Another Chance

by Janet Cooper

  "Help yourself," White Owl said, gesturing to the food.

  "What can you tell us about the patrol?" Wolf asked, before taking a sip from his tankard.

  "A general named Cornwallis controls them. He has sent his men out to scour the area around Philadelphia. Until yesterday, we had heard of no other incidents." Jeremiah picked up an apple and took a bite. After quickly chewing then swallowing, he said, "The same men returned and struck a Quaker farm on the westside of the Brandywine River."

  "Quaker farm?" Wolf asked quickly. "You are certain it was a farm?" A blast of cold wind struck him squarely in the chest.

  Giving him a puzzled look, Jeremiah said, "Yes. Off Creek Road."

  Relief flowed through him that the raid had not involved a chestnut haired beauty with flashing eyes. Even when she looked disheveled, as she had standing over the kettle, she attracted him. Why did her face and body haunt him? Why could he not drive her image from his mind?

  "Luke?" Jeremiah's voice brought Wolf back to the present. "What is the matter?"

  "Are they the same raiders?" Wolf asked centering on their problem and pushing his thoughts of Sarah aside.

  "The description of the leader, burly, flaming red hair and a large scar on his right cheek, matches the one your overseer gave us."

  "How much damage did they do?" The anger and frustration showed in his clipped words and tone, but he did not care.

  "The barn stands, but they confiscated most of the animals and the harvest. They excused their actions by stating this was in lieu of uncollected taxes."

  "The same reason they gave here," White Owl stated. Only his face betrayed his outrage.

  Wolf's failure to catch the brigands deepened his wrath. He silently repeated his vow to hunt these men and destroy them. Clenching the pewter mug, he said, "They strike Lenape because we have few friends to defend us, and Quakers because their religion preaches peace and prevents them from retaliating." He recalled Sarah's flashing amber eyes, so unlike the people he had just described. Then his thoughts turned to Quick Rabbit and the rape. What would Sarah do? He sensed she would fight, perhaps even die, rather than submit. The idea of her dying struck his gut like a well-placed fist.

  "… Quakers will not fight." Wolf heard Jeremiah saying. "The British can safely take anything they want. Nor will the Friends place a claim for damages, because they do not believe in accepting money from the government. With so many of them living in this area, the pickings are good." Jeremiah grimaced. "A perfect solution for any English general."

  Wolf squeezed the tankard with both hands. "Did the raiders return to Philadelphia?" A strange, uneasy sense of foreboding filled him.

  "A few herded the livestock in that direction. We suspect the others are still nearby, gathering additional provision for the winter. I have alerted General Washington. He will send a few squads to find them."

  Reluctantly, Wolf faced White Owl. Wolf said, "Although I have gone out during the day to track down the killers, XhanXhan, I have returned each evening to sing my father's soul to the sky. With deep regret, I ask your permission as our spiritual leader to allow me to search, day and night, until the men responsible for his death are found and punished."

  "We have not finished our time of mourning, but ne gwis, your father, will understand," his grandfather said, solemnly. "With a heavy heart, I release you. Little Turtle and I and our people will sing and speed my son's heart on its journey to the sky."

  "I have Washington's permission to devote my time and my small force to track down the murderers," Jeremiah pledged.

  Wolf started to refuse the offer, but he sensed his grandfather's eyes drilling into him. They warned his grandson to still his tongue. With difficulty, Wolf managed.

  Chapter Six

  "Swing low, sweet chariot. Coming for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot. Coming for to carry me home," Sarah had no idea why the words to that song came into her mind, but they suited her mood. Would her chariot ever carry her home? She placed another log on the fire then stared at her hands: cuts, broken nails, torn cuticles, and blisters. For the past three days, I have peeled, cut, sliced, and diced, if I never see another apple it will be too soon! Thank heavens, I'm finished.

  She rose from her crouched position slowly. Every muscle in her body ached. Gently, she twisted from side to side. I’d do anything for a long, hot tub bath with lots of steaming water and a touch of lavender scent. She stretched her neck from side to side.

  When the backbreaking, hand-numbing chore had ended, she was sure a kind spirit would take pity on her and whisk her back to her own less physically exhausting time. Now, doubt had replaced her hope. Reality asserted itself and chased her unrealistic and unfilled wishes aside. Her world had changed. Would she ever return? Could she return? She, who loved to plan, couldn’t even predict where she would be tomorrow. What of her friends, neighbors, job, or obligations? One thought struck hard perhaps she should never have purchased this house, since the tavern started this whole mess. Yet a small voice reminded her, if she had not, she would never have met Silver Wolf.

  As she stirred the kettle and threw in the onions she had chopped earlier, for the hundredth time at least, she recalled her last moments with Silver Wolf. His black velvet eyes had filled her with desire. When he turned the spoon toward her, she placed her mouth where his had been, hardly aware of what she tasted. Sometimes, she had fantasied the subsequent scene, changing it from a kiss to a complete seduction. Her mind created a picture of him, not as he stood there on their last farewell, but as she had seen him when she arrived at Long Meadow Plantation, his bare chest gleaming in the sunset, his muscular arms rippling with strength, his lean thighs leading to tight buttocks. The image sent shivers racing along her spine. Then she peeled off his loin cloth and envisaged his powerful naked body pressed against hers. She steamed with desire and sighed with frustration at the uncompleted act. If Daniel had not called… A groan escaped her lips.

  What would today bring? she wondered. Another ten hours outside and two or three hours helping in the tavern? At least I sleep well, although getting out of bed was a bit tough. She had to admit that she never searched for a job to do. One was always waiting. Physically, her life lacked nothing.

  After pulling the cornmeal from the cupboard near the bar, Sarah began preparing bread for breakfast. Since they had guests staying, Sarah doubled her recipe. As she stirred the ingredients, she decided on her menu, selecting eggs, sliced ham, and squirrel stew. Daniel ate and accepted any kind of food, while Benjamin had a more discerning palate. She enjoyed cooking for both of them and always fixed a large meal to start their day

  The sound of voices signaled the approach of her men and the two travelers.

  "So you have no idea where the raiders are?" the older of the two lodgers asked.

  "Nay." Benjamin motioned for the two men to precede Daniel and himself. "I advise thee to stay off the main roads and follow the Indian trails."

  The wayfarers nodded.

  "Good morrow, daughter," Benjamin said as he and the other three took seats at the table nearest the hearth.

  Daniel pulled his forelock.

  "And a good morning to thee," she replied.

  "Master Stone," the leaner of the two guests asked. "Tell us again about the marauders that struck the farm."

  Sarah dropped the ladle in the stew and whirled around. "What farm?" She stared at her father.

  "Robert Brinton rode by before thee arose," Benjamin answered, "and told Daniel raiders attacked the Miller's farm yesterday."

  "Was anyone hurt? Did they destroy the barn?" She hurled out the questions in rapid succession.

  Benjamin shook his head. "According to Friend Robert, they confiscated most of the livestock and grain, but no one was hurt and none of the buildings suffered."

  "How far away do the Miller's live?" she pushed, forgetting she should know this.

  "Off Creek Road, but on the other side of the Brandywine River." Daniel wrinkled his b
row and opened his mouth as if to continue speaking.

  Before he could do so and ask why she had not remembered where the Miller's lived, she tossed out another question. "Are the brigands still in the area?"

  "As I was telling our guests, no one knows," Benjamin responded.

  A sense of uneasiness invaded her as she ladled the stew into the bowls, and her hands trembled. She hoped the English stayed on the other side of the river.

  The visitors grabbed their spoons, preparing to shovel in their food. "In our home and in our tavern," Benjamin said, "we offer thanks to God before eating."

  One man grumbled, but the other bowed his head and simultaneously jammed his elbow into the complainer's side. After a brief prayer, the guests fell upon the victuals like hungry vultures devouring a carcass.

  Sarah concentrated on lifting the cornbread from the spider pan, but could not ignore the grunts and chomping sounds made at the table. Only Benjamin and Daniel, although he forgot at times and had to be reminded, showed any etiquette. She had noticed the lack of manners before, but when she believed her life here was only temporary, the din had not disturbed her. The thought of having to experience these same slobbering noises every day, her stomach rebelled. She dumped the bread on the table and fled outside.

  Benjamin followed in her wake. "What troubles thee, daughter?" He reached out a hand, but she stepped away not wanting his comfort.

  "Nothing!" She kicked a pine cone that lay on the dirt path, sending it sailing across the open yard.

  He walked around to face her. "Thou art not being truthful. Thou knowst we must not lie. Pray, tell me." He lifted her chin with his fingers.

  This time she allowed the intimacy, for she felt alone, so alone. She desperately needed a caring word or gesture.

  "Thou has not been thyself for many days," Benjamin murmured. "Has the melancholia returned?"

  At his sympathetic tone and gentle expression, Sarah's composure, what little she had left, almost fled. She did not want to dissolve into tears, for surely, he would consider her a candidate for the local equivalent of Bedlam. She had no desire to be placed in a mental hospital that would be little more than a medieval dungeon. Gritting her teeth, she pulled on her internal resources and recovered, if only for the moment.

  Steel-gray eyes focused on her, but not unkindly. His pale face, tinted pink from the past few days in the sun helping Daniel and her outside, showed his concern. She sensed his love and, although she had known him only a short time, she respected him and admired his moral courage. Sarah had seen Benjamin's resolve in forcing Wolf to accept the supplies Long Meadow so urgently needed. His tolerance, though he did not approve of the Lenape's funeral ceremony, showed respect for other cultures. Still, she hesitated to tell him about her dilemma. To explain she had come from the future would test even his acceptance of others. Besides, how could he understand or help if she could not?

  "No," she said with a sigh. "Melancholia is not my problem."

  "What is?"

  Instead of answering, she asked, "What was I like before?"

  "Gentle, patient, and meek," he responded, as if understanding exactly what she meant by 'before'.

  "Did I get angry? Did I challenge my life?"

  He shook his head. "Nay, thou accepted what came."

  "Well, I no longer can."

  Benjamin waited.

  That Quaker training, she thought with a twinge of anger at his calm acknowledgment of her words. "I want to control my life, not react to it."

  "Mayhap, a change of scenery, a different location, new people might help. Doeth thou wish to leave and visit thy aunt in Philadelphia?"

  His suggestion about going to Philadelphia stopped her. Was this part of the 'plan' some spirit had designed for her? In her own century, she had hoped often for a chance to see the city in its infancy. She reminded herself that was probably how she had gotten here in the first place by wishing. The idea of leaving the gateway to her own century and her passageway home, even if she no longer completely believed in her ability to return, scared her. Her honest nature pressed forward another reason. She did not wish to depart from the only place she had an opportunity to see her dark-haired hero. She could not leave the tavern.

  "There thou might find a young man that suits thy needs for a husband," Benjamin said, elaborating on his plans, totally unaware of her thoughts or decision.

  Even if she had to stay, developing a relationship with any European-style man from this century, whose idea of freedom and emancipation for women was limited to possibly allowing her to select the color of the frock she wore, interested Sarah not at all.

  The image of Silver Wolf as he spoke to Bowl Woman flashed through her mind. He and his people appeared to appreciate and value females, or was what she had observed only what she wanted to see? Needing an excuse, she asked, "Since we are not accepted at meeting, won't my visit cause my aunt a problem?"

  "No. The Society will not hold my transgressions against my sister. And she understands that I fell in love and married thy mother." His face softened as he spoke.

  "Why didn't thou confess thy mistake in front of the Society? They would have taken thee back and allowed Mother to join." She realized her questions might get her into trouble, but her curiosity forced her.

  His face looked puzzled. Then after a brief hesitation, he said, "Her uncle, an Anglican priest, had wed us. She would not shame him by denying that he had the right to join us in marriage. Yet, to be admitted into the Society she would have had to. Surely I have told thee this story often.”

  "Yes, but since we were talking about my going to see my aunt, I wanted to be sure that if I decide to go my presence would not cause her a problem." Sarah hoped that excuse would cover his questioning look.

  "Then thou will go?" Benjamin asked.

  "Of course not. Who would cook?" she joked. For the first time, she voluntarily touched him. His forearm seemed strangely familiar beneath her hand, as if she had done this many times before.

  He covered her fingers with his rough, callous palm. "I could ask Mistress Westcoat. Since her husband and her boy have joined Washington, she has very few resources. With winter coming on, she might appreciate the opportunity to earn a little money."

  "Her men folk probably receive better food in the army than what she cooks at home," she retorted, then wondered if her comment was true.

  Her father laughed. "An unkind, but a true statement."

  How had she known that? To have her assessment of the woman's cooking confirmed by Benjamin increased her concern. Were the old Sarah and the new Sarah somehow becoming one? She recalled her first night and how instinctively she had reached for the vinegar to wash the tables. Other incidents flooded her brain. If she remained, would she lose all of her future self and become the meek, obedient woman Benjamin had described? The notion startled and worried her.

  "Thou has not lost thy wit," he chided, but very gently.

  Needing to shake off the uneasiness about losing her own identity, she forced a quip. "I should not want us to lose all our customers because of Mistress Westcoat's cooking." She smiled with her lips, hoping her eyes would not give her away. "So, I shall sacrifice and stay with you."

  Benjamin frowned, but his eyes twinkled.

  "Oops--thee." She covered her mouth with her hand embarrassed at having again slipped.

  His broad grin warmed her. "Thou reminds me of thy mother. She tried so hard to use thee and thy and when she forgot, she covered her mouth just as thou did."

  Hearing his words, Sarah knew that she cared for him.

  "We best return and find out if our guests would like eggs with their ham," Sarah said. Locking arms, they strolled back to the inn.

  The rest of the morning and early afternoon, Sarah spent baking, a chore she had always enjoyed and one that soothed her. While her hands were busy, she plotted to find a way to see Silver Wolf again. She thought of several possibilities, but rejected each.

  As she placed the las
t of her pumpkin pies in the beehive oven, she heard shouting in the yard. Wiping the flour from her hands onto her apron, she went to the door, curious as to the cause of the noise. Before she pulled up the latch, the door sprang open. A burly man, whose red face nearly matched the British redcoat he wore, barged inside.

  She stepped back as he ogled her openly.

  Her stomach revolted at the indisputable desire showing on his face as he missed not a detail of her body. Shivers of icy dread raced up her spine, keeping pace with his shifting eyes.

  An ugly scar on his right cheek added another shade of crimson to his paunchy face, increasing his sinister appearance. "Well, well. What have we here?"

  Fear rushed through Sarah. She stared at the soldier. His burly shape blocked the light and the doorway. She thought of Silver Wolf's plantation. Was this man part of that destruction and murder? Was he one of the raiders who had robbed the Miller's farm? She edged away from him, trying not to show her fear as she sought to regain her composure. The incidents might have no relationship to this man, she reminded herself.

  "Are thou looking for my father?" she asked, unsure of what else to say and unwilling to say, 'May I help you', for she sensed what his retort would be.

  "We found the old Quaker in the yard." The soldier glanced toward the hearth. His twisted smile showed broken and blackened teeth.

  Sarah shivered even as sweat trickled down her back and drenched her underarms. Everything about him stank of evil. She tried to swallow. Terror clogged her throat and threatened to strangle her. "Old Quaker?" she asked, in a less than firm voice.

  If he had hurt Benjamin, she would… She would what? Sarah stared at the gun he carried. She had seen its twin in the museum. These guns were not accurate, but she doubted if he would miss from an arm's length away.

  "'Pears we came on the right day." Swaggering to the oak trestle table, he grabbed a loaf of bread and bit off the end. "I need a mug of ale to wash it down," he called over his shoulder.

  A wooden bucket lay near the door. Sarah considered throwing the water at him and racing out, but she remembered Benjamin and his beliefs about violence. Reluctantly, she admitted the man had not made any overt gesture toward her. The idea did not comfort her. She glanced out the window. The large oak tree blocked her view of the yard. Where were her father and Daniel?