Ride the Fire (Blakewell/Kenleigh Family Trilogy, #3)

by Pamela Clare

  She whirled toward him, both hands on her swollen belly. “You’re lyin’! You’re tryin’ to scare me!”

  He smiled at her predictable reaction. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll prove it. It’s a war party. They’re traveling fast and light northward, but it’s a good bet they know you’re here. I tracked them a short distance, far enough to be reasonably certain they won’t double back tonight.”

  He watched her eyes give play to her emotions—fear, suspicion, fury.

  She slipped a hand into her pocket, withdrew the pistol, aimed it at him. “Lead the way.”

  Nicholas kept the ax as he led her a short distance through lengthening shadows to the riverbank. Mindful of her condition, he asked her twice if she wanted to rest, but to her credit she shook her head and kept moving, pistol still in hand.

  When he could hear the gurgling of water ahead, he motioned for her to stop and wait. Silently, he moved through the trees, his senses alert for any sound or movement. He checked for new tracks, watching the riverbank beyond for anyone who might be lying in wait. Then he motioned her forward.

  Though he could tell she was afraid, she quietly moved toward him.

  He knelt, pointed to the overlapping tracks in the soft mud of the riverbank. “About a dozen warriors,” he whispered. “No women or children. A war party.”

  She looked at the prints, looked at the moccasins on his feet. “How do I know you didna make those?”

  Frustrated, he placed his right foot next to one of the footprints, placed his weight upon it. His footprint was much larger than the rest. “Do you believe me now?”

  She shivered, pulled her gray cloak tight around her.

  He took her by the elbow, led her back to the cover of the trees. “We need to get back before nightfall.”

  She nodded, then turned toward him, held the pistol out to him. But fear and doubt lingered in her eyes. “If you betray me . . .”

  He took the weapon from her, checked the impulse to touch her cheek. “I gave you my word.”

  Without speaking, they hurried back through the darkening forest toward the cabin. He stopped her before they reached the clearing in which it stood, made certain no one was hiding in the cabin or lurking in the barn.

  “Get inside. I want you indoors in case I’m wrong and they come back this way.” He was surprised to hear himself speak such words. Since when had she become his problem?

  “Master Kenleigh.” She smoothed her hands on her apron.

  “Aye.”

  “You’ll be sleepin’ in the barn from now on.” In a whirl of gray wool skirts, she turned and walked—or rather waddled—inside.

  Nicholas grinned despite himself, amused. Then he looked down at the pistol, checked it, blew out a surprised burst of air.

  The damned thing was primed and loaded.

  Chapter 5

  Bethie awoke the next morning to the sound of splitting wood, startled to have slept so soundly. She couldn’t think of a time since the onset of Andrew’s sickness when she had truly slept. With a band of Delaware on the prowl, she ought to have been awake all night.

  Instead, she’d slept deeply—and dreamt of her real father. She’d seen his smiling face, had watched his callused hands as he made a doll of cornhusks for her, had heard his warm voice as he laid the doll in her arms.

  That’s my good lass.

  In her dream, she’d felt happy and surrounded by the warmth of his love. It was as if all the troubles of life had been lifted from her shoulders, all her fears soothed, her needs quenched. Now only a bittersweet ache remained.

  Outside, an ax cleaved wood.

  She stretched, yawned, wondered how much of her good night’s sleep was due to the presence of a certain armed and handsome Englishman in her barn—and not in her cabin. Having him out of the cabin had restored her sense of privacy for certain. But hadn’t she also felt a wee bit safer knowing he was still nearby?

  She sat up, shook her head. That made no sense. He had frightened her out of her wits yesterday. Aye, he had. And in more ways than one.

  When he’d hurled that ax, he’d moved so quickly she hadn’t even had time to react. She’d expected to look down and find its blade buried in her breast. But he hadn’t been aiming at her. If he had, she’d have been dead before she could scream.

  Then, when the shock of it had turned her knees to water, he’d quickly wrapped a strong arm around her, kept her on her feet. The heat of his touch—and the way it made her feel—was as unnerving as any band of roving Indians.

  To think they had passed so close to her home . . . She shuddered.

  Master Kenleigh had said he had been trying to make a point, and she’d believed at first that he sought merely to control her through fear. Then he’d led her through the forest to the riverbank, and she’d seen the truth for herself. He hadn’t been lying, at least not about that.

  It was clear to her that he had spent much time living among Indians, had perhaps even been raised by them. She had never seen anyone move like that before—quiet and deadly as a cougar on the prowl. The sight of it had made her shiver, and she’d known she’d been right about him in at least one respect—he was dangerous.

  She arose, feeling better rested than she had in weeks, dressed hurriedly in the chilly cabin, placed more wood upon the fire. She opened the door and was on her way to fetch water for washing and porridge, when she found a bucket, already filled with fresh water, waiting outside the door.

  Surprised by his thoughtfulness, she picked it up, brought it inside, and shut the door behind her, making certain to leave the door string out. Then she poured water into the kettle to boil, using the rest to wash her face and hands. She was in the midst of brushing her hair when he entered, still limping slightly, arms full of firewood.

  “Good morning, Mistress Stewart. I hope you slept well.”

  She looked up, met his gaze, felt her pulse trip under the penetrating power of those blue eyes. She’d forgotten how bonny he was without his beard, could scarce find her own tongue. “Good morning, Master Kenleigh.” She started to ask him how he’d slept, but felt a bit awkward given that she had banished him to the cold of straw and barn. “Thank you for the water.”

  He dropped the firewood one piece at a time onto the sizable pile already next to the fireplace. “You’re welcome.”

  Strange it was to talk with him this way, as if he were a friend or acquaintance. Too flustered to braid her hair in his presence, she simply used the thong to tie it back. “I’m afraid I overslept again. I’ll soon have breakfast ready.”

  He nodded, strode outside again. Beyond him, she could see that the horses already roamed the paddock.

  While he carried in the rest of the firewood, she measured cornmeal into boiling water, cut salted pork into thick strips, set them on the fire in an iron skillet to fry. Then she hurried to the well for more water for tea.

  By the time he’d carried the last load of firewood inside and had fed the rest of the livestock, she had breakfast on the table.

  They ate in an awkward silence at first.

  Then he spoke. “How long have you been out here, Mistress Stewart?”

  “Almost four years. Andrew traded a team of horses and a wagon for the claim to the land and the cabin shortly before we were wed. And you, Master Kenleigh?”

  He didn’t answer her. “The people who started this farm returned east to escape the war. Yet you and your husband chose that time to build a life here. Why?”

  Bethie sipped her tea, willing herself to meet his steady gaze. “Andrew came over from Ulster with my father when they were young lads. It had always been his dream to have a farm of his own. He worked off his indenture, tried farmin’ back east, but he kept movin’ west, startin’ over. He said the frontier was the only place a man could truly breathe free.”

  “Is that where you were born—Ulster?”

  “Nay. I was born on my father’s farm near Paxton, but my parents came from Ulster.” She did not l
ike to talk about her family.

  He finished his breakfast, leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the back of the chair beside him. “Lots of settlers in this part of the country have been killed in this war.”

  “Aye. I knew a woman who . . .” She looked into her teacup. “I was so . . .”

  “Afraid?” He finished her sentence, his voice soft, almost soothing.

  She closed her eyes, remembered nights of sleepless terror. “Aye. But Andrew wouldna leave. He said no Frenchman or red Indian would drive him from his land.”

  “He’s dead. Why do you stay?”

  Shocked by his brusque words, the cold tone of his voice, she could only stare at him.

  Because I have no place to go. She thought it, but she did not say it. Any answer she might give would come too close to her secret shame, too close to the truth. And she would not speak of that with anyone.

  Shaken, she stood, walked to the hearth, picked up the milk pail. “Poor Dorcas. I nearly forgot her. She’ll be aching with milk by now.”

  And with that, she turned and fled to the safety of the barn.

  * * *

  Nicholas brushed the mare’s dusty gray coat, certain the animal hadn’t received a proper grooming or a bath in months. She was filthy and shaggy, and wax had built up between her teats, proof she hadn’t been bred in some time, perhaps ever. Not that he blamed Mistress Stewart. She had more than enough to contend with, and as pregnant as she was, she could not be expected to run a farm on her own. He blamed the old fool who’d been her husband.

  Mistress Stewart. Bethie.

  He’d wanted to ask her what plans she had for the birth of her child, but he had hurt her today, had roused her grief. He’d seen the color leave her face the moment he’d spoken. He’d seen the pain in her eyes. Her husband, the man whose child she carried, was not yet three months in the grave.

  “He’s dead,” Nicholas had said with all the sensitivity of a rock. Perhaps he’d spent too many years talking to his horse.

  But, damn it, she should not be out here! She should be on her parents’ farm near Paxton, where the women of her family could fuss and fret over her, where her father could send for the midwife and see to it that his daughter was brought safely to bed when the hour came.

  He supposed she hadn’t made the journey home because she was too far along by the time her husband had died. She would have had to forsake her livestock and all her belongings to travel a long distance on horseback, pregnant and alone, across icy rivers and through the mountains in the cold and dark of winter. Taken together, he could see why a woman wouldn’t find that appealing. No doubt she’d felt safer remaining here than trying to make her way back home.

  It was far too late now to attempt any such journey. From the look of her, the baby would be born within the month. That meant the baby would be born here. There was no help for it now.

  Nicholas dipped the currycomb into the bucket of soapy water and began to scrub grime from the mare’s coat.

  Perhaps there was a wife on a nearby farmstead who would be willing to aid her, someone he could fetch for her. Or perhaps Mistress Stewart had some plan of her own.

  Nicholas was suddenly irritated to find himself so caught up in her plight. This wasn’t his baby. He hadn’t put her husband in the grave. She wasn’t his wife. He had promised to protect her only so long as he sheltered beneath her roof, and he was strong enough now to pack his things, saddle Zeus, and ride west along the Ohio River as he’d planned.

  So why didn’t he leave?

  Because I’d never forgive myself if I left her out here, helpless and alone.

  But what could he do to help her? As a man who’d once bred prized horses, he knew a great deal about helping mares to foal, but next to nothing about childbirth. He was the oldest and could remember when his mother had been brought to bed with the youngest of his siblings. He’d been six when William, the second of his younger brothers, had been born. He’d heard his mother’s moans, had feared she was dying. He’d managed to elude the servants set to watch him long enough to creep upstairs and open the door to his parents’ chamber. There, he’d caught just a glimpse of his mother, clad in her shift, leaning back against his father’s chest, her hands clasped tightly around his. Her eyes had been closed, her face wet with sweat and twisted with pain. Then his intrusion was discovered. After his nurse had led him away, she’d promptly given him a sound swat on the behind.

  His father had spoken a little of birth to him, describing the wonder of watching as Nicholas and his siblings were born. And Jamie, his uncle and perhaps closest friend, had confided in him of the helplessness and wrenching guilt he’d felt holding his wife, Bríghid, as she had labored to bring their two sons into the world.

  Surely Jamie and Bríghid would have more children by now. Six years was a long time, and they had been deeply in love.

  Nicholas had been a man and newly returned from Oxford when his mother had given birth to little Emma Rose. As he’d sat below with a glass of brandy in hand, he’d found himself enraged that his father had not exercised better restraint and had thus forced his mother to endure this anguish again. He’d told his father so, only to receive a tongue-lashing from his mother the next day.

  Emma Rose.

  His stomach knotted at the thought of his littlest sister. When he’d ridden away she’d been only three. She’d be nine by now—a spoiled little princess with their mother’s red-gold curls and their father’s deep blue eyes. Strange to realize that in all these years he’d not thought of her.

  An unexpected shard of pain sliced through his gut, made it hard to breathe.

  Nicholas fought to squelch the sudden rush of emotion. He dipped a bit of old wool into the bucket and began gently to wash the valley between the mare’s empty teats. She tried to pull away from him, raised one hoof off the ground as if to kick.

  He stroked her flank, spoke softly. “Steady, girl.”

  What was wrong with him? First the nightmares. Then memories of Lyda and his baby. Now his family.

  He needed to return to the wild, where the emptiness and the wide-open spaces would drive aught else from his mind. He needed to gaze upon the dark waters of the great river to the west, listen to the friendly chatter of beavers busy with their dams, sleep under an endless heaven bright with stars. He needed to ride away. But first he would find a farmwife to help Mistress Stewart and see her safely settled out of harm’s way.

  * * *

  Bethie’s water broke just after she’d gone to bed. On the brink of sleep, she felt a trickle of liquid between her thighs, feared for a moment she had wet herself. She sat up, only to have the trickle become a torrent as warm water spilled from inside her. And she knew.

  Her time had come.

  She rose, changed into a dry gown, put birthing linens on the bed, added wood to the fire, set water on to boil for tea. Then she took out the fresh linens she’d set aside for the baby, a knife to cut the cord, and a length of yarn to bind it. Beyond that, she did not know what to do. Although her womb had begun to tighten, the pangs were far apart and caused her little pain. She drank her tea, rocked in her rocking chair, tried in vain to ignore the fears that had assailed her these past months.

  Would she know what to do? How badly would it hurt? What if something went wrong? Would the baby be born alive? Was this the end? Would she die tonight and the child with her?

  There were many worries, but no answers.

  Then, believing it was best to sleep while she could, she crawled back into bed and closed her eyes. But her fears would not leave her, and she slept but little.

  Finally, sometime in the dead of night, she gave up trying to sleep and began to alternate pacing the floor with rocking in her chair. Her pangs began to grow stronger and more frequent. Each started as a tightening across her lower belly that spread to her back. But still the pain was bearable.

  Her fears began to lessen. She could do this. She could bring her baby into the world al
one. She could survive.

  * * *

  “Nicholas, you bastard! What did you say to them? Help me! Oh, God, help me!”

  Josiah’s desperate screams mingled with Eben’s, as Wyandot warriors used flaming torches to shove the young men, who’d been cut free of their ropes, into the fire pits. The women had smeared them with pitch to ensure that they burned. The two tried to escape, staggered from the flames, only to be pushed in again.

  Tied to the post, Nicholas fought to free himself, fought to stay conscious. Why weren’t they burning him? Why were the women bathing his wounds, rubbing salve on his burns?

  “Let them go!” He’d glared at Atsan, shouted his words in Tuscarora, in French, in English. “Take me, but let them go free! Take me!”

  “Oh, God, it hurts! Kill me! Nicholas!”

  Nicholas lurched from sleep, found himself sitting up in the barn, drenched in sweat, heart pounding in his chest. He threw off his blanket of skins, staggered from the barn, sucked cool, sweet air into his lungs. Until he’d come here, he’d thought he had left the nightmares behind him. He’d thought he was free from them, free from the guilt, the bitter remorse.

  Perhaps he would never be free.

  A glow on the eastern horizon heralded the approach of dawn. Hoping to wash the aftertaste of horror from his mouth, he strode toward the well, but stopped in his tracks.

  Through the parchment window he could see the glow of candles. Odd that she was already awake. Since he’d moved into the barn, she’d almost always slept until the sun was up.

  And then he heard it, a soft moan, almost like the sound of a woman lost in the pleasures of sex. But this was no moan of pleasure.

  She was having the baby.

  He walked to the door and, when the moan had ceased, knocked softly. “Mistress Stewart? Is there aught you need? Is there any farm nearby where I might find a woman able to help you?”