Christine Dorsey (25 page)

And he wanted to hold her and let her sob and weep as she had a right to. He’d wrap his arms around her, stroke her beautiful golden hair, and tell her he’d never allow anything bad to befall her again.

But he had no right to do that. When he left, he’d have no control over what happened to her. Hell! He most likely didn’t have any control now. Not if today was any indication.

It was hard to comprehend all she’d been through. The war had affected him, but her problems hadn’t ended after four bloody years of war.

“Not exactly,” Samantha replied suddenly.

“What?” Her words broke through the haze of memory.

Samantha waited for Jake to look over his shoulder. “You said that was the end of it. But it wasn’t. I went back to the neighboring farmers. To the same ones my father tried to organize and I pleaded for them to help me go after Moore.

“I can’t blame them for... for turning me away. Not really. They’d all suffered at Moore’s hand, and now they had all the more reason to fear him.

“So you see.” Samantha held out her hands, palms up. “Maybe they were justified in acting the way they did today.” Samantha sighed. “I knew they would. I should have told you why earlier.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Her hands fell to her side and her shoulders rounded in defeat. “I don’t know.” Samantha studied the tips of her shoes. She wore the pair that belonged to her mother. No one had noticed.

Wrapping her arms protectively around her waist, Samantha looked up through her lashes. “I do know why I didn’t tell you. At least part of the reason.” She waited for him to ask why. No words were spoken but the expression on his handsome face broached the question. His dark brows drew together, deepening the crease between.

“I wanted you to stay. But I was afraid you wouldn’t if you knew.” The tight set of his firm lips didn’t change and Samantha rushed on. “I wasn’t positive the farmers wouldn’t help. Rumor in town is that someone’s harassing more than just me.” Samantha’s voice dropped and Jake stepped forward to hear her. “But I guess they all figure things could be worse... and siding with me is a pretty sure way to make that happen.”

Samantha moved toward the stove. “You certain you don’t want some coffee? I could use some about now.”

“Sure.” Jake took two mugs from the sideboard and held them out as she started to pour.

“I want you to know,” Samantha began as she set the sugar and a small pot of skimmed cream on the table. “I won’t blame you if you leave... and I don’t think you’re one of Moore’s men.”

“That’s a relief.” Jake gave her a lopsided grin as he splashed a healthy dollop of cream into the steaming liquid in his cup. Before the war, he’d drunk his coffee black. Now he did what he could to erase the memory of gulping down the bitter brew the mess had passed off as coffee.

“Actually, I haven’t thought that for a while now,” Samantha admitted. She wrapped her hands around the mug, trying to warm her icy fingers. How could parts of her be so cold when the night was warm? The air around her seemed thick and alive, like it did sometimes before a thunderstorm. But there’d be no storm tonight. She’d seen the stars splattered over the velvety sky.

Jake didn’t say anything, only stared at her. Overhead he could hear the shuffling of dried grass—Will fidgeting in his sleep. The clock on the mantle ticked, a steady backdrop for the croaking of frogs from outside. “I’m not leaving.”

She looked up and Jake was struck again by how many different shades of blue her eyes could be. Prismed sky blue when the sun caught them. Deep, velvety periwinkle by candlelight. He stopped himself from thinking about the deep indigo of her passion.

“I won’t blame you if you do.”

“So you said.” Jake shook his head and combed fingers back through his hair. “But I won’t.” The words came out on a breath of air. “I said I’d help you get this crop harvested, and I will. By then the Federal troops will probably be here.”

“Hopefully.” Samantha didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She only knew she felt like doing both. She also felt like moving toward Jake and putting her arms around him, leaning into his strength. But she didn’t.

He’d listened to her story and he still planned to stay. But that didn’t mean he sympathized with her, or felt anything but obligation for that matter. He’d said he’d do something, and he was going to. Regardless of his feelings in the matter.

And how could he help but be somewhat appalled by what she’d said? He was from Virginia... the South. He most likely had slaves of his own.

He’d asked for an explanation and received one. There didn’t seem to be any reason to hang around. It was late; the cock would crow plenty early tomorrow morning. But Jake was having a hard time making his body do what his mind knew it should.

He’d made one mistake with this woman. He’d made love to her. Nothing could change that. But she’d made it abundantly clear she wanted no repeat of that. So why couldn’t he accept that?

He didn’t stay on at her farm because he desired her. If anything, that was reason enough for him to move on. But there it was deep in his gut like a gnawing ache, a desire that wouldn’t go away.

He looked at her buttoned up in her prim dress. And he wanted her.

He saw her cooking over the stove, the heat of the day amplified by the radiating metal. And he wanted her.

He lay abed on a layer of straw, listening to the cow chewing her cud. And he wanted Samantha Lowery.

But tonight it was more than lust that drove him.

He felt a kinship with her. A kinship that was hard to explain. They’d been on different sides of a conflict that had scarred both their lives, maybe too deep for them ever to be whole again.

Hardly a pleasant thing to have in common with someone. But in Samantha’s case he felt the pull nonetheless. It made him pause, his hand on the latch, and say something trivial about getting an early start tomorrow.

It made him wish he could take her in his arms and carry her to her bedstead. And make love to her the way he should have the first time.

First and last time, Jake reminded himself as he swung out into the night. First and last.

Air whooshed out of Samantha’s lungs—air she didn’t realized she was holding until the door shut, closing Jake off from her view. She’d thought he was going to kiss her... and more. Right before he left the cabin, he looked at her the way he had that night in the barn. The night they’d made love.

Desire flashed in his eyes, tightening the planes of his face, and making her want to melt into him.

She didn’t, of course. Samantha could never allow a repeat of what had happened that night in the barn. Never.

But as she climbed into her lonely bed, Samantha couldn’t remember exactly why not.

~ ~ ~

By morning the reasons were abundantly clear. She spent a restless night dreaming about Jake. The images that swam through her head were erotic and sensual. But they all ended with him leaving her. Alone and longing for him.

She’d been left too many times to risk it happening again. Jake would leave. There was nothing she could do to stop that. But when he did, he wasn’t going to take any more of her with him than he already had.

Samantha refused to speculate about how much that was.

And she refused to let him get any closer to her. She’d told him all he needed to know about her family and he was still staying to help. But she didn’t have to treat him any differently than she’d treat any hired hand. And she didn’t intend to.

After two days of seeing him only at meals—and even then he ate quickly and excused himself—Samantha realized Jake felt the same. He didn’t want to sit in the evening and talk of books, or play the harmonica. He wanted to be left to himself.

Or more to the point, he wanted to separate himself from her. Will was another story. They spent long days in the fields together. And to hear Will tell it—which of course, was all she had to go by—he and Jake joked and talked all the time.

“Did you know Jake and his brother once tied their cousin’s pigtails in knots while she slept and it was so bad she couldn’t get the tangles out? And they had to cut some of her hair off.”

Samantha settled into her chair and squinted into the lantern light to thread her needle. A smile blossomed on her face when she imagined a young Jake doing something so devilish. She noticed Will’s eyes on her and sobered her expression. “I doubt the
cousin
thought it was very funny.”

“No sirree. She was angry and crying. And Jake said it made him sorry he did it,” Will admitted. But Will was still chuckling over the story.

Samantha took a few stitches in the red silk. Peggy Keane sure did like bright colors. “You and Jake sound like you’re having a grand time.”

“Sure are.” Will leaned back, a copy of
Leather-stocking Tales
forgotten in his lap. Mistaking his sister’s silence for disapproval, he jerked forward. “Course we’ve been getting all our work done too.”

“What?” Samantha pulled her fluttered thoughts back and smiled at her brother’s earnest face. “Oh, I know you have, Will. You... you and Captain Morgan are doing a wonderful job.” She didn’t need Will to tell her how hard the two of them were working. She saw plenty of evidence herself. Piles of corn filled the crib.

They’d be finished soon. And then Jake would leave.

Samantha turned her attention back to Will. He was telling another of his “Jake” tales, this one about the war. Tensing, Samantha wove the needle into a gather of fabric and looked up at Will.

He was rattling on about a Union patrol and Samantha cleared her throat. “You know, Will,” she said, interrupting his description of the soldier’s surprise, “now I know you enjoy talking to him, and he’s been nice to you. But you... we must remember that Captain Morgan fought on a different side during the war... the enemy side.”

Samantha’s gaze slid to the leather-bound book she hadn’t even suggested Will read—she owed the Rebel for that. But that didn’t mean she’d allow him to influence Will unduly. She took a deep breath. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to listen to him glorifying the Confederacy. You know it stood for a lot of bad. For things your father and brother died to stop.” Samantha turned back to her sewing. She couldn’t honestly say her father’s death had meant anything.

“He don’t... doesn’t do that, Sam.” Will’s pale blue eyes collided with Samantha’s and his freckled face flamed. He knew she noticed him correcting his grammar and he didn’t want to see his sister gloating. But she didn’t say a word, just went back to her sewing.

Will sat a little straighter. “The stories he tells me are funny ones. Like the time the cook got startled and poured too much salt in the stew. And everyone was yelling for water. Or the time-“

“I just don’t want him glorifying war to you, Will.”

“He hates war.” Samantha looked up from the seam she sewed and Will went on. “He says it’s nothing but killing and suffering...” Will stopped. “I think something awful happened to him in that war. Something he... doesn’t want to talk about.”

She’d sensed the same thing. When he was sick and feverish. Then she’d glimpsed the war he lived through—the hell.

That’s when she’d decided he was a doctor. Funny, she’d almost forgotten that. He never mentioned it.

He didn’t look like any doctor she’d ever known. But then Samantha had only seen old Doc Shelton, and he was more likely drunk as not.

She took another stitch. He didn’t work like a doctor either. He worked like a field hand, sweat-slick muscles gleaming in the bright sun and broad shoulders straining.

Samantha realized the wayward tangent of her thoughts and drew in a deep breath. Will was watching her, his expression puzzled. She straightened her back. “I’m certain terrible things happen to most everyone in a war.” Look what we went through and we weren’t even fighting, she finished silently.

“Now I think you should...” Samantha stopped herself and tried to rephrase her suggestion. “I’m tired,” she said, carefully folding the crimson fabric into her sewing basket. “Tomorrow morning will be here before we know it. And if this evening is any indication, it will be a warm one.”

“You’re right about that.” Will pushed away from the table and headed for the loft ladder.

“And Will.” Samantha leaned over the lamp and, cupping her hands, blew out the flame. Smoke curled up around her. “If Captain Morgan doesn’t want to speak of the war... well, it would probably be better if you didn’t ask him.”

“Sure, Sam.” Will let go of the rung and gave his sister’s shoulders an awkward hug as she walked by him.

Samantha resisted the urge to envelop him the way she had since he was three years old when his care became entirely hers. He was growing up; she had to let go. But it was hard. So very hard.

Samantha closed the bedroom door behind her. Light from the moon poured through the window, limning the meager furnishings. Will was lucky to have Jake Morgan here during this time of his life. The thought struck Samantha, even surprised her, and she couldn’t let it pass.

She might wish for someone else to be the man Will looked up to. Someone who hadn’t been in the Confederate army. But the more she discovered about Jake, the more she had to admit he was a good man.

And the more she admitted, to herself anyway, that she was attracted to him—powerfully. Yet there was still so much she didn’t know—so much he kept to himself.

Samantha stripped down to her shift and lay on the cool sheets. It was a long, draining day, and sleep should be easy to find. But the longer Samantha lay, twisting this way and that, hoping for a comfortable position, the more she realized slumber was a long way off.

Finally she sat up, staring out the window, listening to the lonely wail of a faraway wolf.

The barn was dark. No lantern light shone through the slits Luke and Pa had cut through the sod. She could imagine Jake asleep, his long, lean body stretched out on the pallet, his arm thrown up over his head.

Closing her eyes, Samantha shook her head, willing the vision to disappear. But it wouldn’t. She’d seen him like that before. She’d lain with him. He was a Rebel and he was leaving. And she couldn’t get him out of her mind.