The Bootmaker's Daughter: Revolution (Destiny's Daughters Book 2)

by Colleen French

  Chapter Five

  Maggie ran through the weedy field, the early-morning dew wetting her bare feet and making the hem of her skirt damp. To the east the sun was just beginning to rise, painting the sky in a hazy rainbow of pinks and purples. Already the cool night air was burning off, lending to the heat of another June day.

  Relief flooded Maggie as her rough clapboard farmhouse appeared in the distance. Her spotted coon hounds began to bellow at the sight of a human. The pitch of their howls changed as she drew near enough for them to recognize her. When she slipped through the gate the hunting dogs came bounding to her, circling her and licking her bare ankles.

  "Honey! Roy!" She patted their heads, laughing as they leaped in the air, barking and nipping at her skirts. "How you doin', rotten three-legged dog?" She scratched the old male behind his ear and he plopped down on her bare foot, rolling with pleasure. Though she loved both of her father's hounds dearly, it was Roy that held a soft spot in her heart. When he was just a pup he'd lost a rear leg in a muskrat trap, but it had never slowed him down a minute. In his younger days he'd been known as the best coon hound for three counties.

  Jealous of the attention Roy was reaping, Honey pushed her head beneath Maggie's hand, and Maggie squatted to scratch the old bitch behind a ragged ear. "Now don't get yourself in a dither, old girl," she soothed.

  "Where in God's green earth have you been?" Zeke called from the front porch.

  Maggie straightened up, shading her eyes from the morning sun with her palm. "Zeke?"

  His clothes were wrinkled and he looked like a man who'd gone without sleep all night. "When you never lit your kitchen lamp come dark, I came up looking for you. Where've you been?"

  She took her time walking up to the porch, wondering what she was going to say. She wasn't ready to talk about what had happened last night or what Grayson had done. He'd saved her life again and she didn't know how she felt about that. The man didn't make any sense. Was he her enemy or her friend? An enemy didn't save your life . . . but a friend didn't wear the enemy's uniform. She didn't like gray areas like this. To her everything was black and white. He had to be friend or foe; there was nothing in between.

  "I said, where've you been? I was worried to death about you."

  She walked up the creaky steps and sat on the top one. "I've been at the camp," she said quietly.

  "They brought you in for questioning?"

  She stared out at the open meadow. "You could say that."

  "Maggie, what's going on? Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?"

  "I lost three pairs of half-made boots. They kept my sack."

  Zeke stooped beside her, forcing her to look him straight in the eyes. "I said are you hurt?"

  When she couldn't stand Zeke's scrutiny any longer, she looked away. "It was Thayer again. I got caught up with a bad bunch. He took care of it." She didn't say he saved her because she didn't like the idea of being so beholden to Grayson.

  Zeke settled on the top step beside her. "Maggie, you know I've always kept my nose out of your business, but I got to tell you, girl. You got to stay away from Captain Thayer."

  "He didn't do anything wrong. He was a gentleman." She thought of the glimpse of his nakedness she had caught and her cheeks colored. "At least more of a gentleman than the others."

  "He knows you know us. He's just trying to get to us by way of—" Zeke stopped short.

  "My bed?" she asked pointedly.

  He looked away, embarrassed. "War's just as hard on woman as a man, maybe harder. I know you're lonely but—"

  "I didn't let him bed me, Zeke. And I got no intentions to."

  He sighed. "I know you don't. But things got a way of gettin' out of hand sometimes. They say he's a smooth talker. I just don't want to see you get hurt by some pretty boy in a red coat."

  "If you're done with the lecturin', Papa Zeke, I think I'll go on inside and make myself some pancakes. You want some?"

  "Uh . . . no. Thanks just the same, but I got to get into town." He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Got some, uh . . . errands to take care of."

  "Must be important if you're willing to give up my pancakes. You always did say I made pancakes that melted in your mouth."

  Zeke's cheeks colored and he looked away. "Ah, well, I got that sickle to get sharpened and such."

  "Go on with you then and stop worrying over me like a mother hen. I told you, I can take care of myself."

  Zeke started down the steps and then turned back around. "By the way, I almost forgot, there's a meetin' tonight."

  "You almost forgot?" Her dark eyes narrowed. "Where?"

  "I don't know if it's such a good idea for you to come."

  She came down the porch steps and stopped in front of him. "I'm too far in to bail out now. Where's the meeting, Zeke?"

  "I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want this Captain Thayer to have anything on you."

  "If you don't tell me, I'll find out myself. I'm as capable as any of you. What's more, I've got a way in and out of the Brit camp, and you and your men don't."

  "I know, I know all of the reasons why you should have a part in it. I just have a hard time with you bein' a woman."

  She bent down and picked up a handful of red soil and clenched it, letting granules sift to the ground. "You think I love Virginia any less than you do, Zeke Barnes? This land is my home. You think that because I'm a woman I don't hurt when I see our men die?" Her eyes met his, her jaw set with determination. "I got something to tell you. We women, we hurt more because you men try to save us from the pain by keepin' us out of it. Only you can't keep us out of it. We sit here and wait for you to bring home the bodies. We bury 'em and then we're told to go on with our lives. I don't want to sit, I want to be a part of the fight. I want to do what I can to help our men. God willing, we're going to win this war and then this is going to be mine, same as yours. Don't you think that makes it my duty to be a part of the fightin'?"

  Zeke watched the red dirt fall from her hand until her palm was empty. "I guess you're right," he said finally.

  Her voice carried softly on the wind. "Guess I am."

  "John Logan's tobacco barn, ten o'clock tonight."

  "I'll be there." She flashed him a smile. "Now get on with your errands and if you see that sister of mine, you tell her I'll be by after a while."

  Zeke gave a wave and then started down the lane, leaving Maggie to watch him go.

  "Captain Thayer reporting, sir," Grayson called from outside Major Lawrence's tent. "Permission to enter."

  "Granted," came a gruff voice.

  Grayson ducked inside, slipped off his grenadier cap, and saluted, holding his salute until it was returned. As he lowered his hand, his eyes went from his commanding officer seated at a camp desk to Riker, lounging comfortably on the far side of the tent.

  Riker flashed a smug grin.

  Grayson looked back at the major. He was a tall, bony man, his ashen face lined with wrinkles. Like most of the older officers, he wore an immense powdered wig, even in the heat. "You sent for me, Major Lawrence?"

  "I did." The middle-aged man slapped down his quill. "I want to know what the hell is going on out there!"

  "Going on, sir?"

  "The damned rebels! They're annoying the hell out of me, Thayer! It's like being beat to death by a swarm of butterflies!"

  Riker snickered.

  "I don't know what you mean, sir." Grayson shifted his weight, his gaze wandering to the documents on the major's desk. On the corner rested a map of the York River and the Chesapeake Bay with ships sketched on it. There was a date scrawled across the top, but Grayson couldn't make it out.

  "I mean I'm sick to death of it." His face began to turn purple as he half rose out of his seat. "They sneak in at night and pour water over kegs of powder. They let our horses loose. They steal uniforms off the clotheslines. They intercept shipments of foodstuffs. They keep stealing my uniform cloth sent by my wife!" He took a deep breath. "None of these childish pranks w
ill hinder our superior army, but I'm sick to death of it. General Cornwallis expects me to get this area secured and keep it that way."

  Grayson nodded. "Then our General Cornwallis is moving the entire army onto the York Peninsula?"

  "You know I can't divulge that information, Thayer. Now pay attention to what I'm telling you. I've assured the general that these annoyances will come to an immediate halt. I want these troublemakers, Thayer! We'll hang a few of the cocky bastards and maybe then they'll learn their place!"

  "But we don't know who they are, sir. They're very clever. So far I've not been able to—"

  "I don't want excuses!" He slammed his fist so hard on the flimsy field desk that papers fluttered and an ink well fell to the ground splattering ink over the canvas floor. "I want results!"

  Grayson glanced over at Riker who'd propped a booted foot on the major's cot and was calmly trimming his fingernails with a field knife. "I don't suppose Lieutenant Riker has any thoughts on this matter."

  Major Lawrence sat down on his stool and wiped his damp forehead. "I've removed my nephew from that detail. No need for him to be traipsing about in this unbearable heat. He's to be my personal secretary from now on."

  "I see." Grayson returned his attention back to the field desk. When the documents had shifted, the map of the placement of the British fleet had been covered.

  "You'd better see, and see to it, Thayer. I don't know what your previous commanding officer let you get away with, though I've heard tales. But I'm telling you, there's no place in this king's army for philanderers! You find out the identities of those rebels and you bring them in. I intend to hold you personally responsible!"

  "Yes, sir. Will that be all?"

  The major began to fan himself with an Oriental silk fan. "Yes." He gave a nod and Grayson turned to go. "No. One more thing."

  "Sir?"

  "I am told you had a woman in your tent last night, Captain. A woman who did not come of her own free will."

  Grayson glanced at Riker.

  "I understand the occasional need for relief for you rutting bulls. But I must insist that you be more discreet." His steely gray eyes met Grayson's. "There are some of our fellow officers who do not look upon the term 'spoils of war' as we do."

  "I understand that, sir."

  "So just keep the young ladies quiet, will you, Thayer?"

  Riker chuckled.

  "Yes, sir," Grayson answered, disgusted by the major's attitude.

  Major Lawrence sighed. "All right. That will be all." He held up a bony finger. "But I expect a full report by the end of the week. Things are heating up here on the peninsula, Thayer. No one knows what that bedlamite Colonial Washington is going to do. We haven't got time to dally."

  "Yes, sir." Grayson saluted. "I'll have that report to you by the end of the week. Good day."

  The major flipped a salute, excusing Grayson, and Grayson turned and walked out of the tent.

  Outside, Private Michaels was waiting for him.

  "What are you doing here?" Grayson checked his pocket watch. He had to meet his contact with the patriot army in half an hour. He was going to be late.

  "I . . ." The boy fell into step behind Grayson. "I heard you'd been called in. I just wondered how you made out, sir. There wasn't much yelling, so I guess the major wasn't too angry."

  "Not too angry." Grayson dropped a hand to the boy's shoulder, taking notice that he still had the physique of a gangly child. Then he remembered. The boy was only fourteen years old. Grayson couldn't help wondering how the hell the Army could justify sending children into battle. "Listen, do me a favor, Michaels."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Fetch my horse and saddle him."

  "The major's given you some sort of duty?"

  "He wants me to look into this band of rebels causing all of the trouble."

  Michaels let out a low whistle, pushing back a lock of sandy hair. "Could . . . could I ride along?"

  Grayson reached his tent and stopped. "Not today, son, but maybe another day, all right?"

  The boy smiled. "All right, sir."

  "Now go along. I'm in a hurry."

  Inside the tent, Grayson disrobed, folded his clothing neatly, and then began to re-dress. He chose a pair of dark-blue broadcloth breeches and a white lawn shirt from the trunk at the end of his cot. Forgoing the stock, he slipped into a pair of calf-length boots and reached for his pistol. He didn't anticipate any trouble today; he was just going to meet with his contact to be certain there were no messages from his patriot commanding officer. But he wanted to be prepared just the same.

  Since the British had made Williamsburg, Grayson had carried an uneasy feeling in his gut. The war was coming to an end, fast and furiously. What worried him was that he still didn't know who was going to win . . .

  Zeke stood out on the front porch of Martin's Dry Goods, whistling to himself. Occasionally he dared a glance through the wavy glass window panes. He could see her inside, leaning over the counter, waiting as John Martin measured out her orders of flour and cornmeal and such. Finally she gathered her sacks, paid the proprietor, and started for the door.

  Taking a ragged breath, Zeke walked straight up to the doorway, nearly bumping into her.

  "Oh, excuse me," Lyla said softly.

  When Zeke looked up at her, her eyes were focused on her bare feet. "Afternoon, ma'am," he said, whipping off his felt three-cornered hat.

  "Afternoon," she answered, still keeping her eyes lowered.

  She was so beautiful she took Zeke's breath away. She was a tiny little thing with thick blond hair that framed her delicate oval face. Without face paint he could see the porcelain shade of her skin and her blond eyelashes. "Um, could I help you with your things?" he asked awkwardly.

  She smiled ever so slightly, lifting her chin until her eyes met his. They were a soft, grassy green. "You don't have to do this every week, Ezekial. What'll people think?"

  He stuffed his hat on his head and reached for her sacks. "What'll I care what they think?" His hands brushed hers and a tremor of pleasure rumbled through him.

  "It's just that . . . that a respectable man like you shouldn't been seen carryin' for a . . . a—"

  "I don't want to hear that again from you, Lyla." He led her away from the store and through the crossroad where Commegys' Ordinary stood. She lived to the south through the pines, but Zeke didn't know where. She'd never let him escort her all the way home. "I told you. I don't care."

  She walked beside him, a smile capturing her pretty face. "You know, I almost believe you, Ezekial."

  Zeke smiled back, feeling his cheeks grow warm under his ragged beard. Then he caught sight of Maggie standing near her brother-in-law's tavern door, staring straight at him.

  When he didn't speak, she called out to him. "Afternoon, Zeke."

  "Afternoon, Maggie." He nodded and groaned at the same time. It wasn't that he cared if Maggie saw him with Lyla, it was just that he didn't want to have to hear her mouth later. He knew what she'd have to say about him toting packages for the town whore.

  "Had that sickle sharpened for me like you said, Zeke?"

  "Dropped it off at the blacksmith. Pick it up tomorrow." He walked past Maggie, with Lyla still at his side.

  "I told you it wasn't a good idea," Lyla murmured the moment she was out of earshot of Maggie. "Now give me my sacks and go on." She opened her arms.

  Zeke stopped and stared into Lyla's face. He could see her pain and it made him angry. "What do I care what the hell Maggie Myers thinks of me?"

  "Don't tell me that." She snatched the bags from his arms one at a time. "Everybody in the town knows you're half in love with her."

  "In love with Maggie! A man would have to be out of his tree to love that woman. Be like lovin' a copperhead snake!"

  "You love her. I see it in your eyes, Ezekial."

  Embarrassed by of this talk of love, Zeke ground his boot into the dirt. "It ain't that kind of love, Lyla," he said quietly.

 
She looked up at him. "It ain't?"

  He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his dusty breeches and focused on his boots. He could have sworn he detected a hint of hopefulness in her voice. "I can't say I don't love her," he said awkwardly. "I've known her all my life. But it ain't like a man loves a wife. She's got a fire in her, like she was meant for more than this little town. Me . . . I like it here."

  Lyla reached out and brushed her fingertips across Zeke's cheek. "Thanks for carryin' my sacks."

  "See you next week," he called after her as she walked away, her skirts fluttering in the hot breeze.

  "See you next week," she answered.

  Grayson rode his horse, Giipa, through a small field where wheat had grown before the patriots had burned it to keep it from the British. Then he sailed over a crooked fence and turned down a lane. Even with its burned fields, the Virginia countryside was breathtaking. Grayson hadn't realized how much he missed it those years he was in England going to school, or when he was up North with the Army, until he'd come home.

  Raised on a sprawling plantation near Williamsburg, never in his wildest dreams had Grayson imagined he would be in the position he was in today. If he'd known what he knew now, he couldn't help wondering if he would have done differently.

  Back in '74 while drinking in a tavern in London, he'd been approached by several Philadelphia merchants. They'd proposed a wild scheme, just wild enough to interest Grayson. They wanted to hire him as a spy. Concerned by the prospect of war, and the effect it would have on their businesses, they wanted Grayson to join the British army and keep them abreast of what was happening. When the war broke out and he was sent to the Colonies, he continued his mission, eventually working directly for the Colonial army under General Washington. For seven years he'd functioned under a false identity and he was beginning to tire of it. He felt like he was losing his grip on the man he'd once been. He'd played Captain Thayer for so long that he was afraid he was becoming him.