Love's Last Stand

by S. B. Moores

  One of the Indian kids was a bare-chested boy about his own age and wearing buckskin pants. He had a small knife tucked under his belt. That alarmed Justin, but even though the boy’s dark eyes stared at him, he didn’t strike Justin as dangerous, as long as he kept his distance. The other Indian was a girl, younger and probably his sister. She wore an off-white cotton dress with a colorful sash. They were both skinny and Justin could see the boy’s ribs. They both had big brown eyes and long hair, gathered together and trailing down their backs.

  Justin quickly scanned the trees around the children, looking for any other Indians, adults or warriors, which might mean real trouble. But the brother and sister appeared to be alone. When he’d regained his composure, Justin laid the fishing pole and fish down on the rock and looked again at the Indians. He had no idea if they spoke English.

  “Hi,” he said. The girl jumped, covered her mouth with her hands, and ran away like she hadn’t known Justin could see her until he’d spoken. The boy didn’t react. His brow knit as he looked back and forth between Justin and the fish flopping around on the rock. He seemed concerned. Was he worried about the fish? Justin didn’t know, but he felt uncomfortable having an Indian stare at him.

  “What’s wrong?” Justin asked. “Are you okay?”

  The Indian boy put a shelled acorn in his mouth and started to chew.

  “Hey,” Justin said. “Don’t eat those things. They’re awful bitter.” Didn’t this kid know any better? Then it came to him. The boy was hungry. His sister probably was, too. He’d heard that life was hard for Indians, even in summer. Most of them didn’t grow their own crops but relied on hunting and fishing. And Justin knew from overhearing adults’ conversations that wild game was getting scarce in the county.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  The boy looked at the bass, which had stopped wriggling. Justin bent down on one knee and pulled the hook from the fish’s mouth. Then he pulled his stringer of fish from the creek and added the new bass. The Indian boy’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the collection of fish.

  “Look,” Justin said. He held up the stringer in the direction of the boy. “Why don’t you take these? I can always catch more.” He took a step forward and lay the stringer down on the rock. He pointed at the boy, then down at the fish.

  “They’re yours, all right? I’m going home now.” He gave the boy a slight wave with his hand, stepped off the rock, and walked away in the opposite direction.

  The next day he went back to the creek. As he approached the flat rock, he could tell the fish and his stringer were gone. A bear could have eaten them, or a raccoon, but when he stepped up onto the rock he found a bone-handled knife lying where his stringer had been. He picked it up. The six-inch blade was sharp, clean, and new. A hawk’s feather was tied around the hilt by a strip of leather just below the blade. At first he thought the Indian boy must have forgotten the knife. Then he understood. It had been left there for him. Not as a gift so much, but in trade for the fish. The knife wasn’t fancy, certainly nothing like the prize, custom-made knife Toby had received for his birthday once. Still, Justin thought this knife must be too valuable to trade for a handful of fish. But maybe that wasn’t the point. When you’re hungry and a total stranger helps you out, that’s significant. Maybe more so than the meal itself.

  He scanned the woods along the creek but couldn’t see anyone. Even so, he held the knife up over his head, knowing someone could be watching.

  “Thank you,” he called. “Thank you very much.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  September 1831

  Abigail set out from home on foot, walking down a path she knew well. It was a shortcut that would take her to the road that eventually led to the commercial center of Ridgetop, such as it was. It had never been more than a few shops, the modest roadside inn, some residences, and a few farm-related businesses. Even so, Ridgetop was big enough to host the annual county fair, and that was her destination. She was happy her parents allowed her to walk to the fair unchaperoned, even though her parents would arrive shortly thereafter, and she was to meet her friend, Sally Marston.

  She had both arms wrapped around a napkin-covered, quart-sized clay pot, full of her mother’s dark clover honey, which she was to enter in the fair’s farm products contest. Her mother was rightfully proud of Whitfield farm’s honey, which had taken the blue ribbon on a number of occasions, usually in years when Anne Sterling’s honey wasn’t judged the best. The two women were locked in a friendly rivalry that had gone on for years.

  After turning onto the more traveled road, she started to cross a short covered bridge when she saw a young man bending down, near the far end, tying his shoe. She skipped a step and her lips drew back in a mischievous smile. Even though he was partially hidden in the shadows of the bridge cover, she recognized Justin Sterling’s broad shoulders and strong jaw. He had set something next to him on the bench that ran the length of the bridge. It looked like the same pot Abigail was carrying, and she guessed that he, too, might be headed for the county fair.

  Justin’s back was turned, but Abigail didn’t call out to him. She wanted to surprise him with her appearance, if he didn’t notice her first. She stepped lightly over the thick wooden planks until she stood directly behind him. Giddy that her prank was working, she spoke at the moment Justin stood up.

  “Having some trouble?” she asked.

  “Yow!” In his surprise, Justin spun around. His forearm knocked the clay pot out of her arms. The string holding the cloth cover broke, sending it fluttering away. The pot smacked against the side of the bridge and landed upright on the bench, but a large crack had split the pot nearly in half, and Henrietta’s prize-winning honey began to ooze out.

  “Look what you’ve done!”

  In a flash Justin grabbed the pot he had been carrying, pulled off the lid, and held the pot under Abigail’s to catch her honey.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I won’t be able to save all your honey, but I’ll catch what I can.”

  She put her hands on her hips and watched in dismay. “What good will that do? That was my mother’s contest entry. She will be furious.”

  “All the more so when she finds out I was the cause.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” she moaned. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.” But she knew Justin was right. Even if she had caused the mishap, her parents would be suspicious of Justin if he was involved.

  “My mother won’t be happy, either,” he said. “Now that I’ve mixed her honey with Henrietta’s.”

  “You were going to the contest, too?”

  He nodded. “I wonder what the two of them together will taste like.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m doomed.”

  “Can’t you go home for more?”

  Abigail shook her head. “There’s not enough time.”

  They both watched as her honey dripped into Justin’s pot until it overflowed and ran down his hands. He set his pot on the bench and covered it with the lid. Then he looked at the honey covering his fingers. “I have an idea.”

  “Like what? We could run away to Kentucky. That’s about the only thing that would save us.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  The intimacy of the idea flashed through her mind, as it must have his. She was suddenly aware of his closeness, that his coffee-brown eyes were focused on hers. He held out his hand and she took it in hers before she remembered it was covered with honey.

  “Ooo!” She tried to pull away, but he held on. He rubbed her hand in his until it was as covered by the sweet, sticky mass as his.

  “What a mess.” She laughed and rubbed her one clean hand around his, spreading the sticky mess further.

  “I can’t let you go to the fair like this,” he said.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “That wouldn’t do at all.”

  “Let me clean you up.” He raised her hands to his mouth and licked her fingers.

  His tongue darted between her fingers, tickling he
r.

  “Oooh.” She giggled.

  “Delicious,” he murmured.

  “You’re awful,” she said. “But don’t stop.”

  “Your mother makes a very fine honey.”

  She glanced in either direction and saw that they were still alone and hidden in the shade of the covered bridge. “Let me try that.” She pulled his hand to her mouth and licked, keeping her gaze on his. They took turns that way, laughing when it wasn’t their turn to lick, until most of the honey had been smoothed from their hands. When that was done, he pulled her to him. She thought he meant to give her a hug, but when she raised her head, he kissed her softly, briefly. She tasted the honey on his lips. When he pulled away she kept her head raised, her lips still parted and her eyes closed. Her heart raced and she felt her cheeks turning pink.

  “You never kissed me before,” she whispered.

  “You were never covered with honey before.”

  She opened her eyes and scowled. “I’m not sure that’s a good excuse.”

  He laughed, but her unexpected elation faded, and the problem of the honey recaptured her attention.

  “What are we going to do about this tragedy?” She gestured at the pots, one messy from overflow, and one cracked and dripping its remaining contents slowly onto the floor of the bridge. “You can’t very well enter your mother’s honey in the contest, mixed as it is with my mother’s.”

  “Contaminated by it, you mean.”

  She scowled. “This isn’t funny. I don’t know about Anne, but my mother is not going to be happy.”

  “Listen. Whatever you do, don’t tell her what happened.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t tell her everything.” She popped a finger in her mouth.

  “You know what I mean. If neither of our mothers win this year’s contest, that’s simply the way of things, isn’t it? Surely they can accept that.”

  “That assumes they were beaten in a fair competition, but now they can’t even enter.”

  “Oh, they’ll have an entry,” he said. “They will surely have an entry.”

  That year, to everyone’s surprise, the blue ribbon for best honey was awarded to a previously unknown competitor, someone named Whiting. No one had ever heard of this Whiting person and, mysteriously, they never came forward to claim the prize.

  Justin sat on a wooden bench outside Jacob Byrne’s general store, waiting for his father to call him to help load their wagon. With his legs stretched out in front of him, he whittled on a short length of pine with the knife he’d found on the flat rock by the creek. A shadow fell over his hands. When he looked up he saw Abby and her mother, Henrietta, standing nearby in front of the store.

  “As long as we’re here,” Henrietta said, “would you like to see what new fabrics Mr. Byrne has in stock?”

  Abby gave Justin a quick glance. “You go ahead, Mother. I’ll join you shortly. It’s such a fine day, I think I’ll sit outside and talk to Justin for a minute.”

  Henrietta looked at Justin as if seeing him for the first time. “Oh, hello, Justin Sterling.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Whitfield.” Justin touched the brim of his hat with the knife. Henrietta raised an eyebrow and averted her eyes from the blade. “Very well, Abigail. But don’t be too long.”

  Justin heard Henrietta’s reluctance at leaving the two of them together, but she disappeared into the store and Abby sat down beside him.

  “What are you making?” She pointed at the piece of pine.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “I won’t know until I get a little further along. Maybe I’ll carve myself a fine, long pipe.” He grinned and looked at Abby sideways. “Wouldn’t I look grand with a pipe?” He set his jaw and held the rough piece of wood up to his lips.

  “Oh, yes. So manly,” she said. “But don’t ever smoke such a thing in my house.”

  “No smoking in your house? A fine thing for the daughter of a tobacco farmer to say. I’ve seen your father smoke a pipe many times.”

  “I wasn’t speaking of my father’s house.” She casually looked over his shoulder, down the dusty street that ran in front of the store.

  “Ah,” he said, catching her meaning. “Thank you for the warning. I’ll make sure to never take up the devil’s weed in your house.” He set the chunk of wood and his knife down on the bench, away from Abby. “It’s very nice to see you, Abby Whit-field.”

  “It’s very nice to see you, Justin Sterling.” She smiled and his heart thudded for a moment. He wasn’t sure why Abby had stopped to talk to him, but he was glad she did.

  “You know, the older we get, the less I get to see of you,” he said.

  “I know.” She smoothed her hand back and forth along the wooden bench surface. Each time her fingers came close to his thigh, he wanted to jump. “It’s our family obligations, I think. My chores keep me very busy.”

  “Does Henry lay on the whip at home?” He was kidding, but he watched her meadow-green eyes, trying to guess her thoughts.

  “Not as such.” She gave him a look of mock disapproval. “But I wish we weren’t growing up so fast. I’m not ready for the worries and obligations of the world, and I miss playing with you as we did when we were younger.”

  He nodded and looked down at his feet. As they’d acknowledged, casual meetings were becoming rare occurrences, and for Justin this one was an opportunity. He wanted more of a connection with Abby than small talk and, against his better judgment, he said, “Can I ask you a question, before your mother returns?”

  “Of course.” Abigail glanced over her shoulder at the shop.

  “Why doesn’t your father like me?” He was instantly afraid he might have offended her, but it was too late to withdraw the question.

  It was Abigail’s turn to look down at her feet. She folded her hands in her lap. “I’m not aware that he dislikes you. What makes you say that?”

  “He’s never told me as much. I suppose that’s to his credit. But whenever I see him, and he sees me, he never seems very pleased.”

  “Perhaps you should talk to him more. Could you be reading too much into my father’s behavior?” She smoothed a lock of long red hair behind her ear.

  “I think not. But it occurs to me that, on most occasions when I see your father, I’m also seeing you. And when I see you, I’m not much inclined to talk to your father. That may have something to do with it.”

  “Perhaps he sees the evil intentions in your eyes whenever you look at me.” Her eyes crinkled in a grin.

  Justin nodded. “No doubt when your father looks at me, he just sees a fool. After all, I am nothing more than that, and I must sound like one when I’m talking to anyone in the presence of such beauty.” He gave her a slight bow, meant partially in jest.

  She laughed but she gave him a shy, coy look. “Talk like that will get you in trouble with my father every time.”

  “Abigail. Let’s go.” Henrietta had come out of the store and stood next to the bench. Abby stood up, placed a hand on Justin’s arm, and gave him a gentle squeeze.

  “I hope we can work on your speech difficulties again soon.” She winked at him. “I always like it when you express yourself clearly.”

  As Abby and her mother walked away, Justin heard Henrietta say, “How nice of you, Abigail, offering to help the poor boy.”

  Justin stared at his arm. He could still feel the pressure there from Abby’s fingers.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mid-May 1833

  Abigail Whitfield sat, leaning against the trunk of an oak tree, shaded from the hot noonday sun. She drummed her fingers on the top of a rattan basket and watched Justin Sterling, across the field in front of her. Justin fought with a team of oxen as they pulled an iron plow through the questionable soil that made up much of the Sterlings’ land. She watched him wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He adjusted the leather straps of the plow around his shoulders, then slapped them on the backs of the oxen. The plow moved forward a few more feet and then stuck fast. Where mo
st men would have taken to swearing, Justin simply shook his head, loosened the harness, and knelt down to see what was obstructing the plow. He brushed away at the loosened soil and exposed a stone as large as Abigail’s basket.

  In her relatively cool hiding place, she caught her breath as Justin stripped off his shirt, revealing his broad back and tanned, well-muscled shoulders. No doubt his conditioning was the result of years of such chores. He tossed the shirt onto the back of one of the oxen, then went down on his knees to wrestle the stone out of the ground. Abigail watched in admiration as Justin, back muscles flexing, lifted the stone from the ground and heaved it out of the way of the plow. He threw the shirt aside, too, and started gathering up the harness leathers.

  Now, she thought. Now’s the time. She stood up, grabbed the basket, and walked from the shade of the trees onto the field toward Justin.

  Justin reined the oxen to a halt and watched the cool vision coming toward him in the sweltering mid-day heat. There was no mistaking Abigail Whitfield’s flowing red mane and shapely young body. And to his delight she carried a lunch basket. Could it be for him? How thoughtful of her to remember him on such a hot morning. He tossed the harness aside and picked up his shirt, but he realized it was too late to pretend any modesty.

  To his surprise, Abby walked to one side, as if she would pass by and continue on, but she stopped and turned toward him at the last second. She held the basket low in front of her with both hands, but did not offer it to him.

  “Good morning to you, Justin Sterling,” she said.

  “Good morning to you, Abigail Whitfield.” He felt embarrassed and at the same time exhilarated that she should see him in the noonday sun, dirty and half naked. Holding his soiled shirt in one hand, he bowed as gallantly as he could. But the intensity of her smile weakened him so that he had to look away, but just for a second. His own smile felt clumsy, as though he were drunk or a crazy man. Funny that she always had that effect on him.