Fire Along the Sky (62 page)

“Have you heard his preaching lately?” Ballentyne asked, his tone sharp enough to earn him one of Elizabeth's severest looks.

“I would not give him the pleasure,” she said coldly.

“I am glad to know it,” Ballentyne said. “For it would pain you to hear the things he's saying about Lily.”

Elizabeth's mouth twitched, but before she could speak, Nathaniel cut in. “Don't ask him to repeat it, Boots. I wouldn't let him even if he cared to say the words out loud.”

Lily put down her cup with a sharp sound. “And do I have anything to say about this?”

Elizabeth's expression cleared. “Of course you do. Would you like your father and your bridegroom to avenge your good name, Lily? Would tar and feathers be a suitable punishment, or do you have something else in mind?”

“For Christ's sake, Boots,” Nathaniel said, pushing out a sigh. “All I'm going to do is talk to the man. Weren't you just telling us about free speech being protected by the Constitution?”

She closed her eyes briefly and then opened them again, and managed a small smile. “I was. Very well, if Lily agrees I shan't object. The two of you go off to see what sense you can talk to the Reverend Stiles. I wish you an entertaining afternoon of it.”

“Lily?”

His daughter looked at him as if he were a child asking for another piece of pie he didn't need and shouldn't have. A strange thing, to have the girl grow up on him while his back was turned, but there it was.

Finally she nodded. “You won't be happy until you do, so go talk to him. Do try to come up with something less extreme than relieving him of his offending tongue.”

Nathaniel caught Ballentyne's gaze and wondered if Lily realized that he was capable of that, and more.

He said, “Between us I'll wager we can come up with something a sight less messy.”

They found Stiles finishing his own dinner of cabbage and bread, alone at the table. No sign of young Justus Rising, and Nathaniel wasn't sure how to feel about that. On the one hand he thought the boy needed to hear what he had to say, and on the other he had the sense it wouldn't do any good. Justus Rising reminded him of a half-witted dog, just sly enough to keep himself fed and quick to use his teeth. The kind that couldn't be taught because he didn't care to learn.

The cabin was dim and smelled strongly of sour clothes and sweat. It struck Nathaniel as odd, given the fact that Stiles was supposed to have such a good sense of smell, but then some men were partial to their own stink.

They went out on the porch to talk, where there was a fine view of the apple orchards. The trees were heavy with green fruit. It was a pretty spot, the orchard, built up out of hard work and dreams: Nicholas Wilde had wanted to come up with the perfect apple, not for pressing, but for eating. The villagers had laughed at him and then learned not to laugh; he had earned their respect over the years. And then Jemima Southern had come along. Nathaniel thought of the day he had gone into the bush to find Nicholas, and then he pushed the pictures away.

On the horizon a good summer storm was working itself up, fists of dark cloud punching closer.

“Thunder before the afternoon is done,” said Stiles. “Hail too.”

Nathaniel started to have his thoughts read so easily, and then he settled his face; he wouldn't let the man spook him so easy.

“Thunder at twilight,” he agreed. “Doesn't bode well.”

Stiles made an agreeable sound in his throat. “Did you two gentlemen come to talk to me about the weather?”

“You know why we're here,” Ballentyne said, not a man to dance around the matter at hand.

Stiles blinked once and again. “I expect I do.”

“Listen then, and listen close,” Nathaniel said. He scratched his jaw thoughtfully while he considered his words.

“You're new here, so let me make something clear you most probably don't know. My father and my grandfather and his people before him were hunting these mountains a hundred years ago and more. We've always been here, and we ain't going nowhere. That's the first thing.”

He paused. There was no reaction at all from Stiles, so he went on.

“We survived every kind of sickness over the years, more wars than I care to think about, settlers coming and going, fortune hunters of every stripe. They've tried to starve us out and burn us out and frighten us away. We're still here. We're staying right here. That's the second thing.”

Ballentyne stood quietly, all his muscles tensed, his eyes alive: ready to move, ready for battle. He had been trained well at Carryck, and Nathaniel was glad to have him along.

“Do go on,” Stiles said.

“Last thing. We protect our own, and we don't tolerate anybody coming after our women and children. I'll admit it's been some years since we had cause to remind folks of that fact, but make no mistake, Mr. Stiles. You'll stop bad-mouthing my daughter or I'll show you just what I mean.”

Stiles crossed his arms on his chest and rocked forward, his head canted sharp to the right as if he were thinking through a difficult puzzle.

“You object to the truth being spoken plain, then.”

Ballentyne moved, just an inch, but Nathaniel held up a hand to stop him.

“Your version of the truth.”

Stiles rocked a little more. “My truth comes from the good book. From the word of God. Your daughter is—”

“I'd advise you to stop just there,” Ballentyne said, stepping up close. “Keep your version of the truth to yourself. And you'll keep a civil tongue in your head or I'll feed it to the dogs.”

Nathaniel had to admire Ballentyne's tone, no bluster in him at all, and no mistaking that he meant every word. Except that Stiles didn't seem overly concerned.

After a moment Stiles said, “Perhaps I did make a mistake. Paradise may not be the God-fearing place I was told it would be.”

There were many things Nathaniel might have said to that, but he wasn't about to bring up the topic of Jemima Southern.

“Get out then. Sell the orchard and get out.”

And he saw, just then, that he had misjudged the man and mistook his game. Something small and satisfied flickered in Stiles's expression, and then was gone, banished. But Nathaniel knew what he was going to say.

“Very well, I am willing to sell you the farm and orchards for four hundred dollars. In silver.”

Ballentyne coughed a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it at all. “Silver,” he echoed.

“In time of war.” Stiles spread his hands out in front of him. “Paper money is less than dependable.”

“You bloody bastard,” Ballentyne said. “You thieving, no-good, backhanded—”

Nathaniel held up a finger to stop him. “That's twice what you paid for this place.”

“Is it?” Stiles rocked on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back. “Why, yes, now that you mention it. I believe that's true.”

At that Nathaniel laughed. “You had just about everybody fooled, I'll give you that.”

“Gentlemen,” said Stiles slowly, looking hard at Nathaniel and then at Simon. “I see you are not interested in the transaction I propose. If you'll pardon me, I must finish my notes on tomorrow's sermon.”

With a little bow he turned away from them and disappeared back into the shadows.

“Well, goddamn the man,” said Nathaniel, mostly to himself.

Ballentyne grunted. “That's a job we'll have to handle on our own.”

While she did her chores and did them well and without complaint, Lily had always disliked housework. To her surprise she found that it wasn't quite so boring now that it was her own place she was looking after. There was a certain satisfaction in the progress she made, day by day.

My own home,
she said sometimes when something particularly nasty had to be scraped off the floor.
Mine and Simon's.
All the things she had been sure she did not want: a husband, a cabin in Paradise, and now she could hardly keep from smiling.

And as soon as the war was over, they would go away. She would hold him to that promise, and herself too. But for now there were two rooms she would set to rights, and when they were weary of traveling, weary of Canada, they would have this place to come back to.

The first task Simon had taken on was the repair of the roof, and then he had cleaned the chimney and hearth, so that the storm that had come on so quick and fierce did not stop Lily from her afternoon's task, scrubbing down the cupboards that stood to either side of the hearth. Which meant she must first empty them out, no small thing at all, for it seemed that Jack MacGregor had been the kind of man who was loath to throw away even the smallest, most inconsequential bit of string.

Lily found muslin bags full of curled bits of stiffened fur and scraps of deer hide, a great tin of arrowheads that would please Gabriel, dusty piles of newspaper clippings that crumbled at a touch, a bundle of letters tied with string that she put aside to ask her mother about, bits of crockery, and tucked behind a bundle of rags, three perfect teacups and saucers of such translucent delicacy that she was almost afraid to touch them.

For a good while Lily studied a cup, holding it in her hands as she would an egg. The firelight played on the rich glazing and made the pattern of flowers and vines seem to glow, and for the life of her she could not imagine why Jack MacGregor, who had been a dour old trapper with no family and no friends, had kept such a treasure for himself. There was a story here, certainly. Curiosity was coming by this afternoon with linen, maybe she would know what to make of it.

Behind Lily the door opened with a squeak—the hinges still needed oiling, she kept forgetting to mention it to Simon—and she turned to show Curiosity the cup she held in her hands.

Justus Rising closed the door behind himself before Lily could quite collect her thoughts. He was dripping wet and his face was charged with high color. His eyes shone in the light of the candles she had lit against the darkening of the storm. They were red rimmed and Lily was reminded of a possum, a slow animal that could lash out quite unexpectedly when cornered.

She said, “Go away, Justus,” but the sound of her voice was lost in a lazy roll of thunder. Lily stood and put the cup down carefully on the table on its saucer. When the thunder had stopped she cleared her throat.

“Justus, leave here immediately. You are not welcome.”

The boy said nothing at all; he was all burning blue eyes and a gaping mouth. He came forward slowly then he held out a fist and uncurled his fingers. A half-dozen small coins rattled onto the table.

“Is that enough?”

Lily stepped backward and bumped into the cupboard. She might have asked him,
Enough for what,
or
What do you mean,
but she saw exactly what he wanted.

It was odd, how her mind could do so many things at once. One part of her was so shocked that she might have just let her knees fold beneath her. To be propositioned thus by a boy, by the preacher's nephew, it was beyond her mind's ability to cope. She wasn't angry, not quite yet, but it sat there like a stone in her belly, ready to be vomited up.

He's calling you a whore.
Simon's voice came to her then, and she realized that she should have taken what he had to say more seriously. And where was Simon? She glanced at the window and saw only rain.

“He won't bother us just now,” said Justus Rising. “He's at the trading post talking to Jed McGarrity.”

“Go away,” Lily said mechanically. Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat again. “Go away immediately.”

“My money ain't good enough for you?” His high color had begun to fade but it came back in a rush. “How much did the nigger give you?”

No weapons within reach, none except her own mind. Lily forced her thoughts to order themselves, composed her face, and summoned up her mother's spirit.

“Justus Rising,” she said. “You have insulted me in the worst way possible. Take your money and leave here, and I will not tell my father about this.”

“Oh, like it's any surprise to him, that you spread your legs for coin.” The boy wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand and spat into the corner. “I expect he was your first customer. Wouldn't that be the way, him half savage like he is? Don't play innocent with me, not with me, missy. I seen you in the woods, with that great Scot. He had you pinned to a tree with your legs wrapped around him, and he was riding you right rough, though I'll admit you looked to be enjoying it.”

And then the boy simply launched himself across the table, as if he were some kind of great cat dropping out of a tree. Lily moved fast, but not quite fast enough; he got her by the hair and yanked so hard that roaring pain wiped out everything else in the world.

The candles went out in the tumble and for a moment there was only the roiling dark of the storm. Then a flash of lightning filled the room in a tripling pulse, and in that bone-white light the boy's face looked like a skull.

He was grinning, a wide, panting grin, and he wrapped his hand and arm more firmly in her hair, pulled her head up to him and tried to press a wet kiss to her mouth. Still stunned, Lily managed to turn her head only a little, and felt his lips on her jaw like leeches.

He grunted at that, dissatisfied, and grunted again when she managed to use her elbow on him. While he wrapped her hair around his arm more firmly he used his free hand to sweep the table clear.

That sound roused her from her stupor. Lily used her arms and her legs as best she could; she twisted and bucked and screamed, once and then again, while he pinned her to the table with his body.

The lightning showed her his expression, resolute. Nothing much there, no anger, no lust: a workman thinking through a problem. That scared her most of all, and Lily screamed again.

Justus Rising made a shushing sound, as if she were a troublesome child and not a grown woman, about to be married. With a yank he pulled her down the table so that her legs hung off the far edge.

“I'll get a better hold on you like this,” he said. “Ride some of the rough off you.”

“Simon Ballentyne will kill you.” Her voice came in a harsh whisper.

He hummed agreement. “If he can catch me.” Then he hooked a dirty rag from the mess on the floor and stuffed it into her mouth.