by Pamela Clare
The Rangers hadn’t gone on a mission with Joseph and his men at all. They’d come to the farm and had put their backs into reclaiming it.
“Holy Mother of God!”
Annie looked up and saw a look of utter amazement on Iain’s face.
A shout went up from the men working in the fields, and someone on top of the house stood and waved. ’Twas Morgan.
Annie waved back. “Oh, Iain, look what they have done!”
“I’m lookin’, but I cannae fathom it.”
He urged the oxen forward, drawing the team to a halt before the cabin. All around them, Rangers sized logs, sawed shingles, plied the hammer, and dug the earth. Joseph and his men tended little fires built to burn out stubborn trees and brush. Morgan shouted for more nails while Connor worked to hang the front door.
Annie gaped in disbelief at all they had accomplished, the scent of sawdust and new-tilled soil tickling her nose. She felt Iain’s hands close about her waist and met his gaze as he lifted her and the baby to the ground. His blue eyes mirrored her own tangled emotions—astonishment, gratitude, and something so raw it almost hurt.
He kissed her forehead. “Stay by the wagons, lass. I wouldna want something to fall and strike you or the bairn.”
Connor glanced at them over his shoulder. “Are you goin’ to stand there starin’ wi’ your mouth hangin’ open, brother, or are you goin’ to help me wi’ this?”
That made Iain grin. Annie watched as he lifted one side of the door and held it while Connor tried to fit it to its hinges.
“’Tis a strong and sturdy door.”
“You’ve McHugh to thank for that.” Connor raised his side with a grunt. “He’s a carpenter by trade.”
By the time the door was hung straight—a task that seemed to involve a certain amount of cursing—Morgan had finished with the roof and climbed down to join them. “Would you like to look about your new home, Annie?”
As Rangers unloaded the wagons and sent the wagoners back to Albany, Morgan guided Annie and Iain through the house, Connor and Joseph with him. He led them across the smooth puncheon floors, past the wide hearth, and through the spacious front room to the three bedrooms, each with its own fireplace, and then to the broad loft above stairs.
“’Tis a big house.” Annie looked from one end of the loft to the other.
“We were all thinkin’ the two of you are likely to have many wee ones.” Connor winked, and Annie felt her face burn.
“Besides, where am I going to sleep?” Joseph grinned. “Your home is my home. Is that not so, brother?”
Iain did his best to look vexed. “Och, aye, I suppose.”
Next, Morgan showed them the secret chamber built beneath the floor of the main bedroom. Then he took them out the back door, past the privy house, the large stone oven, and the smokehouse to the barn, where their livestock had already been settled with hay and corn, chickens pecking at the straw.
Annie shifted the baby in her arms and watched as Iain tested the stall doors, climbed to the hayloft, and ran his hands over the smooth planks of the walls, the look on his handsome face like that of a man lost in a dream. It seemed a dream to her as well, her worries about sleeping with the baby in the cold night air and of Iain breaking his back in the fields vanishing.
By the time Morgan had finished showing them around, the men had gathered between the house and the barn and stood covered with dirt and sweat, grins upon their faces.
Iain seemed to search for words. “What you have done here,’tis beyond all hope or imaginin’. You have my abidin’ gratitude. But are you no’ supposed to be spyin’ on Montcalm?”
The men chuckled.
“You’re no’ the only one who can find ways to outwit Wentworth, brother.” Morgan clapped Iain on the shoulder. “Montcalm can bide a wee, but this couldna. What one man cannae do alone in a year, two hundred men can do in a matter of days. There wasna a soul amongst us who wanted you and Annie to start your new life wi’ such toil and hardship.”
Annie tried to speak around the lump in her throat. “However can we repay such kindness?”
“’Tis us doin’ the repayin’, Mistress.” Brendan stepped forward. “You’ve cared for us when we were sick and injured, and there is scarce a man here who doesna owe Iain MacKinnon his life.”
Then Annie listened, tears pricking her eyes, as one by one they spoke.
Brendan told how he’d frozen with fear in his first battle, unable to reload as two French soldiers closed in on him with bayonets, only to find Iain beside him, rifle at the ready. Joseph told how he’d surprised a bear in the wild and how Iain, only seventeen, had fought the enraged animal off him. McHugh told how Iain had carried him back to camp when he’d caught his ankle in a mislaid trap and hadn’t been able to outrun the Huron.
And so it went, tale after tale, until Dougie told how he’d been captured by an Abenaki war party, stripped, and tied to a tree to be tortured. “I thought it was my end, and a grisly one at that. But then I heard a rifle fire, and one by one the Abenaki fell, pierced clean through their hearts. They couldna tell where the shots were coming from—one from here, one from there. And I kent it could only be Iain MacKinnon riskin’ his own fool neck to save me.”
It was Dougie who started it, his voice strong and clear, until the chant was picked up and the Rangers and Muhheconneok shouted in unison, fists raised against the sky.
“MacKinnon! MacKinnon! MacKinnon! MacKinnon! MacKinnon!”
Tears streamed down Annie’s cheeks, her heart so swollen it ached, and she knew she would tell her grandchildren of this moment. This was the men’s way of doing what they had not done at the fort—’twas their way of saying farewell.
Iain’s head was high, his expression that of a seasoned warrior, as he took in this tribute. But she could see the sheen of tears in his eyes. He slipped his arm around her waist, drew her closer to him as the shouting died down.
“No commander has ever been more proud of his men than I am of you. You’re the best—aye, and the bravest.” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “I’ll ne’er forget you.”
For a moment there was silence.
Then Connor turned to Morgan. “Major Mackinnon, is it no’ time we headed north?”
“Aye, it is, Captain.”
Annie could not bear to see them leave, not so quickly. “But you cannae go! Stay and rest awhile! Join us for supper!”
Morgan gave her a grin. “I wish we could stay, Annie, but we cannae let Montcalm grow lonely. General Amherst has his sights set on Ticonderoga, and he might have the wits and the mettle to do what old Nanny Crombie could not. But you’ll see us again, lass—and soon.”
Then he turned to the men. “Fall out, Rangers!”
And with whoops and shouts, the Rangers and the Muhheconneok took up their tools and weapons, said farewell, and disappeared into the forest.
Annie turned to her husband, lifted her gaze to his. “Since I met you, Iain MacKinnon, I seem always to be feelin’ both sadness and great joy at once.”
“Aye, lass, ’tis much the same for me.” He kissed the top of her head, wiped the tears from her cheeks, his blue eyes filled with tenderness. “But my Muhheconneok grannies would say you cannae open your heart to one wi’out riskin’ the other, and I would rather chance the deepest sorrows of hell, Annie, than surrender the joy you and little Iain bring me each day.”
Then he scooped her into his arms and bore her and the baby across the threshold into their new home and a new beginning.
Turn the page for a special preview of a brand-new MacKinnon’s Rangers novel by Pamela Clare
DEFIANT
Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
Lady Sarah Woodville struggled to keep up with her captor, her lungs aching for breath, a dagger-sharp stitch in her side. Taking no pity on her, he drew her onward, holding fast to the leather cords that bit into her wrists. Her toes and fingers were pinched from cold, her thighs burning from the steep uphill climb. Eac
h step was agony, her feet blistered raw by the wet leather of her new shoes. And yet she dared not ask him to stop nor even slow him.
She knew he would kill her.
She’d been sailing with Mrs. Price, her chaperone, and, Jane, her lady’s maid, from New York up the Hudson River toward Albany, where she was to visit her uncle William Wentworth ere the summer campaigns called him away, when the captain had encountered ice floes that all but blocked the river. He’d tried to navigate his way around them, but he’d run the ship aground just off the western bank. Apologizing profusely for his error in judgment, he’d sent straight away for help, assuring Sarah that Albany was not far upriver.
But Mrs. Price’s stomach had been unable to tolerate the awkward tilt and rocking of the stranded ship. To help ease her mal de mer, the captain had rowed her, Sarah, and Jane ashore, together with a few other passengers who likewise felt queasy. But they’d no sooner set foot on the embankment than she’d heard a musket fire and the captain had fallen dead.
Then the most terrible screams that could be conceived had come out of the forest, followed by painted men with muskets, knives, and hatchets. And within a matter of moments, everyone who’d left the ship, apart from Sarah, Jane, and a young boy, had been slain, their bloody scalps hanging from beaded belts.
Uncle William will send soldiers. He might even send his Rangers.
Sarah had counted eight attackers, but she could only see three now—her captor and the two who held Jane and the boy. Only rarely did the Indians look back at their prisoners, and then never with concern, their faces terrible to behold, painted in shades of red and black, their heads shaved apart from a single lock of hair that hung from each man’s scalp, their bodies clothed in tanned and painted hides.
And to think that only two days ago she’d told Jane she hoped to see an Indian.
How long they walked Sarah could not say. The pain in her feet became unbearable, and yet she had no choice but to bear it, following where she was led. The Indians picked a path through towering pines, avoiding the snow whenever they could, the ground slanting upward, dark forest all around them. And then, in the distance, Sarah heard it—the distant tattoo of military drums.
Soldiers!
The Indians heard it, too. They stopped, spoke to one another in hushed words Sarah could not understand. Jane leaned against a tree, trying to catch her breath, her long red hair having fallen from its pins to hang down her back in a long braid. The boy looked up at Sarah, fear in his green eyes, his face smattered with freckles. Dressed in homespun, he had the look of the frontier about him. How old was he? Nine? Ten? Had his family been amongst those slain?
The poor child!
Then Sarah thought of her own family. What would they do when they got word she’d been taken by Indians? Would Papa and Mama regret sending her away, or would they blame her again? If only she had been the daughter Mama had wanted her to be and not so bent upon her music. There would have been no scandal, and she would be safely at home in London, far from this wild and terrible place.
The boy moved closer to her, as if seeking a mother’s comfort.
Do not feel sorry for yourself, Sarah, for shame!
She smiled, offering him silent encouragement.
Then their captors turned and looked down at them as if noticing them for the first time. The one who held her tether reached out, took a lock of her hair between his fingers, and rubbed it, his dark eyes boring into hers. She felt her heart shrink under his cold stare, but willed herself to meet his gaze unflinching, refusing to let him see how deeply he frightened her.
Then again she heard it—the beating of drums.
As abruptly as they had stopped, the Indians began to move again, dragging Sarah and the others along, faster this time, first uphill, then down, until the pain in Sarah’s feet was so excruciating it brought tears to her eyes. Then, at last, the Indians stopped, giving them leave to rest near a frozen stream at the base of the hill, even releasing their bonds, as if they knew their captives were too exhausted to escape.
One of the Indians handed Sarah a water skin and motioned for her to drink. This she did and gratefully. But when she reached to hand the skin to Jane, it was yanked from her grasp.
Her captor knelt down before her, a pair of moccasins in his hands, and she watched, astonished, as he discarded her tattered shoes and torn stockings, bathed her blisters in water from the water skin, then slipped soft, warm moccasins over her feet. His face a mask of cold indifference, he stood and strode off to talk with the others.
And for a moment Sarah was alone with Jane and the boy. She met the boy’s gaze. “You’re a very brave young man. What is your name?”
“Thomas Wilkins, miss.” Thomas gave her a sad smile, his gaze dropping to her moccasins. “I think they’re goin’ to keep you alive at least.”
His words caught her by surprise. “Wh-whatever do you mean?”
“They gave you water and moccasins, but not us.” His gaze dropped to her feet again. “They think our soldiers can’t track you if you’ve got moccasins on your feet.”
“But what about you, Thomas, and you, my sweet Jane?”
Not much older than she, Jane had been Sarah’s most faithful companion since she’d come to New York to stay with Governor DeLancey. Jane hadn’t turned up her nose at Sarah like the others, but had shown her sympathy and understanding despite the scandal. Since Margaret’s death, she had been Sarah’s only friend.
She gave Sarah a tremulous smile. “You shall go on, my lady. But I fear we shall be tomahawked in this lonely place.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the cold slid down Sarah’s spine. “No! Do not say such a thing! They gave me moccasins only because my feet were blistered.”
But a glance told her Jane’s feet were blistered, too.
Then their captors returned. One hauled Sarah to her feet, while the other two went to stand beside Jane and Thomas. Jane met Sarah’s gaze, reaching with bound wrists to hold the boy’s hands between hers. “We shall be brave, shall we not, Thomas?”
“No!” Sarah cried, panic like ice in her blood, her knees going weak. “Please—”
A rough hand closed over her mouth, strong arms lifting her off the ground, forcing her to turn away as Jane’s voice called after her.
“God bless you, my lady! Don’t forget your English tongue!”
For hours, they walked through endless stretches of darkening forest, Sarah struggling to keep up, wolves howling in the distance. But as they went on a strange thing happened. She became less afraid, as if the bonds on her wrists—and the men who held her captive—were nothing more than a dream.
Surely, Jane and young Thomas would be along soon. Perhaps they were being taken through the forest by a different path. Or perhaps the soldiers had found and freed them.
But night fell, and still she saw no glimpse of them.
Then, through the dark, she could just make out the flickering light of a campfire. As they drew closer, she realized it was the Indians’ encampment. Surely, Jane and Thomas were waiting there for her. New vigor filled her weary limbs, and she hurried forward, eager for the fire’s warmth and some sign of her companions. But they were nowhere to be seen.
Confused, fighting despair and exhaustion, she sat before the fire, shivering, her woolen traveling cloak offering little protection against the cold, her gown tattered and damp. She drank when she was made to drink and ate when food was placed in her hands. Once, she started to hum without realizing it—Bach’s Arioso—only to be struck across the face.
Then her captor draped an animal fur around her shoulders and motioned toward a blanket he’d placed on the ground near the fire, indicating that she should lie down. But she would not lie with him.
And then she saw.
At the edge of the firelight, an Indian sat stitching upon a fresh scalp. Attached to it was a long, red braid.
Major Connor MacKinnon gently turned the bodies over—one of the lasses and the lad,
both tomahawked, both scalped.
Och, Christ!
He’d warned that arrogant bastard Haviland that sending redcoats after them had been a mistake. War parties often killed captives if pressed. But Haviland, who didn’t know his head from his arse, hadn’t listened. And now two of the three who’d been taken were lost.
And so young.
Connor crossed himself and whispered a prayer for them, then looked more closely at the lass’s face, the features hard to see in the gloaming. But it was not she.
It was not Wentworth’s niece. He’d stake his life on it.
Wentworth had shown him a likeness of her. A small locket painting, it had shown a beautiful young girl with hair the color of honey and bright blue eyes, her cheeks pink, a playful smile on her rosy lips. The poor lass lying here on the cold ground was plainer than she with bright red hair. Connor gave her cold, lifeless hand a squeeze, then turned away.
There was nothing he could do for her or the lad now.
Nearer to the frozen stream, Joseph held up a pair of battered shoes and torn stockings.
Connor reached out, touched them. The ties on the shoes were of lace, the shoes themselves of finest leather, the stockings silk. “They must be hers. Such frippery takes coin.”
Joseph set the shoes and stockings aside. “The Shawnee think to confuse us by putting her in moccasins.”
The trick might have worked had he and Joseph been redcoats or even unseasoned farmers new to the frontier. But Joseph was war chief of the Muhheconneok people, and Connor had grown up beside him, adopted together with his brothers by the Mahican when he was but a stripling lad. They had learnt to track, hunt, and fight together, earning their warrior marks under the stern headship of Joseph’s father. They knew this land every bit as well as the Shawnee and could not be fooled by such attempts at cunning.
“She’ll be movin’ faster wi’ moccasins on her feet.”
They pressed on, eager to make up for lost time by covering as much ground as possible before darkness fell, following a trail that most others would have missed—a few bent stalks of dried grass, a thread from the lass’s skirts caught on a sedge, an overturned rock. They did not need to speak, each anticipating the other’s actions, enabling them to move quickly and silently.