Looking proud of herself, Artis brought in and sat down a tray of the apple turnovers she’d just made. “Look, Rory smiled!” she said, pointing.
“You’re right, Artis. He did!” Catherine exclaimed.
The other two women just laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Catherine asked Jane.
“Babes can’t actually smile until they’re around a month old,” Jane answered. “In newborns, it likely means he just farted.”
Catherine grinned. Jane was always outspoken and often blunt.
“Well, he’s certainly taking after his Uncle William, more and more,” Kelly said, causing them all to erupt in hilarity.
“It looked like a genuine smile to me,” Catherine protested. “I’m going to go ask Doc if what Jane said is true. We need more tea anyway to go with those delicious looking pastries.” She stood and handed Rory to Artis.
“Why me?” Artis said, dusting flour off her apron and then taking the babe a bit awkwardly.
“Because you need the experience. Kelly and Jane have already had babies,” Catherine told her, as she picked up the teapot and started to leave. “And based on how Bear’s been acting lately, yours are not far off.”
Again the women all erupted in hysterics and Artis’ face colored fiercely.
The sound of their laughter must have covered the noise of her steps because when she went into the kitchen, she found her cook in Doc’s arms. His lips seemed to be conducting a rather thorough examination of Mrs. Wrigley’s mouth.
She paused for a second trying to decide whether to back up or clear her throat. Amused, she decided to clear her throat.
Rory took a step back at once and Mrs. Wrigley blushed furiously before she spoke, admitting the truth graciously. “I’m sorry Mrs. Wyllie. It will not happen again. But Dr. McGuffin and I have grown fond of each other.”
“That’s marvelous,” Catherine said, trying to make light of the awkward moment. She put some tea in the teapot.
“Please don’t think Mrs. Wrigley was acting inappropriately,” Doc said. “It was my fault and I apologize to both of you. I just couldn’t resist this sweet woman any longer. So I kissed her. Not the other way around.”
“There’s no sense in your apologizing to me. I willingly did it and I thought I managed to kiss you back quite well,” Mrs. Wrigley protested.
“That you did,” he admitted with a smile.
“Look, there’s no reason for either of you to apologize to me. You are a widow and a widower who have found each other’s company enjoyable. I will not judge you,” she said. “I’m happy for you.”
“Will you tell Mr. Wyllie?” the cook asked, looking worried. “I don’t want to lose my job. I love working for you two. You’ve become like family to me.”
“We feel the same. I will leave telling Sam to you two, when you are ready,” Catherine replied. “I would only ask that you refrain from further displays of affections in front of the children, since you are not married.”
“Of course,” they both said at once.
“Now, if you would be so kind as to pour some hot water in the teapot Mrs. Wrigley, I need to ask the good doctor’s professional opinion on a serious matter.”
“What might that be?” Rory asked, looking concerned.
“Baby smiles and farting,” she laughed.
Chapter 35
3 January, 1800
Sam failed to convince Artis not to race her horse. She insisted that Glasgow would stand a better chance at winning with her riding him. Bear was too large a man for the horse to carry in a race and only she knew how to get the most out of Glasgow.
Bear was of no help in the argument. He just stood by, arms crossed in front of him with a look of faint amusement on his face. When the determined look in her eye made Sam realize it was pointless to argue further, he gave up. Something he didn’t do often.
After considerable discussing, debating, and weighing out, the family decided that all of the children should stay with Catherine, Jane, and Doc while Sam, his three brothers, and Artis and Kelly would go to the Twelfth Day Race. With ice hanging from the roof’s edges, they all agreed it was too cold for children, particularly an infant to travel. And mounted on horses instead of riding in wagons, the adults could make the journey there and back much faster.
At first, Sam had refused to leave Catherine and the babe, and he still regretted that he’d allowed her to talk him into going. But when he realized that going to Harrodsburg would give him a chance to personally question Dixon, he decided it might be a good idea after all.
He went upstairs to say goodbye to Little John. His son didn’t even protest when he told him the children would not be able to go. He didn’t want to leave Happy anyway, he said. He and the pup were now inseparable.
Earlier, Artis had asked Martha and Polly to look after her pup, which she’d named Stirling, and they joyfully promised to do so. As Sam watched the children play with the black bundles of energy, he would swear the puppies grew a couple of inches taller over the last week.
He gave each of the children a quick hug and then hurried back downstairs.
He found Catherine in their bedroom feeding Rory. The sight still brought him joy. Sitting there with their son in her arms, the sun streaming in through the window behind her, she looked so lovely it took away his breath. And a glimpse of her full breast as she changed the babe to her other side made his heart beat more rapidly.
He still found it hard to believe he’d been blessed so richly. His whole world seemed brighter, fuller, and happier. He’d never known such contentment.
“Good morning again, my treasure,” he told her, walking up to her side and brushing a gentle kiss across her forehead. He breathed in her fresh soft scent, like drops of rainwater on roses.
“Good morning again, to you,” she responded.
“I just told Little John goodbye. He’s happy staying here with his pup.” He walked over and stroked the top of Rory’s head. “I don’t know which is growing faster, our babe or the puppies,” he told her. “Rory seems to be thriving on your mother’s milk.”
“Definitely,” Catherine said. “Just look at the size of his feet.”
“I’m going to miss you,” he said taking her soft hand in his. “Truthfully, I don’t want to go without you.”
“Please Sam, go. You’ve worked so hard over the last two years building this house and then setting up our horse farm. You’ve earned a break. Enjoy your brothers’ company and the festivities. We will all be fine. There’s no need for you to worry. Rory will be here and Jane is such a good shot.”
“Yes, she is. But keep the doors barred and your weapons loaded.”
“We will. And just so you have something to look forward to,” she said impishly, “I’ll be all healed up by the time you get back.” The smoldering flame he saw in her eyes startled him.
Already aching for her, his body reacted instantly. “I will be back at the earliest possible moment, I assure you.”
She cleared her throat, pretending not to be affected by the hungry look he gave her.
“And Sam?”
“Yes?”
“Stand behind Artis. She’s been through so much. Just think what it would mean to her to win the race. She has the right to have a shot at winning. Man or woman, we all need to experience victory in our lives.”
Sam considered what she said for a moment. “You’re right, of course. I just hope one of them, Stephen or Artis, can be victorious. I don’t care which because I want both of them to win. And I want them and their stallions to run the race safely.”
“Me too,” she agreed. “Stay safe yourself, Sam. I love you so much.”
“And I’ll love you forever.”
He bent to kiss her, reveling in the velvet softness of her full lips and the feel of her silky hair in his hand.
Then he picked up his already packed bag, and took in the glorious sight of her and the babe one last time before leaving. Again, he was struck by
her beauty. He committed Catherine’s stunning image to memory. Picturing her in his mind would warm him on his cold journey.
Even well-mounted, the ride to Harrodsburg would still take a day and a half. But without the wagons, they were able to take the more direct bridle path, a route that did not allow the passage of a wheeled conveyance.
They stopped mid-way at a hamlet to let the horses rest overnight. Fortunately the modest inn there had one room still available, which they all shared after eating an equally modest meal. They gave the tiny beds to Artis and Kelly, while the men slept on pallets. Midway through the night, Sam decided he would rather be sleeping on the snow on a bed of pine boughs than on the hard wood plank floor listening to Bear snore. But it was too late to do anything about it.
As they neared Harrodsburg, Sam thought about the fact that this was once highly dangerous ground. The early pioneer farmers, who settled the area nearly twenty-five years earlier, kept two tools close at hand—a hoe and a rifle. Even so, along with the sweat of their brows, the lifeblood of many of them drained into their freshly hoed soil.
But if there was a place worth fighting for, it was Kentucky.
Still surrounded by vast forests, only navigable by ancient Indian paths, Harrodsburg was a bustling frontier community that grew around the now larger fort built on Old Fort Hill.
Upon arrival, they were forced to pay an exorbitant price, but they secured three rooms at the Dunn Inn—one for Bear and Artis, one for William and Kelly, and another for Stephen and him with two undersized beds that nearly filled the small room. At least it was clean and relatively warm.
Tonight, at the tavern next door, they were all enjoying a meal and several pints to quench their thirst. As Sam ate a savory stew, the warm food felt good against his cold lips. He could smell chickens roasting in the tavern’s ovens and decided he would order one of those too. A single bowl of stew was not likely to fill his long-empty stomach. And the delectable aroma of pumpkin pie wafting from the tavern’s kitchen made him decide to order a whole pie for the table. Bear would not let any of it go to waste.
The large crowded tavern, constructed of sturdy oaken timbers and walls filled with mud mixed with straw and sticks, thankfully felt cozy and warm after two days of riding in the open winter air.
People attending the Twelfth Day festivities and race from all over Kentucky swarmed around the packed room. They soon met a hale and hearty old gentleman named Duncan Browne. William invited him to join them at their table. The most sociable member of the family, William had a habit of befriending interesting strangers, particularly in taverns.
And this old man was definitely proving to be an interesting and perhaps imaginative storyteller. Browne told them of the time he had fought ten hours single-handedly against twenty attacking Indians, shooting them down, one by one. After that, he collected the best bow from among the dead Indians and a year’s supply of arrows for hunting. Another time, he had been charged by a herd of buffalo and only managed to save himself by springing on the back of one and staying on it until the herd slowed. Then he leapt off and shot the beast for food and its warm skin.
On another occasion, Browne claimed to have acquired his now deceased wife by winning a shooting contest. “She had a beautiful face, but it was the beautiful soul back of that I cared about,” Browne said wistfully.
Sam studied his ale and then took a long sip. That description of Browne’s wife reminded Sam very much of how he felt about Catherine.
Now, they listened as the old man reminiscenced about Fort Harrod’s founder. Sam noted that the wrinkles of his face looked deep in the light of the tavern’s oil lamps. He suspected a lifetime of hardships and wilderness experiences earned Browne each and every line on his proud face.
“In the winter of 1792, looking for beaver, Harrod made one of his many journeys exploring the area,” the old man said. “He never returned.”
“What happened to the poor man?” Artis asked.
“His disappearance remains an appalling mystery. Indians may have killed him,” he said. “Some think he decided to leave his wife for reasons unknown. Around here, we call that a wilderness divorce.”
“Nay,” Artis said. “From what ye’ve said, he seems like too good a man to leave his wife stranded in the middle of the wilderness.”
“Oh, she wasn’t stranded. He was a wealthy farmer, owning more than 20,000 acres,” Browne explained.
“I heard he was murdered by one of his companions while secretly searching for a fabled silver mine,” Stephen said.
“Aye, I’ve heard that rumor as well,” the old man said.
“Are ye from Scotland?” Bear asked him.
“I was born there. But lived here most of my life,” Browne said. “I still retain a wee bit of the Scots’ ways.”
“Well then, I insist on buying a fellow Scot a wee droppy,” Bear said, motioning for the tavern maid.
After Bear ordered one for all of them, Sam said, “Regardless of how he died, Harrod’s legacy will live on in the town that he bravely founded.”
“Agreed!” Browne said.
When the whiskey arrived, Bear held his glass high. “To my beautiful bride Artis, the soon to be winner of the race.”
“I’ll drink to that with one caveat,” Stephen declared. “That she will be the winner of the second place prize.”
“Mrs. MacKay, you’re not planning to ride in the race are you?” Browne asked, his voice rising in surprise.
“Indeed I am, Sir,” she answered, her green eyes flashing.
Browne raised his bushy gray brows. “If they let you, which I doubt, that will be a first,” he said laughing and taking a small sip.
“Who are they?” Bear asked. “Are they in here?”
“Aye, ‘tis that short man over there, already dressed like he’s goin’ to the ball,” Browne said. “He’s been put in charge of the race. And the men around him are on his racing committee.”
Bear pushed away from the table. “What’s his name?”
“Elijah Thornbird,” Browne replied.
“Now Bear,” Sam said, “if he says no, try not to hurt him.”
“Aye, I’ll na hurt the man,” Bear said. “Unless he’s unreasonable.”
Artis stood and quickly caught up to Bear whose long strides already carried him halfway across the room. The crowd seemed to part as Bear strode forward, his sheer size and weapon-covered body intimidating them all.
Sam couldn’t resist, he followed the two.
“Mr. Thornbird?” Bear said to the man’s back.
Thornbird turned and his eyes stared into Bear’s massive chest. His gaze drifted upwards, taking in Bear’s powerful build. Then he asked, “And whom might you be, Sir.”
Bear towered over the man by a full ten inches, which forced his brother to lower his gaze to look Thornbird in the eye. Bear’s shadow of a beard gave him an even more threatening appearance than normal. “Sir, I am Bear MacKay and this is my wife, Artis, and my brother, Captain Sam Wyllie. I would have a word with ye.”
“It is my great pleasure to meet the three of you,” Thornbird replied.
“I understand ye are in charge of the race?” Bear asked.
“Indeed I am, Sir.” Thornbird said and dusted off his waistcoat as though he’d gotten dusty just standing next to Bear.
Sam could tell the man took excessive pride in his appearance.
“What are the requirements for racers?” Bear asked.
“Your meaning eludes me,” Thornbird said, raising his dark brows. “You simply pay the entry fee.”
“I will endeavor to make myself clear,” Bear said. “My wife and I plan to enter our horse in the race tomorrow.”
“Excellent. I wish you the best of luck. Now if you will excuse me, I should get back to my friends. We are ironing out a few last minute details for the race.”
“My wife will be ridin’ our horse,” Bear said.
After his gasp of surprise, intense astonishment filled Thorn
bird’s face. For a moment, he merely stared, mouth open and tongue-tied. Then he said, “But that’s impossible!”
“Why?” Artis asked.
“Because it’s never been done,” he replied as though that settled the matter. “You’re a woman!”
“Nevertheless, we intend for her to ride the horse,” Sam said, adding his voice of authority to the discussion. “’Never been done’ does not mean never will be done.”
Artis peered up at his face and smiled, apparently thankful for Sam’s support.
“Aye,” Bear said. “I assure ye my wife is a fine equestrian and knows her horse well. Her stallion is well-trained and comes from a Virginia plantation. He has excellent breedin’ and a fine pedigree.”
“Aye, he’s a descent of Bulle Rock,” Artis said proudly. “And I trained him.”
The man’s face registered recognition of the well-known name of the first thoroughbred horse imported, by a Virginia plantation owner, into the American Colonies. Thornbird was momentarily speechless in his surprise and then stammered. “But…but. We cannot allow it!”
Thornbird’s racing committee now stood by listening to the argument.
“The idea is preposterous!” one of them declared.
“Simply laughable,” another one said. “She couldn’t possibly win.”
Artis’ eyes conveyed the fury within her and Bear’s face was now a glowering mask of barely controlled rage.
“Yer all a bunch of bloody blowhards—all mouth and no brains,” Bear snarled.
Sam needed to deflate the situation and soon or Bear might do something they would all regret. “Do you have written rules for your race,” he asked Thornbird.
“We do,” the man said.
“And does it specifically state in the rules that a woman may not ride in the race?” Sam questioned.
“Well…no…the issue never arose. Nevertheless, it’s forbidden. The idea is absurd. Nothing short of scandalous,” Thornbird said. “The sport is only for gentlemen.”
Frontier Gift of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 5) Page 26