Califia's Daughters (14 page)

Culum, head lowered, studied her through his eyebrows for a long moment, and then trotted off dutifully down the hill.

“You know, Kirsten found me a book from Before about how they used dogs as a kind of therapy when they were dealing with criminals or sick people or angry kids. They found that these damaged people would respond to dogs when they wouldn't to other humans, because the dogs seemed to be so undemanding. Dogs wouldn't insist that the person shape up but would just accept them as they were.” Isaac was somewhat surprised to see Culum returning with the rock, for he had half-thought the dog would quietly fade away, bored with the game. But, no, here he came, looking if anything even more willing than he had been at Dian's first throw. His tail was up, eyes alert, and he positively galloped up the hill to his pontificating mistress.

“The funny thing was, though the book didn't seem to notice it, in the end the dogs would be more demanding than all the human counselors. The dogs would act as if their human was a truly noble being, worthy of partnership, and—to the amazement of the various authorities—the human came out of herself, or himself, long enough to begin actually to act nobly, and often never really went back in.” Culum stood before her now, rock in mouth. Dian absently held out a hand for him to deposit it into. “Not, of course, that Teddy was that disturbed, but—What the hell?” She stared at her palm, where the rock had turned into something else, a lump that suspiciously resembled a petrified clump of old deer droppings. “Culum!” she shouted in outrage.

Good heavens, thought Isaac, that dog's laughing at her, and he was, standing there, tongue lolling, grinning from ear to ear at the effect his clever trick had on his mistress. Dian threw the lump of turd at him; it disintegrated off his head, one segment landing neatly in Isaac's cup, then she launched herself down the hill after the rapidly accelerating, and still laughing, dog. The other dogs leapt up enthusiastically to join the chase, and there was soon a tide of dogs washing around Dian, each of whom would nimbly lay on just enough speed to scoot out of her reach whenever she reached out to catch them. Culum abandoned the game of tag and came to sit next to Isaac, and the two of them looked on from their viewpoint of lofty masculinity.

By the time Dian returned to Isaac, her chest was heaving and her face was red with effort. Culum retreated in dignity a few yards up the hill, just in case. She gave him a dirty look and dropped down next to the still-grinning Isaac.

“Okay, okay, enough said about the relationship between dogs and humans. I'm sure you got the point,” she said.

“Oh, I got the point, all right. In fact, it's right there in my cup.”

Dian peered in and saw the dry turd floating placidly in the cider, and snorted. That set Isaac off again, and the two of them leaned against each other, shaking with laughter.

“Oh, Isaac, I'm going to miss you,” she said, and as if the sun had gone behind a cloud, the easiness of the afternoon shifted.

I'm going to miss you
, Dian had said, surprising herself. She hadn't intended to say it, hadn't realized the depth of its truth until the words were in the air between them. What had begun as a somewhat bewildering but highly pleasant interlude was now something else entirely, something with roots that screamed at the threat of being pulled up. She loved Isaac, sure, but she'd never bargained on being
in
love with him. She had never intended anything but easy affection followed by fond memories and a degree of relief when she was allowed to go her way. But that was something very deep that had spoken: I am going to miss you.

I'm going to miss you,
Isaac heard, and the longing in her voice slipped into his heart like a knife. What had begun as a deliberate bid for shelter (and be fair—he had told her) for himself and Teddy, a move to defuse the growing tensions over his availability by making his own choice, had grown considerably more complicated. And he couldn't have known that his chosen bond would be severed so quickly—when she'd told him the morning after Judith's birth that her trip north would be immediate, his first thoughts had been a tumble:
Shit, there go my plans
and
Thank God it won't get any deeper
and
Couldn't she have warned me?
and
Who would I have chosen instead, if I'd known?
When she told him she was going, he'd very nearly unloaded all the secrets onto her—but he didn't, because Emma's people were his, and he'd given his word. And anyway, where would he begin? How to say to these people that the thing that terrified them the most was part and parcel of their future neighbors' daily lives? He'd even played with the idea, briefly, of injuring Dian in some way to delay her, of having a quiet word with Sonja that would result in some minor but incapacitating broken bone. . . . But Judith would just have sent someone else instead, and he thought that, of all people here, Dian was the one whom he might trust to make a judgment based on her eyes, not her habits of thought.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, more to break the dangerous intimacy than because he wanted an answer.

Dian seemed relieved at the diversion. “Of course.”

“Why, honestly, are you making this trip? Do you think Miriam and I and everyone else are lying? I mean, not you, but I think I should know if the Valley sees me as a potential enemy within the gates.”

Dian looked at his dark eyes, seeing her own reflection there. “No, I don't know of anyone who seriously suspects you of deceit. I'm going north because I made a promise, before we voted to accept you, that I would check with my own eyes to be sure that everything was as it was presented. It's my job to guard the safety of my people here, even when the enemies are only in our imagination.” She smiled ruefully at him. “I trust you, I hope you know that. I would trust you with my life. But I cannot extend that to the whole village. I have no right to lay two hundred eighty lives at your feet. It would be irresponsible of me. Surely you can see that.”

The word
trust
twisted the knife deeper into his heart, and he wanted to cry out for her not to go, wanted to tell her what she would find and why it did not matter. But trust worked on other levels, and he had given his word. No, he would say nothing. She would go, as she clearly longed to, no matter how much she would miss him; she would travel free and unencumbered with nothing but her dogs, and she would see what there was to see, and she would have the return journey to think about it and decide for herself that it did not matter.

Whether on her return she would trust him again was an entirely different matter. And she was studying him now, her eyes narrowing as she tried to see why he was hesitating.

“Yes,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss her lightly. “Of course you have to go. Just come back safely. Please?”

         

They were late returning home, and by the time Dian had sluiced off the dried film of grit from her body and arrived at the main house, dinner was just being laid on the table. Lenore looked up as Dian came through the kitchen door.

“Oh, good. Judith said you'd eat with her tonight, and I told her I'd bring hers up so you could talk without having to shout over the rest of us. Do you want to grab that tray there, and we'll take it up?” Dian followed her up to Judith's room, half-listening to Lenore's chatter about the Meijing markets and half a dozen things she hoped Dian would look for, all of which were already on Dian's list. Lenore knocked at the door before she opened it, and laid her tray on the table near the window. After greeting Judith affectionately and going over to look at the sleeping infant on the bed, she kissed Dian good-bye and left. The sound of voices and of cutlery on plates cut off sharply as the door closed behind her.

Judith joined Dian at the table, sitting on a thick cushion, and began to remove the covers from the steaming bowls.

“You're looking well,” said Dian.

“I'm feeling great. I've been going downstairs for meals, but I wanted you to myself tonight.” She looked up guiltily. “It's good of you to come—I'm sure you'd rather be with Isaac or getting packed.”

“Everything's ready to go and I spent the whole day with Isaac. I want to have a nice, relaxed dinner with my sister and talk to my nephew, so don't fret.”

Lenore's dinner was, as usual, good and plentiful, and included a couple of Dian's favorites. She commented on Lenore's generous nature and Judith agreed.

“She is very fond of you. I should tell you, I think, that she has done a great deal to calm down the women who were upset about you and Isaac. There weren't a lot,” she said, seeing Dian's face. “Just a handful, but they resented it a bit until she talked to them about you. And reminded them that we'd have a whole new bunch of menfolk in the spring.”

Dian's need to respond was cut off by an abrupt piglet grunt from the bed. Judith went over to fetch him, came back and settled him at her breast, and picked up her fork to finish her dinner one-handed. At the end of the dessert she sat back, switched sides, and looked down at the downy head cradled in her hand.

“I'm calling him Will,” she told Dian. “He looks like old Will a bit, Kirsten says, though I can't see it. Maybe around the eyes,” she amended, studying the lids intently.

Dian looked over her cup at mother and infant, nourishing each other, and wondered if Isaac's wife, Emma, had looked like that, nursing Teddy. Without considering what she was doing, she began to tell Judith about Isaac's past, about Ashtown and Emma, his escape and what his wife's death had done to him. It did not take long, and at the end she sat and listened to baby Will's suckling noises, slowing now.

“I don't know why I told you that,” she admitted.

“Actually I knew the outline of it already. Ling told me a few days ago. Oops, toss me that cloth, will you? Thanks.” She wiped the stream of milky drool from her son's slack mouth and positioned him on her shoulder.

“I gathered he and Ling'd had a couple of heart-to-hearts,” said Dian. “I'm glad he feels comfortable talking to her. But I wanted to make sure you knew, because you'll be the one who'll have to deal with it while I'm gone, and especially if I don't come back. No, let me finish, Jude. I'm not expecting any danger, and before you ask, no, I don't have any of those ‘feelings' you're so fond of. I fully expect to have a high old time between here and Meijing, and a nice quiet ride north, after which I'll turn around and be back here by Christmas. Just let me say this and then you can forget it.

“If I don't come back from this trip, I want you to protect Isaac. He's a lot more vulnerable than he seems, and something is troubling him, although I don't know what it is. Just make sure that everyone gives him time to look around and decide, like you did when he first got here. He's intelligent and reasonable. He'll make the right decisions, given the chance. If he's bullied and badgered, he could easily do something really . . . really stupid. Protect him. Promise me?”

“I have no intention of having to do anything of the sort, so, yes, I'll promise. Here, hold this man-child for a minute while I go to the toilet.” Judith transferred the baby into Dian's arms and left them. Dian held him and looked into the dark, wise, focused little eyes and felt his tiny fingers wrap firmly around her finger. She talked soft nonsense to him and drank in the new, warm smell of him, the perfection of his fingernails, the whorls of hair on his head, and told herself fiercely that she was content with her life.

She was also content to hand the now-damp baby back to his mother and stand up to go. Dian did not want to say good-bye to this woman, her sister, who faced what might be a lengthy period of grinding anxiety. She wished she could give Judith a talisman against the fear, or at least give her strength to face it, but instead she was forced to take refuge in a stream of inconsequential words.

“Good-bye for now, baby Will. You'll be a big boy when I see you again,” firmly not mentioning other possibilities. “Take care of your mother, let her sleep—which is more than I've done. You look tired, Jude. Good-bye, sister mine. I hope to be back by Christmas, if the snow isn't too bad. Just call me Santa Claus, arriving through the snow with a line of packhorses behind me!” She embraced Judith and Will gently. “Good-bye, sweet sister, lovely baby. Eat a pie for me at Thanksgiving.”

Dian's chatter stopped suddenly. She had frozen with her right hand cupped around the top of Will's head, looking past Judith's shoulder at his drooping eyes, her head tilted slightly as if she were listening to something far away. After a few moments she spoke, her voice thoughtful and slow.

“He's going to be okay, you know, Jude. He doesn't feel . . . unattached. Temporary, like Carmen's boy felt.” Carmen's strong-looking son, born eighteen months before, had died in his sleep at ten weeks. “He's well named. He'll be here when I get back.” Her gaze stared through him a bit longer, then she blinked, met Judith's startled eyes, and looked down at her hand curiously. She jerked it away from Will's head and rubbed her fingers together as if she had burned herself, and to Judith's amazement she flushed. “I'm sorry, Jude, I didn't mean to do that. I—I'm tired, I guess.”

Her sister put her free arm around Dian and held her close, then freed her. “Take care, Dian. Have a safe journey, come back rested. We'll pray for you every night. Oh, I nearly forgot. Stop by Susanna's room, will you? She has something for you.”

“Cookies, no doubt,” sighed Dian.

Judith's eyes twinkled. “No, something a bit more useful. And you don't need to worry about it. Lenore and I ‘helped' her with it. It won't fall apart on you.”

“Thanks. I'll go up and see Kirsten first.” Dian climbed the stairs to say good-bye to the old woman, whose footsteps she had heard outside Judith's door a while before. When Dian came down ten minutes later, the light under Judith's door was already out. She tapped softly on the next door, which belonged to Susanna, and went in. The girl—no, Dian thought, nearly a woman now—sat reading Teddy a story. She got up quickly and came to hug Dian.