by Becky Lower
She needed to be more than a pretty face, since beauty faded, but knowledge was forever. She’d been cherished and adored and didn’t regret a single liaison. Well, possibly one or two were bad judgment calls, but mostly, when it was time to sever ties, to continue up the ladder of courtesan success, the men understood and were most accommodating. She’d never experienced a twinge of despair when a man left her bedside, except for Atticus.
He not only adored and cherished her, he’d offered to marry her and make a respectable woman of her. His idea had been to leave London’s social scene in the dust and relocate to South Africa, or to America, where no one was aware of her background and they could begin to build a life there.
“Ah, Atticus. It almost worked.” She let a few tears dribble onto her nightgown. Surprised to learn he’d left his fortune to her, she decided to live out the dream they’d had together and booked passage to the colonies. Thanks to Atticus, she had a chance to begin again. As Liberty Wexford. And Liberty Wexford wanted her chance to include a half-French, half-Indian man. Did she dare tell Hawk Gentry of her sordid past? What would Atticus have advised?
She spent another sleepless night in her room, with questions swirling around the space, along with the scent of the red roses. Dawn produced no clarity to her thoughts. As much as she wanted to see and feel Hawk again, she needed to sort out her next steps first.
• ♥ •
Hawk and Patterson arrived at the campgrounds of the Passamaquoddy within a week after leaving Boston. Teepees dotted the landscape and Hawk searched for his mother’s dwelling. He slid off his horse when he spied his mother among the other women at the fire pit.
“Nika!” He enveloped her in his arms. “It has been too long since we have seen each other.”
His mother, Little Wren, wiped the tears from her eyes. “Nicanol, my son, it is so good to see you.”
“This is my friend, Patterson.” Hawk waved his hand toward his companion.
Little Wren took hold of the man’s outstretched hand. “Please, come join us for a meal.” She led the way to her teepee.
Hawk and Patterson had barely taken a seat when Little Wren pierced them with her gaze. “You will fight?”
“Cu tank, Nika. Yes, we are going to fight. Father is working for the British, leading them away from your lands. But General Washington asked for our tribe’s help and I must answer the call.” Hawk wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You will be safe.” He could feel her body tremble under his touch.
“It matters not whether they are British or men like your friend here,” she waved in Patterson’s direction, “they are here to steal our land. We will never again be safe.”
Hawk shook his head. “It is the way of the future, Nika. Do you recall how you reacted when Father first entered your camp?”
“Ya. White man with funny accent. The first white man I had ever seen.” She rolled her eyes at Hawk. “Handsome white man.”
Hawk grimaced. “A handsome white man who was never around.”
His mother slapped Hawk’s arm. “Your father had to leave us with the tribe in order to make a living. To pay for our food and clothing. He protected us the best way he could. You never understood.”
Hawk kissed his mother’s cheek. “I will never take a wife if I have to leave her all the time, like Father did with you. You were sad and cried each time he left us.”
“So that is why you have not yet married? Why I have no grandchildren?”
“Oui, Nika. Until the fighting ends, there will be no grandchildren for you. Until our land is secure. We will have a better chance of that outcome if we side with the colonists. That is why Chief Neptune has pledged six hundred men to the general.”
Little Wren tore her gaze from her son and focused on Patterson. “You can guarantee the Passamaquoddy will continue to have a home in this land? The land you call Maine?”
Patterson rolled his shoulders. “I can’t predict the future. But during my lifetime, you will be able to remain here. We have no wish to take over your lands. We only wish to be free from the British rule and to be able to chart our own path.”
Little Wren nodded and passed around a plate of food. “Enough talk. Let us eat. You need to be strong for the battle.”
Hawk relaxed next to his mother. He trusted Patterson and what he said to his Nika, but from the first time he left the village encampment and interacted with the white man, he could tell the way of life his mother had enjoyed was ending. That realization was a reason he had developed a trade and tried to mingle with people other than his tribe. He hoped the chief had chosen to place the tribesmen on the right side of the battle, which was only getting started. He hoped they had enough bullets for the battle. He closed his eyes and sat with his back against the tent, inhaling the familiar scents of the camp. A picture of Libby entered his mind, her little tongue sneaking out between her white teeth as she concentrated on pouring the melted silver into the forms. He let out a soft sigh.
His mother touched his arm. “Your lady is safe. For now.”
His eyes popped open and he stared at his mother. “What are you saying? What do you know of my lady? Have you had a vision?”
“Ya. I have seen her. Very pretty lady with many secrets.” Little Wren ran her hand down his arm, which suddenly prickled with goosebumps. His mother’s visions always had unnerved him.
“What kind of secrets?”
Little Wren shrugged. “They will be revealed in time. But danger is coming to her, so you must hurry back if you wish to save her.”
Hawk shifted in his seat. “I must fight this battle with the British first, Nika.”
“Then, you may lose the battle for your lady.” Little Wren kissed his cheek.
His mother’s advice unsettled him, and Hawk’s sleep would be elusive tonight. Not the best scenario for heading into battle, even with silver bullets. Libby had cautioned him she would not be content for long merely having her affections toyed with before she drifted off with another. Had she already grown weary of him? Was that outcome the vision his mother had seen? What kind of secrets did Libby have? He suspected she had chosen her name and it was not the one given her at birth, but could he fault her for that? The native tribes did not typically name their children until they hit puberty and then the child got to decide what to call himself, often selecting an animal name reflecting certain characteristics of his personality. Hawk had pondered for weeks about what to call himself, even heading into the woods alone to think about his decision. A huge hawk had followed him down the path into the woods and kept circling as he made his way to the overlook he favored. As he sat on the rock outcropping, the bird settled in on the same rock and stared at him for the longest time before nodding his head and flying off. He took it as the sign it was meant to be, and named himself after the magnificent bird that had accompanied him.
If Liberty Wexford was a made-up name, so what? Unless she had killed Mr. Wexford for his money and the law was after her, Hawk had no reason to question her change in name. His mother said Libby harbored many secrets, though. What else could she be hiding?
With a growl, Hawk grabbed an animal skin and strode out of the tent to sleep in the open. Or not sleep, as he predicted. Danger was coming to them all. His mother’s way of life, his participation in this upcoming battle, Libby’s secrets. Could they all survive the turbulence? Or would they all perish?
• ♥ •
Hawk and Patterson followed along behind the Passamaquoddy chief, Francis Joseph Neptune, as they headed toward the Maine shoreline where the British warships were waiting in the harbor. Hawk’s father, Jacques, was leading the British foot soldiers toward the same shore, hoping to pinch the rebel troops in between the two forces. But General George Washington was ready. The Passamaquoddy men met up with the other rebels and they marched to the shores of the Atlantic.
Hawk’s heart rate rose as they neared the coastline, in part because of the exertion of hiking from the Passamaquoddy camp, but mostly du
e to marching into battle. The Passamaquoddy nation was a peaceful one for the most part, hunting and gathering for their food, and moving around as dictated by the seasons and the food supply. Until now, they had lived in harmony with the French fur trappers and the colonists who entered the area. The only time they used rifles was to hunt for meat. Now, some of Hawk’s and Libby’s bullets would cut down humans instead of deer.
Chief Neptune stood on the edge of the cliff and scanned the ships in the harbor which had made their way down the coastline from Nova Scotia under the constant threat of harassment from militia and Indians on the shore. His imposing presence held Hawk’s attention, and the tribesmen who had followed his lead into battle surrounded the chief.
“Shall we fight, men?” His commanding voice rang out over his band of kinsmen.
“Ya.” As a group, they let out a war cry, lifted their muskets to their shoulders and took aim at the ships in the harbor. With due deference, they allowed the chief to take the first shot. He aimed at the closest ship, Mermaid, and fired his gun. The smell of sulfur filled the air. An officer collapsed on the deck as the chief’s fatal bullet found its mark, and the battle of Machias had begun. His fellow tribesmen continued their war cry and chanted to their gods.
When darkness fell over the land, the Indian forces continued raising their voices to magnify their presence. Their drums set up a rhythm, and their voices pierced the silence of the woods, frightening the enemy. They had multiple campfires set up and glowing in the night sky, hoping to fool the British into thinking they had a larger force than they actually did. In short order, the British raised anchor and left the area, firing no additional shots. The skirmish halted as quickly as it had begun, with only one American dead.
“Well, that was rather anti-climactic, wasn’t it? We saved a lot of bullets, though.” Patterson slapped Hawk on the back. “Let’s head for home in the morning.”
They strode back to the camp where Hawk’s mother and the other women from the tribe had prepared a victory feast for the troops. The ground forces, led by Jacques, never made it to the battle, and Hawk wondered exactly which side of the war his father was truly on. But that was a question for another day. The war made many a man and woman have to dip their toes in both sides of the conflict in order to maintain an existence. His father was only one more who pledged outward allegiance to the British in exchange for money, but whose real intentions were perhaps more dubious.
Possibly Hawk had more in common with his father than he originally thought. Even though Jacques had not set foot in the camp, Hawk’s father had protected his wife. How many other times during his life had it happened? How many other times had Hawk resented his father’s absence when what he had been doing was protecting both his wife and his son? Perhaps the time for resentment was at an end, since he now contemplated doing the same thing to his woman.
His woman.
Hawk’s heart stuttered as his mind formed those words. Could he navigate the Revolution and keep Libby safe at the same time? Could he do as Patterson and his father were doing, and ride off for weeks at a time, engaging in battles, while their wives were at home, and unprotected? He wished for nothing more than the war to be at an end, so he could go back to his job as a simple blacksmith, one who could end every evening in the arms of the woman he loved. But the British were shipping more and more soldiers to the colonies. This war was just getting started.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Even though the idea of strolling into an establishment run by a Tory made Libby’s stomach form a knot, Mr. Edes was attempting to show the paper’s impartiality in the conflict by encouraging advertising from both sides of this war. And that meant Libby had to enter one of the businesses marked with a large “T” on the door. If she could talk some of her fellow Englishmen into advertising, her salary would increase, so it was worth doing Mr. Edes’s bidding. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to an apothecary shop and stepped inside. The aromas of various herbs immediately soothed her jangled nerves and she took a few more steps into the store.
The young man behind the counter smiled at her and she relaxed. She could handle young men.
“Good morning, sir. I’m from the Gazette, and I’m here to drop off some information on a special advertising program we are currently offering.” She drew out a flyer from her little basket.
“Am I detecting a bit of a Northern England accent, miss?” The man’s smile grew. “You remind me of home.”
Libby held back the grimace. She’d tried so hard to rid herself of her roots, and here she was, face to face with it. “You have a good ear, sir. I was born in Northern England but haven’t been there in years.”
He held out his hand to her. “Ben Tillis. And you are?”
“Liberty Wexford. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” She grasped his hand briefly. “How long have you lived in America?”
“My family emigrated here years ago. Da ran the general store in Chester, but he had bigger ambitions. Settled here and started this shop. I took over upon his death.” Mr. Tillis waved his hand through the air as Libby put her hand to her stomach. She recalled Philip Tillis and his store. That was where her red gown had come from. But she had no recollection of any of his children, since she hadn’t been able to attend school. Work on the farm had come first. At the time, she’d envied the children who scurried off every morning to learn something new. Now, she was grateful she hadn’t been one of them.
The bell on the door jangled, interrupting their conversation. Thank goodness. Libby blew out a breath. “Well, Mr. Tillis, I won’t hold you up any longer. I’ll simply leave the information with you. Should you decide to take advantage of the offer to advertise, please stop by the newspaper office.”
He took the flyer and held her hand. “If I can have the pleasure of seeing you again, I will do so.” He smiled and released her hand.
“Just ask for Mrs. Wexford.”
It was her turn to smile when she caught the droop in his shoulders. Yes, she could handle young men.
She nodded at the woman who had come into the shop after her. “Good day, ma’am.”
So, her first foray into a Tory shop had gone splendidly. Or not so much, depending on how you spun it. She probably wouldn’t get an ad out of Ben Tillis, but she also wouldn’t have her past following her. He would never be able to connect her to Fancy Booker, even if they had met before. She had put many kilometers between her life as a poor farmer’s daughter and her current one. She was now Liberty Wexford, American. And if Ben Tillis thought she had a husband, that notion suited her just fine.
The remainder of the morning was spent in various other Tory shops. She strolled down one side of a street brimming with one store after another until she ran out of flyers. All kinds of different accents hit her ears, Italian, Dutch, Swedish, and another she could only define as American. It was an amalgamation of all these different dialects, much like the American people themselves.
All in all, she had done a good morning’s work. And she appreciated her busy day, since it gave her little time to stew about Hawk. Yet throughout the morning he was with her, in the back of her mind as she conducted her business. Where was he? Had the battle taken place? Was he still alive? The news from one colony, one state, she should say, to another, was slow to arrive, even though the Sons of Liberty had cobbled together a system of dissemination. No word of victory from either side had yet made its way into the offices of the Gazette. Libby couldn’t tell if that was a blessing or not. She feared she wouldn’t have the answer to her questions until either Hawk or Patterson returned. If they returned.
• ♥ •
Several days later, Libby marched into Ben Edes’s office and took a seat. “Mr. Edes, I’ve put together a list of other establishments to visit but would appreciate your input.”
“What methods have you used to target these businesses?” Ben Edes glanced at her list, which already had some names crossed off, from her work a few days ago.
“I’ve been reading copies of Rivington’s New York Loyal Gazette, and there are a few Boston businesses contained therein. But mostly, the list is just those I pass each day as I do my chores.” She smiled up at him. “It helps to have the big ’T’ painted on the doors.”
Ben Edes swiped his chin and grinned. “Yes, those Sons of Liberty can be quite cantankerous at night. You’ll be safe going into the ladies’ shops on your list but stay away from Sampson’s Grocery. He’s a nasty son of a bitch.”
“I’m certain I’ll be fine. He spends a good deal of money on advertising elsewhere. I want him.” Libby clapped her hands together. “And his quid.”
“Be careful, then.” Ben rose when Libby did. “Maybe I should go with you.”
“I’m sure you have type to set. Have you gotten any word yet about the battle up north?” Libby prodded for information.
Ben heaved a sigh. “Yes, the news of the battle arrived yesterday. The British retreated, only a few shots were fired. One American dead.”
Libby’s stomach lurched. “Did you find out the name of the poor unfortunate?”
Ben waved his hands through the air. “I have it written down somewhere. He’s not from here.” He smiled. “Your Hawk is safe.”
Libby could feel her cheeks flame. She put a hand up to cover the tinge. “He’s not my Hawk. I’m merely contributing to the Revolution by helping him make bullets.”
“Whatever you say, Mrs. Wexford.” He motioned for her to exit the room and he followed. “Be careful out there.” He made his way to the production room to set type.
Libby gathered up her basket of flyers and some order forms. Always the optimist. If the battle had ended in Maine recently, Hawk would be home soon. Her heart rate soared as she contemplated ways to welcome him back. She wished for more of his torrid kisses. But first, she had business to take care of. Despite Ben Edes’s admonition, she would visit Sampson’s grocery. She could handle Mr. Sampson, even if he was a nasty son of a bitch. He would not be the first one she’d ever encountered.
