by Pamela Clare
A great bellowing arose, drowning out Killy’s voice.
"What kind of gift is that, little sister?" Joseph asked Sarah, a grin on his face as he followed Killy outside.
Sarah glanced at Amalie and Annie, as if to explain. "I thought Connor and his brothers would be home when Farmer Fairley arrived."
Folding her shawl around her baby, she brushed past Amalie and out the door, Amalie and Annie hurrying behind her.
And Amalie saw.
A great bull stood tied to the back of the wagon. Unhappy about its plight, the animal huffed and growled, its head tossing from side to side, great horns slashing the air.
"Mercy!" Annie said beside her.
"Master Fairley, I wasn’t expecting you so soon," Sarah said.
"There’s a storm headed this way, and my good wife would be most displeased if I should be snowed in here with you and miss her Christmas cookin’." He removed his hat, scratched his head. "Truth be told, I can’t be keepin’ this bull any longer. The beast has already destroyed one trough and all but brought down my spare cowshed. He’s a cantankerous animal."
As if to prove Farmer Fairley’s words, the bull chose that moment to crash its head into the back of the wagon, causing the wagon to rock forward and frightening the horses, which whinnied and stamped uneasily at the snowy ground.
Farmer Fairley calmed the horses, holding fast to the reins. "I need your good man to take the beast off my hands."
"My husband is not here, nor are his brothers," Sarah told Farmer Fairley. "They were called away to Albany on a matter of great importance."
Farmer Fairley’s eyes narrowed. "You didn’t tell them you’d bought the animal, did you? You meant to surprise them?"
At the expression on Sarah’s face, Farmer Fairley broke into guffaws. "One must take great care with a bull. If it were to get out, it could kill someone or get into another farmer’s field and cause havoc."
Sarah’s gaze fell to the ground. "I…I didn’t know."
Farmer Fairley patted one of his horses on its flank. "You’d best be decidin’ what to do with it, for I’ll not be takin’ that beast back home with me. Show me where you want it, and I’ll lead it there for you."
Sarah looked from Killy to Joseph, and Amalie could tell by the expressions on their faces that they hadn’t the first idea what to do with an angry bull. Neither of them were farmers. But that wouldn’t stop them from taking charge.
Killy pushed up his sleeves. "We’ll put him in the dryin’ shed, tie him down tight, and see to it he’s got food and water. When the boys get home, they’ll know what to do with him."
Amalie knew little of farming or animal husbandry, but she had watched many a time while Sister Marie Louise had tended the convent’s small herd of cattle, leading the bull from pen to paddock so that it could breed the cows. It had never seemed a challenge, the big animal following wherever Sister Marie Louise led.
Amalie walked around the wagon to get a closer look, amazed at the size of this bull, its coat red and shaggy, its body thick and muscled, its horns long. A rope ran from the ring in its nose to an iron ring fixed to the wagon’s frame. She had no doubt that should that rope break, the beast would stampede, raging at all of them.
It eyed her, its pupils dark, the whites of its eyes flashing as she drew nearer.
"Oh, the poor beast!" Amalie drew closer still. "It is frightened."
Sister Marie Louise had never tied a bull in a shed by itself. She’d always made certain the animal had the company of a cow or two to keep it content.
She turned to Annie. "Go and get Nessa from the barn and loose her in the paddock. Spread hay for her and fill the trough with water."
The water would freeze during the night, but it was the best they could do until other arrangements could be made.
Annie nodded and dashed off toward the barn.
Joseph frowned. "What do you know of bulls?"
"I watched one of the sisters tend our herd of cattle at the abbey. I often walked beside her as she led the bull to pasture."
Joseph shook his head. "This beast is mean-spirited. It would be hard for a grown man to tame him, let alone a small woman."
The bull bellowed again, swung its head from side to side, pawed at the snow.
"It has nothing to do with size. It is about mastery," Amalie said, remembering what Sister Marie Louise had once said to another nun who was afraid to go near the bull. She turned to Farmer Fairley. "When the cow has been moved, you can take him and place him with her."
Farmer Fairley nodded. "The company of a good cow ought to calm him. ’Tis more often than not the cows that train the bull."
Killy chuckled and opened his mouth as if to speak, then seemed to think the better of it, his mouth snapping shut.
Farmer Fairley motioned to the back of the wagon. "Why don’t you two men unload the rest of it while we’re waitin’?"
Amalie looked over at Sarah again, amazed. There was more?
Killy and Joseph walked to the side of the wagon and, together, drew back a heavy sheet of canvas, a wide grin spreading across Killy’s face. "A plow — and a fine one at that — and a scythe, too."
Amalie stared over at Sarah, astonished.
Sarah looked as if she feared she’d done something wrong, her gaze drawn repeatedly to the bull, which lowed and huffed. "These are my Christmas gifts to all of you. I wanted to help in some way, to use my coin to make life on the farm easier."
"Such gifts, Sarah!" Amalie couldn’t imagine how much the bull must have cost, much less the plow and scythe. She knew Sarah had been left with a small fortune, but hadn’t imagined Sarah would spend so much of it on the farm. "You are very generous."
"You are my family now."
Sarah’s simple reply put a lump in Amalie’s throat. She understood only too well how it felt to be alone in the world. Until she’d come to live at the farm with Morgan, she’d never had a place she could truly call home. "Yes, we are your family."
"Well, the boys will be surprised when they get back, won’t they?" Killy laughed, lifting the scythe out of the wagon and walking over to lean it up against Iain and Annie’s cabin.
"That much is certain." Grinning, Joseph hopped into the wagon and lifted up the heavy plow. "I am glad I will be here to see their faces."
The bull bellowed again, lowered its head, and crashed once more against the back of the wagon, making Sarah gasp and nearly knocking Joseph off balance as he tried to lower the plow to Killy.
"I’ve got it." Killy rested the heavy implement on the ground, chuckling. "Aye, this will be a Christmas to remember."
Amalie saw that Nessa was now in the paddock, Annie spreading hay on the snow-packed ground.
Farmer Fairley saw, too. He handed the horse’s reins to Killy, then got something out of the back of the wagon — a thick rod.
Another bellow, another crash.
"Quit your caterwaulin’!" Farmer Fairley walked to the back of the wagon, hit the bull with a stick to make it step back, and unbound the rope, glancing over at Amalie. "You’d best move aside, mistress. Bulls are troublesome. You can never tell when — "
The bull bellowed and turned as if to run, the sudden motion causing Farmer Fairley to drop the rod. For a moment, Amalie feared the bull would charge the poor farmer, perhaps even gore him.
Without thinking, she stepped between the farmer and the terrified animal, raised her hand, and struck the bull as hard as she could on its nose. "Non!"
It quietened at once, turning its head to gaze at her.
Any fear she’d felt subsided. She took the rope from a startled Farmer Fairley, then chastised the bull in her native tongue. "Comporte-toi bien ou tu seras castré et finiras dans ma marmite!"
Behave, or you will be gelded and put in my stewpot!
The animal followed docilely as she led it toward the paddock.
From behind her she heard Joseph let out a breath.
And then Killy spoke. "I’ll be damned."
/> * * *
Connor and his brothers began their second full day in Albany by heading below stairs to break their fast and talk over their plans, careful to speak only in Gaelic lest they be overheard and their words carried to Haviland.
"Either Wentworth has already set sail for New York, or he doesna wish to be found," Iain said.
Connor nodded his agreement, finishing his breakfast of eggs, sausages, and bread with a swallow of hot coffee. "What are you goin’ to say to Haviland? We’ve no more proof today than we did yesterday."
"I dinnae ken just yet." Iain looked across the rough-hewn table at Connor. "But we owe it to the men no’ to give up."
Morgan tore off another bite of bread. "If it weren’t so near Christmas, I’d say we should journey to Fort Edward and seek witnesses there."
"What we need are the army ledgers Wentworth’s clerk kept."
Connor thought he knew where those ledgers were. "Haviland probably has them and knows full well he’s cheatin’ the Rangers. He’s lyin’ to us, the mac an uilc."
Son of evil.
"Wentworth is gone, and so Haviland sees his chance to bring the Rangers low." Morgan tossed back the last of his coffee. "I wonder if he kept their pay for himself."
Iain’s face settled into a scowl. "I wouldna put such a thing past him, but we cannae accuse him wi’out proof."
Anger churned in Connor’s gut to think that any man could so blithely deprive another of what was rightly his. "I’ve a mind to take what belongs to the men from the next British supply train."
Iain arched a dark brow. "We’ve only just freed the MacKinnon name from the taint of murder."
"Now you would see us hanged for thieves?" Morgan chuckled.
Connor shrugged. "At least we’d be guilty."
It enraged him to think of men who’d served so faithfully — some of them, like Killy, McHugh, and Forbes, from the earliest days of the war — being deprived of the coin they’d earned by risking their lives. He had no doubt they and their families would make it through the winter. A canny man could provide for his family by harvesting the bounty of the forest, and the Rangers were cannier than most. But after all they’d endured, they shouldn’t have to face such deprivation.
Haviland, pampered officer that he was, would never understand the hardship the Rangers had faced. Long marches in sweltrie heat and bitter cold. Gnawing hunger. Exhaustion. And always death — death that stalked them from behind every hillock and tree, death that cut down their comrades beside them, death that turned wives to widows and left the bodies of heroes to molder on the forest floor.
Nay, Haviland could not understand. Yet, how could he deny the service the Rangers had rendered? These men had fought for Britain, turning the tide of the war, bringing victory when British generals had known only defeat.
"We will go to Haviland and demand to see Wentworth’s ledgers. All the proof we need is there."
"And if he refuses to produce them?" Morgan asked.
"We’ll pay the men ourselves," Iain said. "I’ll ask Annie to sell some of her mother’s jewels to see the men well settled. I’m certain she’ll agree."
Connor and Morgan exchanged a glance. Although the wealth a woman brought to her marriage belonged by law to her husband, Iain had intended never to touch Annie’s jewels, her inheritance from her mother. "Nay, I’ll ask Sarah to part wi’ some of the coin Wentworth left for her. Those jewels are all Annie has of her family."
Their discussion was interrupted when Miss Janssen appeared at their table. She’d watched them all morning, seeming pensive now rather than angry.
"Pardon me." She looked over at Connor. "May I speak with you?"
Connor stood and followed her a short distance.
"Is what you’ve told me true? Does Killy truly feel…affection for me?"
Connor forgot his rage for a moment. "Aye, miss, he does. I heard him say wi’ my own ears that he was afraid to ask you to wed him for fear you’d refuse."
She held Connor’s gaze for a good, long moment, as if measuring the truth of his words, then gave a nod as if something had been decided, her lips curving into the first smile he’d ever seen on her face. "I’ll bring you all more coffee."
And Connor saw why Killy thought her handsome. Without a frown weighing down her features, she was quite bonnie.
* * *
They paid for their room and board and left the tavern, making their way up the hill toward the fort, snow falling in thick, fat flakes.
Connor looked up at the leaden sky. "It will be a long trek home."
"Aye." Morgan trudged along on his left. "We must leave soon if we wish to make it back to the farm in time for Christmas Eve."
Connor felt that pull — the tug of home and hearth, wife and child. He, too, wished to be home for Christmas. He wanted to see Sarah’s eyes when he slipped that gold wedding band on her finger, wanted to watch it glint in the candlelight as she played at her harpsichord, wanted to hold his son and kiss his sweet, downy hair.
But their duty to the men came first. It would not do for them to enjoy the warmth of their fires and the company of their women when men who’d fought for them suffered want. That would be the same as turning their backs on their clan. For the Rangers were their clan, bound to them as brothers by the blood they’d lost and spilled together.
Iain’s voice interrupted Connor’s thoughts. "Do naugh’ that might cause Haviland to arrest us. Dinnae threaten him. Dinnae speak a word that he might deem treasonous."
Connor realized that Iain was looking at him. "Why do you speak only to me and no’ to Morgan?"
"Because I ken my brothers well." A grin tugged at Iain’s lips.
They reached the fort quickly and were immediately given an audience with Haviland. This unnerved Connor, a shadow of warning passing over his heart. He glanced about covertly, and what he saw was not to his liking.
"Aye, I see it," Morgan said in Gaelic. "There are twice the number of redcoats at the door, and Haviland has posted sentries in the hallway that were not there yesterday."
"He must be expectin’ trouble," Iain said.
"Or hopin’ for it." Connor’s sense of foreboding grew stronger. "They haven’t tried to disarm us this time."
Something about it reminded him of the day so long ago when Wentworth had arrested them on false charges of murder. But Haviland was not Wentworth, for he wasn’t nearly as wily, nor did his cruelty serve a purpose. Wentworth had wanted to force them to fight for him. Haviland seemed to seek only to humiliate them — or ruin them.
They found Haviland at Wentworth’s writing table just as he’d been yesterday. "You have returned, MacKinnon. Show me proof."
Iain stepped forward. "We searched the city, but couldna find a single officer or soldier who’d served wi’ Wentworth, so I have nothin’ more to show you than I did yesterday. But I swear to you that Wentworth saw to the payin’ of my men. The proof you seek is written in the ledgers his clerk kept at Fort Edward. Either those ledgers are already here in your possession, or they remain at Fort Edward. If you would bring them, this matter could be easily settled."
"Wentworth’s ledgers? I know not what became of them. I passed through Fort Edward on my way here, of course, but I saw no ledgers. Perhaps they were lost in the same battle where he was taken captive. Although I could dispatch a messenger and ask the commanding officer at Edward to search for them, there are so few troops remaining at my disposal that I would consider that a waste of His Majesty’s resources. Without proof, MacKinnon, I cannot and will not pay your Rangers."
Haviland spoke the last word with contempt, his lip curling.
Neach dìolain! Bastard!
Connor bit his tongue, recalling Iain’s admonition not to say anything that might get them arrested.
"These Rangers turned the tide of the war. By their blood, British troops were kept safe on the march. Through their skill wi’ shootin’ marks, trackin’ and woodcraft, the Crown won many victories. And now you would
break Britain’s word to them, deprivin’ them of their wages and leavin’ their families to go hungry at Christmastide?"
"I don’t know of any promises made to the Rangers, MacKinnon," Haviland replied in a silky voice, rising to his feet. "As for their much-vaunted woodcraft, their ability to skulk through the forest like heathen Indians does lend itself to performing certain tasks, but that hardly makes the Rangers soldiers. You and your men are nothing more than the raffish spawn of exiles."
Connor felt his teeth grind, his fists clenching as he fought to keep them at his side and not slam the whoreson in the face.
