The Barefoot Bride (7 page)

She liked this man beside her, she decided. Liked him, and that was that. He was the opposite of everything she understood, but her feelings for him would not be stilled. Yes, he was handsome. And since she'd studied his body while he'd helped her with some of the chores during the past weeks, she knew he had every bit as much muscle as mountain men did.

But aside from looks, he had fine manners. He treated her like a lady, pulling out her table chair for her and assisting her off the porch and over rocky areas when they walked. Only once in her life had a man complimented her: T.J. Howe had said her teeth were real white. But Saxon? Saxon said her smile was brighter than the mountain sun. She could get quite used to hearing flattery like that. Suddenly, she found herself dreading the day Saxon would return to Boston.

Boston. Was life easier in a city? Probably so. Saxon certainly didn't know how to take care of himself. He'd almost been killed by a bear, and he hadn't even known what sang was! Poor Saxon. He was totally defenseless.

At that thought, she lifted her head and glanced at him out of the corners of her eyes. He didn't
have
to be defenseless, she mused. She could teach him everything she knew. When she was finished, he'd be able to survive in the pits of hell if he ever got down that way. But more than that, she thought with a mental grin, the lessons would take a lavish of time. And having Saxon around was right nice.

"I figger you'll be a-stayin' here as long as it takes fer you to git all yore strength back, Saxon, so whilst yore in these here mountains, thur's one thang you got to know about 'em. They don't give up thur treasures fer nothin'. You and me's in a cove. You said yoresef thur ain't no towns close, so you have to larn to git along withouten 'em."

How her eyes sparkled, he thought. "Are you saying you don't think I can take care of myself?"

She grinned into a cupped hand and then pointed to the distant blue-green ranges. "Them hills is hard, patient, and lastin'. They don't cave in fer nobody. That's the way you got to be too."

He smiled. What could she teach him, Saxon Blackwell, that he didn't already know? "I must have very grave problems. What are they?"

She wondered how to explain survival to him. "Well, a-gittin' along up here's a lot more'n jist knowin' how to shoot straight. It has to do with yore way o' thankin' too."

She wet her lips with a pink tongue very much the color of the wildflower bed beside her. "Y'see, yore mind's softish. You got too much o' some thangs and not enough o' other thangs. You ain't balanced so thur ain't no peace in you. And yore money ain't never gwine give it to you. Money might even be a-makin' you worser."

How refreshingly naive she was, he mused. "So you're saying having money is wrong."

"Naw, it ain't wrong. But it can make you fergit a passel o' thangs. Money's cold. Cold cain't make warm. And a warmer life's what yore a-honin' fer."

"Honing?"

"What yer a-pinin' away fer."

He leaned closer to her. "Why do you think you know so much about me? We've only known each other for a short—"

"A person don't have to know another person fer years to know about him. All's you need is a pair o' eyes in yore heart and you'll know all you need to know."

"And what have you decided about me... besides my being soft in the mind?" He swallowed his laughter.

"Well, you got a good heart, but iffen you was to relax a mite more, it'd be better. Y'see, Saxon, yore jittery. You worry, and you bigger and bigger them worries till yore so dang fidgety you don't know what to do. I see you a-tryin' to fergit what's a-plaguin' you, but ever' now and then yore as dour as a ole rain crow. And lessen you git shed o' them devils inside you, you ain't gwine last long up here.

"Yore a good man inside, Saxon Blackwell," she continued, reaching out to touch his cheek. "Yore jist a mite jangled. Ain't nothin' that cain't be cured though. All's you need is a little heartease."

Peace swept through Saxon at her touch. Like a gentle rain, it flowed within him. And it drenched him with an odd desire to tell her things about himself. He'd never found talking about himself an easy thing to do, but now... well, it didn't seem so hard. Not with her.

He took her hand and kissed it softly. "Money
does
mean a lot to me, and I suppose it always will. But I—I didn't always have it. I don't remember it well, but I once lived in poverty. My mother died giving birth to my sister, Desdemona, and Father died of cholera soon afterward. Grayson and Sadie Blackwell. They were my parents. After they were gone, Desdemona and I stayed with neighbors until Grandmother came from England for us. She'd intended to take us back with her, but when she saw the fortune to be made in the maritime trade in Boston, she decided to take up residence there. It was only then I ever knew wealth."

And only then that I knew hatred and fear
, he added mentally.

His voice was edged with deep hurt, Chickadee noted. The sorrowful sound was almost inaudible to her ears, but it fairly shouted in her heart. "Iffen yore family was so poor, why didn't yore granny share her money?"

Saxon shook his head. Araminta had never shared anything but the sting of her cane. He swallowed, wanting to change the subject, but that bizarre need to talk to her remained. "Father was born and raised in England. The Blackwell name is an old and respected one over there, and when Father married a common workman's daughter, Grandmother disinherited him. My grandfather had died years before, leaving all his money to her. Courtland Blackwell, my grandfather. I'm sure he never believed she'd do such a thing to her only child, but that's what she did. So Father and Mother left England and sailed to Boston. Probably to get away from Grandmother."

Chickadee noticed the pain in his sapphire eyes and understood he was telling her more than he wanted to. Something was very wrong with the man who was rapidly becoming special to her.

"Grandmother is—she's—" He'd never shared his deepest emotions with anyone and had no idea why he felt the driving need to spill them before Chickadee at this moment. His confession irritated him. "Never mind," he said, standing and pulling her to her feet. "Show me some of those things you say I need to learn."

She wisely refrained from asking anything more. Another time, perhaps, but not now. Instead, she kept up a stream of chatter as she explained what each plant was and the various ways to use it.

He listened absently, but his heart wasn't in what she was saying. She'd struck a chord somewhere deep inside him, and once again made him feel that she was, in some way, better than he.

She had nothing, but she had everything.

And Saxon still wasn't sure what it was she had.

*

A-settin' by the glow o' the flames.
That's what she called what they were doing this evening, and Saxon liked the way that sounded. Her cabin was small, but it had a charm all its own—much like that of its owner. He sat back in his white, oak-seated chair and crossed his legs.

In the one room there were only two hickory chairs, a small hickory table, a smaller rhododendron root table, the bed, and her mother's spinning wheel. But there were plenty of shelves. And on those half-log shelves, Chickadee stored all sorts of treasures.

She had a peacock feather in which she took great pride, explaining that she had traded a whole bearskin for it. There were wooden bowls she'd hollowed out herself, shiny rocks, birds' nests and tiny pine cones. Empty whiskey flasks served nicely as vases and were always filled with wildflowers.

But her most prized possession was the old wooden stock of a rifle, the rest of the gun long gone. It was propped up on the mantel—the place of honor in Chickadee's home. She said it was from an uncle's rifle, and she believed the man had fought on King's Mountain during the Revolutionary War.

"Thur was this British feller called Ferguson who worked fer another British feller called Cornwallis," she explained. "Well, this Ferguson carried on that iffen the mountain people didn't give in, he was gwine strang 'em all up and burn down the whole dang mountain. Them mountain men warn't much fer what he said a'tall, so they tuk up thur weapons and licked them redcoats at King's Mountain.

"The way I heared it tole, they didn't git along too good with some king, and he warn't a-treatin' them real good neither. So they crossed the ocean-sea and went to Pennsylvania. From thar, they moved on down, a-pickin' up other people till they finally got here. Been here ever since and reckon allus will be."

Her special way of telling things made history much more interesting. He leaned back until his chair rested against the log wall. Chickadee sat by the fire, knife and wood in hand. "What are you making?"

Without looking up, she replied, "Nothin'. Sometimes you whittle jist fer the sake o' whittlin'. You can git a lot o' thankin' done like this."

Saxon smiled. He felt so warm, so cozy in this peaceful cabin. "And what do you think about, Keely?"

A faraway look came to her beautiful eyes. "Reckon I try to thank on purty thangs. Don't make no sense to thank o' thangs that'll make me upset."

Somehow, Saxon knew that would be her reply. He grinned again and marveled at how easy it was to be happy with this carefree mountain girl. He'd almost forgotten what laughter felt like. And poor Desdemona hadn't known it in years.

Chickadee saw that sorrow floating in his eyes again. "You want to give this a try, outlander?"

She held out the piece of wood and knife.

He accepted them, and she took another wooden object from one of her shelves. She sat back down, held it on her lap, and with a piece of bark, began to pluck the strings stretched across it. The music was so hauntingly beautiful, Saxon was mesmerized.

"George Franklin made this dulcimore, but I larnt mysef how to play it by recollectin' the tunes Mama used to hum."

He smiled at her pronunciation of
dulcimer
and watched how gracefully her slender fingers moved on her instrument. As he listened, he imagined her in his arms as they waltzed across a ballroom floor. He saw her in a silk gown of jade green with emeralds twinkling at her ears and throat. He saw...

"Saxon, ain't you a-listenin' to me?"

Her soft voice wafted through his dream, bringing him back to reality.

"I said you need to be a-gittin' to bed. You ain't all the way normal yet, and you need to sleep."

"What about you?"

His eyes stroked her as gently as she caressed her dulcimer. She never knew a person could
feel
a look. She got up and slipped into bed, turning her back to him. When he got in beside her, her skin rippled strangely. She lapsed into silence.

"What are you thinking about, Keely?"

After a moment she turned and looked at him. "When yore a-sparkin' up thar in that Boston city, what kinds o' thangs do you tell them girls?"

He slid his hand through her hair. "Well, if you were the girl I was courting, I'd tell you your hair is like satin." His thumb edged toward her eye, and he brushed her lashes with it. "And I'd tell you your eyes are the kind a man could gaze into forever, your lips are ripe peaches, your skin is the finest velvet. I'd say your voice rivals the most beautiful music, and the freckles on your face are like a dusting of golden stars. Your enthusiasm makes me smile and never want to stop smiling, and the jingle of your silvery laughter makes it seem like Christmas every day."

"And... and would you mean all them thangs?"

"I do mean them, Keely," he said softly.

"So yore a-tellin' 'em to me fer real? You ain't jist—"

"I'm telling them to you for real."

She was quiet, and so was he. The only sound that could be heard in the small cabin was the rustling of the wind outside, and their own breathing. Pale moonlight swept through the two tiny windows and crept into a few crevices of the walls, and shadows performed on the ceiling like happy, dancing people. Saxon and Chickadee watched them, each deep in thought.

And when sleep finally overtook Chickadee, Saxon pulled her into his arms and thought how right it felt to have her there.

*

His days took on the timeless serenity of the mountains themselves, as Chickadee had told him they should. But when he
did
fall into one of his silent, troubled moods, she cured him by handing him an ax.

His first attempts at chopping wood were a far cry from Chickadee's smooth expertise. She made it her business to sit on a stump and alternate between instructing him and laughing at him. His pride suffered, but not as much as his blistered hands.

Saxon had never been a weak man, but with all the strenuous chores he was doing now, his body became leaner and harder, and he often caught Chickadee's admiring gaze, which did much for his flagging male pride.

She soon began to teach him the art of survival. She usually told him things he already knew, but she took such great delight in "a-larnin' " him, he often pretended ignorance for her. He enjoyed indulging her and looked forward to the reward of her smile when he "done good."

But one thing he didn't know about was bear tracking, and the respect he had for his mountain teacher grew steadily when she took him along on a bear hunt.

"Most bahrs around here is about four to five hunnerd pounds," she informed him, her eyes darting through the rhododendron thicket. "Some git even bigger. After she's et enough, the female'll go on inter her den in late fall or early winter. The male don't go inter the den. He'll keep on a-scroungin' fer food, but he'll usually crawl down up under inter somethin' sooner or later."

Down, up, under, into
, Saxon repeated silently. Four prepositions in a row. And the way she said it, the sentence actually made sense! "Do you think we'll find a bear today?" He listened to every sound that swept through the forest and tried to discern what each of them was.

Chickadee walked to a large tree and picked up a handful of something from the ground. When Saxon joined her she showed him the bits of leaves, soil, and nuts in her hand. "This stuff's called mast. These are hick'ry nuts, and bahrs go plumb wild over 'em."