A Pioneer Christmas Collection

by Kathleen Fuller

  Then he was gone, the door shutting behind him with a solid thud. Truth shook herself and set the bar back in place.

  Whirling, she stared about her. So much to be done. But first—

  She went to the table and blew out the candle. Then at the fireplace, she set aside the rifle and dropped to her knees. With the poker, she spread the logs apart so the flames would die more quickly to embers.

  And there she lingered, in prayer for the young man she’d sent away but who’d somehow returned to warn them all of danger.

  To her amazement, the house stayed quiet.

  Micah’s lungs burned from the cold, but still he ran, across the fields undoubtedly cleared and worked by Truth’s father, through a stand of thick timber, down a ravine. He dodged mossy boulders and leaped a narrow, swift stream, still gurgling despite the recent freeze. In the dark his foot slipped, went down in a pool so cold his foot was instantly numb, but he scrambled up and kept going.

  The lingering fear for Truth and her sisters and brother nipped hard at his heels, making the short distance to the farm of Truth’s uncle seem miles longer than he knew it to be.

  If there had been anyone else closer, Micah would go there, but it made more sense to warn her uncle first—even if it was the youngest uncle, Loven, rather than the hard-faced oldest.

  Micah only hoped the man wouldn’t shoot him on sight.

  He’d barely reached the next harvest-bare field before a hound bayed somewhere ahead of him. He set his teeth and put on a last burst of speed. The baying became more urgent.

  Halfway across the field, he slowed. “Ho the house!”

  A door opened, silhouetting a man in shirtsleeves holding a rifle. He gave a low command, and the baying subsided to a growl and whine. “Who is it?” the man called.

  “A friend.” Heaving for breath, Micah walked to the edge of the porch where the light touched him and leaned his hands on his knees for a moment.

  “You,” the man grunted.

  Micah lifted his head then straightened. “Aye, it’s me. Shoot me if you wish, but I came to warn you there’s what looks like a war party of Indians headed this way.”

  Loven Bledsoe’s head came up, apparently searching the darkness behind Micah. He beckoned Micah inside.

  The man’s wife stood near the fire, still poised in shock. Micah dipped her a quick bow then turned back to Truth’s uncle. “Thirty or forty braves met together then passed me up on the mountain. I overheard them talking—fairly certain they mean to attack, although my Cherokee’s a bit rusty.”

  “Well.” The iron set of Loven’s jaw did not ease, but he put down the rifle and reached for his hunting frock, hanging behind the door. “We’re too far from the fort to take refuge there, but I’ll need to spread the word. Did you warn Truth?”

  Micah sucked in another deep breath, grateful for the warmth of the snug cabin. “Went there first.”

  Loven gave a quick nod and buckled his belt around the coat. His gaze flicked over Micah. “And you’re going back, I expect?”

  “I am. She and the children shouldn’t be alone.”

  “Somethin’ we agree on,” Loven muttered, reaching for his hat. He held one arm out to the woman, who stepped close for a quick kiss and embrace. “Bundle yourselves and the young’uns, follow him over to Truth’s.” Another glance at Micah. “You’ll not mind?”

  “I’d be honored,” Micah said.

  Chapter 9

  T ruth heard the voices before the soft scratching came at the door. She opened to find Milly and her two young’uns standing outside. Behind them, Micah was tying a huge dog to the corner of the porch.

  Her heart did a strange flutter. “Loven let Micah bring Brutus?”

  Milly flashed a smile. “The hound is useful for sounding alarm.” She stepped past Truth to the lean-to bedroom, leading the bundled little boys.

  Finished with the dog, Micah stood back, hat in hand, his expression lost in shadow. “Get inside,” Truth whispered and barred the door after him.

  She took his hat and hung it on a peg beside hers. She’d not think about how Papa’s hung there day after day.

  Loven trusted Micah with his hound…and his wife and young’uns.

  Micah stood entirely too close. She twitched away, reached for Papa’s rifle, and thrust it into Micah’s hands. “Here.” She kept her voice low, but it sounded harsh in the stillness. “Make yourself useful. Can you reload, or should I set Milly to do it for you?”

  She knew without looking that his bearded mouth would be curling in a grin. “My older brother has a fine Pennsylvania longrifle. I’ve handled it a time or two.”

  “That’ll do then.” She handed him a shot bag—she’d counted more than twenty balls—and a powder horn.

  Both Papa’s. Again, she’d not think about it.

  He huffed the breath of a laugh. “Where do you want me?”

  She pointed at the window to the left of the door. “There. Reckon we’ll have to unbar the windows to properly keep watch.”

  With a nod, Micah moved into position. After opening the window, he slung the pouch and powder horn straps over his body and, between glances outside, counted the balls. “Is this all you have?” he said, hushed.

  “I’ve an equal amount saved back.” She swallowed. “Will the Indians head straight for the settlement, do you think, or burn houses and farms as they go?”

  He gave a little shake of his head. “Hard to say. They’d have been here by now if they intended to hit as they go. Doesn’t mean the danger’s over.”

  Milly came, rustling softly, from the lean-to. “I’ve put the boys to bed. What do you need me to do?”

  Truth considered. “There’s a small window near the bed. You could keep watch there, whistle if you hear anything amiss.”

  Milly hesitated, glanced toward Micah. The curiosity must be burning inside her, but they must not make idle conversation. “We have water?”

  “Enough till morning, at least.”

  And if they did not survive until then—it wouldn’t matter.

  Milly whisked away to the back room.

  Truth carried a stool to her chosen post, placed it carefully, and eased open the shutter where not an hour ago she’d stood. Peering out now was a different matter entirely, but with a gust of cold, only the deep quiet of evening greeted her. A sullen quiet, it seemed.

  She exchanged her shawl for hunting frock and slipped her own shot pouch and powder horn into place, slung across her body. She’d already removed her cap and stowed it in her pocket, so as not to make more of a target than they already were. With rifle leaning upright against her shoulder, she settled onto the stool, a little back from the window.

  Were they out there even now, waiting? She suppressed a shudder. Her own grandfather had disappeared in the wilderness, presumably at the hand of some Indian brave. She couldn’t visit the merchants at the fort without hearing talk of Indian attacks, with the horrors of being scalped or captured described in detail.

  Papa had often said that he and his brothers had moved farther out on the frontier to escape government interference and political squabbling, but which was worse? The Cherokee remained as divided as any over the white men’s land purchases this side of the mountains.

  Yet this was the life she knew. She wanted naught else, unless it was to have Papa back, and Mama. And God willing, someday a family of her own.

  Her eyes strayed across to Micah. She could just see the outline of his form beside the open window. Feet set apart, shoulders wide under the fringed double collar of the hunting frock. Dark hair loose over that, the hint of a strong brow and straight nose as he gazed out into the night.

  Her throat tightened. Why did he agitate her so? Was it merely the knowledge that Micah was there—where Papa took the musket ball that later took his life—and could have been the one to deliver it? Or was there more?

  God sent you.

  Her own words haunted her.

  As if she’d spoken aloud,
Micah turned his head, meeting her gaze in the dark. Neither of them moved.

  Even in the dark, he could see the hint of curls around her face. His memory filled in the tilt of her cheekbones and chin.

  Did she despise the necessity of him being here? Or was that spark he’d seen in her eyes when she’d first opened the door to him one of relief and gladness? It would be easy enough to imagine it as such. Too soon to tell whether she tolerated his presence simply because she needed him to fire a rifle if the Indians attacked.

  Which he should be watching for, instead of letting her distract him.

  He turned back to the window. All was quiet, including that great hound Loven had insisted he bring along. Not that he was ungrateful—as Loven’s wife had said, the dog would be useful to raise an alarm should anything happen.

  And Truth’s expression of surprise had warmed him clear through.

  He stole another glance at her, but she’d returned to looking outward as well, perfectly still and straight, one hand curled around the barrel of that rifle.

  Brave, fetching girl. He had so much to say to her if they lived through this night.

  Please, Almighty God. I’m not in the habit of praying anymore, but…protect and spare her. Protect these people.

  And—if I did shoot the ball that took her father, I ask that You pardon my soul. Did we not all only do what we felt was right?

  Only the silence echoed back to him, but a small measure of ease filled his heart.

  The night wore on. A distant wolf howled, then an owl hooted. The hairs on Micah’s neck lifted again. He raised the rifle, held it half at ready, but nothing stirred nearby. The hound growled but only the once.

  A creaking came from the ladder to the loft. Truth’s next youngest sister, Patience, descended and tiptoed over to her. They whispered briefly; then Patience went to the pail on the table, dipped a tin cup of water, and brought it to Micah. He nodded his thanks and drank it down.

  After he handed her back the cup, Patience stood there like she also wanted to ask him something. Micah glanced at her, but after a moment she returned to Truth’s side.

  The next hour or two passed without event. Micah reckoned it to be close to midnight, and he scrubbed at his face in the attempt to stay awake.

  Truth sidled up to him, her presence more felt than heard. “Think we dare sleep? If Brutus will bark or growl…”

  He shrugged. The temptation to sleep was strong, but the later the hour, the more likely the Indians would double back from their planned target. And if the two of them weren’t both awake, ready to respond the moment of attack, could they hold them off ?

  “Been thinking,” he murmured. “If they come, we should do all we can to make it seem there’s more than two of us.”

  “We could take turns firing and loading, moving from one window to the other.”

  “Should work.” He forced himself to sound calm, but just having her standing there, elbow nearly touching his, set all his senses at the ready. It wasn’t sleep he wished to dare, suddenly, but to tuck her into his arms again, and—“Do you have more than the two rifles? An old musket as well, perhaps?”

  “No. But I have Papa’s tomahawk and hunting knife, if need be.”

  A smile tugged at his mouth. “You’d be right fierce with either of those, I expect.”

  She huffed softly—was that a laugh for his benefit or merely derision? He let himself look at her. Between the pert nose and chin, her mouth was firm, all outlined in shadow.

  “I’m going to feel mighty foolish if this turns out to be for naught,” he said.

  At that, she turned, her gaze catching his. “Don’t.”

  Her eyes widened, as if she’d just admitted something she didn’t want him to know. Her lips parted and shut, and she glanced away. He imagined if there were enough light he would have seen her flush.

  “I—I was overharsh with you, weeks ago, that day when Loven came home,” she said. “You couldn’t have known—”

  She broke off, half turned away. He reached out and caught her arm, but gently.

  “The news of your papa was a terrible shock,” he said.

  Her eyes glimmering, she looked up again. He let his fingers slide down her sleeve until they closed over her hand.

  “If I could bring him back to you,” he said, “I would. If somehow I could go back there and exchange myself for him…”

  Her grip tightened on his. “Don’t—not that either. ’Tain’t fitting to question what God has decreed.”

  For a long moment, they stood almost nose to nose, unmoving. “It isn’t questioning God to admit you grieve,” he said. “I remember what it’s like to lose a mother and father. And if it pains you that I’m here and your papa isn’t, well, no one can blame you for that.”

  She drew a soft, uneven breath. Then, tough over-the-mountain girl that she was, she sagged against him, forehead to his shoulder.

  Outside, the hound shot to his feet, baying.

  Chapter 10

  Truth sped back to her window. Her eyes strained through the darkness—was that movement at the far corner of the barn? If Brutus’s continued baying was any indication, yes. She raised the rifle and sighted.

  Micah was at her shoulder. “The hound’s pointed toward the cow pen. Could be there, and maybe beyond the house a little. Don’t fire just yet, until you’re sure what it is.”

  An unearthly shriek split the night, chillingTruth to the marrow. She remembered that cry from the night in the fort, three years past. “I’m sure,” she said, and pointing the rifle at the nearest flicker, just beyond the rail fence, pulled the trigger.

  The boom of the gun shook the house as the rifle stock kicked against her shoulder. The acrid smell of burnt powder filled her nostrils. She stepped back to let Micah take position and upended the rifle for reloading while thumbing open the powder horn. A measure of powder, tipped down the barrel, then a patch and ball from inside the pouch on her other side. Ramrod out, then—

  A flash and a blast heralded Micah’s shot. She had the ball and patch tamped nearly down the barrel. Micah slid to the wall opposite her and began reloading as well.

  Ramrod back in place. Truth lifted the rifle, primed the pan with a slight dusting of powder, dropped the horn, and swung the rifle to her shoulder again. More shrieks, overlaid with Brutus’s frantic yips and howls.

  “Wait,” came Micah’s voice, steady and low. “Wait…and…there.”

  Movement accompanied the nearest-sounding war cry. She pointed and fired again. Stepped back. Tipped up rifle, powder horn in hand.

  Lord in heaven, preserve us! She had twenty or so balls and plenty of powder. Could they hold off a full-scale attack?

  And how many times had Papa and her uncles and the other men faced battle? Had Papa felt this white-hot determination to fight until last breath?

  Ramrod down… Next to her, Micah fired again and moved aside. She slid the rod into place, primed the pan, stepped up.

  She mustn’t waste balls. Oh God, let me shoot true. For my sisters and brother. For Milly and the boys—

  A flash from past the barn betrayed return fire, and Truth heard the ball hit somewhere beside the open window.

  Squeeze the trigger. Flame and smoke, and the kick against her shoulder. Move back and reload again.

  A thin cry—one of the girls—came from above then was drowned by the roar of Micah’s next shot.

  Ramrod down—down—this ball was stubborn—

  The cry was muffled now.

  Micah reloaded, glancing out the window. Truth slid the ramrod home and stepped up.

  Milly came scurrying out of the back room. “There’s more,” she panted, “behind the house.”

  Micah darted away before Truth could move. She gritted her teeth, torn between the desire to just shoot and the knowledge that she mustn’t just blaze away into the night. Every shot counted. But now—

  The thunder of Micah’s rifle echoed from the tiny lean-to. One of the boys yelpe
d—likely Isaac, the younger.

  How long before the Indians figured out that it was just the two of them shooting and made their attack in that precious half-minute while they were reloading?

  She searched for movement. Brutus’s baying changed in pitch—was he pointed another direction? She leaned to one side to see back past the porch—there, a flash and boom, and a shutter at the other window exploded in splinters.

  Without thought, Truth raced across the room, lifted the gun, and sighted. She fired then ducked back to reload.

  A flurry of shouts echoed from the field beyond the barn; the crackle of gunfire echoed after. The settlement men in pursuit of the war party?

  Or reinforcements for the attack?

  Her breath came in gasps. The next moments would tell. As a second boom rolled across the cabin from the lean-to, she made her hands continue the task—ball, patch, ramrod. Slide the ramrod back into place—sidestep to the window, rifle to her shoulder.

  Oh Lord…merciful Lord. . .

  A few more shots rang out. The war cries seemed to scatter and fade. Truth waited, still at the ready. Behind her, someone scuttled up the loft ladder—most likely Milly. Patience had gone back to bed hours ago.

  “Halloo the house!” came a call as Brutus’s baying quieted to a yelp and a growl.

  Truth sagged against the wall and closed her eyes.

  Micah made sure their attackers were on the run. Then with the barest glance toward the two boys huddled on the bed, he left the back room and crossed to where Truth leaned, rifle cradled in her arms. He set a hand on her shoulder, and her eyes fluttered open.

  “It wasn’t for naught,” she said, and he shook his head slowly.

  “Truth, be you there?” The deep voice of one of her uncles carried through the open window.

  She pushed upright and glided past Micah to the door. The rawboned man outside wasn’t Loven but the older one he’d seen speaking to her weeks before. She threw herself into his embrace. “Uncle Anthony!”

  “Is everyone safe?” His gaze swept the room and came back to Micah with a sternness that made Micah think he might be better off facing the Cherokee.