Rachel's Choice (17 page)

“Harley!” Cleve bellowed from downstairs.

The boy shoved her toward the steps. “Ya gonna fix us some bacon and eggs,” he said. “Ya got eggs?”

“Yes,” she replied, glaring at him. “Mind your manners.” Inside she was shaking with fear, but she knew that any sign of weakness would be her downfall.

“I want bacon and eggs, and some white gravy and biscuits,” Harley replied. “We ain't et decent in months. Then you kin tend that dog bite and this here hand. After that …” He laughed suggestively. “After ya kin find some other way to be nice to us. I ain't never had me no Yankee woman.”

“I told you, I'm not a Yankee.” She blew out the lamp, then hurried to the hall landing, keeping her distance from Harley.

Davy squirmed in Rachel's arms as she descended the stairs. She was so terrified that she felt numb inside. The thought of rape by these two sickened her. Even worse was her growing suspicion that they meant to kill her and
Davy before they left. Oh, Chance, where are you? she screamed silently.

“Ye swivin' her up there?” Cleve asked Harley as they came back into the kitchen.

“You promised me first go at her,” the younger soldier said.

“I ain't done wrong by ye yet, have I, boy?” Cleve asked. “We may want to hole up here a few days. If we do, they'll be plenty of lovin' for both of us, won't there, gal?”

Rachel didn't answer. Averting her eyes, she circled around him to tuck Davy into the wood box behind the stove. The baby fussed momentarily and then popped a fat thumb into his mouth. She whispered a silent prayer and pulled the lid of the container over him.

“Your friend says you're hungry,” Rachel said as she straightened. “I've got roast pork hanging in the well,” she lied. “If you want me—”

“Bacon and lots of it,” Cleve said. He pointed to a smoked haunch hanging from a rafter.

“Eggs,” Harley chimed in. “And biscuits. Don't forget the biscuits.” He spilled the jewelry onto the table, and Rachel noticed that her grandfather's watch was missing.

Good, she thought. If she could pit the two against each other, she might find a way to save Davy.

Bear's massive body lay sprawled by the door. A pool of blood soaked into the rug near his head. Rachel couldn't resist kneeling beside him and stroking his thick fur. To her surprise, she felt a slight movement beneath her hand.

“Bear,” she whispered. The dog's eyes were closed, but he was warm to the touch. She skimmed her fingers
over his neck and head, quickly locating the furrow where the bullet had grazed his skull.

“Git away from thet dog,” Cleve said.

“You didn't have to kill him,” she protested.

Harley chuckled and pointed the pistol at Bear. “Pow!” he taunted.

Rachel drew a slow, deep breath. Bear was alive. How long he'd lain without moving, she didn't know, but she had to think of something fast. If they guessed that he wasn't dead, they'd only shoot him again.

Turning away from Cleve, Rachel walked to the pump and began to wash her hands. As she did, she glanced at the rain-streaked window. And for just an instant, in the flash of lightning, she caught sight of Chance's face.

He put a finger over his lips and vanished so swiftly that she wondered if she had really seen him or if it was her imagination.

“What was that?” Harley said, coming to the pump. “I thought I saw …”

“What?” Cleve demanded.

“Lightning,” Rachel said. “I think it struck a tree in the yard.”

Harley elbowed her out of the way and stared through the windowpanes. Thunder rumbled overhead, and gusts of wind battered the house.

Suddenly Rachel heard the sound of shattering glass from the parlor. Clive and Harley lunged across the room, and Rachel dashed to the table and blew out the lamp.

The kitchen was plunged into total darkness. Rachel ducked behind the stove, snatched Davy from the wood box, and fled out the back door into the pouring rain.

Her only thought was to get the baby to safety. If she took the boat, she could escape up the creek, or she could run into the woods and through the marsh to Cora Wright's farm. But doing either of these things meant leaving Chance alone to face two armed men.

She stopped running just outside the barn door.
Chance.
She couldn't abandon him any more than she could have deserted little Davy.

It took only seconds to dart around the side of the barn to the empty sheep shed. Even in the pitch dark Rachel could find the gate and feel her way to the manger. She laid a screaming Davy inside and heaped dry hay around him to keep him warm. “God keep you,” she whispered before dashing back to the house.

The door was open, as she'd left it, and the house was still. From the formal parlor, on the other side of the front staircase, came another crash of glass and breaking furniture. She thought she heard Bear whimper as she crossed the room and ran up the kitchen steps.

The spare room above opened into a hall; from there
she could reach her bedchamber. Rachel didn't need a light; she'd been raised in this house and knew every inch of it. Beside the fireplace, in a narrow cupboard, stood a double-barrel shotgun. Grabbing the heavy weapon, she crept down the front stairs.

She nearly reached the bottom when a pistol went off. Cleve swore, and a bottle rolled across the floor.

“Damn you, Harley, ya got me!”

She froze, trembling from head to foot. She wanted to call out to Chance—to know if he was alive or dead, but she knew that if she spoke, she'd give away her position. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering and waited in total darkness.

Finally, when several minutes passed, she could stand the suspense no longer. “Put your hands up!” she cried. “I've got a shotgun, and I'll use it!”

“Get down!” Chance yelled from only an arm's length away. He flung himself over her, knocking her back against the steps and pinning the heavy shotgun between them as Cleve's rifle spat fire and lead.

The ball tore through the banister and smashed a hole in the parlor wall. Splinters of wood sprayed Rachel's arm.

“Are you hurt?” Chance demanded.

“No … I don't think so,” she replied breathlessly. His weight pinned her against the steps, and his nearness was nearly as unnerving as being shot at.

“Give me the gun.” It was impossible to ignore the authority in his voice.

Without arguing, Rachel released the weapon. As he rose, she twisted under him and scrambled up the steps.

“Don't move a muscle,” Chance shouted from below. “Breathe and I'll blow you to hell.”

Rachel shivered. She'd lived side by side with this man for weeks and had never heard this deadly tone.

“Drop your guns and kick them away.”

“Yer bluffin',” Cleve answered.

One barrel blasted. Window glass and wood shattered.

Rachel dived onto the floor of her bedroom and lay there with her heart racing.

“Still think I'm bluffing?” Chance asked. “This is a double, and I'm saving the last shell for the first one of you who—”

“I got my hands up!” Harley shouted.

“Same here,” Cleve mumbled.

“Rachel, bring a lamp!”

“All right,” she answered. She found the table and matchbox, but her hands were shaking so hard that she dropped it and matches scattered across the rug. She got down on her hands and knees to retrieve them.

On the second try she struck a spark and ignited the oil-soaked wick. Seconds later she descended the steps with the oil lamp in hand.

Rain-laden wind blew through the smashed window into the parlor. Harley and Cleve stood with raised hands in the far corner of the room. Cleve's trouser leg was soaked with blood, and both men's faces showed evidence of a fight. Chance held them at bay with her shotgun. One eye and his lower lip were swollen, and the knuckles on his right hand were bleeding, but he didn't seem to have suffered any serious injuries.

Rachel lifted the lamp and surveyed the damage. A table was overturned, two chairs and a whale-oil lamp were smashed, and bottles were broken. A marble mortar and pestle lay on the floor, and brass scales were
flattened. A leather box of dental instruments had been overturned in the confusion and lay trampled underfoot.

“No need to cause such a fuss, Cap'n,” Cleve said. “We didn't hurt the woman.”

“We're on the same side,” Harley reminded Chance.

Chance glanced at Rachel. “Set that lamp down, pick up their weapons, and fetch some strong rope.”

She nodded, still too shaken to speak.

“How come a fine Southern boy like you ain't fightin' fer the
cause
?” Cleve demanded as Rachel snatched up his rifle from the floor.

“Get down,” Chance said. “Slow and easy. Hands behind your head.”

Harley, face bleached to the color of a dead flounder, was blubbering and begging for mercy. Trying not to feel pity for him, Rachel retrieved his pistol and returned to Chance's side.

Chance examined the handgun and tucked it into his belt. His countenance was grim, his movements controlled. Tingles of apprehension skittered down Rachel's spine. She could taste sulfur in the air; at any second, she expected him to squeeze the trigger again.

“What you gonna do wi' us?” Harley dropped to his knees. “Ya can't shoot us. We're willing to share, fair ‘n' square. We're yer own kind.”

“Shut up, Harley,” Cleve muttered as he stretched out on the glass-covered rug.

“The rope,” Chance reminded Rachel.

She found a length behind the wood box and cut it in two. Chance handed her the shotgun. “If either of them makes a move, shoot the other one,” he ordered. “I'll take care of the first.”

Neither intruder risked Rachel's aim. Chance fastened
the prisoners' hands behind their backs and hobbled their legs. Finally he linked the two men together, neck to neck, leaving just enough rope for them to walk.

“Will you be all right here?” Chance asked her, exchanging Cleve's rifle for the shotgun. “Lock yourself in the house and don't be afraid to use this if you have to. I'm going to take them far enough away so that they won't be a danger to you.”

“I've got to get Davy,” she said. “I put him in the sheepfold.” Her knees were weak, and she was terrified, but she couldn't leave her son outside.

“Yer lettin' us go, Cap'n?” Harley whined.

“Get the baby,” Chance said. “I'll wait until you get back. I can't be certain if there are any more like these two running loose tonight.”

As Rachel hurried through the kitchen, she stopped to light a second lamp and then a lantern. Apprehensively she paused to check Bear again and found his eyes partially open and his breathing stronger. “Good boy,” she murmured. “Good dog.”

The mastiff tried to raise his head.

“You'll be fine,” she promised. Bear's pitiful whine made her throat tighten. “I'll make you better.”

If Bear had survived, then perhaps Lady might be alive as well, Rachel reasoned. She stepped out the back door. The rainfall had slackened to a light mist, and the occasional flash of lightning shimmered far off on the horizon.

“Lady! Here, Lady!” she called. But there was no familiar answering bark. “Lady!”

Then her heart plummeted as she caught sight of the still form lying in the shadows of the house. “Oh, Lady!” she cried.

Oblivious to the mud, she knelt beside the collie and threw her arms around her. “You were faithful to the end, weren't you, old girl,” she whispered. Tears slid down Rachel's cheeks, and for a minute or two she weakened and wept uncontrollably.

Her eyes were still red and swollen when she returned to the kitchen with Davy. The baby was sound asleep and seemed none the worse for his adventure. She kissed the crown of his head and laid him on the daybed. She was propping a pillow beside him to prevent him from falling off when Chance came in.

She looked at him. “What will you do with them?”

He frowned and shifted the shotgun from one arm to the other. “What do you suggest?”

Shoot them, she wanted to cry. Shoot them as you would any vermin. But she bit back her ire and went to the stove reservoir for warm water. “My Lady's dead,” she murmured. “They killed her.”

“I know. I stumbled over her in the yard. I'm sorry.”

“And they shot Bear.” She found a cloth and some soap to wash Bear's wound and set the bowl down on the dry sink. “The bullet made a nasty gash along his skull,” she explained as she turned to face Chance. “He lost a lot of blood, but I think he'll be all right.”

“You thought they could protect you, didn't you?” he declared hotly. “You've no business out here alone. Do you know what would have happened to you if I hadn't been here?”

She recoiled. “This is my home,” she answered. “Where else would I go?”

“In town, where it's safe. Damn it, woman. Don't you realize that there's a war going on?”

“You've no right to talk to me like that! I'm grateful
for your help, but I saved your neck, and don't you forget it.”

He laid the shotgun across the table and seized her shoulders. “Rachel, I—”

Suddenly her righteous anger turned to something else. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. His hard mouth softened under her assault, and he enfolded her in a crushing embrace.

“Rachel,” he whispered.

The intensity of his searing kiss stripped away the last of her defenses. She parted her lips and welcomed the thrust of his hot tongue and the feel of his hands on her body.

“Chance, Chance,” she murmured. For a few brief seconds the world faded, leaving her alone with him, caught in the maelstrom of a kiss that seemed to go on and on.

And then he gently pushed her away. “This isn't the time.”