"Don't get all flothery. It's just an arrowhead."
She glanced at the river and then shook her head. "Now what? I can go to the ferry crossing, but when my father finds out I fell in and you pulled me out—"
"There'll be hell to pay," Shaw finished. He folded his arms across his chest and took a deep breath. "You'd best leave it to me," he said. "I dragged you out, so I reckon I can find a way to get you back."
"You can?"
"Sure," he said. "Leave it to me, Becca. Hell, a little gal like you. You're bound to get into a fix now and then. But I'll take care of you. As long as I'm around, nothing or nobody will hurt you."
"Promise?"
"I said it, didn't I? When Shaw MacCade gives his word, you can count on it."
Chapter 3
Rebecca got up off the bed and crossed to the window. Pushing the casement open, she hurled the rose-colored arrowhead as hard as she could. "So much for your promises, Shaw."
And what of her sister? Shaw hadn't asked about Eve or his child. How could he have changed so much from that eleven-year-old boy who'd pulled her from the river and became her best friend? When had he changed? Turned as heartless as all the rest of the MacCades?
The thick beeswax candle on Rebecca's nightstand caught her attention. The candle flame seemed to beckon, winking yellow and crimson. She decided to burn Shaw's letters, one by one, until nothing but ash remained. There was no reason to keep them; whatever joy they'd brought her was long past.
Yet she hesitated. Destroying Shaw's messages would sever her last ties to the secret adventures they had shared for years. How many times when she'd been unhappy or lonely had she locked her door and savored these missives? She'd read them one by one, always starting with the very first note she'd ever received from a living soul.
She smiled, thinking of how surprised she'd been when she'd opened her window and found a crudely lettered note anchored to her windowsill by a fist-sized rock.
Rebecca's fingers closed on the crumbling remains of that missive, and her stomach clenched.
Eleven-year-old Shaw had cut a rectangular section of cottonwood bark and scrawled on the rough surface with charcoal.
COME TO THE MILLPOND DURING SUNDAY SERVICE.
IF YOU DARE.
S.
Pritchett's flour mill was always closed on Sunday. Abe Pritchett was a deacon in Rebecca's church, and he and his family never missed services. But Pritchett's was nearly three miles away, downriver. She had known that if she took Shaw's dare, she'd have to find some excuse to stay home from church, then saddle a horse and ride there. She'd have to see what Shaw MacCade wanted, and get home before anyone found out that she was gone.
First, he'd saved her from drowning. And then he'd dared the swirling river current a second time, pushing her safely back to her own side of the Little Smoke on a half-sunken log. She'd had to tell her grandmother about slipping into the river, but she hadn't had to reveal any more of her adventure. Shaw had only agreed to help her out if she swore an oath of secrecy.
Rebecca's throat constricted. She'd vowed never to become involved with Shaw MacCade again. And barely two weeks later he'd lured her into more mischief when he taught her to swim in Pritchett's millpond.
She hadn't thought twice about becoming his accomplice.
"If only I'd known what I was getting myself into." Rebecca shook her head as she studied the smeared charcoal lettering. Keeping any of this stuff was foolish. Relentlessly, she held the bark to the candle flame, but the instant that one corner began to smolder, she threw it to the floor and stamped out the embers.
"Coward," she said aloud. With a sigh, she put the charred bark and the rest of her letters into her treasure chest and returned it to its hiding place under the window seat. She sank down on the top of the cushioned resting place and stared out the open window at the night sky. From the river came a chorus of frog chirps and mating calls, and from the corrals Rebecca could hear the restless stamping and snorting of livestock.
Fiddle music filtered up from the great hall. Her father was playing an old Scots' ballad about a jealous husband, and the twins were singing off-key at the top of their lungs. Ordinarily, wild oxen couldn't tear her away from such a performance, but she didn't want to be with her family now.
Finding quill pen and ink, she started a letter to her sister in Saint Louis. But she completed only a few lines before she scratched out what she had written and tore the paper to shreds. "I wish I had drowned the blackguard," she muttered, knowing the words were a lie as she uttered them.
She still cared for him. After everything Shaw had done, after all the betrayals and lies, she still cared. And now that he was back, she knew her life would never be the same. Damn him! Damn him to a fiery hell!
* * *
"Damn her to the devil's kitchen!" Shaw spat on his hands and pitted all his strength against the boulder one last time. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his muscles burned, but he felt the rock shift just a hairsbreadth. Summoning a last-ditch effort he gave a final heave, and half a ton of rock, gravel, and dirt spilled down the bluff, and engulfed the mouth of the small cave.
The thunder of the dwarf landslide spooked the mules, and they bawled and kicked. But he'd tied them securely to a fallen log, and none of them managed to break free. The horses were nervous, but he'd hobbled them. They wouldn't go far.
Shaw straightened arms and legs trembling from the exertion. "That ought to do it," he declared, wiping the sweat and dirt off his face with a torn neckerchief. He couldn't get Becca out of his mind. He hadn't had the chance to ask her if she'd married since he'd left, but if she had, he didn't suppose she'd still be ferrying folks across the Little Smoke for her father.
It would have been a lot easier to stay in California. Now that the territory was American, it would open up. First the gold seekers, then the shopkeepers and farmers. A smart man could make a future there.
Coming home to Missouri had proved he was more like his father than he wanted to believe. Family meant more to him than to the rootless adventurers he'd come across in the west. His mother... his brothers and sisters... and Becca Raeburn.
What had gotten into the woman that she'd shove him into the river? The two of them had parted badly, true enough. But it wasn't like Becca to hold a grudge. Neither of them had ever put much stock in the feud that had kept their families at each other's throats for centuries, first in the Highlands of Scotland and then in the Carolina mountains. Hell, he'd rescued Becca from drowning the day they'd met.
He frowned. Maybe the fighting between the MacCades and the Raeburns had flared up again. What with Becca's fire-eating Uncle Quinn and his own Pap and brother Laird, it was a wonder one family hadn't driven the other out of Missouri altogether.
For the first time, Shaw began to wonder if everyone was safe at home. To his knowledge, there hadn't been any killings after Pap's brother, Uncle Robert, had fallen off the ferry and drowned, and Angel Crossing passed from the MacCades to the Raeburns. Lots of fights, a few lawsuits, and some spilled blood, but no deaths. But he'd been gone four years. A lot could transpire in that time. Shaw hoped he wasn't coming back to find that worse had happened.
Locating the small cavern, lugging in the packs, and then sealing the entrance had taken longer than he'd expected. Now it was near midnight, and even though he was less than an hour's ride from home, it was too late to arrive and disturb his parents' night's rest.
Even crawling through the narrow opening to the cave had brought back memories of Becca. He had found the entrance to the cavern when he was ten, had explored the passageways as far as his ball of string would unroll, and had claimed the secret hideout as his own. It had been a perfect spot to retreat from the constant turmoil of his noisy household—a sanctum secure from pesky younger brothers and domineering older ones.
He'd furnished his cave with old blankets, flint and steel for making fire, candle stubs, and rudimentary cooking gear. A few times, he'd even spent the night
there, alone in the absolute stillness, pretending that he was an Indian, or even a Highlander on the run from the rascally English.
The trouble with having the best private cave in the world was that he had no one to share it with. If he told Laird or Bruce, his closest companions, they would tell the others. Then the bigger boys would rob him of his treasure. But what good was it to know where there was a perfect wolf skull or ancient pictures carved into a rock wall if you couldn't boast of them?
He'd solved that problem by swearing Becca to secrecy and bringing her to his cave on his twelfth birthday. He'd built a fire, grilled fresh-caught fish for their noonday meal, and lit a torch to lead her back to the inner room where his wolf skull resided in splendor on a ledge.
It was there in the cave that they'd hidden messages for each other. And there, by candlelight, she'd read to him from her father's books, thrilling tales about Scotland's misty past, ballads, and poetry by a man called Sir Walter Scott. Bits and pieces still lodged in his brain like glittering stars.
Through dark the night as pitch and tar, I'll lead ye over yon hills so thee; And bring ye all in safety back, If ye'll be true, and follow me.
How many times had he recited those lines aloud, the winter he was snowed in alone in the mountains? Shaw shuddered. No wonder men lost their reason and went mad if they were too long from human contact. Luckily, he'd had his imagination, and the memories of an intense little girl—her hair drawn back tightly into a single braid, her eyes fixed on the pages of a book—to keep him company. No, he hadn't really been by himself. He'd had Becca Raeburn beside him, bringing the clash of steel broadswords and the triumphant swirl of bagpipes into that cabin hidden in the folds of Big Sur country.
"Ah, Becca," he murmured. "Why did you have to go and grow up on me?"
Mounting up, he rode several miles cross-country to a sheltered spring and bedded down for the night. He didn't want to draw attention to the cave by camping there, and he didn't want anyone to know what he'd brought back from California with him. That could wait until he saw the lay of the land. He'd learned a little caution in his traveling. A man who wasn't careful might not live to see the next daybreak. And it would take a bigger fool than he hoped his mother had raised to see the elephant and then waste the stake he'd brought back with him.
He didn't know if he'd stay here in Missouri or not. He'd crossed a lot of prime territory between here and the Pacific Ocean, and he heard that there were sights to see down Santa Fe way. He'd picked up a smattering of Spanish and found he had a knack for learning new languages. Maybe he could even convince his brother Laird to come along. Hell, the two of them could face down a Blackfoot war party and live to boast about it.
How was it that when a thousand miles separated him from Becca Raeburn, he forgot all her bad habits? He'd left home because of her—that and his unwillingness to live under his father's thumb. He'd believed himself in love with Becca, and she'd broken with him—told him that they could never be more than friends.
Like a fool, he'd taken her at her word when she'd said they were through. His pride had been hurt, and he'd gone off half cocked, set to prove to her that he could cut a wide swath among the ladies. Rarely sober, he'd escorted first one gal, then another, to hoedowns, barn raisings, and bonfires for months. And the looser the woman, the better he'd liked it. He'd fought bare fisted and generally raised hell until that stampede had come to a crashing halt. He'd gotten pie-eyed at a doin', and Bee had caught him fondling her sister Eve.
After Becca had called him a low-down dog in front of half the county and sworn she'd never speak to him again, the only sensible thing to do seemed to be to pull stakes and ride west. He'd convinced himself that he wasn't running away, but heading out to see what was over the next hill. Truth was, he'd been running—from Becca Raeburn and from his domineering father.
Shaw chuckled wryly. "Never's a long time." She had spoken to him when she'd thrown him off the ferry, but her words were hardly the welcome he'd half expected.
Maybe he was a fool. If Becca wasn't hitched yet, she was well on her way to becoming an old maid. Most girls married before they hit twenty, and Becca—hell, she must be four years past that. It had been too dark to get a good look at her at the crossing, but she'd probably gotten thick-waisted, sag titted, and sour faced.
Tired as he was, he took the time to bathe, put on some clean clothes, and shave off his miner's beard before he faced his mother. Ma was easygoing with her boys, but she wouldn't stand for him showing up after four years looking like something you'd throw to the hogs.
Shaw rolled up in his blanket, put his head on his saddle, and stared at the moon. It looked close enough to throw a rope around, all silver-white and gleaming. He wondered if Becca was staring at it, too.
Idly, he reached for the small deerskin pouch around his neck. The leather was still damp from his twilight swim, but he could feel the shape of a Spanish cross. He'd carried it a long way to give to her, and now it seemed his hopes had been as empty as that stretch of stony landscape on the moon.
* * *
The following morning, Shaw reined in on a rise about half a mile from the sheltered valley where Murdoch MacCade, his father, had cleared virgin wilderness to build an enclave consisting of Indian trading post, home, and stables more than twenty years ago.
Trade with the Indians had fallen off in the last decade, and visitors were more likely in search of oxen, horses, Carolina moonshine, or simply lively company. The original cabin, enlarged, was now a whiskey still and tavern. Often the MacCades hosted dances, cock fights, livestock auctions, or wrestling matches in the oversized barn, practices that made them less than popular with their more conservative neighbors.
To the left of the road, a herd of cattle grazed on rich grass near a winding creek, and beyond that, Shaw saw a boy on horseback herding three horses. It was too far away to identify the youngster, but this was MacCade land, and Shaw thought he might be one of his brother Will's sons.
As Shaw scanned the meadow, another rider appeared. The newcomer and the lad exchanged words, and the man turned his mount toward the road. Something about him looked familiar. Shaw stood in his stirrups and called a greeting. "Hey there, stranger!"
His cousin, Bruce MacDuff, let out a yell that would have done justice to a Blackfoot warrior and kicked his sorrel into a full gallop. "Shaw!" he bellowed. "Shaw!" Still whooping with excitement, he raised his rifle and fired one shot in the air.
Shaw swung down out of the saddle and greeted him with open arms. "Good to see you, too," he managed between hugs and backslapping that nearly knocked the breath out of him.
"You devil!" Bruce exclaimed. "Why didn't you let us know? The old man spent thirty-five dollars at Christmas on a marble slab with your name on it for the family plot. He'll shoot you hisself just to make certain it don't go to waste!" Bruce's plain, freckled face beamed. "Wait till Ma finds out!"
A cloud of dust rose on the rutted lane, and two riders galloped bareback toward them. Bruce turned and waved, and Shaw called, "Ewen! Nigel!"
"Shaw!"
"Howdy, little brother," Shaw said with a grin as the youngest of the two reined up so quickly that his mount reared.
Ewen slid down off the showy roan, burst into tears, and launched himself at Shaw seconds ahead of nineteen-year-old Nigel.
"Looks like you've put on two stone since I last saw you," Shaw said, hugging first one brother and then the other. Ewen was sixteen and all MacCade, with the same black hair and ebony Cherokee eyes as Laird and the rest of his brothers, and he already had two inches on Nigel. Either Ewen had gotten his growth spurt early, or he'd soon match Laird for height.
Nigel tried to speak, choked up, and settled for knocking Shaw's hat off and punching him several times on the left arm. Nigel's hair, cropped close to his head, was as dark as that of his brothers, but his eyes were lighter, more hazel than brown.
"Shit!" Ewen declared. "Shit! Wait till Will sees you. I bet him my best hound ag
ainst his rifle that you weren't dead."
Bruce shook his head. "They preached a right good sermon for you."
"The best," Ewen agreed. "And Pap's got a stone with your name carved on it from Saint Louis."
"Ma's all right?" Shaw asked when he could get a word in.
Nigel found his voice. "Right as rain. Gave Leslie what for this morning. Told him that if he don't get hitched proper, she's gonna keep Janie and the young 'uns and throw him off the place."
"They've got another baby?" Shaw asked. When he'd left for California, his older brother Leslie had a baby daughter by his Fox common-law wife, Janie. The three of them had been staying in a one-room cabin in the main compound, where his parents and unmarried brothers and sisters lived.
His older brothers, Will and Tom, each had smaller houses near the home place with their respective wives and kids. An older sister, Katie, and her husband, Jake, were building their own cabin on MacCade land. Ma and Pap liked to have their young 'uns nearby.
Nigel grinned. "Janie's given him two boys since you left, and another's on the way. Ma told Leslie that he'd best keep his geordie in his britches until he stood before a preacher with Janie, and she slapped him alongside the head with her broom to get his attention."
"I reckon I don't need to ask how Pap is," Shaw said.
"Ornery as ever," Bruce said. Bruce was his cousin and by rights a MacDuff, but he'd lost both parents from cholera when he was a toddler, and Shaw's ma and pap had taken him in and raised him like one of their own. "Pap, Tom, and Payton rode over to Allan's to look at some heifers they've got to sell. But Will's home. He and Leslie are building Ma a new chicken house. The old one had so many holes in it that weasels kept getting in and killing her hens."
Shaw nodded. It was good to be part of the chaos of home again. Suddenly, he couldn't wait to get back to the house and see his mother. "Where's Laird?" he asked. He and all his brothers and sisters got along as well as MacCades ever did, but Laird was special. There was only a year's difference between the two of them, and he, Bruce, and Laird had cut a wide swath in this corner of the state. "Don't tell me Laird's gone to cut out cattle with Pap?"
The Taming of Shaw MacCade Page 3