“Whoa, girl!” Brock tugged on the harness lines when he came round again to where Annie stood. Smiling, he lifted his hat and ran the back of his forearm across his brow. “First time I’ve plowed in ages, but I have to say, this ground’s a pure joy to work.”
Hope sprung up in Annie that maybe after all she could salvage her pride and show Brock she could work the land as well as he. Surely now that Sal had done a row, the mule would understand what was expected of her.
Annie lifted her chin and projected what she hoped was a confident tone. “I appreciate you getting Sal in the notion to work, but it’s my land to plow. I’ll put on a pair of moccasins and—”
“Annie, I have no idea why Uncle Jonah decided to bequeath half of his land to me. Nor do I have any desire to take what is rightfully yours.” His look held an unexpected kindness that caused rogue tears to sting Annie’s eyes.
Pivoting his gaze for a moment toward the turned earth, he paused as if measuring his words before lifting his face again to hers. “I do, however, feel an obligation to see that Jonah’s crop is planted and his widow is secure before the snow flies again.” His gray-green eyes shone with earnestness. “Please, Annie, let me do this. Let me feel I have, in some small way, earned Uncle Jonah’s trust in me.”
The plea was impossible to refuse. Annie nodded. “All right.” A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I suppose I’m in no position to turn down help.”
When their gazes met, an understanding seemed to pass between them. Annie wondered if this was God’s way of making her situation benefit both her and Brock.
She glanced up at the noonday sun. “You’ll be thirsty and hungry soon. I’ll bring you a bucket of water later and something to eat.”
“I appreciate that.” With another quick grin, he turned his attention back to the mule and plow.
Annie allowed herself one last look at his broad-shouldered form following the plow before she headed back to the cabin, Cap’n Brody at her heels.
Two hours later, she met Brock at the edge of the plowed field, a bucket of water in one hand and a basket of food in the other.
Smiling widely, he strode toward her. His wet auburn hair glistened in the sun, and his hands and forearms extending from rolled-up sleeves, dripped with water. “I washed up the best I could in the creek.”
His soft voice and shy glance did peculiar things to Annie’s heart. She was glad for the diversion of Cap’n Brody, who loped up to join them. With a cursory sniff at the basket of stew and bread, the dog pranced to Brock and poked out his pink tongue to lavish wet licks on his new friend’s hands.
Chuckling, Brock greeted Cap’n Brody with hearty pats and scratches behind the dog’s ears before relieving Annie of her burdens. He grinned at the dog. “I might have to fight you for these victuals, old boy. They smell mighty good.” Falling in step with Annie as she headed for the shade of a sycamore, he angled his grin in her direction, making her heart flutter.
When they reached the tree, Annie pulled a generous-sized hambone from the basket. “Do not worry, Cap’n. I did not forget you.” She tossed the bone to a bare spot in the grass a few feet away and the dog pounced on his prize with a happy bark.
Annie and Brock settled themselves in the shade of the tree, and Annie busied herself ladling rabbit stew from a tin into two wooden bowls, hoping her halting, awkward movements didn’t betray her nervousness. For most of her life, she’d dined alone with men—either Papa or Jonah. It was stupid of her to feel nervous with Brock. Yet she did.
She dipped a mug into the bucket of water and handed it to him. “You have gotten much done.” Striving for an unaffected voice, she glanced at the plowed furrows.
He took a deep drink of the water and drew the back of his forearm across his mouth. “I reckon I’ve plowed nearly half an acre. I’ve worked up a right-smart hunger, and this stew sure smells good.” A wide grin accompanied his compliment. He turned his focus to the bowl of thick stew cradled in his lap and lifted a spoonful to his mouth.
Watching him chew, Annie frowned. Though he might not be an especially devout Christian, it bothered her that he would so carelessly dispense with the mealtime prayer of thanksgiving. Neither had Papa been devout in his faith, but he’d always remembered his upbringing by the French nuns and crossed himself before each meal.
She glared at Brock and honed a sharp edge to her voice. “I am glad the meal is to your liking, Monsieur Martin. All the more reason to thank our heavenly Father for it, do you not agree?”
He stopped eating and his expression reminded Annie of Cap’n Brody’s when she scolded the dog for lapping from a fresh bucket of milk. “Yes, of course,” he mumbled, and dropped his spoon back into the bowl.
Annie offered up a short prayer, which was followed by a stretch of strained silence interrupted only by Cap’n Brody’s contented growls as he gnawed on the bone and the thump, thump, thump of his tail on bare ground.
At length, Brock cleared his throat. “I reckon if the weather holds, I can get the rest of the field plowed by this time next week.” He shoveled another spoonful of stew into his mouth and gazed at the work he’d done.
Annie nodded mutely and took a sip of water. Though it felt a bit like ceding her responsibility and therefore her claim on the land, she saw nothing to be gained in arguing with him about who should do the plowing. It only made sense for him to finish the task, as he could accomplish it much faster than she ever would. Besides, there would be plenty of work for her to do when it came time for the planting and hoeing.
He polished off the last of the stew. Looking more than a little disconcerted, he stood and handed her the empty bowl. “Thank you for the fine meal, Annie. Can’t remember having a better bowl of stew.” His lips tipped up in a gentle, almost sad smile, and the fluttering began in her chest again. “I”—he paused and glanced down as if in thought, then raised his gaze back to hers—”I enjoyed it very much.”
“I am glad you liked it.” Why did she sound so breathless? “I will send some with you when you leave.”
“I’d like that.” His gaze deepened, and she suddenly realized they were both still holding the empty bowl. She tugged it from his grasp and their fingers grazed. Heat suffused her face.
He only grinned and turned and strode to where the mule stood munching grass.
For a long moment, Annie stood watching him from a distance, the butterflies in her chest flitting madly. She must be daft to let Brock Martin’s charms disarm her. She mustn’t forget that if he wanted, he could take her land, at least the forty acres that belonged to Jonah. Even if he didn’t, he’d be gone by the end of planting. Besides, he obviously wasn’t a Christian. And didn’t Obadiah warn against becoming unequally yoked with a nonbeliever?
“Annie.” The male voice behind Annie made her jump, jolting her from her reverie.
She turned to face Ezra Buxton, surprise and irritation vying for dominance inside her. She thought she’d made it clear to him that she was not interested in renewing their relationship. “What do you want, Ezra?” She didn’t bother to blunt her sharp tone.
Frowning, he glanced at Brock’s distant figure, plodding behind the plow.
“Thought you oughta know. Folks are talkin’. Some sayin’ it ain’t fittin’, you and him bein’ out here together. I reckon it ain’t any of my business, but—”
“Oui. It is none of your business! And we are not together.” Anger flared inside Annie. With difficulty, she ignored the temptation to ask who was saying disparaging things about her. But she refused to become a party to ugly gossip. As for Ezra, he was obviously trying to be helpful, albeit in his own clumsy way. She tempered her voice. “You can tell anyone who is interested that Brock is staying in Papa’s trapper’s cabin. He is helping me with the farming, that is all.”
“Brock, huh?” Ezra’s voice dripped with disdain. He glanced at the plowed field, then down at his hands curling the ends of his hat brim and back to Annie’s face. A deep sigh puffed from hi
s lips. “Look, I jist think it might be best if we got hitched as soon as possible, that’s all.”
Once she might have welcomed such a proposal from Ezra. No more. Perhaps it was her marriage to Jonah. But for whatever reason, her feelings for Ezra had definitely cooled. At the same time, she could see how he would not understand such a change and would think the two of them could simply take up where they had left off before her marriage. Taking a deep breath, she strove for patience and gentled her tone. Pressing her hand on his forearm, she prayed he might understand her feelings when she didn’t entirely understand them herself. “I am sorry, Ezra, but I am not looking to marry again so soon.”
Frowning, he cocked his head toward the plowed field. “Is it him?”
“Non!” The word leaped more forcefully than she would have liked from her lips.
Ezra blew a frustrated sounding breath from his nostrils. “Let Jonah’s kin have his share of the land, Annie. That German family homesteadin’ just east of here would buy your land in an eye-blink, and they have gold.” His eyes turned wistful and enthusiasm infused his voice. “Your share would bring enough money to buy us a right nice Conestoga. I hear tell there’s better land than this for the takin’ out west, along the Mississippi. What’ya say, Annie? Let’s get a whole new clean start.” He slipped his arm around her waist and lowered his face toward hers.
“Non! Don’t, Ezra!” Annie pulled away, a new blaze of anger sizzling inside her. How dare he think he could force his affections on her. “I promised Papa on his deathbed I would keep this land, it is for that reason I married Jonah. This land is my mérite des ancêtres—my birthright. I will not sell it to the Hoffmeiers or anyone else!”
Ezra sent another narrow-eyed glare at the field, and an ugly sneer twisted his mouth. Giving a derisive snort, he clapped his hat on his head. “You jist might change your mind when word gets out to the settlement that you and that feller’s been keepin’ company out here!”
Chapter 5
Brock slathered another fistful of wet clay onto the chimney, and tried without success to suppress the notion growing by the minute in his brain.
With the small, flat piece of board he’d been using to repair the cracked chimney, he smoothed out the glob of clay. Yet, despite his diligent attempt to focus fully on the work at hand, the insidious thought continued to slink out to both torture and to tempt.
He flung the board down to the floor with a clatter. “It’s not fair! Why does it have to be this way?” Shoving mud-encrusted fingers through his hair, he tried to obliterate the thought.
He slumped to the nearby stool in defeat and surrendered to the idea that had not let him be since it first slithered through the doorway of his mind two days ago.
When he’d learned of Uncle Jonah’s death, his hope of securing exoneration for the death of Hamilton Driscoll shriveled. But now he realized, fate, Providence, or whatever one might care to call it, had provided another avenue through which he could pursue his claim of innocence.
The land. Even half profit from the sale of the land and the promised crop should more than pay for the services of a sharp Philadelphia lawyer who could competently plead Brock’s case.
The thought gouged mercilessly at his heart. It most likely meant he would have to oppose Annie. As the only surviving male blood relative of Jonah Martin, Brock had no doubt he would be granted full control of the property if he so wished.
A deep groan bubbled up from some desolate cavern inside him. He had turned the problem over and over in his head—had barely slept for two days. Yet no other solution seemed viable.
The choices before him were few and grim. He could take the coward’s way out and remain a deserter. He could go back without decent counsel and face Colonel Stryker and an almost certain hangman’s noose. Or, he could forcibly wrest Uncle Jonah’s land from Annie and sell it to pay for a lawyer who might—just might—be able to save his neck.
Brock felt sick. Desertion was out of the question. His destiny was to either die or become despicable to Annie—sweet, spunky little Annie, who in the space of a fortnight had crept into a tender, dear place in his heart.
Hope of convincing her to sell the land appeared almost nonexistent. Brock found no consolation in the knowledge that she would be safer with the Dunbars or with Ezra Buxton. At the thought, something that felt like jealousy nipped at Brock’s heart. He’d experienced the same feeling the other day in the field when he noticed the boy talking with Annie beneath the sycamore tree. Later when he’d inquired about her visitor, she’d dismissed Ezra as simply a friend concerned for her well-being. But Bess Dunbar had let slip that young Buxton had courted Annie before her marriage to Jonah. Likely, the boy was hoping to renew that relationship.
But Annie remained disinclined to live with the Dunbars … or to marry Ezra. And for Brock to leave Deux Fleuves and leave her alone on the land seemed as much a death sentence to Annie as Brock’s returning to Newport Barracks would be for him. For both their sakes, the land needed to be sold.
A shadow sliding past the window caught Brock’s eye, jarring him from his somber reverie. Instantly alert, he reached for his musket leaning against the wall. He slipped quietly out the cabin’s open door, glad for the stealth of his moccasin-clad feet.
The leaves of an elderberry bush shuddered as the shadow disappeared behind a thicket, and Brock filled the musket’s flashpan with powder.
“Who goes there?” He lifted his weapon to shoulder level and squinted, sighting down the barrel. As he’d done countless times during his scouting days with the army, he willed his nerves to steadiness and positioned his thumb on the cock, ready to pull it back. “Who goes there, I say? Show yourself or taste my lead.”
Seeing an Indian emerge from the thicket almost caused Brock to cock his weapon. But the man raised a hand palm forward to indicate he came in peace.
Brock lowered his weapon, but kept it at the ready as his gaze traveled the length of the man.
A gray turkey feather hung from the Indian’s scalp lock. Otherwise, his head was shaved. His brown print calico shirt hung to his knees, partially covering deerskin leggings that ended just above doeskin moccasins. A Delaware, from the looks of him.
“I mean no harm. I trap the creek.” A hint of sadness colored the Indian’s tone. “The Frenchman, Blanchet, was my friend.” He nodded toward the cabin. “You knew Blanchet?”
The tension eased from Brock’s muscles. If this Indian had indeed been friends with Annie’s father, he most likely offered no threat.
He shook his head. “No. But I am a friend of his daughter, Annie.” Sadly, Brock feared that description would not be accurate much longer. “I am Brock Martin, nephew of Jonah Martin.”
Brock suspected this man knew how his uncle had died, but doubted that he or any from his tribe were involved. Obadiah had shown him the arrow they’d taken from Jonah’s back, and from the fletching, Brock had determined it had been fashioned by Shawnee, not Delaware.
The Indian grunted—a response Brock could not decipher. Then he tapped his chest. “I am Gray Feather. For many years Blanchet and I hunt together, trap together, trade together.” Genuine sorrow shone from Gray Feather’s dark eyes.
“I’m sorry. From what I have learned, Gerard Blanchet was a good man. I wish I could have known him.” Brock reached out his hand in friendship, and the Indian clasped it firmly.
Brock cocked his head toward the cabin. “Annie has allowed me to stay here for now. I’d be honored if you would come in and sit for a spell. I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer, but would be happy to share some buffalo jerky.”
Gray Feather nodded and followed Brock into the cabin.
He lowered himself to the floor and sat with an air of familiarity that supported his claim of friendship with Annie’s father.
A strong smell of rancid bear grease hung about the Indian. Inside the cramped cabin, it became almost stifling. It was the grease that made the man’s scalp lock shine.
Brock leaned his musket against the wall next to the hearth, but never moved more than an arm’s length away from it. Keeping Gray Feather in his peripheral vision, he stepped to where his knapsack hung on a wall peg. He had no doubt that this Delaware brave could instantly produce a knife from beneath his long shirt and hurl it at his back in the blink of an eyelid. He wanted to avoid any move that might set him off.
Slowly, deliberately, Brock unbuckled the knapsack and drew out the slab of dried buffalo meat.
“You a soldier?” Gray Feather’s dark gaze fixed on the army regulation knapsack of blue drill cloth with its red US on the flap, nestled in a circle of white.
Brock’s hand paused in midslice of paring off a hunk of the meat. The notion of lying didn’t sit well, so as he’d done with Obadiah Dunbar, he skirted the issue. “I did some scouting for the army a while back.”
Gray Feather’s short grunt gave no indication he either believed or disbelieved Brock. He took the offered meat with a nod of thanks.
Brock lowered himself to the hard-packed dirt floor to sit facing the Indian. For a long moment, the two men sat chewing the dried meat in silence. At length, Gray Feather lifted a concerned look to Brock. “Once again, the bluecoats will fight the redcoats.”
Brock nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid another war with England is only months, maybe weeks, away.”
“Tecumseh, chief of the Shawnee, will join with the redcoats in the war he has already begun against the bluecoats and the settlers.” Gray Feather’s voice was full of conviction. “Many Shawnee have answered his call to war, and that of his brother, The Prophet.” A troubled look wrinkled his bronze brow. “There will be war. Many whites will die. Many Indians will die.”
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