Embrace the Day Read online

  "Thank God for this one," Roarke chuckled. "She's the prettiest Adair yet, aside from her mother, of course."

  "What's that you got there?" said a voice from behind them. "Another towhead?"

  Roarke and Genevieve turned quickly, faces lighting up. "Hance!" Genevieve cried, and flung herself against him. "Hance, oh, Lord, but we've missed you!" Seeing him wince, she pulled back, staring in consternation at the bandages that bound his upper arm.

  Noticing her concern, Hance said quickly, "A scratch, Mama. I'm fine."

  "Welcome home, son," Roarke said quietly. He extended his hand, and Hance clasped it. Roarke looked at him, suddenly struck by the absurd formality of their greeting. He gave Hance's hand a jerk, bringing the young man into his arms in a huge bear hug with the baby between, giggling.

  "Say hello to your sister, son," Roarke said. "This is Sarah Ann Adair."

  The baby clung shyly to Roarke, but her wide blue eyes remained fastened on the handsome, slightly haggard-looking man who was grinning at her with genuine pleasure.

  "Come inside," Genevieve invited, linking her arm through his. She felt him stiffen at her touch. "Hance?"

  He was quick to soothe the hurt that sprang to her eyes. "Sorry, Mama. I guess the arm's still healing."

  "What happened?"

  His smile faded, and he looked over at Roarke. "I was shot in a duel."

  "A duel? You were dueling? Good God, Hance, whatever possessed you to…"

  He looked suddenly weary, his eyes haunted by self-loathing. "I don't know, Pa," he said with painful honesty. "I never seem to know. It's so easy for me to see the wrong in what I've done. But only after it's done."

  Hance raised his eyes to Roarke. "I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of, Pa."

  Supper was a quiet affair, attended by more Adairs than had shared a table in a long time. Israel badgered Hance for tales of his exploits in the capital, but Hance had little to say, responding distractedly. He'd closed that chapter of his life just as the wound on his upper arm had closed. All that remained was a long, livid scar and the persistent dull ache of a bone that had no hope of healing properly.

  Hance barely touched the roasted meat and steaming bowls of fresh vegetables. He walked out onto the porch, still reeling from the news of what had befallen Rebecca. His hellfire-and-damnation psalm-singing little sister. He tried to picture her in the hands of her Shawnee captors. It was too obscene to imagine.

  The baby was put to bed, and Luke and Israel went to settle the horses in for the night. Watching Luke, Hance had the sensation of watching a stranger. He handled the horses expertly, joking with Israel as he worked. Hance sighed. He'd never really known his brother; he'd never really tried.

  Only now did Hance feel that loss. Israel looked up to Luke in a way Luke had never regarded Hance. But, of course, Luke didn't need an older brother. He'd already surpassed Hance in height and exuded a confidence rare in men twice his age.

  "I'll be leaving soon," Hance said to Roarke and Gene, who had joined him on the porch.

  She looked at him curiously. "But why, Hance? You've just come back to us."

  "I can't stay here."

  "Of course you can, son. This is your home."

  He brought his fist down on the porch rail so hard that the wood creaked.

  "Listen to me, damn it! I have to leave."

  "Hance—"

  "You didn't ask me about the duel, but I expect you'll find out soon enough." His voice was brittle as he tried to mask his inner turmoil. Behind them the mantel clock ticked loudly in the keeping room.

  "I killed the man who shot me."

  Genevieve was reminded of the day Roarke had set off into the wilderness. With a leaden heart she made similar preparations for Hance. A single change of clothing, the barest implements of hygiene, which included only a comb, a razor, and a cake of soap. A few cooking utensils, sewing things, and a tool or two were stashed in his saddlebag.

  Mimi Lightfoot, putting on a stolid front, although she was shocked by the fate of the boy she'd once nursed at her breast, prepared the food—plenty of hardtack and jerked meat, coffee and dried beans and a supply of sugar. Luke and Roarke saw to the most important provisions—a long rifle, polished to a dull gleam, a bag of shot, flints, a ramrod, a plain brass patch box, and a supply of powder wrapped in oilcloth to protect it from wet weather. Hance was also equipped with a finely honed hunting knife and the tomahawk Roarke had carried during the war.

  The family stood in the yard, silent and tense. Hance looked at them, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a self-deprecating grin. He spread his arms, showing off the fringed hunting shirt and buckskin leggings Mimi had made him.

  Roarke chuckled. "Where's our young dandy now?"

  Hance sent him a sideways glance. "I expect he'll turn up somewhere over the Blue Ridge if what I've heard of Kentucky's to be credited." He scooped up little Sarah, who'd spent the past two weeks toddling worshipfully after him. Brushing his chin across her fair hair, he sighed. "I wish I had time to know you, sweetheart, like I knew Mattie. I once promised her I'd take her to the other side of the world, but it looks like I'll be going alone." Sarah gave him a moist kiss and squirmed away to devil a barn cat that had strayed into the yard.

  Israel approached shyly. He was a little in awe of his eldest brother, whose wild ways had been spoken of with scandalized whispers in church ever since the sudden rift between Hance and Janie Carstairs. He gave Hance a Bible.

  "What's this?" Hance chuckled. "Am I to find redemption in the wilderness and mend my ways at last?"

  Israel swallowed at the sarcasm he heard in Hance's voice. "You used to read it," he said sullenly.

  "So I did, lad. What could be more exciting a yarn than the tale of Gideon overthrowing the altar at Baal?" He caught Israel's look and stopped joking. Placing the small tome in his shirt pocket, he said, "I'll read it, Israel. I promise."

  Luke sent a sharp look over his shoulder. Although Hance would probably read the book, it was doubtful he'd heed its lessons. Frowning, Luke turned his attention back to the pack saddle he was fashioning for Hance. No one had asked him to do it, but the notion had appealed to him. The result was gratifying—a sturdy fork of white oak with boards fastened to the prongs, boasting a good number of iron rings to carry straps and girths. Unsmiling, he placed it atop the horse and secured it.

  "You did a good job, little brother," Hance said.

  Luke chafed at the name Hance had taken to calling him, even though Hance said it jokingly, to point out the fact that Luke was the taller youth now.

  "My pleasure," he said, drawing a strap through the pack saddle.

  "You always were a great one for making things," Hance observed. "The only thing I'm good at making is trouble."

  Luke shuffled his feet, trying not to show the resentment that welled within him. He didn't want to feel this way about his brother, but he couldn't stop himself. For years he'd been a dutiful son, smoothing over problems that Hance carelessly left in his wake.

  Yet it was Hance the family rallied around, confused but all-forgiving. Sending him off with more money than Luke had ever seen in his life.

  His mother had tried to explain. "He needs us, Luke," she'd said in that soft, compelling way of hers. "He needs more from us than you ever did. Ah, you're a good lad; you'll be all right…"

  It was true, Luke conceded without a trace of smugness. He had a decided gift for keeping unto himself. He turned to Hance and stuck out his hand.

  "Good luck," he said simply.

  "I'll need it, Luke."

  "Stay clear of redskins."

  Hance shook his head. "I intend to be in their company constantly."

  Luke frowned. "Hance—"

  "That is, until I find Becky."

  Luke's head snapped up. "What the hell—"

  Hance grinned. "If I'm to take to the hills, I'd best do what I can for Becky."

  Suddenly, Luke understood why Hance commanded his parents' loyalty
as he did. Rakish charm and insouciance masked a true intensity of purpose that was hard to resist.

  Fishing in his pocket, Luke extracted a small folded knife, its horn handle worn smooth by use. "Take it," Luke said. "I noticed your own was rusted."

  Hance nodded. Now that they were parting, probably forever, there was no point in sustaining the prickle of mutual dislike. He gave Luke a mock salute, then turned to his parents.

  Roarke embraced him wordlessly. They'd said all there was to say earlier, late at night over cups of fruit brandy.

  "Take care of yourself," Roarke said.

  "I mean to, Pa."

  "Leave word at the Sheaf of Wheat in Lexington. We don't want to lose track of you."

  Tears poured down Genevieve's face as she hugged Hance against her.

  "I love you," she told him brokenly.

  Hance swallowed against the ache in his throat. "Goodbye, Mama."

  The sun burst from behind a cloud as he rode away. A single golden shaft streamed down over Hance as he stopped on the rise above the river road and turned to lift his arm in farewell. He looked glorious—young, strong, and golden, full of promises yet to be fulfilled. Genevieve refused to think of him as an outlaw, fleeing justice to lose himself beyond the Blue Ridge.

  Luke and Israel ran down to the end of the drive, and Mimi scooped Sarah up and took her to the house, muttering and wiping at a stray tear.

  Genevieve followed Roarke into the keeping room. The hooded clock's halfpenny moon was arcing into view within the dial, signaling the start of a new day. Absently, Roarke gave the clock a wind and then went to the window, leaning his knuckles hard on the sill.

  Genevieve stood back, watching her husband closely. His jaw was set, his eyes trained unerringly westward. Lord, how many times had she seen that look lately? That intensity, that yearning.

  Something Roarke had said to her, long ago when he'd returned from the frontier campaign, drifted into her mind. " 'Tis a beautiful country, Gennie. A paradise on earth. A man could walk a hundred miles and see nothing but nature's bounty. Why, if it weren't for this farm…"

  And later, when he'd returned from his search for Rebecca: "I knew it was hopeless after the first six months. But I stayed, Gennie. I stayed because I love the feel of Kentucky soil in my hands and because, somehow, it made me seem closer to Becky."

  Genevieve knew the restless yearning would never leave Roarke. At night sometimes he would hold her close and wonder aloud if he'd already satisfied life's demands here in Dancer's Meadow. Everything ran so smoothly on the farm. Too smoothly. Roarke, who had once been so busy and full of plans, had become an observer. He had only to watch his lands flourish and then reap the monetary rewards.

  With a wistful smile, Genevieve realized that this existence simply wasn't enough for a man like Roarke Adair. He needed a challenge, something new to revive his spirits.

  Her smile broadened suddenly to a grin. All she'd just thought of Roarke applied to her as well. And the children.

  The family simply wasn't made to sit in idleness and watch their lives go by.

  The Adairs were suited to a more challenging existence. In the early years their lives had been unpredictable, sometimes cruel, filled with upsets, surprises, and unexpected pleasures. They were a family who gained strength from adversity, who found joy in building things together.

  Building things… There was nothing left to build here, at this farm. The work had all been done.

  Genevieve drew in a shaky breath. "Roarke."

  He looked at her, frowning at the odd note in her voice.

  "Roarke, let's go to Kentucky. All of us."

  The clock's ticking disturbed Roarke's thunderstruck silence. He stared at his wife and saw eagerness in her eyes, an excitement he hadn't noticed in a long time. The look enhanced her usual soft beauty with youthful fire, which made his blood grow warm.

  "Gennie, what are you saying?"

  "Only that it's time to move on, Roarke. All we do is grow soft and fret about Becky and wonder… We don't belong here anymore. It can never be Hance's home again. What have we to hold us here but the land?" She brightened at a sudden inspiration. "We could give it to the Greenleafs. Lord knows, they need the space for all those grandchildren."

  He stood in front of her, looking almost boyish in his wonder. "Gennie… ?"

  She leaned against his chest. "I'm not ready to grow old yet, Roarke. Neither are you. Let's go to Kentucky, claim the tract of land that was awarded you for serving in the war. Let's build something new together."

  "Gennie love, could you really leave all this?" He encompassed the farm with a sweeping gesture.

  "Willingly," she replied softly.

  He opened his arms to her, and she walked into his embrace. Together they went to the window while the clock chimed quietly behind them. They were turned toward the solid, brooding wall of the Blue Ridge, but their eyes looked beyond.

  PART II

  The moonlight is the softest, in Kentucky,

  Summer days come oftest, in Kentucky,

  Friendship is the strongest,

  Love's fires glow the longest,

  Yet a wrong is always wrongest,

  In Kentucky.

  James Hilary Mulligan

  Chapter Twenty

  Licking River Valley, 1805

  Whispering Rain brought her hand over Small Thunder's mouth to still his whimpering. It had been hours since the white hunters had attacked, but she was still gripped by the fear that some of them lurked at the river-bank below, poking through the burned-out remains of the small encampment. She gathered the little boy closer and brushed her hand over his brow, murmuring words of comfort that she could not give.

  There was no comfort for either of them. Whispering Rain squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth against the impulse to keen forth her grief with a high-pitched wail, as her people had done since ancient times. It was imperative that she hold her emotions in tight rein.

  Even more pervasive than grief was the anger Whispering Rain felt. The supreme irony was that the hunters had descended upon them just when the small family had been heading peaceably into their midst, to the town called Lexington.

  They were going there at the insistence of Whispering Rain's mother, a white woman, Amy Parker had lost her youngest child to the smallpox, had watched the boy slip away in an ooze of pus and fever. Terrified for the rest of her family, she'd begged her husband to take them to Lexington. A trader had told them of a new shield against the scourge. An inoculation, the trader had called it. Something added to the blood to make it immune to the dreadful disease.

  Whispering Rain shook her head. There was no shield a Shawnee could erect against this other scourge, this frenzied hatred of whites against Indians.

  She wondered if the hunters had been aware that they'd killed one of their own. A woman whose skin was as white as theirs, who'd kept her Christian name. Amy, who had prayed and sung hymns and called her daughter Mariah Parker, doggedly teaching the girl to speak the tongue of the white man.

  Whispering Rain despised her knowledge of English now, just as she despised her appearance. Her eyes, a legacy of her mother, were the same scintillating blue of the sky, although her hair, mercifully, was as black as a raven's feather and grew straight and thick. Unfortunately, her other features bespoke her mixed heritage. Rather than the proud nose and fleshy lips of the Kispokotha Shawnee, Mariah's features were so delicate that she considered them weak. If she hadn't been a war chief's daughter, she would have been viciously ridiculed by the tribe.

  The war chief's daughter. Once so proud, always striving to overcome the taint of her white ancestry by running faster, weaving more finely, singing more sweetly than all the others. But what was she now? Her efforts to carve out her own identity mattered not at all here in this wilderness, where all her family but a small frightened boy had died.

  Coonahaw, her father, lay somewhere below in the charred rubble of the camp, his body chilled by the blast
of winter cold that swept over the steaming salt licks.

  Whispering Rain would have been among those massacred—by the gods, she almost wished she were—if it hadn't been for Small Thunder, the stocky boy of three winters who had climbed up to the caves on the bluff, then screamed when he couldn't get back down.

  His mother, Mariah's half sister, had snorted and de-clared that he should be made to climb down on his own. But Whispering Rain had been fearful. Small Thunder was teetering precariously at the top of the bluff a hundred spans above and in his panicked state might have fallen to his death.

  Whispering Rain had gone to fetch him, not knowing what her indulgence would spare her. No sooner had she reached him than a crash could be heard below. Whispering Rain had thrown herself to the rough edge of the bluff, covering Small Thunder with her body.

  From that vantage point, frozen with horror, she'd watched her family die. All of them. Faces smashed by tomahawks, bellies laid open by long knives, bodies shattered by the white man's fire-spitting metequa.

  The massacre had lasted only minutes. Whispering Rain wondered how it could have happened. The settlers in Chillicothe had assured them that no hostilities were nurtured in the area.

  With a leaden heart, Whispering Rain came to her feet. Arrows of pain shot up her left leg, and she glanced down at it, frowning. She hadn't realized she'd injured herself. A sharp jut of rock had torn into the flesh above her moccasin, laying it open. Blood oozed from the wound. She used her belt to wrap it, wincing with pain.

  Dusk was settling over the licks, creating a throbbing atmosphere of purple twilight. Whispering Rain glanced down at the boy. He had begun to shiver, and there was a bluish ring about his lips. He wouldn't last this winter night on the exposed bluff.

  "Gimewane." His teeth chattered as he spoke her name.