The Barefoot Bride (34 page)

Saxon's friends and some others who had just joined the circle gaped at her. Their wide eyes went from the top of her bare head to her boots, already soiled with mud.

"What are all you-uns a-starin' at me fer? Got some sorter menfolk secret betwixt you?"

Max's slight grin broadened to a warm, friendly smile. "Mrs. Blackwell, you've no idea how long I've been waiting to meet you." None too gently, he nudged Saxon.

Jolted back to reality, Saxon quickly made all the introductions. As he introduced Chickadee to the men, he felt a strange irritation when a few of them began to snicker.

"Well," Chickadee said, bending to pick up a handful of snow, "when's the race gwine commence? I'm ready to try and win it. 'Course, it ain't gwine be easy a-settin' on a sled with these dang skirts. I'll have to hike 'em up—"

"The race is for men only, Keely," Saxon interrupted. "The ladies merely watch it."

"Watch it? What fun is that? Saxon, why cain't I—"

"Because you just can't," he said, smiling as if he and Chickadee were only teasing one another.

Chickadee angrily molded her snow into a ball. It wasn't fair. Why couldn't she race? She had a sled...

"Uh, unusual fur," Oliver remarked. "What is it?"

"Bahr," she replied, her eyes still boring into Saxon. "Warmest fur thur is. I kilt this here bahr about two years ago. Used to be a rug on Betty Jane and George Franklin's floor. Thur my neighbor-people back home in North Caroliner. But me and Desi made it inter a coat. Desi done most of it. She sews good, huh?"

The men nodded obediently, many of them still snickering. Saxon found it difficult to stifle his annoyance.

"Saxon!" Wesley Melville reined his sleek stallion to a halt. "Care to make a wager on the race?"

The smell of alcohol on his breath was strong. No doubt it was the whiskey that gave him the courage to come face to face with Chickadee again, Saxon mused. That, and the fact that he was mounted and could make a quick getaway. "Wesley, you came in last, last year. What makes you think you'll win today?"

"I've got a new sled," Wesley answered smugly. "It's made of the finest steel available, wrought by Europe's finest craftsmen."

"Take the lay, Saxon," Chickadee pressed. "Take it and then beat the dang hell outen him in the race."

All the men save Max gasped at her words, and then began to laugh harder. Saxon's irritation with them grew close to anger. "Keely, why don't you go see if you can find Bunny? And there's Desdemona too, little one. Didn't you say she might join us?"

"Done backed and forthed with Bunny and tole her to wait up thar fer me. Desi ain't gwine come. She's a-sangin' to Khan. Don't no sound come outen her yet, but she lips them words to her songs real good. Now, you gwine make the lay with this weasel or not, outlander?"

"Afraid, Saxon?" Wesley taunted.

Chickadee's snowball hit Wesley square in the forehead. "Slur Saxon's name agin, and it'll be my fist you feel on that ugly mug o' yore's next, you dang—"

"Keely!" Saxon took her elbow and tried to lead her away.

"How nice having a wife to protect you, Saxon," Wesley taunted, wiping the snow off his cheeks. "Is that why you married her?"

Chickadee whirled. "Why you—Saxon, let me go, dang it! I'm gwine bang him plumb inter next week!"

Wesley laughed, feeling quite safe on his fleet stallion. "A real lady you've got there, Saxon. Isn't she something, friends?" he asked the men who were watching the scene with open mouths. "She
is
female beneath those skirts of hers, isn't she, Saxon?"

Saxon's face contorted with fury. He clenched his fists.

"He's offering a bet on the race, Sax," Max hinted. "Bet him his horse."

"Robespierre?" Wesley asked. "Fine. Robespierre and Hagen. Or are you afraid you might lose, Saxon? Tell you what, old pal, why don't we make the bet even steeper? Say... if you agree to it and then back out at the last minute, I still win Hagen. And the same goes for me."

"He ain't gwine back outen nothin', you low-down, triflin'er'n pig slop, contrary, half-witted—"

"Keely, please!" Saxon tried to cut her off.

"—no 'count, bedevilin'est, ill-mouthed—"

"Keely—"

"—shiftlessest, God-burn varmint, you!" Chickadee continued without pause. "You got about as much guts as a skeleton, Wesley Melville! A-settin' up thar on that ridin' critter whilst you flang them slurs ever' which way. Git down offen that animule!"

"Haven't seen much of you lately, Sax," Wesley said, blatantly ignoring Chickadee. "But with a wife like yours, who needs men friends?"

Max saw Saxon's jaw clench and quickly intervened. "Sax, a fight will spoil the day," he whispered. "The race will serve the same purpose. You know it'll pain Wesley sorely to lose Robespierre, and victory in a sport is an honorable way to achieve satisfaction." He winked at Chickadee and then put his arm around her shoulders. "You've never seen your husband race. No one's ever been able to beat him."

She gave Max a brilliant smile. "Make the lay, Saxon," she pressed him again.

"You've got a bet, Wesley," he growled, his jaw finally unclenching. "I'll see you at the starting line."

*

"Dammit!" Saxon crashed his fist into the side of the shed wall. "It's been destroyed!"

Chickadee looked at the steel sled runners. They were bent and mangled as if someone had taken an iron mallet to them. "Wesley done it," she hissed. "That's why fer he was so dang-blasted anxious to make the lay with you. The man's as crooked as a dog's hind leg."

"And if I can't race, it'll be the same as losing. I'll have to give Hagen to that cheating bastard!"

"You ain't got to give up nothin', outlander. You're gwine race, and you're gwine win."

"What would you have me do, Keely? Slide down the hill on my belly?"

She threw back her head and laughed. "No, I reckon that'd be a mite painful."

"There's no other sled available. All the men are racing the ones they brought, and there's no time to go and buy another one. The race starts in ten minutes. Dammit, I was a fool not to suspect Wesley was up to no good!"

"I got a sled fer you. It's up in the woods covered with brush. Me and Desi finished it last week. Ain't had the chance to take it fer a ride yet, but—"

"Keely, you heard what Wesley said. He's got a sled imported from Europe. The finest steel, the best—"

"Confidence in me, Saxon. I swear to you his fancified sled ain't no better'n the one I made."

But her oath seemed ridiculous when Saxon saw her sled. Wood. Not a sliver of steel on it. Sure, she'd done a nice job on it, but race it? Win with it?

He was going to miss Hagen.

Chickadee ignored his look of dismay and began to pull the homemade sled toward the hill where everyone was waiting for the race to start.

"Keely, I can't race that thing!"

She ran until she reached the top of the hill. It was a few moments before anyone noticed her arrival, since everyone was gathered around Wesley's impressive European sled. But when they saw her, they left Wesley and went to meet her.

Surrounded, Chickadee introduced herself and smiled at all the curious guests. A few murmured forced greetings, but no one said much, everyone trying to decide what to look at—the bearskin-rug coat, the ridiculous-looking sled, or the flame-haired rustic who owned both things.

"This what you're going to race, Sax?" Oliver asked.

"It would seem my own sled has seen better days," Saxon replied, glaring at Wesley.

Wesley returned the look with an arrogant nod.

Muttering, Saxon snatched the sled ropes from Chickadee and pulled it into the line of other sleds. Settling himself into his favorite position aboard the sled seat, he ignored the laughter and infuriating remarks that rippled through the air. He ignored the smirk on Araminta's face as she watched him from the sidelines.

He ignored everything but the pride in Chickadee's grin. He saw her excitement, her surefire confidence in her sled. He saw her unabashed faith in
him
too. How brightly it shone!

And then she was gone, following the crowd as it left to congregate at the finish line.

"Positions!" the starter shouted and pointed a pistol at the sky. "Ready..."

The gun exploded, and the race began. Vaguely, Saxon heard the yelling and cheering coming from the crowd below, but he concentrated on handling Chickadee's sled. He leaned forward, trying to get the feel of the homemade vehicle, anticipating grave problems as it gained momentum.

But the ride was smooth. The sleek runners, painstakingly carved by Chickadee's talented hands, slid through the snow like the fin of a shark slicing through water. The sled took each bump, each curve as if it had a mind of its own. It passed Max and Kyle. It sprayed snow in Oliver, Charles, and Nathan's faces. Faster it went, so fast that everything Saxon passed was blurred, and still its speed increased, until he was side by side with Wesley.

The two raced neck in neck, their eyes narrowed into mere slits, their backs as flat as they could make them as they leaned over their sleds. Snow and ice whirred around them, the wind bit brutally, the speed with which they traveled making the race a dangerous one now.

And then Wesley made it even more treacherous. With one vicious jerk to the side, he rammed his sled into Saxon's. Fine steel runners sliced into wooden ones, sending splinters flying.

"Damn you, Wesley!" Saxon shouted as he tried to regain control of the careening sled. He heard Wesley laugh, but again he fixed his concentration on the race. Only a hundred feet or so to go before the finish line, he guessed. But could he win with a damaged runner?

He watched Wesley speed ahead. In only moments the bastard would win the race and Hagen too! Saxon fumed.

Then he saw how sloppy Wesley's form was becoming. The man was sitting upright, the force of the wind slowing his ride considerably. "Damn sure of yourself, aren't you, Wesley?" Saxon muttered, more determined than ever to catch up. "I'll—"

A loud crack cut short his threat. Chickadee's sled began to wobble and falter, the ruined runner cracking and finally snapping away from the seat.

In a fraction of a second, Saxon's mind took him back some twenty years, back to when he was a boy, and he and Max sled-raced down this very hill. How many hours on end had they practiced sledding? Backwards. Standing up. On one knee. Sideway.

Sideways
. Tipping their sleds to the side, trying to race with a single runner. They'd never been able to do it, their immature muscles simply not strong enough to hold the sleds in a sideways position. They'd always lost control and crashed.

But Saxon was not ten years old anymore.

He threw himself to the good side of the sled, forcing the bad side off the ground. His shoulder was nearly level with the snow as he sought to somehow equalize his weight on the one runner.

Balance,
he told himself, every muscle in his body straining.
Easy, easy does it.

Only twenty feet to go, he estimated. The sled shook alarmingly, and the wood groaned, but the remaining runner withstood the demands he made on it.

A loud cheer went up as he passed a very surprised Wesley, rising to deafening heights when Saxon sped across the finish line to win the race.

*

"Great race, Sax!" Max exclaimed as he, Saxon, Chickadee, and Bunny went to the dining room, where the other guests were waiting for the hot meal that would end the day. "When I saw you tip over the way we tried to do when we were boys... damn good thinking!"

"You raced superbly, Saxon," Bunny added.

"I can't take any credit." Saxon took Chickadee's hand and smiled warmly into her eyes. "I've never raced such a fine sled, little one."

His gesture did not escape Max. It reminded him of his own current interest. "Bunny, I saw Cynthia earlier. She's still here, isn't she?"

The glow in Bunny's eyes glazed over with hurt. Her entire body ached from all the running, walking, wood-chopping, and dieting Chickadee had made her do. Wood-chopping, of all things! And it was all for nothing! Max didn't even notice her weight loss. Quickly, she yanked her sleeve over her warts and willed the tears not to come.

Chickadee's heart went out to her friend. "Cynthia's done left, Max. Heared her a-sayin' she had to see her dressmaker." Chickadee elbowed Saxon in the ribs, her eyes pleading with him. "Ain't Bunny purty today?"

"What?" Saxon mouthed. "Oh. Uh... My you're looking pretty today, Bunny," he stammered, comprehension slowly dawning. "Your dress—beautiful shade of pink, don't you think, Max?" He glanced at Bunny. Strange. There really was something different about the girl.

"Pink looks nice with your hair," Max said politely, then took a closer look. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something about her he'd never noticed before. She really had lovely features, he decided. Beautiful eyes.

"I... uh, thank you." Bunny smiled, suddenly welcoming the ache in her muscles.

As they entered the dining room, Saxon frowned when he saw he and Chickadee had been placed directly in front of Wesley. The smirk on Araminta's face proved she'd arranged the seating cards in this manner with a very definite purpose in mind. She was still counting on Chickadee to cause trouble, Saxon realized angrily. Ignoring her and everyone else who was staring at him, he helped Chickadee into her chair.

"Pay Wesley no attention," he whispered down to her, his words more a plea than a command.

She did not respond but began blowing on the hot soup in front of her. Her hostility grew, and before she knew it she'd blown her soup onto the tablecloth.

"It's obvious you don't know how to eat soup out of a bowl," Wesley jeered, too angry over the loss of Robespierre to worry about Chickadee's retaliation. Besides, he was on the other side of the table and there were lots of people around to help him should she become violent. "How do you eat it in the mountains? At the stove, out of the pot?"

"Wesley," Saxon began, struggling with his ire.

"Soup's hot," Chickadee interrupted, also fighting her fury.