Nan Ryan (26 page)

At least Jolly was too tired.

The two of them had been playing cowboys and Indians, taking turns being the cowboy. Shooting each other, groaning and falling to the grass, then leaping up and running again.

Finally, puffing and out of breath, Jolly had made it over to the new wooden staircase leading down to the bay. He dropped wearily down on the top step to rest.

Fanning himself with his battered straw hat and wiping his flushed face with a handkerchief, Jolly grinned over his shoulder at Charlie and said, “Pardner, you can put away your six-shooters. This old Indian chief is a goner. Just carry my bones back to my people.”

Charlie giggled, shoved his imaginary twin pistols back into their imaginary holsters, and dropped down on the wooden step beside Jolly. Barefooted and wearing nothing but a pair of short trousers, he was dirty from head to toe.

He sat still for only a second, then asked, “Want to play hide-and-go-seek now?”

Jolly smiled at the rambunctious boy. “Chappie, I’m afraid I’m at the end of my tether.”

Charlie made a face. Then quickly smiled again. “Want to see me turn somersaults?”

“Do flowers bloom in Alabama in the springtime?”

“Does that mean no or yes?” Charlie, puzzled, cocked his head to one side.

“Yes,” Jolly said, ruffling Charlie’s blond hair and laughing. “I would sure enjoy seeing you turn some fancy somersaults.”

Charlie was up off the steps in a burst of new energy. Shouting to Dom to stay clear, he raced out onto the lawn, then abruptly fell forward to place head and hands on the soft grass and flip over onto his back.

Jolly enthusiastically applauded, so Charlie leaped up and repeated the stunt. Again to loud applause. Charlie kept at it, turning somersaults all over the expanse of the grassy front yard, getting so caught up in the exercise, he never noticed when Jolly stopped clapping.

In a dizzy upside down world all his own, the dirty little boy tumbled and rolled and flopped about all across the big yard, perfecting his acrobatic skills, enjoying himself immensely. Losing all track of time and place, he repeatedly turned somersaults, until at last he lay woozily flat on his back in the grass directly in front of the house. Far away from the wooden steps and Jolly.

Charlie had finally had enough. He rose, brushed grass blades off his chest and legs, turned, and saw Jolly lying stretched out beside the boxwood hedge bordering the yard. Charlie immediately clapped his hands together and laughed. Jolly was playing cowboys and Indians again! Jolly was playing like he’d been shot.

Jolly was playing dead.

Clapping his hands in delight, Charlie said, “That’s good, Jolly!”

Laughing, he took a couple of eager steps toward the dead Indian chief, expecting Jolly to jump up and laugh. But Jolly didn’t jump up. Jolly didn’t move. Jolly didn’t laugh. Jolly continued to lie there sprawled out on the lawn, playing dead.

“Jolly?” Charlie quit laughing and his blue eyes clouded a little. “Jolly, get up,” he called softly, tired of the game now, ready for Jolly to quit being a dead Indian. Ready to play something else. “Jolly, stop it,” he said, beginning to get angry at his playmate. “You just stop it!”

Jolly didn’t stop it. Jolly paid no attention. Jolly didn’t move. Jolly continued to lie there, refusing to get up.

Charlie stopped when he was still several yards away. He stared at the white-haired old gentleman stretched out on the grass with his eyes closed. So quiet. So still. So lifeless.

“Jolly,” Charlie said in a soft, uneasy whisper. “Jolly, answer me.”

Charlie was frightened now. Suddenly he remembered another summer day, another house with a big front yard, another white-haired man lying still and quiet back in Mississippi. His Grandpa Whitney wouldn’t answer him either, wouldn’t get up, wouldn’t move.

Charlie tried hard not to cry. He didn’t want to cry. Jolly never cried. The captain never cried. Only girls cried. And babies. He hated to cry, but tears were stinging his eyes. His throat hurt really bad and he was shaking like it was cold.

He couldn’t move any closer to Jolly. He tried to make himself go out to where the white-haired man lay so still and quiet, but he was afraid. Instead of going forward, Charlie started backing away. He kept backing up until he reached the steps of the front porch.

Charlie began to scream.

Helen and Kurt heard the scream, stopped laughing, froze, and looked at each other in horror. Then in an instant Kurt had pulled the boot from his foot and Helen had jerked off her petticoat. One boot off, one on, Kurt raced through the house with Helen right on his heels. Outside, Kurt snatched his screaming son up from the ground and into his arms.

“Charlie, what is it? What is it, honey? Are you hurt?” Kurt’s tone was anxious, his heart hammering.

Face chalk-white, Helen rushed to the pair, threw protective arms around both man and boy and pressed her cheek to Charlie’s little bare back.

“Jolly’s dead! Jolly’s dead!” cried Charlie, his short arms gripping his father’s neck, tears streaming down his face.

Charlie’s scream had roused Jolly from his nap. Alarmed, he came hurrying across the yard, a worried look on his face.

“No, Charlie,” Kurt consoled him, “Jolly’s not dead. Jolly’s right—”

“He’s dead! He’s dead,” cried Charlie, his small body jerking with sobs. “I saw him! I saw him dead on the ground like Grandpa Whitney!”

“No, Charlie, darling,” cooed Helen, pressing her lips to Charlie’s warm grass-stained back. “Jolly’s all right. Shhh, shhh.”

“Hey, sport,” called Jolly, lumbering up out of breath, “here I am! Look at me. Look here, Charlie.”

Helen stepped back then, placed a hand over her rapidly beating heart, and drew a long, shaky breath.

“You see,” said Kurt. “What did I tell you? Jolly’s right here and he’s just fine. See for yourself.”

Sobbing and gasping, Charlie’s blond head came up off his father’s shoulder. He looked around, saw Jolly smiling at him, and reached anxiously out to touch his weathered face.

“You … you sc-scared me … Jolly,” blubbered Charlie, his body still jerking.

“I’m sorry, Charlie, my boy,” murmured Jolly, covering the small fingers resting on his face with his own large hand. “Old Jolly was just taking a nap, that’s all.”

“I … I … thought you … were dead,” sniffed Charlie, his tears leaving twin paths down his dirty face.

Jolly drew Charlie’s small hand to his mouth, kissed it, and placed it back on Kurt’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Charlie. Forgive me.”

Jolly stepped back beside Helen, put an arm around her. She touched her head to his shoulder and sighed with relief. Kurt smiled at the pair over Charlie’s head and sat down on the porch steps.

Holding Charlie close in his arms, Kurt said against the fine feathery blond hair of the little boy’s head, “Charlie, sweetheart, Jolly isn’t going to die. Not for a long, long time.”

Charlie lifted his head, looked into his father’s eyes. “Grandpa Whitney died.”

“I know. But he was very sick. Jolly isn’t.”

Charlie’s short fingers clung to the collar of Kurt’s gray chambray shirt. “He’s not going to die like Grandpa Whitney?”

“No, he’s not.”

Charlie gasped for a breath. “Will Helen?”

Kurt shook his head. “No, Helen isn’t going to die either.”

Charlie gasped for a breath. “Mommy died.”

“Yes, I know. She was real sick, like Grandpa and Grandma Whitney.”

“They died and left me by myself,” Charlie sadly told Kurt.

“That won’t happen again, Charlie.”

Wiping his tears on the back of his hand, Charlie looked directly into Kurt’s green eyes. “You sure? I’m afraid that—”

“Don’t be afraid. Jolly and Helen aren’t sick. They aren’t going to be sick.”

“Are you?”

“No. No,” Kurt said, looking his son squarely in the eye. “Why, I’m so big and strong I bet I can carry you on my shoulders all the way down to the quarters for a bath.” He grinned reassuringly at Charlie.

Charlie didn’t smile, but his narrow shoulders slumped with relief. He cupped Kurt’s tanned cheeks in his small hands and affectionately patted his face.

Earnestly he asked, “You won’t ever leave me, will you,
Daddy?
”

“Never,” promised Kurt, his voice gone rough with emotion.

Chapter Thirty

M
oved by the touching scene she’d witnessed between father and son, Helen couldn’t put it out of her thoughts. All that evening she could think of nothing else. In her mind’s eye she kept seeing the usually cool, imperious Kurt Northway badly shaken by his son’s scream. Then lovingly holding the crying, frightened Charlie in his comforting arms. Gently cradling Charlie’s small blond head to his chest. Softly assuring the little boy that no one else he loved was going to die and leave him.

The warm, caring way in which Kurt had handled Charlie revealed a gentleness she hadn’t known was there. A gentleness made all the more appealing because it was in such stark contrast to his dark, dangerous good looks. To see a man so ruggedly attractive and sexually threatening show such uncommon sensitivity made Helen more curious than ever.

In her woman’s romantic heart, she couldn’t help but wonder about him as a lover. All this time she had supposed he would be passionate and exciting. Now she was convinced he would be caring and gentle as well. The idea of the handsome, hot-blooded Kurt being an infinitely patient lover brought heat to Helen’s face, caused her pulse to flutter.

She shook her head and dismissed such indecent notions.

She put aside the book she’d been holding unread, turned out the parlor lamp, and rose. It was past bedtime. Almost midnight. She should try to get some rest.

Helen went dispiritedly to her bedroom. She didn’t feel tired. It was so hot and sultry she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Besides, the moonlight streamed in through the double doors and fell directly across her bed.

Restlessly she roamed the silent bedroom. She looked at herself in the beveled glass atop the bureau. She frowned, plucked the pins from her hair, and picked up her hairbrush. Pulling the soft-bristled brush through the heavy golden locks, she walked over to the night table beside her bed.

She smiled, laid the brush aside, and picked up the delicate mother-of-pearl barrette. She held the clasp in the palm of her hand and ran the tip of her forefinger fondly over the smooth surface. After a minute, she started to place it back on the table, changed her mind, grabbed a thick wedge of flowing hair at the right side of her head, and slid the clasp up into it. When she’d fastened the clasp, she ventured back over to the mirror.

She liked the way she looked with her hair swept dramatically back on one side, her right ear and throat exposed. She grinned impishly, reached up, and tugged the wide boat neck of her faded work dress down off her right shoulder. She smiled foolishly at herself in the mirror, then immediately sighed and turned away.

Helen was outside before she knew that was where she meant to go. Exiting the open French doors of her bedroom, she casually glanced in the direction of the quarters. Seeing no lights, she shrugged and strolled leisurely around the wide gallery to the front of the house.

Hesitating, she stood at the front railing looking out at the bay. The night was almost achingly beautiful. A near full moon silvered the calm protected waters and gilded the tall pines. A myriad of night sounds rose from the dense jungle foliage decorating the bluffs, and somewhere in the distance a panther called plaintively to his mate. A gentle but warm breeze off the bay lifted wisps of Helen’s loose hair and stirred the ivory magnolias, heavily perfuming the sultry air.

Helen drew a deep, slow breath.

Every sight and sound and smell registered as if her senses were unusually keen on this hauntingly beautiful summer night. The splendor of it was breathtaking. The yearning it inspired was sweet pain. The physical longing it aroused was as elemental and as old as time itself.

And then, as if the fates had heard the silent calling of her lonely heart, Kurt Northway suddenly appeared. Softly speaking her name so that he wouldn’t frighten her, he stepped out of the nighttime quiet and into the moonlight. Her hands gripping the white gallery railing, Helen watched, speechless, as he walked directly below her.

Strangely, his presence did not surprise her. It seemed natural. As if the two of them had planned to meet here in the moonlight on this bewitchingly beautiful night.

Kurt came unhurriedly toward the porch steps, moving with that natural fluid grace. The moonlight glinting on his jet-black hair left his tanned face in shadow. He wore a freshly laundered shirt of snowy white, open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up. His trousers were of fine black linen, crisply creased and falling just to the instep of his polished black leather shoes.

Helen suddenly wished that she had changed. That she had worn something pretty and fresh. She was in an old work dress of faded calico with narrow skimpy skirts, the low loose neck sagging down on her bare shoulder. And she had left her shoes in the bedroom. Should she yank her dress back up on her shoulder and go inside for her shoes?

It was too late. He’d already caught her.

Kurt slowly ascended the porch steps, nodded his dark head, smiled, and said simply, “Evening, ma’am.”

“Captain,” she replied.

He stood in shadow, looking at her, the power of his eyes undiminished by the darkness. “I like your hair swept back that way,” he said.

“Thanks,” was all she could manage.

Moving into a wedge of bright moonlight, he explained he was concerned his restless thrashing would disturb the slumbering Charlie. Then he asked, “Mind if I join you? Just for a minute.”

“No. Certainly not,” Helen said, bending her knees slightly so that her skirts would hide her bare feet. Anxiously she tugged the dress back up on her shoulder.

Kurt smiled and said, “I liked it better the other way.”

She gave no response. Instead she asked how Charlie was. Kurt told her Charlie was fine, that the two of them had spent the evening together talking, Charlie asking many questions, and Kurt answering as best he could. She said she was glad to hear it. For the next few minutes they discussed Charlie and the events of the afternoon.