The Barefoot Bride (3 page)

Heath inhaled sharply. "Is Desdemona... insane?"

"She doesn't speak, and she's a bit out of touch with reality. I don't call that insane, but Grandmother would have no trouble having her committed."

"But as her adult brother, surely you have the right—"

"The courts have given Grandmother complete custody of Desdemona, and since I've no money of my own I'm not considered a suitable guardian. I have no rights at all. And Grandmother has countless law firms working for her. They're everywhere, but they've one thing in common. Satan rules them all."

"But even if startin' your own business means Desdemona goin' to an asylum, she wouldn't have to stay there for long," Heath ventured. "I know you'd make money quickly, Sax. With it, you'd win custody of Desdemona and be able to get her out of the institution."

Saxon tangled his fingers through Hagen's mane and squeezed the hair until his hand shook. "You've never seen Desdemona. She's so pale it's as if she wallowed in a tub of flour. And she's no bigger than that scrawny pine sapling over there. I know she wouldn't last a day in an asylum, much less the time it would take me to make enough money to win custody of her. I could never risk it, Heath."

"You know," Heath said thoughtfully, "I had you figured out to be a lucky man, Sax. In a lot of ways you are, but livin' with that witch grandma of yours... If I were you I'd do anything to escape her. I'd stay here in North Carolina forever. I know there's Desdemona to worry about, but at least you're free from your grandma now. Take advantage of it and enjoy the time away from her."

"Take advantage of the time away..." Saxon's head snapped up, his mind working furiously. "Heath, I'd say getting together a detailed report on the turpentine industry would take a long time. It can probably stretch into months, don't you think?"

Heath grinned.
"Many
months."

"If I were to send Grandmother a letter... tell her the research will take me months to do... If I were to tempt her with figures of all the money there is to be made here... If her greed were tickled like that, she wouldn't think of doing anything bad to Desdemona in my absence."

"It's a brilliant plan! And I know a place where she'd never be able to find you if she decided to look. She'd think the research was takin' you far and wide! It's a place where a man can enjoy all the beauty, peace, and freedom the world has to offer. Just the medicine you need, Sax."

Saxon reined in Hagen beside a pine and pulled at a piece of the bark. "Where is this utopia?"

"Western North Carolina. The Appalachia."

"The mountains?"

"I'm tellin' you, Sax, you haven't lived till you've seen the Blue Ridge. I'd tell you what it looks like, but there are no words to describe that kind of scenery."

"Where would I stay?"

Heath grinned and shook his head. "There are some inns along the way, but I recommend sleepin' right under the stars. Gets a little chilly at night, but at this time of year you aren't gonna freeze. You can make that report for the witch when you get back here. Or better yet, I'll start it for you. Do it, Sax. Go see those mountains."

Saxon smiled back, his eyes aglow. This was the perfect way to assist the Mansfields. "Tell you what, Heath. Why don't you do the entire report for me? I'll pay you well."

"The hell you will! I'll do it for nothin'."

Saxon raised an ebony eyebrow. "Sorry. If you don't take payment, I'll have to stay here and do the report myself. A damn shame, Heath. Those hills are probably just what I need."

Heath cocked his head and smirked. He was trapped, and he knew it. He held out his hand for Saxon to shake, and the deal was sealed.

As they rode back to Heath's house, Saxon was deep in thought. Postpone his return to Boston. A damn good idea. By doing it he was helping Heath and defying Araminta.

The Appalachian Mountains. Perhaps a little more uncivilized than he cared for, but anything was better than marriage.

*

The journey to the Blue Ridge had taken almost two weeks, but now, as Saxon lay back on the cool mountain ground, he was glad he'd followed Heath's advice. He had no idea which mountain he was on, and what's more, he thought with a grin, he didn't care.

Sun courted shadow here. There were miles and miles of unsurpassable beauty. Every azalea and rhododendron was ablaze with blossoms. The mountains seemed blue, but when Saxon blinked, they turned to green and then to gray and then to every imaginable color. The azure of the sky teased the emerald depths of the lush woods and, through it all, the area was splashed with the reds, yellows, whites and purples of the wildflowers—as if some mischievous angel had gotten hold of a paint palette and splattered her favorite hues.

As he stared out at the scenery, he tried to think of how to fill his time but couldn't come up with a thing to do. Soon his senses were so lulled by the mountain tranquility, he closed his eyes. As he drifted to sleep, the last thing he heard was the lullaby of the mourning dove that watched him from a flowering dogwood.

An unfamiliar sound soon awakened him. He had to shake his head several times before he realized it was a growl.

A huge black bear stood a short distance away, its enormous paws swiping at empty space as if in anticipation of clawing at flesh. Saxon scrambled up from the soft bed of tender plants he hadn't realized were the bear's meal. He walked slowly toward Hagen, dread pumping through him when he saw his horse had come untied and was free to flee if he was so inclined. "Easy, boy," he whispered to the skittish steed. "We can outrun him or shoot him. Easy, easy."

At that moment, the bear lumbered forward. Hagen reared in fright and promptly galloped into the thicket, carrying Saxon's rifle with him. Left with only a knife, Saxon cursed and snatched the blade from his boot.

He whirled to see the monster coming straight at him, the layers of fat and muscle on its tremendous body rolling up, down, and sideways. Saxon stood rooted, his entire body quivering with readiness.

But though the steel of his dagger soon disappeared into numerous places on the bear's body, the animal was merely maddened by the pain. It wrapped its thick arms around its opponent and squeezed.

Saxon's breath rushed from him. His ribs felt crushed; his blood stopped in his veins. The pressure in his head was so great, he felt it would surely burst. His arms, pinned down by his sides, lost all feeling. He could not wield his knife.

The mourning dove had fled, and the growl of the bear was the only sound he heard as he watched the slobbering monster's head descend. He saw the bear's mouth open but quickly looked away from the horrible teeth that would surely bring about his death.

As he turned away, he saw something red flash in the brush of rhododendron ahead, but before he had time to identify what it was, the bear's teeth sank into his shoulder, and the raw agony that streamed though his every nerve made him scream.

The echo of his shriek was accompanied by a blast of gunfire. With one last roar, the bear crashed to the ground, carrying Saxon with it.

Saxon managed to roll off the huge animal, and just before his eyes closed, he saw other eyes, green as the verdant mountain forest, peering down at him. The face in which they were set was freckled and tawny, and the hair that surrounded the face was long, curly, and very red.

As he lost consciousness, he could have sworn what he saw was a girl.

*

Betty Jane swiped at a cobweb that floated from the ceiling of the small log cabin and then poked Saxon's side, eliciting a low moan from her patient. "Well, he's the groanin'est man I ever laid eyes on. He ain't quit a-wailin' since Chickadee brung him."

"Iffen a bahr'd got holt o' you, you'd be a-whinin' too," her husband, George Franklin, said. He leaned back in his creaking hickory chair and began to whittle. "Wonder what he's a-doin' up here? Ain't never seed him afore."

"You don't never see nothin'. You ain't been no further'n over yonder in years," Betty Jane said, pointing toward the window. "And quit a-shovin' them shavin's all over the floor!"

George Franklin ceased whittling for a moment to push the point of his knife up into his beard and scratch his chin with it. "Reckon I go whar I have to go. Don't see no reason fer gwine nowhars else."

The loud voices woke Saxon. Immediately, he realized he was naked but couldn't understand why. He slowly opened his eyes, and through the haze of pain he saw a tiny room and meager furnishings around him. However, the bed in which he lay was soft, and the thick quilt wrapped around him lessened the chill that wracked his body.

He looked up at the old woman who stood next to the bed. "Who are you?" he whispered.

"Good, yore awake." She reached for a bottle from a table and held it to his lips. "Swaller it on down."

Saxon turned his head, the obnoxious smell of the potion warning him of its taste. "What is that?"

"Yarbs."

"Yarbs?"

"Ain't you got no yarbs whar yore from?"

He struggled to understand.

"Yarbs!" Betty Jane repeated. "What's in this here bottle is wolfbane root with a smidgeon o' snakeroot."

George Franklin flicked a wood shaving from his thigh. "Done tole you to put likker in it, Betty Jane. Them yarbs ain't gwine do nary a bit o' good withouten no likker added."

Betty Jane stared down at Saxon for a moment before she dragged a jug from beneath the bed. She uncorked it and poured a generous amount of its contents into the small bottle.

Saxon watched her every move, certain she'd poison him. "Is it possible that yarbs are herbs?"

"Iffen
herbs
be wolfbane root and snakeroot, then you figgered right." She held the bottle to his lips again. "Go on and drink it."

"What will it do to me?" Damn! Where the hell was he, and who were these people?

"Nothin' you don't need done, Betty Jane replied. "It's fer yore fever. Now drank it."

"Ain't no use in a-forcin' him to do what he ain't gwine do," George Franklin remarked. "That man's a-wantin' proof yore tonic ain't gwine kill him." He brushed more shavings off his trousers, stood, and ambled toward his wife and the injured man. Taking the bottle from Betty Jane, he tilted it to his mouth and drank deeply.

"It ain't fer you!" Betty Jane snatched the bottle away from him and pushed it into Saxon's hand.

"Go on and drink it," George Franklin advised. "She ain't gwine let up till you do. The woman's as stubborn as a blue-nosed mule."

Reassured by the fact the mountain man wasn't dead after drinking the potent liquid, Saxon downed the remainder of the herb potion. His stomach promptly revolted as the fiery brew hit it, and with clenched teeth he resisted the wave of nausea that flooded his insides.

George Franklin chortled loudly, his long beard bouncing on his concave chest. "Reckon you ain't never tasted yarbs and corn likker a-mixed together afore, have you, mister? It's them yarbs that make it bitter. The whiskey's smooth as water once yore used to it."

"Turn over and let me git a look-see at yore back agin," Betty Jane ordered. When Saxon obeyed, she picked up a few mushroom-like plants that burst open as she touched them to Saxon's skin. They spread brown powder over the claw wound. "Wrapped up them bites on yer shoulder but left this here scratch uncovered. It ain't real deep, but these here puffballs'll draw outen the pizen."

George Franklin watched the procedure with detached interest. "You orter leave him to bleed, Betty Jane. Blood's the best coverin' thur is."

She ignored her husband. "About out o' puffballs, mister, but don't you worry none. We can use cobwebs or soot till I git out fer more puffballs."

Saxon grimaced into the pillow. If he survived his wounds, he had a sneaking suspicion the woman's doctoring would kill him. "Did I see a girl with red hair and freckles, or was that my imagination?"

"Chickadee's real," Betty Jane said. "And iffen it warn't fer her, we'd be a-knockin' together yore coffin."

"A mere
girl
killed that monster with one bullet?"

"Tuk aim and farred," George Franklin said.

"Heared tell you stuck that bahr some," Betty Jane said. "But you didn't never hit nary a good spot on him."

Her husband smirked at that. "Don't take it hard, mister. A outlander like yoresef don't know much about bahrs. Chickadee's knowed fer her bahr killin'. Why, I reckon even some o' us hill folk cain't hold no candle to Chickadee McBride when it comes to bahrs."

Saxon winced with both pain and disbelief. Was it really possible a
girl
had saved his life? Dammit, what if she'd missed and killed
him
instead?

"What's yore name, mister?" Betty Jane asked. "And whar you from?"

"Saxon Blackwell. Boston, Massachusetts." He held out his hand for both people to shake.

"We're George Franklin and Betty Jane Beasley," his host said. "And since it 'pears you ain't no Fed'ral, yore welcome to stay as long as you need to."

Saxon smiled. "I'm grateful for all you've done. The medicine, the bandage, and for bringing me to your home."

"We didn't have nary a thang to do with a-brangin' you up here, Saxon," Betty Jane said. "Chickadee brung you."

Saxon tried to remember what happened after the attack, but could recall nothing. "I can't imagine how she managed to get me into her wagon, but I hope to have the opportunity to thank her soon."

"Wagon?" George Franklin grinned. "She ain't got no wagon. She packed you on her back."

"A
girl?
Carrying a man of my size?"

"Chickadee ain't no reg'lar girl," Betty Jane announced. "She can outdo most menfolks around these here parts. Got the strength o' them bahrs she kills. Wouldn't never know it to look at her, though. Some say it's her spirit that gives her strength. But she's a livin' legend, shore and sartin."

Her husband nodded. "She's a mite wild though. Cain't be brung to taw neither. Me and Betty Jane's tried to larn her what manners we know, but that girl's as hardheaded as they come. It ain't that she's a bad-un though. Got the biggest dang heart you ever come acrost, but she's tough enough to raise hell and then put a chunk under it."