Weak Flesh (24 page)

"Maybe I thought I'd get an understanding of how a struggle could've happened here – a woman's strength pitted against a man's – how easy it'd be to kill someone in such solitude."

She shivered and edged closer to him on the wooden bench, their thighs touching through the fabric of her skirt and his trousers. He put his arm around her shoulders and kept it there for a long moment as they both stared into the murky marsh of the Dismal Swamp.  

"What do you suppose brought Mrs. Jolly out here?" Meghan shifted and his arm fell away, leaving him strangely bereft.

"You believe her original claim is true?"

She nodded. "It has the ring of truth, while this recent account sounds – artificial."

"She could've been administering to the loggers. There's been a lot of sickness this year."

A contemplative look crossed her fine features. "I wondered if perhaps she followed Reverend Jolly here."

Startled, Gage straightened in the seat. "Good God, Bailey, why would a respectable woman like the Reverend's wife follow her upstanding husband? She doesn't seem the kind of woman made for spying."

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and before he could react, she jumped down from the buggy without assistance. "Have you ever thought maybe the Reverend isn't such an upstanding husband after all?"

Gage followed her, landing in the muddy rut of a road and soiling his boots. "Christ, Bailey! It isn't safe to wander around here. There are cottonmouths, copperheads, rattlers."

He grabbed her arm above the elbow, noticing her wince. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"That's the second time you've reacted when I touched your arm," he accused. "He hurt you, didn't he?"

"Who?" she asked innocently, but she favored her arm in what she clearly thought was a discreet manner.

"Don't be coy, Bailey. It doesn't suit you." His temper flared at the idea of another man treating her roughly, especially a supposed man of God. "Reverend Jolly manhandled you, didn't he?"

"He was deep in his cups at the time."

"That's no excuse," he said darkly. "What about Nolan? Did he also abuse you?"

"Gage, what the Reverend or Mr. Nolan did or did not do in regards to me is immaterial." She strode off towards the footpath nearly overgrown with dense brush and muddy with marshland.

He quickly caught up with her. "The paths are too overgrown for you to manage on foot and without a hatchet or axe. What do you hope to find in there anyway?"

Meghan turned around quickly and bumped into his chest, causing his heart to lurch as he inhaled her clean scent, steadied her with his hands.

"I just realized something," she said, her face very near to his chin. "Perhaps Mrs. Jolly saw the Lady in the Lake."

He guffawed. "You don't believe the nonsense of that old legend."

"Well,
I
certainly don't, but Mrs. Jolly might have observed the lights that sometimes emanate from the forest." Her brows puckered between those lovely eyes now dark as the surrounding foliage.

"I believe there's a scientific reason for those flickering lights superstitious folk attribute to ghosts and the like," Gage said, his hands slipping from her arms to her small waist. She felt so slender and delicate beneath his hands.

And not at all as affected by his nearness as he was by hers, he thought wryly, drawing back from her. "I intend to question a few of the loggers."

"Good idea. While you're doing that, I'll – "

"Oh, no, you don't." He grabbed her hand and dragged her along the somewhat cleared path that led to the water's edge and the crowded bustle of logging activity. "You're coming with me."

A small Swamp shack sat at the edge of the Ditch used to transport the logs. The Dismal Swamp Canal, enlarged two years ago, provided greater accessibility of the lumber and increased production two fold.

Although these shacks, which dotted the area, had provided refuge for runaway slaves during the War Between the North and South, Gage knew it was alarmingly easy to get lost – and stay lost – in the Swamp. With her usual earnestness, Bailey grumbled at being hauled along, but allowed him to lead her to the wooden shanty that housed the Dismal Swamp Land Company.

While he went inside to speak with the logging foreman – making her promise not to wander off – she leaned against a post outside and watched the boats resting lazily in the Canal.

When Gage returned some twenty minutes later, she was gone.

Christ Jesus!
The woman was a constant thorn in his side. He wasted another fifteen minutes roaming up and down the Canal banks, poking his head into the few ramshackle buildings.

Finally, thinking she might've returned to the gig, he made his way back to where he'd left his horse and buggy at the edge of the Swamp. He eyed one of several dirt paths that led deeper into the gloaming of the Swamp.

Surely Bailey hadn't gone off into the Swamp alone. She'd solemnly promised him, but his gut told him such an impetuous act was exactly what she'd do. Even though he'd specifically warned against it.

He searched in the back of his gig for a rifle, water canteen, and his pack which held a hand axe. He hoisted the pack onto his shoulders. Setting out on the most worn path, he eyed the sky and noted the darkening clouds and the sudden sweep of winter chill in the air.

Uneasiness pricked his mind as the path grew thicker and muddier. He didn't think she'd veer off the narrow dirt path, so he marched along the trail, deeper and deeper into the Swamp.

He'd make her pay this time for worrying him, he vowed.

#

Minutes after Gage entered the Swamp he realized he should've known better than to go after Bailey on his own. He'd lived near the Swamp much of his life and knew how easily a person got turned around in there. Knew the dank, cold humidity and the ever-present danger of poisonous reptiles, black bear, and bobcat, among other Swamp creatures.

After twenty minutes of trudging through the thick foliage, he began to question not only his judgment, but his sanity. He glimpsed an occasional shantytown shack through the dense cedar and cypress trees, but not another person, although he knew hundreds of people still lived there. The Swamp inhabitants, human and otherwise, knew how to stay hidden.

Why had Bailey gone off? And where? Finding her before complete darkness fell seemed nearly impossible.

Frustrated, Gage paused to drink from his canteen, resting his foot on a nearby log. Distraction and concern for Bailey overrode his natural caution and he failed to check the area surrounding the log. A careless mistake, he realized the moment it happened.

The rattler struck without warning as if shaking its rattle would give Gage an unfair advantage. Clearly, it would've, he thought as the pain struck severe and immediate at his right thigh. He allowed the snake to slither off. After all, Gage was the invader here.

Almost immediately confusion and dizziness gripped him. A fair amount of venom, then, he thought, his mind detached from his weakening body. God, how stupid of him! How incredibly ironic that he should escape the Indian Wars, the horror of the West and the Army, only to be felled by a common rattle snake.

The ignominy of it offended him.

Disoriented, he staggered around in circles for other precious moments. He knew swift and immediate action was critical, yet his body refused to respond to his mind's commands. He felt faint as pain seared through the flesh of his thigh. The rapid swelling of his leg tightened his trousers.

He reached for his knife and cut away the fabric of his pants, gazed down at the wound. Two neat puncture marks, already red and angry, pointed the site of the snake's bite. He felt the racing of his heart, knew at every pump of that organ the poison coursed through his veins with alarming speed.

He stumbled along, catching himself several times on the trees and branches that loomed over the dirt path, scraping his hands and neck. Sweat ran in great rivulets down his face, throat and chest. He'd never make it, he thought, as his breath hitched in his throat, refusing to pump through his lungs.

What seemed like months instead of minutes later, he finally reached the correct fork back to the logging camp.

Good God, he couldn't breathe. He felt himself trip and tumbled in a floating ballet as the ground rose up to meet him. His last clear thought was of the strange numbness to his mouth, his lumbering tongue, and the metallic taste of death.

#

"You're a damn fool," Meghan scolded, keeping her voice cool and annoyed rather than giving in to the terror that struck deep in her heart. "A Goddamn fool!"

Fortunately, two loggers had seen Gage lurch from the Swamp and collapse a quarter mile from the boat area. They'd hauled him up by the arms and legs and carried him to the edge of the Swamp where Meghan spied them as she walked from the Canal back to Gage's horse and carriage.

Tears clogged her voice, but she knew Gage couldn't hear her. He'd lost consciousness when one logger hoisted him over his shoulder and delivered him to the surprisingly clean and warm shanty nearest the Canal. This particular shack, they informed her with casual aplomb, was used as the surgery for the many accidents that occurred during logging.

"You stupid idiot," Meghan continued as she struggled to remove Tucker's shirt and unbutton his undershirt.

She couldn't stop the chastisements that fell from her tongue like tiny vipers. "If the loggers hadn't seen you fall, you'd be dead right now."

And no wonder, she thought. She further ripped the material around the wound in order to examine the ugly bruising and swelling. Rattlesnake, she knew immediately. Tucker wasn't out of harm's way yet. What a great dolt of a man to wander in the Swamp without proper boots and a large dose of care.

She daubed at the affected area with soap and warm water heated over the fire. The single room shack was hardly ideal, but at least it had basic medical supplies, and the tick bedding and blankets looked clean. The dirt floor was covered with lumber shavings and a fire burned in the mud-surrounded area in the corner with a vent in the ceiling for smoke. Primitive, but respectable, she thought.

Fortunately, the river water was remarkably pure, tea-colored and sweet tasting. She knew if the venom didn't kill Tucker first, infection would be the most serious problem. The longer his body resisted, the greater his chances for recovery.

She'd considered sending someone to fetch her father, but she knew Papa didn't have antivenin in his cache of medical supplies. A French physician had recently experimented with this particular antidote, but her father had never been able to procure the serum.

In the end, she sent a messenger with word that she and Gage were delayed and would return soon. Vague, but she didn't want Papa to worry.

Tucker moaned and twisted, but she saw no recognition in the clouded gray eyes, only glazed confusion.

Chapter 27

"Tucker, it's Meghan, can you hear me?"

He groaned again and moved restlessly on the bed. "Cold," he muttered, rolling onto his side.

She pulled a blanket over his shoulders and with some effort placed several more beneath his head and upper body. She tried to remember what she'd learned from Papa about snake bites. The infected area should remain below the heart to slow down the poison's deadly crawl.

She stared at her steady hands, wondering why – when she felt so unsure and incompetent – they didn't tremble like leaves in a strong wind. Snake bites were serious, and she knew by the degree of swelling, the pain, and the red streak that gradually inched its way up Tucker's leg that the rattler had struck deeply and viciously.

Not viciously, she corrected herself.

Viciousness implied willful intent, like the person who'd murdered Nell. Snakes simply were. They didn't intend harm, but simply retaliated, struck out blindly in defense of themselves and their habitat.

She remembered the many times she'd assisted her father in his surgery, but she wouldn't allow herself to imagine what might happen to Tucker. She marked the spot where the red line began and noted with apprehension its insistent movement in centimeters as it spread upward.

She stared at his pale, sweaty face, his damp naked chest, and then looked down at his muddy trousers. That was something within her control – preventing the wound from becoming infected. Unfastening the closure, she tugged his pants along his narrow hips, causing his drawers to drop dangerously close to his groin.

Supposing her to be Gage's wife, in spite of the absence of rings on their fingers, the loggers had removed his outer clothing, leggings and shoes. He lay naked except for the drawers, now damp with sweat. They ought to come off too, she thought, although she wasn't sure if she were brave enough to go that far.

Having tended to the snake wound, cleaning and lightly bandaging it, she draped a towel over his loins and began the task of cleaning up the rest of the man. Her hands might remain steady, she reflected, but her heart thumped like a hunted jack rabbit. She felt the warm suffusion of embarrassment creep up her throat to heat her cheeks.

She obtained clean, warm water from the pot on the hearth and began with his face, every touch of the soaped cloth to his body causing her blush to deepen. The dark stubble of beard shadowed his jaw. By morning he'd likely look like one of the Swamp loggers.

As she wiped his face and neck, moving down to the broad width of his shoulders, she noticed the scars. Good God, there were so many of them! Knowing he was senseless with the venom in his body, she traced the thick welts and thin scars that criss-crossed his chest and back like pale ribbons or tiny white threads.

Her hands faltering, she glanced up at his pale face at the very moment that Gage opened his eyes. He stared darkly at her for a moment. Heat warmed her body and she blinked furiously as she saw the light of recognition come into those clear gray pools.

A corner of his lip lifted. "Bailey, are you taking advantage of a sick man?" He closed his eyes and she thought he'd succumbed again to unconsciousness when they fluttered open.