Nan Ryan (4 page)

Laboring with single-minded intent, the two were unaware they were on a collision course. Working different sides of the room and facing opposite directions, they slowly, surely backed toward each other on all fours.

Inevitably they collided.

Helen’s swaying bottom bumped soundly into Kurt’s firmly muscled buttocks. Helen loudly winced. Kurt sharply inhaled. Both simultaneously levered themselves to their knees. Their shoulder blades banged together. Helen gasped. Kurt exhaled. Their heads snapped around. Their faces were mere inches apart. They found themselves looking directly into each other’s eyes.

Helen’s snapped with annoyance. Kurt’s fixed gaze was one of apologetic solicitude.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, turning swiftly on his knees to face her, his hands lifting to clasp her upper arms.

“No,” Helen assured him, pushing anxiously against his chest. Shrugging free of his grip, she shot to her feet. “You finish this. I’ll go to the house and gather up some towels and bed linens.”

She snatched the bandanna off her head and whirled away. Kurt sat back on his heels and watched her storm out the open door. He shook his dark head. The lovely widow’s aversion to him was intense. His young son’s hostility was almost as acute. It was going to be one hell of a long, uncomfortable summer.

Kurt shrugged and went back to work.

Inside the house, Helen stood at the cedar-lined chest of drawers where the linens were kept. She crouched down on her heels, pulled out the bottom drawer—the drawer containing discarded linens which had been mended or were permanently stained or torn. She snatched up a yellowing pair of unbleached domestic sheets and a couple of mismatched pillowcases.

She closed the drawer, rose, and stood there with the less-than-exquisite bed linens in the crook of her arm, telling herself they were plenty good enough for a Yankee’s bed. She gave a quick, affirming nod of her head for emphasis.

But what about the innocent little boy, a nagging inner voice asked. Should he have to sleep on such coarse linens? Should he be made to lay that small blond head on rough, ragged pillowcases because his father fought on the wrong side in the war?

Sighing, Helen put the unbleached sheets back where she got them. From a top drawer of the chest she took out snowy-white, silky-soft sheets and a pair of matching cases with delicate lace trim. Muttering to herself, she returned to the quarters and Kurt Northway.

Together they made up the bed with clean white sheets which smelled faintly of fragrant cedar. Carefully avoiding his forest-green eyes, Helen ran a hand over the downy soft bedding, then tucked a pillow underneath her chin and drew a lace-edged case up over it.

She placed the pillow at the head of the bed, plumped it up, felt Kurt Northway’s eyes on her, and stiffened.

“What is it?” she demanded, looking up in time to catch an intensely wistful expression in the depths of his green eyes. It vanished instantly and he smiled. She didn’t. She said, “Why are you staring at me, Captain?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” His voice was very soft, very low. “The last woman I saw tuck a pillow under her chin to put a lace-edged case on it was my wife.” His wide shoulders lowered and lifted. “I’d forgotten it … until now … until you did it just the same way.”

“I’m sorry if it brought back painful memories, Captain”—she picked up the second pillow, tucked it under her chin, and began pulling the freshly laundered case up it—“but this is the way I’ve always done it. The way my grandmother taught me.”

She tossed the cased pillow to him and turned away. He caught it, lifted it to his face, inhaled deeply of the clean, fresh scent, then carefully placed it at the head of the bed beside its twin.

Helen looked around and saw Charlie standing in the doorway, yawning, rubbing his knuckles into this eyes. She smiled at him, but her smile wasn’t returned. In a warm, soft voice she asked if he’d like to help. Charlie said nothing. Finally he turned away, sat down on the stoop, and put his chin in his hands.

Concerned, Helen shot a questioning look at Kurt. He shook his head as if to say he didn’t know what to do about the silent Charlie.

They themselves talked very little, an economy of words being all that was necessary to complete their tasks. When they finished in the late afternoon, the place was hardly recognizable as the same dusty, ill-kept room they’d first entered.

New blue-and-white-checked curtains graced the many windows. The battered furniture gleamed with polish and smelled pleasantly of lemon oil. A scarf lovingly crocheted by Helen’s grandmother covered the scarred top of the highboy and a blue-and-white-checked cloth spread atop the small square table reached the clean wooden floor.

One straight-backed chair was pulled up to the table. The others, unusable since their cane bottoms had long since worn through, were neatly stacked out of the way at the back of the room. A large hooked rug lay on the floor beside the feather bed, ready for the touch of bare feet.

A blue glass bowl in the front windowsill was filled with yellow jonquils. And on the nightstand beside the newly made bed, a perfect pale pink rose rested in a sparkling bud vase.

Tired, dirty, their clothes damp with perspiration, Helen and Kurt stood looking about, inspecting their handiwork.

“Charlie, come in here,” called Kurt, “come look at our new home.”

Turning, Helen waited expectantly, hoping Charlie would come inside. Maybe the sight of the clean, spacious room—so different-looking now with the luxurious sheets and the fresh window curtains—would cheer him. Would make him feel more at home.

Her hopeful gaze resting on the narrow back of the little boy seated on the stoop, Helen coaxed too. “Your father’s right, Charlie. The place looks real nice now. Come inside and I’ll show you where to put your things. You can have the bottom drawer of the highboy. Charlie?”

Charlie didn’t budge. Nor did he answer. Just stayed where he was, as he was. Seated on the stoop, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, unreachable. Helen looked worriedly at Kurt.

Kurt smiled at Helen and said, “Well, it sure looks like a palace to me, Mrs. Courtney.”

Helen didn’t reply. She moved forward and fussily straightened the stack of white towels lying beside a large china bowl and water pitcher atop the highboy. Then, giving the room one last sweeping glance, she crossed to the door.

“Supper in an hour,” she announced.

“We’ll be there,” replied Kurt, following.

Helen nodded, stepped past the uncommunicative Charlie, and started up the footpath toward the house. A few yards away, she glanced back over her shoulder.

Charlie still sat on the stoop, grimacing, appearing afraid and unhappy, his small, pale face screwed up in a terrible frown. His father stood behind him, smiling, appearing totally relaxed and in charge, his teeth gleaming white in the bronzed darkness of his face.

Helen whipped her head around and picked up her pace.

Lord, it was going to be one long, uncomfortable summer.

Chapter Five

“D
ominic! Dommmminiiiiic! Dom, get yourself in here if you’re coming!”

At bedtime that night Helen, barefooted and in her white batiste nightgown, stood on the side gallery just outside her bedroom, calling impatiently to her wayward tom. If she couldn’t get him to come inside now, the inconsiderate Dominic would wake her in the middle of the night, scraping his sharp claws down the closed door and moaning pitifully.

“Dom, this is your last chance. Either you come in this minute or not at all!”

No sign of him.

Helen padded across the wide balcony and put both hands on the railing. She leaned over the waist-high railing and searched for the missing cat. Her sweeping gaze moved over the far reaches of the untended yard to the fruit orchard and pecan grove beyond. She scanned the big tree-rimmed pasture north of the house. Squinting, she peered toward the farm’s thickly timbered wildwoods bordering the cleared fields.

She saw no flashing animal eyes.

No Dom.

Not in any mood for the spoiled feline’s game playing, Helen turned away, started back inside, but paused. Suddenly she wondered, were her lodgers asleep? Was the dark Yankee sleeping peacefully? She started toward the back of the house.

After only a few steps, she stopped and shrugged slender shoulders. What did she care? Let the Yankee captain stay up all night or go to bed with the chickens, it made no difference to her. Just as long as he was up before the sun, discharging his duties.

Yawning, Helen returned to her bedroom.

Dominic sat there before the open door, the unusual green eyes inherent to his breed fixed admonishingly on her. Accusing her. As if she had been the one out tomcatting around.

“You green-eyed devil!” Helen scolded good-naturedly. “You’ll wind up sleeping in the barn with the Yankee if you’re not careful.”

Dominic’s reply was a bored closing of his green eyes and a wide yawn. Helen laughed, bent, scooped the cat up in her arms, and went inside. Once in the bedroom, Dominic squirmed out of her grasp, raced across the room, and leaped agilely up onto the high feather mattress. Stretching out at the foot of the bed, he flexed his front paws several times, extending the sharp claws, pulling at the bedcovers. Then he yawned again, laid his aristocratic head down, and allowed his lazy lids to close over the green eyes.

Dom was fast asleep.

Helen wished, and not for the first time, that it was as easy for her to fall asleep as it was for her cat. How wonderful to simply stretch out and be immediately lost in peaceful, dreamless slumber.

It wasn’t that way for her. It was never easy to fall asleep, no matter how hard she had worked or how weary she was when she went to bed. Bed was a lonely—sometimes frightening—place to her. It had been since Will had gone away to war.

Sighing, Helen sat down on the side of the bed. From a carved wooden box on the night table, she took out an oval-shaped cameo locket. She opened the locket to the small photograph inside. A young, handsome Will Courtney smiled up at her.

Helen looked at the smiling Will for a long wistful moment, raised the cameo to her lips, and kissed the tiny photograph. She snapped the locket shut and placed it back inside the carved box. She reached for the loaded pistol. Tucking it under her pillow, she recalled the Yankee’s words: “You won’t need the gun to protect yourself.… At least not from me.”

Maybe not. All the same, she’d feel better knowing the revolver was there within easy reach. Just like always.

Helen turned out the lamp and got into bed. She stretched luxuriously, sighed, but didn’t bother closing her eyes. What was the use? She’d lie awake half the night. Just like … just like … just like …

Before the thought could be completed, Helen Courtney was sound asleep.

Kurt Northway wasn’t.

While his son slept soundly beside him, Kurt was wide awake. He lay on his back, arms folded beneath his head, wondering why sleep wouldn’t come.

This clean spacious room was the best quarters he had been billeted in since before the war. The bed where he lay was soft and comfortable, the sheets freshly laundered and smelling faintly of cedar. Shafts of moonlight made pleasing patterns on the floor and walls. A gentle breeze ruffled the blue-and-white-checked curtains. The night stillness was peaceful, lulling.

He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t dirty. He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t hot. He wasn’t lying on the hard ground somewhere. He wasn’t listening for the whine of miniballs. He didn’t have to wonder if he’d live to see the sunrise.

Still, he couldn’t sleep.

A restlessness he couldn’t curb made Kurt throw back the covering sheet and ease himself out of bed. He tiptoed across the room, slipped out the door, and sat down on the stoop.

A gentle night wind off the bay cooled his heated skin, lifted locks of his dark hair. The sweet scent of honeysuckle carried on the welcome breeze. High overhead a full moon sailed leisurely around the heavens, silvering everything below.

Kurt’s brooding eyes slowly lifted to that romantic summer moon.

A deepening loneliness came over him. Inevitably he began thinking of another night. Another time. Another place.

With vivid clarity he remembered the lovely warm summer night when he and the young, trusting Gail had lain stretched out naked in the moonlight spilling across the bed in their honeymoon suite. Kissing. Talking. Laughing.

Making love.

Kurt felt a familiar squeezing in his chest and wondered if he’d ever be free of the pain. It was strange, but since the war had ended and he’d been reunited with Charlie, he missed his wife more than ever.

Hoofbeats.

The steady drumming of a horse’s hooves striking the ground pulled Helen from a deep, restful slumber. Startled awake, she lunged up, grabbed the pistol from under the pillow, and raced across the darkened room. Heart pounding with alarm, she dashed anxiously out onto the gallery, ready to confront the nighttime intruder.

Pistol cocked and held straight out in both trembling hands, Helen crossed to the railing, prepared to quickly fire one warning shot, then take aim. She stopped short of pulling the trigger when she saw the horse.

The Yankee’s big sorrel stallion was thundering around the tree-rimmed pasture north of the house. The Yankee was astride the mighty beast.

Helen slowly lowered the gun.

Framed against the pearl-gray light of the coming dawn, horse and rider were unquestionably a splendid sight to behold. The princely pair seemed to be more a mystical apparition than actual flesh and blood. Helen blinked to make sure they were real.

She’d never seen a horse move with quite the same swift graceful speed as the fleet-footed sorrel stallion. Nor had she ever seen a rider handle a big powerful thoroughbred quite as easily as the man on his back.

The Yankee was naked to the waist, his bare shoulders broad and well muscled. His faded blue uniform trousers rode low around his slim hips and hugged his hard thighs and long legs. His feet, shoved into the stirrups, were bare. His uncombed jet hair was flying wildly about his head and on his dark, handsome face was a look of pure, unadulterated pleasure.