God, deliver us. Deliver my child. Silas. All of us.
Over and over, she repeated the prayer, clinging to it with as much strength as she gripped the rifle.
Finally, she made out a voice behind her from amid the haze. Silas stood near. Sweat soaked his shirt. Powder and exhaustion lined his face. Beside him stood an adolescent youth, excitement sparking in his eyes.
“Ambrose will take your place while you eat and rest. You’ve been at your post for hours. Come.”
Too numb to protest, Rosina let Silas lead her away. She stumbled down the ladder, fingers scraping the raw wood. He followed, jumping down the last few rungs. She wrapped her arm through his, leaning her head on his shoulder as they walked. Sweetness. The word rose to mind, as out of place as a minister in a gambling den. But ’twas sweetness, walking at his side, feeling his strength beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
“You did well.” His whisper brushed over her.
“Better than you expected?” She wanted to smile, but her lips were cracked and she couldn’t summon the strength.
“Aye.” He did smile; she heard it in his words.
“Just a short rest,” she mumbled, energy ebbing from her limbs.
He led her into the dim blockhouse. Settling her onto a bench, he returned a few moments later with a mug of water and a plate of corn cakes and dried meat. A candle sputtered on the trestle table, providing a glow of light.
“Chloe?” she asked after she’d taken the first gulp and swiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
He propped his arms on the surface of the table, a mug of his own at hand. His shirtsleeves rode to his elbows, revealing tanned arms dusted with hair and streaked with grime. “Granny Anderson is caring for the youngest children in a safe cabin. They’re frightened, but she’s doing her best to keep them calm and content.”
“And Squire?” Heedless of her filth-stained fingers, she ate with her hands, shoving corn cake into her mouth. The familiar taste eased the gnawing in her stomach.
“Boone cut the bullet from his shoulder. He’s resting now, with a draught of spirits to keep him comfortable.” Silas drank from his mug, cupping his large, begrimed fingers around the pewter handle.
“I’m … glad.” She leaned her head on the table, plate forgotten, comforted by her babe’s hearty kick. At least no harm had come to the child. And she’d survived. Right now she need not think beyond that. Her eyelids grew heavy. All she wanted was to sleep. Only for a moment.
Just before succumbing to dark oblivion, she felt a familiar hand stroke her hair and a quiet voice whisper something. Something that seemed half dream, half reality.
“I’ll never stop loving you, my Rosina. I’ll never stop loving you.”
All throughout the next day, the siege continued. As Thursday crept toward Friday, bone-deep weariness soaked through Silas. He’d slept little, taken long stretches of duty at the loopholes, and strategized with Boone about the Shawnees’ next move. Jemima had suffered a surface graze from a stray bullet and had gone to rest in her cabin.
It was six in the morning, or thereabouts. Morning cool provided blessed relief from the previous day’s heat. For now, silence hung like a mist over the weary fort. Silas, standing at his post, overlooking the ridge, turned and looked toward the center of the fort.
Their flag still stood. That proud emblem of colonial freedom high on its pole fluttered grandly, despite its bullet-riddled tatters, the colors of red, white, and blue proclaiming to those on the other side of the ridge that the fort was theirs. The Indians had fired countless bullets at it, trying to tear it down.
But the flag still stood.
Silas rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, fingers finding hard knots of tension. This fight wasn’t just about the fate of Boonesborough.
Kentucke. The future of this grand and wild place. The future of their freedom from the iron grip of King George and British rule.
Taking in the lush scenery, the rich green of the trees, the rugged, rolling countryside, and the endless blue sky, a new rush of vigor swept through Silas.
Kentucke would always be his home. There could be no other place first in his affections.
Just like Rosina—the woman he would ever and always love.
As if conjured by his thoughts, he caught a glimpse of his broad-brimmed hat—and the face beneath it. Rosina walked toward him, accompanied by Ambrose, the lad who was to spell him. They changed shifts without breaking silence. Ambrose took his place, keen eyes fresh and missing nothing. Allegiance to Kentucke beat within his breast, tender though his years.
They descended the ladder. Silas turned to Rosina as they crossed the fort grounds. She looked as if she’d slept, the grime washed from her cheeks leaving a pink glow, her long braid swaying as she walked. The swell of her child mounded beneath her loose-fitting hunting shirt. A surge of protectiveness flooded him. She’d fought as hard as the rest, her aim as good as any man’s. But she was still a mother-to-be. And the sight of her made him ache to keep her safe.
“You must rest,” she said softly. “Leave the watch to others for a while. I’ve fixed you something to eat. It’s in your cabin. Come.”
She led the way and he followed. Exhaustion pressed bone deep. She opened the door, motioning him to precede her. He stepped inside. A tin plate sat on the table, filled with corn cakes, meat, and greens. He picked up the mug, quenching his thirst with a blissful drink of hot coffee. Setting down the mug, he turned to her. She hovered in the doorway, her eyes following his every move, hat discarded.
“Thank you.” The cabin was lamp lit and coffee scented, brimming with the bewitching intoxication of her nearness. Weariness forgotten, he let himself look his fill of her, wishing she were his wife, leaving him free to press a kiss against the silk of her hair.
“You’re welcome.” She smiled, turning to go.
“Wait.” That single word held as much power as ten bullets. Why he uttered it, he didn’t know. Only … he did. He needed her. Loved her.
She stilled. Their gazes met.
Two strides closed the distance between them. Silas settled his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her. Her chin tipped up, breath coming fast. Her eyes held promise, her parted lips beckoning. Call it the privilege of a man who knew not whether this day would bring his end. Call it insanity. Perhaps, ’twas both.
The instant his lips brushed hers, he was a lost man. Drowning in the bliss of cherishing her with his touch. He did not linger long. Just once and gently.
She stared up at him with startled eyes. Regret crashed over him. What kind of man was he? He’d always prided himself on being a man of honor. Then why had he just done something that embodied the opposite definition?
“I’m … sorry.”
Before the sentence had left his lips, she began to weep. Gulping sobs shook her shoulders. She pressed her hands against her face. He brushed a hand across her shoulder.
“Rosina, I shouldn’t have … I shouldn’t have done that.” Remorse tightened his throat.
She looked up, tears shimmering on her cheeks. “Nay,” she whispered. “ ’Tis not that, Silas. I’ve wanted to kiss you so long, my heart aches with it. But … there are things. Things you don’t know about me.”
“Nothing matters. It can all wait.” His words tripped over each other.
She shook her head. “It matters to me. You’ve not asked why I wed Jeremiah.”
He swallowed, gaze lowered. “It wasn’t any of my concern. I figured you’d tell when the time was right.”
“I shall do so now.” Decision shone through the tear tracks on her face.
She crossed the room with quiet steps, seating herself in a vacant chair. He stood in front of her, hands clasped behind his back.
For long moments, silence fell. She stared into the ashes of the hearth while he waited, giving her time.
“Remember when you left on that scouting trip?”
“I remember we said goodbye.” And almost
kissed. He’d as good as said he’d wed her upon his return. She’d as good as said yes. Even now, the memory still had the power to rub him raw.
“A few days after you left, Jeremiah came into my cabin when my father was away. For a while, he’d been seeking to court me. I didn’t like him. Compared to you, he seemed so insignificant, despite his swagger. That night he proposed. I turned him down, saying I was pledged to another. He … he got angry.” Pain tightened her face. She pressed her lips together in a thin line. “He compromised me.” A shudder shook her slim shoulders.
Silas clenched his fists together, white-hot anger roiling through him. Whiting was fortunate to already be dead. If he’d still lived, Silas wasn’t sure he’d be able to answer for the consequences.
He could easily believe Rosina’s words. Whiting was the sort that always gained what he wanted. He’d wanted the most beautiful girl in Boonesborough. And he’d used the most treacherous means to capture her.
Silas was grateful the warriors had given him his due.
“After that, he told me no one would want me anymore, but that he’d make it right and marry me. My father discovered what happened and insisted we be wed. I didn’t love Jeremiah.” Tears choked her voice. She gazed up at him, indigo eyes pleading with him to understand. “Every day of our marriage was a misery. This child is the only good thing he’s ever given me.” She stood, taking his hand and covering it with both of hers. The strength with which her calloused palm grasped his held the promise of tomorrow. “I ached for you. All I’ve ever wanted was to be yours. But I knew I must tell you the truth about myself before I could ever think of accepting your love. I thought to wait … to put you behind me. But I find I cannot. While I’ve been standing at the loopholes, all I’ve been thinking is, What if it’s too late?”
“It’s never too late.” He pulled her into his arms, encircling her as close as he could. She leaned her head against his chest. No pretense lay between them. No fine clothes or pretty words. Just a man and a woman, clinging together in the midst of a storm-shaken sea. Only God on high knew what the day would bring. But at long last, secrets no longer stood between them. He whispered the words again. “It’s never too late.”
Chapter 11
September 17, 1778
She dreamed of her wedding day. Not hers and Jeremiah’s, but where the groom had hair the color of the night sky and a smile meant for her alone.
Silas.
Rosina sat up with a start, an explosion of gunfire shaking the space between dreamland and reality. Her heart thudded. Another burst sounded.
She clambered out of bed and hurried to the window, bare feet padding against the floor. From Jemima’s cabin, empty of sleepers save her, she’d a good view of the fort. Though it was the middle of the night, it scarce seemed so as the sky lit up with another volley of exploding gunpowder. Thankfully, Chloe was with Granny Anderson and the other least’uns in the cabin furthest distant from the fighting.
She should dress and go outside. She’d participated in little of the fighting over the past week, not by choice, but because Silas feared for her safety and that of her child. Many behind fort walls had suffered injury, including Jemima, and she’d occupied herself with tending them. They all were weary, supplies dwindling. In everyone’s thoughts, if not on their lips, was how much longer it could go on before either the invaders fled or the fort fell.
A sudden twist seized her midsection, the pressure so tight it made her gasp and clutch her stomach. She’d had twinges all yesterday, but they’d been minor compared to this.
Struggling for breath, she stumbled away from the window and toward the bed. Another pain, even sharper, made her cry out.
Cacophony drowned out the night stillness. Breathless from the pain, Rosina bit her lip. Chilling Shawnee whoops. Shouting. Screams. Rifle fire.
She had to get up. They might be short men at the loopholes, more injuries piling up as the hours passed. She stood, grinding her jaw against another cramp. Wetness trickled down her legs, pooling on the floor.
The babe. Jemima had said something about waters breaking, signaling a woman’s time had come. “Nay,” she moaned. “Not now.”
She stood. Took a few steps. A sudden burst of light flashed through the cabin, turning it bright as day for an instant.
Rosina stumbled. Fell. A sharp pain jolted through her as she landed on the hard wood, splinters from the floor scraping her bare legs.
Another surge of light. Something whizzed past her, so swift it seemed a blur. The scent of smoke choked the air.
Flames leapt from the cabin wall.
Panic clawed at her. She cried out with another pain, sharper than before. Tears stung her eyes. The sound of crackling fire filled her ears. Red and orange flames licked the cabin wall.
The cabin was burning.
She struggled to move as the flames darted higher. Smoke choked her airways. She couldn’t stand. Couldn’t breathe. Another contraction noosed her body. She fought to rise, but her legs buckled beneath her, and she fell again. The flames, coming ever closer, seemed to mock her.
She was going to die. Death, that springing panther, was about to pounce. On her.
I don’t understand, God. Why? Were these past days of happiness with Silas too much to ask?
Her eyes grew heavy, the cabin a blur of smoke and fire.
Always, she’d deemed herself unworthy. For those few short months in her youth, Silas had changed that. But then her father and Jeremiah had gone right on demeaning her. In their eyes, she’d read that they thought her worthless. Only worth something as long as she was useful.
Did God feel that way too? Mayhap earthly joy was only for the very good, which wasn’t her. She’d grasped her chance at happiness with Silas, and now it was being pulled … and pulled … and taken from her. Was her life even worth praying about?
God, I’ve never really felt Your love. I’ve tried to pray, but You never seemed to answer. I begged You to rescue me from Jeremiah, but You didn’t.
Fog enveloped her mind.
I want to trust You. And I want to live. Please give me strength to get up. Please … send a miracle.
Flaming arrows arced through the air, finding their marks in cabin walls and fort pickets. Manning the loophole, aiming and firing for all he was worth, Silas doubted he’d ever see a sight so fearsome again. An eerie glow shrouded Boonesborough in light. Boone shouted orders, yelling both to the men hauling water to douse the flames and to the ones firing at the enemy. His red hair hung unbound, shirt open at the collar, sweat glistening on his face and neck.
“Longridge!” he called. “Some of the cabins are on fire. Organize the men not covering the walls. We’ve got to keep the flames from spreading or the fort will burn. Jenkins here will take your place.” He shoved a lanky man toward Silas’s post.
Jenkins took over, and Silas raced into the crowd of surging men and women, pulling some aside, shouting orders. After days of fighting, all were worn threadbare. Terror filled every face, the scent of smoke and crackle of flames thick and dangerous in the air.
“Come with me. All of you.” Silas waved them onward as he circled the fort. Arrows had lodged in several cabin roofs.
“Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth!”
The scripture rose to his mind. It wouldn’t take long for flames to spread and the blaze to consume Boonesborough, just as the Shawnees intended. Since weapons had failed, they chose to destroy them by flame.
“Get more water.” He ordered the few women standing by. “Men, we need to tear off the burning boards from the roofs. Now! Start with those cabins there.”
He turned, facing the opposite direction.
His heart thundered in his chest.
Flames sprang from Jemima’s—Rosina’s—cabin. An angry conflagration bent on destruction.
“Rosina!” Her name roared from his lips. Fists pumping, feet flying, he ran with everything in him toward the fast-burning cabin, pushing past whoever sto
od in his way. “Rosina!”
Let her not be trapped inside. Let it not be too late.
More a prayer than a thought.
He bludgeoned open the door. Billowing smoke clouded the interior. His eyes burned.
Rosina stumbled through the smoke, fighting her way forward, hands groping blindly. Her chest heaved with hacking coughs.
In an instant, he had her in his arms. Lungs screaming for air, he carried her outside. She crumpled in his grip, head falling back.
He set her on the ground, bending over her. Papery flakes of ash dusted her hair. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, but they were even.
“Rosina. Can you hear me? Answer me, my love.”
Footsteps pounded, men shouted, fire and gunpowder illuminated the sky. So bright one could almost believe ’twas day. He scarce heeded any of it. She was too still.
God, please. Please, please, please.
“Rosina! Open your eyes.” He spoke louder, gathering her into his arms, slapping her cheek with his palm. “You’ve got to wake up.” He hailed a passing woman. Peggy. “Fetch some water,” he shouted. “She’s fainted.”
Peggy darted away.
What else could he do? He hated such helplessness. Give him a fight any day over this. His hands were tied. He was unable to do the thing he most wanted in the world—save the woman he loved. It was her wedding morn all over again. He’d stood there at the cabin door, completely helpless, as she’d married Jeremiah Whiting. Now, she was on the verge of being his, and he was helpless again.
“God.” He lifted his face to the sky. “ ‘Neither know we what to do: but our eyes are upon Thee.’ ” The scripture emerged from his throat, as true a prayer as any he himself could have contrived.
“Silas.” A whisper so ragged it was barely audible caught his ear. Rosina stared up at him, gaze focusing, face pale against the dark pool of her hair, skin smudged with ash.
“My love.” He pressed a hand against her forehead.
She smiled, soft and slow. “Silas …” Her face tightened, and she let out a low moan, body tensing upward.
The Heart's Stronghold Page 35