Christie (31 page)

"You knew?" asked Jesse.

"That Indian knows almost everything," she answered over her shoulder as she ran toward her quarters. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Jesse, ah need to get mah wrap and mah freedman's papers. They always stop me and make me show them!" In a moment, she was out of sight, leaving Jesse to go back to the task of watching over Charles.

Chapter Twenty Three

Lucille Baker sat in a pink satin-cushioned chair as she sipped her minted brandy, calmly regarding the big man across from her as he dealt cards onto the table. She had known Garrett Randall for over ten years, since first 'he had come as an occasional customer to taste the charms of a special girl here or there—for his taste had always demanded the best, be it in brandy, or conversation, or women. But over the years, she had come to know him as a friend of sorts, his need to relieve himself of an evening's boredom frequently running toward a requirement for intelligent female conversation; and that, Lucille herself had been able to supply. In fact, she had thought it was just such a need which had prompted his arrival, some two or so months ago, when he had entered her house in the blackest of moods, disdaining the attentions of even Elaine and Olivia, her choicest "companions of the evening" at present. But conversation was something they had had very little of in the weeks since that night, Garrett seeming to prefer a marathon of card playing and heavy drinking to any other activity—including women!

Now, as she sat watching him silently take up his cards, she puzzled over his strange behavior. She knew there had been a falling out with his brother, for when she had inquired of Jesse, Garrett's response had been couched in language that had caused even her to wince. And she knew, instinctively, somehow a woman was involved, al though she had been unable to gather any particulars with regard to how. He had been rather vocal concerning an abortive trip to England, too, although she had felt its disappointments took a back seat to the other devils besetting him. Taking a deep breath, she stifled, for perhaps the hundredth time, an urge to ask him about his private griefs, to get him to open up and maybe purge himself of these demons that had changed him from the thoroughly charming guest she knew he could be. Lucille Baker prided herself on the fact that, in addition to being a smart businesswoman, she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

"My card," she said flatly. "It's not like you to miss an easy trick like that, Garrett."

She knew he had been drinking a great deal again this evening, but, as frequently happened lately, he also gave little indication he was drunk.

"Then you'll win again," said Garrett, pouring another brandy, "and I shall be further on my way to becoming a master," he added, downing a large swallow of the amber-colored liquid, "the 'Master of Losing'!"

He set his glass down hard on the table with a
thunk
and at the same moment, there came a soft tapping at the door which seemed to pick up the sound, mimicking it while at the same time causing
fade and lose potency. What is it?" called Lucille, annoyed to be bed by what she expected to be some petty problem.

'There's a nigra here to see Mr. Randall," came the butler's voice. "Says she's come a long way to fetch him on a life-or-death matter. I'd have turned her out, but by the looks of her, there might be some truth to her story. She appears to be half-dead from exhaustion."

Lucille tossed Garrett an inquiring glance. "Well?" she asked.

"Give her a few minutes to rest up and get rid of her," he growled. "There's naught of life and death where she comes from that concerns me!"

But at that moment, the door pushed open and a small dripping figure in black rushed in.

"Captain Randall, you've got to come! She's been laboring for hours and hours and it's not going well! And she's calling for you, Captain, please!" cried Lula, her face a map of fearful concern.

"Let her
lover
hold her hand, then!" spat Garrett. 'She has no call on me, no need—"

"Not even if she's dying?" pleaded Lula.

Garrett had been shuffling the cards, staring purposefully at them and avoiding anyone's face as he spoke, but at Lula's words, he froze, deck in hand, and then turned to look at her, his green eyes searching her black ones.

"The truth?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"God's own," murmured Lula, her eyes blinking back the tears.

He was out of his chair and through the door in seconds, no traces of inebriation to his movements.

"Lucille, please have my horse brought around, and find her some dry clothes," he called behind him, his voice grim. "Lula, you rest up here for a while. Did someone bring you?" he added, turning briefly to look at her.

"Someone—Clarence—came with me. Ah rode mah own horse, and she's pretty spent, sir."

"Return only when you're all rested," he ordered. "Is there a doctor?"

"Dr. Harris was out of town."

"Damn! I'll stop for Doc Barrett, then. Remember, don't follow until you've sufficient rest!"

Then he turned and left, his movements lightning fast and surprisingly silent, for all his great size.

Stopping at Doc Barrett's, Garrett was told he was away on a call, and, cursing the misfortune of it, he bent his mount in the direction of home. As he rode his horse over the muddy Indian trail, he fought to keep his thoughts on the ride, not daring to focus on the terrible ghosts that threatened to enter his head and demolish the thin control residing there. She
couldn't
die! Whatever had happened, whatever she had done, she
must not die!
This one thought he kept doggedly before him as he bent his head into the driving rain, pushing to the back of his mind the ugly fear that, even as he rode to reach her, perhaps she already had.

He reached the big house shortly before midnight,
crashing through the front door and up the great
staircase in almost a single motion. Meeting Mattie
in the hall, he paused only long enough to see her
incline her head in the direction of the master


bedroom before he entered the dimly lit chamber
himself.

As he crossed to the big bed, Mistress Andrews rose from where she had been sitting in a chair nearby and gave him a sorrowful shake of the head. Then she
rent
to the door and exited, leaving him alone with Christie.

Appearing ever so small in the big bed's giant expanse of sheets, she was resting quietly as he looked at her there; and even as he noted with dread pale face and the faint mauve circles under her eyes
,
he was struck by how beautiful she remained, her fair hair strewn wildly about the pillow, the upward tilt of her eyes picking up the angles of her cheekbones and agreeing with the highlights and shadows there.

Suddenly, she opened her eyes and cried out, her body going rigid as a wave of pain swept it. "Garrett!" she cried. "Garrett!" "Here, love," he said. "I'm here."

"Father, where is Garrett? Why won't he come?" she continued. "Ah, the pain! Meirie, why won't the pain go away?"

Garrett took her hand and bent closer, his mouth tight and drawn. "Christie, look at me. Don't you know me?" he asked, and his voice was strained and desperate.

"She doesn't hear you, Brother," said a voice behind him. "I fear it's too late, even for that."

Garrett turned to him, anguish in his eyes. "What's been done for her? Why was there no doctor?"

"Come downstairs and we'll talk," said Jesse. "There's little we can do here."

"No!" The word was nearly a shout. "If she regains her senses, I want to be here. Is there nothing
more to do?" The last sentence was almost a plea.

"Nothing I can think of, but if you insist on staying with her, I'll remain, too, if. . . you don't mind?"

Garrett looked at him in silence for a moment, then answered, "No ... I don't mind."

So together they kept vigil, the time passing slowly, or so it seemed, as each looked on silently, whatever thoughts he might have unspoken.

Some of the time she seemed to waken, but then it was only to be wracked with the pains that continued to attack her body. The rest of the time she would drop off into an uneasy slumber, collapsing as soon as the pain ebbed, leaving her ever more exhausted. During these moments she would cry out or ramble incoherently. It was well after midnight when a particularly anguished cry brought both Garrett and Jesse close to the bed; each jumped up with a start from the catnap he had stolen while she slept. Christie's voice sounded out loudly in the still chamber.

"You must tell him nothing, Lu! He must realize for himself, I have been with no other man! . . . The babe is his, and he will not acknowledge it, Father. . . . Father, I'll call him Thunder and ride on his back like the lightning, but be free like the wind. . . . Free . . . no, Jesse! . . . for how could I stay, loving him more than I can bear . . . ? He does not love me and there's no help for it... no help. ..."

At these last words, Jesse looked at Garrett, who was staring at Christie, but then turned to meet his brother's gaze. At the dumbfounded expression on his face, Jesse nodded; then he rose and quietly left the chamber, leaving him alone with his wife.

Jesse had just reached the base of the stairs and was
wond
ering what he could yet do or say to lend some
comfort to Charles when he heard Mattie's voice
coming from the hallway upstairs.

"'Mr. Garrett, where are you taking her? You must
know she cannot be moved in her condition! Sir,
please!"

Turning to see the cause, Jesse beheld his brother approaching the head of the stairs, his wife's limp ad swollen body in his arms. Garrett's tortured eyes met
his.

"'Garrett, where—?"

"We can't stand around and watch her die, Jess. I'm taking meaningful her to the Cherokee. White Fire Woman— she might know," said Garrett; his voice was almost a monotone.

Jesse knew well the skills of Laughing Bear's her. He and Garrett both had been present in the the on occasions when she had put them to miraculous use. Maybe she would have the knowledge . . . but to take Christie there, in her present state, in a raging rainstorm . . . "Garrett, wait, I agree—the chief's wife might be our only chance, but we can't move Christie there. It would kill her, even if made it through. We'll have to bring White Fire Woman here. Take Christie back upstairs. I'll go to the Cherokee."

Garrett looked at Jesse for a long moment, and Jesse read the message in his eyes. "Jess, I want—"

"I know, Brother." Jesse smiled. "Forget it," he
added, understanding the great swallowing of pride
would take place if he allowed him to continue.

A man needed some grace when he was so close to
being beaten.

Garrett took Christie back to her room and Jesse left for the Indian village which, even in good weather, was over two hours' ride from Riverlea. A short time later, Lula returned from Charleston, so tired she slumped on the floor of the kitchen, near the fireplace, and Mattie was forced to help her change into dry clothes right there and then fix her a pallet for sleeping nearby, for the black woman threatened to die if she had to take another step.

Jasper was assigned the job of caring for Charles in Jesse's absence. It was close to dawn when the big man passed out from the spirits he'd downed, and the boy, returning from his vigil to inform Mattie, heard horses approaching and raced, instead, to Garrett, to tell him the news.

"Captain Randall, sir, Mr. Jesse's back, and there's somebody with him!"

"Sit here with her, boy," said Garrett. "Where are they?"

"They're coming the kitchen way, sir."

Garrett was downstairs in seconds and at the kitchen door in less, reaching it just as Jesse entered, followed by Laughing Bear and his mother.

"You came,", said Garrett in Cherokee. "It is good."

"Where is the woman?" asked Laughing Bear.

"Upstairs. We've got to hurry. Follow me."

The Cherokee woman was removing the great animal skin she had worn to protect her from the rain. Underneath, her buckskin clothes were entirely dry.

Suddenly, a sharp voice came from the other side of

the large fireplace to Garrett's left. "Where are you taking that squaw?"

Surprised, they turned and saw Lula, her face a mass of stubborn lines.

"Ah asked you all, please, where is she going?"

"Lula," said Jesse, "this is no time to be playing question games. White Fire Woman is here to try to help Christie."

Lula's jaw became set as she raised it an inch. "Not like that, she's not."

"Now, look Lula," said Garrett, "you don't—"

"Your objection, woman, quickly, what is it?" questioned Laughing Bear. His voice was sharply authoritative.

Lula eyed the grease-spattered garments of Whitefire Woman and then grabbed one of her hands.

"Dirt! That's what!" she spat. "Look at the black under those fingernails! If she touches that child upstairs before she scrubs those hands, it'll be over this dead black body!"

Garrett looked at Jesse, then at Laughing Bear. "What she says has merit. Yet, I fear we will insult White Fire Woman if we request she wash. . . . Laughing Bear?"

The brave shook his head. "You have said it, White Brother. The people do not understand your uses of bathing. They use it mainly for ritual. I myself am the recipient of much humor for the bathing I have done since courting this woman." He gave Lula a meaningful look. "My mother will never consent."

"Then we'll have to take our chances this way," said Garrett, his tone desperate. "Lula, stand aside!"

"No, wait!" said Jesse. "I have an idea. Laughing ;Bear, how would it be if we were to tell your mother
that we Randalls have a private family ritual which requires the washing of hands before any important event—such as the birth of a child—?"

Hope flickered in Garrett's weary face. "God, Jess, at least
one
of us is thinking!"