“You’ve come back then.” The statement flew from her lips, sounding ridiculous even to her own ears.
He took a step closer. “Aye. We’ve come back.” A smile angled his stubbled jaw. He reached out, capturing a wisp of hair that had come loose from her braid. She stilled, scarce daring to breathe as he tucked it behind her ear, his calloused fingers brushing the skin along her jawline for a scant instant. Warmth filled her.
Longing overwhelmed her.
He drew his hand away. Cleared his throat.
“How have you been keeping?”
She hastened to fill the silence. “Very well. Caring for Chloe and helping Jemima keeps me busy.” Though not enough to stave off worry. “How did the scouting trip go?”
“We accomplished what we set out to do.” His hunting shirt had torn at the collar, revealing a slice of his muscled chest. She ought to mend the rip for him. But he might take the offer to mean more than she meant it to. “We made it almost to the Shawnee village when we came across some warriors. There was a skirmish.”
“But everyone’s all right?”
He nodded. “Other than Zeke, that is. He’ll mend right enough, especially with your and Jemima’s doctoring to aid him. After the battle, we made for Boonesborough fast as we could, giving wide berth to the British and Shawnee. But after we crossed the Ohio, Boone spotted signs of Blackfish and his army. It’s as we feared. Four hundred of them, from various tribes. By my reckoning, they’ll reach Boonesborough sometime tomorrow.”
“So soon?” Images roiled to the surface. Of Jeremiah’s scalped and bloodied body. The burned cabin. Her frantic flight toward safety. Come tomorrow, the fort would no longer offer that.
“I’m afraid so.” His eyes grew solemn.
“We’ve had others arrive from Harrod’s and Logan’s,” Rosina hastened. “Men, coming to help us.” A scant number, only as many as could be spared. The other forts were short enough on able bodies to risk sending many to the aid of Boonesborough.
They’d have to make do with what they had, without the hoped-for reinforcements from Virginia. To be sure, they were supposedly on their way, but of no help until they actually arrived.
Silas nodded. “That’s fine. We need all the men we can get.”
“It will go well for us.” Rosina lifted her chin, trying for a smile.
Uncertain words, they were. How could less than one hundred men hold the fort against attack?
Silas’s hand settled on her shoulder, its weight warm and comforting. “I promise you, Rosina. I will do my utmost to defend this fort.” His words emerged low, determined. A pledge.
And you.
His gaze held hers, as if his eyes spoke the words. As if here and now he offered himself for her safety and that of her child. And he would, she knew, without hesitation.
The promise burrowed deep. Though she needed none. She trusted him unhesitatingly, with her life, with her all. She always had. That, at least, had not changed. In the dying light of evening, broad-shouldered and garbed in the hearty clothes of a frontiersman, he made a picture of strength and fearlessness. But the stark longing in his gaze directed at her … that threatened to undo her.
She nodded, throat dry. “Aye. You and Boone. If it does not go well for us, it will not be because of weak men. Or women,” she added, determined to do her part.
His eyes crinkled as he smiled, but ’twas not a mocking gesture. “The brave ladies of Boonesborough will do their finest for us.”
Indeed. All she could do was work and pray and stand at Silas’s side, as the other frontier wives would do.
Though she, not a wife, merited little place there.
The time of reckoning had arrived.
Blackfish had been sighted, just behind the ridge. Blackfish and his army four hundred strong.
From his post on the fort wall, Silas watched their approach—a sight that would make even the most stalwart settler’s blood turn to ice. The Indians made a bedazzling display, faces painted warring colors of red and black, plucked scalp locks adorned with feathered plumage, rifles glinting in the morning sun. Tories marched to the rear of the Indians—their fluttering flags and cocky expressions a stark contrast to the lithe Shawnee. The entire army snaked forward, heading toward the fort in a line that seemed to stretch to infinity.
Silas gripped his rifle. Overhead the sky was a carpet of peerless blue, the air warm with a gentle breeze. Beyond the fort lay the meadow, peach orchard, and cornfields. Beyond that, endless acres of fertile land waiting to be settled.
If they surrendered, they’d be forced to leave all this behind, for the city of Detroit and the whims of Governor Hamilton. They’d go from proud settlers to shamed captives of the blasted Tory government.
Silas ground his jaw. He’d be hanged before he let that happen. To this land, to these brave pioneers.
To Rosina.
God in heaven, keep her safe.
All he could do was pray for her safety and hope she stayed inside the cabins with the other women.
Minutes ticked by. The men of the fort stood above and below, gripping weapons, their eyes on the invaders. The Indian troops constructed a headquarters for their chiefs in the peach orchard outside the fort, an arbor of sorts built with brush, poles, and tent cloth. With great ceremony, the Tories planted the Union Jack near the arbor, the royal flag a slap to the red and white stripes and circlet of stars fluttering high above Boonesborough. Their flag for a country ruled by a government of their own, not by British tyranny. Silas ground his jaw at the sight of the Tory colors.
Boone stood a few paces away on the wall, dressed in his usual hunting shirt and broad-brimmed hat, Tick-Licker almost an extension of his arm. He caught Silas’s gaze. Silas read in Boone’s lined face what both of them knew.
The events that followed would be their greatest test.
Their stand for the glorious land of Kentucke.
A man approached the fort carrying a flag of truce. Impressive in height and stature, his white teeth a flash against the ebony of his face. Sun gleamed on his bare chest and arms, bedecked with silver bands and beaded necklaces. The white fabric of the flag flapped in the wind. Closer and closer he strode, nearing the fort. Silas’s fingers tightened around the stock of his rifle as he peered through a loophole. The air rang with stillness, breaths bated.
“Captain Boone!” the emissary shouted. “Are you in there?”
“Aye.” Boone called back, his deep voice carrying over the high fort pickets.
“Chief Blackfish has come to accept the surrender of your Long Knife fort, as you promised him last February. I come bringing letters from Governor Hamilton, promising safe passage to Detroit for every settler behind these walls if they promise to go peacefully.”
Letters of safe passage? From Hair Buyer Hamilton, named thus because he paid the Indians handsomely for each white scalp brought to him?
A ripple spread through the fort. Men left their posts and made for Boone, forming a cluster around him—men with lined faces and hard expressions, ready for a fight. Silas stayed near the back.
“Letters.” The voices rose, speaking different words but with the same meaning, Richard Callaway’s loudest of all. “Demand to see the letters, Boone. Who does he think we are? Half-wits?”
Silas remained silent. Boone could hold two things—his liquor and his composure. He rarely made use of the first, but he was having opportunity aplenty with the second. He nodded and listened for a few minutes. Then Boone, at the center of the circle, held up a hand. The men reluctantly quieted.
“Sheltowee!” Another voice rose strong, borne by the wind, carried from the direction of the peach orchard. “Sheltowee!”
Boone’s features tightened. Sheltowee—Shawnee for “Big Turtle”—had been Boone’s name during his time in their village.
“Come out of the fort,” bellowed the emissary. “You must parlay with Chief Blackfish. He wishes to speak to you. Bring no weapons.”
“Go out
and meet ’em unarmed? Not a chance.” Zeke Wainwright’s words were soon echoed by others.
“What say you, Captain Longridge?” Boone’s voice rose above the cacophony. Unlike the Indians, Boone had not dressed for the occasion. But his gaze, shining out from beneath his black felt hat, held grit and determination. Silas sensed Boone needed another voice of reason. He made his way forward, Flanders Callaway stepping aside. “I—”
“You oughtn’t go,” Richard Callaway interrupted, crossing his arms over his burly chest, black brows drawing together. Silas caught a whiff of the man. He reeked of sweat and bear grease. “Who knows what the red devils’ game is.”
“Was I speaking to you, Callaway?” Boone seared his son-in-law’s uncle with a look. “Longridge?”
All eyes shifted to Silas. He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re aiming to go?”
Boone nodded, once and firmly.
“You know Blackfish and the Shawnee better than any of us. If you’re of a mind to go, none of us ought to stop you.” Silas leveled a look at Callaway, whose angular face had turned the shade of a fresh-picked beet. Flanders’s lips pressed tight, as if in shame over his uncle’s outburst.
“The riflemen will cover me. And the Shawnee won’t attack, not like this. Care to join me, Longridge?” Boone gave a sort of half-smile, tone easy, as if he’d asked Silas to accompany him on a fishing trip, instead of heading out to meet a war party determined to see their fort emptied.
Silas drew a deep breath. He’d not refuse, no matter the danger. They’d shared in Boonesborough’s success. Who knew what the next hours would bring?
Come what may, there was no better man to stand beside than Daniel Boone.
He nodded once. Without another word, they handed their rifles to Flanders and climbed down the ladder. Toward the fort entrance they strode, two lone men breaking away from the shelter of the fort and heading into only Heaven knew what. Silas tasted grit, his throat dry. Out of thirst or fear?
As the gates groaned open, he glanced behind him.
A flash of indigo caught his eye. Rosina, at Jemima’s side, Chloe clinging to her skirt. Jemima crossed her arms, watching the men with a determined stare. But Rosina … Rosina smiled. Bidding them onward with a brave upturn of her lips.
If the Indians opened fire on him and Boone, this might be the last glimpse he ever had of her this side of heaven. The woman he’d pledge heart and soul to without a second thought.
Chapter 7
She held her smile in place until the gates closed behind the men as they left the fort and headed straight toward their would-be attackers.
But as the gates shut, shielding them from view, Rosina’s smile wobbled. Momentarily.
“What do you think Blackfish will do?” Rosina turned to Jemima.
“Can’t rightly say.” Jemima shrugged, swiping a strand of rust-colored hair away from her freckled face. “He’s a wily one, Blackfish. No doubt he’ll put on a great show, fussing about how much he’s missed Pa, his adopted son.”
“Do you think they’re safe?” Rosina hated the waver in her voice. The possibility that this would all end in their being surrendered as Shawnee and British captives was real. One hand went instinctively to the rounded place where her child rested, while her other hand settled atop Chloe’s head.
“You want the truth?” Jemima’s eyes snapped. She looked even more the fiery frontierswoman than usual, exchanging her dress for a boyish-looking shirt cut to mid-calf, paired with leggings and moccasins. “I trust Pa. But I don’t like him going out there. Not one bit.” She swung around, striding toward her cabin, clasping her rifle as easily as a genteel lady might clutch a lace fan.
Rosina bit her lip, breath tangling in her chest. She’d already borne witness once to an arrow-riddled body, a fallen man. She’d not opened her heart to that man, so there had been little to grieve. But now …
Dear God, what will become of them?
What if her chance for a future with Silas was stolen a second time?
A memory surfaced, timeworn and gossamer.
She’d been seventeen, recently arrived in Boonesborough, after the arduous journey across Boone’s Trace. The day had not begun well. Her father had spent nigh on an hour berating her for going barefoot like Jemima and her friends. Finally, she’d fled the cabin and slipped from the fort. Deerlike, she ran, taking deep gulps of spring air. Sunlight drenched the forest, but she’d scarce heeded the beauty, angry tears stinging her eyes and tracking down her cheeks. In that moment, she’d not feared an Indian arrow or a ravaging animal. Freedom from her father was all she sought. From his strict rule over her life, forcing her into the wilderness as an escape from his past in Virginia, one rife with countless gaming debts and cuckolded husbands.
Suddenly she stumbled, tripping over a patch of thick-growing cane. The sharp stalk sliced deep into the tender sole of her foot. She cried out, clutching the injured limb. Blood dripped from the gash, leaving a trail on the forest floor.
Lifting her gaze to the sky, the thick trees rising high, her heart pounded beneath her stays. In her overwrought state, she’d not realized how far she’d traveled. Now she was alone in a place she’d never seen, without any recollection of the path she’d traveled. And wounded in the bargain.
How daft could she be? Jemima would scoff at her if she saw this predicament. Jemima, ever the daughter of the great Boone, as at home in the wilderness as her father.
Wincing, Rosina sat down on the forest floor in an ungainly heap, grabbing her foot again and turning it to assess the damage. With a wry look at her petticoat, she ripped a strip of fabric. Her favorite petticoat too, the one with the little blue flowers.
Sucking in shallow breaths through gritted teeth, she struggled to knot the fabric tightly.
A branch cracked. Footsteps. Her breath clogged her lungs. Her jaw trembled. Even on a good day, she would be no match for a pursuing Indian. Now …?
A tear trickled down her cheek, stinging a scratch where a branch had slapped against the side of her face.
A man appeared from the depths of the forest. Relief flooded through her. Not an Indian, but a settler. She made a hobbling attempt to stand as he approached. She’d noticed him before at Boonesborough. He and Captain Boone seemed always together, about some task. But while Boone was pushing two score, this man looked closer to Rosina’s age, perhaps about five and twenty. He’d hair the color of the black pearl necklace her mother, God rest her, had once owned, ebony and shining. It hung, unbound, to his jaw. The width of his shoulders bespoke hard work, the outline of muscle and sinew evident beneath his butternut hunting shirt and buckskin jacket. A gleaming rifle was slung over his back by a strap.
What a sight she must appear. Petticoat torn, curls tangled, cheek scratched and tearstained, foot bloodied.
He nodded, the gesture formal in light of where they stood.
“Miss Rosina, isn’t it? I don’t recall our being formally introduced.”
She shifted, foot aching. “Captain Longridge, I believe.”
“I saw you sneak out of the fort. Figured you were running from something, so I thought I’d follow and find out what. Besides, it isn’t safe to be traipsing through the wilderness unarmed.”
She hung her head at the mild censure in his tone. “My behavior was imprudent. I was angry and discomfited. I didn’t stop to cipher the danger before I set off.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “From the looks of things, you didn’t stop to cipher much at all. What got you riled?”
She blew out a breath. “Oh … I don’t know. My father. He’s always berating me about some offense or other. No matter how hard I try, I can never seem to please him. I just couldn’t endure it another moment.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Have you ever felt like that—bursting with vexation until you feel you’ll explode if you don’t get it out?”
He studied her, empathy in his eyes. “Aye, miss. I know the feeling well. Not with a parent, but with others.
I’ve learned something though. No matter how ireful we become in our minds, taking foolish risks is never justified.” His tone wasn’t chiding. More as if he meant to counsel, steady her with his words. “Come.” He held out a sun-browned hand. “Let’s get you home.”
She expected him to merely guide her, not swing her into his arms, bloodied foot and all. Didn’t expect settling against his broad chest as they continued toward the fort and experiencing a sweep of sensations she’d never before reckoned with. Being cradled in his strong arms made her feel safe. Cherished. As if, after this, she could face anything, even the wrath of her father. He smelled of pine, sun-warmed fabric, and woodsmoke—a curiously alluring blend.
When he’d set her down in front of her father’s cabin and nodded farewell, he’d taken a portion of her heart with him. She’d returned to face her father, filled with a glow not even his harsh words could eradicate.
Today, watching Boone and Silas approach Chief Blackfish, she was a much wiser woman than the girl who’d raced headlong into the forest. A widow and a mother-to-be. She was past girlhood hurts, sober, and full of much she wished she hadn’t been forced to endure.
One thing remained unaltered. Silas Longridge still carried a piece of her heart. Much as he’d once carried her.
“Well, Boone, I’ve come to take your fort. If you surrender, you shall be treated well. If not, I will put all the other prisoners to death and reserve the young squaws for wives.”
Following along with Blackfish’s words, spoken in the Shawnee language, Silas sucked in a quick breath, glancing at Boone. The red-haired captain merely gave a short nod, sitting opposite Chief Blackfish on a blanket spread across the grass. Silas stood behind him, hands behind his back. After the formal greetings, where Blackfish expressed grief over Boone’s departure—real or feigned, Silas couldn’t tell—and an accusation from another chief, Moluntha, who said Boone was responsible for the murder of his son, which Boone denied, the official business had begun.
The young squaws? That would mean Rosina. Beautiful as she was with her dark hair and deep blue eyes, she’d be a prize among the Indian braves—with child or no.
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