Little Bear and the Ladies: Book Three and a Half (The Fairies Saga)

by Dani Haviland

  Little Bear

  and the Ladies

  A Fairies Saga Novella

  By Dani Haviland

  With so many females,

  What’s a bachelor to do?

  North Carolina, late autumn, 1782. A Scottish emigrant trapper known among the Cherokee as Little Bear, has just made a deal with a Hessian colonel: he’s purchased the survivors of the colonel’s recent raid on a small Indian village. The bachelor isn’t sure what to do with the tattered group of women and children, but he must hide them from the greedy mercenary sergeant who wants them back…along with Little Bear’s hidden stash of gold.

  Just to help keep you straight with who’s who, there is a Cast of Characters at the end of the book.

  Sometimes a quick reference is so handy.

  Enjoy!

  (And don’t forget to leave a review)

  Contents

  1 Avenge or Revenge

  2 After Marty Left

  3 What good is a dead horse?

  4 Ill Will

  5 A Most unfortunate Massacre

  6 Trading for Women

  7 Sergeant No Good

  8 Grant the Disgruntled

  9 The Good Book

  11 Foo on Fairies

  Note from the author:

  About the author:

  Other books by the author:

  Contact information:

  Copyright

  Cast of characters:

  1 Avenge or Revenge

  North Carolina backwoods

  Late autumn 1782

  Too bad nanny goats didn’t give whisky.

  She would be a great one for that. The flop-eared brown and white goat was so loaded with milk, she couldn’t walk forward. She could, however, take wee steps sideways and had managed to make it to another patch of green sprouts, never losing her footing on the rocky slope behind the ramshackle farm house.

  She and the raggedy man ignored each other as he approached the haphazard array of blackened timber and stone. She caught a whiff of him, then headed back uphill, away from his stench.

  No sign of human life remained in what had once been a very humble home—barely more than a shack. No voices, laundry hanging over the bushes, or smoke from the river-rock chimney. The small abode had lost a battle with fire and had been abandoned. A few odds and ends belonging to the former occupants were on the porch and had remained intact. Grant viciously kicked the rag-wrapped butter churn, then laughed as it exploded on the broken plowshare at the bottom of the rickety steps.

  He took his time walking around the property, but it didn’t make a difference. There was nothing worth stealing at the old homestead. He found whisky in the tumble-down shelter that had evidently been used as a barn. For anyone else, it would have been well-hidden, but he found it in the first place he looked. Some wily sot had stashed it in the same place he used to hide his drink: wrapped in a rag, buried in the oat bin. Except there weren’t any oats left in this half-burnt barrel, just bugs. He brushed a stray weevil from the bottle and sniffed the elixir. Better to make sure it wasn’t piss before he swilled it. He’d never make that mistake again. Damn that Atholl, anyway.

  He swished the whisky in his mouth. Hmph. Watered down. At least twice. He started to spit it out, then changed his mind and swallowed. It was weak, but all that he had.

  Ж

  He had one goal only. He couldn’t remember if the word was avenge or revenge. Atholl was always ranting about vengeance and how he’d get revenge or make avenge or something like that. But his brother was dead now, so he couldn’t ask him. He didn’t know any other smart people, but either way, as sure as he was Grant MacLeod, he’d make those three braves and that crazy old white man, Marty, pay for burying him up to the neck and leaving him to die. It was none of their business how he treated his stupid sister, anyway. Then to anger him even more, the chief took Rachel as his wife and her son as his own.

  He’d make them pay real big for that. He didn’t care about Rachel, but he wanted the boy. He’d show them all that you don’t mess with a MacLeod male, big or small. He’d take everything they had, then hurt them, maybe even kill them. Yeah, he’d kill all of them…and their families, too.

  Rats. He didn’t have a way to make that many people dead. He’d have to steal a pistol just to shoot one of them. There had to be another way…maybe poison. He’d sort that out later. Right now, he needed to find some real whisky and a horse, in that order.

  Not far from the abandoned homestead, he found a nag, the old mare’s reins tangled in shrubby undergrowth. Whether she had been left behind by the people who had lived in the old burnt house or belonged to someone else, he didn’t care. She was his now. The bony-hipped mare grazing on oat grass stubble wasn’t much of a ride, but at least she had four legs and a bridle. She’d have to do for now.

  2 After Marty Left

  Red Shirt’s Village

  Late autumn 1782

  “I miss him,” Morning Star said, stroking the fine dark brown hair over little Martin Shooting Star’s forehead as he nursed.

  “You mean Marty?” Rachel asked. She shifted young Michael Full Moon over her shoulder and rubbed his back, trying to get a burp out of him before he fell back asleep.

  “I know it sounds strange. He was only here with the tribe for a few months, and he was… Well, he wasn’t like a father to me. I had a father—hmm, I guess I still have one—but nevertheless, I guess he was like a big brother to me. Shoot, he was old enough to be my father, but treated me like an equal. Almost like a wife without the…well, you know, the physical part. I guess that’s what a brother would be, though, huh?”

  “Hmph!” Rachel snorted with disgust. “I had two brothers, but they weren’t worth the bear scat scraped off the bottom of your moccasin after a missed step on a muddy day. I’m sure all brothers weren’t—aren’t—like that, though. I know Marty loved us, and if it hadn’t been for,” Rachel copied the old man’s oft-repeated gestures, her one free arm held out in front of her chest to indicate very large breasts, then shifting lower to mime cradling a baby, “missing his wife and child so much, he would have stayed with us. I’m glad you gave Shooting Star his name. I don’t think your husband would like it if you called him Marty, though. I think my husband misses him, too.”

  “I think you’re right. Your husband misses him the most. Sometimes I see him staring west, toward where he escorted Marty home. Did Red Shirt ever tell you why he wouldn’t let anyone go near there? I wouldn’t doubt that there’s lots of game in the region since it’s always been off limits. It’s like a sanctuary.”

  “I don’t know what a sanctuary is,” Rachel said, “but if it’s someplace no one ever goes near, that’s what it is. Number Two told me that many years ago, Red Shirt’s younger brother tried to prove how brave he was by going through The Trees. That’s what Marty called the place he was going: The Trees. Old Woman says they’re bad medicine, and they’d swallow a person whole—good or bad, didn’t make a difference to The Trees—if he went too close.”

  “One thing is for sure, Marty wasn’t afraid of them. I’m certain he’s fine.” Morning Star leaned toward Rachel and whispered, “The Young One said he rides by there every once in a while, kind of looking for signs of him—you know, bones or clothes. He never finds anything, though. Yes, I’m sure Marty’s home with his wife and son. And now we both have sons. The tribe is growing and growing…” Morning Star nuzzled her nose into her baby’s belly, causing him to giggle. “The Young One said he was going further and further away when hunting. I don’t think it was for deer or r
abbits, though. I think he’s hunting for a wife.”

  3 What good is a dead horse?

  “Damned no good horse, anyhow,” bellowed Grant. He pushed away from her and tried to wipe the blood from his tattered shirt, inadvertently smearing the splatter over a still larger area. “Why’d you go and step in that rabbit hole anyhow, idiot!”

  He wasn’t getting any satisfaction from berating the dead horse, but hopefully his voice was keeping the wolves at bay. He had heard them howling earlier. He didn’t need any more troubles. He already had enough for three people.

  He was so angry when the mare stumbled and broke her leg that he had lost his temper and slit her throat, right where she stood. That wasn’t the smartest thing he had ever done. Now there was blood everywhere, he still didn’t have anything to eat—unless he wanted to carve a steak off her bony flank—and he didn’t know where he was. He had run out of that watery whisky long ago, and there wasn’t even a murky puddle nearby to slake his thirst. He licked the blood off the back of his hand, then spat it out. The metallic taste was disgusting.

  “Hmph!” he grunted, then tasted it again. At least it was wet and if he tried hard enough, he could pretend it was spiced brandy. He leaned over the mare’s neck and licked at a moist spot. The pelt was coarse on his tongue and barely damp. “Damned horse! You’re no better dead than alive.”

  “Are you having trouble, sir?”

  Grant popped up from his carcass cantina and spun around, looking in all directions for the man who had called out.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The congenial young soldier rode into view, his thick German accent as startling as his clean, crisp blue uniform and short-cropped blond hair. “It appears that your horse is not doing well.”

  “Well?” Grant snorted. “She’s dead! Broke her leg and wasn’t even worth the effort to kill her. Hey, your horse looks sturdy enough to carry two. How about taking me someplace where we can get a drink?”

  The young Hessian soldier didn’t reply. He had been warned about these Colonials—they weren’t trustworthy and would just as soon slit your throat as bid you good day. Until now, he had thought it was merely a ruse to keep the young men away from the locals. A few of the soldiers from the first wave had come upon a Germanic township, and only the cook and the old colonel had returned. The rest stayed behind. The word had come back that the women’s cooking skills were only surpassed by their passion in making love. The company cook either didn’t like the cuisine competition or was devoted to the colonel. There had been rumors, after all.

  “So, how about it?” Grant asked, then realized he hadn’t given the soldier a very good first impression, hunkered over a dead horse, trying to suck the last lifeblood from her. He wiped his mouth again, this time not seeking flavor or sustenance, but attempting to clean up his appearance. The young man was obviously a mercenary, which meant he fought for a price, not a cause. Grant’s face bloomed into a sincere smile. Maybe there was more to this soldier than the horse, his shiny boots, and the clean clothes on his back. He was sure to have a purse containing a bit of gold or coin somewhere on his person.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Grant said, using his sure-fire congenial smile, “I’ll even buy the first drinks.”

  Hermann sat tall in his saddle and looked in all directions, hoping to see someone in his company—hell, anyone—so he wouldn’t be alone with this blood-sucking rogue. He glanced at the emaciated, contorted mare on the ground, her broken leg stuck out at an odd angle, the macabre grimace of death on her face accentuated by long, yellow teeth that had gnashed air in her final fight for life. He didn’t doubt that her owner would slit his throat at the first opportunity. “Lieber Gott,” he said under his breath, “Rette mich. Dear God, deliver me.”

  Hermann clutched the reins tightly. “Sir,” he began, choking on the word that in no way described the man standing beside him. However, addressing him as ‘Pig’ most certainly would have riled the ornery, marginally-human being.

  The ruffian had not looked up because he had not heard him. He was engrossed, coveting the soldier’s horse, fascinated by the long-legged bay. Hermann watched as the man’s left hand stroked the flanks of his sturdy gelding, then noticed that ‘Pig’s’ right hand was twitching slightly, hovering above his rope belt. He couldn’t see a weapon, but was certain that a knife was close at hand.

  Hermann turned his steed around to make sure he got the man’s attention this time. “Sir, I’ll have another horse brought to you shortly. Mine is recovering from a—how do you say—bruised hoof? I’ll return soon.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but immediately galloped away, holding his breath, never looking back. Suddenly, a stone whizzed past his ear. “Damn you and your family, too, if you don’t get me a horse right away,” was audible, even over the clatter of his hasty exodus.

  Rather than turn and respond to the curse—and risk a rock to his face—Hermann raised his hand and waved. ‘I hear you loud and clear,’ he indicated in universal sign language. “Swine,” he grunted under his breath and nudged his horse in the ribs. It took off like it had been whipped. Apparently, the gelding wanted to get away in a hurry, too.

  Ж

  The colonel tipped back the last few drops of brandy from the crystal glass. The fine-cut vessel was small, but that meant it traveled well. He scanned the inside of his modest tent, the most luxurious structure he had seen since his arrival in North Carolina. Why anyone would want to live in this God-forsaken area was beyond him. Yes, the hunting was good, but there were no cities nearby, no talented craftsmen, nor quality products to be purchased at the trading posts, their poor excuses for shops. Better facilities might be located in the more populated areas, but he and his men had been ordered to stay away from them.

  His assigned area was crawling with angry Colonials. The British Crown had promised him and his soldiers a good wage for standing firm on the outskirts of humanity, preventing uprisings, dispersing any gathering of four or more men. By whatever means he saw necessary, his troops were to get rid of any local militia.

  Militia? Bah! These men were nothing more than peasant farmers, frustrated with their poverty, irate that their motherland wanted to gather taxes to pay armies for their protection. If there was another Indian uprising, these pathetic locals deserved their fate. Let the land take them back, incorporate their blood and fallen bodies into the soil. All he wanted was to return home with enough money in his purse to purchase a comfortable home on the Rhine. Once he had possession of that, Lucinda was sure to agree to marry him. His brother Ivan’s good-looks couldn’t compete with that! She was a beautiful woman who attracted many suitors. The only reason she wasn’t already wed was that irritating voice of hers. That made no difference to him. He was hard of hearing. It would be easy enough to ignore her.

  “Colonel! Kommen hier schnell!” his orderly hollered as he burst through the door flap of the tent.“Es ist Hermann.”

  The colonel set down his glass and adjusted his jacket. He did not want to appear panicked to his men today. Or ever. This was not the best regiment he had ever commanded—they were unhöflich, an ignorant and crude crew from the roughest part of his fatherland—but he needed their respect, now more than ever. There was no money to pay them, food rations were low, and his supply line had been cut off. He didn’t want any of those facts to be known, or even become a rumor that he would have to squelch or lie to prove false.

  “Ja,” Colonel Manheim said, and moved aside the tent flap slowly and dramatically, as if he were entering a fourteen-foot tall carved-oak and gilt-framed parlor rather than a muddy, trampled field of winter grass and puddles. He waited as the harried rider approached him. “What is the problem now, Soldat?”

  Hermann gulped, afraid that he had riled his uncle. Again. Then he recalled his first sight of the man who would have taken his life and his horse—in that order—if he had waited to depart even a moment longer. Hermann pulled his shoulders back, stuck out his chin
, and tried his best to compose his English words.

  “There is a man waiting over there, just beyond the rise, who wishes to borrow a horse.” His eyes shifted from the few men who had gathered at his hasty arrival, back to the colonel. “Sir, he is a most degenerate colonial. When I came upon him, he was lapping blood from his dead horse.”

  Colonel Mannheim blinked rapidly in shock, but his face remained otherwise unmoved. “Ja,” he repeated, and nodded for him to proceed with his report.

  “The horse had broken her leg. He said he slit her throat in anger. It appears he, ahem, had great thirst, and was willing to drink blood…” Hermann shook his head, trying to erase the memory. “He is a bad man. He is far worse than anything I have seen or even heard about. I told him I could get him another mount, but left quickly, before he did something else horrible. I…I don’t think we need go back.”

  The colonel nodded, as if he understood, then glowered at his nephew. “But you said you would send him a horse, ja?”

  “Yes, sir, but I could tell he had nothing to offer us for payment. I doubt he had money. He wanted whisky. Sir, we cannot afford to lose any more horses…” Hermann gulped as he realized he had overstepped his position. “It is your decision, sir. I am just offering my—how do you say?—opinion,” then took two steps back and bowed his head, embarrassed that he had been so bold. And in front of the other soldiers, too.

  The colonel rubbed his hands together thoughtfully, ignoring the improprieties shown him. It was true that they were short on animals and just about every other supply–and everyone probably knew it—but remorse had been shown. Discipline administered now would not serve a purpose.

  “Is it possible that this man might have some intelligence? That he may know where the gathering places are for the local militia?” The colonel smiled as he asked. This was an easy way out for both of them.