Rachel's Choice (23 page)

Four of the soldiers dismounted. One went into the chicken house, another headed for the pigpen. The others entered the barn.

Please, God, don't let Chance or Blackie be in there, Rachel prayed silently. Goose bumps rose on her arms, and she forced herself to remain composed.

Upstairs Bear kept barking at the window, and Rachel could hear Davy crying. She was glad of the noise. With luck, the racket would cover the sound of the chickens she'd hidden in the crawl space under the kitchen floor. Enough was enough, she'd decided. President Lincoln would get no more of her poultry or her livestock.

“Nothing in there,” a young soldier called from the doorway of the chicken house. “Corn, chicken poop, and feathers, but no chickens.”

“Ma'am?” The sergeant scowled. “Have you hidden your birds? Private Billings has found evidence of poultry.”

“No, indeed,” she protested. “What a question. You're welcome to search my house.”

“Then where be your chickens?”

“Taken, sir, by a weasel. Two fat hens I had. What was left to me after the last time your people came by to rob me. And that devil's minion sucked every drop of blood from my birds. If I didn't know better, I'd think the creature had been sent out by the army to plague me.”

“Those are hard words,” Pyle replied. “There's a war on. Men have to eat.”

“Indeed!” she flung back at him. “And so do widows and children. I've yet to see a penny of what was promised to me from the government. My babe and I are living on greens and fish.” She shook a finger at him. “My husband, God rest his soul, is owed death benefits, and I haven't seen his back pay—let alone my widow's pension.”

“So what you're sayin' is that varmints et your poultry?” the sergeant asked.

“One chicken, Molly by name, I fed to the reverend, last Sunday. I roasted it with wild onion and stuffed it—”

“Never mind.” He vigorously crossed out something else on his paper. “No chickens.”

“Sarge!” A red-haired soldier came out of the barn. “Found a horse in here.”

Rachel's heart sunk. She started toward the man, but Sergeant Pyle waved her back. “Stay where you are, ma'am.”

“My hired—” She broke off as Chance, leading Blackie, ambled out with a foolish grin on his face. It was all she could do to keep from bursting into laughter.

Chance limped heavily on his left side; Blackie limped on the right. Somehow the sturdy little horse had lost most of the hair on his mane and tail, had bald spots on his knees and sides, and was caked with manure and straw. Poor Blackie's nose was running, and
disgusting yellow matter lodged in the corners of his bloodshot eyes.

“You call that a horse?” the soldier who'd checked her pigpen taunted the redhead. He swung up into the saddle and moved his mount a distance away from Blackie and Chance as if they were contagious.

“What's wrong with that animal?” Sergeant Pyle demanded of Rachel.

“Nothing's wrong with him,” she replied. “He's a wonderful horse. My grandmother drove him to church every Sunday for years.”

“Check his teeth,” the sheriff advised.

Red approached Blackie, then stepped back in disgust as a trickle of foam dripped from the little horse's lips. Blackie began to cough, and the private shook his head. “Not me, Sarge. Let Wilson touch him.”

Chance stood wide-eyed beside Blackie and stared at the soldiers. His mouth hung open, revealing blackened stumps of teeth, and he shuffled aimlessly from one foot to the other like a child who needed to use the necessary.

Something looked odd about him, other than his performance, Rachel mused. Was one shoulder higher than the other? Sweet Jerusha! Chance had a hump between his shoulder blades. She moaned and buried her face in her apron to keep from snickering.

“You! What's your name?” the sergeant demanded brusquely.

Chance grinned wider and let his tongue dangle out of his mouth. Lawyer, hell, Rachel thought. He should make his career on the stage.

“Abner? Are you Abner Potts?”

Rachel choked as Chance nodded excitedly. Pointing to his mouth, he jabbered a string of nonsense.

“Speak up,” the red-haired private said, giving Chance a shove.

Chance turned toward the man.

Don't lose your temper, Rachel cried inwardly. Please, Chance, don't ruin your performance now. We'll all be hung!

To her relief, Chance squealed with delight, snatched a metal button off the man's shirt, and tilted it so that sunlight reflected off the shiny surface.

The soldier tried to recover his button, but Chance cradled it against him and limped across the yard to hide behind Rachel.

The sergeant shook his head. “Anything else in that barn?” he asked.

“Nothing but this sorry pair,” Red said. “And I don't know which one is more worthless.”

“Pardon, sir.” Rachel tried to ignore Chance's tugging at the back of her skirt. “Abner's naught but a poor afflicted creature—one of God's own angels. I'll gladly pay for the button. Abner is—”

“I can see what he is, lady,” Sergeant Pyle said. “Mount up.” He swore at one of his men who rode too close to Blackie. “Keep your horse away from that animal. Can't you see it's sick?” He glanced back at Rachel. “I'd advise you to shoot that horse,” he said. “And your hired man as well.” He waved to the sheriff. “Let's move on. We're wasting daylight here.”

“But my money!” Rachel protested. “What's due me. How do I collect—”

“File with the proper authorities, ma'am.” Sergeant Pyle dug in his pocket and drew out a silver dollar. “Here, take this,” he said, as he tossed it to her. “You need it more than I do.”

“God bless you, sir,” she called after him. “And you, Sheriff Voshell. God bless you both!” She smiled at their retreating backs. “And keep you far away from me,” she finished softly.

Then Chance began to chuckle.

“Damn your hide,” she said when she was certain that it was safe. “What have you done to poor Blackie?”

“What were you thinking?” she demanded later, when they'd dumped buckets of water over Blackie and washed the honey out of his eyes. “I said I had a mute working for me, not a …” She gasped in exasperation. “I could picture myself staring out of the bars at Fort Delaware.”

“It worked, didn't it?” He lifted Blackie's foot and deftly pried a stone out of the frog. “Sorry, old boy,” he murmured to the horse. “But you're better off pulling a plow here than an ammunition wagon.” Chance glanced at Rachel. “War is worse on the animals than on the men.”

“And how did you get him to cough and run from the nose and mouth?”

Chance grinned. “Pepper. Black pepper in his grain.”

“Monster,” she accused. “And where did you learn to playact like that?”

“ ‘All the world's a stage,' ” he quoted. “And a courtroom all the more.” He chuckled. “I've always enjoyed the theater.”

“I'd love to see a real play some day,” she confided. Now that the troops were gone and her poultry and animals were safe, it was hard not to laugh at Chance's efforts.

“And I'd love to take you to see one.” He pulled off
his shirt, and his hump slid to the ground, a tangle of rope and strips of torn cloth.

“What would you have done if someone touched that thing on your back?” she asked.

He winked at her. “They'd have had to catch me first.”

“Well,” she replied. “One thing is certain. If you survive the war and you can't go back to the lawyering trade, you can always buy a gypsy wagon and go on the road selling snake oil.”

“We could do it together,” he teased. “The world-famous Doctor Cyrus Calcutta and his lovely assistant, Princess Bubbling Water. We'll dress you in buckskin and beads. You can learn a war dance, and I'll—”

“Take the audience for every cent they've got,” she supplied. “Not much different than what you did before the war.”

“Ah, madam, you wound me,” he cried dramatically as he clutched his fists to his chest. “That I, a man of letters who has sworn to uphold the laws of the land, should suffer such—”

“But you haven't, have you?” Suddenly serious, she gazed at him and wondered if she'd fallen easy prey to his gilded words. “You've not upheld the laws of our country.”

“No,” he admitted. “Not to your way of thinking. But I'm a Virginian, honey. What would you have done if Delaware had joined the secession? Could you have turned against your friends and neighbors? Fought against your cousins?”

She shook her head. “I guess not.” She covered her face with her hands. “Why does life have to be so damned complicated? I wish that we could tramp the
roads with a medicine show. I wish …” She trailed off, realizing how foolish she sounded.

Her throat tightened and she looked away from him. There wouldn't be any after the war for them, she reminded herself. And all her wishing wouldn't make it any different.

That night, after the mantle clock struck twelve, Rachel and Chance lay awake in her bed. Exhausted from making love, neither could sleep. Instead, Rachel rested her head on his sweat-dampened chest and listened to the steady throb of his heart while he caressed her unbound hair.

A light breeze stirred the curtains and lifted some of the still heat from the bedchamber. Outside, lightning bugs flashed on and off, and mosquitoes droned beyond the cheesecloth barrier Rachel had fastened over the open windows.

Chance's lean hand cupped one of her breasts, and their bare legs intertwined. Tonight their lovemaking had been quick and fierce. Thinking of his tumescence filling her was enough to send tremors down her spine. But for all the passion of their coming together, she wondered if this time of holding and whispering in the darkness wasn't sweeter still.

She loved Chance's smell, and she loved the feel of his powerful horseman's thighs and taut buttocks. She liked to tease his nipples until they puckered into tight knots, and she thrilled to his callused fingers stroking her body.

“I do love you,” she whispered languidly. “No, shhh.” She put her hand over his mouth. “Don't say anything. Don't spoil tonight. You don't have to love me back, Chance. Just let me—”

He pushed her hand away. “Don't. You're tearing me apart, Rachel. I do … Hell, woman, I can't stand this. I can't do it.”

She stiffened in his arms. “Can't do what?”

“Can't stay here, hiding behind your skirts while Travis may be—”

Rachel twisted to her knees and seized his shoulders. She felt him wince as she tightened her fingers on his healing wound. “Travis is dead!” she said. “You can't kill yourself for a dead man. I won't let you.”

“You can't stop me.”

“What about me and Davy? What's going to happen to us if you throw your life away?”

“I'll go to Philadelphia and leave instructions with my English bank. I'm making a will, and everything I've got goes to you.”

“Like hell!”

Davy started to whimper and she went to him and set the cradle to rocking. “I told you that I'm not taking your money. If you do survive the war, you'll marry someone of your own kind and—”

“You are my kind, Rachel.” He rose from the far side of the bed and began to pace the floor. “I care about you and Davy, more than you'll ever know.”

“But you don't love us?”

“Don't ask what I can't give. I care about you, more than I've ever cared about any woman and child. Does that satisfy you?”

“No, it doesn't.” She sank down on the floor beside Davy and laid her head against the side of the cradle. “You must care about him deeply,” she said, “your friend, Travis.”

“You'd have to fight in a war to know what real friendship can mean. Soldiers depend on their comrades. You can shut your eyes and catch a little sleep, knowing he's there to watch your back, or you can charge a defended hill and be certain that if your horse is shot out from under you, he'll ride through cannon fire to pick you up.” He crouched and put his arms around her. “I can't live with myself if I abandon him, Rachel. Can you understand that?”

“Why now? Why tonight? It's been weeks since—”

“I don't know.” He pulled her against him and crushed her to his chest. “Maybe it was the sight of those blue uniforms. All I know is that I can't call myself a man if I go on hiding.”

“What if you knew for sure?” She raised her head and touched his cheek. “What if I went to Fort Delaware and found out if he is dead or alive?”

“I won't let you do that. This is my—”

“I don't want to hear that. It's my concern and Davy's. How do you expect to get inside the prison? Women go there all the time to sell things, carry letters, to visit the Union soldiers. I can do it, Chance. I can.”

“And how will you know Travis if you see him? You can't very well ask for him, can you?”

“I'll think of something.”

“You'd take Davy there? You don't know what it's like. Yellow fever, typhoid, measles, pneumonia, even lockjaw. You can't take a baby into that. I won't trade Davy's life for Travis's.”

“No,” she answered softly. “No, I won't take Davy. I will leave him with Cora. She keeps goats as well as cows. He'll have milk, and he couldn't have better care.”

“You're nursing him.”

“I'll manage.” She gave him a little shove. “If we find out that he's dead, will this be an end of it? Will you come back to the farm with me?”

“Until harvest,” he agreed. “Only until then. After that, I've got to try and find the Fourth Virginia, wherever they are. I have to see this war through, Rachel.”

“So you keep telling me.” She lifted Davy from his cradle and sat down on the side of the bed to feed him. “I can take jams and jellies to sell,” she murmured. “And pies. Blackberries and blueberries are ripening. I'll take you with me to point out Travis.”