No time for dissembling. And if this man had half as much heart as Truth… “I had…doubts after King’s Mountain. Many of us did. Unlike others, I couldn’t return home. One of my brothers had gone rebel, and my oldest brother nearly killed him for it. So I kept running. Next I knew, I was deep in the mountains.” He drew a breath. “Truth found me one morning while out hunting. She’s the one who offered food. The only shred of grace I asked of her was to spare my life. I asked nothing beyond that, I swear.”
The hard-eyed man neither moved nor spoke.
“I’m well aware I deserve none of it,” Micah went on. “And as for being here—well, I only sought to repay her kindness. It was my intent to leave as soon as her father returned.”
“Then do so,” Truth’s uncle said.
Truth sat before the fire, her arms around her younger sisters. Mercy still wept into Truth’s skirt, but Thankful had quieted. Beside her, Thomas stared, stony faced, into the fire. Patience was sweeping the floor for what seemed the third time.
Papa would not be returning. She and Patience and the young’uns were well and truly alone.
And Micah…it hurt to breathe at just the thought of him. How could she have been so foolish?
Behind her, the door opened and shut. “Your Tory is packed up and gone.” Loven’s rumble carried the words to her.
“He’s not my Tory,” Truth said.
Thomas sat up, eyes wide. “What Tory?”
Patience had stilled, broom in her hands. “You mean Will?”
“His name is Micah.” The words fell from Truth’s lips of their own accord. She tightened her embrace around the younger girls.
Thankful squirmed out from under Truth’s arm. “How could Will be a Tory?”
Thomas’s gaze reflected the fire. “He is not.”
Truth’s eyes burned. She hadn’t wept since returning to the house, and here she was, nearly in tears, over a—a—“He was, yes. What he is now, only the Lord knows.”
Thomas’s face was very pale. “If he was a Tory and he was at King’s Mountain, then…”
Shaking her head, she released Mercy and fled to the tiny lean-to her parents had shared as a bedroom. With the door shut, she flung herself on the bed, buried her face in the coverlet, and let the weeping come.
Chapter 7
The cold lay bitter over the mountains, and the red-gold carpet of leaves was fast turning brown. Truth led Thomas and the girls down the well-known path toward the settlement and toward church, but she glanced upward at the mountain slopes. She had no need to hunt the last few weeks, not with a smokehouse stocked with ham and bacon. And for the better, given the rumor of Indians on the warpath.
She missed her hunting frock and felt hat, but for Sunday meeting, proper won out over practical. A wide-brimmed straw hat covered her cap and a wool cape her gown and petticoats. All was in place, right down to her stays.
Downhill, it wasn’t a strenuous walk, and the young’uns chatter should have kept her thoughts busy. But she couldn’t help but wonder where Micah was: Had he returned home? How long did it take him to get there, or had he stubbornly remained in the mountains? Was he again cold and hungry?
And either way, why did she care?
They arrived at church with time to spare, and inside the log building, Truth herded the family onto their customary bench. Others were arriving as well, but she kept her head down to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. Afterward was the soonest she could face the pitying looks and sad smiles.
The service itself passed in a haze. She usually had little trouble paying attention, but today the words of the hymns and the minister’s sermon seemed to slide over her and trickle away like snow melting across the rocky mountainside. She stood when necessary, sat at the appropriate times, kept her hands folded in her lap. Oddly, Thomas and the younger girls managed to hold still as well.
Afterward they filed out of the building. Outside, where quiet conversation was more acceptable, a trio of women, one older and two younger, stood waiting. Her aunts—Anthony’s and Loven’s wives—and a cousin.
“Aunt Mary. Sarah. Aunt Milly.” Truth greeted them and accepted an embrace from each, in turn.
“Good to see you, dear,” Aunt Mary said. “How are you faring?”
The concern in their eyes, as she feared, made her own burn. “Well enough, thank you.”
She glanced about to see where the young’uns had gone. Thomas and one of the other boys had run for the edge of the churchyard, kicking leaves in their wake. Thankful and Mercy had a pair of small cousins by the hands and were likewise skipping in the crisp air. Mama would have chided them for it, but Papa would have laughed and told her to let them be children while they could.
Milly cleared her throat. “We’re a little concerned about you being up there all alone.”
“We’re just fine, thank you,” Truth said.
Aunt Mary pressed in. “You can’t honestly be thinking of staying there? Think, Truth—you and the young’uns through the winter? With threat of—”
She broke off, but Truth could hear the unspoken words. With threat of Indian attack. She straightened, pulling her shoulders back. “The smokehouse is stocked. I need some things from the fort, but otherwise, truly, we’re fine.”
We even have an extra rifle. A tiny sigh escaped her at the thought of Papa’s standing in its corner next to hers.
“How did you get your hog slaughtered?” Aunt Mary asked.
Truth suppressed a wince at the thought of Micah. The image of him, knife in hand, strong and laughing at some sardonic quip she’d made, flashed through her mind. “We had—help.”
Aunt Mary’s gaze narrowed. “Still. It wouldn’t be fitting.”
“And why ever not?”
Milly turned. “Loven!” Her youngest uncle was nearly at his wife’s elbow already. She looped her arm through his and tugged him closer. “Please tell Truth she and the young’uns can’t possibly stay there alone this winter. We could take them in—or Anthony and Mary would be glad to as well.”
Loven’s eyes went cool and speculating, his mouth flat—but he held his tongue.
Milly shook his arm. “Tell her!”
“She knows,” he said at last and tugged his wife away.
And he knew entirely too much himself. Had he told Milly and Mary about her fugitive Tory?
He isn’t my Tory, her mind insisted, but her heart broke afresh.
Papa had lost his life, possibly at Micah’s hand—and she’d spared his.
She stirred to find herself standing alone, or nearly so. Aunt Mary had followed in Milly’s wake, and Sarah lingered, but only to talk in low tones to her beau. Truth edged away and headed across the churchyard.
“We gave them just what Reverend Doak said, the sword of the Lord and of Gideon!”
The ringing voice carried from a cluster of men several paces away. Truth halted, her eyes snapping shut. Another ribbon of pain laced across her breast.
“No more than what they deserved,” another said.
Oh Papa.
Oh Micah.
How could she feel so torn? She’d heard the threats Ferguson had made, to hang their leaders and lay waste to the settlements with fire and sword if they did not stay out of the conflict between the colonies and Crown.
But Micah was not of that ilk. She knew this.
And yet—if there was the slightest breath of possibility that his hand held the gun that took Papa—
She made herself think of Papa, his last embrace, smelling of leather and bear grease, and his gruff admonition to be strong. The way he’d tucked each of the young’uns in close and whispered to them as well. Perhaps her aunts were right and she should consider moving to one of their farms, at least for the winter. After all, how could she be enough for them all, with him gone?
Almighty Lord, I cannot do this alone… .
“Truth girl.”
She started, but it was only Loven sidling up to her, and by himself, more’s the wonder
.
“Of a certain, how are you faring?”
The admission of his concern nearly broke her. She tucked her head, swallowed, and only answered when she thought she could contain herself. “Well enough.”
He tipped his head, considering her. “You’re not pining over that Tory, are you?”
She’d been right—his pale eyes saw far too much.
“No.” It was not a lie. If anything, she pined over her own loss of strength and good sense.
“Good.” He chewed the side of his mouth, glanced over to the other men, still loudly reminiscing over the battle, then refocused on her. “Was he courting you?”
Her cheeks heated at the memory of what he must have overheard—her admission that she’d gone soft and let Micah kiss her—no, further, had kissed him back. She shook her head. “I think not. It didn’t get so far.”
He sniffed. “I wonder. ’Tain’t like you let anyone try before. Sooner shoot them as let them talk pretty to you.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “You deserve better’n him. And if you’re finally of a mind, Joe Greer will be returning soon—”
“I don’t want Joe Greer.” Preening peacock.
“He’s at least a real man, not a yellow-hearted Tory.”
She waved a hand then covered her eyes for a moment. “He didn’t run from you, did he?”
Silence then, “No. He didn’t.”
Truth waited. He’d have more to say, doubtless.
When it came, his voice was oddly gentle. “I just expected you to have more sense than that, Truth girl.”
She released a long breath. “So did I, Loven. So did I.”
With the blade of his knife against stone, Micah struck sparks into the tinder he’d made from shredded bark then blew them to flame until the twigs he’d collected ignited.
He customarily used coals from the previous fire to start the new, but in his ranging, the fire had been out too long. But his tinder was good and dry from being stored off to the side in the cave, and the kindling caught quickly enough. He added a few smaller pieces of wood then sat back, tipping his head to scan the sparkling, rippled surface of the cave ceiling. The rear part of the cave was damp, with a passage leading downward to a stream, but here the floor remained dry and sandy.
Inside the low opening, the cave was wide enough for a man to stand up comfortably and deep enough for several to find shelter. And unlike during the early days here, he was one blanket richer, along with one knife, one hat, and assorted proper gear.
All thanks to Truth.
Why he could not simply cross back over the mountains and head for home was a mystery. She’d made it clear enough that he was no longer welcome—and he blamed her not a whit. But something compelled him to stay. Whether it was because he’d left his heart down at that farm at the mountain’s foot or something else, he couldn’t say.
Did staying still make him a coward?
He let his mind play back over the past few years since the war’s outbreak. It hadn’t seemed to touch them much in North Carolina. A few skirmishes here and there, neighbors snarling at each other over fences—until the British firmly took Savannah and Charles Town and started their push into the backcountry. Then men’s blood truly began to boil.
He was weary of it, truth be told.
When the fire was warm enough, he lit a torch he’d made from mosses and took himself down the rear passage to the stream. Being careful not to slide on the rocky bottom, he bathed and then washed out his shirt and breeches.
Afterward, shivering—though the temperature of the cave was constant and far warmer than outdoors, it was still cool to his bare, wet skin—he made his way back to the fire to dry himself and his clothing.
The welts and deep bruises of two months past were faded now, except for the occasional ache in his ribs. He stretched, pulling on the shirt, then held the breeches out toward the flames. He’d swam the creek many a time, even in the cold, and tramped the countryside with wet clothing, but taking the edge off the damp would certainly make them more comfortable.
The thought of home pricked at him. Christmas was near. Did his sisters wonder what had befallen him and mourn? Did John care a whit that his absence might cause them pain, or did he merely curse and rave at Micah’s disappearance, certain that another brother had gone rebel?
And then the image of Truth, with her wry smile and light blue eyes, flashed before him. The younger children, shy but laughing. Christmas couldn’t be aught but a gloomy affair for them. And what if that was indeed his fault? Truth’s wild grief at that possibility chilled him even now.
And even now, he could feel the softness of her lips and of her slight form as for that moment she’d yielded to his embrace.
Just for a moment, but it was enough. He’d never be the same after kissing Truth.
A kiss was not sufficient, however, to erase the horror of where he’d been, that her father could have met his end at Micah’s hand.
All the more reason my life should be spent making up for that loss.
The strength of that thought stole his breath. His eyes snapped shut. A lifetime at Truth’s side—providing for her, protecting her—nothing until now had seemed as worthy a cause to spend himself upon.
But could she be persuaded to see it thus? And would she ever forgive him for being in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Chapter 8
Micah went steadily but as silently as he could through the twilight, across the slopes that would take him back to the cave. After being here for more than a month, he could find his way in the near dark with little trouble. He’d ranged far today, and the last glow from the sunset had faded as the first stars glittered above, leaving the mountains in crisp, bitter cold. His snares had netted him a pair of rabbits—lean as far as meat went, but at least he’d not starve again, yet.
As he picked his way through the laurel and around a fall of boulders, an owl’s hoot broke the stillness, then another. At the third one, from a different direction, he stopped. A chill brushed his skin, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck.
He slid into a man-sized crack between the boulders. The owl hoot came again, closer. Forcing his breathing to shallowness, he waited. Muscles cramped and skin prickled.
Voices, low at first, then rising in agitation. Micah caught a few words—Cherokee, if he didn’t mistake what his brother had taught him, with English mixed in.
Settlements… Warpath.
Micah’s blood turned to ice in his veins.
Was he understanding them aright? What if his memory served him wrong and they were merely talking of a hunt?
On the other hand, what Indians hunted ordinary prey at night, well after sunset?
The voices fell silent, and he held himself still, barely breathing. There was a rush, as of a wind sweeping through the winter-bare trees. Micah peeked out, and the dark shapes of two or three dozen bodies, perhaps more, streamed past the boulders. Downhill, and definitely toward the settlement.
Between here and there lay Truth’s farm.
Micah waited until the last echo of the war party—if it was such—had faded. Then he slid out of his hiding place, considered his direction, and took off down the mountain as well.
Young’uns tucked in bed, at last. Truth listened to the last shuffling sounds of Thomas and the girls in the loft above as, shawl-wrapped, she made her rounds, padding from door to windows, making sure all was shut and barred.
Of late, this was the moment she looked forward to most all day. The house quiet, the young’uns settled, and the first breath of rest since she’d lifted her head from the pillow that morning. She couldn’t remember it ever being this hard before, but then she’d always had Papa’s return to look forward to.
No longer.
She paused at one window, fingertips on the barred shutter. If not for the cold, she’d open it and just stand there, soaking in the evening’s peace. Tonight a shiver ran through her, and she turned away.
Sighing, she rubbed
a hand across her face. It would be Christmas in just a few days. Memories assailed her of Mama and Papa gathering them all by the fire for a reading of scripture, the house fragrant with roast bird and pie and sweets that Mama had labored over for what seemed like days. There’d be no more of that for the young’uns unless she made the effort. She had enough sugar for a small cake, but she’d have to borrow cream and eggs from Aunt Milly. Her own cow had gone dry a couple of weeks ago and would not come fresh again until early spring after her calf was born.
They could have a very decent day of it if none of them dissolved into tears as had been their habit of late…
A thumping on the front door drew a gasp from her lips and spun her around. Who might—
“Truth! Open up. It’s Micah.”
Heart pounding, she flew to the door then reached for her rifle before she lifted the bar. Fumbling, she pulled it open. The wild man who stood there, hat in hand, illuminated in candle-and firelight—bearded, hair mussed, eyes wide—reminded her again of that first day. And once again, she could hardly move. “Micah?”
His name escaped her throat in a squeak.
“There’s no time—may I come in?”
She stepped back, and he did so, shutting the door behind him. His gaze fastened on hers, every bit as intent as she remembered.
“Indian attack,” he said, breathless. “I came to warn you.”
She put out a hand, and he gripped her arm, steadying her.
“The settlement,” she gasped.
“Aye. I’ll go.” He tipped his head, gesturing with his free arm, and for a moment his mouth flattened in what looked like a rueful half smile. “I know the way. Been scouting about this past month.”
Heat flashed through her. He hadn’t left. He’d stayed—but why?
The cold took her again, and she found herself trembling.
His gaze swept the room before coming back to her. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Just—stand ready.” A definite smile this time, sweet and tender and heart-piercing. “I know how well you can use that rifle. Give ’em fire if they’re here before I return.”
A Pioneer Christmas Collection Page 4