Midnight Star

  He turned on his heel and strode to the door of their room. He said over his shoulder, not looking at her, “I’ll be back soon. Go to bed.” He slammed out.

  He returned late that afternoon, telling her shortly that he’d seen to buying the necessary supplies. He took her to the Colleen Restaurant, owned, he told her, by two Irishmen. After a silent meal of delicious beef stew, he took her back to the hotel and left her at the door of their room.

  She slipped between the cold sheets and felt her body slide toward the middle of the lumpy mattress. She couldn’t seem to find a prayer that covered all the problems she faced, and settled for a “Please, God, please make everything all right.”

  She heard Delaney come into the room a good hour later. He moved about quietly, but she heard the sound of his boots dropping to the wooden floor. She said nothing, pretending sleep.

  When the bed gave under his weight, she held her breath. He rolled against her, cursed long and fluently under his breath, and struggled back to his side of the bed.

  The next morning, it was Chauncey who awoke first. She struggled to a sitting position and gazed over at her husband. He was lying on his stomach, his face turned toward her on the pillow. His soft honey-colored hair was tousled, and the angry lines she’d become accustomed to seeing the past couple of days were smoothed out, making him look younger and as vulnerable as a boy. Without her conscious volition, her hand reached to touch his jaw lightly. Light brown stubble scratched against her fingers. Dear Lord, she loved him so much! But it was too late, much too late. It had been too late before she had ever met him.

  She wondered vaguely when she had begun to love him. She could still picture his twinkling eyes when he had danced with her that first night at the Stevensons’ ball, when she hadn’t yet known who he was. He had baited her, mocked her, and teased her. He had made her laugh. She thought of his hands on her body, stroking her, giving her such pleasure, and she shuddered. She had long forgotten the pain and mortification of her wedding night, but even then, she thought now, he had been tender and careful with her, careful not to offend her, careful not to hurt her. She felt a wave of utter hopelessness wash through her, and lowered her head.

  “Don’t cry, damn you!”

  She sniffed, not looking at him. “I’m not crying.”

  “Good, for I’ve given you nothing concrete to weep about!” He thrust back the covers and slid out of bed. He was naked. “You like what you see, wife?”

  She recoiled from his sneering voice. “Yes,” she said, raising her face, “I do. I always have. You are very beautiful.”

  Delaney turned his back to her, unable to think of a retort. He did not bother dressing until he’d shaved and washed. “Well,” he said, turning to her, “it’s time to get up. We’re leaving within the hour. And wear your sturdy clothes.”

  She did as he bid her. Once they were both dressed, they regarded each other with surprise. He was garbed as she’d never seen him: buckskin pants, black boots, and a full-sleeved white shirt with vest and jacket. He strapped a gunbelt about his waist.

  “You look so different,” she said.

  “And don’t you look the perfect little prairie maiden,” he said coldly, but secretly he thought she looked beautiful dressed in her wool split skirt, white blouse, her hair braided into a thick plait down her back.

  “I trust it will be appropriate,” she said.

  “Keep your jacket out. It will get chilly in the mountains.”

  “Very well,” she said.

  They packed their valises in silence, then made their way downstairs to eat in the small dining room in the hotel. “Eat up,” he said. “From now on we’ll be cooking for ourselves. Since you know nothing about it, I’ll be the chef.”

  The old man who had been at the counter served them a platter of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a pile of dry toast.

  “Yer goin’ inland?”

  Delaney nodded. “To Downieville.”

  “Chancy weather, I heard. Long ride.”

  “A good seventy miles overland. Any Indians about?”

  “Always are. Bloody beggars are always gettin’ their dander up and causin’ trouble. Yer missus travelin’ with ye?”

  “Yes.”

  “Awful purty, beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am. Don’t see too many ladies like ye about. Ye dress warm, ma’am.”

  Chauncey smiled at him, for his were the first kind words she’d heard in many days.

  “Buy yerself some gloves, else you’ll regret it.”

  Delaney frowned. He’d forgotten about gloves. He looked at her soft white hands.

  “It’s all right, Del,” she said quickly. “I know you want to get an early start. I don’t need gloves.”

  “Of course you do. I’ll wake up old Joe Cribbs at the general store. Now, finish your breakfast. It will be the last good meal you’ll have in about three days.”

  She lowered her head and ate.

  Why, he asked himself yet again, had he brought her? And why did he want to travel overland to Downieville? More time alone with her, you ass.

  They rode northeast, Delaney setting a brisk pace. They stayed within sight of the Yuba River, passing miners standing knee-deep in the water, and small camps. Delaney didn’t stop, nor did he speak to her. The sun was high in the sky when he finally called a halt. Chauncey slipped down from her mare’s back and felt her legs wobble a bit. She hadn’t ridden for such a length of time since she was sixteen. She stamped her feet a bit and wandered to the edge of a bluff that overlooked the Yuba River. God, but it was beautiful! She flung her arms wide, embracing the grandeur of the giant fir trees that studded the hills all about them. The gentle barren rolling hills had ceased about an hour before. “I feel as if I’m the first person ever to be here,” she said aloud. “Like I’m an artist who sees a painting no one else has ever seen.”

  Delaney well understood her awe. He felt it himself each time he journeyed to Downieville overland. He said, “Wear your hat. The sun is hot and you’re burning.”

  She shot him a look from the corner of her eye. “Excuse me,” she said, and walked toward a clump of bushes.

  When she emerged, Delaney handed her a thick slice of bread spread with a dubious mixture. All she recognized were beans. She ate, not wanting to know the ingredients.

  “I smell like a horse,” she said.

  “You’ll not notice how either of us smell by tomorrow.”

  “It is so peaceful here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will all the scenery be so beautiful, the land so wild?”

  “No, not unless we go inland from the river. Even now, we’re but two or three miles from a mining camp.”

  “Will we see Indians?”

  “Most likely.”

  “What are they like?”

  “For the most part, they’re harmless, and helpless. It seems that for every one of us to come to California, one more of them dies. There are renegades, but to survive, they live deep in the forests. Are you finished eating?”

  She handed him her plate, and he simply looked at it. “Rub it out with sand. I doubt there are any servants within hearing distance.”

  “You have but to tell me what to do, Del,” she said, looking at him steadily.

  “Rub it out with sand,” he repeated.

  Together they repacked the supply bags. Chauncey felt her muscles beginning to tighten and looked askance at her mare, Dolores. But Delaney had mounted gracefully and was giving her a silent, mocking glance.

  She climbed into the saddle. At least she was riding astride. She couldn’t begin to imagine enduring in a sidesaddle.

  They moved a good mile inland, and there were no trails. For the most part, their horses walked, avoiding the thick brambles. Chauncey no longer heard the birds singing. She was growing less enthralled with the grandeur of the hills and forest. Her bottom felt raw, her legs numb.

  She said nothing. She had promised she wouldn’t slow him down, and she had no intention of compl
aining. She’d fall off her mare first.

  Delaney saw her exhaustion and pushed another mile. He halted in a small clearing beside a glitteringly clear creek. “We’ll stop here for the night. Rub down the horses, Chauncey, and see that they’re well-tethered.”

  He paid her no more attention.

  She sent a scathing look toward his back, gritted her teeth, and dismounted. Her legs collapsed and she clung to the pommel. Muscles in her thighs that she’d never dreamed existed were screaming.

  “See to it, Chauncey! And collect some firewood. I’m going hunting.”

  She whirled around, her tortured muscles momentarily forgotten. “No,” she called after him in a panic. “Don’t leave me alone!”

  Delaney turned and shifted his hat back on his forehead. “Even proper little English ladies have to pay for their supper. I’ll be back soon. Just stick close to the horses after you’ve done your chores.”

  She stared after him as he disappeared into the trees, his rifle tucked under his arm.

  “Sneering, unfeeling bastard,” she said under her breath. “All right, Dolores, off with your saddle! Hank,” she continued to Delaney’s bay stallion, “you’re next. Stop snorting at me and don’t be so impatient.”

  An hour later, Chauncey was grinning to herself and warming her hands over the small fire she’d built. The bedrolls were laid out, the horses tethered close by, and at least her face and hands were clean. She sat cross-legged by the fire and leaned forward, cupping her chin against her fisted hands. The sun was near to setting. She tried to concentrate on the beauty of her surroundings, but failed miserably. The air grew chill, the silence deafening. She cried out at the sudden sharp report of a rifle.

  “Talk to yourself, idiot. Yes, that’s it. Hello, Dolores, Hank. Is the grass good? I don’t think you need any more water.”

  Dolores whinnied.

  Chauncey rose quickly to her feet, and weaved where she stood. Her muscles had tightened and cramps ripped through her. She was rubbing her bottom when Delaney emerged into the small clearing, a dead rabbit held in his hand. It was all Chauncey could manage not to flinch away.

  She gulped and took a step backward, her expression appalled.

  “Don’t worry,” Delaney said, “I won’t ask you to soil your pretty hands. Nor do I want you to vomit on our dinner.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She simply couldn’t bear to see him skin the rabbit. She walked around the perimeter of their camp, trying to avoid looking at him and his revolting task, and easing her muscles.

  “We’ll eat in about twenty minutes,” she heard him say. “Come here, and keep turning the rabbit on the spit. I’m going to bathe.”

  When he returned, he was shrugging back into his shirt. The water was frigid. Had he stripped and jumped in?

  “I built the fire,” she said, her voice a bit sharp. Damn him! She wasn’t about to admire the play of muscles across his chest.

  “Yes, I see. Matches are a great invention, are they not? Next time, build it more loosely, so air can circulate beneath. Like this.”

  She watched silently at he took several sticks and balanced them upright so they came together in a cone.

  “The rabbit is done,” she said.

  “Burned to a crisp, rather.”

  “I set out the dishes and bedrolls.”

  “And talked at great length to the horses.”

  He’d heard her! “They are about the only amiable company I’ve found!”

  He squatted in front of the fire and began to pull the burned meat from the bones. “Didn’t you open any beans?”

  “No.” She stared at the rabbit meat, burned on the outside and quite rare on the inside.

  “Watch me do it,” he said.

  They ate in silence. Chauncey didn’t want to talk; she wanted to curl up, wrap herself in the bedroll, and groan her muscles to sleep. She eyed her bedroll laid out on the other side of the fire and moaned at the thought of getting to it. Perhaps she could crawl, or maybe roll.

  “Next time, keep turning the meat.”

  “I thought it delicious,” Chauncey snapped, her fingers tightening around a bone.

  “Are you finished?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll sand out the plates while you collect more firewood. There are all sorts of interesting beasts in the forest. I don’t want to share my bedroll with any of them.”

  Collect more firewood! She pulled herself to her knees. There wasn’t a bush or anything to use as a support. Didn’t he feel any discomfort at all? He was striding about as if he’d just gotten out of bed after a wonderful night’s sleep. Get up, Chauncey!

  She did, but found after leaning over to pick up some dead branches, that she couldn’t move. She tossed her small collection beside the fire and collapsed on her bedroll.

  Delaney’s eyebrow shot up. He knew she was in agony. His muscles were a bit sore, and he was used to riding goodly distances. He strode to his valise and withdrew a small jar. He tossed it onto her lap. “It’s liniment. It smells like manure, but it works. Rub it on your thighs and your bottom.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He went to collect more firewood, leaving her alone. She managed to pull off her skirt, boots, and underthings. She opened the jar and was rocked back at the dreadful smell. Manure! More like three-day-old dead fish! Still, she dipped a glob on her fingers and resolutely began to rub the chilly cream into her screaming thigh muscles.

  She finished her legs and sat feeling like an utter fool. How the devil was she to do her bottom?

  “Turn over on your stomach.”

  He was standing over her, legs spread, his hands on his hips. He looked like some kind of desperado, a word she’d heard Lucas use.

  “More modesty? I’ve made a thorough study of your charms. Did you not promise that you wouldn’t delay me? You won’t be able to sit your mare tomorrow without my . . . assistance. Now, turn over.”

  She tugged her shirt over her thighs and slowly eased onto her stomach. She reared up when she felt her hips bared.

  “Just hold still.” He straddled her, his knees on either side of her thighs. She felt his fingers coated with the cream touch her buttocks.

  Delaney stared down at his wife’s beautiful white hips and saw the beginnings of bruises. He didn’t gentle his touch, but kneaded her soft flesh deeply and firmly. She groaned, but he pressed his hand into the small of her back to keep her from moving. God, but he wanted her! He sucked in his breath and continued rubbing her, stroking her. His fingers slid between her thighs, and he felt the heat of her.

  All he had to do was flip her onto her back and take her. He quickly wiped the liniment from his hand. His finger found her and slowly began to ease inside her.

  She wanted to cry and yell at him at the same time. She heard his jerky breathing, felt his finger probing. “How much do you intend to pay me?”

  His finger thrust deep within her.

  “Stop it! Damn you, don’t!” She tried to jerk away from him, but his knees were on either side of her thighs, and she couldn’t move.

  “You’re my wife, and I’ll take you when and where I want to.”

  “You don’t want me, you just want to punish me and hurt me!”

  His finger eased out of her and he pressed his hand under her to cup her. “Yes, I want you, wife, and if you would but touch yourself as I am doing, you’d see that you are as ready as a bitch in heat.”

  He moved his palm to her belly and she felt her own wetness on her fingers. Why not? she thought blankly to herself. At least for a few moments he would forget his anger. For a few moments he would respond to her as he used to.

  “Very well,” she said softly.

  24

  He went still. I am a civilized man, he thought, not some miserable savage. But she wants you!

  He shook his head. He didn’t know what she wanted. Slowly he eased his hand from under her and rose to his feet. He saw that her shoulders were shaking, and she’d
buried her face in her crossed arms.

  “You do smell like a horse,” he said, turning away from her to stand by the small fire. “Dress yourself. A lady shouldn’t lie about bare-assed.”

  She wasn’t crying, she was too angry to shed more tears. His crude words hit her, and her fury grew. Slowly she turned onto her back and raised herself on her elbows. She was naked from the waist down and made no move to pull her shirt over her body.

  “You don’t smell too sweet yourself,” she said furiously at his back. She willed him to turn around.

  He did, and nearly stumbled at the sight of her. “Dress yourself,” he repeated.

  “Why?” she asked, stretching slightly, arching her back a bit. “You are my husband. As you said, you’re thoroughly familiar with all my charms.”

  She was trying to put the boot on the other foot, and succeeding. He felt a bolt of admiration for her slash through him, and said coldly, “If you don’t cover yourself now, madam, I will take you. Very quickly. You won’t enjoy it, I promise you that.”

  She didn’t move, only stared at him, her eyes luminous and unreadable in the dim campfire.

  He began to unfasten the buttons of his buckskins. “You are willing to risk a babe in your belly when you return to England?”

  He was a stranger to her in that moment, and she sought desperately to find the man she loved. “Will you never forgive me? Will you never try to understand?”

  His desire was gone, and he wanted to laugh at the irony of it. Even if he wanted to punish her, he doubted he could do it. “I am going to relieve myself,” he said, and strode into the darkness.

  When he returned, she was covered with a blanket and lying on her side, her eyes closed.

  His voice awoke her the next morning. She blinked awake and groaned. The ground, she thought inconsequentially, was not the same as a bed. She gritted her teeth and got to her feet. It was cold, the sun just breaking through the heavy foliage overhead.

  “Collect firewood.”

  She said nothing, and did as he bid. Her muscles eased somewhat with the task. She was beginning to feel human again. How, she wondered, could people live like this day after day?