Thomas scratched his nose. “Is he the one you been sneaking away to meet every morning?”
A groan escaped through gritted teeth as she took the rifle and pushed past them. “Come to the house, and now. We’ll be having meeting at home again.”
There was no way she’d leave the place under Will’s care, however pretty he was all cleaned up.
Halfway across the yard, she snarled back over her shoulder, “You might as well come, too.”
At least feeding him would be simpler this way.
Did she know how magnificent she was when angry?
Micah handed the milk pail off to the girl who, now that he had a good look, was almost certainly the second eldest, but he couldn’t help gazing after Truth. A slender thing she was, without the bulk of her hunting coat, but with more than enough fire to make any man want to step down.
And he nearly had, except that he knew her need must be as great as his in its own way.
The boy lingered by the barn door. His eyes were pale, reminding Micah of Truth’s, and a scattering of freckles dusted the boy’s nose. “Waiting on me?” Micah asked.
The boy gave a single, grave nod. Micah stowed the milking stool and pointed to the cow. “Do I leave her, or…”
“Turn ’er out in the pen for now.”
Micah nodded, led the beast from her stall, and returned her to the split-rail pen adjoining the barn. Without a word, he followed the boy to the house.
Was that ham he smelled? He was like to drool if he wasn’t careful.
Truth was dishing food to the plank table with the help of the two youngest girls, both of whom peered at him with doubtful blue eyes. Truth herself refused to look directly at him, but after a moment of turning this way and that, she pointed at a bench near the head of the table. “You. Sit there.”
He settled, back to the wall. He’d barely time to glance about the snug interior of the place before she was there again, a stoneware mug in hand. “It’s a poor excuse for coffee, but it’ll have to do. Drink and be welcome, since you’re here.”
He cradled the vessel in his hands, savoring its warmth, and inhaled. His eyes slid closed. Weak, perhaps, but it was real coffee. He sipped and glanced across to find Truth watching him.
Would he ever be able to repay his debt of gratitude to her?
She nodded toward the boy, standing nearly at his elbow. “This is Thomas. These are my sisters Thankful and Mercy”—she indicated the younger girls—“and my sister Patience.” A nod toward the girl now bending over the hearth, from whence he caught the definite aroma of corn cake. “And this,” she went on, “is Will.” She hesitated as if to give him time to correct her. “He was, ah, in the battle with Papa earlier this month.”
The younger children, but Thomas especially, came alive at that. “A battle! Will you tell us about it?”
He sent a questioning glance toward Truth, and she nodded slightly.
What could he share that wouldn’t betray his part in it?
Thomas scooted into the spot beside Micah. “Did they get that rascal Ferguson?”
“Thomas, eat,” Truth said. Her gaze flicked to Micah’s, guarded.
The girls piled in around the table as well, and Truth slid a wooden plate of food in front of Micah before gracefully seating herself opposite him.
A plate—a real table—how long had it been? Somehow he’d never appreciated it before.
“Did you know Papa?” one of the younger girls asked shyly. Mercy, he remembered.
Micah shook his head. “I’m from Burke County, North Carolina. Different units.” Very different.
“So why are you here, and Papa ain’t?” Thomas this time. That boy was as sharp as his eldest sister.
He chewed a bite of his ham. The flavor filled his mouth, and for a moment, all he could think of was his sheer unworthiness to be here.
“Your papa,” he said, when his mouth was cleared, “was with the men guarding the prisoners after the battle.” He didn’t know for sure—he seemed to remember the name Bledsoe but couldn’t put a face with it. God willing he wasn’t of those beating or slashing at the prisoners in their fury and frustration on the march northward. “I was—I was released from duty.”
Thomas frowned. “But if your home is eastward—”
Truth cleared her throat and leaned forward. “God sent him.”
Chapter 5
Micah met Truth’s eyes across the table. “You believe that.” It was more a statement than a question.
“I do.” Deliberately, as if daring him to argue, she went back to her food.
“Well then.” Micah took up a paring knife and sketched an elongated oval on top of his johnnycake. “This is the top of a place called King’s Mountain, a long, isolated hilltop on the eastern edge of the mountains, roughly west of Charlotte Town.”
Thomas and the girls leaned in to watch.
“Here,” he pointed to a place near one end of the oval, “is where Ferguson and his men made camp and took their stand. Loyalists all, no British regulars among them but Ferguson himself.”
He hesitated. Had he betrayed himself by use of that term, and not “Tory,” as the rebel side called them? But no one moved or behaved as though he’d acted amiss.
“Here,” and he pointed around the west and south perimeters of the johnnycake map, “your over-the-mountain men climbed, while militia from the backcountry of North and South Carolina and Virginia surrounded from the other. They whooped and hollered, fit to strike terror into the hearts of the Tories, officers and ordinary soldiers alike.”
Micah glanced up into the faces surrounding him. Children of one of those men, furious at the threat Ferguson had made to lay waste with fire and sword to their homes.
The chill of those war cries still lodged in his chest, but sitting here among the children provided an odd comfort. They deserved to hear the tale of how bravely their father had fought.
“When the loyalists found that their musket fire couldn’t match the long rifles, they resorted to bayonets. Three times they pushed their attackers down the mountain, and three times the over-the-mountain men drove them back up, until the loyalists were surrounded and caught in crossfire from both sides.”
Food was forgotten as everyone, Truth included, sat round-eyed. Micah fought to keep his voice level as he recounted what had been the stuff of nightmares every night since. “Some tied handkerchiefs to their musket barrels and tried to surrender, but Ferguson rode the field, swinging his sword and cutting down anyone who raised a white flag.”
One of Micah’s cousins had fallen at his side for this very reason.
“At last, as more men surrendered, Ferguson himself tried to leave the field, but he was shot from his saddle and dragged.”
“Did he die?” Thomas asked, barely breathing.
Col. Patrick Ferguson, the Scotsman who’d rallied the backcountry loyalists as no one else, who’d made the militia into real troops with endless drills and that hated whistle, who’d thought to threaten the over-the-mountain rebels into submission.
Who’d obviously underestimated the fury that threat would stir.
“He did, indeed,” Micah said.
He was quick witted, she’d give him that.
Truth had desperately wanted to stay angry with Will. To not admire the way he’d spun the tale for her family’s benefit and not given away his own loyalties. But the slight tremor in his voice reminded her of that first day, when he’d begged her not to shoot…
Please. For the love of God. The battle is over.
She could see him now, surrounded by men trying to surrender. A commander who wouldn’t let them. And then—
“Why did you lie for me?”
Will’s low voice startled her from her musing. She’d stepped outside after breakfast, and apparently he had followed her out.
She rounded on him but kept her own voice down. “I did not lie.”
His eyes narrowed, and a muscle in his lean cheek flexed. “Helped hid
e me then. Why?”
A sigh escaped her. “Does it never cross your mind that what I said was, indeed, true? That God directed your path here?”
He stared at her so long she had to turn away.
“Very well then,” he said. “Put me to work.”
And work he did, from sunup to sundown, without complaint, without hesitation. Mending the cow pen fence, patching the cabin roof. Cutting wood, during which chore Truth made a point of busying herself elsewhere so she’d not be tempted to watch his strong shoulders and arms swinging the ax. More folly—there were fine, manly forms aplenty in the settlements for her to have gone featherheaded over, if she were interested in such. Will would only be here until Papa returned.
But with each passing day, he seemed more at ease. Bantered with Thomas and the girls. Volunteered to fetch the hog from the woods, aided Truth in setting up the smokehouse and doing the butchering.
She couldn’t remember that task ever being so enjoyable.
Yet with each passing day, an unrest gnawed inside her over Papa’s whereabouts. Despite Will’s assurance that Sevier, Shelby, and the other over-the-mountain men had, best he’d heard, committed to escorting the Tory prisoners to a parole camp north of Charlotte Town, as October trickled into November and the weather grew colder and stormier, so did her own worries grow.
She rose from her bed one night when a nearly full moon shone on the frost and, bundled in a woolen blanket, padded over to peer out the window. She pushed open the shutter just a crack. Icy cold air poured in and swirled around her feet. Across the yard, the roof of the barn glinted in the moonlight.
So far, Will had escaped notice from others in the settlement, but that couldn’t continue forever. And then what would she do? Papa was sure to be angry when he returned and found she’d harbored an escaped Tory.
For this past week and more, however, he’d been a Tory no longer. He was simply Will, who had come and somehow made himself needed and necessary.
She didn’t know how to deal with him being here—but now, she wasn’t so sure she wanted him to leave.
The threat of rain the next morning sent Truth scurrying to make sure enough wood was brought in—although Will had been good about keeping the pile stocked—and to bring in anything that shouldn’t be out in the wet. After breakfast, when Will returned to the barn, Truth left Patience in charge of overseeing the younger children’s lessons and slipped out after him.
When she entered, he looked up from where he sat on a bench, carving at a piece of wood. “What are you working on?” she asked.
One shoulder lifted. “Something small for Mercy or Thankful. Haven’t decided which.” He opened his hand to reveal a rough but recognizable cow, emerging from a palm-sized burl of wood. Truth smiled, but he laid aside the carving and the knife. “Did you need aught?”
“Only to bring you this.” She pulled a small rolled bundle from beneath her coat and handed it to him.
Bemused, he untied the rawhide thongs binding it then unfurled two lengths of gray wool.
“Gaiters,” she said.
“As if you haven’t already done enough.” He took one length and wrapped it about his leg, from foot to above the knee.
“Yes, well, you’ve done more than your share, too.” Truth’s fingers itched to help with smoothing the gaiter and tying it down, but she could not fathom why. Will was plenty capable of tying his own.
He finished the second in short order and stood, stretching first one leg then the other. That grin made an appearance. “Very snug. My thanks, as always.”
An answering smile tugged at her own lips. “You’ll need them. I think I smell snow coming.”
He nodded but absently. “It’s about time for your father and the other settlement men to be returning, I’d think.”
She clasped her hands behind her back. This was the conversation she wasn’t keen on having. But what else was there but for Will to go? “Will you be returning home?”
A tiny shake of his head. “Not yet.” His eyes did not leave hers. “I’m indebted to you, Truth Bledsoe.”
Unaccountably, her heart gave an unsteady leap. She swallowed. “You’ve repaid that debt by now, Will Williams.”
A softer smile lighted his lean features, tilted the corners of his dark eyes upward. Had he stepped closer just then? “Micah,” he said.
Her heart was fairly pounding. “What?”
“Micah Elliot. That’s my true name. Micah William Elliot.”
She mouthed, Will, then aloud, “Micah.”
Closer this time, without a doubt.
“Micah Elliot,” she breathed. “It’s a good, strong name.”
The smile held, as did his gaze. “Would that I were strong enough to be worthy of it.”
“I think…I think you’re worthy enough.”
Sadness flickered across his face. He touched her cheek. “If you think so…” Leaving the thought unfinished, he went suddenly still. “How old are you, Truth?”
And why… ? “Eighteen, come the first of the year.”
His hand lingering, he gave another little nod then leaned in. His lips touched hers, held for a heartbeat, then brushed across and were gone.
Will—no, Micah—drew back with a look that was at once triumphant and full of wonder. Of their own volition, her hands stole upward to his face and neck, and this time she rose on tiptoe to meet his kiss. Micah gathered her into his arms—
From outside the barn came a male voice. “Halloo the house!”
Chapter 6
Uncle Loven!” Ignoring her own breathlessness, Truth dashed out of the barn and into the yard, where two horses stood, and a rider dismounted.
The youngest of her three uncles, just a few years older than herself, and the one who’d always seemed more like a big brother. He turned and caught her in a quick hug, which Truth returned despite the grime of his leggings and hunting frock. “My, you’re a mess,” she said. If only her heart would stop fluttering—perhaps Loven would think it was merely excitement over Papa returning, and not—something else.
He gave her a thin smile. “Fighting Tories will do that to a body.”
Another pang of guilt hit her, and she glanced around. “Where’s Papa? In the house already?”
Loven took off his worn felt hat, scrubbed his forehead with one sleeve, and then shook his head.
Truth shot him a look, but he only gazed back, the pale blue eyes grave.
Two horses, one rider. She turned. Papa’s rifle and gear—things he’d normally wear strapped to himself—tied instead to the saddle of his horse.
She opened her mouth, but no sound would come out. A crushing weight caught her chest and would not ease.
“Loven?” she croaked.
He shook his head again. “I’m sorry, girl. There’s no easy way to break the news. Your papa took a ball to the side at King’s Mountain. The doc said if he didn’t move, he had a chance at recovering, but—you know my brother. He insisted on riding with us and took a turn for the worse a week or so ago. We buried him on the way home.”
Everything around her blurred, and Truth put out a hand to steady herself against Papa’s horse. Loven’s hands settled on her shoulders and tugged her toward him. “So sorry, Truth. His last words were for you and the young’uns.”
Her sisters and brother. She had to tell them. Had to be strong for them.
And then there was Will—Micah—
Oh Micah.
Oh Lord, how could I?
She pushed away from Loven and stumbled back toward the barn.
Micah saw her coming and held his ground. He’d been listening through the open window, out of sight.
This couldn’t end well.
She threw back the barn door and stood, shoulders heaving. Where a few moments ago she’d been all softness, now her grief gave her the fire of an avenging angel.
Not that he blamed her. He’d seen it before.
“Tell me again, please.” She took a few steps toward him
and stopped. Her voice shook. “Which side of the mountain did you fight on? That south and east end, or—”
He didn’t dare touch her, though his arms ached to catch her close. “The Burke County militia from both sides were fighting each other. We could hear the over-the-mountain men, but we didn’t face them.”
At least until later, and he couldn’t remember whether he’d gotten off any shots at that point. They were too busy figuring out how to face that wicked crossfire.
Two strides, and she was nearly nose to nose with him. “But how do you know? Do you know of a certain?”
He couldn’t help it—he reached for her, his hands cupping above her elbows. But she turned to fury at his touch, shrieking and flinging both fists repeatedly against his chest. “How do you know?” she sobbed, nearly incoherent.
Micah closed his eyes for a moment and let her pound on him. “I don’t,” he said at last.
She gave a wail that lifted the hairs on his neck and collapsed against him.
To apologize at this moment felt so inadequate. He slid his arms around her, laid his cheek against the linen cap covering her hair, and searched for the words anyway.
With a gasp, she pulled herself upright, eyes red-rimmed, lips trembling. “And I fed you. Gave you clothing and shelter. Oh Lord—kissed you—”
One hand over her mouth, she stared at him as if he’d become something awful, and then fled the barn.
Past the tall, rawboned man she’d called uncle, framed in the doorway.
The uncle, who appeared not much older than Micah himself, glanced after Truth then stepped inside the barn. “How did you think to take advantage of Truth?”
Would to God that Micah’s life would not end here, spilled into the floor of Truth’s barn. “I was not taking advantage.”
“Of a certain you were.” The other man strode forward and peered at him more closely. “And I believe I know you.”
Micah remembered him as well—oh yes.
Truth’s uncle bared his teeth, brows lowering. “You’re a filthy Tory, one of those from King’s Mountain. Escaped, did you? What business have you over the mountains?”
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