A Pioneer Christmas Collection

by Kathleen Fuller

  Inexplicably, Ferguson’s whistle now sounded like a whip-poor-will, each beat of the three-beat call punctuated by a rifle wound hitting the breast of the man on Micah’s right…

  He wrested himself awake with a gasp. Oh Lord, would he never stop dreaming about it?

  As his eyes adjusted to the faint daylight outside the cave where he’d sheltered the last few nights, he heard again the call: Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!

  But it was deep autumn, long past the season the woodland bird would customarily take up the mournful, rhythmic melody that gave it its name. And the time of day was all wrong.

  He sat up, crept to the mouth of the cave, and listened. Silence, then more slowly, Whip-poor-will?

  Heart pounding, he put two fingers to his lips then hesitated. Indians sometimes used such calls, but something told him it wasn’t an Indian. That overthe-mountain girl Truth—aye, a severe name for an equally severe female—had promised to bring him more food.

  Not for the first time, he cursed his own need. How he’d managed to leave behind even his knife—

  He answered with a two-note whistle. Bobwhite!

  Would she recognize it?

  Whip-poor-will?

  He spotted her then, a skirted form with a hunting frock over, as before, pressed against a massive, gnarled oak. Stiffly, he crawled from the cave and stood.

  Rifle in one hand, she reached for something behind the tree and stepped out as well. For a long moment, they merely stared at each other.

  He hadn’t told her where he was hiding.

  “You said to meet at the rock,” he ventured at last.

  “I couldn’t wait,” she said, her voice soft in the predawn gloom. “And I know most of the caves hereabouts. Didn’t figure it could be so hard to narrow it down.” Was it his imagination, or did her lips curve a little? “I hoped the whippoor-will call would help.”

  He tried a smile in return. “Was that a play on my name?”

  She snorted, but the curl of amusement held. “If it is your true name.”

  Better not to answer that yet.

  He looked at the bundle she held. Despite her suspicions, she had come. His eyes burned, and he hoped he didn’t appear too desperate. Those few bites yesterday had reawakened not just his hunger but all his hope of life, it seemed.

  She stepped forward and gave the bundle a gentle toss toward his feet then backed away. Still not trusting him either. “I found a few things that might be helpful.”

  Micah knelt and tugged at the knot of what he could see now was a wool blanket, worn and much mended. Inside lay a knife, also much used if the nicks of grip and blade were anything to judge by, but the relief of having steel to hand again after losing his own was almost as great as that of the prospect of another meal.

  And a meal she’d brought—more johnnycake, with cold roasted venison and an apple, all wrapped in half a handkerchief. His mouth watered, and he took a great bite of the apple. The sweet flavor burst across his tongue.

  At the moment, he nearly didn’t mind the shame of having admitted to her yesterday that he’d lost everything in his escape from the rebels. Or of having her stand over him as he set the apple aside and tore into the venison.

  He glanced up, forcing himself to chew more slowly then swallow. “My thanks.”

  She nodded, and apparently convinced he wouldn’t turn savage, crouched opposite him, the rifle cradled in her arms. Her eyes were but a glint beneath the brim of her hat. “Have you family?”

  Another bite. Chew, swallow. “Two sisters, both married.” A brother, turned rebel. My father, dead of the heartbreak. “A brother who is a captain of the local militia.”

  She was very still. “Tories, all?”

  He nodded, bit off another mouthful.

  “That’s all? Sisters and a brother?”

  Another nod. “And you? Besides the uncle who’s captain of the home guard.”

  “My father and another uncle rode with Colonel Sevier to hunt Ferguson.”

  He considered her clothing and the rifle. “And left you to fend for yourself ?”

  No reply there. He must have hit too close to the truth.

  “The settlement is near enough by,” she said at last. “And both of my uncles have families.”

  He finished the venison and started in on the johnnycakes. She stirred and, with the gun stock set against the ground, rose. “I must get back. Wish there was more, but it’s all I could spare for now.”

  “It’s—plenty,” he said, and meant it. It was more than he’d had at one time since before the battle. “I thank you, again.”

  Hesitating, she gave a single nod then took off her hat and held it out to him. “This was an extra. I expect you’ll need it.”

  This one was flat brimmed and plain, he realized, while the one she wore yesterday was cocked.

  “Wearing it myself was the easiest way to avoid untoward questions,” she added.

  Stepping close enough to reach for the hat, he took hold of the brim—and stopped. The morning light caught her eyes and made them a pale blue, soft as a twilight sky. Dark hair, now uncovered, lay caught in a braid that disappeared inside the wide, fringed collar of her coat, but stray wisps curled about her face and framed the angular cheekbones with unexpected softness.

  Last thing he’d looked for was her to be so completely fetching.

  Eyes widening, she let go of the hat and stepped back. “Well then. Don’t get yourself into too much trouble now, with that knife.”

  In a flash, she was gone, darting away between the trees.

  Chapter 3

  Why didn’t you go back?”

  It had been a week since she’d been surprised by the Tory hiding on the mountain, and with each visit, Truth coaxed a bit more of his story out of him—traded food and gear for it, more like. But he didn’t seem unhappy about the exchange, though he still hadn’t told her his true name.

  And today he’d surprised her by cleaning up. The figure that met her—this time at the hunting rock and not his cave just over the mountain spur—was not the starved, bedraggled one of the first day. He’d put her offerings of wellmended castoff shirt and stockings to use, brushed out his waistcoat, and washed his breeches and hunting frock. His moccasins, though worn and missing laces, were no longer muddy. Most startling of all, however, was finding him clean shaven with hair combed and tied back, dark eyes watching the forest intently for her approach as she walked up the path.

  Only that particular intensity let her know this truly was Will—as well as her father’s old hat dangling from his hand and the spare knife stuck in his belt.

  And when his eyes lit on her, that strange flutter went through her insides, like she’d felt when he stopped and stared at her the morning she’d given him the hat. He’d gone all still, and his eyes had widened, as if—

  Ah, that thought was folly. Hadn’t she had her fill of the settlement boys chasing after her? She’d no time for such foolishness, especially not with Papa gone, which ate more at her as the days passed. No more word had come of the battle, except what little she’d gleaned from Will, so she knew not what to expect.

  They sat for the moment almost side by side. A fine, clear morning it was, almost warm, though a light snow had fallen two days before and melted off. Will chewed at the bone of the turkey leg she’d brought and stared off into the forest, as if he hadn’t heard her question. But she knew he had. His quiet was too studied.

  He peeled back a piece of the bone and brought it to his mouth to suck the marrow out. “I can’t keep taking your charity.”

  Now, that she hadn’t expected either. He was brighter of eye than even a day or two ago. Surer of hand and step, of a certain.

  “It’s not my intent to sound ungrateful,” he went on. “But you hardly need another mouth to feed.”

  Fear jagged through her chest. What did he know?

  He turned his head and met her gaze. “Why did you take pity on me, Truth Bledsoe?”

  S
he swallowed and looked away. “Can’t just shoot a hurt, starving critter.”

  He gave a low laugh. “You can if it deserves shooting.”

  “Did you?” She couldn’t help but stare again.

  “I—I ran away.” He blinked, but a bitter smile still twisted his mouth. “Hoped to find death over the mountains rather than face another night hearing the groans of the wounded. Or the thought of facing my brother with this loss on our hands.” His chest rose and fell with a breath. “But I’m there again, every night in my dreams.”

  She could find no reply to that.

  “I’m weary of the fighting. Not a week went by, back home, that someone wasn’t getting lynched, or tarred and feathered, or. . .”

  He fell silent, dragging a hand across his face.

  “Well, you’ve come to the wrong place if you don’t like fighting,” she said. His dark gaze returned to her, questioning. “Indians,” she continued. “Three years ago it was so bad they called it ‘the Bloody Seventy-seven.’ ” The reason she was so set on learning to shoot and carry a rifle. “They say the British set the Cherokee against us because the Crown doesn’t recognize our right to settle here.”

  “And why did you settle here?”

  Truth shrugged. “Same as anyone, I reckon. The chance to make a life for ourselves, to work the land and raise a family.” They were words Papa had spoken often, but they came alive for her now. “Papa and the others bought the land fairly from the Cherokee. Trouble is, some of their people don’t recognize that either, but we came here by God’s grace, and by His grace we’ll remain.”

  Will sat back, frowning. “God’s grace,” he said, softly. “The loyalist side speaks of that as well. ‘Obey the king; he is God’s instrument of judgment.’ But in the end, whose side is God on?”

  How to answer a question like that? “His own, I expect.”

  The question haunted her still, once she was home. Scrubbing linens in the washtub in the side yard, boiling them, hanging them out to dry. All she could hear was Will’s quiet but impassioned voice, later in the conversation. Where is the grace in neighbor rising up against neighbor? Men who not five years ago worked alongside each other, helped each other build houses and barns. I cannot go home until I know which side I am willing to lay down my life to defend.

  What was it about him that tugged at her heart? Compelled her to think of how to get him enough food to bring his strength up, to mend the odd castoff item so he could use—

  “Hullo the house!” a deep male voice called.

  She looked up to see her uncle Anthony crossing the yard. She straightened the shirt across the rail fence beside the barn then stepped back, wiping her hands down her blue linen skirt. “Any news of Papa?”

  He shook his head.

  Who was that man?

  In his hiding place on the slope above what he presumed was the Bledsoe farm, Micah shifted for a better look. Three days ago the malaise of starvation had faded enough that he’d crept down the mountain after Truth, for no good reason but curiosity. He hadn’t been overly sure as to her identity the first time she’d walked outside without the hat and hunting frock—especially since a proper cap covered her hair—but the springy, determined stride from house to barn left little doubt. Two other girls were obviously younger, by height, and another girl had flaxen rather than dark hair. He’d also counted only one boy, tallish, but likely too young to be hunting far from the house.

  If his guess was right that Truth was the eldest and her father was off fighting, Micah didn’t blame her for being so protective of herself and her family.

  Now he watched Truth straighten from her task of washing laundry and greet the rawboned over-the-mountain man approaching with such familiarity. He looked much as the other men at King’s Mountain, and his garb not so different from Micah’s and that of other men from the backcountry, but rougher and hard edged. He wasn’t her father, judging by the restraint of her response. More likely her captain-of-the-home-guard uncle.

  The man stayed but a short time, conversing with Truth, casting constant glances toward the trees above the house. Micah knew how to remain still and thus unseen.

  Even after the man departed, Micah stayed where he was. Truth’s soft words echoed in his mind. Hospitality is not for repaying.

  And yet he couldn’t not at least try. Especially when, to all appearances, she and her sisters and brother were alone.

  Chapter 4

  Meeting day. Truth beat eggs into a bowl, measured in handfuls of cornmeal, added milk, and stirred. She’d already warned Will not to expect her today, as they’d be walking to church this morning. It’d be the first time in a while, and she was feeling a longing to be there.

  She had traded with a neighbor some of her stitching for a ham, and slices of it sizzled in an iron skillet on the coals. Their own hog was ready for butchering, but it wandered the woods until Papa returned. While she stirred the johnnycake batter, she drew a deep breath of the fragrant meat. If there were some left after—not likely with Thomas’s appetite of late—she might could slip away up the mountain—

  The front door flew open and bounced against the wall behind. Patience stood there, cheeks flushed and chest heaving as if she’d just run half a mile.

  A small jolt went through Truth. Was it Indians?

  “Who is that man out in the barn milking our cow?” Patience asked.

  Suspicion trickled through her. He wouldn’t! Truth dropped the wooden spoon against the side of the bowl and pushed it away. “Fry the batter when the ham is done, will you?” she told Patience then brushed past.

  He would, she knew. That obstinate Tory!

  Her strides gained fervor until she reached the barn. Mindful of the livestock, she forced herself not to storm inside. Sure enough, a lean male figure in shirtsleeves, with dark hair pulled smoothly back, sat at the cow’s flank, milking away as if he belonged there.

  In an effort not to fly at him, she leaned back against the sturdy log wall. “I see you know how to milk, at least.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and grinned, flashing dimples and an impressive set of teeth. Gracious, that wasn’t fair. His gaze lingered on her, though his hands never broke rhythm. “There’s little difference between a Carolina backcountry cow and an over-the-mountain one, except that the latter’s a bit more feisty.”

  She knotted her hands in her skirts. Idiot man, in her barn, and he dared make a joke? “Where did you find the pail?”

  He tipped his head toward the corner. “I washed it first, if you’re wondering.”

  “Good thing. I’d hate to waste the milk.”

  Another grin. Then he turned back to the cow.

  “Why are you here?”

  Senseless question, since she knew already, but she had to ask.

  “You need the help.”

  “We’re getting along just fine, thank you.”

  He tossed another half smile over his shoulder. “That you are. You and—is it three younger sisters and a brother? Or are there more?”

  She clenched her teeth on at least a dozen heated replies, most of which were an insult to his politics, parentage, and character. She must not allow him the upper hand by losing her temper.

  “How long have you been watching us?” she said, when she could trust herself to speak civilly.

  His milking slowed, as he stripped the last rich drops from the cow. “Three days.” Another glance. “Did you expect me to stay in the cave?”

  Another deep, long breath. How on earth was she to suffer this insolence? “I’m glad you’re better,” she said, stammering a little. “But truly—”

  He rose, milk pail in one hand, stool in the other, and faced her. His eyes, black in the shadows of the barn, bored into hers. “You’re alone. You need help. You’ve fed and clothed me for a week. At least allow me to ease some of the burden while your father is gone.”

  Though soft, his voice left no room for argument.

  “And what am I to tell others
about your being here?” She fought to keep her own voice from trembling.

  “What others? You’re not overclose to the main settlement here. I’d stay well enough out of the way.”

  “My uncle and aunts. And other folks of the settlement do drop by of an occasion.” He didn’t move, and she grew desperate. “What of my father when he returns?”

  “I can be gone by then.”

  She shook her head, but he stepped closer. “Please. Put me to work. At least for a few days. I can’t bear staying up on the mountain, letting you provide for me while I do naught.”

  Just as on that first day, something about him caught her. I know next to nothing about him! her reason argued. What is it they were always called—filthy Tories? But this one hadn’t proven himself anything like what she’d been led to believe Tories were. Perhaps his loyalties were misguided and he could be persuaded to see the right of it. Hadn’t he admitted to doubts?

  She swallowed but drew herself straighter. “What is your true name, Will Williams? Trust me with that, and I’ll let you stay.”

  The dazzling smile appeared again. “Will is good enough for now.”

  Hissing, she stepped back. Unfortunately, she understood his reluctance to tell her, and she couldn’t deny the appeal of a strong back and arms around the farm. Perhaps, since he’d trusted her enough to let her bring him provisions and then followed her home and watched without taking advantage—

  She shivered. “Lord help us all. For a few days only, and you’ll sleep in the barn.”

  Was it her imagination, or did relief glint in his eyes? “Fair enough.”

  A scuff behind her drew her attention, and she turned to find Patience and Thomas standing in the doorway.

  “I brought your rifle,” Patience said, scooting the weapon into view, “but it don’t look like you need it at the moment.”