Rachel's Choice Page 4

  “A Richmond lawyer?” She’d shrugged. “Just remember who you are and who I am, and we’ll have no trouble.”

  Rachel did not soften toward him. She limited her conversation to his improving wound or her plans for the farm. And no matter how he tried to charm her, the only tenderness he received was when she changed his dressings.

  So long as Chance remained confined to the house, he had little to do but watch Rachel as she moved through her constant chores of cooking, cleaning, washing, butter making, and keeping the woodstove and lamps supplied with fuel. She was rarely idle from dawn until long past sunset, when supper was over and she had washed and dried the dishes and put them away.

  He supposed it must be tiring for a woman so far advanced in pregnancy, but she never complained. Instead, she moved gracefully from task to task. Despite her constant labor, she never looked harried or slovenly. Her night-dark hair was always confined in a neat bun at the back of her head or braided in a single plait and twisted into a circle and covered with a cap or straw bonnet. Her dresses were clean, if a bit faded with wear, and her aprons were starched and snowy white.

  “Must you always watch every move I make?” she asked the following morning as they sat down to a breakfast of strong coffee, steaming porridge sprinkled with wild strawberries, and hot biscuits. “It’s rude.”

  “Rude?” He chuckled and reached for a biscuit. “Since when has it been rude for a man to watch a pretty woman? You have a pleasing countenance, Mrs. Irons.”

  “Save your sweet talk for those who will believe it,” she answered as she yanked the bread dish out of his reach. “Were you raised in a barn?” Rachel’s hand brushed his, and she jerked back as though she had been burned.

  For an instant she stared at him, and the air between them seemed to vibrate with energy. Then Rachel lowered her head. “Grace first, and then you may eat.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she bowed her head, whispered a few words of thanksgiving, and passed him the biscuits.

  “Some people might think that it’s rude never to offer a cheerful word to an ailing man,” he teased as he stirred milk into his oatmeal.

  “Should I go about singing and dancing with a Johnny Reb—with an uninvited guest in my house?”

  “Not uninvited,” he reminded her.

  She frowned. “As soon as the danger of infection is passed, you’re moving out of my kitchen. There is a space in the barn where the farm help sleeps.”

  “In the barn?” Chance grimaced. “With animals?”

  “I am a married woman. Would you have me ruin my reputation by keeping a man in my home with my husband away?”

  He buttered his biscuit. If he wasn’t so hungry, he would have left the table. But only a fool would walk away from such a meal. When he thought of what he’d survived on after his capture at Gettysburg … He forced a smile. “Come, Mrs. Irons. I’ve not offered any threat to your honor so far, have I?”

  “No, but you’d have to get over my dogs to do so.”

  “Surely a lady in your condition—”

  Two red spots appeared on her cheeks. “My condition is none of your affair. And a gentleman would have better manners than to mention it.”

  “Ah, I’m a gentleman now. Are we to spend so much time together and remain in a state of war?”

  “But we are, aren’t we?” Her huge, liquid eyes fixed him with a thoughtful stare. “I’m risking my life to hide you from the Union troops. Don’t expect me to fawn over you as well.”

  The black dog, Bear, moved to her side, placing his massive body between Chance and his mistress. The older collie seemed content to watch him from her favorite spot near the cookstove.

  “He doesn’t think much of me.” Chance glanced at the mastiff.

  “No, he doesn’t. You’d best keep your distance from Bear,” Rachel warned. “He’ll take your leg off if you cross him.”

  “That’s reassuring.” Chance’s wry smile hid the turmoil in his gut. Now that he was on his feet, he wondered if he’d made a mistake in promising Rachel he’d help with her crops. He knew that she couldn’t hold him here against his will, but he’d never been a man to give his word and break it. Trouble was, he’d made two vows before he’d ever set eyes on Rachel Irons. Even if Travis was beyond saving, he had to return to Fort Delaware and kill Daniel Coblentz.

  It wasn’t just personal, although he hated the sadistic sergeant worse than any living creature it had ever been his misfortune to know. Coblentz was a monster, a murderer, and a torturer. Someone had to end the Dutchman’s reign of terror on Pea Patch Island, and Chance had drawn the short straw.

  He’d always been a man of the law, but all that had changed. If it meant the loss of his soul to eternal damnation, he’d kill Coblentz with his own hands and gladly pay the price.

  It was nearly two weeks from the time Rachel Irons had found him in her crab trap until he could walk as far as the garden bench. From there he could watch Rachel hoeing a spot to plant sweet corn.

  Sitting outside with the sun on his face was wonderful. So long as he didn’t try to stand quickly or move his arm, he felt almost human. The collie had taken to lying beside him, but the black dog still suspiciously watched every move he made.

  Chance’s wound ached, but he knew his shoulder would stiffen if he went too long without using it. Scar tissue would form, and that might cripple him. He might be dead inside, but he needed the use of both arms and legs. He had promises to keep.

  “If you can wait a little, I’ll try and help with breaking up that ground,” he volunteered. “Maybe tomorrow I could—”

  Rachel stopped hoeing and shook her head. “Not yet. We’ll have to start plowing soon. I can’t take any chances that you’ll rip open that wound and be useless to me.”

  “You’re a hard woman, Rachel Irons.”

  “Aye, some would say that, but I’ve had to be. Sit there and watch. Maybe you’ll learn something about farming.”

  “Swinging a hoe can’t be too complicated.”

  “No?” She shrugged. “We’ll see if you say that after doing it for ten hours.” She knelt awkwardly to pull a few stray weeds from the edges of her blossoming strawberries.

  “What will you do when your time comes? Delivering babies is hardly my—”

  “I have friends in town. I’ll go there for my confinement. There will be no one here to guard you, Chancellor. Your honor must be your bond.”

  His honor. He nearly laughed aloud at that. Once he’d been ruled by honor, but that was before the war … before grapeshot and cannon fire had turned green fields into graveyards. “When will you have this babe?” he asked, averting his eyes. Without a guard it would be simple to slip away from the farm.

  “Late June or mid-July.” She looked up at him. “Of course, my husband, James, may be here. If he gets leave, I’ll call Cora Wright to attend me, and I’ll remain here on Rachel’s Choice.”

  “James couldn’t get home for spring planting?” Chance looked around at the unplowed fields. He was no farmer, but it seemed to him that Virginia crops were sown much earlier than this.

  “He would have been here if he could.” She rose to her feet and began to hoe again.

  “What will this husband of yours think when he finds me here?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “We’ll have to climb that fence when we come to it.”

  Chance rose and walked toward the brick well, intending to draw some water. He’d begun to lower the bucket when Lady began to bark. Both dogs shot off down the lane. Rachel dropped her hoe and hurried toward him.

  “Quick, into the house!” she ordered. “Someone’s coming.” She pushed him toward the back door. “Hide. If anyone sees you, we’re both lost.”

  Rachel followed him inside and peered out the multipaned window beside the door. Chance leaned against the table. “Sweet hope of heaven!” she exclaimed. “It’s James’s father.”

  She looked around the room, then motioned toward the clo
sed stairway. “Hide in there.”

  In seconds Chance found himself sitting on a lower step in the semidarkness with a pillow and blanket in his lap.

  “Don’t make a sound,” Rachel warned. “My father-in-law is no friend of mine. He always carries a weapon, and he’d not hesitate to send us both to prison for high treason.”

  The barking grew louder, and Chance heard the rumble of carriage wheels. His heart thudded against his chest He didn’t think Rachel meant to betray him, but if she did, he was helpless to defend himself or even run.

  “Father Irons.” Rachel pushed open the kitchen door as her father-in-law climbed down from the buggy and tied his horse to the hitching post. “And there’s Mother Irons with you. What a surprise.”

  Isaac scowled at her. “Can’t you control these animals of yours?”

  The dogs—wagging their tails and barking excitedly—continued to circle the elegant yellow-wheeled buggy.

  “Your lane is in deplorable condition,” James’s mother declared. “I thought we’d lose a wheel in the ruts.”

  Isaac walked around to assist his wife. “We’re concerned about you, Rachel,” he said.

  Ida continued her complaints. “It’s ridiculous for you to live out here alone with James’s precious child coming so soon.” She tucked her hand through her husband’s arm and lifted the hem of her skirt out of the dust.

  Ida Irons was short and plump, a perfect foil to Isaac’s tall, lanky frame. Rachel had always wondered where James had gotten his good looks from.

  “You’ve missed church two weeks running,” Isaac chided.

  Rachel noticed that he seemed grayer than the last time she’d seen him, although he continued to carry himself as straight as ever. His formal black coat, waistcoat, and trousers were cut of heavy wool, and his starched collar and old-fashioned cravat were nearly hidden by a full white beard. It made Rachel hot just to look at him wearing so many clothes on such a warm May day.

  “Missing Sunday services isn’t seemly,” Ida said. “Not seemly at all for one with your reputation.”

  Rachel clamped her lips together. Ida couldn’t let a meeting pass without making some reference to Rachel’s scandalous birth. It was true. Her parents had never married, and she was illegitimate. But that was old gossip, and no one but Ida Irons talked of it anymore.

  Ida’s close-set hazel eyes flicked over Rachel’s apron front with obvious disapproval as she approached the back step. “Foolish to live way out here when you don’t have to,” she repeated. “But then—like your mother before you—you always did have bad judgment.”

  Rachel stepped back to let the older woman squeeze her fashionably wide hoops through the kitchen doorway. Ida’s ample figure was stuffed into a black nankeen flounced skirt and matching Zouave-style jacket.

  “I’m afraid we’ve come on business,” Isaac explained gruffly. “Your loan payment?”

  “Would you care for coffee?” Rachel asked. She’d as soon serve them sour buttermilk, but they would be her child’s grandparents, and she tried not to let her anger show.

  “No coffee for me,” Ida said with a sniff. “My digestion is delicate.”

  “Nor me.” Isaac’s gaunt features hardened. “As I said, this is not a social call. It’s been several months since we’ve seen any good-faith effort from you.”

  Rachel’s stomach flip-flopped as her mother-in-law’s cloyingly sweet rose perfume filled the kitchen. Overhead, near the ceiling, a paper wasp buzzed. Rachel’s palms grew moist, and she wanted to sit down. She had to get rid of Ida and Isaac as soon as possible, but she couldn’t give them the slightest reason to suspect that she was hiding anything.

  If Chance should make a sound…

  Rachel forced down her nausea. “I intended to come to see you the next time I took butter and eggs to the store.”

  “It is most inconvenient that we should have to come out here and demand what was promised,” Ida fussed.

  Trying to maintain her composure, Rachel went to the cupboard and took down a cracked teapot from the top shelf. “I do have some money to give you,” she said as she poured the change onto the table. “I have six dollars today, and I’ll have more for you after I collect for last month’s crab soup at—”

  “Six dollars?” Ida cried. “Six dollars is not what you owe. Your loan is shockingly late, and you’ll never get a crop in this year. Every month you fall deeper and deeper into debt.”

  “I will get a crop,” Rachel insisted. “And I intend to keep current on what James borrowed from you.”

  “James would expect you to pay his debts.”

  “And I will. I just need some time.” The wasp swooped lower over Ida’s bonnet, and Rachel found herself wishing it would sting her mother-in-law.

  Ida shook her head. “Didn’t I tell you that she’d have excuses, Mr. Irons? I think we should take the cow. Rachel doesn’t need a cow.”

  Fury flared in Rachel’s chest. “You’re not taking my cow!”

  “Very well.” Isaac scooped the coins off the table and deposited them in an inner pocket of his coat. “Since you’ve decided to be difficult. I really don’t want to take this matter into court, but those who borrow money should be prepared to—”

  “Wait.” Another moment and she’d be sick all over Ida’s new kid shoes, Rachel thought. She had to get the two of them out of her house at once.

  “It’s for your own good,” Ida said. “Debt is—”

  “No, listen to me,” Rachel argued. “I have something that should satisfy you. Grandfather Moore’s mantel clock. It was made in London and it keeps perfect time.”

  “Another clock?” Ida wrinkled her long nose. “I don’t know, Mr. Irons. Do we need another—”

  “You could sell it,” Rachel said. “If you prefer, I’ll take the clock to the general store and see if Mr.—”

  “No, no need. We’ll accept your offer, daughter,” Isaac said. “I can use the clock in my office. But it must be understood that this is only in lieu of past payments. Next month I will expect the full—”

  “August,” Rachel flung back at him. “The price of the clock should compensate you until then. It is a good clock, and worth twice that amount. Surely by August James’s army pay should be straightened out.”

  “I warn you,” Ida said. “I’ll not stand by and see James’s child raised in poverty. Mr. Irons and I are fully prepared to—”

  “To what? Care for me and my child? I think not. Rachel’s Choice is my home, and shall be home to James’s child. I need your patience until my financial matters are straightened out, nothing more.”

  “Patience wears thin,” Isaac said. “Mrs. Irons?”

  “Yes, Isaac. It’s clear that we aren’t welcome in our dear son’s home. If he were here, it would be—”

  “Where is this clock?” Isaac demanded, interrupting his wife.

  “In the parlor.” Rachel hurried toward the open door. “I’ll fetch it for you.”

  “If you change your mind about the cow, let us know,” Isaac said. “I have a buyer who will pay cash.”

  “My cow is not leaving this farm.”

  “You’re an obstinate young woman,” Ida declared. “Disrespectful to boot.”

  “Am I?” Rachel asked. “Well, best you get back into your yellow-wheeled buggy and drive yourself off my farm—before I forget who you are and set my dogs on you both!”

  “It may not be your farm long,” Isaac warned. “If you don’t meet your payments, I will foreclose.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Rachel replied. “But for now, this is still my property. There’s the door. I’m sorry you can’t stay longer, but if you do, I’ll say something we’ll all regret.”

  Rachel stood outside until the buggy vanished down the lane, and then she went behind the house and was quietly sick.

  “Damn them,” she whispered.

  James’s parents hadn’t believed a part-Indian bastard good enough for their only child, but James had cared for that o
pinion as much as he’d cared for long Sunday sermons. He’d defied them and driven Rachel to Dover in a borrowed rig and married her the day he turned of age.

  Rachel’s eyes stung, but she blinked back the welling tears. She would not cry, and she’d not let her prisoner know that her in-laws’ visit had upset her so.

  She drew water from the well, washed the sour taste from her mouth, and then splashed water on her face.

  “You can come out now,” she called to Chance as she entered the kitchen. “They’re gone.” She opened the stair passage door.

  “Nice people,” he said.

  “My husband’s parents are …” She looked into his clear blue eyes and searched for the right word. “Difficult.”

  “I can see that.” Chance settled gingerly onto the lumpy mattress.

  Rachel knew that he was still weak from loss of blood and his ordeal in the bay, but every day that he remained a patient was one day longer before she got her corn planted. Time was fast running out. Once, when the season was wet, she could remember her grandfather planting in mid-June, but they never harvested a full crop in the fall. The corn hadn’t had time to mature, and they’d barely had enough fodder to last the winter. June would be too late for her, too late to make enough money to pay her father-in-law what she owed. And hiding Chance from the soldiers would have been a useless effort.

  The wasp that had circled the room earlier lit on Chance’s shoulder. He swung at it, and it stung him.

  “Damn!” he shouted, knocking the insect to the floor and stomping on it. “I hate wasps.”

  “They must be male,” Rachel replied, “since they’re always looking for a fight.” She took down a container of baking soda from a shelf near the stove. “Let me put something on that to take away the sting.” Pouring a little into her hand, she mixed it with a dribble of water to make a paste. “It’s only a wasp bite. No need to make a fuss over it.”

  “I’m not making a fuss,” he protested.

  “Hold still.” She pushed back his sleeve and saw a tiny black stinger embedded in the skin. “Stop wiggling.” She leaned down and drew out the remainder of the wasp and proceeded to apply the soothing paste to the swelling. “He got you good.”