Embrace the Day (42 page)

"You've got to like yourself, my friend. You're all you've got."

"I don't even know what I'll do with the rest of my life, Joshua."

"Well, whatever you decide, make sure you like it. Because you're gonna be dead a long time."

Hance looked up, startled. Then, seeing the twinkle in the old man's eyes, he burst out laughing.

There was one thing left to do before leaving Dancer's Meadow. While the morning dew still glistened on the fields, he rode up the hill beyond the house to the tree-shaded knoll where the family buried their dead. Only two small markers jutted up from the ground. Dismounting, Hance approached the first. As he dropped to his knees before it, his chest tightened, and he was flooded by memories that had been hidden away in the back of his mind for years.

Matilda Jane Adair
, 1787-1790. Hance read the verse on the headstone aloud: " 'I will both lay me down in peace and sleep; for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety'."

Hance traced his sister's name with a finger, remembering. Little Mattie. A golden child, a child of sunlight and springtime. Hance recalled her bubbling, babyish laughter as he used to tickle her chubby chin with a twig of pussy willow. And her smell, the sweet, milky scent that clung to her. The soft moistness of her laughing mouth as she kissed him and gurgled his name.

Mattie's death had been the beginning of his withdrawal from the family, he realized. After that nothing seemed to matter. Perhaps nothing ever would. Brushing a tear from his cheek, he plucked a single white flower from the dogweed tree above and laid it at the base of the grave. Then he moved on.

The date of Prudence Moon Adair's death was Hance's birthday, a grim reminder of the cost of his life.

His mother had been twenty at her death. Barely emerged from the chrysalis of girlhood.

"Would she have liked the man you've become?" asked a thin, reedy voice.

Hance turned and jumped to his feet. "Mimi!" he cried, embracing her. She felt frail and insubstantial in his arms. "I was going to come and see you, but Mimsy wouldn't let me call on you at this hour. She said you've been ailing."

Mimi shook her head. "Not unless you call getting old an ailment. Mimsy's good to me, though. They built me a cottage down by the springhouse. They spend too much time fussing and worrying that I eat too little and sleep too much."

He squeezed her bony shoulders. "It's good to see you."

She nodded. "And you. You're a handsome devil, and well off from the looks of you. But you haven't answered my question. Would your mother have liked you?"

"No," he answered without hesitation.

Mimi sighed and spread her homespun skirts, lowering herself gingerly to the grass. "Why not?"

"Because I'm no good. I've lied and cheated people. I've used women and stolen from men. In almost everything I've done in my life, I've hurt people. The whole family left Virginia because of me."

"What do you intend to do about it?" Mimi demanded, fixing an unrelenting stare on him.

Hance shrugged. "The answer's obvious. I'll stay the hell out of their lives."

"Do you think you could hurt them any more than that?"

"It's to spare them, Mimi. To spare them."

She shook her head. "What a fool you are, Hance. Your parents—"

"They're not my parents."

Her dark eyes snapped with anger. "You're wrong, Hance. Genevieve and Roarke Adair are your parents in every way that matters. If you deny that, you're denying every decent thing they've ever done for you."

"But—"

Mimi waved her thin hand at Prudence's grave. "I never knew her." She watched his fist clench. "But Roarke understood his wife, Hance. And he forgave her. So should you."

"What does it matter whether or not I forgive a woman who's been dead almost forty years?" he demanded.

She held his hand. "Because it's the beginning of forgiving yourself."

The kitchen door banged behind Genevieve as she entered Luke's house, arms laden with groceries. Mariah hurried to relieve her of her burden, putting the jars of wild honey and preserved fruit on the kitchen sideboard.

"You didn't have to do this," Mariah scolded.

But Genevieve wasn't listening. She'd dropped to her knees beside the cradle near the hearth and was already cooing at Dylan, fat and cherubic at the age of nine months.

The baby blinked his wide, clear eyes, and his face blossomed into a wet, one-toothed smile of recognition.

"So you know your old grandmother," Genevieve said with satisfaction.

"I should think so," Mariah laughed. "You spoil him shamelessly."

"That's exactly what I mean to do," Genevieve said happily. Reaching into her apron pocket, she extracted a wooden rattle, honed smooth and carved just right to fit a small grasping hand. She closed Dylan's chubby fingers around it. "Israel made this for him."

"How is he, Genevieve?"

"The leg's still mending after all these months, but soon the stump will be ready for a wooden peg. Israel swears he'll be back teaching at the university next term. I think I've shed more tears over that leg than he has."

"Grandma!" Hattie and Benjamin burst into the kitchen from the garden, hands and lips stained with berry juice. Genevieve gathered the children into her arms and allowed them to search her pockets for the ever-present barley sugar.

"Anything in there for me?" Luke asked, walking into the kitchen.

"You emptied my apron pockets years ago," Genevieve told him with mock severity. "But I have something for you, Mariah."

"Really, Genevieve, I don't need—"

Genevieve placed a small black object in Mariah's hand. "This belonged to your mother," she said softly.

Mariah turned the lacquered box over and over in her hands, running her fingers over the design etched in gold, opening it to find a small supply of rusting needles.

"Mother's etui," she breathed. "She told me about this."

"You'd have had it long ago it I hadn't been such a thickhead about it. Took me all this time to realize Amy Parker was your mother. Roarke found this at the farm in Dancer's Meadow, after the Indian raid."

Mariah gave Genevieve a quick hug and murmured her thanks. She placed the etui on the mantel and went back to putting up the honey her mother-in-law had brought.

Luke had crouched down by the cradle, and was soon joined by Genevieve. The two of them discussed the infant's various accomplishments with absurd gravity.

Mariah smiled. Dylan's birth had been the impetus that propelled Genevieve back to her son. The Shawnee would have said Moneto, the Supreme Being, had taken a hand in the reunion. Whatever it was, Mariah was thankful. Luke and Genevieve shared a bond that should never have been broken.

There was still a rift in the family, Mariah reflected sadly. Roarke Adair remained steadfast in his hatred for her people; Rebecca still couldn't look upon or think about Indians without going into hysterics. Although Genevieve had never admitted it, she doubtless had to do battle with Roarke each time she came to visit her grandchildren.

But it was a start. Perhaps one day…

Gideon arrived, breathless and sweating. "Sadie's gone."

he announced, referring to the family's favorite dog. "Must've gone to the woods to whelp her pups." He looked regretfully at Benjamin. "Sorry," he said. "I know you spent a long time making a nest in the barn for her. I'll go see if I can fetch her back."

"I'm coming with you!" Benjamin piped, already diving for his hat. With his eyes, he begged Luke and Mariah not to deter him.

Luke gave him an indulgent grin, fondly ruffling the boy's hair. "Go on, son. Round her up."

Ben let out a whoop of joy. He threw his arms around Luke and then hugged Mariah. She felt an unexpected jolt of emotion as she held her son. Her firstborn was a sweet boy, full of life and good spirits. He had a boundless love for animals, singling out Sadie and a family of barn cats for his special brand of affection.

He was off and running after Gideon in the blink of an eye, winding down the hollow and into the western woods.

"You leave Sadie alone!" yelled a childish voice. Hance drew up his horse and peered into the woods near the road leading into Lexington from the east. A few yards away four boys struggled, each trying to capture a rope that had been slung around the neck of a cinnamon-colored hound dog.

Hance dismounted and walked over to the arguing group. The dog seemed to be straining toward the younger boys, at the same time snarling at a pair of youths. An instant wave of dislike came over Hance. The elder youth was pock-faced and ugly; the younger was handsome, yet no less cruel looking.

"Give her over, Caleb," the youngest boy said to the pocked youth.

"See here," Hance said loudly. "What are you doing
to
this poor beast?" The dog did indeed look poorly, its belly sagging with pregnancy.

"Spruce and Caleb are trying to steal my dog," the little boy said.

"We isn't stealing," Caleb retorted. "Done found her on my daddy's property."

Hance gripped Caleb's wrist and squeezed until the boy dropped the rope. "You boys are to be commended," he said sarcastically, "for bringing the little lad's dog to him."

Caleb and Spruce exchanged a glance, then looked back at the well-dressed gentleman. All it took was a stare from Hance, and they were thoroughly intimidated. They hung back sullenly.

Hance gave the rope to the small boy. "You'd best keep your dog at home, son," he advised, turning back to his horse. A well-shaped brown hand touched his sleeve, and he hesitated, looking down into a pair of steady brown eyes.

A boy of eleven or twelve was staring at him. "You're Hance Adair," he said quietly.

Hance stiffened. He barely noticed that the two youths had lit out on hearing the name. "Sweet Christ," he murmured. "You're Mariah's boy, aren't you."

"Gideon Parker. Her nephew." The boy's gaze turned to one of loathing. "Luke told you never to come back here."

Hance expelled a sigh. "That he did, son. But it's been six years. I mean to make peace with my brother—"

The boys left before he could finish, pulling the dog back through the woods. Hance sighed again, shaking his head. If Gideon's reaction was any indication, he might be making the mistake of his life in coming back to Lexington.

But only Ivy Atwater could prove or disprove that. He mounted and urged his horse into town.

Ivy looked without interest at the array of hand-tatted lace in the milliner's shop as her mother exclaimed over it.

"Really, Ivy," she scolded, "you could show a little enthusiasm for the Caddices' ball. Mr. Clay of Ashland is sure to be there. I dare say Sarah is a bit young to hostess such a to-do. Imagine, a farmer's daughter…"

Ivy turned away, closing out her mother's denunciation of Sarah Craddick. Mrs. Atwater made no secret of her dislike for the Adair's, and Ivy was tired of hearing about it. She was tired of being pitied for her love affair gone awry, tired of being pushed at Farley Craddick, who had sneeringly offered for her, openly declaring that surely George Attwater would have to settle a generous dowry on his thirty-two-year-old daughter.

No one seemed to understand that Hance Adair, gone so long his memory was like a gilded dream, had ruined all other men for her. No one had his vibrance, his brash nerve. Right from the start, Ivy had been aware of the passionate side of Hance's nature. But now, it seemed, she'd cheated herself out of the chance to sample that passion. Hance had already left Lexington by the time Nell Wingfield had told Ivy the truth about him.

While her mother was making purchases, Ivy looked wistfully out the shop window. Her breath left her as she made out the form of a well-dressed man riding up the street, his beaver hat set at a rakish angle over a shock of thick blond hair.

Nothing existed at that moment but Hance. Nothing mattered but having him in her life again. Oblivious of the scandalized gasps of the ladies in the shop, Ivy picked up her skirts and ran.

Outside, into the sunlight, into Hance's welcoming arms.

"
Everything's changed," Hance
commented as the chaise rolled along a well-traveled road just south of Lexington. The forest, once so dense that sunlight never touched its floor, had given way to productive fields, small homesteads, and large, townlike plantations.

"I'm not sure I care for all this," Hance added, scowling at a shoddy claim in a hollow off to the left. The farm was an unkempt jumble of buildings, log mixed ungraciously with clapboard. The cornfields around the compound were scruffy and crow infested; steam rose from an ill-concealed still. An unkempt youth who had been idling in the door-yard took note of their passing and disappeared around the back.

"The Harper place," Ivy said, moving closer to him on the seat. "They moved into the area about—"

Hance gripped her arm. "
Who
?"

She frowned at him. "The Harpers, darling. A rather strange family. Two brothers. I've heard one of them has two wives…" Ivy frowned slightly. "There are two grown boys as well."

Hance had a sudden unwelcome image of the youths he'd stopped from stealing the dog from Luke's boys the year before. Now he knew why they'd fled on hearing Gideon speak his name. He should have recognized then the brand of gleeful cruelty unique to the Harpers.

"Listen, Ivy," Hance said urgently. "I don't ever want you to go near those people. Don't speak to them, don't tell them your name. They must never know you're my wife."

His intensity worried her. "Hance, why?"

Flicking the reins, he urged the pair of pacers faster. At last he spoke of his first and only experience in river piracy. Once he'd feared telling Ivy about his past. But no longer. There was nothing he couldn't say to the woman he loved more than his own life.

"Hance, that was years ago. Surely, they've forgotten."

He shook his head. "Wiley and Micajah Harper are vindictive men. They've killed for smaller things than what I did to them."

"They can't harm us, Hance. You're a very important man in Lexington now."

He leaned over and kissed her temple softly, still a little in awe of the miracle that she'd waited for him, that she still loved him. "What would I do without your faith in me, love?"

She gazed at him seriously with her brandy-colored eyes. "You'd be fine, Hance."

"No, I wouldn't."

She watched him fondly, thinking back over the year of their marriage. Ivy still felt she hadn't awakened from the dream of happiness cloaking every moment of every day. Her parents had resisted the marriage at first… until Genevieve had spoken to them, Genevieve, who knew the pain of alienation in a family.

And so the Attwaters had proven amenable. Over the months, Hance had given them no cause to regret the marriage. In fact, he seemed intent on proving to Ivy's parents that the circumstances of his birth had nothing to do with the person he was.

One hurdle was left to surmount—the rift with Luke. The road they traveled now led to Luke's farm and to, Ivy hoped fervently, a truce between the brothers. Hance drove in thoughtful silence.

"You're nervous," Ivy said in surprise, noting an unaccustomed tightness in his jaw.

Hance nodded. "If ever a man had cause to hate me, it's Luke."

"I think he's ready to forgive you, Hance. Mariah has; she's the one who asked us to come today."

His hand closed over Ivy's, but doubt crept through him as they descended the drive to Luke's farm.

Rows of corn hugged the hills flanking the farmhouse. Behind the house, a newly whitewashed silo and barn jutted proudly beside a winding stream. Luke's home looked snug and charming, pristine in its setting of wildflowers and blooming morning glories.

Mariah greeted them on the porch, stepping over the cinnamon-colored hound dog. Hance sensed her nervousness, although she was smiling and more beautiful than he had ever seen her. Luke's children were beautiful, too: six-year-old Benjamin, the lad Hance had seen defending Sadie against the Harper boys, appeared with a large barn cat in his arms to greet them with polite affection. Hattie, an adorable childish version of her mother, had baby Dylan in tow. The stocky little boy, his hair the color of rain-wet clay, looked so like Luke that Hance caught himself staring. Gideon Parker, a slim and handsome boy with frankly Indian features, seemed possessed of a boundless assurance as he greeted Hance and Ivy. Yet he seemed wary of Hance, not quite so forgiving as his aunt.

Luke was nowhere in sight. Mariah explained that he was out hewing logs for a new harrow and would be back in time for supper. Ivy followed her into the kitchen while Hance stayed on the porch, talking to the children, delighted them with a description of a street show he'd seen in London.

Ivy inhaled the warm, fresh smell of bread and watched Mariah as she moved quickly about the room, preparing the evening meal.

"Luke doesn't know we've come," Ivy stated with sudden insight.

Mariah almost dropped the knife she was using to slice the bread. "I—No, he doesn't. In fact, when he heard Hance had returned to Lexington, he wanted to run him out of town."

"You shouldn't have done this, Mariah."

"I had to. It's bad enough Luke and his father haven't seen each other in seven years; this family doesn't need another rift. Besides, it's up to me to forgive Hance." Her eyes were bright with determination. "And I have, Ivy. We both know he's not like that creature who attacked me. He's changed. We all have."

"They'll fight. They've always fought."

"I don't think so. Not this time. Too much has happened."

They worked in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the children's laughter on the porch and the occasional trill of a mockingbird in the dooryard. Ivy poured cream from an urn into a small pitcher while Mariah checked the roast. The routine chores of preparing the meal seemed to calm the women, although both were still tense about what would happen when the two brothers met.

Two shots rang out. Ivy's urn fell to the floor and shattered. Mariah gasped. Even in her darkest imaginings, she hadn't believed Luke would react like this.

Together she and Ivy raced to the porch. Hance had pushed the children into the house.

"Where's a gun?" he demanded tautly.

Mariah stiffened. "No, Hance. I'm not going to let you settle things this way."

He grasped her by the shoulders. "It's not Luke, damn it. The Harpers are outside. They must have seen Ivy and me, and followed us here."

Mariah's blood chilled as she looked out the window. She saw riders in the trees at the sides of the slopes. Buckskin-garbed riders. The Harpers with their stringy hair and gap-toothed grins and hard-drinking ways. There were four of them—Wiley and Micajah, and Wiley's two sons, Caleb and Spruce. Without another word, Mariah went to a cabinet and took out a rifle, handing it to Hance.

She took the children to the root cellar, a tiny underground cave behind the kitchen. Ivy hesitated, placing her hand on Hance's arm as he loaded the gun.

"Hance—"

He paused and gave her a grim look. "I know. I'll be careful. Now, see to the children."

Gulping air, Ivy went back through the kitchen. Mariah was holding the slanted wooden door open as she spoke calmly to Hattie, instructing her to keep Dylan quiet. Benjamin hung back, loath to enter the cellar.

"What about Papa?" he asked.

Mariah swallowed. She'd never told Luke about killing Elk Harper, nor about the more recent encounter with Wiley and Micajah in town. Those were things she didn't want to share with her husband, to heap on him like an unwelcome burden. "He's all right, Ben," she forced herself to say.

"But he doesn't know about the Harpers, Mama. He could walk right into this. And what about the animals? I saw one of the men going down toward the barn." Suddenly, Ben began to shift from foot to foot.

"Get in the cellar, Ben," Mariah ordered.

"Just a minute, Mama. I—I gotta—" He pointed at the privy across the yard.

Mariah felt frustration grip her as another shot sizzled through the air. "Be quick about it."

Ben scampered off. Too late, Mariah realized his ruse. He bypassed the outhouse and ran down a path toward the woods, disappearing into a stand of elm trees. Mariah called his name and nearly went after him when her attention was diverted. To her right, Gideon was thundering away on his Chickasaw pony.

Inwardly cursing the two willful, foolish boys, Mariah settled Ivy, Hattie, and Dylan into the cellar.

"Stay quiet," she cautioned them again, placing her hand on the door.

"Where are you going?" Ivy asked.

"Back inside. Hance won't be able to handle the four of them alone."

"Then I'm coming, too."

Mariah shook her head. "You don't know how to shoot, Ivy. And the little ones need you." She closed the door firmly and ran back to the house.

One blast had shattered a window. Hance was crouched beneath it, trying to draw a bead on the elusive targets that hung slyly back, in range but out of sight. Hearing Mariah loading another gun, he swiveled around. He was about to object when he noticed how smoothly she fitted the ramrod into the barrel and checked the firing pan.

"I'm sorry about this, Mariah," Hance said gruffly. "I'm sorry about everything."

She squeezed his hand and set the rifle butt against her shoulder.

Israel's uneven gait added its rhythm to the ticking of the hooded wall clock. The sound brought Genevieve to her feet. "Welcome home," she said, hurrying out on the porch to take his arm. "I thought the university had swallowed you up."

Israel grinned and allowed her to help him into the sitting room. She insisted on fussing over him, even though he could now walk and even sit a horse with his peg leg. All Lexington had buzzed in admiration when Israel had danced with Bridie Farrell's flamboyant sister Margaret at a recent cornshucking.

"Roarke," Genevieve called, "Rebecca, come see who's here for Sunday dinner."

They sat together in the quiet of a soft summer afternoon, talking and smiling, wrapped in the comfortable peace of familiar closeness. They spoke of the farm, of Israel's career teaching theology, and Sarah's recent social triumph of hostessing her first formal party as Mrs. Nathaniel Caddick.

Talk meandered around to Hance. Hance, whom they'd thought lost to them forever. It was a different man who'd ridden home to them, with new lines of maturity and understanding etched on his face. A man who had done a lot of soulsearching and had come up wanting. And had finally decided to do something about it.

He was content now, with Ivy at his side in their handsome house in High Street. The old restlessness was gone. Hance was happy.

As were all the Adairs… almost. Genevieve could accept Israel's disability and Rebecca's reticence. The young woman had become almost a recluse, folding in on herself, poring over her Bible and her copies of the
Home Mission
ary. Sarah, too, had her flaws, which included her utter delight in the fact that she was now mistress of several slaves. Yet she remained a loving girl, still close to the parents who were no longer her social equals.

The only thing Genevieve couldn't accept was the estrangement between Luke and Roarke. It simply wasn't meant to be, yet the rift hung over them and tinged her life with melancholy. So many times she'd argued, begged, and browbeaten Roarke, only to encounter the cold wall of his hatred and prejudice. She tried to play on his softer emotions, regaling him with anecdotes about the grandchildren he refused to know.