by Beth Trissel
The Bearwalker’s Daughter
Historical/Paranormal Romance Novel
By Beth Trissel
Cover Art by Elise Trissel
COPYRIGHT April ©2012 by Beth Trissel
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
“Ms. Trissel’s alluring style of writing invites the reader into a world of fantasy and makes it so believable it is spellbinding.”- Long and Short Reviews
“I loved the plot of this story, oh, and the setting was wonderful.”
-Mistress Bella Reviews
"I found this book fascinating.” -Bitten By Books
Author Awards:
2008 Golden Heart® Finalist
2008 Winner Preditor's & Editor's Readers Poll
Publisher’s Weekly BHB Reader’s Choice Best Books of 2009
2010 Best Romance Novel List at Buzzle
Five Time Book of the Week Winner at LASR
2012 Double Epic eBook Award Final
Other Books by Author:
Red Bird’s Song
Through the Fire
Enemy of the King
Into the Lion’s Heart
Somewhere My love
Somewhere My Lass
Somewhere the Bells Ring
(Short) The Lady and the Warrior
Nonfiction: Shenandoah Watercolors
Upcoming 2012 Releases:
Kira, Daughter of the Moon
A Warrior for Christmas
Dedication: To my beloved grandmothers, gone before me but never forgotten.
Chapter One
Autumn, 1784, the Allegheny Mountains of Western Virginia, the Scots-Irish Gathering
A change was coming as surely as the shifting seasons. Karin McNeal heard the urgent whispers in the wind. She stood on the porch oblivious of the vibrant music pouring from the room behind her and the rain-spattered bluster whipping her long skirts.
Lengths of her black hair tore free from the tresses piled on her head and danced in gusts that sounded like voices, men’s voices, the first angry, growling, the second almost succulent to her ear. His low timbre beckoned to her like ripe berries in summer. A woman’s soft lament seemed to carry through the gusts too, a plaintive entreaty calling to Karin from the distant past. Something unfathomable...lost, lonely, and longing deep within Karin cried out in return. She strained to discern the elusive secrets hidden there for her—
“Shut the door, lass!” her grandfather boomed from within the McNeal homestead. “Join in the cheer. ’Tis your night.”
Was it, considering the true significance of this eve?
****
Music? Jack McCray wondered if he was so bone-tired he’d fallen asleep in the saddle. The last time a fiddler had regaled him was back during the war when that drunken musician cheered their weary camp in return for draughts of rum.
Shaking his head to be sure he was awake, he listened intently. The spritely strains enlivened the gloom in the murky woods and lifted his spirits. He patted the slick neck of his long-suffering mount. “Almost there, Peki.”
Neither he nor his horse had eaten for hours, but he hoped their sorry state was about to improve. The perceptive animal seemed to sense his lightened mood and hastened its pace between glistening trunks silvered in the full moon rising above the mostly bare trees.
There! Up ahead, light shone from a dwelling like a beacon. A little closer and Jack glimpsed the stone-flanked cabin, more of a house given its size, standing in the clearing. The dark shape of fenced in fields and outbuildings surrounded the prosperous homestead. This must be the place; it met the description given him and was in approximately the right location. After his seemingly endless trek through these harsh ridges, he’d finally reached his destination. And the home resounded with gaiety. Seems he’d come in time for a celebration.
Hers, he wondered, with no idea what she’d be like. Forbidding, if she took after her black-hearted father.
But what good fortune to arrive now. Festivity meant abundant food, drink flowing like water, and perhaps being reunited with his family. A mix of anticipation and uneasiness fluttered in Jack’s chest at the thought of meeting kinfolk he hadn’t seen since boyhood. And the quest that brought him here. How in God’s name was he to snatch—
Pain seared his shoulder as a blast erupted in the night. What the devil? Clutching his upper arm, he scanned woods faintly illuminated in the ghostly light. An inky figure darted away. By God, if he could get in a shot!
****
Shaking off her odd mood, Karin returned her attention to the robust celebration. Music soared with the exuberance of a bird in flight and chased away thoughts of wind voices. Smiles wreathed the faces of neighbors gathered within. Merriment reigned tonight and she did her part. Summoning a smile to her lips, her blue petticoats swirling, she stepped to the English country dance while two fiddlers sawed at the strings.
Feet stomped on every side of her and jigs struck up. Each dancer seemed determined to outdo the other hooting revelers. Karin’s low-heeled shoes flew, her brass buckles flashing in the light from the hearth and many candles. Her stepbrother, Joseph—at least, that’s the kinship she felt for the tall young man partnering her—spun her with gusto.
She reeled, giggling, to the side of the raucous swell. Pausing to catch her breath, she brushed back her loose spill of hair, more down than up now. “Enough—”
Joseph ran laughing to her and engulfed her hands in his grasp. “Not by half. Come back, Karin.”
“You’re tireless,” she protested between pants. His Scot’s good looks weren’t flushed as her face must be. Auburn hair rode unruffled in a queue at the back of his neck and his chest didn’t rise and fall beneath his white shirt as hers did beneath the gold striped jacket laced over her heated bodice. “Give me a bit. ’Tisn’t ladylike to be in such lather.”
He arched one roan brow. “Who told you that?”
Her uncle, Thomas McNeal, stopped beside them with a brimming mug in each hand. “I might have said something of the sort. Besides, she’s a frail lass. Not up to all this revelry, mind.” He grinned, offering Karin one of the stoneware cups.
Joseph crinkled hazel eyes in a wry smile. “She outrode me only yesterday, as you no doubt heard.”
Uncle Thomas chuckled. “Word gets about.”
“I reckon all the folks know I was beaten by a girl.”
Karin gulped mouthfuls of sweet cider. “Winning that race was easy. The mare did most of the work.”
Uncle Thomas slapped Joseph on the back. “Then maybe you should dance with the mare, or partner some other young lady.”
“Yes,” she urged. “Do ask another.”
The stubborn streak she knew well tightened the cleft in Joseph’s jaw. “None here I fancy. Drink your cider, dear heart. I’ll go get a real drink.”
The moody young man made his way through the crowd to the trestle tables pushed together at one side of the large room. Smoked hams, chicken potpie, baked apples, pumpkin pies, cornbread, slow-cooked beans with molasses, more tempting fare than she could possibly sample, heaped the platters, bowls, and wooden vessels spread over the groaning tables. Pitchers of cider, kegs of apple brandy, and brown whiskey bottles rose alongside the banquet. Savory scents mingled with wood smoke and the musk of crowded bodies.
Tucking a stray tend
ril behind her ear, she asked, “Is Joseph vexed, Uncle Thomas?”
“Frustrated. It’s you he fancies, gal.”
She tilted her head at her handsome relation, the youngest of the three uncles and her favorite. The same strength that emanated from her grandfather imbued the lines of his face. His blue eyes could be every bit as tender as Grandpa’s and equally as biting.
“Joseph’s dear to me, but he feels more like my brother than my beau, if that’s what you mean.”
“Your grandpa wedding his mama doesn’t make him so.”
“Still, it doesn’t seem right whatever passes between a husband and wife passing between us.”
Uncle Thomas eyed her in fond bemusement. “You’re innocent as a babe.”
Her cheeks warmed beyond the heat in the crowded room. “Grandma Sarah says I know all I need for an unwed lass.”
“What of old Neeley?” he asked.
Karin glanced at the swaddled figure, stiff with rheumatism, seated by the hearth. “Neeley speaks mostly of herbs and doctoring.”
“Far be it from me to instruct you in such delicate matters, but don’t put too much weight on romantic notions, as I once did,” he added, with an edge to his voice. “Joseph’s a good man. Think on him.”
No need to think, really. Karin had a deep fondness for Joseph, though not the riotous passion she sometimes dreamed of and knew next to nothing about. But she admired her uncle, a hero from the recent war. Returning her gaze to his regard, she said, “I will.”
“Not that there’s any hurry in choosing a husband, and believe me, you can have your pick.” He nodded at Kyle Brewster standing near the hearth. The curly haired young man slanted soulful eyes at Karin and she glanced away.
Uncle Thomas chuckled. “No hurry at all. Your grandpa’s content to keep you under his roof and dote on you.”
“Like giving me this party.” Karin shifted her attention to the animated assembly weaving in and out to the steps of the next dance. “We haven’t known such merriment in years.”
“Couldn’t with the war. Thank God that bloody revolution is behind us. We’ve much to rejoice. Happy birthday, Karin.”
She smiled past the ache inside her. “Oh, it is.”
“With your menfolk guarding you like a she-bear? Woe unto the suitor who pays you more than nodding attention.”
“I’m not minding. Really.”
He weighed her with a long look. “Yours is such a forbearing nature for one so adored. I feared you’d be spoiled beyond endurance, but you’re not, are you?”
“Should I be?”
“Utterly. No matter. I only wish your mama could see you now. Mary would be so proud.” A husky note crept into his voice. “She was just your age when—sorry. I shouldn’t bring that up today of all days.”
“Yet ’twas on this very eve she died.”
Regret etched every nuance of his face. “I suppose Neeley told you?”
“Yesterday. She said Mama died birthing me.”
“Neeley’s been broodier lately and more preoccupied with the past. You mustn’t blame yourself for Mary’s death. She was so weak by then and fever settled in.”
“Do you remember her well?”
His eyes answered for him. “You’re very like my dear sister.”
Karin’s mind swelled with questions. He rarely mentioned her mother. None of the family did. Only Aunt Neeley sometimes spoke of the beautiful Mary McNeal. Karin treasured each word and thought her mother an angel, but Neeley never spoke of her father. No one did, as if they feared it might conjure up a demon from the shadows.
“There, now.” Uncle Thomas smoothed her cheek with fingers rough from work and hours out hunting. “We want nothing but happiness for our wee Karin. Not so wee now and far too bonnie for my peace of mind.”
The smile struck her as forced and she’d glimpsed the fierce glint of nostalgia in his eyes. Maybe the time had come at last. She swallowed the rest of her cider and summoned her courage. Speaking as softly as she could and still make herself heard, she said, “I’m grateful for all you’ve done. But what of my father?”
His brows arched. “You know your grandfather won’t allow any mention of him.”
“But who was he? At least tell me that much.”
Down came his brows and he drew them together. “I can’t, lass.”
The mystery gnawed at Karin. “Please.”
Struggle hinted in his earnest stare then he cast his gaze around the room. She followed his quick study. No one paid them any mind. All danced and drank as if their lives hinged on every step, each drop. Joseph knocked back a tankard of brandy with a friend. Wearing a guarded look, Uncle Thomas bent nearer to Karin and spoke with such reluctance she strained to hear. “All I can say is it’s him you got that black hair and olive skin from.”
She fingered the small strawberry-colored half-moon on the side of her neck. “And my birth mark?”
“Perhaps. Your mother gave you those blue eyes, though. McNeal blood runs strong in you, gal.”
Some other strain also stirred inside her like the wild beating of a distant drum. “Did she care for him?”
Uncle Thomas winced. “I reckon she did, though I don’t see how. Your da was a rascal.”
“Still, he was my da. What does that make me?”
“McNeal,” he said, with a sharp look.
Treading on dangerous ground, she ventured, “Papa never wed Mama, did he?”
“Not with the church’s blessing.”
“Is there some other way to wed?”
He frowned. “I’ve divulged more than enough now. Your grandfather would have my hide.”
Again, the tantalizing secret hovered just out of reach. Karin gazed across the crowd at the burly man with gray streaking his red hair. Grandpa could quell any man with a glance and still had the strength of a rampaging bull. She lacked the nerve to confront him.
Her step-grandmother, Sarah, the petite, middle-aged woman circling in the dance with him spotted Karin. A smile lit Sarah’s pretty face, pink under the white cap, and she beckoned to Karin. “Come on, lass.”
A grin warmed Grandpa’s weathered features. “Kick up your heels. Show us what you’re made of.”
Uncle Thomas offered her his arm. “What say I partner the bonniest girl here?”
Karin dashed with him into the throng. It was time to rejoice, not dwell on the murky past. As if in opposition of her resolve, a hammering on the door accompanied by a hoarse cry broke into their celebration.
“Whisht!” Grandpa hushed the startled assembly. He held up a silencing hand. “Listen.”
Musicians ceased to play, their bows poised above the strings. Dancers halted in mid-step and every head turned toward the front of the house. Karin joined her eyes with dozens of others boring into the wood resounding under someone’s urgent fist.
“For God’s sake—let me in—” a man rasped out.
Grandpa strode to the door, slid the bolt, and flung it wide. Leaves swirled through the blackened doorway and a young man staggered inside, his face partly hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, chestnut hair pulled back. He wore the rugged clothes of a frontiersman, a brown, green-fringed hunting shirt, wool leggings, and deerskin moccasins well up his calves.
Wet through from the recent rain, he fell forward. Blood streamed down his sleeve from a wound to his shoulder. Grandpa reached out to him. “What on earth?”
The newcomer collapsed in his arms. “I’m shot.” His musket slid from the woven strap over his other shoulder and thudded to the floor.
Eyes riveted on the stranger, Karin gasped, “Who in the world?”
“I’ve no notion. Wait here.” Uncle Thomas pushed through the onlookers to his father.
Grandpa upheld the sagging man. He greeted Thomas with a scowl. “Who fired that shot? Most everyone in the settlement’s right here.”
“Not the Tates. Horace Tate will shoot any man he takes for a Tory. So will Jeb.”
“Don’t that old fool
and his boy know the war’s over? Give me a hand with this fellow, Thomas. His arm’s a right mess. Let’s take him to the back room.”
Uncle Thomas braced the man on one side and Grandpa supported him on the other. The newcomer equaled them in height and appeared solidly built, but the McNeal men weren’t the least bit daunted.
“I have him, Papa. Come on,” Thomas said.
“My musket,” the injured man grunted.
“Got it.” Joseph propped the long firearm in the corner near the blackened stone hearth.
Neeley rose stiffly from her chair and shuffled forward, her stooped figure a head shorter than Karin’s. “Fetch the woundwort, Karin. Sarah, steep comfrey in hot water and bring fresh linens. Joseph, the poor fellow could do with a spot of brandy,” the tiny woman rapped out like a hammer driving nails. Old, she might be, and as wizened as a dried apple, but Neeley took charge in a medical emergency whether folks liked it or not.
Sarah dashed to the cupboard to take down the brown bowl. Karin flew beside her and grabbed the crock reeking of salve. Sarah snatched a towel and they spun toward the hearth as the men made their way past the gaping crowd. The stranger lifted his head and looked dazedly at both women.