Spring Blossom (30 page)

Margaret felt that her life had begun again;
she was reborn through the eyes of Hunter Maguire. He had taken to
wife a woman who had thought to remain always alone, and he had
rebuilt her confidence and her desire to live life to the fullest.
He told her she was special, and she felt special. He told her she
was loved, and she felt loved. He told her she was a sweet innocent
and she believed him. And, wonder of wonders, he told her she was
beautiful, and she felt beautiful. The small scar below her cheek
and the much larger, more worrisome scars inside her began to fade
under his persistence.

Margaret Downing Maguire began to break
free. She set her anger and resentment aside and began to learn
from others the way to truly live, love and share.

And all because of one stubborn
half-Cherokee who remembered an engaging child and coaxed her into
become a woman.

A celebration of sorts took place in late
September when Marie-Louise announced, much to the chagrin of her
red-faced husband, that she was expecting their first child.

“A baby!” Marie-Louise cried, falling into
her friend’s arms when she and Margaret were alone.

“You can’t believe it?” Margaret asked,
joining in the exultation of the younger woman.

“It seemed we’ve waited forever.”

Maggie, for now she truly thought of herself
as Hunter’s ‘Maggie’, looked around the yard, well beyond the point
where the two women sat on the porch. Satisfied that they were
alone, she asked, “How did you know?”

“What?” her friend returned,
disbelieving.

“What were the signs?”

Marie-Louise told her.

*

There came a chill day in late October when
Maggie and Marie-Louise worked for endless hours salting and
dressing a pig and a deer for winter. The men had built substantial
fires in the yard away from the house and hung two giant black
caldrons low over the open flames so that the women could cook
every last piece of edible meat.

Maggie was stirring brine in a deep barrel
while Marie-Louise cleaned sausage casings. Maggie spied her
husband forking hay from a flat wagon near the barn. He had removed
his light jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves high up on his arms;
his skin would be scratched and pricked raw by evening, she knew.
She would have the tin of salve waiting that night in their room.
Standing on her toes, Maggie waved, smiling when he returned the
greeting.

“I’m waiting for another celebration,”
Marie-Louise said slyly, and Maggie turned a curious frown her way.
“You two are almost as bad as Jeffrey and I are,” she teased. “The
way you’re going, you’re bound to get caught soon.”

Maggie laughed a little and then grew
strangely serious. “Do you think I’m barren, Marie-Louise?” she
asked quietly. “I had to turn him away just this week.”

“Piddle pups!” the younger woman announced
and moved to Maggie’s side, placing a reassuring hand on her
shoulder. “You’ve only been married a few months. And you got a
late start, as I remember. Besides, I was forever getting around to
this, and it wasn’t for lack of tryin’.”

Maggie smiled thankfully. Then, as she
turned her head toward the other woman, she saw a single rider
storming toward the barn. “Who could that be?” she asked.

Marie-Louise turned to see a man jumping
from a lathered horse then handing something to Hunter. “Somebody
from town, maybe,” she mumbled. “About the auction, do you
think?”

Maggie shook her head, not knowing why a man
would rush so to their home. He spoke only briefly to her husband,
and then Hunter was shaking hands before the man mounted his horse
and rode off at a much slower pace.

Maggie let go of the wooden paddle she had
been using and watched across the distance, lifting her apron and
wiping her hands as Hunter studied a piece of paper before raising
his head and looking in their direction.

“It’s a letter,” Maggie whispered and broke
into a smile. “From my father and sisters perhaps!”

She broke into a run then, lifting her plain
woven skirt to her knees as she made a path toward him. Only when
she realized he was not hurrying to show her the letter did Maggie
stop in confusion. “Is it from Pap?” she called.

Hunter shook his head, quickening his pace
to reach her, wondering why God had set him to tell her.

“Let’s go into the house,” he said when he
stood before her.

Maggie shook her head, looking down at the
crumpled paper in his hand. “I want to see the letter, Hunter,” she
said reasonable. She did not like the way he was behaving, and
began backing away from him.

“Maggie,” he said softly, reaching out
toward her and staring into her trouble yes. “It isn’t a letter,
pet,” he said quietly. “Not the sort you might be expecting. It’s a
brief message from Denise…about your father.”

Maggie avoided his hand, knowing
instinctively that he was conveying bad news. “Let me see it!”

“I’ll tell you,” he said softly, the pain in
his gut growing as he watched a worried frown creep across her
pretty face. “Your father…”

Maggie instinctively knew what he was about
to say before the words could leave his mouth. “No!” she cried and
turned to run from him.

Hunter caught her with little effort, his
long legs taking only seconds to gain her side. And then he grasped
both of her upper arms. “Maggie…”

“He’s dead!” she cried. “Don’t tell me
that!”

“I’m sorry, darling,” he said and pulled
upward on her arms as her knees seemed no longer able to support
her. “Oh, Maggie,” he whispered, pulling her up against his chest.
“I’m so sorry.”

Marie-Louise had run the length of the yard
by now and stood staring at them in alarm.

Hunter looked at her with a worried frown.
“It’s Maggie’s father,” he explained and stooped to pick his wife
up in his arms. “Come with us to the house,” he added, and
Marie-Louise fell into step beside him.

“Tell me you’re lying,” Maggie cried against
his neck, but she knew he wouldn’t lie to her, and her arms
tightened around him, seeking his always calming support. “How can
it be?”

Hunter’s arms tightened around her. “I don’t
know, my love,” he breathed against her ear. He wanted desperately
to absorb her pain, and yet he knew he could not.

Maggie continued to cry, drenching his shirt
with her heart-breaking tears, as Marie-Louise darted ahead and
held open the door for him.

“
If you want to take her
into the parlor,” she said, “I’ll fetch some water.”

Marie-Louise sped into the room while Hunter
sat in a large chair before the cold fire, his weeping wife held
firmly against his chest. He nodded and smiled when Marie-Louise
held up his precious bottle of fine brandy.

“I want to go home, Hunter,” Maggie
whispered brokenly against his shoulder.

Hunter accepted a plain glass half filled
with brandy. “I know, love,” he said softly, “and I’ll take you
there. Drink some of this now.” He held the glass close to her
mouth, but she would not lift her head to drink. “Come now,” he
ordered, and Maggie automatically obeyed his tone of command.

Marie-Louise, not know what to do or how
else to help, began to build a fire against the late afternoon
chill. She felt badly for her dear friend, and her eyes kept
darting back over her shoulder, seeing Hunter’s strong hand
stroking his young wife’s back. And then he seemed to notice her
own despair and held out a hand to her.

“Come along,” he said softly, and
Marie-Louise moved quickly across the few paces between them,
dropping to her knees, her side against Hunter’s thigh.

“I’m sorry, Maggie,” she whispered.

CHAPTER 22

“It looks tired and care-ridden,” Maggie
murmured.

Hunter ducked his head toward her. “Pardon,
darling?” he asked, and she repeated her comment. Hunter had her
tucked close against his side as the rented hack drove them from
the train depot to Treemont. They were entering the grounds now,
and Hunter tried to view her home as Maggie was seeing it.

“I hadn’t noticed before,” she continued
softly as her eyes roamed her beloved home. “Being away…coming
back…I hadn’t realized until now.”

In fact Hunter had noticed last summer that
the place could use a bit of refurbishing, but times had been hard
for most southerners and he had thought nothing of it at the time;
seeing the place again in such a state of deterioration weighed
heavily upon his heart.

Maggie had not slept properly or taken much
food for the past forty-eight hours. She was worried about her
sisters and about Treemont, but she had not yet begun to miss her
father; that would come later.

“You mustn’t worry about the farm, Maggie,”
he said softly. “Leave that to me. Right now there is something of
greater importance we must discuss.”

She turned her face up to him then.

He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose,
the most aggressive action he had offered for two days. He had
simply held her when she needed holding and listened when she chose
to talk. “I love you,” he said. “Remember that.”

“Is that what you want to discuss?” she
asked blankly and he shook his head. She was serious; not a laugh
line crinkled around her eyes.

“I want to discuss your sisters, little
one,” he said. “Denise will soon be off and married, but Florence
and Jennifer will have abundant fears.”

“Denise cannot marry now,” she returned
quickly.

He silenced her with a forefinger against
her lips. “We’ll discuss Denise and Timothy’s situation with them
in due course. For now I think we must reassure Jennifer and
Florence that they will always have a home with us.”

Margaret Downing Maguire stared intently at
her husband, her blue eyes moist, purple circles of fatigue
outstanding below her fair lashes, and then she reached up and put
both arms around his neck. “You would take them in?” she asked.

Hunter wrapped his arms around her and
squeezed gently. “Of course we will,” he said lightly. “They are
sweet innocents, and they’re your sisters. Of course they will live
with us.”

“I thought you might expect Denise…”

“Denise is not much more than a girl
herself, and she has a new life to start. She cannot care for two
younger sisters and I would never dream of asking it. You and I are
much more suited and much more established. We’ll care for them and
love them, Maggie.”

Maggie dropped her arms from around his neck
and wrapped them around his back as she settle herself comfortably,
her cheek against his chest. He was large and warm and secure. He
was becoming day and night, and all seasons. He was a man to be
reckoned with when he set his mind to something, but he was, above
all else, a man of gentle, loving ways. He was her cherished
husband.

“You are a remarkable man, Hunter
Maguire.”

“I’m a simple man,” he returned.

“A loving man,” she breathed. “A man a woman
could love.”

He waited, holding his breath as he prayed
for her to continue, for her to at last confess that she loved
him.

“I think I do,” she said in a voice that was
so soft he could barely hear, a voice that quavered with
fatigue.

He waited still another long moment before
smiling his understanding, his right hand coming up to stroke her
cheek. “You’ll let me know when you’ve come to a decision?” he
teased, knowing she was too weary to jest in return. He knew only
that he’d had to lighten the moment, for his heart’s sake.

Maggie knew only that her feelings toward
him had changed greatly. She did not know if these feelings could
be called love, but she seriously thought it to be true. Hunter had
become important to her in so many ways. There were days when she
felt she breathed when he breathed. His happiness and comfort had
become important to her. Yes, she supposed she was in love. Quite
desperately in love.

Hunter felt Maggie stiffen against him as
she raised her head and realized they were approaching the house
now. She pushed away from him, smoothed the skirt of her traveling
suit, and turned her head his way after she had surveyed the people
who had emerged from the front door of the stately old homestead.
She looked sad and devastated in that moment and Hunter reached out
to grip her hand as he silently wished again that he could save her
from this pain of loss.

“It…won’t be the same,” she murmured.

He smiled reassuringly. “No, it won’t, my
darling.” There were no words of wisdom to offer her, and they both
understood that.

All three sisters were waiting for the
approach of the hack. Timothy Fletcher, Denise’s fiancé, stood
behind them. Hunter had met the younger man only once and had been
impressed with this quiet doctor who was so obviously devoted to
Denise. That was just as well, he thought now, for they would soon
be related by marriage, and he and Timothy would no doubt have many
long discussions about the care of the Downing girls and the fate
of Treemont.

Hunter alighted first from the carriage and
turned to help his wife, who was quickly surrounded by three
weeping young women. Over Maggie’s head, he nodded to Tim, who had
chosen to stay back a pace or two. Hunter then placed a reassuring
hand lightly on Maggie’s shoulder.

Young Jennifer broke away first and ran to
him, tears flowing freely down her ivory cheeks.

Hunter’s heart twisted as he held out his
arms to her. “Hello, monkey,” he said softly as she ran hard
against him, her cheek against his waist as she wrapped her thin
arms around him.

“We lost our papa,” she cried.

Hunter bent and picked her up, and
Jennifer’s head dropped naturally, trustingly to his shoulder. “I
know, sweetheart,” he said.

Maggie watched him holding her sister.
Jennifer was too big to be held like that, but against Hunter’s
greater size she seemed small and vulnerable. And, with Florence
tucked under one arm, Maggie found herself stepping next to him
again, slipping her small hand around his arm; it appeared they all
needed him.