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The Scarlet Coat

Page 10

by Angela Couch


  Oh, Papa.

  How happy those years had been as their family set their roots deep in this land, breaking soil, planting, and building their home. They’d worked together, the future clear in their minds. Then Mama had fallen ill and left them. Now Pa was gone. Rachel paused to wipe a sleeve across her eyes. How were they supposed to survive this wilderness?

  ~*~

  Andrew finished securing the bandage and dropped back onto his pillow. He yanked the blanket over his leg, and then tucked his hands under his arms. They trembled but he was done now.

  Thank you, Lord.

  With head throbbing and body drained of strength, he closed his eyes to be met by Rachel’s image. The fact that she was unmarried and completely free from attachment still ignited sparks within his brain. How could he not smile?

  16

  Four days later, Rachel shook out the breeches and draped them over the clothesline. Her efforts to remove the stain had not been completely successful. She reached for one of her dresses to hang and realized that she’d been humming.

  From all that dwell below the skies, let the Creator’s praise arise.

  The song had been one of her mother’s favorites, though she had loved all of Isaac Watts’s hymns. How many times had they washed clothes, or gardened, or worked at any other task singing together?

  Let the Redeemer’s name be sung though every land, by every tongue.

  The first words of the last verse sounded in her mind, something cold and hard settling in her chest.

  Eternal are thy mercies, Lord.

  Perhaps it was so. Everything would be touched by His love. Everything would be made right. But eternity was too distant—The Lord was too distant.

  She grabbed up the basket and hurried to the cabin, no longer wanting to be alone. As she pushed open the door, a moan met her ears. The basket dropped as she rushed across the room.

  Andrew clung to the side of the cot, one knee on the floor.

  “What are you doing? How did you fall off?”

  He released a low grunt. “I did not fall—not exactly.”

  Rachel reached for his arms.

  He held up a hand, halting her, and then rested his forehead on the cot as he drew a breath.

  She placed her hands on her hips. “What exactly did happen?”

  “I was trying to move.”

  “Are you insane? Surely you remember where that got you not a week ago.”

  “I was only trying to get to the rocking chair. A mere three feet. Not exactly a case of insanity.”

  “Then you can explain your present predicament?”

  Andrew tweaked a smile. “I would rather not.”

  “I’ll lift under your arms and get you back onto the bed.”

  “Please, no,” he moaned.

  She paused, her hand brushing across the breadth of his shoulders. “I would think you’d want to lie back down after this.”

  “I would prefer never to have the need to lie down again so long as I live. Every inch of my body screams from being stuck on that plank. I fear my...” He glanced at her. “I fear there are parts of my body which must be permanently bruised.”

  “This is hardly a plank, as you call it. I even freshened the straw in the mattress, what, a month ago—shortly before we found you.” She gripped his upper arms, her fingers hardly making it half way around the thick muscles. Rachel took a deep breath, steadying herself. “What do you propose?”

  His jaw stiffened. “Will you help me over to the chair?” There was an edge to his voice. How much it must cost him to have to ask for everything he needed. There he was, a man in his prime, a gentleman of no small means—judging from his speech and mannerisms—and yet almost completely dependent on her.

  “I’m sorry.” She tightened her grip on him. “Tell me when.”

  “Now.”

  Rachel positioned more to his left, sliding her hand under his arm and across his chest. The other hooked upward toward his right shoulder, and she waited while he slipped his second knee to the floor.

  Andrew’s body flinched with pain, but not a sound escaped him.

  “Push with your hands and I’ll guide you up.”

  Sweat beaded on his temple. His hair brushed against her cheek.

  She breathed him in. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  He moved, rising several inches before she remembered to assist. Her body pulled tight against his as he gained his feet. His chest expanded under her arm, reminding her to breathe.

  “I need to get in front of you,” she said with a glance at the rocker. “We’re almost there. Maybe lift your arm, so I don’t have to let go.”

  He did so with no other comment.

  The linen shirt did little to hide the firmness of his chest and back as she slid her hands across them. Warmth crawled up her spine, but she didn’t dare let go.

  He balanced completely on one leg, which trembled. His breath caressed her face, and she stole a glance at his—so close, only an inch or two away. His mouth was at eye level. It had a nice form to it.

  Then he dropped back, lowering himself, his hands clutching the arms of the chair.

  Rachel stared for several seconds while her brain cleared. Blood rushed behind her ears. She stepped back. “How are you feeling?”

  Andrew took slow, deep breaths, but color was slow to return to his face. “Give me a moment.”

  Rachel turned away. Water, that’s what she needed. She poured a glass at the table, resisting the urge to splash it on her face or dump it down the back of her dress. The slight breeze from the open door did little to cool her. But at least her brain functioned again. “Do you want a drink?” she asked.

  “Please.” His voice betrayed a tremor.

  After passing him a glass, she stood back and tried to avert her gaze—without success.

  His eyes closed, and his throat trembled with each gulp.

  She took the empty glass and retreated behind the table.

  “Thank you,” Andrew said after a while.

  Rachel fidgeted with a dish towel. What was she supposed to do next? The laundry was done, the bread had another hour of rising before it would be ready to bake and it was too early to make supper.

  Joseph was off to the Adlers’ to use their steel for sharpening the scythe as his had rusted.

  There was little for her to do in the field until he returned. Still, a hundred chores vied for her attention. The garden needed weeding, the stump remained firmly in place, Joseph had torn the sleeve of one of his shirts, and she had yet to butcher and pluck the chicken she would cook for their evening meal. She stole another glance at Andrew.

  His complexion had almost returned to normal, but pain still creased his forehead. It would not be good to leave him alone until he returned to bed.

  She fetched her sewing box and Joseph’s shirt, and set at the table. “Do you need anything?” she asked before sitting.

  Andrew shifted most of his weight on his left side. He ran the back of his hand across the stubble on his chin. “I’m fine for now. Although...”

  “Yes?”

  He sighed. “I am starved for conversation.”

  Her smile couldn’t be contained. She was equally hungry to speak with him, to listen to the wonderful tones of his voice. She rotated her chair to face him. “What would you like to talk about?”

  “I think it best if you choose the topic.” His eyes twinkled. “If I remember correctly, the last time you put it to me, it did not end well.”

  “That wasn’t your fault.” Threading the needle took more tries than usual, but soon she had the shirt spread across her lap and began stitching. “I can’t imagine what it must be like—having no memory or concept of who you are.”

  “I am hardly in a better position now.”

  “You do have your name.”

  “Do I?” He shook his head, scratching where his sideburn met his beard. “How am I to know that is my name? It is familiar, yes, but perhaps it is simply the name of a fami
ly member or close acquaintance.”

  Rachel swallowed as she lowered her hands. How could she deny him the truth? “You can rest easy. Your name is Andrew. Andrew Wyndham.”

  Silence filled the space between them. Then his voice pierced it. “You said you did not know.”

  “I didn’t lie.” She glanced down. “At least, not at the beginning. I found a letter in your coat that day we discussed it.”

  “Is that why you hurried out so suddenly? To search my coat for anything that could identify me?”

  She nodded.

  His frown deepened. “Why did you not tell me?”

  Rachel stood, depositing the mending on her chair. Was she supposed to answer that honestly? She walked around the table and crouched by the fireplace to arrange the split logs for the evening fire—hours before needed, but at least she escaped his burning stare.

  “Is it so awful that I know who I am?” His voice still reached her. As did the hurt lacing it.

  “It could be.” She tossed one last log into place and stood.

  “Whatever my loyalties are, or have ever been, they could not diminish my gratitude for everything you and Joseph have done. You must believe that.”

  “I do.” She turned back, immediately regretting the hurt also apparent on his face. In truth, she had no fear of the man before her, but… “But as I read that letter, I couldn’t help wonder what sort of man Captain Wyndham was.”

  “I wonder that myself. But surely he could not have been a complete fiend.”

  Rachel gave him a tight smile. “An officer in King George’s Armies.” Who came to their land to burn their homes and slaughter all who opposed Britain’s rule. A man of war. She hugged herself, chilled. It was impossible to picture the man before her as the one logic bespoke. How could a man so saturated with the Good Word be a militant?

  ~*~

  Andrew met her steady gaze, not liking the shadow settling in her already dark eyes. He had almost forgotten they’d once been mortal enemies. Surely he had been an honorable man, even then. Though he had flashes of memories from battle, the thought of killing turned his stomach. “Can I see the letter?”

  Rachel gave a hesitant nod. “Of course.” She darted out and returned with the paper a few minutes later. Only a couple strands of hay graced her head this time.

  “You look uncomfortable. Do you want to move back to the bed?”

  Andrew shook his head as he took the letter and opened it. His hip no longer screamed at him, and the remainder of his body thanked his position in the rocker—especially his tailbone. The whiskers on his jaw were the main offenders now, but even their itch faded as he focused on the elegant scrawling across the page. He stared at the recipient’s name—his name. It did feel right. He was a captain?

  “Who’s Stephen?” Rachel’s voice pulled him from the futile search of his memory.

  Andrew read down the letter. Yes. There was the name—also ringing with familiarity. Also a Wyndham. “I do not know.”

  “Your face is losing its color.” Rachel touched his shoulder. “I think maybe it’s time for you to move back to the cot.”

  Though the thought of laying down was again appealing, the thought of moving gave him reason to hesitate. “I suppose you are right. Only, the cot seems so far away, now.”

  “Oh, come along. It’s still a mere three feet.” She flashed a smile. “Not exactly a case of insanity.”

  Andrew kept his own smile subdued. He would not reward her for mocking him, though the temptation remained. This time the transition went easily. Rachel braced him upward, pivoted him on his good foot, and then began lowering him onto the cot. Abruptly she fell forward, her balance lost. She threw her hands out to catch herself before landing on him, but without complete success. The cot was still too far for her to reach. Rachel’s weight against his upper body sped his descent.

  “Ouch!” The shockwave tore through his hip, stealing his breath.

  “I’m so sorry.” She scrambled off of him.

  The pain began to recede. “No. I am fine.” At least, he soon would be. Enough to appreciate her nearness, if not for the torture of his leg. Of course, it would be ungentlemanly to admit as much.

  “That did not go as planned.” Rachel hovered, a becoming blush rising to her cheeks. “Can I help move your legs onto the cot?”

  “No. I think I would prefer to remain exactly as I am for a little while.”

  The clip-clop of hooves outside the cabin spun her away. Rachel raced to the window and peered out. Her hand came to her throat as she glanced back, and then lunged for the door latch.

  “What is it? Who?”

  “Rodney Cowden. I’ve not known a man who hates the British more than him.”

  17

  Rachel forced the tension from her face, walked out in the yard, and looked up at the middle-aged man with his heavy beard and stained leather shirt.

  Rodney Cowden had lost two cousins in a skirmish with the British near Albany a year earlier, but even before that he had never hesitated to express his loathing for King George and those who pledged allegiance to him.

  Rachel had agreed with him for the most part—still agreed with him—but for the man hidden behind the solid log wall of the cabin. Maybe because Andrew Wyndham no longer had loyalties to Britain…that he remembered.

  “Good day, Mr. Cowden,” she called out, willing her heart to beat slower. Daniel was friends with the man, but surely he wouldn’t have given them away. No. Rodney Cowden would have a mob behind him if that were the case. “We haven’t seen you in a while now. How is everything over at your farm?”

  He swung down and swept his hat off his head. His hair, with its generous streaks of grey, lay plastered down with sweat. “Well enough, but for some neglect.”

  “You’ve been away or unwell?” His land was almost four miles from theirs.

  “Away. Guess I left a day early, too.” Cowden’s hand came up to pull at his coffee-stained whiskers. “Didn’t hear about that battle they fought up Oriskany way until I was on my way back last week. Feel bad about not being around to help out. They sure left their mark on the farms up near Fort Stanwix.”

  “Fort Schuyler,” Rachel corrected. The fort had been renamed last summer.

  “Yah.” Cowden grunted. “That and Oriskany. Most of Tyron County seems to have had its share of trouble. I would’ve liked to have been here to help teach them Tories a lesson or two. Though, with all the raids north of here, I’m sure I’ll still get that chance.”

  “I’m sure you will.” She couldn’t understand why anyone would be anxious to fight now that she’d personally seen and felt the aftermath.

  “Listen to me, rambling on, and the ground over your Pa still fresh. I heard he was killed, and I’m mighty sad to hear it. He was a good man.”

  “Yes, he was.” Why was Cowden even there? She could think of no business they had with him. Something about his tone felt almost disrespectful of Pa. Perhaps because there was no feeling in his words, as though he only said them because he thought they were what she wanted to hear. “I suppose you’re looking for Joseph. He’s out cutting our wheat. I’d be more than happy to point you in the right direction.”

  He slipped his hat back on his head. “Obliged. But I must say, it was a hot ride over here. Could I beg a drink from you first?”

  Rachel glanced to the well. Handing him a pail would hardly be neighborly, but she couldn’t very well invite him into the cabin. Any closer than he already stood was a risk. She forced a smile. “Of course. Why don’t you head out into the field,” she indicated the direction, past the barn and to the east, “and I’ll bring you and Joseph the full pitcher. I’m sure he’s also parched.”

  Cowden gave a nod, started away, and then turned back. “I actually only came by today ‘cause I was on my way to the Reids and got to thinking about you and Daniel.”

  “Me and Daniel?”

  “See, I’ve been eyeing some land farther north, up near the lakes. Been try
ing to convince Reid to come with me, start a new venture. Last winter he talked like it was something he wanted to do, but it seems something’s got him dragging his heels now. The man’s running himself ragged trying to outfit Mrs. Becker with what they need for returning to Albany.”

  “The Beckers are leaving?” Life was by no means easy out here, but to walk away from everything one had worked so hard for…especially from a farm as comely as the Beckers’.

  “Just Mrs. Becker and the youngsters. Karl Becker never returned from that skirmish near Oriskany.”

  “Oh.” Rachel pictured the woman, only five years her senior and already four children. Now a widow. All because the British refused to see reason and go home.

  “And Daniel’s set on that homestead instead of looking forward.” Cowden eyed her. “You wouldn’t hold him here, would you? He’s too young and got too much living to do before settling down. A wife isn’t for a man like him. Not yet, leastwise.”

  Rachel’s mouth felt dry from hanging open. “I assure you, I have no designs on Daniel Reid.” Perhaps she’d considered it, but calling her a Loyalist had done nothing to endear him to her. “But if he chooses to stay in the valley, I cannot fault him for his choice of land.” With a stream running down its center and a cabin cradled in a natural meadow, how could she?

  Cowden grunted his disagreement and turned back to his horse. “I would be obliged if you let him know as much—about you not being interested, that is. Either way, don’t be telling him I said anything to you.” Without another word he swung back into the saddle and rode away. So much for wanting a drink.

  Their conversation leaving her unsettled, Rachel started to the well. She would take Joseph some water and help him for a while, then butcher a chicken for their supper.

  ~*~

  Rachel’s gaze cut immediately to the cot as she entered the cabin. Good.

  Andrew lay where he belonged. His eyes were closed, but the letter rested open on his chest. His hand rose to massage his temples.

 

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