But when the Raeburn women arrived, Betsy threw the baby from the castle window to his death and ordered her clansmen to put Red Robert's kin to the sword. Legend said that Annie Raeburn, stabbed through seven times, managed to crawl to the body of her grandchild and cradle him in her bleeding arms. With her dying breath, Annie cursed both clans and swore that no union of MacCade and Raeburn would ever prosper.
In time, so the story went, the MacCades sought revenge on the Raeburns. Murder followed murder, down through the years, until 'twas said that no grass would grow on the blood-soaked glen that nestled between their lands. From Scotland to North Carolina to Missouri, the hatred that the families bore for each other simmered.
Even Rebecca's own mother's life had been ruined by the feud. Despite the fact that Rebecca's grandfather had been shot and killed by a MacCade back in the Carolina mountains when she was three, Margaret had insisted on marrying Robert MacCade.
After Robert's drowning, she'd married Poppa, but the quarreling over Angel Crossing had prevented her from ever finding happiness. She'd died young and bitter.
So why would I be any different?
Better to choose a solid man like Jorgan Anderson, marry him, and bear his children. Life with Jorgan might be commonplace, but it could be bought without ghosts and curses.
"Yes," she murmured.
"What's that, Rebecca?" Jorgan turned toward her and smiled. "What did you say?"
"A good day for a frolic," she answered, smiling back at him. And for forgetting things that can never be, she added silently.
"Ya!" he agreed, slapping the reins over the mules' backs. "A good day for a frolic."
* * *
"Swing your partners short an' tall! Lead those ladies around the hall!" the caller chanted above the swirl of fiddle music, clapping hands, and the stamp of work boots.
A bewhiskered old gentleman without a tooth in his head gallantly offered Rebecca his bony arm and sashayed the length of the room without missing a beat. Directly across from her, Rebecca caught sight of Jorgan dancing with Janet Nichols, wife of their host. Nichols' mill was the largest building in Eden Springs and a good place for a square dance, so long as you remembered to dodge the support pillars and an occasional bag of grain.
The walls were lined with enthusiastic onlookers, young and old, some waiting their turn on the dance floor, others content to watch. More than a dozen lanterns hung from the hand-hewn beams, illuminating the huge millstones and dusty iron gears near the raised platform where the four fiddlers perched on overturned baskets. Standing in front of them, one-armed Patty O'Rourke, veteran of the last war with England, alternately pounded a flat hand drum against his knee and sang along with the music.
Beyond the loading platform, under the starry sky, flat-bed wagons were heaped with food and pitchers of sweet cider, lemongrass tea, and spring water. Each guest had brought a dish to share, and the air was heavy with the scents of roast pork, barbecued beef, venison stew, pumpkin pies, gingerbread, yeast breads, and vegetables of every kind.
Stronger drinks were available as well. Although the Nichols were Baptist and hard against spirits, nothing could keep some of the merrymakers from sipping from jugs in the shadows or strolling down to Jake's to order a tall mug of cheap beer.
Rebecca knew that Jorgan liked his pint as much as anyone, but out of courtesy to her, he hadn't been among those men who repeatedly made excuses to go outside. And he avoided the crowd of rowdies under the trees on the far side of the street.
"Allemande left!" the caller cried.
The dance ended with a grand flourish, and Jorgan came to claim her hand again. "Thirsty?" he asked.
Rebecca shook her head, and they joined a group forming a circle for "Crow in the Cornfield." Jorgan was breathing hard and sweat trickled down his forehead, but he was obviously enjoying himself as much as she was.
The fiddlers played faster and faster as the steps became more intricate. Rebecca and Jorgan ducked under the arched hands of another couple, then they parted, each going in different directions to join new partners.
Rebecca passed from a red-faced cowboy she'd never seen before to a huge, black-bearded cattle drover. She recognized the man as a frequent ferry passenger, but couldn't think of his name. "You sure are pretty tonight, Miss Raeburn," he said. "Prettiest gal here." With each swirl of music, he swung her faster, until she could hardly keep her balance.
"Not so—" she began, then let out a gasp as her hand slipped out of the drover's and she spun away to collide with a broad male chest.
Strong arms locked around her waist. "Evenin', Becca," a familiar voice murmured in her ear.
Stunned, she stared up into Shaw MacCade's face.
"Close your mouth, darlin'," he teased. "You'll catch flies."
She struggled to regain her breath. She'd been warm from the press of bodies and the lively dance steps, but being trapped in Shaw's hard embrace made her skin feel like it was on fire. "Let go of me," she whispered urgently.
He was so close that she could feel the hard planes of his muscular thighs, smell the faint bite of liquor on his breath. "You're drunk," she accused. Already, beads of perspiration were forming between her breasts, and the heat of his body burned through her dress and shift. Her heart was racing with a terrifying excitement.
"Not yet, darlin'," he answered, "but then the night's young."
She pressed both palms against his chest and tried to shove him away, but it was like trying to move a stone wall. "Shaw, please. People will—"
"Rebecca? Is there a problem?" Jorgan put his hand on Shaw's arm. "The lady is vit me." His Swedish accent, usually barely noticeable, hung so thick in the air that Rebecca had trouble making out his words.
"So I see." Shaw released her and stepped back.
"It's all right, Jorgan," Rebecca said. "I slipped and Shaw—"
Jorgan scowled suspiciously into Shaw's face as his spine stiffened and his big, callused fists clenched. "You two know each other?"
"Becca and I are old friends." Shaw flashed her a boyish grin. "You might say we grew up together."
He was drunk! He had to be to act so... so... She knew she should be angry at Shaw for the threats he'd made to her father and for making a public spectacle of her here on the dance floor. But she couldn't help noticing the dark, unruly hair that curled around his sharply hewn face, or the tiny nick where he must have cut himself shaving.
"Old friends? Could be," Jorgan muttered, glancing from one to the other in confusion. "But tonight, Miss Rebecca is vit me."
"Fair enough." Shaw's reply was for Jorgan, but his gaze held hers. "Best you take better care of her, Sven."
Several of the dancers had stopped and were staring at them. "His name is Jorgan," Rebecca stammered. "Jorgan Anderson. Jorgan... Shaw MacCade."
Shaw gave the slightest nod of acknowledgment. "Maybe you'll save a dance for me later, Becca."
She was too upset to reply.
"I told you that Miss Raeburn is with me," Jorgan growled.
Shaw shrugged. "We'll see."
Before she could think of an answer to that remark, Shaw moved away, leaving Jorgan glaring after him. She looped her arm around Jorgan's. "They're waiting for us," she said. "Don't worry about Shaw. It was nothing."
"Isn't that the MacCade who just—"
"Not tonight, Jorgan. Please. I hear enough of that talk at home. Could we just enjoy the—"
"He did not look—" Jorgan struggled for the word. "—respectful to you."
"I'm sure Shaw's been drinking. And he meant no harm." She squeezed Jorgan's arm. "Look, there's Jessica and her husband. She's waving for us to join them."
Still frowning, he led her toward her friends as the caller began a new dance. "Not respectful at all," he repeated.
* * *
An hour or more passed before voices rose in anger near the fiddlers. The violins hesitated, started again, and then broke off. Rebecca and the others around her strained to see what was happeni
ng.
A knot of people quickly gathered in one corner. "We'd better go outside," Jorgan said to her. But before they could make their way through the crowd, curses had tuned to blows.
"It's Shaw MacCade!" somebody shouted. "He's fighting with the new smithy."
Through a gap in the throng, Rebecca saw Shaw and the blacksmith, toe-to-toe, slamming each other with bare fists. Then an onlooker spun Shaw's cousin Bruce MacDuff around and punched him in the jaw. He lashed back at his attacker, and two more cowboys joined the fray.
Suddenly, Shaw landed a hard right, and the blacksmith crashed through the spectators and landed on his back. Shaw dove after him, and the two rolled over and over on the floor.
Two women were screaming, and another, the smith's young bride, was weeping uncontrollably and clutching the side of her face. More men began to push and shove each other.
"Look out, Shaw! He's got a knife!" one of the MacCades shouted.
Rebecca caught the metallic gleam in the lantern light as Jorgan grabbed her hand and tried to plow a path to the nearest door. But people were crowding in from outside to see the excitement.
Then someone tripped the bearded drover, and he fell against Jorgan. He tried to shove the drover away, and before Rebecca could voice her protest, the two were fistfighting. An angry woman stuck her face close to Rebecca's and began to swear in German at her. Rebecca backed away, putting a supporting post and two wrestling farmers between her and the virago.
Since reaching the door seemed impossible in the mob, and she had no desire to become part of the entertainment, Rebecca worked her way back until she reached a spot where several bags of grain were heaped one upon another. She climbed up on the bags and got as far from the melee as possible.
Overhead, one of the fiddlers perched on a cross beam, laughing. He yelled something at Rebecca, took a sip from a pocket flask, and then began to play "Devil in the Henhouse."
Rebecca tried to see what had happened to Shaw, but couldn't. When the schoolmaster landed on one of the outer bags of grain and lay there only half conscious, she considered climbing up to the musician's level to get away from the free-for-all.
But then she saw the lantern shatter, sending glass and lamp oil spilling across the dusty floor. In seconds, there was a whoosh of flame and the first scream of panic.
"Fire!"
Chapter 6
In seconds, the brawl became a rout. A few brave souls began stamping at the blaze, but most people ran terror-stricken as black smoke billowed over them in choking clouds. Muffled prayers mingled with shrieks and curses as several dozen men and women all pressed toward the doors at once.
Floorboards, slick with flour, caught fire, and yellow-orange flames snaked up the nearest wall to lick hungrily at the roof. Visibility dropped to zero, and it became more difficult for Rebecca to breathe.
Choking, eyes stinging, she ripped a sleeve from her dress and pressed it over her nose and mouth. Since there seemed little chance of successfully pushing through the frenzy to reach the wider openings at the far end of the room, she looked for another way out. The exit was blocked by the conflagration, but a third narrow doorway led back into the interior of the mill. She thought that one might be the safest, but she could no longer see exactly where it was located.
She slid off the bags of wheat just as a second lantern exploded. Startled, she threw up her arm to protect her face from the rain of flying glass, took two strides, and tripped over something lying on the floor. She uttered a small cry of alarm as she fell flat, her eyes streaming tears from the acrid smoke. Fumbling blindly, she tried to find out what she'd fallen over, and her fingers closed around the shards of a shattered violin.
Don't panic, she told herself. It wasn't that far. She could find the door if she kept moving. Coughing, she started to rise, but then realized that the air quality was better closer to the floor.
"Just move," she said aloud. But which way? For the space of several heartbeats she froze, no longer certain of her direction.
A faint whimper caught her attention. What was that? The noise of running feet and cries of fright rose above the crackle of burning wood, but there it was again. It was faint, but there was a definite high-pitched whining ahead and to her left.
"Becca! Becca, where are you?"
"Shaw? I'm here!"
"Where?"
The fire roared like a prairie tornado. Waves of heat struck her face and bare arms. But down on her level, close to the floor, she could hear the same odd mewl.
"Stay where you are! I'm coming to get you!"
Instinct told her to wait for Shaw. But something stronger made her crawl toward the source of that strange whimper. "Who's there?" Rebecca called.
"Becca!" Shaw's words—distorted by the rush of flames—sounded farther away.
She stopped, unsure what to do. If she went to Shaw, she knew he would get her out. Fire terrified her, but the tug of that small sound was irresistible. Irrationally, she crept forward another few yards.
"Mama."
The child's wail was more choking sigh than a cry for help, but it was enough to give Rebecca strength for one final attempt. She scrabbled frantically in the blackness until she touched the sole of a small boot. Clamping her hand around the tiny ankle, she pulled a sobbing toddler into her arms. "I have you! I have you. I won't let you go." And then she screamed with every ounce of breath she had left. "Shaw!"
* * *
Vaguely, she was aware of cool air on her stinging cheeks, of fighting to fill her starving lungs with gulps of fresh air.
"It's all right," Shaw soothed. "You're safe now. You can let her go."
Somewhere close, a baby was shrieking. The sound deafened Rebecca, but her hands remained locked around the squirming bundle.
Strong fingers pried hers apart. "It's all right," Shaw repeated huskily. "Her mother's here. Let the poppet go to her mother, darlin'."
Rebecca opened her eyes and stared into the smoke-blackened face of a teary-eyed woman. Behind the wide-brimmed bonnet loomed a man's worried face. "Hetty?" the woman cried. "Hetty?"
"Mama!"
"You saved my Hetty! We thought we'd lost her! God be praised! Thank you. Oh, thank you, Lord!"
Rebecca released the little girl to the frantic mother, murmured some reply, and sank back against Shaw's chest. She let her eyes drift shut, suffered another bout of coughing, and then stiffened as memories of the near escape flooded over her.
Her eyes flew open, and she tried to rise. "Is she all right? Is the child—"
"She's fine. Any kid that can yell that loud is right as rain." He pressed her down with a firm grip on her shoulder. "Sit there a few minutes until you're steadier on your legs. Clear that smoke out of your chest."
She nodded woodenly. Her throat felt raw; her eyes burned; her mouth tasted of ashes. "Water?"
"Bruce, bring that bucket."
Shaw's cousin handed the torch to one of the MacCade brothers—she thought it was Ewen—and came closer with a dipper.
Shaw's arm went around her shoulder, and she felt the gourd against her lips. Nothing had ever tasted as good as that lukewarm, rotten-egg-smelling mineral water. She sucked down every drop.
"Easy," Shaw warned. "You don't want to make yourself sick."
Gradually, his face came into focus. Shaw had a small cut across his cheekbone and the makings of a prize-winning black eye. Even the knuckles of his hand, the one holding the dipper and brushing her cheek and lips, were bruised and swollen.
"I'm all right," she said, acutely aware of his touch. "Are you..." Her stomach knotted. She knew that people must be watching them, knew that she should push him away. But she felt so safe in his arms that she didn't have the will or the strength to resist.
A hint of a smile teased the corner of his mouth. "I'll do."
Bruce and Ewen were staring down at her and muttering to each other, but she ignored them and tried to gather her composure. She still couldn't think straight, but whether it was fro
m the smoke she'd breathed in or Shaw's presence, she couldn't tell.
She swallowed, still shaken by the racing of her heart.
"She's all right," Ewen growled. "Time we got goin', Shaw."
Bruce nodded. "We'll have Raeburns down our throats if you don't get away from her."
Shaw silenced them with a black scowl.
"I shouldn't..." Rebecca began weakly. "We can't..."
"Hush," he soothed as he offered her another drink of water. "Just lay still and catch your breath."
It was impossible to disobey him. She drank a few more sips, then leaned back against him and looked around. To her left, a few hundred yards away, Rebecca could make out the smoky outline of the mill. Figures moved in the torch-lit darkness. One man seemed to be gathering buckets. "I don't understand," she said. "Is the building still standing? I thought the mill burned."
"Nope." Brace pulled off his hat, and she saw that both his eyes were swollen and a trail of dried blood ran down his chin. "More smoke than flames."
Other than Shaw, Bruce had been the only one of the MacCade bunch who'd never shown open hostility toward her or her family. She'd never been afraid of him, the way she was of Will or Nigel. As for Ewen, he'd been starting school when she was about to leave it. He'd never spoken a single word to her before tonight.
As if he'd been reading her thoughts, Ewen passed the torch from one hand to the other and blurted out, "Once everybody got out and folks started toting buckets from the pond to keep the flames from spreadin', wasn't much damage done." His lower lip was split and his nose seemed twice its size, but he had the MacCade coloring and seemed all hands and feet. Doubtless, Ewen hadn't reached his full growth.
"Was anybody hurt?" Rebecca looked back at Shaw. "Other than in the fistfight?" A dull throbbing at the back of her skull seemed to be her only complaint.
"Nah," Bruce replied. "A few scrapes and bruises."
"A drover broke two of his fingers," Ewen added. "And somebody stole two jugs of whiskey from Dan—"
"Ewen, shut up," Shaw said. "Becca don't need a blow-by-blow tellin' of the fuss." He squeezed her shoulder. "You and that little young 'un come the closest to—"
The Taming of Shaw MacCade Page 6