“I’ll be fine,” he said. “And you? You’ll be all right? You won’t again take any foolish chances?”
She nodded. “You will come back.”
“When I can. I don’t know exactly when. I must speak to your militiamen. Then, I must find General Washington and report what I’ve learned. I’ve no idea what he wants me to do next.”
“Richard, I don’t know about the militia. There are those among them who are obsessed. Some saw you with the Tories, know you as one of them. I don’t believe you’ll be as safe as you think.”
“It’s a risk I must take.”
Her blue eyes glistened. “Find Martin then. Talk to him first. You know who he is?”
He inclined his tawny head.
“Make sure he knows I’m well.”
She and Martin had become close in their efforts to help the cause. Almost as close as she and Miles were.
Miles . . . She frowned. She hoped he was all right. If his father had learned of his part in their escape . . .
“What’s wrong?” Richard asked, his brow furrowing with concern.
“I’m worried about Miles.”
“Don’t be. He’s a smart young man. I’m sure he’ll cover his tracks well.”
“I hope you’re right,” Kirsten murmured.
Richard drew her into his arms. “A kiss to hold me until my return?”
She was thrilled with his mention of returning, and she raised her chin happily, offering him her lips. He bent his head and touched her mouth lightly, sipping her sweetness as one would sip a glass of fine wine, savoring the flavor, the moment of pure sensual enjoyment.
Suddenly, the kiss changed. Richard’s arms tightened, and Kirsten reacted accordingly, moaning softly, leaning up into his kiss. There was a desperation to their embrace. The threats of war and an unknown future hung over them like clouds blocking out the sun. They fought to get closer, to feel the warmth of their own special sun, the light that came from being near the one most cared about.
Would they be reunited? Kirsten wondered. She clung to him, unwilling to let go.
The two lovers disengaged. “’Bye, love,” Richard said softly, holding her lightly within the circle of his arms.
She could hear his labored breathing, feel the thunder of his heart beneath her fingertips. She stroked the hard muscles of his chest before slipping her arms about his waist in an attempt to bring him to kiss her again. When he wouldn’t, she settled for leaning against him in a quiet moment of companionship.
Kirsten raised her head. “I don’t want you to go,” she said.
“I don’t want to go, but I must. Many depend on me.”
She nodded, blinked back tears.
And then, with a last, quick kiss, Richard urged her toward the Van Voorhees’ residence. After he saw that she’d entered safely, he went on his way.
When Kirsten returned to the Van Voorhees’ farm, her mother was frantic with worry.
“Daughter, my God! Where have you been? I’ve not seen you or your vader for hours. You are all right? You have seen your vader? He is all right?”
“I saw him earlier, but that is all. I’m afraid I don’t know if he and the others are safe. I believe so, though. When I left them, the militia were holding their own.”
There was a knock on the Van Voorhees’ door. Mrs. Van Voorhees rushed to get it for a second time. As if conjured by magic, James Van Atta stood on the stoop, swaying tiredly but otherwise unhurt.
“Vader!”
“James!”
The two women cried out in unison.
Smiling, Mrs. Van Voorhees stepped aside to let her neighbor in. “Please come in, James.”
“Thank you, Sarah.”
Kirsten and Agnes sprung at their loved one to hug him. Behind him, still on the stoop, another member of the militia, George Zabriskie, waited to see his family. The Zabriskies’ cries of joy echoed the feeling of happiness in Kirsten’s heart.
She stepped back to better study her father. Had Richard spoken to the men yet? There had barely been time . . .
Her father had brought the farm wagon, and it was dawn when the Van Atta family climbed into it and headed for home.
“Vader, where are the horses?” Kirsten asked as they rolled and bumped over the dirt road. The faithful mare Hilga was with them, tied to the back of the wagon, while a gelding pulled them along.
“Pieter has them. He went back to get them when some of the Tories escaped.”
Kirsten nodded. It was just as she’d thought. She silently thanked God that the Tories hadn’t stolen them. “The other men—are any hurt?”
James shot his daughter a glance. “Minor injuries only. Thomas was grazed in the arm by a musket ball. Nothing serious as long as it’s treated proper. The others including myself suffered a few cuts and bruises, nothing more.”
She smiled at her father, glad.
Suddenly, he scowled at her. “You were out this night, daughter.”
Kirsten’s heart pumped hard. He was going to punish her. “Yes, Vader,” she said meekly.
“You could have been killed!”
She inclined her head.
“Why?”
She blinked. “Why? Ah . . . because I couldn’t stand by while you all fought elsewhere. I had to see, had to know, in case I could help.”
He looked at her as if she were crazy. “Without a weapon how did you propose to do that? Stare them to death?”
“I—”
“You will not venture out like that again! The next time you are told to go to the Van Voorhees’ farm, you will go and stay there! Is that clear?”
“Yes, Vader.”
“James,” Agnes interjected, “do you truly think this will happen again? That we’ll be forced to hide? Sarah and Samuel are wonderful people, but—”
“This is war, Agnes,” he said, his voice sharp. “How many times must I tell you?” He saw her face and was immediately contrite. “Dearest, no one will truly be safe until this terrible time ends.”
And Kirsten had to agree, silently.
After he’d left Kirsten, Richard slipped into the cover of night and headed toward the tavern under the elm tree. He had a hunch that it was there the militiamen would gather to discuss their raid. The local inn was popular with the Hoppertown men, and Richard knew that Martin Hoppe, the owner, was truly dedicated to the cause.
Would Martin believe him as Kirsten had suggested, or would he follow along with the others and consider him a Tory trying to save his skin. If so, who could blame him?
The tavern was up ahead, lit only with a single taper in a window of the common room. Richard crept stealthily toward the door, unsure of his welcome. He knocked softly on the heavy door. There was no sound of movement inside, and he thought that he might have been mistaken about the gathering place. The militia must have met elsewhere—at one of the member’s homes perhaps.
Then he heard the click of the door latch. He stood back, his heart beating wildly as someone opened the door.
Martin’s eyes widened as he saw who it was. “Come in,” he invited after a long moment. He didn’t take his gaze off Richard as he stepped aside to allow him to enter.
“You’re Kirsten’s friend,” he said.
Richard nodded. “And yours, I hope.”
The man didn’t comment, but turned and moved toward one of the tables, where he pulled out a chair and sat down. “You have something to tell me?”
“Yes, I do,” Richard said, “but first I must confess something, and I must have your word that you’ll not speak of it before a living soul.”
Martin looked wary, but he inclined his head. “You saved my life. Why?”
“Because I’m a friend—a Patriot. I’m a spy working for General Washington. I’ve been traveling with this particular band of Tories for weeks now. My usefulness there ended last night when your men attacked us. I couldn’t fight you. I had managed to get out of combat with Patriot or Continental forces until last night. Then I wa
s forced to make a choice. An easy one, I might add. I couldn’t kill your men. We are, after all, brothers fighting on the same side.”
“So you say.”
Richard nodded. “I can understand your skepticism. And I realize it’s up to you whether or not you choose to believe me.”
“Kirsten does, but then, my cousin is in love with you.”
Richard started. In love, Kirsten? And after everything he’d put her through.
“I agree,” Martin said, accurately reading his thoughts. “You probably don’t deserve it.”
Richard flushed, but he also experienced a secret burst of joy. Kirsten loved him! Her cousin was staring at him. He returned the man’s gaze.
“Kirsten trusts me because she senses I speak the truth.”
“Perhaps.” Martin’s gaze didn’t waver, and the piercing look went right through Richard. “This is what you wanted to tell me? What you wanted me to keep silent about?”
“That I’m a spy, yes. I’m searching for a man . . . his undercover name is Biv. I don’t know what he looks like. Before, when I first came to Hoppertown, I was to meet with him. I got word by a messenger. He was the key informant for a friend of mine—a dead friend. Alexander Brooks. Alex worked for the general in a similar capacity as I. Only his . main function was the acquisition and transference of British battle plans.”
Martin blinked. “This was done?”
Richard shrugged. “I said it was Alex’s job, not that he was necessarily successful at it. Alex met this man Biv and supposedly gained some very valuable information about the King’s troops. Unfortunately, Alex didn’t live long enough to tell what he’d learned.” He paused. “He was murdered in cold blood.” He couldn’t suppress a small shiver.
Richard had remained standing since his entry. Now he gestured toward a seat. “May I?”
Martin nodded. “An ale?” he asked, rising to his feet.
“Thank you, yes.”
Richard waited patiently for Martin to leave the room and return with the ale. It took Kirsten’s cousin longer than he’d expected, and he wondered if he’d made a mistake in confiding in the man. Martin could have left to alert the others of the presence of a Loyalist.
But Martin had only found some food to go along with the ale. He came back holding two tankards by the handle in one hand and balancing two plates in the other.
“Hungry?” he asked.
Richard smiled. “Starved.”
Martin sat down and took a drink. “Thought I’d betrayed you, didn’t you?”
He nodded, not bothering to deny it.
“I’m not an unreasonable man, Canfield—Canfield, that is your name? I heard Greene call you Canfield, but I assume now that it might not be.”
“You assume correctly. My name’s Maddox. Richard Maddox.”
“The Mad Ox?” Martin bit into a piece of bread.
Richard was stunned. “You’ve heard of me?”
“No. You mean you’re actually called that?”
Richard gave him a slight smile. “I’m known to some by that name.”
“I see.” But the man looked puzzled. “As I started to say, ah . . . Maddox—”
“Richard.”
“Richard, then. I am not an unreasonable man, nor am I too obsessed to see that what you’re saying has got a ring of truth to it.”
Richard, who’d raised a slab of bread to take a bite, paused before placing the crusty piece between his lips. “I thank God for that.”
The two men grinned at one another, suddenly at ease.
“So, all right now, tell me about this Greene,” Martin said. “He’s one of the men who escaped?”
Richard nodded. “’Fraid so.”
Martin cursed. “And my cousin?”
“Safe at the Van Voorhees’ farm. I took her there myself.”
Her cousin sighed with relief. “Good. She’s a foolish girl at times.”
Richard stiffened, believing that the man was referring to her involvement with him. But Martin was regarding him with amusement, and Richard knew he’d misjudged the man.
“She tends to run toward battle instead of away,” Kirsten’s cousin said.
Richard’s mouth split into a grin. “I know. Damn her.”
And then he told Martin of his experiences with the band of Loyalists and the threat of more troops, and the possible arrival in Hoppertown of the King’s men.
Chapter Twenty-one
The men rushed out of the forest surprising the Van Atta family on their journey home. They were Tories; among them were familiar faces—Edmund Dunley’s, Bernard Godwin’s, and that of William Randolph, Agnes’ own brother.
James bellowed an oath when he saw them. He reached for his rifle only to have one of them fire at him first, grazing his arm.
“Vader!” Kirsten exclaimed as she scrambled to her knees to check his injury, but he pushed her back, ordering her to stay down.
“Randolph,” James growled. “Bastard!” Beside him, his wife began to cry. “Tories! Bloody Loyalists!”
The five Loyalists stepped out of the woods onto the road. Kirsten’s gaze never left her uncle as the men moved in to block the Van Attas’ wagon. William Randolph looked smug. He was dressed much like the others, in dark coat and matching knee breeches, only Randolph’s clothing was obviously a class above the garb of the others in quality and cut. His shirt was pristine white and neatly pressed.
Kirsten knew her family was virtually trapped. Because of the dense thickets on both sides of the trail, it would be impossible for her father to drive on or turn around with any speed. The mare Hilga, tied to the back, would further hamper any escape attempt.
William Randolph approached the cart, grinning, an evil light in his familiar brown eyes. “You’re going to turn this vehicle around, Van Atta, and head back to the Van Voorhees’ farm.”
Kirsten was startled. “Why?” she said. How did he know about the Van Voorhees’ farm?
Her uncle shot her an exasperated glance. “You escaped unharmed, I see.” He scowled; clearly he’d been upset to learn of her disappearance from the smokehouse. “As to your question, dear niece, you’re going to obey because I command it. And because by now the others will have captured your rebel friends there.”
“But William, why?” Agnes sobbed. Tears fell down her cheeks, a testament to her confusion and pain. “Why are you doing this? We’re family—”
“Family!” Randolph said with loathing. “You’ve chosen sides; you’re not my kin.” He looked at his sister with disgust. “I told you not to marry him. He’s been nothing but trouble for the Randolphs.”
“No,” she cried, stung by his words. “It’s not true. He’s a good man! For God’s sake, he’s my husband, the father of my child!”
“Silence!” Randolph leveled his gun in James’s direction. “Or I’ll shoot him dead before your eyes.”
Agnes blanched and kept still. She knew her brother meant business. Somehow, during the past years, he’d changed into a monster . . . a cruel, inhuman being.
“Godwin. Dunley,” Randolph called. The fat man and his cohort came forward. Their guns raised, they waited for orders.
While Randolph spoke to both men, he didn’t allow his gaze or his’ gun’s bore to veer from his brother-in-law. “I told this Dutch boer here to turn around. See that he does it.”
Godwin nodded, his jowls bobbing. Edmund Dunley left his friend to walk toward the rear of the wagon, keeping a careful watch on Kirsten. William lowered his gun and began to walk about.
“You’ll never win,” Kirsten taunted, raising her chin. “You may think you can, but you won’t! The King will never give you what you want. He’ll demand more from you until you’re bled dry. And then he’ll ask for more still.”
“You know nothing,” Dunley said sharply. “You’re a child.”
“Don’t I? Am I?” She gave him a grim smile. “And I suppose your leader, Elias Greene, knows all?”
“Pah!” Dunley retorte
d. “Greene isn’t our leader. Your Uncle William is.”
“You heard him,” Kirsten retorted. “I have no uncle.”
Her uncle firmed his lips. “Elias Greene is hardly a leader, girl,” he said as he approached her. “The man’s useful is all. At this moment, he’s got the wives and children of your wonderful militiamen. Think we can’t win when your men are consumed with concern about the safety of their loved ones?”
“Pig!” Kirsten cried, and her uncle slapped her.
Randolph laughed and stepped around to the front of the wagon, where he folded his arms and stared up at the driver.
James Van Atta had no choice but to do what his brother-in-law ordered, although he thought the man was crazy. With a scowl on his face and a vein pulsating at his left temple, he rose angrily and started to climb down from his vehicle.
“Stop!” Randolph ordered.
Kirsten’s father froze.
“Stay in the wagon.” William held up his gun in warning.
His gaze flickering toward his leader, Bernard Godwin fingered the trigger of his rifle. “Shall I shoot him?”
James turned slowly. He looked at his brother-in-law and then down at his gun, glanced toward Godwin and then back to William as if he believed the whole lot of them had gone mad. “How am I to turn my horse about if I don’t get down? The road here is narrow.”
William Randolph gazed at him through veiled eyes. “Mr. Joseph!” he shouted. A man who had been watching the exchange from several steps behind, came forward. William signaled to him with a wave of his arm. “Take the horse’s reins and help my sister’s husband to steer this claptrap about.”
Samuel Joseph hurried to do as he was bid. Then he returned the lead to James Van Atta.
“Let’s go then.” Randolph had climbed onto a mount that one of his men had brought to him. He rode before the wagon, his head held high. Dunley and Godwin walked alongside, while another Loyalist followed on foot in back.
“You won’t get away with this, William,” Kirsten’s father said heatedly. He placed an arm about his sobbing wife to offer her comfort. “You’re mad! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
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