Rachel's Choice Read online

  He’s different from most men, she thought. He’s not selfish. He cares about pleasing me as well as himself. Somehow that added to her own excitement.

  She traced the line of his collarbone and caressed the curve of his shoulder, then trailed her fingertips across his muscular chest.

  How long they kissed and fondled each other, Rachel could not have said. But when Chance slid an exploring hand beneath her skirts, a warning went off in her head and she forced herself to pull away. “No more,” she said. “Please, no more.”

  “I’ll not force you,” he rasped. “There are other ways to—”

  “No.” Emotionally shaken, she rose unsteadily to her feet. “I know what you must think of me, and you have every right to name me slattern.”

  “Rachel …”

  She steeled herself against the need in his voice. “I don’t ask you to believe me, but I’ve never done that with anyone but James.”

  He stood up abruptly, unable to hide his disappointment or to quell the pain in his loins. “This is a dangerous game you play.”

  “I will not risk my child for the sake of slap and tickle. I told you I couldn’t … or I tried to tell you. If you thought—”

  “I thought nothing,” he answered. “I accuse you of nothing. I’d hoped …”

  She pulled up her shift and gathered it together over her breasts. “I made a mistake,” she said. “This will never happen again. Do you understand?”

  “If you say so.”

  He was hurt and she couldn’t blame him. She had allowed him to think that she’d give him what he wanted. What they both wanted, she corrected herself. She swallowed. “I’m sorry, Chance. I’ve been so lonely, and—” She turned away from him. “If you are a gentleman, you’ll not mention this again.” Swiftly she began to walk down the path toward the house.

  She reached the back door and threw it open. Lady nosed through ahead of her. How could she have been so stupid?

  But she knew how. She had only to think of Chance’s lips on her breast to go all soft and woozy inside. “Bear!” As soon as the big dog’s tail was safely inside, Rachel slammed the inner door and shot the bolt.

  She didn’t even pretend that she was locking Chance out. She knew better. She was locking herself in.

  “If it wasn’t for the baby …” she whispered.

  Would she really have let Chance make love to her? It was a question she didn’t want to answer.

  She jerked closed the curtains and went to the cookstove. A reservoir on the side of the stove held warm water, and she dipped some out into a basin. She wanted to throw herself into her bed and pull the covers over her head, but she couldn’t until she’d bathed away the day’s grime.

  What must Chance think of her?

  “What does that matter?” she grumbled aloud.

  He was a Johnny Reb. By rights, she should hate him. If she were a decent woman, she’d hate him.

  But she couldn’t.

  Carrying this babe had surely sapped her brain that she could do such a thing, she thought as she fought back tears. She needed Chance Chancellor for the strength of his back, nothing more. Women often lost their good sense in the last months of their pregnancy. Once she was safely delivered, she’d remember who she was and what Chancellor was, she promised herself.

  As sure as the sun would come up tomorrow, she’d pretend this never happened. And if she couldn’t, he’d have to go, and the farm be damned.

  “This farm and Rachel Irons be damned!” Chance kicked at a dirt clod and swore the foulest French oath he could summon up from his winter in Paris.

  The woman was impossible. She treated him as though he were a leper, then allowed him … He exhaled slowly and his mouth went dry as he thought of what liberties she’d permitted … and those he’d come close to tasting.

  She was as dangerous as a jury of Southern Baptists.

  Why? Why had she done it? And why had she let him go so far only to throw cold water on his lovemaking?

  Men had a name for women who promised everything and then withheld the prize, but in honesty he couldn’t taint Rachel with such a term. She’d been genuinely drawn to him as he was to her. Sensual, passionate … infuriating.

  What a lucky man James Irons was. Or an unlucky one. If he was alive, then his wife had betrayed him in the worst possible way. And if he wasn’t …

  If James Irons was dead, then he—Chance—was in even more jeopardy. Rachel drew him in ways that were more than physical.

  She claimed to be a married woman, the wife of a Yankee soldier—maybe even one who’d tried to kill him at Gettysburg. She was a barefoot country girl without family influence or wealth. If he’d brought her home to Chancellor Hall before the war, she would have been shunned by Richmond society and his business associates as well. And after the war … Win, lose, or draw, she’d be unwelcome in his world and as out of place as a tobacco cutter in a judge’s chambers.

  Rachel Irons, with her Indian blood, was a poor choice for a rich Catholic lawyer whose ancestors had helped to settle Jamestown. He’d have had to look high and low to find a worse match.

  He’d become so involved with Rachel and her problems that he’d put her needs ahead of Travis’s. The thought that his best friend might have survived the flying bullets and the dogs on the beach of Pea Patch Island only to die waiting for him was more than Chance wanted to face.

  He kicked another furrow of plowed ground. Travis couldn’t wait until Rachel’s crop was harvested in the autumn. He’d promised Rachel that he would help, but what of the oath he’d made to Travis? What did a man do when one oath canceled out another? Or when a beautiful, courageous woman had risked her own freedom to save his life?

  And how could he live with himself if he didn’t rejoin his company—if he hid out here, safe from the war, while his comrades were facing musket balls and shot?

  He had no choice. He was a soldier, and he had a duty to complete his mission at all cost. He’d stay a few days more, a week or two at most, until his shoulder was better, and then he’d steal Rachel’s skiff and sail back to the prison to rescue Travis. Hell, once he killed Coblentz, he’d likely never come out of Fort Delaware alive himself.

  Even if he did love Rachel—which he sure as hell didn’t—he had no future to offer her. Getting away from her was the best thing he could do to insure her safety and that of her baby.

  He needn’t worry about Rachel; she’d been none the worse for helping him. And she had friends. Hadn’t they come and planted her crops for her? She could ask them to help work her fields, or she could let her father-in-law take her land. What did it matter to him? Delaware wasn’t part of the Confederacy, and she wasn’t his concern.

  Rachel would be disappointed to lose her free labor, but that was his own fault for being so gullible. Any soldier would do the same thing.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Chapter 9

  Chance tossed and turned on his mattress. Sleep would not come no matter how hard he tried. Travis’s face hovered behind Chance’s closed eyelids, and his friend’s last words echoed in Chance’s head.

  “It’s my turn to play hero,” Travis had said. “Leave me.”

  And he had. He’d swum away from the accursed swamp that was Pea Patch Island and saved his own skin. What would he tell Mary? How could he face Travis’s wife and tell her that Chance was cowardly enough to abandon her husband?

  Oh, Mary, Mary … Once, Chance had thought she would be his wife and the mother of his future children. Freckle-faced Mary, with her laughing green eyes and quick wit, was just the sort of woman his mother had expected him to wed.

  Mary’s great-grandfather had been a war hero, and her father owned prime real estate in Richmond as well as hundreds of acres of rich farmland. Chance and Travis had known Mary since they all were babes in arms. She was pretty, Catholic, and independently wealthy.

  Yes, Mary was the perfect woman for him. But he’d dallied a bit too long with the scarlet ladies, and he’d p
ut off formalizing a relationship he’d taken for granted. And when Travis confided that he intended to ask Mary for her hand, Chance had bitten back his disappointment, gotten drunk, and wished them both well. And he’d stood up as Travis’s best man.

  Over the years his infatuation with Mary had softened to friendship, but that wouldn’t make his task any easier. She always had been able to see through his excuses.

  Exasperated, Chance rose and lit the kerosene lantern and dressed. His shoulder was still stiff and painful, but the flesh around the wound showed no signs of mortification. There was no reason for him to remain here for a few more days. That was putting off the inevitable. A day could make all the difference in whether Travis lived or died. He could take food from the kitchen and leave tonight. Rachel’s farm was in as good shape as it was likely to be, and he was no farmhand.

  He would need provisions, but there was food aplenty in buckets in the well where Rachel had hung the perishables to keep them cool. He’d take enough to last him for a day. There was no need to leave her a note; she’d likely have the soldiers on his trail soon enough when she found that he was gone. And she should consider herself lucky he was taking her boat instead of the horse.

  Since Rachel took the dogs into the house with her at night, he didn’t think the animals would hear him in the yard. After what had nearly happened between them, he wanted to avoid a confrontation with Rachel. If that made him a coward, so be it. He’d be doing her a favor to get out of her life as quickly as possible.

  Chance yanked on the boots she’d provided, opened the door leading into the barn, and stopped short.

  Rachel stood just outside in bare feet and a lacy white nightgown. Masses of dark hair hung loose around her shoulders, and her cheeks were ghostly pale. “Chance!” she cried, wide-eyed and frightened. “Help me!”

  Then he saw the wet spots staining the hem of her garment. “What is it?” he demanded. “What happened?”

  “I—” She gasped and doubled over, clasping her hands to her swollen abdomen. “My water’s broken,” she said. “It’s the baby—come too soon.”

  Chance’s skin prickled. “Rachel?”

  He set the lantern on the floor and managed to catch her as she crumbled. Pain knifed through his injured shoulder as he swept her into his arms.

  “Help me,” she said between clenched teeth.

  “I’ll fetch a doctor,” he offered as he carried her in to his bed.

  “No!” She gripped his forearm so tightly that her nails dug into his flesh. “No!”

  The spasm eased and she sucked in a jagged breath. She fell back against the pillow and licked her bottom lip where she’d bitten it. A thin trickle of blood ran down her chin, and he wiped it away with his finger.

  “Rachel, I can’t do this,” he said in a rush. “I don’t know anything about delivering babies. Hell, I’ve never even seen a newborn.”

  She closed her eyes, and he noticed again how thick and dark her lashes were against her cheeks. As black as a crow’s wing, he thought.

  His shoulder wound throbbed, but he would have welcomed the hurting and more if he could have taken her pain. His voice grew husky with concern. “I’ll go for help.”

  “No, you can’t. They’ll arrest you if you do.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You need—”

  “No time,” she answered. “The baby’s coming. You can’t … can’t leave me alone.”

  Raw fear skittered down his spine. “I’m not the person to do this.”

  “You’re all I’ve got.” She fixed him with a pleading stare. “If you leave me, the baby will come and I won’t be able to—” Another contraction seized her, and she covered her mouth with her hand to keep from crying out.

  Chance waited helplessly for what seemed an eternity until the spasm passed. And when it finally did, he asked her, “What shall I do?”

  She took several deep, slow breaths. “Go to the house—”

  “Shall I carry you there?”

  Rachel shook her head. “No. Don’t move me. I don’t want to hurt the baby. Go inside and fetch clean sheets and towels. You’ll need hot water. In the reservoir in the stove. Roll up your sleeves and wash with lye soap. Wash harder than you’ve ever done before, then pour liniment over your hands. There’s some on the tack-room shelf.”

  “Yes. I know where it is.” His knees felt weak.

  “Go into the parlor,” she said. “There’s a black bag beside the stove. It’s …” Her eyes glazed with pain and she gritted her teeth. “Go! Damn it!”

  Chance ran.

  She’s going to die, he thought. Mother of God, I’m going to foul this up, and she’s going to die in front of my eyes.

  It was like looking into a black abyss. One minute he was out the door and on his way back to rescue Travis, and the next, nothing mattered but saving the woman that lay in agony in the barn.

  Nothing.

  Rachel Irons had suddenly and irrevocably become his concern. He had to help her, but he didn’t have the slightest inkling how. And he knew if he failed, his life would lose something precious.

  When he came back with what she had asked for, he found Rachel on her feet, leaning against the wall. “What are you doing out of bed?” he demanded, reaching for her arm.

  “Are your hands clean?” she asked. “Don’t touch the floor, or you have to wash all over again.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Cora Wright told me. Her mothers don’t die of childbed fever like so many other women do. She says everything must be clean—sheets, her hands, the patient. I don’t know why it works, but it does. And she makes her mothers get up and walk within twenty-four hours. She claims it drains away the bad spirits.”

  “You’re not an ignorant woman, Rachel. How can you talk such nonsense when you’re having a baby? Bad spirits? Listen to yourself.”

  She walked unsteadily back to the bunk and sat down. Chance saw that the bottom half of her nightgown was soaked in fluid. She was breathing in short, regular pants.

  “My grandmother was … was Lenape. Indian. I told you that. She said that Cora was right, that—agggh.” She pressed her abdomen and a shudder ran through her body.

  Chance slipped his hand into hers, and Rachel squeezed until he thought his bones would break.

  When she could speak again, she whispered hoarsely, “When the baby starts to come out, you’ll see the head. Take it in your hands, but don’t pull. Just support and guide it. It will be slippery. Don’t drop it when it slides out.”

  “Jesus,” he whispered.

  “As soon as it’s here,” she continued painfully, “clean out the mouth so that it can breathe. There’s silk thread in my bag. Knot the cord in two places, close to the baby’s navel. Then cut between the knots. There are scissors in the bag. Pour alcohol over them first. In the blue bottle, marked ‘Dr. Jay’s Laxative Bitters,’ is corn whiskey. Use that.”

  “Laxative Bitters,” he repeated dumbly. Once, in the Battle of Williamsburg, he and Travis had dismounted to save Joseph Sutherland, another man in their company who’d had his horse shot from under him. Sutherland’s right leg was shattered, and Travis had tied a leather strap around Sutherland’s thigh to stem the loss of blood until they could get him to a physician. Chance hadn’t felt as helpless then as he did now.

  “Keep the baby warm,” she insisted. “I think it’s early. It may be very small. Don’t let it take a chill.”

  “Can’t I go for this Cora Wright?” he insisted. “I can take the horse and bring her back—”

  “No,” Rachel repeated. “I told you. It’s coming too fast. If I pass out, I can’t help the baby. He—she could suffocate. You have to be sure it can breathe. I can’t lose James’s baby.”

  “Why the hell isn’t James here to do this for you?” Chance demanded. “He should be doing this, not me.”

  “Because he’s dead. That’s why! You killed him! He’s dead and buried in Barratt’s Chapel.”

  �
��Me?” He stared down at her as if she’d lost her mind. “How could I kill him? I didn’t even know him.”

  “You were at Gettysburg, weren’t you?” she accused. “James was shot at—oh, oh, my …”

  Her face turned a deep red as the labor contractions intensified. They were coming closer together, and each one seemed stronger. Even Chance knew that meant birth was imminent.

  His stomach churned. He’d never considered himself to have much of a yellow streak, but right now he felt like running.

  “I didn’t kill your husband.” He dipped the corner of a towel in the basin of water and wiped the perspiration from her face. “I didn’t kill anybody at Gettysburg. Not unless you count my horse.”

  This time when the pain passed, she sat up and clutched his good arm. “I’ve got to walk,” she insisted. “Help me walk.”

  “You stay right where you are.” Having babies must make women crazy, he thought. Crazier than they already were.

  “I need to walk!”

  “You told me not to touch you.”

  She thumped him with her fist. “Will you help me or not? If not, get out of my way.”

  “All right, all right. But don’t blame me if your babe falls on the floor.” He supported her as she got to her feet and began to circle the small room.

  “I thought women were supposed to be sweet and motherly when they were giving birth,” he said. “You’re as testy as a judge with hemorrhoids.” Sweet Mary. Had he actually said that to a lady? He must be as demented as she was to forget his manners and speak so. “Forgive me, Rachel,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “What? Lied to me about murdering my husband?” She leaned against him and caught her breath.

  “I told you, I didn’t fire my pistol that day. It’s true we charged a Union position, but I never got close enough to–”

  “Why should I believe a traitorous rebel dog? Worse than a hound dog—a Virginia lawyer.”

  “And who told me that her husband was alive? Alive and coming home? That wasn’t exactly the truth, was it, lady?”