the wall. The house was as quiet as a tomb except for the ticking of the mantel clock.

Something was wrong
! Mercy would not have gone away and not told him.

Daniel could almost hear the pounding of his heart as his fingers fumbled with the chimney of the lamp. He lit it and looked around. Nothing was out of place that he could see in a brief glance. Taking the lamp with him, he went through the rooms, then to the kitchen. Everything was in order. The cold cook stove told him Mercy had not prepared a meal all day. He flung open the door to the room off the kitchen where he had slept as a child and where he had slept the last few nights. Nothing was disturbed there.

Dread lay heavy around his heart as he took the stairs two at a time to search the loft. He would have staked his life that the Baxters would have kept their word about not bothering her and would have waited until the time he said he would meet them. His fear almost crowded out the thoughts of what he was going to do with them if they had forced Mercy to leave with them.

Daniel shoved open the door to the room Mercy had shared first with Amy, and later with Mary Elizabeth. He entered, and relief washed over him like a warm summer rain.

Mercy lay in her bed, asleep.

Daniel was so relieved, he was shaking. He set the lamp on the table and stood looking at her, letting the fear drain away, letting his heart slow to a normal beat.

Her dress was hung over the back of the chair; her shoes were on the floor beside the bed. One shoe stood upright, the other lay on its side, the laces trailing. Daniel leaned down, picked up the shoes, and held them for a moment in his two hands before he placed them on the floor beside the chair that held her dress. He stood beside the bed. It had been a long time since he had looked at her while she slept.

Mercy lay on her side, her palm tucked beneath her cheek. Thick waves of honey-blond hair spread out over the pillow. Lashes, long and tear-spiked, lay on her wet cheeks. Her lips were parted, and a tear hung in the corner of her mouth. As Daniel watched, she sucked in her upper lip and her brows came together in a frown. A whimper at the back of her throat tore loose.

Daniel squatted down beside the bed. He covered the small hand that lay on the quilt with his. His arm curved up above her head, and his fingers soothed the hair back from her forehead. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his face and smell the womanly scent of her body.

“Shhhh . . . don’t cry,” he whispered. “You’re not alone.” His lips followed his fingers to her forehead. “You’ve worn yourself out crying.”

“Danny.” She murmured his name before she opened her eyes, fully accepting his presence. “Oh, Danny. It’s been the longest, most miserable day of my life.” Her fingers moved against his palm and tightened around his thumb.

“I’m here now. You don’t have to be miserable alone.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. She looked as if she would burst into tears. “I’m . . . glad you’re here. I wanted you to come.”

“Did you eat anything today? You can’t lie here and grieve over a bunch of ignorant people who didn’t realize what a good teacher they had for their children.” He smoothed the long hair back from her face, wiping at her tears with the ball of his thumb.

“I feel badly for the children, but it’s the . . . other.” Tears blurred the eyes that looked up into his.

“The Baxters?”

She nodded. “I keep thinking about that woman, and how I’d feel if my little girl was . . . lost or taken.”

Their faces were close; their voices were low, intimate, interspersed with little pauses.

“Do you want to go see her?” He put his hand into her hair, feeling the soft, silky tresses, thinking they were like a shimmering waterfall.

“I don’t . . . know. I don’t want to see her, and yet, I do. I want to think that I belong here with Mamma and Papa and you.” She moved and made a soft little whimpering sound.

“You’ll always belong here . . . with me.”

“No. It wouldn’t be the same. If I came back, it would be like I was coming for a . . . visit.” Her voice broke, and she turned her face to his shoulder. Daniel’s hand burrowed beneath the pillow and he cuddled her close in his arms. His lips found the dampness of her temple, and his nose the softness of her hair. “What am I going to do?” She sobbed the words against his neck.

“I can’t tell you that, love. But I can tell you this: Whatever you decide to do, I’ll be with you. If you want to go see the Baxter woman,
we’ll
go, and then we’ll come back home. If you don’t want to go, I’ll see to it that Lenny and Bernie leave here, and you won’t have to see them again.”

“How can you do that?”

“I have ways. You’ll just have to leave it to me.”

Mercy’s hand wriggled out of his, and she cupped his cheek with her palm, then moved the tip of her forefinger to the dent in his chin and held it there. “Ah, Danny . . . you’ve done so much for me already.”

He swallowed before he could answer, and his arms tightened around her. “I’ve never done anything for you that I didn’t want to do. Since the first, I’ve felt that you belonged to me, and I to you.”

“I never knew that, Daniel.” Her fingers moved up over his face to brush back the unruly hair on his brow. “I can’t remember how things were at the very first, but it must have been awful for you.”

“Having you helped.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t cook your supper. Jeems left the chicken all ready to put in the pot. I think I had an attack of self-pity.”

“You can cook the chicken tomorrow.”

Daniel looked down at Mercy’s quiet, beautiful face. She was calm now. Her breath was sweet on his mouth, her hair tumbled down in beguiling disarray, as he had not seen it in years. He wanted to stay there forever holding her in his arms, warm and soft and dear, and to tell her how much she meant to him. A smile softened the line of his mouth.

“What are you smiling about?”

“I’m thinking I’m going to pull you out of this bed if you don’t get up and get dressed. I’ll fix us some supper. You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten.”

While he spoke, his arm slid from beneath the pillow. He stood and moved away from her, wanting to stay but knowing it best to put distance between them.

“Daniel.” He turned at the door when she said his name. “The woman who gets you will be so lucky.”

She was leaning up on her elbow, her hair curled down about her shoulders, a perfect frame for the peachgold skin of her face. Her eyes watched him through the heavy frame of lashes. He could see the shape of her high, uptilted breasts beneath the thin coverlet, and suddenly he was holding his breath. He stood staring, remembering the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her skin, the warmth of her breath on his face.

Beyond the smile he gave her, his mind raced furiously. It was unthinkable that he would ever love another woman, and the thought of her with another man was as painful as a knife stab. He wanted to say something because she was waiting, but what he said was totally unrelated to his thoughts.

“Get your lazy bones up out of that bed, Miss Quill, and come on downstairs. I’m hungry.”

M
ercy walked along the bank of the shallow stream that ran from the spring house to the larger creek. The sun felt warm on her back. It was warmer outside the house than inside, once she left the warmth of the cook stove. Green grass edged the banks, and here and there a patch of gold dandelion blossoms poked through the grass. They reminded her of when she and Amy had picked green in the spring. She stopped at the place where Daniel had placed rocks in the creek years ago so she could cross, and she watched the water travel over the stones.

Pleasant childhood memories leaked into her mind, all connected with Daniel, her protector, friend, and counselor. He had always been there to take her side in a dispute or to see that an older student didn’t force her to give up a swing or her place in line at the outhouse. No one hit her or pushed her when Daniel was around. She thought now of the time, during her early adolescent years, when she had refused to wear her knit cap to school because it would muss her hair. In the afternoon a blizzard had come up, and Daniel had put his cap on her head when they left the school. On the way home his ears were frostbitten.

This morning he had told her that she must make a decision today about the Baxters. Tomorrow at dawn the brothers were leaving Quill’s Station. If she wished to see the woman who had birthed her, Daniel would go with her, stay with her, and bring her back. One way or the other, the Baxters were leaving, he had said. There was something about the intensity of the words when he said them that bothered her.

In the distance Mercy could see the cabin where Jeems and Gerrit lived. The old man was plowing in the field just beyond the cabin. She would tell him to take the excess milk and eggs and the slab of bacon from the smokehouse. Her mother had taught her never to let food go to waste. Her
mother.
Mercy’s feet stumbled on the ground, even as her mind stumbled over the word. Mother was Liberty Quill. How could she call another woman Mother?

Before she reached the cabin, she veered off across the field toward Jeems. She was walking over corn stubble, holding her skirt just above her shoe tops so that it would not catch and tear, when a growl, like that of an angry animal, came from behind her. Startled, she jerked around. Her breath tore into her lungs and caught at the sight of a huge Negro man, held fast by a chain on his leg, the other end secured to a heavy post. He stood on spread legs, his arms reaching out toward her. A good fifty feet separated them, but she could see the rage in his eyes as he strained to free himself from the shackles that held him. His breath rasped in and out through a cavernous red mouth. Long black wiry hair stood straight out from his head. The hands at the end of his arms were huge; the growls coming from his throat were like the sounds of an angry dog.

“Missy! Missy!” Mercy heard old Jeems calling and was aware that he was running across the field to her, but she was mesmerized by the sight of his son and could not turn away. “Missy! Come back.” Jeems reached her and gently pulled on her arm. “Please, Missy, please—”

“Oh, Jeems. I didn’t realize . . .”

She retraced her steps, walking so fast that the old man had to hurry to keep up with her. Gerrit continued to yell something over and over, something she did not understand.