The Highlanders

by Ciesielski, J’nell

  Her eyes were wide upon him, her face a sheen of sweat. Fear enlarged the whites around her irises, and she twisted her body as another pain came upon her.

  Chapter 5

  LACHLAN STARED, FROZEN, BARELY able to let out his own breath as Wenonah first panted then gritted her teeth. Not this! Her brow curled in agony, but she did not speak, only watched him as she reached out to her side and coiled her fingers around the hilt of her knife. He raised the candle higher. She writhed as she pointed the knife at him. Then her face deepened in dark color, and she gave a guttural cry.

  He came to life and locked his mind against the past. “Dinna fear, Wenonah. I will help ye.” He pressed both hands toward her, palms open, encouraging calm. Then he dragged the stump that served as the cabin’s only chair and set the candle on it. Sweat beaded his brow, and he pushed a hand through his hair. He hadn’t even put his shirt back on, but there was no time for it—at least he didn’t think so.

  Wenonah had lowered her hand and dropped the knife, focusing now on the pain. She reached down and tugged upward at her dress.

  Lachlan swallowed down a knot of terror. Moira’s image reappeared before him. Never had he seen such blood, not even during battle. Such a merciless flow of life.

  “Peace, Wenonah. I will guide the bairn with my hands. I willna bring ye harm nor the bairn”—he pushed his knuckles across his mouth—“if God will strengthen me.” Lachlan begged God’s aid as he stumped about the cabin gathering a soft hide for swaddling and his shirt from where it hung dry on a peg. Perhaps Wenonah or the bairn would need it.

  “Trust me.” Slowly he bent and helped her with the dress, his eyes steady upon hers.

  The fear in them remained until another pain clenched her, then she nearly rose off the bed, and he quickly scooted the garment back. Water gushed out, and he smothered a hand across his face. Help me, God. Dinna fail this woman. He rejected the thought, As Ye did my Moira.

  “All right, steady now, Wenonah. Soon ye’ll hold your bairn.”

  With the next pain, Wenonah pushed, and again with several more. Lachlan focused all his being on the crowning head, when with a sudden gush it emerged, dark and wet. With one more push, the child was born. Her warm, soft body filled his strong hands, and Lachlan’s heart beat now with some emotion he didn’t know what to do with. He released a gasp of gladness.

  “Ye’ve a bonny wee lassie.” He looked up to see Wenonah watched him, wonder in her expression overcoming her exhaustion. Thank Ye, God. She seems well. They both do. He gently lowered the baby atop her, and her arms came up to cling the child. “We’ve a wee more work to do.” Lachlan moved to Wenonah’s feet again, and in a few more moments the afterbirth came free. He tied the cord with a piece of gut string and used Wenonah’s own knife to sever it.

  Wenonah shuddered.

  “Not much more. Ye’ll be all right soon.” He helped her wrap the infant, and then he proceeded to clean Wenonah’s legs with the clean cloth, careful not to go beyond any further bounds of trust as his throat clenched tight. She had bled but not as badly as Moira. The child had come without hesitation. Not so his own child. Heaviness and joy co-mingled. How could it be that he could still sorrow over his loss after four years, yet rejoice at this moment for a woman he didn’t know.

  The child gave a soft mew, and Wenonah looked to Lachlan again. She tugged at the top of her dress. “She hungers.” Her voice was shy.

  “Aye ... I’m sorry. I’ll help ye remove it if ye wish, and I’ll go outside the cabin while ye take care of her.”

  She nodded. “There is moss in the corner—and more cloths.”

  “I’ll get them.”

  He moved behind her and helped her lift the soiled dress over her head, turning his face as much as he could. The shape of her bare back stamped on his mind, nevertheless. He cleared his throat and reached for his clean shirt. “’Tis a warm night. I dinna need this.” He laid it beside her and hastened to the door with the wooden basin of soiled water.

  Lachlan latched the door behind him and dropped down among the grass and trees. A gray light filtered from the east. He’d seen more than he should, and Lachlan had not seen a woman in a long time. Yet he would not harm her for all the world. He scrubbed his hands over his face, as the long hours washed over him until the stain of tears filled his palms. He had stopped asking God why Moira died. Perhaps this was why—so that he would be here tonight, to help this woman in her hour of need. He shook his head. Sometimes answers didn’t bear knowing. He could only trust that God understood his weeping and bore his sorrow too.

  “Ye would ha’ been proud, Moira. I dinna let her down.” He closed his eyes. “Tell her, God. Tell my Moira she would ha’ been proud.”

  He stayed outdoors for an hour as the sun rose, and when he returned, Wenonah wore his white shirt. Moss and soft cloths were removed from the stack, and she was asleep beneath a trader’s blanket, the child swaddled in her arms.

  Lachlan could watch her now. The tallow candle had burned low, but by its flickering light, he gazed upon Wenonah’s face. She was a strong, brave woman, an inarguable fact. She had planned well for this birth, despite having her plans upended by the arrival of a Highland soldier, lost and wounded, who required her to draw upon her reserves. Now, though, she needed that strength returned. He could not just depart in a few hours and leave her to make her way all alone. What had she said? Something about returning to her people? Who were they? How far away did she hope to travel? And what of the Shawnee warrior who had intentions of his own?

  Dangerous.

  Her word, not his. Lachlan laid the back of his knuckles against the long tress of her hair that fanned out on the bed and stroked it. She slept deeply, her face free of fear, worry, and sternness. Not a line to show her beyond his age, but younger. Too young to carry such burdens. Yet old enough to be a wife, a mother.

  Wenonah ... He caressed her name silently, studying the way her jaw curved and her dark brows lay in a slightly arched line over her closed eyes. A beauty ye are, and ’tis certain the Shawnee will have ye if he can. The babe stirred, and Wenonah’s hand folded instinctively over her. Long fingers, delicate and able, draped over the covering on the child.

  Lachlan backed away. He would find them something for their breakfast. It was his turn to give aid, to thank her for all she’d done. He wouldna be leaving for Fort Pitt this day. He must remain, and later count the cost.

  Chapter 6

  WENONAH MARVELED AT HER tiny daughter nuzzling her breast. How beautiful she was. How perfect. She brushed her fingertips over the velvety dark crown of her head. When the child finished nursing, she lifted her to her shoulder and drew her shirt closed. His shirt. She caressed the worn fabric. It was clean but still bore a scent of the strange man who had been kind to her. He had not treated her as an enemy but had shown mercy to her and to her babe. How carefully he had guided her child into the world, and the look on his face when he handed Waaseyaa to her the first time ... She lingered over the memory, the unguarded look of tenderness in his eyes, and when he had turned away, a bit of moisture. Tiredness, perhaps, from the long night.

  The door opened, letting in the bright light of day. He propped it wide so sunshine would spill over the room. His face lifted in a smile. “Yer awake then.” He carried her bucket of water and the empty basin, nodding toward the fireplace. “I’ve heated water for yer bath and extra if ye wish to clean the babe. There’s a bit o’ gruel in the pot for yer breakfast as well.”

  She turned her head to see whereof he spoke then nodded. Her kettle hung by the fireplace. Self-consciousness stole over Wenonah at the man’s kindnesses. To conquer it, she looked toward his leg. “You pain? Leg better?”

  He raised his brow with a slight grimace. “’Tis been better I can tell ye, but I can walk easier than before. I’m right thankful to have my shoes again.” He gave her a nod.

  “You must rest.”

  He set down the items and stirred the pot of gruel warming by the fire.
Then he approached her bedside and spoke softly. “I’ve time to do that later. Ye must rest as well.” He indicated the babe with a nod. “How is our wee darlin doing?”

  Wenonah laid the baby back with a smile. “She perfect.”

  “Does she have a name then?”

  She smiled. “Her name Waaseyaa. First Light of Morning Sun.” She spoke the name reverently as the man leaned closer to peer at her daughter. He examined the babe, his own face a hand’s breadth from Wenonah’s, and Wenonah shifted to study him. The growth of beard on his face looked soft rather than grizzly. His skin was darkened by days in the outdoors. Lighter creases spread out from the corners of his green eyes, eyes that sparkled with admiration as he looked at Waaseyaa. He wore his waistcoat without the shirt so that the generously proportioned muscles of his shoulders were bare, exuding strength along with his gentleness. His short hair, nearly as black as her own, smoothed back along the side of his head to tuck behind his ears. He was of handsome face and form, this foreigner.

  She drew her forehead back with a breath, aware that if he looked up, he might notice her deep perusal. He backed away too. “If ye like, I can hold her for ye while ye break yer fast or take care of yer other needs.”

  She tucked at the baby’s swaddling as she considered his offer. What else was she to do? He had proved she need not fear him. She nodded, but her heart beat harder as she handed him her child. If felt as though he held her very life in his large hands. Then he bent his head and smiled down at Waaseyaa. He began to croon. “Fhuar mi lorg an laoigh bhric dheirg ...”

  Her lips bowed with a peace settling through her, and she shifted to rise. The man is kind. He appeared wholly content as he continued to sing softly to Waaseyaa and rock her in his arms. Wenonah took slow steps toward the door as the strength returned to her limbs. At the doorway, she paused and turned to him. “You name?”

  He smiled at her. “Aye, lass, my name is Lachlan. Lachlan McRae.”

  “Lac-lan.”

  He nodded and repeated the name, his throat making a soft, burring sound. “Lachlan.” His smile widened, so his teeth showed smooth and white.

  A strange pleasure at his smile filled her, and Wenonah warmed. She slipped out the door. Why did she feel content in the presence of this stranger who should mean her nothing but harm? Yet, everything inside her felt peace and happiness at his presence. Quite a different sentiment than Catahacassa’s nearness lent her. Even now, she glanced through the trees, wondering when the Shawnee would appear again, and what would keep him from coming into her cabin if she weren’t outside to prevent it—to prevent him from discovering Lac-lan. She practiced his name again, grinning when she tried to form the sound in her throat that he did, but it was not the same.

  Wenonah roamed into the edge of the woods until she came to a place to make her water. Afterward, she walked down to the river. She would wash there then return to the cabin to tend Waaseyaa.

  She was gone only a short while, but she was weary by the time she returned. Weakened by the exertion, she stepped inside, anxious to lie down. There, seated on the stool stump, Lac-lan still cradled Waaseyaa peacefully in his broad arms. Wenonah reached for her. Lac-lan hesitated, as if reluctant to let her go, but his hands moved gently until he’d released the babe. His knuckles brushed Wenonah’s arms as he laid Waaseyaa against her, and the brief moment’s touch was like the breath of a gentle breeze to her senses. Her glance flew up to meet his, but he was watching the babe.

  And then he wasn’t.

  His forest-green eyes met hers, and their gazes locked, yet nothing in the exchange frightened Wenonah—no threat, no lust. The eyes that only days ago were shadowed with pain came alive with something bright and hopeful. She dared not stay locked in their hold long. She stepped back and settled onto her bed to nurse the baby.

  Lac-lan turned away too. He rose from the stump and limped to his bearskin rug where he lowered himself and examined his leg.

  “Tomorrow, I fix new medicine.”

  “Dinna ye worry none about me.” He gave a nod. “Ye just tend to the wee First Light of Dawn. Waaseyaa needs yer attention more than I. I am strong enough to tend myself.”

  “You stubborn man.”

  He glanced up sharply, and she grinned, then ducked her head again so that her hair draped over both her and Waaseyaa.

  “Aye. So I’ve been told.”

  By wife? Wenonah wanted to know but could not ask. She swallowed the question before it edged too far out on her tongue to withdraw.

  He checked his bandaging, and something about the set of his shoulders told Wenonah that his thoughts had turned inward.

  The next day Wenonah felt stronger, and Lac-lan appeared rested as well. They spoke of a meal. Wenonah thought of the venison haunch Catahacassa had offered. Nursing her daughter increased her appetite. The rabbit she’d snared on the day Lac-lan came had long since been devoured. There was some pemmican and jerky, and a few bits of dried fish, but little else. Barely enough for her to get by on with a hungry infant. Certainly, an insufficient supply for a grown man to subsist on.

  “My powder is dry,” Lac-lan said. “I will hunt. Something will come along. Perhaps even a deer or a bear.”

  “There is the risk of the Shawnee or others.”

  “I willna take more than a single shot, and I will go far enough from the cabin so they willna come here. They will think ’tis another Indian hunting.”

  “Perhaps.” Her nerves tightened. “Perhaps not.”

  Lac-lan shrugged. “I must try. Ye need more to eat for yer milk.”

  A flush crept up her throat that he should say so, yet his words were true. “I go too. I get more plants for medicine and for food.”

  He took up his gun and cocked his head, but he did not argue it. He only nodded.

  Wenonah gathered up the baby and swaddled her. She would not require the cradleboard yet. The babe was tiny and light enough to carry as she searched for the plants. They would not be out long. If Lac-lan wandered farther in search of food, she and Waaseyaa would return to the cabin.

  They left a short time later, and Wenonah turned to the pathway that led toward the river. Lac-lan walked with a heavy limp deeper into the brush further on. Wenonah found the patch of yarrow she had picked from before. The baby slept soundly while she searched for wild carrot and other roots they might put into a pot over the fire.

  Lac-lan was still out of sight, so Wenonah stepped down to the river for a drink. When a shot fired, she jumped, and the baby whimpered. “Sh ... Is Lac-lan hunting us some meat.” She drew the back of her hand across her forehead and pushed her hair over her shoulder so that she might stoop for another drink of cold water. She glimpsed up as was her habit while she squatted down, and her heart jerked against the baby when she spotted a man watching her on the trail across the water. A man in a red coat who was not Lac-lan. A sneer curled his lip.

  She jumped to her feet and spun away, just as the splash of the man’s feet plunged into the stream. Wenonah flew through the forest, the baby clutched against her. Her moccasins left hardly a sound as they struck the earth, yet each whoosh of her breath and slap of a branch sounded like a shout that would lead him to her. Lac-lan! She clamped her throat around the cry she wanted to release, afraid of what would happen if the soldier reached them. She gripped Waaseyaa tighter and pleaded for the Great Spirit to protect her daughter.

  Suddenly a crack hit the tree beside her, followed almost instantly by a gun’s report. She ducked her head with a gasp and ran on. The cabin lay just ahead, and soon the soldier would see it too. What should she do? Shut herself inside? Run past it into the woods? Where was Lac-lan?

  Then he stepped out from the forest to her left, and her heart bolted. She stifled a cry. It was not the soldier. Only him, her Lac-lan.

  She ran toward him, and he shouted past her. “Halt!” He lifted up his gun like a flag.

  Wenonah spun around. The approaching soldier sidled closer, his musket drawing a bead on her, h
is lips twisting. “Looks like ye won’t be goin far, now does it?” The soldier didn’t look past her at Lac-lan. “We’ve got ye between us, and there’s no gettin by us.”

  Lac-lan shouted again. “I am Lachlan McRae of his Majesty’s 42nd Foot! Put down yer gun!”

  The soldier stiffened. The hot, angry look on his face twitched into surprise, and his glance moved past Wenonah. Sweat streamed down his face as his eyes widened.

  “McRae? Is it ye?”

  Lac-lan beckoned her with his free hand, his eyes trained on the soldier. “’Tis me, Jesse Nab.”

  The man’s gun dropped lower as he stared at Lachlan.

  Wenonah moved behind Lac-lan, guided by his hand, but her heart continued thrumming.

  “Yer alive.” The soldier’s words sounded dumbstruck.

  Wenonah tucked herself and the babe against Lac-lan’s back, his strength a wall between her and the child and their assailant.

  “That I am, thanks to this woman ye nearly scared to death.”

  She would not peek from behind Lac-lan, but the weight of the other man’s long silence hung in the air. Then his voice was closer. “The savage there behind ye?”

  Lac-lan reached behind and gently gripped her arm, drawing her out and holding her close. “Aye, Nab, only no savage. More a savior. I’d be dead and rotting away if not for this lass.”

  The man’s gaze drifted from Lac-lan to Wenonah and blinked. Wenonah raised her chin higher. Her racing heart slowed. She glanced up at the man beside her, and her heartbeat shifted yet again. It shifted, and it cracked open wide.

  Chapter 7

  NAB BLINKED AGAIN AND gasped. “Yer alive. I canna hardly believe it.”

  Lachlan extended his hand and stepped toward Nab. “’Tis warming my heart to see ye again, my friend.” He braced a hand on Nab’s shoulder, but his glance quickly took in the surrounding woods. “Did ye come to this place alone?”