The Bootmaker’s Daughter
Colleen French
Copyright © 1991, 2019 by Colleen French. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of The Evan Marshall Agency, 1 Pacio Court, Roseland, NJ 07068-1121, [email protected].
Version 1.0
This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
Published by The Evan Marshall Agency. Originally published by Kensington Publishing Corp., New York, under the title Patriot's Passion and under the name Colleen Faulkner.
Cover by The Killion Group
For Donna and Ann . . .
the best friends a writer could have.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Prologue
Yorktown, Virginia
October 1780
Through the fringes of her lashes, Maggie Myers studied the handful of people that gathered around the open grave. Pot-bellied Father Rufus, the priest, droned on with his eulogy. The hard, biting wind whipped off the Chesapeake Bay, blowing his black robes and twisting them about his feet.
It's going to snow, Maggie thought absently as her attention shifted to her sister, Alice, and her sister's husband, Manny. I thought it was supposed to rain at funerals, she thought.
Alice reached for Maggie's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Put up your hood," she whispered. "Or you'll catch your death."
Maggie tossed her head in defiance, letting the wind catch her mane of chestnut brown hair and whip it across her face. She had no intention of lifting her hood. She needed to feel the chilling bite of the October air. After all, to feel was to live, wasn't it?
Father Rufus bowed his head, clasping his pudgy hands, and the mourners joined him . . . all but Maggie. She smiled sadly as the huddle of friends murmured in prayer, echoing the priest's words. It was for her sake they'd come, certainly not Noah's.
There was Pete, the blacksmith, his wife, Susanna, and their seven children who lived at the crossroad where Manny's tavern stood. Then there was Carter, the war hero, Mary, his wife, and even Carter's old grouch of a father, Harry. The Bennett boys stood to the rear the group. And, of course, there was Ezekial, the brother she'd never had.
Zeke lifted his head, gave a reassuring wink, then returned to prayer. Thank God she had Zeke or she'd never have survived the last two years, with Noah's illness and his inability . . . his refusal to work. It was Zeke who had encouraged her to pick up her father's tools and the soft leather and begin to make the boots herself. It was Zeke who had encouraged her to join the war effort.
Father Rufus made the sign of the cross and the mourners muttered a solemn, "amen." Maggie stood stock-still as they began to file past her on the way up to the old farmhouse where she and Noah had lived . . . the home where she'd grown up.
"So sorry for your loss," Mary Perkins soothed, clasping Maggie's hand.
"Let us know if there's anything we can do for you," Carter followed sympathetically.
When Harry passed her, he leaned and whispered in her ear, "Better off without him, I say," the wizened old man commented. "Just wish you'd married my boy Carter when you had the chance!"
Maggie gave Harry a pat on the arm. "Go on up to the house and get yourself a cup of coffee. Be certain Alice adds a little nip, just to ward off the chill."
Harry's steel-gray eyes lit up with interest and he hobbled after his son and daughter-in-law, waving his silver-tipped cane and calling for them to wait up.
Maggie received kisses on the cheek and whispered condolences until finally the mourners had all passed and were headed up the hill to the house. Even Father Rufus agreed to have a cup of coffee and a slice of cake before he went on his way. Finally there was no one left but her and Zeke.
He picked up a shovel and dug into the soft mound of freshly turned soil. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut as the first shovelful of dirt hit the pine coffin. On the second shovelful, she ground her teeth. On the third, her eyes snapped open and she reached for the shovel, snatching it from Zeke's hands.
"You go on up to the house and see that everyone's fed. I'll finish here."
"Don't be a slow wit, Mags, a woman don't bury her man."
Maggie pushed back her cloak and stepped on the shovel, digging into the rich earth. "Just let me do it, Zeke. Let me alone. I need to be with him this one last time."
Zeke sighed. "You don't owe him a thing. You did more than most would have. You stayed at his side till the end. No man can ask more of his wife."
She threw the shovelful of dirt into the grave and dug for another. "I hear what you're saying. I know the truth of it. I just need a few minutes."
"I can finish it up later."
She lifted her head, her brown eyes meeting his worried gray ones. "I'm fine. I just feel like I ought to be the one to do this. Now go on with you."
Tugging his wool stocking cap over his head, Zeke muttered something beneath his breath and limped off, heading up the hill.
Maggie flung another mound of dirt onto the coffin. For several minutes she listened to the sound of the wind in the trees and the steady thud of earth hitting Noah's casket. She filled in the grave with shovelful after shovelful of rich red dirt. It felt good to use her hands, to work her muscles. Work always felt good. It cleared the mind, her da always said.
Finally her arms began to tire and she thrust the shovel into the ground, leaning on it to catch her breath. Despite the cold air, she was suddenly overly warm. She stared down into the hole. The white pine coffin was nearly covered. She rested her forehead on her hands.
"Ah, Noah. You finally did it. You drank yourself right into a grave."
She lifted her head and stared out over the bay in the distance. All was quiet on the water, but it was said the English fleet was on its way. A flock of Canadian geese flew overhead, crying mournfully.
Tears stung Maggie's eyes. She'd known all along that this was the way her life with Noah was going to end. So why did it hurt so much?
"I loved you in a funny kind of way, you know. I really did," she said aloud, barely recognizing her own voice. "But we just weren't meant for each other, were we? I was the fire, you were the cold dishwater always puttin' me out." She shook her head. "You never should have taken on as da's apprentice. You hated bootwork from day one. I never should have married you, knowing I could never love you the way a woman should love a man. I should have figured a way to take care of my mam on my own. I listened to you and da instead of myself. 'Course maybe it could have worked out if not for the war and all . . . "
She lifted the shovel and began to dig again. "Should have, shouldn't have, no point to it now, is there? Wh
at's in the kettle's cooked. I've got to go on from here."
In the back of her head she could hear Noah's irritating whine. Where will you go? What will you do, wife, now that I'm gone, now that you're without a man?
"Well, I'm not movin' in with Alice and Manny like they want me to, I can tell you that." she said, throwing another clump of dirt onto the coffin. "Guess I won't do anything. I'll just go on about my business, living here, making shoes, boots, and such. Doin' repairs. Hell, Noah, most of the county knew it was me and not you makin' those fine boots for our army."
With that said, Maggie felt better. She set down her shovel and walked to the edge of the grave. She bowed her head. "Guess it's 'bye to you, then, Noah. God bless your troubled soul. I just hope you find in heaven what you never found here on earth."
With that, Maggie turned away and headed up the hill to the farmhouse. With Noah at peace, maybe she'd finally find some of her own.
Chapter One
Yorktown, Virginia
June 1781
Maggie blew on the wooden dice in her palm and tossed them onto the scarred trestle table. They rolled to the edge, but fell short, right beneath her opponent's hooked nose. Maggie threw her booted foot onto the bench and slapped her knee gleefully. "Nicked! Blessed Mother Mary, Joey, I've trounced you again," she swore as she swept a handful of his coppers into her hand. "Best you go home whilst you've still got your boots!"
The men standing around the table broke into laughter, slapping Joey on the back as he pushed away from the table, taking his leather jack of ale with him. "God's bowels, but that girl's got an arm. I swear she cheats!"
Maggie reached across the bench, snatching Joey's ragged homespun at the collar. His jack fell from his hand sloshing ale onto his breeches and the floor. "What'd you say, friend?" she murmured, bringing his face inches from hers. "I know you didn't call me a cheat. There's only one thing I hate worse than a cheat, and that's a sore loser."
The little man trembled. "I—I . . ."
"Go on with you, Joey," Carter Perkins interceded, carefully loosening Maggie's iron grip. "You've had too much to drink when you start accusing Maggie of cheatin' you. Everybody in the county knows she can beat you at hazzard even with you cold-stone sober!"
Joey backed away from the table, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "S-sorry to you M-Miss Maggie. D-didn't mean to insult you or nuthin' . . ."
Maggie jingled his coppers in her hand. "No offense taken then, but don't step up to play if you're going to be a babe about losin'. Never bet what you can't stand to lose is what my da always said."
"And damned good advice that was, still is!" Carter lifted his jack of ale in toast to the dead man as Joey disappeared into the crowd.
The five other men gathered around the gaming table, lifted their jacks in unison, and drank to Derek Lloyd, Maggie's deceased father.
"To a fine man," Pete said solemnly.
"May he rest in peace," added Les Bennett.
Several men crossed themselves before taking another gulp of the strongly brewed ale.
Maggie glanced away, wiping at her moist eyes with the back of her hand. Just the smoke, she told herself. But she knew better. Lately she was taken to tears, tears of loneliness, she supposed. Even her husband, Noah, had been some company before he died; now the house seemed so empty. Though Zeke had stayed on to help her with the farm, he refused to sleep in the farmhouse, saying it just wasn't fitting. Each morning he crossed the field from his mother's house to do the chores, and each evening he returned home.
Maggie dropped her winnings into her apron pocket and turned back to the group of men, busy refilling their jacks from a pewter pitcher on the table. She pushed back a handful of heavy chestnut brown hair off her sweaty forehead, forcing a smile. Life goes on, echoed her father's words in her ear. Life goes on, buttercup.
"So," Maggie said, sweeping up the dice. "Who'll be next? Step right up, gentlemen. I'm not particular. I'm willin' to beat any of you . . ."
Grayson Thayer, a captain in the king's army, studied the tall, lusty-looking woman from the far side of the crowded public room. Christ, she was a beauty with that head full of firelit curls and those piercing dark eyes. Her breasts were full and rounded, forced to swell above the tight bodice of her common homespun gown. Her waist was small, but her hips flared womanly beneath her skirting. The wench had her leg thrown on a bench showing off an eyeful of her slender calf above her wrinkled red stocking.
Grayson smiled as he sipped his port. He'd never seen a woman like her in his life, all rough and harsh, filled with masculine subtleties, and at the same time so utterly feminine. He watched her moisten her lips with the tip of her tongue as she tossed the dice again. He wondered what she would taste like. Cheap ale? Or fireweed honey, all hot and sweet at the same time?
A familiar tightening in his loins made Grayson shift on the hard bench. He'd planned on turning in early tonight. He'd only walked a short distance from the camp to the tavern to have a drink and find some peace from the din of tent construction and general confusion associated with the setting up of a new camp.
The red-haired wench broke into laughter, clapping her hands as she was bested by a tall, blond farmer. The girl seemed to take as much pleasure from losing as she had from winning.
She had to be a whore. What other woman would behave so commonly among such rough men?
Grayson drained his cup and eased off the bench. A tumble with this trollop was just what he needed to forget his troubles. Slowly he approached her, circling several busy tables. Another red-coated officer called out to him, but Grayson ignored him, bent on his mission. Just the thought of the redhead made him warm at the collar.
As he was about to close in on her, Grayson saw the farmer she called Carter lean over and whisper in her ear. She filled the steamy June air with her husky laughter and brushed her thumb against her fingers. "I'll have to see your coin," she told him, smoothing his faded sleeve with her fingertips. "I'll not be short-changed, not even by a friend."
Carter took a step back in feigned injury. "Maggie! I'm surprised to hear you say such a thing. I always pay you . . . eventually."
"I'm not running a charity. Either you have the coin or you don't . . ." She dropped her hand to her hip, waiting.
Carter broke into a grin and looped his arm through hers, leading her off toward the staircase. "All right, but I hope you can sleep at night knowing you robbed a poor man of his last shilling."
Maggie rested her cheek on his arm and Grayson lost her reply in the sounds of the busy public room.
Silently, Grayson cursed as the redhead and the farmer climbed the steps leading to the private rooms above. Grayson wasn't certain he wanted to wait for the whore so he headed for the door.
Outside the tavern, he leaned against a knotty oak and fumbled in his scarlet coat for a cigar. Somehow the thought of the redhead rolling around in a bed with that plowboy bothered him, though he didn't know why. A whore was a whore . . .
He sighed, thrusting the cigar between his teeth but not bothering to light it. He stared up into the heavens above, wondering what his brother and sister-in-law were doing tonight.
A smile crossed his face. Now there was a woman. "Reagan," he whispered into the darkness, enjoying the sound of her name in the still, hot air. She was perfect, what with her intellect, beauty, her ability to deal with anything that came her way . . . A pity his twin brother had met and married Reagan first.
Grayson stared up at the dark sky listening to the rumble of thunder in the distance, toying with the cigar in his mouth. He knew he should get back to camp. He had documents to sign and matters to set in order before the morning drill. He thought of the redhead again. What had the farmer called her? Ah, Maggie. Maggie, wasn't it? "Maggie," he whispered.
As if his words had conjured her up, the redhead appeared in the doorway of the tavern. She swung around, waving farewell to someone behind her, the farmer Grayson supposed, then stepped out into the darkness.
>
Grayson hesitated in the shadows of the tree. Did he want her? He broke into a smile as he took his cigar from his mouth and slipped it back inside his coat. Hell, yes, he wanted her! If she pleased him, he might well even keep her the night.
The instant Grayson moved, Maggie looked up. It was a moonless night. The sky was black and ominous. Dark rainclouds rumbled in the distance.
"Someone there?" Maggie called. The hair bristled on the back of her neck. She could his hear his breathing. She could smell his shaving soap. "I said, is someone there?" she repeated loudly.
Since the war had come to the South, the woods had become a dangerous place. There were passing soldiers from both sides, looking for trouble. There were deserters, privateers, Tory sympathizers, all out to reek havoc on the little crossroads that dotted the southern colonies. Cornwallis was said to moving his troops to Yorktown from Williamsburg any day.
Maggie squinted, staring into the darkness. If she went back into the tavern, she knew Carter would be more than happy to escort her home. But nearly a year ago when Noah died, she'd vowed never to depend on a man again. She'd made this walk from her brother-in-law's tavern to her farm a mile and a half away nearly a thousand times . . . alone. And tonight would be no different.
She dropped her hand to her hip in irritation. "What do you want? Coin? I haven't any? Food? See Manny in the kitchen for bread."
Suddenly a red-coated soldier stepped out of the shadows of a great oak tree. He was chuckling deep in his throat. "Brave soul you are, Maggie, to be out on a black night like this."
Her dark eyes followed his movement. He was coming toward her . . . slowly. "How do you know my name?" She thought of the dagger she wore tucked in her stocking and wondered if she need reach for it.
He drew closer. "Overheard inside." He lifted his chin, indicating the tavern that loomed in the shadows behind her.
The soldier, an officer, was breathtakingly handsome with spun-gold hair and a lean, hard form. But what did that mean? Maggie knew a good-looking man could harm her as well as any. "Step aside, sir, and let me pass. I've a man to get home to." She never told strangers she lived alone. In times like these, it would be taken as an open invitation.
The Bootmaker's Daughter: Revolution (Destiny's Daughters Book 2) Page 1