Wilde, Jennifer (31 page)

We
were on the Natchez Trace now, and in a few weeks we would be in New Orleans
and Rawlins would sell me to one of the brothels for a huge profit, and I
simply couldn't care. Life was over. Life without Derek was unthinkable. This
deadening numbness had held on for days, and even my grief was something
distant and re- moved, an emotion I observed objectively, as though someone
else were feeling it. I wondered if I would ever be able to feel again.

"It's
sometimes called the Chickasaw Trace," Rawlins was saying. "We pass
through Chickasaw country—I told yuh that before—and then as we get furtha
south we enter the land of the Choctaws. The Indians mostly leave us alone, but
I've had a couple scrapes. Almost lost my scalp one time, year or so ago. Some
of the younger braves resent us passin' through their land. They can be pretty
vicious when they get riled up."

The
mule I was riding stumbled, throwing me forward. I clung to the reins, regaining
my balance. A small animal streaked across the road. The birds sang lustily.
Leaves rustled. I could hear water in the distance. The sky was a pale
blue-gray, the sun a blazing silver ball pouring down heat. I was still wearing
the red dress. I hadn't bothered to change. It was deplorably soiled now, the
hem ragged, and my hair was a wild auburn tangle. I felt certain my face must
be streaked with dirt, but I was beyond caring.

"Not
the Indians, but the robbers," Rawlins continued. "The Trace is a
solid nest of 'em, cutthroats ready to rob and plunder at the drop of a hat.
Soon slit a man's throat as look at him, that lot. Many a man's left Natchez
and started for Nashville and was never heard of again. It's a real problem,
but don't worry—I'll protect you. They have better sense than to fool with ol'
Rawlins, know I'm even more onery than they are. I've been travelin' the Trace
for quite a spell, and those boys know me by sight, know they'd better steer
clear."

After
a while he suggested we stop for a few minutes. Dutifully, I dismounted.
Rawlins stretched and rubbed his backside, grinning. The mules stood in the
shade of a tree, placid. A squirrel chattered at us from the branch of a tree,
and a beautiful red cardinal swept through the air like a crimson arrow. Deep
forest surrounded us, the narrow trail hewn out of the wilderness, already
beaten flat and rutted with hundreds of hooves and wagon wheels.

"The
men who floated their flatboats down the Mississippi, they had to get back
upstream by land," Rawlins said. "That's how the Trace got started in
the first place. It's become a regular thoroughfare—everyone uses it now.
Ordinarily there's lots uv traffic—pioneers, settlers, traders, dandies, ladies
of fashion—anyone who needs to get cross country. This time a year there ain't
so many people usin' it, but I reckon we'll run into some interestin' types
'fore we get to Natchez."

I
brushed a twig from my skirt, paying little attention to his talk.

"I
meant what I said back there. You're gonna have to snap out of it. I know you
ain't exactly happy 'bout the turn of events, but you can't just shut yourself
out forever. I know how you feel, but—"

"You've
no idea how I feel," I said coldly.

"Reckon
I do, wench. I'm not the brightest chap on earth, but I know you fancied
yourself in love with Hawke. A man like that—he ain't capable of appreciatin'
you. Me now, I—"

"I
don't care to discuss it, Mr. Rawlins."

"I've
been pretty damned patient—I'm a patient chap, have the disposition of a
saint—but it's been two weeks now. You're gonna have to get over it. You've
been draggin' your tail like a dejected pup. Truth to tell, I'm gettin' pretty
fed up."

"I'm
sorry if you feel you wasted your money."

"Oh,
I don't feel
that.
You were worth every penny. Once you get some of your
spirit back, I reckon you're gonna be a handful. I'm lookin' forward to some
rousin' fights."

"I
don't care what happens to me."

"You
say that now, but you'll feel different about it 'fore long. We get over
things, you see. Takes a while, but we get over 'em every time. I reckon you'll
feel better after we get to the inn and you have yourself a bath and a good
meal."

When
I did not reply, Rawlins merely shrugged, grinning that wide, boyish grin that
was so disarming. I wished I could resent him, wished I could dislike him,
even, but I felt nothing. He was simply someone who was there, a part of the
dreamlike world that existed outside my numbness. The heat, the exhaustion, the
discomfort of riding all day on a mule, the tough, too-tangy meat he cooked and
ordered me to eat—none of it was quite real, none of it aroused any response.

"Well,
I can see you're not a-mind to be friendly yet," he remarked. "I
guess we'd better push on."

We
rode again, the mules plodding along, occasionally balking, braying now and
then. The road was rough, the hard-packed earth uneven, twisting through the
forest persistently. The sun began to sink, splashing the sky with scarlet and
gold, and the trees cast long shadows over the ground. There was a smoky haze
in the air now, soft violet-gray, thickening as night drew closer. Rawlins was
silent, riding a little ahead of me, the fringe on his jacket swaying, the
fading rays of sunlight burnishing his sandy hair. I was miserably tired, yet I
would have ridden all night long without protesting.

The
last rays of sunlight vanished. The sky was purple-gray, not yet black, the
haze thick now, like fog. The trees pressing so close were dark, tall black
sentinels, and the forest noises seemed magnified. A wild creature called out
hoarsely. The woods filled with rustling, crackling noises as the shadows
multiplied, night almost upon us. Up ahead I saw a large clearing, and I could
barely make out a stockade of sturdy logs with pointed tops. Threads of yellow
light spilled out through the chinks.

"There
she is!" Rawlins exclaimed. "I was beginnin' to fear we weren't gonna
make it."

We
rode up to the front of the stockade and dismounted. Rawlins called out and
pounded on the huge solid oak door. After a moment there came a sound of
footsteps, and then a tiny window set in the door flew back and a pair of eyes
peered out at us.

"That
you, Eb? It's me, Rawlins! Open up, fellow. Let us in. We're dead tired, and
starvin' to boot, longin' for some o' Maria's cookin'. What you waitin'
for?"

"Rawlins?"
a husky voice growled.

"Course
it's me! Can't you see? Goddammit, open up!"

There
was the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back, and then the enormous door
opened. Rawlins stepped inside, leading his two mules, and I followed, tugging
at the reins of my own mule. As soon as we were inside, the man who had
admitted us closed the great door and slid the bolt back in place. He was
gigantic, dressed in buckskin trousers and a coarse white shirt, his face
ruddy, his dark eyes grim, his thick red hair decidedly unruly.

"What's
all this about?" Rawlins said irritably. "You think we was goin' to
rob the place?"

"There's
been talk of Indian trouble," the man retorted. "Me and Maria, we
learned a long time ago not to take no chances."

"Hell,
man, there's always talk o' Indian trouble. Never known you to act so scared,
Eb."

"Get
whatever things you want outta the packs, Rawlins, and I'll take the mules on
into the stable. You plannin' on stayin' long?"

"We'll
be leavin' in the mornin'," Rawlins replied, removing one of the packs
from his mule. "You gotta room?"

"The
best," Crawley replied. "You-all go on in, tell Maria I said you was
to have the suite. I'll just see to these animals."

The
red-haired giant led the mules away toward the stables to one side of the inn,
and Rawlins shook his head. Evidently such security wasn't ordinarily taken. I
glanced around at the tall log walls that completely surrounded inn and yard
and stables. There was a walkway built along near the top, ladders leading up
to it at intervals, and I saw long, narrow slits where a man could fire his
rifle without being exposed to marauders. The stockade was built along the
lines of the old fortified castles in England, rough logs taking the place of
heavy stone. Warm yellow light spilled out of the windows of the inn, making
soft pools on the ground, and chickens clucked and scratched about the yard,
looking like tiny white ghosts in the semidarkness. Horses neighed in the
stables.

"Right
homey, ain't it?" Rawlins remarked. "Eb and Maria run the best inn on
the whole Trace—best food, best beds, best everything. They're some of my
favorite people."

"Jeffrey!"

It
was more a bellow than a shout, and I was startled to see a woman in white
blouse and vivid red skirt come tearing out of the inn, her heavy black braid
flying behind her. Rawlins grinned and held his arms wide. The woman threw
herself at him, and he gave her a bear hug that by rights should have cracked
her ribs. Maria Crawley was almost as large as her husband, as tall as Rawlins
and twice as stout. Her black eyes snapped and sparkled as she stepped back to
look at him.

"You
look just the same!" she exclaimed.

"Hell,
Maria, it ain't been more'n a couple months since you saw me last."

"I
miss
you," she pouted. "Every day seems an eternity."

"You
still got a yen for me? I swear, we're gonna have to do something 'bout that
one of these days. If we could just get rid of Eb—"

"Honey,
if I thought you was serious I'd poison him tomorrow. There ain't
nothin'
I
wouldn't do to get a buck like you in my bed." The woman grinned, and
Rawlins reached up to pinch her cheek. She slapped his hand, as playful as a
girl.

"Stop
your nonsense now," she scolded. "Hell, a rascal like you wouldn't
know what to
do
with this much woman on your hands. Who's this you brung
with you?"

"This
is Marietta—Marietta Danver."

"I
hate her," Maria said. "Any woman looks like
that,
I hate her
on principle. Dress torn, face dirty, hair all tangled, and she
still
looks
like a dream. Hi, honey. I'm Maria Crawley."

"How
do you do?" I said stiffly.

Maria
lifted her brows, startled by both words and accent. She gave Rawlins a
questioning glance, and he merely grinned. The woman looked at me again,
studying me closely, obviously mystified, and then her innate good manners took
over. Smiling, she took my hand, leading me toward the porch.

"Come
along, honey. You look all tuckered out. A good hot bath's what you need, that
and a decent meal. I figure Jeffrey here's been feedin' you wild game and
parched corn for days now."

"You
got somethin' good on the stove?" Rawlins asked, following us inside.

"Honey,
I
always
have something good on the stove. Would you believe I baked
apple pies this afternoon? Just hopin' you'd drop in. We're almost full up
tonight— a dozen people stayin' with us. The suite's still available,
though."

"The
suite's always available. Ain't no one but me fool enough to pay the price
you're askin' for it. Bloody robbery, that's what it is."

"Lita!"
Maria yelled. "Take a tub up to the suite and then fetch plenty of hot
water. Mr. Rawlins is here! Christ, Jeff, it's good to see you. I reckon Eb
told you about the Indian trouble?"

Rawlins
nodded. "Place was locked up tighter'n a tick. He stared out at me for a
good ten minutes 'fore he'd let us in."

"I
hear it's serious this time, Jeff. A lot of the men stayin' here have decided
not to go on. I understand a party was massacred just two weeks ago. A family
it was, travelin' in a covered wagon. Steve Benson found 'em. They was scalped,
every last one of 'em, and the wagon was still smokin'."

"Aw,
hell, Maria, I'm onto your tricks. You're just tryin' to scare us, hopin' I'll
stick around a while 'cause you lust after my body. You don't fool me a minute.
You take Marietta on up to the suite, why don't ya. I think I'll just pop into
the taproom for a while, see if Eb's home brew is still as potent."

He
sauntered on down the large foyer and pushed open a door. Maria shook her head
and smiled, then motioned for me to follow her up the narrow, enclosed staircase.
The inn was quite large, and it smelled of wax and polish and ale. As we moved
down the upstairs hall I noticed how neat and clean everything was, perhaps to
compensate for the general roughhewn appearance. Maria opened one of the doors
and led me into a small sitting room with hardwood floor and whitewashed walls.
An open door led into the bedroom adjoining.

"It
ain't much," she said, "but it's the best we've got. Most of the
rooms ain't nothin' but cubicles. Hope you'll be comfortable, honey."

"I'm
sure I will be."

Maria
lingered, clearly reluctant to leave. She was the largest woman I had ever
seen, and although she had to be nearly fifty, I could see that she must once
have been quite pretty. That plump, ravaged face still bore signs of youthful
good looks—the mouth small and cherry red, the dark eyes full of warmth,
reflecting her amiable nature.