by Mimi Barbour
“I do okay,” Kay said. “But go ahead with the rest of your story.”
“Anyhow, I saved every dollar I made except for a few I needed for replacing worn out boots and my missing winter coat, then I put a big down payment on a shop with an unfinished apartment above it. I was hoping you’d come to work with me. You wouldn’t have to work basically out of your car, driving around, calling on customers with a baby, and I could repair stuff inside, not out in the cold or wet. Bush mechanicking non-stop for a year was okay, but I’ve had my fill of working outside. I don’t think my toes will ever warm up.”
“So, were you wanting to move in with me and that’s why you brought your luggage? And are you using totes for suitcases now?”
“Well, I left my duffle bag with all my clothes and such at the front door. That’s not a tote, though: that’s kinda my apology gift. I really am sorry for not contacting you. I’ll tell you all about it later, but right now…”
Meow, meow.
“You brought me a cat? Who is it? Kit Kringle?”
“Nope. I brought you our cat. Yardley, meet Kay, my wife if she’ll have me.”
Jay opened the carrier door and let the once feral cat come to him. He rubbed her neck behind her ears, hoping Kay had heard his soft proposal.
“Did you just ask me to marry you?”
Jay nodded, then held the cat to her, offering it to her. “If you’ll have us.”
Kay patted Yardley’s head with her free hand and grinned at her scarred and whiskered face. “So, you’re the female who’s been keeping this guy away from me for all this time.”
“No, she’s not. She has been keeping me out of trouble, though. You two are the only females I’ve been near for just over thirteen months now.”
“Well, get ready, mister, because there’s one more coming into your life.”
“What’s her name?” he asked, smiling at the baby in the bassinette.
“Well, Jay, I sort of named her after me.”
“Kay, Junior?”
“No, literally. As in, you’re Jay, I’m Kay…”
Jay leaned over and kissed his daughter on the head. “Nice to meet you, Elle. Sorry I’m late, but I’ll make it up to you and your mother. I promise.”
~ THE END ~
A Word from the Author
It you’re a fan of historical fiction or time travel, here’s a sneak peek at another Christmas tale, this one from the box set Love, Christmas. This set has twenty novellas all based on popular Christmas songs. Here’s the first chapter of LITTLE DRUMMER BOY, set in post-Revolutionary War North Carolina.
Little Drummer Boy
Dani Haviland
Chapter 1
Scouting for a job
December 1784
North Carolina backwoods
Snap!
Scout cringed as the branch broke under his foot, its disintegration echoing in the narrow walls of the ravine. If his father had been with him, maybe he’d have cuffed his ears, or even worse, subjected him to that angry white man scowl.
But his father wasn’t here.
Again.
He’d make do by himself as he had in the past. He huffed as realization hit. His life had been so much simpler without a father. When had their roles been reversed? He shrugged a shoulder and a faint smile crept in. Ever since he’d met him, three years ago. The smile grew and he allowed a small chuckle to escape. Yes, his first ten years of life had been so much easier, living with just his mother and grandmother in their Cherokee village. Finding his ‘real’ father was almost an accident, but whether Star Walker—the man the White Men called Ian Kincaid—was a nuisance or not, he was still kin. And he’d watch out for him.
When he was around.
And not on another vengeance quest.
But no matter what, he needed to find food and a way to make money, but not in that order.
He clutched his rumbling stomach. “Quiet, or we’ll never get that rabbit.”
The sand-colored critter sniffed the air, then hopped through the knee-high grass, making his own trail, his white cottontail taunting a silent farewell. Dinner almost got away, but the youthful hunter’s bolo toss was quick and accurate.
“No matter how dire the circumstances, there always seems to be enough rabbits to feed a traveler.”
***
“I canna stay with ye any longer,” he said as he kicked dirt over the dying embers of his campfire. “If I do, I’ll wind up as mean and ornery as you. I can hunt and fish to feed myself, and trap and sell furs to save a few coins. Ye see, I have a wife now. Even if she’s young and stayin’ with her parents until she finishes school, Jenny is still my wife. Ye see, we married the Indian way, claimin’ each other as husband and wife two years past. I want to buy us a piece of land and a few critters, build a house, plant a garden and maybe some fruit trees. I don’t want to be like ye. I want to be settled, have a family that lives in a house, with glass windows maybe—not out in the wind and rain, watchin’ out fer snakes and bears and all those enemies ye're always makin'.”
Scout—the youth called Wee Ian by his father—tugged at the strap securing his bundle of blanket, pan, and corn meal, and then stood up again, searching the horizon for signs of his father. Or anyone else.
“Weel, that’s what I’d say to ye if ye were here, but yer gone again.” He shook his head in disgust. “What did someone say or do to make ye angry this time…”
Kaboom!
Scout spun around toward the noise. A puff of smoke rose from an area near the river bank, a ten-minute trot away. “Let’s hope it’s not you that they’re shootin’ at,” he said under his breath, then took off down the hill, ready to help or hide, depending on who was involved.
***
He could have come in beating a drum and still wouldn’t have been heard, but moving quietly came naturally. The clanging and slashing of axes and swords—knocking down trees and trimming off branches—wasn’t as deafening as the intermittent cannon blasts, but was sufficient cover noise. The smoke overwhelmed what little scent his small body emitted, so the horses weren’t alerted to him either.
It looked as if the soldiers were trying to build a bridge of some sort. Their small axes—more like oversized hatchets—weren’t making much headway in bringing down the trees, so the men had resorted to using their cannon to blast a couple of the larger pines to speed up the work.
Apparently this small company—thirty men and horses and one two-wheeled cannon—needed to get across the fast-moving yet deep river. They might be desperate or maybe just in a hurry, but either way, they were certainly ignorant.
Scout shook his head, holding back a snort of exasperation that probably wouldn’t be heard, but he didn’t need to be reckless. He had spotted a wide spot up the road, not even half a mile away, perfect for fording a wagon. Walking across it would only be thigh-high on a short man.
A warm smile of contentment bloomed on Scout’s face when he saw the exasperated officer wipe sweat from his brow—he had been swinging a small axe, too. If this company had a competent scout, they would have known where to cross. However, it would be better yet if they didn’t have any scout at all. He didn’t want to make another man feel inferior. Sometimes a bruised ego never healed. Hmph. His father was a testament to that.
***
“Excuse me, sir,” Scout said, making sure he stood back in case he startled the officer.
Just as he had anticipated, the colonel’s short-handled axe swung out as he spun around to see who was addressing him.
The colonel prided himself with knowing the name of each man in his outfit and what he looked and sounded like—quite handy when searching for the source of gossip and out-and-out lies. This scrawny young man standing before him was a stranger. He blinked twice. And apparently a half-breed Indian. No wonder he moved so silently.
“I dinna mean to come uninvited, sir, but is it true yer lookin’ fer a good scout?”
Scout wasn’t lying. He was just askin
g a question. It was either true or false on whether they had a scout. If they did have one, it was true he wasn’t good because he hadn’t helped with today’s dilemma. Either way, he hoped his boldness would gain him employment.
The colonel’s face transitioned from shock at being caught unaware that an intruder had made his way past the sentinels into camp, to anger at how swift the tale of the misogynistic scout who had beat a sweet young whore almost to death had spread, to mirth at the ambition of the enterprising young man in front of him.
“Yes,” the colonel replied, wiping away his smile and the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. “I am looking for a good scout. However, I was more interested in an adult, not a child.”
Scout nodded to the men of assorted sizes and ages who had given up on contriving a bridge and were now trying to cobble together a raft from some of the like-sized felled trees. “I’m small, but a man jest the same. My mother was a wee woman, and I take after her. It looks like ye and yer bigger men could use some of my wee-bodied knowledge, though. I’m familiar with this area and could help with yer river crossing. But make no mistake about it, jest because I’m not as tall as some, I’d expect the pay ye’d give a larger man. After all, it’s what’s up here,” Scout tapped his right temple like he had seen Evie do, “that’s most important. Especially on a day like today.”
Scout looked up at the dark clouds chasing the white ones out of the sky. “I’d say we’re gonna have rain here in a few hours. The river will be even higher by morn’. By the looks of yon raft, I’d say it willna be finished by then, even if it could carry the load. That wagon looks heavier than yer cook,” nodding to the lone man at the fire.
The hefty cook was bent over his pot of peas, stirring then fishing with his oversized fork, hunting for the ham bone. “Ah, there you are,” he said as he stuck one of the two tines into the end of the bone. He held it up in the air, looked around to see if anyone was watching, and plucked a long strip of meat from it before putting it back in the pot. The colonel huffed at the minor theft of food. He put up with the extra portions Cookie gave himself because he was an excellent chef. In his past life, he catered to lords and ladies. He had won Cookie’s services from a general in a card game and was forever grateful. Not many men, or women, could make such meager rations taste so good.
Both Scout and the colonel stopped staring at the ham-pilfering soldier and faced each other. “If you can show us the way across the river—with the cannon arriving safely and with no loss of man or horse—you can have the job of scout.”
“At full pay?” Scout asked, his hand stuck out.
“At full pay,” the colonel said and shook hands to seal the agreement. “And full rations, too. You may say you’re a full-grown man, but it looks like you could use a few more meals, just the same.”
“Aye, I could use a few more meals, but I dinna say I was full grown. I am a man, jest the same, though. Bring yer pony and I’ll show ye the way from jest around the bend. We willna even have to climb a rise.”
***
“Sorry, son. The paymaster regulations say I can’t pay a half-grown man full scout wages, no matter how good he is.”
The sergeant with the pock-scarred face wasn’t the man in charge, but he was the one who handled the payroll for the company. Or so he had said.
“But the colonel said he’d pay me full wages, whether I was full-grown or not. We even shook on it! You’d all be swimmin’ down the river if it wasna fer me.”
“That’s just the way it is, lad. Now, for someone your size, we can allow wages for a drummer boy…” The sergeant reached up, dug a booger out of his hairy nostril, and flicked it over the boy’s shoulder, watching to see if he’d flinch.
Scout didn’t so much as gasp at the insult, but did glare at him, shoulders back, chin out. “What’s a drummer boy? And how much does he get paid?”
“He’s whoever we can find to walk in front of the troops when we march into battle, bangin’ the drum. You can’t be scared of loud noises or musket balls flyin’ past your head, neither.”
“What good does makin’ a lot of noise do? Isna finding the best place to cross a river or scouting a spot to surprise the enemy a better skill?”
“You can stay around and bang the drum for the troops—callin’ them to order and what-not—as our drummer boy. And if you happen to see any Redcoats or other vermin while you’re doin’ it, I’m sure the colonel would appreciate a little notice before we run into them. But you’re too small to be our scout. Asides, we already have one.”
Scout brought his moccasined feet together, straightened his spine, then rammed his knuckles onto his hips, as if the effort would squirt a couple more inches to his height. “Where’s the colonel? I will speak to him about this.”
The sergeant snorted, then laughed. “The colonel’s cleaning up after another one of Briske’s messes. He’s our ‘real’ scout. And he’ll be back before you get a chance to learn how to strap on a drum.”
He nodded to the tent behind him. “You’ll find what you need in there. You do know what a drum looks like, don’t ya?”
Scout’s eyes narrowed, but he remained mum and didn’t move.
“If you want to eat and get paid, you’ll learn how to beat that drum. Now, either get outta here or fetch that drum and see how it works. I’m tired of lookin’ at ya.”
Scout ground his molars in frustration, resisting the urge to spew curse words that he knew wouldn’t help his situation. “Aye, but they’d make me feel better,” he mumbled to himself as he kicked at leaves and twigs on his way to the drummer’s tent.
“Can I help ye, lad?” the elderly man in front of it asked.
“Aye, the sergeant said I’m to fetch the drum. I’m to bang it for the troops when needed.”
The almost toothless man dressed in an overly-patched uniform laughed at him. Scout huffed, indignant that yet another ‘big’ person was treating him so rudely.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you, lad. My name is Corporal Gunther, but you can call me Gunny. And your name?”
“I’m known as Scout,” he answered and stuck out his hand to greet the man in the gentlemanly fashion he’d seen other men do. “The colonel hired me as the new scout, but the sergeant said I was only big enough to do the drumming.”
“Ach, pay no mind to Dunbar; nobody else does. You see, drumming is a necessary task for the company. And boy has nothing to do with the drummer’s age: it just means he’s an apprentice.”
“Apprentice?”
“You’ll be the colonel’s voice, signaling the troops, letting them know by your drum beats or rolls whether to stop or go, turn right or left, engage the enemy, or my favorite: call them to meals.”
“If the job is so important, why did he say it was only half wages?”
“I’m not sure that it is. You’ll be the one who tells the whole company what to do. The colonel will tell you what to tell the troops, and then you repeat it using your drum beats. You see, the men can hear the drum easier than a man’s voice. But the best part of the job is the protection you’ll have. Since you won’t be carrying a gun, you’re not a target for the King’s men. Or the Hessians. Or whoever. I’m not too sure who we’re fighting this week.”
Scout inhaled sharply, biting off the retort, ‘As long as it isn’t Indians.’
Gunny chuckled. He could see the self-conscious blush. “No, the red man is our friend. Well, at least he’s mine. See this?”
The corporal unbuttoned his cuff and showed Scout a savage looking scar. “I was caught in a bit of a local feud. I was strung up, left to die by some rather unsavory sorts, when a couple of Cherokee hunters found me. The leader cut me down, dressed my bleeding wrists with some chewed up herbs, bound them with strips of fabric torn from his own red shirt, and left me with a few pieces of jerked meat. I was able to get to water without a problem…you can hardly spit around this neck of the woods without hitting a creek or a spring… But I digress. It’s
not the color of a man’s skin, but the intent of his heart that makes him what he is.”
Scout nodded in agreement, then noticed the man’s boot. Or lack of one.
“I wasn’t so lucky a few years ago. I lost the foot to gangrene. Stepped on a rake. You wouldn’t think it would hurt anymore, but I’ll be stripped and dipped if I don’t get the itchiest big toe sometimes. I scratch and scratch, but since there isn’t anything there, it doesn’t do me no good. But enough about me. Are you ready to learn the signals? I’ll bet you’re a fast learner.”
“Aye, I am. Or so I’ve been told.”
“Fine. So, listen here,” Gunny lowered his tone and closed his eyes as he began his monotone recitation. “Each new recruit has to be taught how to put on his accoutrements and stand properly.”
“Ack-what-a-ments?” Scout interrupted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “And is there something amiss with the way I’m standing?”
“I’m speaking of your soldier-ing position,” Gunny huffed in exasperation, then returned to his drill instructor tone. “Stand straight and firm upon your legs with your head turned to the right so far as to bring the left eye over your waistcoat buttons…”
“Waistcoat? I have the shirt on my back and a vest. Is the colonel going to give me a uniform?”
Gunny wiped his nose, stifling a chuckle. “I don’t think there are enough funds for uniforms this year. Just pretend you have buttons down the front of your vest. Now, place your heels two inches apart, turn your toes out, suck in your belly, shoulders square, hands loose at your sides with palms close to your thighs…”
Scout looked over his shoulder, shifted his feet, sucked in a deep breath, and nearly fell over. “How is this supposed to help me bang a drum?”
“Hmph. Since you won’t be armed with anything but a pair of drumsticks, I guess we can forget those instructions. Just stand tall and proud, keep your mouth quiet, and listen for orders.”