This Loving Land (27 page)

The tension in him was so strong that she was shaking from the impact of it.

“You wouldn’t! You couldn’t be so cruel.”

“Cruel? You’ve put me through five days of hell. In about thirty seconds, you’re going to see how cruel I am.”

“Don’t make me do this, Slater. Please, don’t make me.”

For the first time, she looked him full in the face. It was a face she didn’t know, and her eyes widened as she stared at him. His eyes were sunken and blazed with bitterness. His cheekbones stood above hollowed cheeks shadowed with a day’s growth of beard, a vein in his temple stood out prominently and throbbed with each beat of his heart. It was the boniness of his face, the wolfish snarl of his twisted mouth that held her in acute fear. The scraping of metal, as he cocked the gun, put her weak legs into motion, and she moved to the back of the wagon and crawled in over the tailgate. Almost as soon as she sank down on the plank floor and covered her face with her hands, she heard the thump of her trunk as it was dumped down beside her. The wagon lurched, the team making a full circle, before beginning a steady, rolling pace.

Summer sat crunched in the corner of the jolting wagon, her mind going in a thousand directions. How was she going to tell him? How was she going to spare him the shame and the hurt of knowing he had shared with his sister the most intimate act a man can share with a woman? How could she tell him that she was going to have his child? A human being that more than likely would be deformed, an idiot!

The sun beat down mercilessly on her head and the soft skin of the back of her neck. She was so steeped in her own misery she didn’t notice. She was almost drowsy when Slater’s harsh voice broke the silence.

“Put your hat on. You’ll be sick from the sun.”

She raised her head and groped blindly for her hat because her eyes were blinded by the brightness of the sun. After a few minutes, she glanced at him. His face was turned away from her so she was free to look at him. He lay sprawled in the sling, one knee bent, booted foot resting on the floor, bandaged hands laying at his sides. An umbrella, of sorts, had been rigged to shade the upper part of his body. He was emaciated. It didn’t seem possible a person could have lost so much weight in so short a time.

The wagon was moving slowly. Bulldog was letting the tired horses plod along. Jack rode a little ahead, slumped in the saddle. It was quiet. So terribly quiet.

Evening came and it was a welcome relief from the merciless sun. An exhausted Slater had slept the afternoon away. Ignored by Jack and Bulldog, Summer leaned her head back against her trunk and tried not to think of the ordeal ahead of her.

It was still light, but a few stars had made their appearance, when they reached the stage stop by the creek. Bulldog pulled the team to a stop and said a few low words to Jack. The wagon turned and they went alongside the creek for a few rods before stopping. Bulldog climbed stiffly from the wagon seat.

“We’ll camp here,” be announced, to no one in particular.

Summer had sat for so long that she moved slowly at first, stretching her legs out in front of her. She glanced at Slater. His face was turned toward her and his lids were not completely closed. He had been watching her, was watching her! Her face burned with embarrassment, then resentment, for being blamed for a situation that wasn’t any more her fault than his.

Bulldog led the team to water. After waiting patiently for them to drink their fill, he staked them out. They immediately rolled in the dirt and stood on stiff legs, shaking off the excess dust. Jack rode up while Bulldog was building a fire. He had borrowed a coffee pot, utensils, and bought food from the man at the station.

Summer didn’t know what to do. She was sure her offer of help would be spumed, and she didn’t know if she would be able to stand rejection without bursting into tears. The decision was made for her when Jack came to the end of the wagon.

“You can go down the creek a ways. Me and Bulldog got to get Slater out fer a while.” He didn’t speak unkindly. She was surprised.

Jack didn’t offer to help her down and she clung to the end of the wagon for a moment after her feet were on the ground, allowing the numb, tingling feeling to leave her legs. She held her back stiff and her head high until she was out of sight of the camp, then walked slowly on until she found a place to relieve herself. Close by, the bank to the creek was sloping, and she sat on a rock, and dipped the hem of her skirt in the water and washed her face. The water was so refreshing that she longed to remove her shoes and bathe her hot feet, but fear of snakes stopped her. Night had come and the darkness seemed a comforting cloak. A frog croaked. It was not a loud sound, but with no other it was more obvious. A squirrel, awakened by the frog, chattered inquiringly; then there was silence.

Tired, Summer got to her feet. She would talk to Slater tonight. He would realize she could not live at McLean’s Keep or at the “little place.” She would make him realize it would be better for her to go where she wasn’t known, where she could pose as a widow and still keep some semblance of respectability. It would be easier talking to him in the dark. She wouldn’t have to see the shock of what they had done on his face.

On the way back to camp, she met Jack. The glow of his smoke alerted her to his presence.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” she said drily.

“I was makin’ sure.”

With the help of the light from the campfire, she could see that Slater had been moved, tarp, feather bed and all, to a grassy spot beside the wagon. He lay flat on his back, arms and legs outstretched. His shirt had been removed and Bulldog knelt beside him putting a new dressing on his shoulder. She could feel his eyes on her and turned her back to fumble with the straps on her trunk, anything to be busy so she didn’t have to face him.

Cornbread was cooking in a skillet and strips of meat hung from a spit over the fire. Fat sizzled as it fell, and the flames were constantly alive with small bursts of brightness.

Later, she sat with her back to a tree, where she could see only the top of Slater’s head and he couldn’t see her at all. The silence between the four of them was terrible, but speaking was worse. Bulldog squatted beside Slater and dropped food into his mouth from time to time. If any words passed between them, they were so low she couldn’t hear them. Summer picked at her own food. The meat was too greasy and almost nauseated her. Not wanting to leave it on her plate, she flipped it into the grass when she was sure no one was looking. She ate the cornbread and drank the strong coffee, and felt surprisingly better when she had finished.

Jack came and took the granite plate from her hand. His manner was so purposeful it immediately killed her intention to offer help. Calmer now than she had been all day, she decided to wait and let Slater make the first move. It wouldn’t be long, she reasoned. Part of her wished to hurry and get it over with, the largest part of her dreaded the scene.

With plates and cups in hand, Jack went toward the stream. Bulldog kicked dirt onto the fire until the blaze was small, and stalked off toward the horses. Somehow, Summer knew this was the time. She was getting to her feet when Slater’s voice reached her.

“Come down here where I can see you.”

Calm and resigned, she moved to stand beside him, looking down at him, but not into his eyes.

“Sit down. Here on this blasted feather bed that’s been like an oven all day.” Obediently, she sat down, her hands clasped in her lap. Time passed, it seemed years, but could only have been minutes. “I been thinking about that letter. The one Sadie didn’t give me. What did you say in a letter you couldn’t say to my face?”

It was coming sooner than she expected, and for a second she felt acute panic, her tongue suddenly thick, her breath wanting to leave her. Slater’s voice crashed against her eardrums.

“Tell me! I’ve got the right to know! I went through hell to get back to you . . . I’d have died out there, but I couldn’t die and leave you! You should be pleased to know, it was heaven when I opened my eyes and you were there. What are you? A whore? A slut to go straight from me to another man? I’ll tell you this . . . I’ll kill you and I’ll kill Jesse before I’ll let him have you!” Slater’s anger, his humiliation and disillusionment were total.

Summer recoiled at the verbal assault. For an instant, she was stunned by the viciousness of what he said, until she understood how he would be driven to say such things. He was easing his own pain by hurting her.

“Don’t blame Jesse. I asked for his help.”

“You what?” His voice echoed through her head painfully.

She winced and repeated herself. “He’ll tell you. I asked for his help.”

“Goddam right he will! He’d tell me anything, when I’m fixin’ to hack off his balls!” His nasty voice was blistering and her face reddened.

“You’ll not blame him,” she said stubbornly. “He’s a good man, a friend when I needed one badly.”

Hurt, anger and bewilderment surfaced in his smoldering eyes. Grim-faced and shaking with fury, he snarled:

“You needed him, but not me? Is that what you couldn’t tell me?”

“The letter,” she said softly; then, more firmly, “the letter was not from me.” Her eyes caught his and held them defiantly. “It was from my mother.”

“Your mother!” His voice dripped with sarcasm and disbelief.

“Yes, my mother.” Summer’s back stiffened at his scathing tone. “She wrote the letter to Sam McLean over five years ago. It came to the fort and was delivered to Ellen by mistake.” Her voice sounded like that of a stranger. “Ellen read it. She said Sam was killed before she could deliver it, but now we know he was killed because of the letter. She couldn’t stand the thought of Sam and . . . my mother.” With determination, she stilled her trembling lips. She had to finish, had to get this over with. “The letter was in my mother’s handwriting and on my mother’s paper. There’s no doubt in my mind that she wrote it.” She looked away from him, she couldn’t see him anyhow, for tears suddenly blinded her. “The letter said that I am . . . Sam McLean’s daughter.” There! It was out! She had said the words!

She was glad she couldn’t see his face. This must be a terrible shock to him. Suddenly, she was afraid of what he would say. Her body tensed. There was a long moment while she held her breath, while her heart almost stopped beating. Then the hoarse, whispered words reached her through the silence.

“My God! I should have known.”

The visions that came to her, illuminated in her mind, were of the times they had lain together, naked and desperate in their need for each other. Help me, God. Help me to help him. I’ve had five days to accustom my mind to this. If I could bear the pain, the humiliation he is feeling, I would gladly do so. His next words, when they finally penetrated, were as shocking to her as hers had been to him.

“I had started to suspect.”

“Suspect?” She felt a terrible sinking sensation.

“Little things you did that seemed familiar.”

“You suspected that you and . . . I, and yet you . . . we. . . .” The horror of it was written on her face. “You . . . how could you?” She gasped for breath, choked, made a gurgling sound in her throat. “You’re an animal!”

Slater struggled to sit up, his bandaged hand reaching out to her.

“No! It isn’t like that! Summer, listen! We did nothing wrong . . . darling . . . sweetheart . . . we did nothing wrong!”

If Summer heard, she gave no indication. She had clasped her hands over her ears and was shaking her head in wild denial.

“Nothing wrong?” she gasped. Dazed, confused, she had expected most anything from him but this.

“Sam was not my real father!” He shouted the words, trying to penetrate the wall of hysteria that surrounded her.

Through the storm that shook her, Summer heard the words, but couldn’t comprehend them. Then the insistent pounding of the words: Not my father . . . not my father. Could they be true? Was he lying to cover up what they had done? The forearm of his bandaged hand was striking her arm, shaking her.

“Stop! Stop!” she cried, and jumped to her feet, tears streaming down her face and into her mouth.

“Don’t go, Summer! Please, don’t go! Jack and Bulldog will tell you it’s true. I was going to tell you. I swear I was going to tell you. I never dreamed it would be so important.” There was pain, anguish, pleading in every fiber of his voice.

“Important?” She felt as though she was about to fly into a million pieces. She sank to her knees, her face covered with her hands. She wanted to believe him. Oh, how she wanted to believe him!

“I promised Sam I would never tell. Ellen and Travis would have taken the Keep if they had known.”

“You’re . . . sure?” she whimpered.

“I’m positive. I’ve got letters my mother wrote to my father thinking he was still alive. I’ll tell you the whole story. There’s no doubt, sweetheart. No doubt at all. Come to me, my summertime girl. Come let me hold you. God, what I’ve put you through by not telling! Come to me. I’ll make it up to you. I swear I’ll make it up.”

He lay back with arms outstretched. She crawled to him, like a small, wounded animal, and nestled against him, her wet face pressed in the curve of his neck. His arm came around her, and with surprising strength clasped her to him. The safe haven of his arms was wonderful, glorious! He murmured love-words and nuzzled his face in her hair. His heart was thumping wildly and a clammy film of perspiration covered his bare chest.

Summer didn’t want to talk. She wanted only to be close to him, savor the delight and enjoy the wonder of being held by him in love. They both felt fatigued and weakened by the emotional ordeal they had been through. Minutes passed without words. Low moans came from Slater’s throat as he kissed every part of her face he could reach with his lips. The sweetness of it caused the tears to come again.

“It all seems like a bad dream,” she sobbed. “Tell me again. Tell me we didn’t have the same father.”

They lay close, lips never far apart, breathing the same air, and Slater told her the story of his mother and father and the part Sam had played in their lives.