Defending Truth © 2013 by Shannon McNear
The Calling © 2013 by Kathleen Fuller
A Silent Night © 2013 by Anna Urquhart
A Pony Express Christmas © 2013 by Margaret Brownley
A Christmas Castle © 2013 by Cynthia Hickey
The Cowboy’s Angel © 2013 by Lauraine Snelling
A Badlands Christmas © 2013 by Marcia Gruver
Buckskin Bride © 2013 by Vickie McDonough
The Gold Rush Christmas © 2013 by Michelle Ule
Print ISBN 978-1-62416-190-2
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62416-479-8
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62416-478-1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
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Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
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Printed in Canada.
Contents
Defending Truth by Shannon McNear
The Calling by Kathleen Fuller
A Silent Night by Anna Urquhart
A Pony Express Christmas by Margaret Brownley
A Christmas Castle by Cynthia Hickey
The Cowboy’s Angel by Lauraine Snelling
A Badlands Christmas by Marcia Gruver
Buckskin Bride by Vickie McDonough
The Gold Rush Christmas by Michelle Ule
Defending Truth
Shannon McNear
Historical Note
Truth and her papa and siblings are fictional, but I’ve anchored them within an actual historical family. Anthony Bledsoe was indeed captain of the home guard while the others rode away to hunt Ferguson, and genealogical records reveal a much younger half brother by the whimsical name of Loving Bledsoe—by some accounts, Lovin or Loven. Where I could, I matched family members as well as events with historical records. Although I kept their location deliberately vague, they probably lived in or around the Watauga Valley in what is now eastern Tennessee, but was then western North Carolina.
In reality, Truth’s younger brother would have been considered old enough to run the hills and go hunting for the family, so that was a bit of dramatic license on my part. I did not, however, exaggerate the tales told after the terrible battle at Kings Mountain, which was a major turning point in the war for independence.
My apologies to the descendents of Joseph Greer, for painting that bold and daring young man in a less than flattering light.
Dedication
For all of you who believed, even when I dared not.
Chapter 1
Late October 1781
Papa would tan her hide if he knew she was out here again. Too many Indians to worry about. Not to mention Tories. But Papa was still gone, fighting the British, and the young’uns needed fed.
Truth Bledsoe took a better grip on her grandfather’s long rifle and peered through the cold fog of the western North Carolina morning. The narrow path up the mountain lay beneath a carpet of reds and golds, slick with rain. All but a few yards ahead faded into the mist. The forest was still except for the occasional drip of moisture and creak of branch.
With a deep breath, she trudged on, until out of the mist loomed a great boulder tucked into a fold of the mountainside.
Her favorite hunting perch. She slid the rifle up over the edge then, with fingers and toes in various cracks, hoisted herself onto the top. There she settled herself to wait for whatever game might wander past.
She’d taken her share of deer, turkey, and squirrel from this rock. Seen the occasional panther. Even glimpsed a few Indians. Today she was just hoping for something to fill the stew pot.
Her ears strained for shreds of sound. Everything would be muffled in the fog, whether the whoosh of a deer’s snort or the rustle of a squirrel in the leaves.
The snap of a twig, when it came, drew her almost straight up, gun to her shoulder.
“Don’t shoot!” came a sharp cry.
Sighted there at the end of her rifle was a man—young, unkempt, hollow cheeked. Not one she recognized from the near settlements.
“Please. For the love of God, don’t shoot.”
She did not move or lower the rifle. She’d take no chances. “Who are you?”
“I—” He swallowed, dark gaze flicking over her.
No hat, no rifle, no gear to speak of, not even a haversack. Filthy from head to toe. Hunting frock and breeches tattered, and were those—bloodstains?
“Answer,” she said. “Now.”
His already pale face went a shade lighter. His mouth flattened, and his brows came down. “No one of consequence.”
“So, there’s no one to miss you if I shoot.”
“I didn’t say that!”
A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Tell me, then, why I should not shoot you. Besides the love of God, of course.” Not a small reason, that.
He swayed a little on his feet. “Because. . .” His voice dropped. “Because the battle is over.”
Her heart hitched. The love of God, indeed.
She kept the rifle aimed—a girl must be prudent, after all—but lifted her head. Those were most certainly bloodstains then. “Are you wounded?”
He shook his head.
“How long since you last ate?”
Behind the curtain of stringy brown hair, his dark eyes remained wary. One shoulder lifted then fell.
Nothing for it then. Venting a sigh, she propped the rifle against her hip, keeping it leveled toward him, and reached her other hand into her haversack. The man’s gaze shifted, curious, hungry.
When she found the double-fist-sized chunk of johnnycake wrapped in a napkin, she pulled it out and tossed it to him. He caught it midair with only the slightest fumble.
“There,” she said. “Eat up.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
“Slowly. You’ll choke otherwise.” She reached this time for her canteen and swung it toward him. He easily snagged the strap as it sailed through the air.
Still eyeing her with caution and expectation, he unstopped the wooden vessel and took a drink before making short work of the last handful of her flat corn bread.
“Nearly out of sugar, so ’tain’t as sweet as I’d like,” she said.
He wiped one sleeve across his mouth. “Tastes mighty fine. My thanks to you.”
The rifle was getting heavy, but she ignored the burn in her arms and shoulders. “What battle, now?”
He stilled. His gaze darted to hers and away. “King’s Mountain.”
The chill those words gave her went all the way from toes to scalp. Lord, have mercy! He must be a Tory.
He’d thought nothing could ever unsettle him again, not after the battle and the horrors he’d witnessed after. Not even being held at gunpoint by a fierce overthe-mountain girl.
He’d thought wrong.
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After the initial scare they’d given each other, Micah Elliot tried to keep his movements slow and steady. No telling how twitchy she might get with that rifle—and a fine one it was, too, a Pennsylvania model, as long as she was tall. The girl, now, he couldn’t tell, wrapped as she was in a man’s hunting frock, her head covered in a felt hat, one edge cocked and decorated with a turkey feather. Eyes as pale as the mist and almost as cold peered at him from beneath the brim and her mouth was a thin line above a pointed chin.
He hadn’t reckoned on her taking pity on him and giving him food, either, but he was right grateful for that. And he wasn’t lying about the corn cake being tasty.
“Now.” Her eyes narrowed. “I know you’re not from around here. Who are you, and why are you here?”
How much could he trust her? Colonels Shelby and Sevier had at least tried to be fair after the battle, but he’d had a taste of the legendary savagery of the over-the-mountain men. Worse than Indians, it was said. Whether that was so, he could not say, but his body still carried the aches and bruises of their smoldering fury.
And his head was still a little swimmy, making it hard to pull his tattered thoughts together and come up with a defense. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
She hefted the rifle, and her faded blue skirt swayed a little beneath the coat. “I asked first.”
He fished and came up with a short form of his middle name. “Will.” That was common enough.
“Will…?”
“Williams.”
Did he imagine it, or did the corner of her mouth lift? Her gaze lost none of its fire. “Well then, Will Williams, and from where do you hail?”
“East.” The word was out before he could stop it.
“Oh, so amusing, you are.” She tilted her head, and the misty light outlined a strong cheekbone and jaw. “Get a little johnnycake down your gullet, and you have all kinds of sass.”
He wasn’t going to tell her that the bread barely eased the ache in his gut. “Well, you did feed me. You’re less likely to spend a rifle ball on someone you’ve just given your own provisions to.”
But he stepped back a couple of paces, just to show his goodwill. No sense in tempting the pretty hand of Fortune.
“King’s Mountain, you say.” Her face resumed its grimness. “We heard tell of Ferguson’s men meeting a bloody end there. You were on the Tory side, then?”
Right smart she was. He held his tongue. Nothing to say there.
“Well,” she muttered. “At least you didn’t lie about that.”
“The truth means much to you?”
She gave him what approached a real smile. “My name is Truth. Truth Bledsoe. My uncle is captain of the home guard for our settlements.”
Would it help his case or hurt it to tell her he was a coward? An escaped loyalist prisoner who could no longer face how neighbor fought neighbor and brother fought brother back home?
“Then I expect you’re mighty handy with that rifle.”
Her chin came up. “I’m near to fair.”
Likely a crack shot, the way she handled it. He didn’t want to test that.
“You going to tell me why you’re here?” she asked, her voice low.
She stood, balanced in a small hollow in the side of the boulder, skirts swaying just a little, but she held that long rifle as steady as could be.
She had to be as scared of him as he was of her, maybe more.
“How long’s it been since you ate?” she pressed.
“A week, maybe longer.” And not much, even then. They weren’t exactly generous with rations for prisoners.
Her mouth thinned a little more.
His gut growled, the hunger sharper than ever. It was becoming more difficult to keep the tremors out of his limbs, standing here under her eye. Better to take the chance of trusting her and die here quickly than dissemble and die of slow starvation. “I was part of the North Carolina militia from above Charlotte Town. Those of us what didn’t die at King’s Mountain were taken by the rebels—I. . .I mean—”
She nodded slowly. “See? I knew you were Tory.”
“Loyalist.”
Her fingers lifted on the gun barrel. “Makes no never mind. Go ahead.”
His heart pounded inside his chest so hard he was sure she heard it. “They carried us to Gilbert Town. Nine of us were hanged. And the rest—”
He couldn’t say the words. Couldn’t inflict the horror of it on her, a mere girl—
But she’d fed him. She deserved an explanation.
“There was unspeakable abuse,” he said. “You don’t know.” He shook his head again.
“Ferguson threatened our settlements with unspeakable things,” she said.
He swallowed. “I know what you must think of me, but I promise I mean you no harm. You or the settlements. Regardless of what Ferguson said.”
And how could he? He didn’t even know where his loyalties lay anymore.
Chapter 2
What was I thinking?
Truth huffed. She’d stomp back down the trail if she weren’t so particular about stepping downhill on wet leaves. She’d not just spared a Tory—one who’d doubtless faced her father across a battlefield—but fed him. And then bid him go back into hiding.
And she still didn’t have anything to fill the pot at home.
Telling him, “Shoo, go away, I need to finish hunting,” didn’t sit well with her, but what could she do? He was noisy enough to scare away game for a mile in any direction. And he should know better.
She thought of the way he’d swayed, stumbled a little, and caught himself. Bone weary, he’d looked. . .maybe soul weary as well. That was the reason she’d had pity on him and not only warned him back into hiding but promised to bring him more food.
What was she thinking?
His plea still wrung at her. For the love of God. Likely he’d meant it as a common oath. Maybe. But maybe not.
Now, after wasting so much time, she had to see to her sisters and younger brother. Get off the mountain, back to the cabin, and while she was at it, see if Uncle Anthony had any word on Papa. It had been a good two weeks. If he was helping guard prisoners from the battle, then it could be a bit longer, and she’d learned not to fret overmuch when he was out riding with Colonel Sevier and the others.
There was unspeakable abuse. You don’t know.
A chill swept her as the young man’s words came back to mind. From Papa? Never. Oh, he could be stern. ’Specially after losing Mama three years back, there were times Truth wasn’t sure he was still the papa she’d always known. But maybe that was just on account of growing older herself and seeing life a bit more clearly.
But abuse? No. Maybe he’d lost his temper a time or two, but he was more likely to leave the cabin than take it out on her or the young’uns.
So if Papa was there, that meant he either couldn’t stop it, or—
She rounded a bend of the trail and skidded to a halt. Outlined in the thinning mist stood a perfect six-point buck.
Ah Lord! Could it be? And in the unlikeliest of places as well.
Without another thought, she swung the rifle to her shoulder, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. There was no turning down provision when it appeared for the taking.
The familiar recoil of the weapon slammed into her shoulder. Smoke puffed into the air and was lost in the fog. She peered again into the gloom—and there lay the buck, dropped with the single shot.
That surely was a miracle.
By long habit, she first reloaded the rifle. Afterward she made quick work of field dressing the animal, saving the organ meats, and tying the cord she always kept in her haversack to the buck’s hind legs for dragging the carcass home. Now her main concern was leaving before a hungry bear caught wind of her kill.
Back at the cabin, her next youngest sister Patience had milked the cow and set the cream to rise, and Thomas had brought in wood. A bright, cheery fire warmed the inside of the cabin, and her two youngest sisters,
Thankful and Mercy, were at their morning chore of brushing and braiding each other’s hair.
Thomas’s head came up at her entrance. “Fresh meat?”
Setting her rifle in the corner, she flashed him a grin. “A deer. Six-point buck.”
His blue eyes rounded. With a whoop, he went to gather the knives and bowls they used for cutting up the meat.
She tugged off her hat and hung it on its peg. And how would she get food to—what was his name, Will?—without a dozen questions from the young’uns?
Will…Williams. With a snort, she slid out of the worn, fringed hunting frock and hung it up as well.
Together, she knew they’d make short work of it—skinning, cutting the meat into strips for smoking, and saving aside a haunch for roasting. And she set little Mercy to the side on a chair, with the Bible open before her.
“Behold,” Mercy read, her clear, high voice steady, “the heaven and the heaven of heavens is the Lord thy God’s, the earth also, with all that therein is.”
Truth thought of the wildness of the mountains. How great God must be for shaping them.
“For the Lord your God is God of gods, and Lord of lords, a great God, a mighty, and a terrible, which regardeth not persons, nor taketh reward: He doth execute the judgment of the fatherless and widow, and loveth the stranger, in giving him food and raiment. Love ye therefore the stranger: for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt.”
Her hands slowed at her task. Giving him food and raiment. Well, that settled it. She had to do something about that half-starved, soon-to-be-naked man up the mountain whether or not she liked it. She’d just have to figure out a way to do so without the others finding out.
Or Papa, once he returned.
There was only the pop and thunder of rifle and musket fire, the tang of smoke, the screams of the wounded, and the chilling war whoops from the rebel forces surrounding the mountain. Micah crouched, gripping the musket, his bayonet at the ready. Why was the colonel taking so long on the order to charge?
And over everything, Ferguson’s whistle, with which he signaled above the din of battle. Would Micah even be able to hear the under-officer’s order? He strained for the shout, but only the rebel screams and shriek of the whistle ripped at his eardrums. Still, none of his company moved, even when the fire pouring from below tore bloody holes in their hunting coats.
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