Taxman had moved from the bench to the porch post, and was trying to stand up straight by himself, testing his balance without using his cronies as crutches. They were mumbling amongst themselves, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.
I was scared, staring off into space, not knowing what to do next, when I felt the tugging at my elbow, a small hand trying to get my attention.
“Here, Mama, I’ll take him,” Wee Ian said as he handed me Judah who, although not screaming, was making faces and shaking his fists in frustration. I swapped out babies, and saw the boy’s eyes shift to the barn.
“Thank you, dear,” I said. “You’re such a good big brother.” I got Judah started on lunch, then turned to face Taxman. He was able to stand alone now, only touching the porch post for security.
I cleared my throat to get the captain’s attention. He looked down at me with disgust, but I didn’t mind. I’d rather have him look at me like that than with his earlier ogles and leers. “Sir, I don’t think you have the situation under control like you think you do.”
My confidence level was Rocky Mountain high, and I was letting it shine. I tossed my hair back, and stuck out my chin. “You see, right now you are being targeted by a very angry man. He doesn’t take too kindly to his kin being threatened. So, I suggest that you let his cousin go…right now!” I dipped my head down to accentuate my guttural threat, and glared into his eyes, an angry bull daring the toreador to approach.
Skinny let his knife fall away from Wallace’s neck, but Taxman interceded. “Not so quick there, mate,” he said. Skinny brought the knife up again, straightened his back, and froze, as if he were at attention.
“There’s still the matter of the taxes, you see,” Taxman said as he worked his way toward me.
I sidled around him, keeping eye contact. He had changed his demeanor back to letch mode. With it came that ugly, lustful sneer. His eyes moved from my one covered breast, ignoring the baby actively nursing, to the other side, and then back up my throat to the gold nugget necklace.
“Oh, and I know that you’re lying about a marksman in the barn,” he said. “My men looked in there, and all they found was this wee little patriot,” then he poked Wallace in the ribs with his silver-barreled pistol.
I looked toward the barn. I multitasked, holding the suckling baby with my right arm, lifting my left hand straight up to the porch beam to point to a spot two feet above my head. “Right here, Ian,” I yelled.
Zing! Twack.
An arrow hit the spot I had pointed to. I looked over at our extortionist and grinned. “Now, let’s talk terms, shall we?”
The captain glared at me, obviously thinking of his options. He didn’t want to back down to anyone—especially a woman—in front of his men, and didn’t want to leave empty-handed, either. He would have to let Wallace go, or get himself shot; that was obvious. And I was far enough away now that he couldn’t grab me. I wasn’t going to let him have two hostages.
Wee Ian had disappeared during all of this, and had put Leo on the bed with his sister. He was back now—his knife in hand and a squint in his eye—just daring the captain to make a move.
The tension was smothering. Taxman turned toward Wee Ian and spat on the ground, aiming for the boy’s feet. The boy jumped out of the way and stabbed him in the thigh at the same time.
“Do ye really want me to cut ye some more? Jest keep it up, and we willna have to waste an arrow. I’ll bleed ye right here and now.” Wee Ian snarled with grim satisfaction. “Willna bother me none.”
“Goddamn bastard,” Taxman swore as he clutched his fresh leg wound. I could tell it was a deep cut, but because of where it was, the blood was only dribbling, not gushing. I was sure he hurt plenty, but the injury couldn’t be as painful as the humiliation of being attacked by a child in front of his minions.
I glanced toward the barn and realized that Ian, my first husband, the man who just two weeks earlier I had been wishing was by my side to share in the pain and joy—in that order—of the birth of my children, was less than a hundred feet away. The man who had abandoned me, the one who I had longed for once upon a time, was just across the yard. Flashbacks of the beaten and burned man I had rescued, the weakened man who with his first flush of strength made love to me after promising to never leave me, the man whose seed had spawned my three babies…
Focus, woman, focus! He’s just a tool in the woods, a weapon to help resolve this conflict.
I stopped staring and started glaring. Taxman was still grumbling about his leg and tying a handkerchief around his thigh, eyes down on his first aid ministrations. I glanced over and saw that Skinny still had the knife to Wallace’s throat. Wallace’s eyes were on me, but were vacant. He wasn’t letting anyone know—including me—what he was thinking.
“Wee Ian, take the baby back to the bed, please. And don’t stab anyone unless I say so, okay?” I covered myself up, put my finger in between my son’s mouth and my nipple to break the bond, and then offered the bundle of baby to his big brother.
Wee Ian sheathed his knife and walked over to me, but kept his eye on Taxman, his stare somewhere between mocking and sheer hatred. “Asshole,” he said, as he looked the bigger man in the eye.
I had to stifle my laugh—it was such an appropriate name for the brigand. Wee Ian took the baby from me and walked backwards into the house, throwing a quick glance in my direction, making sure I was still safe. I nodded that I was okay, and then he passed through the doorway, disappearing into the shadows.
As soon as the two boys were safely inside, I squared my shoulders and growled, “Take that effin’ knife away from his throat.” Skinny dropped his knife—from either shock or obedience—and Wallace stepped away, to stand at my side.
Taxman looked up, one eyebrow raised in satisfaction. He had finished bandaging his leg and figured out his next strategy: humiliation. His acne-scarred face screwed up into a complete sneer as he asked Wallace, “Do you always let the woman do the talking?”
“She seems to be doing all right. If she needs help, she’ll ask.” Wallace nodded to me to dismiss himself, then moved past the Taxman, intentionally bumping into the man’s wounded leg on his way into the house.
“Good job, lad,” he said to Wee Ian as he walked inside to check on the boy and the babies. Wallace knew he wasn’t leaving me alone—the master archer was still watching over me—and, as he said, I’d ask for help if I needed it.
“Okay, Captain Asshole, is it?” I asked, not really wanting an answer.
He glared at me. He had no intention of replying and I knew it. I’m sure he didn’t want me to know who he was. I was definitely the type who had no qualms about spreading the name of the crooked British officer who illegally collected taxes. And I’d also let everyone know that the dirtbag had been overtaken and marked by a boy not even old enough to have a whisker.
“So you want to collect some ‘taxes’ from us, even though we’re current?” I asked sarcastically.
His reply was to stare at me, to try to intimidate me with his clenched jaws and barely audible growl.
It wasn’t working. I grinned in response, just to make sure he knew it.
“Well, what I want is for you to be gone, and never to return again.” I paused for effect—and for the muscle strength to return to my shaky legs. I shook my head at him with disgust, “And since you are wearing a British uniform, you should be under some sort of code of ethics.”
A snarl escaped his raised lip at my remark, but I ignored it and continued. “So, I’ll let you go with a bargain. You see, if you take anything from us, it would be considered stealing since your ‘tax record’ is, shall we say, out of date. If I voluntarily give you the taxes for the next ten years in advance, you’ll never come back. Sound like a deal?”
Wallace was standing in the doorway now, pale at my words, but quiet out of respect for my negotiating. Captain Asshole, the taxman, nodded.
I continued, letting a slight grin of superiority escape. “But
you have something I want, and if I am to pay with this,” I fingered my gold nugget necklace, and his eyes widened, “I want a full measure of compensation.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. His threw his shoulders back and straightened his spine. His whole attitude had changed with the promise of the nugget necklace without a fight. He was now respectful and at full attention. He was looking at my upper body again, but not even glancing at my bosom—his eyes were fixed on the gold.
“So, I’ll take that wagon, all of its contents, and your horse. You can have the necklace, but I want your word as an officer and a subject of the Crown that you will never tax or bother this property, or its residents, ever again…or suggest to or order anyone else to do the same.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his tongue literally licking his lips in anticipation of getting the gold, his eyes still fixed on the necklace.
“Oh, and one other thing I’ll be wanting. You can consider this compensation for the harassment and duress you have inflicted on members of this household.”
His face froze—the transaction wasn’t going as smoothly as he had hoped.
“I want those spurs,” I said. “You can ride the wagon horse back to whatever privy-hole you came out of, but you have to do it without spurs. Deal?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said and stuck out his hand.
I didn’t know if the hand was to seal the transaction or to claim the necklace, but I didn’t want to touch it either way. “Wallace,” I said as I looked over to the doorway. My betrothed walked up to me and waited while I took the necklace off my neck with a jerk. It was a tricky clasp, and I hoped I had broken it. I put it in Wallace’s hand and looked toward the captain.
Wallace held the necklace in his left hand and stuck out his right. The captain was gazing at the gold, and then realized that Wallace was waiting for him to shake his hand. Wallace took the hand offered him and squeezed hard, barely shaking it at all, until the man winced and squeaked from the pain. He let Asshole’s hand go at the squeal, then dropped the necklace into the waiting, throbbing palm.
Skinny and Baldy were standing by, fidgeting, not knowing what to do. The captain saw Wallace walking over to the wagon and extended a bit of unexpected courtesy. “Curly, help him with the gear. I’m riding the bay out. I got the tax payment. We’ll be leaving the wagon here. We can make good time getting back to New Bern now,” he said with a voice of authority.
The bald man—ironically, he must be Curly—walked up to the horse and started removing the harness and reins, throwing them onto the wagon seat. He grabbed a little bag from the back, and was going to take it with him, when I hollered, “The wagon, and all that’s in it, stays here. All you get is the horse,” I said.
I was taking a liberty here. It was probably just their rations, but I didn’t care. I made a point of catching the captain’s eye, and then looked to the barn, a subtle reminder that my marksman was still watching them.
The Taxman saw my gesture and ordered his men, “Leave it there.” I think he started to say, ‘Do as she says,’ but bit off the words, his pride stopping him. He looked over to me and asked, “I do get my saddle, don’t I?”
“Sure,” I said, and turned to sit down on the porch bench. I was getting weak all over now, and wanted to conserve enough energy to at least keep my voice strong.
“Put my saddle on the bay,” he told the third man. I noticed he had a limp, but still managed to get the job done.
It took a long five minutes, but they were finally ready to leave. “Good day, ma’am,” the captain said as he sat tall on the swaybacked wagon horse.
“Not so fast,” I said, “You’re forgetting something.” I looked down at his boot.
“Pardon me,” he said sarcastically, and bent down to remove one, then the other, of his spurs. “You’ll need these,” he said as he waved the shiny metal and leather devices. “The horse may look fine,” he grinned like he knew how the deck of cards was marked, “but she won’t break a run; she won’t get past a trot.” He tossed the spurs to the ground in front of me and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here, boys,” and was gone with a gallop, his three stooges obediently following behind him.
Wallace reached down to get the spurs. “It was just gold,” I said, “and it never had any sentimental value for me. I don’t even know where it came from.”
“You know I don’t care about material goods—were you harmed? I couldn’t tell what was going on from the barn,” he said.
I wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or an apology, but he definitely felt inadequate about not protecting me.
“Not a scratch on me or the babies, but Wee Ian,” I asked my little protector, “are you okay?”
The young man was standing in the doorway, watching the bandits as they disappeared into a trail of dust. “Aye, I’m fine, but why do ye call me Wee Ian?”
“Well, because you look like your father and his name is Ian. Actually, when he was young, he was called Wee Ian because his father’s name was Ian, too.”
All of a sudden, I remembered that Ian was in the barn or in the woods or somewhere where he had a good shot at the house and its enemies. I looked up and saw that Wallace was already walking toward the barn. I patted the boy’s hand, put it down, and followed after Wallace. Wee Ian ran after me, reached out, and retook my hand, escorting me as if the two of us walked hand in hand every day.
Wee Ian and I caught up, the three of us undoubtedly a very intimidating triad. Wallace called out coolly, “Cousin, you can come out now.”
Ian jumped down from the rafter of the barn, but neither Wallace nor I got a chance to speak. Wee Ian strutted up to him purposefully and stopped three feet in front of him, his hand on the dirk in its sheath. Wallace and I looked at each other, then back to the confrontation.
“She says yer my father; is that right?” the young man demanded. After what he had just been through, it was easier to think of him as a young man rather than as a prepubescent boy who was not much more than four feet tall.
Ian closed his eyes and brought his hand up in front of his brow. He squeezed his forehead with long, knobby fingers, thinking about his answer. He dropped his hand to his chin and brought his forehead down in a gesture of shame. His hand remained at his chin momentarily. He sighed, lifted his head, and then dropped his hand to his side—limp—no fight or resistance left in the sentinel.
“Aye, I suppose I am yer father,” he said. “At least that’s what yer grandmother said, and I was marrit to yer mother when…weel, I dinna ken ye were even born until three moons ago!”
“When were ye gonna tell me?” the boy demanded, his fists on his hips, making Ian look the child who had just been caught shaving the cat.
Wallace walked up to Wee Ian and put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s a funny thing about this family. Some of the men are a bit slow to admit that they’re a father. It happened to me, too. But, at least we did find out. I’m sure it’s just that Ian didn’t want you to care less about your other father. You mother, uh, remarried, right?”
Wee Ian had been glaring at Ian during Wallace’s little chat, but let his shoulders slump at the last remark. “Aye, she did, and I have two wee sisters. They’re with her now. But my other father, their father, is deid. That’s why I went with Star Walker.” Wee Ian stopped and squinted at Ian. “So, what am I supposed to call ye now?” he asked.
Ian chewed on his lower lip a couple of times, then said, “Ye can call me Da, if ye like. I mean, I’d like it if ye did.”
I could see Ian’s eyes getting moist, as if he wanted to cry. All of a sudden, I had bucket loads of compassion for him. His father was probably dead, and now he was waiting to find out if this ‘surprise’ son—the boy he had known of for only three months—could, or would, acknowledge him. And I had named this bright and brave young man Wee Ian after him.
Wee Ian thought about it for a moment. “Okay—Da,” he said in a stilted manner, as if this was the first time the name had crossed his
lips. He looked up from Wallace to me, and then said to his father, “I think they want to talk to ye, too.”
Wallace nodded at the boy, and then fixed his eyes on Ian. He said, “Thank you,” and turned away to escort me back to the house.
And that was that.
Apparently, Wallace felt that he didn’t need to say anything else.
We were half way to the house when we heard Ian yell after us. “The bairns: there were two of ‘em. Did ye have twins?”
Wallace stopped. He looked at me, his back still turned away from the man who he had only recently found out was his cousin. “I can’t do this to him,” he told me. He took a deep breath and turned halfway around.
“No, we did not have twins,” he said.
I could hear the smile in his tone and was concerned. Was he being cruel? I looked at him and saw that he was not being mean, but was teasing.
“But there were two! Do they belong to someone else? Evie, I saw ye feedin’ ‘em…”
Ian, the tough mountain man who had lived for years as an Indian, was distraught—his voice squeaking with his plea, anxious to find out about the babies.
I was still mad at him for leaving me, but I would get over it. I had Wallace and was happy, happier, the happiest that I could ever be because of him. There really wasn’t a reason to punish Ian for the rest of his life, or for even the next five minutes.
I grinned at him and shook my head. “Oh, you saw two of them, all right, but they’re not twins, not really. You saw two of them, but there’s one more. Wallace and I had triplets! Come on in and see.”
I grabbed Wee Ian with one hand and kept hold of Wallace with the other. Ian ran to catch up with us, but stayed six feet away, off to the side of us. I guessed any closer than that would have made him uncomfortable.
The babies were still asleep in the clutter of quilts. They hadn’t suffered through the day’s ordeal, and I was grateful for that. Actually, the only wounded one, besides Wee Ian’s possible bruising from being tossed across the room, was Captain Asshole. And nobody cared about him.
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