Christine Dorsey (27 page)

“I... I really should go back to the cabin.” Samantha tried to seem as unaffected by their lack of clothing as he was.

“I know.” Jake settled down beside her. She went quite readily into his arms as he lay down, her body contradicting her earlier statement.

Jake closed his eyes. He had no business cuddling her to him or tangling his fingers in her thick blond curls. But then he had no right to do most of the things he did with her. And it hadn’t stopped him.

She wriggled closer, letting her fingers drift toward his scar. “Does it still hurt,” she murmured.

“Not much.” Jake took a deep breath as her hand continued to skim over his chest. Light, feathery stokes that made his body quicken. He felt himself grow hard and tucked his chin to see if she noticed. At first he thought her unaware of what she did to him but then she tilted her head and he saw the teasing sparkle in her blue eyes.

“Jake?”

He tried to keep his breathing steady. “Hmmm?”

Her fingers found and followed the line of chest hair that arrowed southward. “What did you mean when you said you wanted to see me this time?”

Jake’s burst of laughter came almost as quickly as his movements as he flipped her beneath him. “What did you think I meant?”

But Samantha was too busy laughing to answer. Jake settled into the cradle of her body, weight resting on his elbows. He grinned at her good humor then splayed her hair out on the blanket. It shone like gold against the gray wool.

“You’re very beautiful.” He dipped and brushed a kiss across her lips to hide some of the emotion surging through him. He loved to see her laugh—to see her happy. But when he moved to look at her again, her expression had sobered. “What is it?” Jake touched her cheek.

Samantha’s breathing brought her breasts in contact with his chest. “You don’t have to say that. I know the way things are.”

“Then tell
me
.” Jake searched the depths of her cerulean eyes.

Samantha wanted to look away, but the pull of his intense gaze was too great. She swallowed and began. “We have... nothing permanent. You will leave soon. And I can accept that,” she added quickly. “This...” Samantha’s hand lifted, then fell as if in defeat. “Just happened. Neither of us wanted it to.” She took a deep breath and her voice firmed and she shocked him to his core with her next statement. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

Samantha lowered her lashes. How could she have said something so... so brazen. If he didn’t think her a hussy before, he most certainly did now. Heat raced through her body, and it had nothing to do with the feel of his hot flesh pressed to hers.

“Samantha.” Jake’s finger caught under her chin. He waited for her eyes to meet his before he continued, “I don’t want it to stop either.”

With a skim of his hand down her body, he began to show her how he felt.

~ ~ ~

Samantha sighed and rested her head on Jake’s shoulder. This last time they made love only deepened her resolve to take what happiness she could before he left. But it also frightened her. He’d been so loving, still was, as his thumb made gentle patterns on her arm. And Samantha found there were some things she simply had to know.

“Jake?” Her body felt drowsy and replete, but there was an underlying tension in her voice.

“Hmmm?” He was going to have to get up in a moment and take her back to the cabin; otherwise they’d both fall asleep. For all Samantha’s assurances that she could handle this turn in their relationship, Will couldn’t if he found them asleep like this come morning.

“Who is the woman in the daguerreotype?” Samantha had tried to forget she ever saw it, or that he called out a name in his delirium, but found she couldn’t. Her heart lurched when she felt Jake tense.

“My wife.” Jake twisted his head to catch a glimpse of Samantha. “She was my wife. She died.” His words were crisp and succinct.

“I’m sorry.” Samantha could sense he didn’t want to talk about this, but something kept her going. “And the boy?” Samantha knew she couldn’t stop now until she heard it all.

“My son.” Jake’s words were whispered on a breath of air. “He’s dead too.”

“I’m so sorry.” His words were full of pain, and Samantha felt tears well up in her eyes. “How tragic for you. But sometimes—”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Jake shifted to look at her, then turned away. “I’ve heard all the platitudes, and—”

“What?” Samantha asked when he didn’t go on. Jake’s eyes narrowed and he looked at her in a way that she’d seen before. When he found out who’d shot him.

“How did you know about the people in the daguerreotype?”

Samantha forced herself not to flinch. Why hadn’t she thought of this when she asked about his wife? Because she was too worried that he might still be married, Samantha reminded herself. She took a calming breath that didn’t really help. “I... I saw the daguerreotype.”

“You saw it? But it was in the pocket of my jacket.” He paused, then his voice quieted. “Did you go through all my things?”

“Yes, but...” Sitting up, Samantha glanced back over her shoulder. “I thought you were with Landis Moore, so—”

“So you assumed that gave you the right to pilfer my things.”

“I didn’t pilfer! I wanted to know who you were.”

Jake shook his head. “I guess I can’t blame you for that. At least no more than for shooting me in the first place.”

Samantha sucked in air. How could she forget all the differences between them? In his arms she had. But apparently he hadn’t. Or maybe it was just that she wasn’t in his arms now. “I better go in.”

“I’ll walk with you.” Jake reached for his pants.

“No.” Samantha scooted out of the stall. “I know the way.” Before he’d more than stood, she closed the barn door behind her. She went behind the cabin, yanked on her shift, and emptied the tub... and tried to keep from thinking of all that had happened.

Jake sat with his saddlebag across his knees. It had been a long time since he’d looked at the picture. It always felt like he was uncovering a fresh wound. But he knew he had to see it tonight.

Reaching in among his clothes, he found the scrolled frame. The moment his hand closed over the familiar metal, Jake realized he had seen it recently. When he was feverish from his wound. He’d looked at it then. Samantha must have given it to him.

Viewing it now brought pain, as it always did. Except Jake found he didn’t have the urge to bury his head and cry. Though he didn’t usually give in to it, the desire to clutch the likeness of his family to him and express his grief was always there.

But not tonight.

Tonight he studied the three people posed beneath the protective glass and almost smiled. He trailed his finger down the center of the gown Lydia wore. It was green... no, blue, he remembered, a deep shade of sapphire blue. She worried it wasn’t becoming enough. Jake said she looked beautiful, but she questioned him, seeking reassurance it was the perfect dress for their sitting.

Jake’s gaze drifted to his son standing proudly beside his mother. You’d never know by seeing him there, that he’d fidgeted and squirmed just moments earlier. He wanted to play with his lead soldiers.

The daguerreotype was made before Jake left for the war. His son was five. He’d be nine if he’d lived. Almost as old as Will.

Jake’s breath caught on a sob. Samantha was right. It was tragic that they were dead. Tragic that so many were dead.

Jake extinguished the lantern and lay down on his blanket. He couldn’t see the picture any more but he held on to it. His mind flew back through the years touching first one memory, then another. They’d been pleasant, happy times before the war. Each remembrance made his heart lighter.

Until he recalled the day he buried Lydia. Their son had died a week earlier. As he walked down the hill from the cemetery, his father had touched his sleeve. He offered some words of sympathy then he began talking about Lydia and Andrew’s death.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jake had said then, the words echoing the ones he said to Samantha. He meant them three years ago and he thought he meant them tonight. But lying here alone, his memories and guilt to keep him company, Jake wasn’t sure.

~ ~ ~

Breakfast was strained.

Samantha stayed at the stove making griddle cakes as long as possible. She didn’t want to sit at the same table with Jake. Not with last night so fresh in her thoughts.

She’d lost her mind.

That was the conclusion Samantha had come to the night before when she could no longer keep memories of her behavior at bay. She’d lost her mind. But she had it back now. And she wasn’t going to allow a repeat of what had happened. But she couldn’t say that because she already had—after the first time they’d made love. And she let it happen again.

She couldn’t tell him. But she sure didn’t want to face him. Jake and Will were discussing their plans for the day. They’d be finished eating soon and then they’d leave and—

“What do you think, Sam?”

“About what?” Her hand stilled, the ladle of batter inches from the hot skillet.

“Do you think we should start harvesting the east field?” Will asked, his face showing surprise she wasn’t following the conversation.

“Oh.” Samantha turned to face the table—she couldn’t help herself—and her eyes locked with Jake’s. She swallowed. “I don’t know.” His expression was strange... unreadable, and Samantha quickly jerked back toward the stove.

She wasn’t going to worry about what he was thinking. He let her know last night he didn’t want her getting close to him. Oh, physically close was fine. Fine with
him.
But let her ask a question about his past—about his wife—and he wanted no part of her.

He could pretend his anger the night before had come from her looking through his saddlebags. But Samantha knew differently. He retreated within himself the moment she asked about the woman in the daguerreotype.

As chair legs scratched over the wood floor, Samantha nodded her acknowledgment of Jake and Will’s thanks for breakfast. The door opened and closed, and Samantha let out her breath. How was she ever going to manage until Jake left the farm? She seemed constantly to whirl around—wanting him to stay; wanting him to leave. Well, today she definitely wanted him to—”

“Samantha.”

The spatula clattered to the floor as Samantha twisted around. “I... I thought you left with Will.”

“He has a few more chores to do before we go out to the field.” Jake stepped closer.

“Oh.” Samantha scooped up the spatula and took it to the dry sink. He was still in the cabin. She could hear him breathing, could smell his scent. She grasped the edge of the dry sink.

“Samantha, I—”

“Do you want more to eat?”

“No.”

“Well, then.” Samantha poured water into the dishpan, hoping he’d read the dismissal in her actions.

“They died of typhoid fever. I was away, down on the Peninsula, when I got word they were sick.” Jake kept talking as Samantha turned toward him. “I rode for Richmond as fast as I could, but by the time I arrived they were both... gravely ill.” Samantha realized her hands were dripping and wiped them down the front of her apron.

“My son, Andrew, died first. He was six. I always thought he was so strong, but...” Jake took another step. “Lydia, my wife, died later the same week.” His hands came up in surrender. “I always felt there was something I should have done. Something to save them.”

“Jake.” Samantha touched his sleeve. “People die. There was nothing you could do.”

Jake looked down upon her sweet upturned face. Her blue eyes shone with compassion... compassion he wasn’t sure he deserved. “I knew the war would be difficult for her,” he said by way of explanation.

“Jake, war is hard on everybody.”

“But not everyone dies from it.” Jake lifted his hands to Samantha’s shoulders. “Look at you. Trouble and hardship have plagued you since you were a little girl. Then the war, being on your own. You survived.” His fingers trailed down her arms and he looked away.

“The thing is, I knew how she was. Hell, we’d been married for eight years. And before that.” Jake glanced over his shoulder. “I’d known Lydia near all my life. If anyone understood that she wasn’t the type of woman to survive on her own, it was I.” His shoulders rounded. “But I left them both.”

“You had no way of knowing they’d get typhoid fever. You’re taking too much on yourself.” Samantha searched for the words that would make him understand he wasn’t responsible. But by the defeated expression in his pale green eyes, she knew she wouldn’t find them.

“The truth is, I wanted to go.” Jake shook his head. “I thought I could make a difference.”

“I’m sure you did.”

Jake’s laugh was cynical. “Hardly. All I accomplished was deserting my wife and son when they needed me.”

“Stop that.” Samantha batted at his arm. “I’m tired of hearing how their deaths were your fault. Did your wife... did Lydia beg you to stay with her?” If she did, she was weaker even than Samantha assumed.

“No.” Jake shook his head. “She wanted me to help defend Virginia.”

“Well, see?” Samantha’s hands folded at her waist.

“She didn’t know what war was. She thought of it more as one big parade, with fancy uniforms and plumed hats.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?” Jake backed toward the door. He’d wanted to tell Samantha about his wife, but this conversation was getting them nowhere. Why was she arguing with him? He knew what happened. He knew he deserved to feel guilty.

“Did you know what war was like before you went?” Samantha moved between Jake and the door, daring him to push past her.

“Of course not. No one does.”

“Yet you blame yourself because Lydia didn’t.” Samantha took an aggressive step forward. “You’re forgetting I saw her likeness. And yes, I went through your saddlebags to find it. While you were feverish, I studied it a lot.” Samantha paused for breath and to see if he’d berate her again for invading his privacy. When he said nothing, she went on.

“Your Lydia was a grown woman.” Samantha planted her fists at her waist. “If she said she wanted you to join the army, she probably meant it. And apparently she took care of herself and your son for a while after the war started, so you shouldn’t be thinking she didn’t know how. As for the typhoid fever...” Emotions had made her voice louder than she intended. Shaking her head, she lowered her voice. “As for the typhoid fever... you had no way of knowing
or
controlling anything about that.”