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"Set that tray in the kitchen," Nell said. "You can finish in the morning."

  Awash with relief, Mariah left. After going to the kitchen, she slipped out the back, crossing the dooryard to the bungalow she shared with Gideon. As she stepped into the cool night air, gulping it into her lungs, Mariah found she was shaking. She leaned against the house, hugging herself, rubbing her palms up and down her upper arms.

  Mr. Adair, Nell had called him. That name was like a small needle sticking painfully into her side. She wondered what relation the handsome, drunken man in the house bore to Luke. Brothers, probably, although she saw no resemblance in the two. The fair-haired man within was older, with tiny fans beside his eyes and lines of hardness about his mouth that made her afraid.

  Mariah drew a shaky breath. The predatory look in those glittering blue eyes, the promise of brutality she heard in his voice when he discovered she was Indian… A man like that could hate awful hard.

  Shuddering, she started across the yard. A chorus of crickets rose up, filling her ears. Mariah had almost reached the bungalow when an arm as strong as a steel band hooked around her from behind, sealing her windpipe.

  The reek of whiskey preceded a soft whisper in her ear.

  "It's me, little squaw."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Luke was grateful when Roarke approached him from across the Beasleys' ballroom. Lyla Jessup's desperation to get him to marry her was growing day by day. Tonight she'd boldly extracted him from a comradely discussion of farming techniques and drawn him to the dance floor.

  Luke hated dancing. He didn't even like women, not the ones like Lyla. He found their chatter annoying, their laughter forced and artificial. Seeing no use for them, he was never more than distantly polite. Unfortunately, this elusive quality drew women to him like mindless moths to a glowing candle.

  Hannah Redwine, who never appeared at these social gatherings, was the one exception to Luke's dispassionate attitude. Two years ago he'd plowed a firebreak around the widow's farm and, with neighborliness rather than passion, had become her lover.

  She was ten years his senior, alone in the world, with a no-nonsense way about her that appealed to Luke's practical nature. She'd welcomed him into her life with the ease of a scratch on the back. Temporary, but welcome. That suited Luke just fine. There were no disappointments because there were no commitments.

  Unexpectedly, another image pushed its way into Luke's mind. Eyes of blue, stark against light copper skin, a proud, determined chin… He shook his head. Where the hell had that come from?

  His father spared him from having to probe his thoughts. His face grim, Roarke took Luke by the arm and steered him out onto the verandah with an apologetic smile at Lyla Jessup.

  "Hance has gotten himself into a bit of a scrape," Roarke said.

  Luke frowned. "I thought he left hours ago."

  "Turns out Farley Caddick's nose is broken. His father vowed to send the sheriff after him."

  Luke couldn't fault the Caddicks for that. Although he suspected Hance had been provoked, there was no denying that he'd acted out of turn in smashing Farley's nose. Luke's first impulse was to let the Caddicks have their petty revenge in sending Hance to jail for a day or two to cool his heels.

  But he knew better than to say as much to Roarke. His parents had always gone out of their way to smooth things over for Hance. Although Roarke and Genevieve never spoke of it, they were afraid of losing Hance.

  "He's probably already left town," Luke ventured.

  "We have to be sure," Roarke insisted. "Caddick is mighty tight with Judge Ormsby. Things could go badly." Seeing his son's hesitation, Roarke put out a hand. "Luke. He's your brother."

  Luke expelled his breath with a soft hiss. He'd been getting Hance out of scrapes since boyhood, performing the chores he neglected, never revealing to the parson that Hance was the one who tossed bombshell acorns into the schoolroom fire, turning aside one girl's inquiries when Hance was out with another… Luke strained against resentment. It was always he who did the covering up, like a harrow over a rutted field.

  Of course, there was no one else to do it. Israel was too righteous; he'd see to it that Hance faced up to the error of his ways. Sarah was too young and silly to be any help at all. Only Luke possessed the loyalty, however reluctant, to help Hance.

  "I'll go," he said at last, brushing past his father.

  Luke's mood darkened more with each successive tavern and gaming hall he visited. Yes, the barkeep remembered Hance; he'd stumbled out, cussing and reeling, a while ago. Finally, at the Sheaf of Wheat, a gambler jerked his head.

  "Try Miss Nellie's. The fella wasn't good for much, but I heard him mumble something about that place."

  Luke wasn't inclined to pursue the suggestion. Hance was not one to pay for something given freely by any number of girls.

  But he'd exhausted all the other possibilities. Feeling weary and irritated, he trudged down Water Street and stopped in front of a two-story white house. Lamplight filtered through a fringe of chintz curtains, and piano music wafted out on the scented breeze, accompanied by low conversation and rippling laughter.

  Luke let himself in the picket gate, shaking his head. He didn't much care for Nell Wingfield's girls, with their overblown looks and too-knowing ways. He'd never liked the idea that Mariah Parker worked here.

  A scream rent the air, freezing Luke at the bottom of the porch steps. Then he thundered into action, rounding the house to the dooryard in back. In the scant light of a clouded-over moon, Luke discerned two figures locked in an embrace some yards away. The man had his hand buried in the woman's hair. He yanked her head back sharply and leaned forward to kiss her.

  Luke started to turn away. It didn't surprise him that some of Nell's patrons treated women roughly; it wasn't any of his business if that's what Nell—

  The woman screamed again, a ragged, desperate sound followed by the tearing noise of fabric being rent. Still Luke didn't move toward them. But then the woman began sob-bing, and he heard the man curse, his words slurred by drink.

  "Injun bitch! I liked you better when you were fighting me."

  An icy hand took hold of Luke's heart and squeezed. His brain screamed a denial as he tore across the yard. He grabbed Hance by the shoulders and flung him roughly to the ground.

  He dragged his gaze to Mariah, taking in her wide, frightened eyes, lips that were battered and swollen by Hance's mouth. She clutched convulsively at the bodice of her dress but not before Luke caught a glimpse of the flesh exposed by Hance's tearing.

  Rage rocketed through Luke. Without pausing to think, he leaped onto Hance, pulling him up by the shirt front.

  "Get up, damn you!" Luke ordered, hearing his voice shake with fury.

  Hance righted himself and swayed a little, grinning. "What's up, little brother?" he slurred mildly.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  Hance shrugged. "Just havin' a li'l fun with the squaw here. Now, why don't you go on back home and leave us be? She was just startin' to enjoy herself."

  Luke glanced over at Mariah, wondering if he'd been mistaken. Hance was as handsome as the devil. Maybe she was no different from the others, maybe she…

  But she was different. Still clutching her dress, she stared at Hance with a mixture of terror and revulsion. Luke placed himself between her and Hance, who laughed.

  "Come on now, you're not gonna defend that bit of Injun trash, are you, little brother? It's not like she hasn't had her fun before. I've heard redskins like it a lot—"

  "Just get the hell out of here, Hance. Caddick's sent the sheriff after you."

  Hance's face grew grim as the unpleasantness of the scene at the party came back at him. But he was too drunk for caution.

  "Maybe I ought to get out of here," he agreed. Luke dropped his fists, and Hance seized the opportunity to shove him aside, reaching for Mariah. "Just as soon as I settle things with the little squaw," he added, yanking Mariah's hands away from her bosom.

&
nbsp; "You son of a bitch," Luke snapped, and rage built within him again, more intense than before. He took a sort of grim satisfaction in the feel of his fist burying itself in Hance's midsection. He'd never hit his brother before. All the force of years of frustration added impetus to the blow.

  Hance stumbled back, his breath snatched away. He gasped for air and then growled, "Quite a punch, little brother. If I didn't know you hated Injuns like sin, I'd think you wanted her for yourself." He swung out in an ill-aimed blow that clipped Luke's jaw, less painful than it was irritating.

  Luke hurled Hance against the house. Then he lost track of how many times he struck that handsome, laughing face. He knew only that he was punching his knuckles raw on his brother.

  Only Mariah's voice, taut with alarm, finally penetrated his blinding rage.

  "Luke. Luke, stop. You'll kill him."

  His hands fell to his sides. Hance slithered to the ground with a moan. Luke felt rivulets of sweat crawling down his neck, down his arms, stinging where his knuckles had been laid open. He raised his eyes to Mariah, feeling a new focus for his anger.

  "Isn't that what you wanted?" he demanded.

  She regarded him steadily. "It's not what you want, Luke."

  They stood for a long moment, eyes locked, both breathing heavily. Luke tried to blame Mariah. He wanted to believe she was the reason he'd attacked Hance. But there was more to it than that. Much more.

  Nell Wingfield appeared in the yard, taking in the scene with a swift glance. "Should've known he wouldn't leave peaceably," she remarked. Hance began to moan softly. She shook her head. "I doubt he'll mend his ways, though, Luke. What's bred in the bone can't be beaten out of him."

  Luke looked at her sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Nell shrugged. "Some other time, Luke. Just get him out of here." She disappeared into the house.

  Mariah turned away. "I'll get some things to clean him up."

  She walked a few steps, then turned again.

  "Luke."

  "What is it, Mariah?"

  "Thank you, Luke."

  Luke didn't knock on the door but lifted the latch quietly and let himself in. The room was swathed in darkness, but Luke knew his way around, skirting the pine trestle table, setting his hat down on the precious, lovingly oiled spinet. The warm, familiar smells of baked goods and lye soap lingered in the air, mingling with wood smoke from the low-glowing potbellied stove in the middle of the room.

  Luke slipped through a partition to the bedroom, rounding a highboy and lowering himself to the bedside. Unerringly, his hand found a familiar, softly rounded shoulder.

  "Hannah," he whispered. "Hannah, it's me."

  She stirred to wakefulness. "Luke." He could hear the smile in her voice.

  "I know it's late, Hannah—"

  "You know I never mind that, honey." Her hand was warm on his chest.

  "I need your help, Hannah. I've got Hance outside." Briefly, he sketched out what had happened at the party.

  He brought Hannah her wrapper from a hook by the door and lighted a lamp. They went outside, and Luke brought a groggy and drunken Hance down from his horse. Roused from a besotted half sleep, he swung his fist at Luke with a curse.

  "Cut that out," Luke said irritably, dragging him inside. In minutes he was sprawled on the settee, muttering.

  Hannah brought a red cedar bucket and some cloths and daubed gingerly at his cheek. The gash was a short split high on the cheekbone, puckered by bruises at the edges. Hannah glanced up at Luke.

  "I thought you said he was doing the hitting. Looks like Farley managed to get a few punches in."

  Luke winced as Hannah applied bloodroot liniment to the cut. He'd felt its sting plenty of times on various boyhood wounds.

  "It wasn't Farley," he admitted quietly. Self-loathing welled in his throat.

  Hannah frowned. "Then who—?"

  Hance had come unpleasantly awake at the balm treatment. He lifted one corner of his mouth at Hannah.

  "My own baby brother's handiwork," he said. His eyes, crystalline despite drink and injuries, glittered at Luke. "Right handy job you did, little brother, defending the virtue of an Injun whore." Hance then looked at Hannah, savoring her shocked expression. "That's what he did, all right. I was just having a little fun with the squaw—Shaw-nee trash, I guess she was—when Luke took it into his head to rescue her."

  Luke tensed. "That's enough, Hance. It's over."

  Hance ignored him. "What got you so fired up anyway, little brother? Have you and the squaw got an amour going on the side, or—"

  "I said that's enough," Luke hissed through gritted teeth.

  Hance chuckled and accepted a mug of cider from Hannah. "Yes, sir," he said softly into the mug, "never thought I'd see the day an Adair got soft over an Injun."

  Luke turned sharply away, gripping the edge of the pine table so hard his knuckles whitened. Slowly, the hard edge of rage ebbed away, leaving only the dull ache of anger in its wake.

  When Luke turned back to the room, he saw Hannah watching him. Her eyes searched his, and then she gave him a wistful smile of understanding. Her woman's wisdom had already told her what Luke himself didn't know.

  The clock's halfpenny moon crept into view as the Adairs sat together on a soft autumn evening. Roarke had designed the room to open out onto the porch, with a view of the verdant acres of their farm.

  Soft, metallic chimes, ringing the hour of eight, stirred Luke to his feet. He went to the door and stared out at the land, the sturdy new barn and outbuildings, the granary packed to its walls with corn. He was unconscious of the restless tension in his shoulders and the fist that pressed hard against the door frame.

  Genevieve glanced at Roarke and fitted her hand into his. Then she turned her eyes to Luke. "They're saying the Adair men aren't the marrying kind," she mused.

  Luke wandered out to the porch and sat on the step, drawing up one knee and resting his elbow on it. The ripe corn stirred in the twilight breeze.

  "I reckon I've got enough work to do with the farm," he told his mother. "If I had a wife she'd feel cheated out of my time."

  Roarke and Genevieve exchanged a look of amusement. "You don't work any harder than your father did when we were first married. I never felt cheated." She laid her head in the hollow of Roarke's neck in a way that bespoke years of familiarity.

  Luke shook his head as he lit a cheroot. "You're different, Mama. You worked right alongside Pa every day. Lexington girls aren't like that. They all want pretty houses and slaves to do their work for them, to raise their children for them, even."

  "Those are girls, son. What about the Widow Redwine?"

  Luke exhaled a cloud of smoke and gave her a keen look. "What about her?"

  Genevieve laughed, that sweet, rippling sound that was so much a part of her. "It's not much of a secret, son, that you've been keeping company with her for over two years. Haven't you ever thought of marrying her?"

  Luke had, more than once. But he and Hannah had a comfortable relationship. Too comfortable. If they lived together day in and day out, he knew it would begin to grate on him. Without quite knowing what it was, he wanted more from a marriage.

  "Hannah and I have an understanding," he said. And he believed it. She'd never made any demands on him, never asked for a thing.

  Genevieve felt a sudden wave of compassion for the widow. Luke truly believed that Hannah wanted nothing from him, and the woman was wise enough to allow him to think as much. But Genevieve knew better. She'd seen Hance staring at Luke in church, had recognized the stark look of unfulfilled longing, a look she herself had worn during the years of wanting Roarke and denying him. Hannah loved Luke desperately and was not about to make the mistake of driving him away by asking for a commitment.

  Roarke glanced at the clock. "Well, we're not getting any younger, son," he said, only half-joking. "We'd love to have some grandchildren to spoil."

  Luke shrugged. "Sarah's the prettiest little thing in Lexingto
n right now. In a few years she'll probably be happy to oblige. Or Israel—"

  "Israel doesn't take his nose out of his books long enough to tell whether it's night or day," Genevieve explained. "And Sarah may think she's ready, but she's still a child."

  "Nathaniel Caddick doesn't seem to think she's a child." Luke studied his parents' reactions closely. The youngest Caddick had been courting Sarah for a few months, as taken by her pink-and-white prettiness as she was by his family's fabulous wealth. The Caddicks were different from the Adairs, acquiring money and slaves at breakneck speed, determined to forget their pennyroyal farming heritage. Luke suspected his parents didn't quite approve of their life style. They had created a tobacco and cotton dynasty, with a stable of house slaves that occupied what amounted to a small village.

  "I suppose you're right," Genevieve sighed. "But it's you we've always been able to depend on, Luke. Israel and Sarah are so wrapped up in themselves… I once had hopes for Hance and Ivy Attwater, but Hance has been off in Louisville ever since the trouble with Farley Caddick."

  Luke's shoulders tensed beneath the unseen burden of his parents' dependence. Trying hard not to feel resentment, he walked down into the yard, to concentrate instead on the coming harvest. Crews would be arriving soon to bring in the corn. And then, Luke thought with relief, he'd be free to lose himself in the wilderness for a time.

  He didn't mind thinking about tomorrow. It was the years to come that he avoided considering. The weight of his parents' expectations settled on him, pressing, smothering. All his life he'd worked hard to live up to an ideal of steadfast responsibility.

  Luke ground out the cheroot with a savage twist of his boot heel. Just once, he thought, just once he'd like to do something reckless, something totally out of character. Something that went against everything he tried so hard to be.

  Mariah walked across the square to the library, her feet moving eagerly beneath her calico skirts. Her visits to the musty-smelling reading room gave her a hunger for learning that filled her mentor, Abraham Quick, with quiet, indulgent joy.