Then, one afternoon, her father had announced she was to wed Jeremiah Whiting, a recent arrival in Kentucke from a prosperous Virginia family. Not asked, but announced. Silas had been away on a hunting trip, and her father urged the marriage forward.
She wouldn’t dwell on her marriage to Jeremiah.
Some memories one had to possess more strength to relive than endure.
The cabin door opened, bringing in morning sunlight and a tall, auburn-haired girl.
“Jemima? Jemima Boone?” Rosina gasped.
Jemima shut the cabin door with a laugh. “Jemima Callaway now, thank you very much.”
“You’ve married?”
She nodded. Though she couldn’t have been above sixteen, Boone’s daughter had the look of a woman about her, from her height to her womanly curves hugged by a rust-colored gown and striped petticoat. But the smattering of freckles across her fair skin and the sparkle in her blue eyes brought back remembrances of the days before Jeremiah, when Rosina had joined Jemima and the Callaway girls in the choring and rollicking that went on among the fort’s young inhabitants.
“To Flanders Callaway, Richard Callaway’s nephew. Don’t you remember him?”
Rosina had a vague recollection of a well-built, dark-haired man who’d been part of the rescue party that pursued Jemima and the two Callaway girls after they’d been captured by Indians two summers prior.
“I can see by your eyes that he’s made you very happy.” Rosina swung her legs over the bed, supporting her midsection with one hand. Where were her clothes?
“Aye.” Jemima smiled, something soft in it. “Happier than a gal has a right to be.” She leaned against the cabin door, crossing one bare foot atop the other. Her expression sobered. “The whole fort knows about your husband. I’m sorry, Rosina. Truly I am.”
Rosina shook her head with a wan smile. “ ’Twas bound to happen sooner or later. Jeremiah was stubborn, refusing to fort up with the rest. He and your father never did get on well.”
“A blessing you survived. You”—Jemima’s gaze fell upon Rosina’s middle, visible through the thin shift—“and your babe. When do you expect?”
Rosina shrugged. Her own mother had passed when she was but ten. With her death went any knowledge of childbearing that might have been handed down. “In a couple of months, I suppose.” She rubbed a hand along where her child rested, her fingers greeted with a firm kick.
“Well, Ma unfortunately isn’t here. Fort midwife or no, she went back to the Yadkin and the family farm after Pa got captured by the Shawnee. I’m the only one that stayed on. ’Course, I wouldn’t have left Flanders. But”—Jemima rested a sun-browned hand on Rosina’s shoulder—“I’m here, and Ma taught me most everything she knows. And Granny Anderson is a right fine midwife too. You’ll be in good hands. Long as you’re planning on staying at the fort, that is.”
“I haven’t pondered on it.” Rosina tapped her foot along the rough boards of the cabin floor. “Everything happened so fast. I …” A flush warmed her cheeks. “Where are my clothes?”
“On the line outside my cabin. I washed and dried them.” Jemima grinned. “When Silas … Captain Longridge, that is, found you asleep, he came straight to me, and I put you to bed. There aren’t many of us womenfolk left at the fort, but enough that we still try for some decency. Captain Longridge spent the night on the floor in our cabin. Though I doubt he got much sleep. He was right concerned about you. Said you looked weary to the bone.” She scrutinized Rosina’s features, head tilted. “You look a mite better this morning.”
Rosina glanced at the tangled sheets atop the mattress of the rope bedstead, realization dawning as to where she’d spent the night. Silas’s bed. She’d slept well, considering yesterday. But the notion of slumbering atop the same mattress where Silas’s frame usually rested brought a flush to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the midmorning heat.
“Could you fetch my clothes, please? I’m sure Captain Longridge wants his cabin back.”
“Right away.” Jemima nodded, swinging around and opening the door. “Be right back.” She shut it behind her, leaving Rosina alone again.
Sinking down on the mattress, Rosina ran her fingers across the faded quilt.
What in heaven’s name was she to do now? Her father had contracted a fever and passed on at Harrod’s Fort some months ago. After his quarrel with Captain Boone he’d made himself scarce at Boonesborough. Thus, Rosina also hadn’t returned since her wedding to Jeremiah.
Now her husband was dead, and he’d no kin in Kentucke. She could return to his relatives in Virginia, but to make such a journey in her current state would not be wise.
Life on the frontier often left one with choices that could scarce be called by so generous a name. In her case, as a widowed woman soon to become a mother, she’d options few and far between. Remaining at the fort for the foreseeable future would be best. Surely she could find someone with space in their cabin in exchange for help with chores.
That is, if anyone would have her as the widow of Jeremiah Whiting, a man who’d succeeded in making enemies at every turn. From a wealthy Virginia family, he’d never learned to take direction from another. He did what he chose when he chose, without so much as a by-your-leave. That had not changed with their marriage, a union orchestrated by her father once he’d learned of Jeremiah’s prosperous relatives.
No wonder Boone had never gotten on well with her husband.
Rosina blew out a sigh, curling her fingers into fists.
All she could do was survive, taking each day as it confronted her.
No more. No less.
He wasn’t watching for her.
Then why did his gaze turn toward any skirt that passed and his mind refuse to keep itself fixed on his task?
Silas wiped his forehead, uncurling his fingers from around the carving knife and setting it on the grass.
Liar.
’Twould be a falsehood to deny he’d chosen this spot, in front of the Callaway cabin in full view of fort grounds, to repair one of the Callaways’ hickory chairs. Also a falsehood to delude himself into believing the reason he’d tossed and turned on Jemima’s hard plank floor was because he’d grown accustomed to the comfort of his rope bed, instead of giving credence to the truth. That he’d stared up at the rafters, seeing not their solid beams, but the face and form of the woman asleep in his cabin, the vision of her head bent on his table searing his heart like a brand.
He’d left her last night in Jemima’s capable hands. But where was Rosina now? ’Twas going on nine. Surely she’d not sleep that long.
Fort sounds surrounded him, as familiar as his favorite quilt. The baying of dogs, the footsteps of men, murmured conversations. He itched for the day when this unrest would cease and there’d be safety enough to claim his own land, build a stout cabin in some secluded spot, and be peacefully, blissfully, alone.
But the time was surely not now. Too much danger. Jeremiah Whiting almost deserved what had come to him, so addlebrained he’d been to remain on his land with the Shawnees traipsing the Warrior’s Path. Especially since he’d not only himself to care for, but a young woman and babe on the way.
Though from what Silas had known of Jeremiah, selfishness ran through the man’s veins like lifeblood.
Why had Rosina wed him? Had she loved the man? Nay. The look on her face when he’d entered Squire Boone’s cabin and witnessed the end of the nuptials had not been one of love. Fear, aye. Misery, aye. But nothing like the appearance of a besotted bride.
As if thoughts of her name conjured her up, she appeared from within his cabin, walking beside Jemima. The two neared where Silas sat, skirts swinging, heads bent in conversation. He grabbed the knife from its discarded spot on the grass, feigning occupation in carving a new leg for the chair. But he couldn’t pull his gaze away from the sight of them.
Jemima was the image of her father, same reddish hair, full build, and confident stride. Beside her, Rosina, even with her rounded m
iddle, appeared slight and fragile. Her indigo gown had been washed and pressed, her dark mahogany hair tied in a loose braid that dangled over her shoulder as she walked. Of a sudden, their eyes met.
He tamped down the ridiculous yearning for her smile. She’d lost her husband only yesterday. Such a gesture couldn’t be expected of her.
“Morning, Captain Longridge.” Jemima waved before sashaying past him and into her own cabin.
Leaving Rosina and him alone.
“I trust you slept well.” The words sounded awkward, even to his own ears.
She nodded. Cleared her throat. “Thank you for lending me your cabin. I hope I didn’t put you to too much trouble.”
He offered a small smile, the knife and chair loose in his hands. Sunlight dappled her hair, framing every slight, feminine inch of her. To look at her, one wouldn’t think she belonged in this untamed wilderness. But he knew her better. She thrilled to this life, as he did. Or at least she once had. “Not a bit of it. You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
She nodded, the barest hint of a flush in her fair cheeks. “I know. And I thank you for it. Truly, I do. I doubt there will be many in Boonesborough who will welcome me, as the wife of Jeremiah Whiting.”
At least she was honest about the way folk viewed her husband. “You are not him. Around here we try and take things on a case-by-case basis.”
She smiled then, but it chided him, as if she knew he’d only said such to reassure her. Which may have been partly true.
Lately, even Boone was under suspicion at the fort due to his actions while with the Shawnees. At the Lower Blue Licks, surrounded by Shawnees determined to march on Boonesborough, Boone had surrendered his men to their captors with the caveat that they would not be tortured, knowing it was the only way to save their lives. He also told the Shawnees that in the spring he would take them to the fort to collect the women, children, and livestock, and then they would all go live in peace together in the Shawnee villages. Silas firmly believed, as did some of the men who were there, that had Boone not spoken as he did, the men would have been massacred. But when Andrew Johnson, one of the captives, managed to escape and make his way back to the fort, he spun a tale that painted Boone as someone glad to surrender his men and lead the Indians to Boonesborough come spring. Of course, that couldn’t have been further from the truth, but not everyone agreed, and resentment ran deep.
“What will you do?” Silas asked.
Her smile faded, replaced by lines of careworn tension. “Stay here, if the fort will have me.”
“With whom?” The fort was crowded, all cabins claimed. And even on the frontier, where propriety did not hold the weight it did in a Virginia drawing room, ’twould be unseemly for him to invite her to lodge with him.
“Jemima, most likely. At least until after the babe comes. ’Twould be unwise to try and travel before then. The fort is safe, is it not?” A flicker of fear entered her gaze, and her hand went to her middle, as if she sought to shelter her child more than herself.
She’d know if he didn’t speak plain. “In a manner of speaking, aye. We’ve almost finished construction of the walls. A good amount of rotted wood needed to be replaced. It’s near as strong as we can make it. But your husband’s death is only another reminder of the unsettledness brewing. The Shawnee have already attacked other forts. Many have closed down, folks returned back east. I’ve no doubt they’ll try for Boonesborough sooner rather than later. They’re likely vexed Boone gave them the slip.”
“Are we prepared?” She lifted her chin. Her father had been a weakling, her husband little better. Both men sought the frontier of adventure novels rather than the reality that daily faced them. Not Rosina. She understood the dangers and confronted them without letting them deter her.
Once, he’d loved her for her strength. For many things.
“Not as well as we could be. We need reinforcements. For now, we wait. And live, best as we can.”
She nodded, fearlessness in her gaze. “And when the day comes?” A breeze blew a strand of hair against her cheek. He ached to capture it and rub it between his fingers, its softness like a melody against his calloused skin.
He shoved away the thoughts and smiled slowly. “Why, Mistress Whiting, we face them and fight.”
Chapter 3
Face them and fight. Aye, Longridge. That we will.”
Rosina spun. She’d scarce known someone had come up behind her. But that was Captain Boone’s way. He had the stealth to rival a panther, most said.
Her stomach tightened. Last she’d laid eyes on the captain, he’d been none too pleased with her husband and made no secret of it.
Somehow the men in her life always found ways to irk the ones she held in high esteem. Her father, then Jeremiah. Both angered Boone with their foolhardy ways.
’Twas a difficult place to be. Betwixt and between the ties of blood and those one chose for oneself.
She tried a tentative smile, shyness overpowering her. Boone possessed a presence that made one stop and stare, a little in awe. He was a handsome man with russet hair and strong jaw, tall height and commanding presence. The children revered him, loving nothing better than to follow him about and listen to his tales. As a friend of Jemima’s, she’d always been a bit wary in his company, perchance due to the behavior of her own father.
Captain Boone’s face eased into a kind, almost fatherly smile. “Miss Rosina.” Perhaps ’twas because of his lingering dislike of Jeremiah that Captain Boone chose to address her by her girlhood title.
“Captain Boone, ’tis good to see you again.” She glanced behind to where Silas sat, watching them and carving away at a chair leg. He and Boone were alike, in both manner and attire. Both wore fringed, belted hunting shirts, leggings, and Boone, his favorite broad-brimmed black felt hat. But while Boone’s hair was a shade between red and brown, Silas’s matched the color of fresh coal. Both men were tall, but had they stood side by side, Rosina guessed Silas would have bested Captain Boone by scant inches.
“I heard about the unfortunate circumstances surrounding your husband’s end. Consider Boonesborough your home for as long as you wish.”
“Thank you,” Rosina murmured. “That is very kind.”
“Jemima will be glad to have you. She’s been lonesome since her mother and sisters returned to the Yadkin.”
Listening to Boone’s voice, a cadence she’d not heard in over a year, brought an oft-turned memory to the surface.
Her marrying day. An occasion she’d feared more than anticipated. Dreaded more than delighted in. Since she wedded a man of wealth, hers was a grander celebration than that of other young couples on the frontier. A dress of butter-yellow silk. Leather shoes. Flowers interwoven through her dark curls.
Squire Boone—Captain Boone’s brother—was a preacher, and therefore all was done proper and legal.
The front room in Squire Boone’s cabin had been cleared, flowers adorning the mantel above the fireplace. She’d entered the cabin, adjusting from morning sunlight to indoor dimness, all the while begging, praying, longing to break free. All the while knowing she couldn’t.
A compromised woman could not wed another. Nay, she must give herself to the one who’d taken her virtue by force, a thing hushed up, a truth known only by her, her father, and Jeremiah Whiting. ’Twas the way of things. She must be married to avoid a scandal.
And married she would be.
Jeremiah stood next to Squire Boone, dressed in a suit of fine broadcloth. He eyed her as one would a tantalizing delicacy that had been sampled and then denied, but would no longer be after today. Some might call his a congenial smile. But the look of it made her skin crawl.
Jemima would have stood up with her, but Rosina hadn’t asked. She had to do it alone. So Jemima sat on one of the plank benches beside her sisters and mother. Captain Boone stood behind his wife, half hidden by shadows, hair combed and broad-brimmed hat, for once, doffed. His features wore the look of one attending a bur
ying rather than a marriage ceremony. He’d spoken to her father about her marriage to Jeremiah, cautioned him about wedding his still-youthful daughter to such a one—a man who’d been sent to the wilderness of Kentucke because his well-bred family wearied of his degenerate ways. Rosina had not known that until Captain Boone related it to her father. But her father had been immovable in his decision.
Squire Boone began, but Rosina could scarce hear the solemn words above the ringing in her ears. Her hand in Jeremiah’s trembled like a windblown leaf. She tried to heed the vows. After all, they were sacred, uttered before God. But what could be sacred about a girl no longer chaste, wed to the man who’d been her ruination?
The ceremony drew to a close, the seconds dragging.
Suddenly the cabin door groaned open.
In the doorway, framed by sunlight, stood Silas Longridge, begrimed by the trail, rifle in hand, the scruff of days on his jaw. She turned, hand still caught in Jeremiah’s. Silas’s gaze pierced her, ripping her heart like a flint-tipped arrow. First, shock. Then … anguish.
When he’d left to conduct a party of settlers back to Virginia, she’d been whole. His.
He’d returned to find her broken. And another’s wife.
The memory dissipated. Rosina looked into Captain Boone’s tanned face, smiling today, then back at Silas. He followed her with his moss-colored eyes in that cherishing way of old, as if he hoped the past between them might rekindle anew.
But he didn’t know her past. Not the ugly darkness of it. Doubtless he already mistrusted her. Had they not promised themselves to each other, not so much with spoken words as with those left unuttered? He’d come back to find her wed to Jeremiah and had every right to think her a promise breaker and to be angered by her faithlessness. Only he didn’t seem angry, at least not in deed. His kindness to her last night, the way he’d hastened to feed and care for her …
Nay. She’d not allow herself the slightest hope of a future with Silas Longridge. Too much had separated them, her own betrayal foremost.
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