Wild Indigo Page 15

  Silent, she writhed against him, recognizing nothing.

  This was his homecoming, she was his wife.

  He shook her, hard, speaking all the while, frustration lashing his body at this terrible new face of her resistance to him.

  Reaching Retha seemed as futile as trying to commune with Anna Johanna in her fits. Yet worse. His daughter, he hoped, would grow out of them. He had seen Retha this way before, years ago, the night he found her in Salem Square, a frantic, savage fighter. What made her so determined then? What inspired her now? Could this oblivious violence be linked to her mute, sightless rocking in the bed?

  Force once calmed the lost child, he reminded himself, but she was no stranger now.

  He spoke as he would to Anna Johanna, softly, reasonably. Retha did not recognize him. Gradually her frenzy subsided, then her resistance slackened, and he explained again that he was home. She made a noise low in her throat, the small cry of a surrendering animal, and he eased his hold.

  She jerked free and stumbled to the top of the stairs. There was just enough light from some taper she had left that he could see recognition return to her face, then bewilderment, then anger.

  “Jacob, good God! I heard someone enter. It scared the life out of me!”

  Her words came out in English, broken and strained. But the thought arrested him with perfect clarity: her response was honest. In her frenzy, she had not known him.

  Beyond the fatigue that weighted him, he grappled to comprehend all he had just felt and seen: she-wolf rage, feral strength, blind devotion to his children’s safety.

  And again, that inexplicable madness.

  Chilled, he sat her down at the top of the stairs and pulled her to his chest. She was soggy with emotion, rigid with the aftermath of fighting whatever demons stalked her night. Rigid, but no longer resisting.

  “I thought…you were…them…” she whispered, her breath hot at his neck in the folds of his stock.

  He pressed his face to the crown of her head, his lips to her hair. The faint sour smell of fear lingered there. It was fear of him. He clenched his jaw against regret that that had come to be. “I am so sorry. ’Twas no one but me.”

  “I see that now.” But she didn’t sound as if she quite believed it.

  He hastened to reassure her. “You’re safe. There’s no one, no one in five miles.”

  That is, he amended, no one had shot at him in the final five miles of his trek. He gave no hint of that to her. The truth would plunge her back into that state.

  “They were here today. I saw them leave. They’re gone. I know they’re gone. But I thought they had come back.”

  “I saw Samuel. He said it’s been clear.”

  She slumped against Jacob. “I couldn’t know when you would be back.”

  He accepted her weight. “I couldn’t find my cousin. I went to all the wrong places. Armstrong had him outside Salisbury.”

  She became heavy against him, her body firm and strong except in its womanly soft places. Lucky for him the stairs were dark. He couldn’t hide a grin of relief. It slid into place. He could help her change. She needed only reassurance. He was more than willing to give that.

  He ventured to move a hand against her back. “I never dreamt it would take four days.”

  “You’re home now.” Subdued, she folded her hands in her lap.

  “All of a quarter hour. I did not expect such a welcome.” He gave her hands a quick squeeze, hoping she would hear the lightness he attempted in his voice.

  With a shuddering sigh, she relaxed into him. “You were gone so long.”

  “Too long,” he forced himself to say agreeably, as the weight of her trust brought him to throbbing hardness. “Too long.” But perhaps not, he thought, if absence brought me this.

  “And then I heard some soldiers fumbling with the latch.”

  “That was me,” he said. She didn’t need to know that exhaustion had made him clumsier than a drunk. He had broken the latch in sheer frustration.

  “And then one of them came in, and I heard him walking across the kitchen, and then I heard his steps on the stairs. He was coming so slow.”

  “That was me, Retha,” he reminded her again.

  A frisson of worry skittered down his spine. What would he do if she persisted in confusing him in the flesh with the them of her fears? What if this were merely the still before another storm?

  Gingerly he patted her shoulder. If he could only keep her talking. Perhaps she simply needed to repeat her story. He prompted her to continue. “So you heard noises, and you came upstairs to protect the children.”

  Against his chest, she shook her head. “No, I was already here. I was coming down to find the club.”

  “The club?”

  “You forgot to show me where you keep it.”

  He dragged his hand across the back of his neck, annoyed. He had not forgotten. Samuel Ernst was supposed to defend her. Jacob had not imagined her strong enough to wield it. Now he could. If she would zealously fend off an attacker with nothing but nails, fists, and teeth, she wouldn’t hesitate to wield such an awkward weapon.

  “It’s below, under the bottom stairstep.”

  “I couldn’t believe Brother Ernst had let anyone past him. Not after the way he hounded us while you were away.”

  “He promised to keep an eye on you.”

  “He did more than that.” Edginess seeped into her tone.

  “He acted in my stead, Retha. I couldn’t leave you all alone.” He put an arm around her shoulder, helped her up, and started down the stairs. “Let’s take you to bed. And me to bed.”

  “No, the children.” Quickly wary again, she slipped from his grip and tiptoed into the small front room where Anna Johanna slept.

  He followed. His daughter lay as she often did, tucked in sleep as she had curled within her mother’s womb. She had been Christina’s heart’s delight. Jacob’s throat closed on a lump of sorrow at the memory of her, here, bending over her baby. He thought of the tragedy of Christina’s too, too early death, of Anna Johanna’s loss, his own long year of—

  Retha reached out a mother’s hand to smooth a lock of hair from the child’s innocent forehead. A wave of tenderness washed through him. Despite Retha’s inexplicable frenzy, her simple maternal gesture gave him hope.

  He turned to his sons’ room, a few steps away. Leaning over, he touched the older boy’s cool face. Nicholas whimpered as a much younger child would do. Ach, Nicholas, who wanted to go for a soldier. Who wanted to grow up too fast. All day, Jacob had seen the soldiers his son inexplicably revered, some scarcely older than he, and a good number not so large. Jacob rubbed the back of his neck. What could he do for this one?

  Matthias lay on the far side of the small shared bed, the light coverlet snarled in his arms and legs, even in sleep his small, wiry body mirroring his perpetual struggle with the angel of God. Quiet as a whisper, Retha leaned forward and freed Matthias from his tangle.

  “He does this every night,” she whispered, laying a hand on Jacob’s arm.

  “All his life.” Jacob felt his throat tighten with unexpected gratitude. While he had been away, she had noticed his son’s habits. She had taken care. She had cared for him, for all of them. He patted her hand on his arm and surveyed his reconstituted family. Safe and at rest.

  Angels in the moonlight, every one.

  Downstairs, Retha scrambled into their bed like a frightened rabbit into its hole, vanquishing Jacob’s moment of hope. Setting the tallow lamp on the windowsill, he hid discouragement in a Herculean struggle to take off his tight-fitting boots. Pulling up his chair, he sat and crossed his left leg on his knee and worked his heel out of his boot. Pain seared him. By the time he had worked his heel into the boot’s narrow ankle, he was sweating. He gave the boot another jerk and it came off, thumping onto the floor as he fought for balance.

  He eased off a bloody sock, picking it away from the flesh where blood had clotted and dried. He lifted his right ankle
across the other leg and applied himself to his task, cupping the boot’s heel in his hand and rocking it. Needles of fire shot through his foot. The other boot was even tighter, the other foot worse.

  Through gritted teeth, he sucked in his breath and began again. The smallest movement scoured his open wounds.

  The boot was stuck. Under the last thin light of the setting moon, he glanced at Retha’s shape, huddled on the bed. He could not tell if she were awake or asleep. He could not expect her help.

  Muttering a mild oath, he closed his eyes, exhausted. He would just sleep here, in the chair, as he had done on his wedding night. Tired to the bone, he crossed his arms across his stomach, stretched out his legs, and nodded his head.

  He could not do everything, be everyone he was expected to be.

  And he could not do it alone.

  Her face to the bedroom wall and coverlet up to her ears, Retha heard Jacob’s grunt of pain. Something thumped onto the floor. A boot, it had to be a boot. He muttered an angry phrase she couldn’t understand. And then he was silent. She waited, listening. He had to come to bed. When he did, she would be awake.

  She lost track of time. Tree frogs croaked and crickets ticked seconds, minutes. He hadn’t moved to join her. In the waning heat, an owl hooted.

  What was he waiting for? She unbent cramped limbs, propped up on one elbow, and squinted at his massive body outlined by the light of the lamp. He sat in that same chair where he had sat the morning after their wedding, half-dressed, his chin rested on his chest. Was he asleep? Or had he been badly hurt?

  She slipped out of bed to go to his side, tripped over a boot, but righted herself. One boot was on, one off, she noted, looking down with some confusion. Worry overtaking caution, she sank to the floor at his feet.

  And smelled blood, the thick tinny smell of blood. Quelling ripples of revulsion, she stood and placed a shaky hand on the back of his chair. Think, think. He needed help. She needed better light. She moved a candle stand nearer to him and set the tallow lamp on it. Then she sucked in her courage on a deep breath and knelt at Jacob’s feet, forcing herself to inspect the foot he had bared.

  His heel, toes, even the ankle bone were raw.

  More blood, she thought, quivering in anticipation of the queasy feeling that had overcome her since the day the Cherokee had found her, wandering and lost. The feeling hit her full force, but it was not the same. For this was Jacob’s blood. And he was hurt, and needed her.

  “Jacob,” she said softly, testing her voice for steadiness. He must not know how much the blood unsettled her. She gently tapped his shoulder. “We have to take off your other boot.”

  “Hmmm?” He was barely conscious.

  “That boot. We have to take it off.”

  “Cannot,” he mumbled. “Tried, before.”

  “We have to.” She tugged at his sleeve to make her point. “Now. And you should be in bed.”

  She looked at him. Weariness and pain scored new lines in his handsome face. She had to act. Her heart raced as she knelt, boldly draping his arm around her shoulder, and urged him to stand. Bracing on her, he pushed himself up.

  “Come,” she said. “Lean on me.”

  Slipping an arm around his waist, she guided him to the bed, trembling inside. He was so large, so hot. So close. She felt vulnerable, yet oddly powerful to have such a man relying on her.

  Retha’s arm around his waist jolted Jacob awake. His wife was touching him of her own accord. Though unsteady, her hands had been firm and caring. But as much as he wanted to prolong the moment, he could barely stand on his miserable feet. After easing himself down on the edge of the bed, he mutely stuck out his booted foot.

  She looked at it. “You said it wouldn’t come off.”

  “Not for me, it wouldn’t. You try.”

  Facing him, she grasped the boot’s heel and pulled. He relished the fierce concentration on her face, half-hidden by her hair falling free. But the boot wouldn’t budge, and her tugging hurt like sin. A hiss of pain escaped him.

  She stopped, shaking her hands in frustration. “I cannot do this.”

  “You can.”

  Her tone brightened. “We could cut it off and spare you.”

  “No.” He was alert enough to know he didn’t want her slicing up his only good riding boots, not with footwear at a premium because of the war. But her concern warmed him. “The worst damage is done. Try the other way.”

  “What other way?” she asked in a small voice.

  Ah, he thought. She wouldn’t know how to take off a man’s boots. A small fissure of tenderness opened in his heart at this reminder of her absolute innocence of men, their habits and their needs.

  “This way. Turn around,” he said softly, as if to a newly broken filly. He placed his hands on her hips, finding them round and firm, and turned her about. Stiff but showing no other reluctance, she let him position her straddling his leg as she faced into the room.

  He leaned back on his elbows. “Now, I brace my foot against you for balance. You grasp the boot by the heel and pull.”

  She even allowed his free foot to brace against her behind. Her firm, shapely behind. The sight of it so near, its feel, took the edge off his pain.

  Until she started pulling in earnest. A poker of pain branded his heel.

  “The slower you pull, the longer it hurts,” he said between clenched teeth.

  Obediently she leaned her weight into the boot. For a moment he banked his senses against pain by focusing on the slimness of her waist. His ploy almost worked. But as the boot came off with a tearing wrench, the black oath flew, unbidden, out of his mouth.

  “Jacob Blum!” she scolded, hanging on to the boot as she spun away and faced him. “Sister Krause would never have let me marry a man who said things like that!”

  “Hurt like the Devil,” he said meekly, although he managed a slight grin over the biting pain. He did not believe in false heroics where there was such delicious sympathy to be gained.

  But she hurried to pick up his other boot and stood the pair at the foot of the bed, escaping contact with his body. He regretted the loss, but decided to take his small gain.

  She had touched him; she had let him touch her.

  He flopped back on his bed, her bed, and laughed. He wanted to introduce Retha to every pleasure he knew and consign Sister Krause to…the sanctity of Gemein Haus with the Single Sisters.

  Retha rounded the bed and loomed over him. “Don’t you laugh,” she said with mock severity. He loved it.

  “Wouldn’t dream of laughing,” he said, struggling to hide his grin.

  “I’m not through with you.” Picking up the lamp, she whisked into the kitchen.

  Jacob was so tired and so pleased by her caring touch that he drifted off to sleep, smiling, only to be shocked awake sometime later.

  A cold, wet something touched his feet.

  “Wh-at?” He tried to sit up to see. Faint light filtered through the window.

  She had come back.

  He was instantly attuned to her presence by his bed.

  Coral sunlight profiled her face, turning it into a cameo for his own private viewing. He wanted to trail kisses down her high forehead, to the bridge of her fine, strong nose, down her nose to its tip, all the way down to her shapely lips. Where the kissing would not stop.

  “I made you a compress,” she whispered, as if she did not wish to rouse him. But he was aroused. She bent to her task at his feet.

  He watched. A thick fall of hair, its amber depths tinged gold by the dawn, floated over his feet. The slanted sun outlined his bride’s body, slender in pristine white, and meltingly desirable. His desire stirred, quickened. Astounded and yet pleased at the morning urgency that pooled and throbbed in his erection, he shifted himself in his thick traveling breeches.

  “Hold still,” she whispered again, snugging his leg to her rounded hip as if to steady it.

  How? he wanted to shout. At the moment all he felt was the inevitable urge that had
plagued him every morning since the afternoon he noticed her in the Square.

  But this time was the sweetest, and the worst. She was here, at his side, touching him of her own free will. And with no sign that he could detect of the panicked, unfathomable woman-child of their wedding night. Or of the she-wolf who had defended his children only hours ago.

  It was too soon, he warned himself. Too soon to hope her fears had been put to rest. He breathed in through clenched teeth. He would master this desire, subject it to his will and train it to her need.

  She grasped the ankle of his near leg in her hand, and he winced. But she lifted it gracefully and tenderly and set his heel onto a soothing compress. Although his mind made quick note of its wet coolness, it wasn’t the compress his body affirmed. Her slim hand rested on his leg, her round hip heated his calf.

  With the purest frustration he had ever felt, he groaned. His fatigue vanished, transmuted into more energy than he had had in a decade. He wanted to touch, kiss, claim every inch of his bride’s body; he wanted her skin rosy from touching, her face pink with exertion, her very being quivering on the edge of where he was now. He wanted her with him. Surrounding him.

  Methodically—and quite skillfully, he thought—she wrapped his other foot in some damp, cool vegetation and swathed it in a cloth.

  “There,” she said, brisk and competent. “Almost done.”

  Don’t be done, he wished but did not say. His senses on edge, he willed himself not to complain, but to lie back and wait, turning every ounce of the desire that thrummed through him into a plan of action.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Those fresh comfrey leaves should do the trick,” she said proudly.

  Fresh comfrey? He didn’t even have dried comfrey in the house, universal as the herb was as a compress for scrapes and bruises. Half wild Indian that she still was, she must have gone outside to fetch some fresh. Outside, where Moravian Sisters were forbidden to go alone at night. Outside, where embattled men prowled the woods. His trip had shown him nothing if not that. Common sense overcame the delectation of his arousal.