by Lori Benton
“You don’t know yet where to look for William,” Lydia persisted. “You cannot even be certain he’s joined Johnson’s regiment.”
“You do not let fly an arrow before you aim it,” Good Voice added.
Stone Thrower said, “We do well to heed the wisdom of our women. We wait. Pray. Trust our lost one to Heavenly Father. Until we have a target to aim at.”
Reginald’s jaw tightened. He closed his eyes, only to open them when Two Hawks stood abruptly. The young man’s color deepened as all gazes turned his way, but it was Reginald’s he held.
“I am glad you are safe from battle,” he said. “We have been much worried for you, wishing you home. Now I am going down to the barn.”
“The barn?” Anna asked in evident bewilderment.
Two Hawks jerked a nod. “Where I will sleep. I have moved my things to be ready for morning. Sleep well,” he said to the room at large, though his gaze rested on Anna’s upturned face with its own pleading. For what? Turning away too quickly for Lydia to be sure, he passed between her and Reginald and went out.
Anna stared after him. Only Lydia seemed to notice her hurt. Reginald was reaching inside his coat. He brought out something small, wrapped in faded cloth. He laid it on his thigh and removed the wrapping to reveal two framed oval faces. Lydia was near enough to see one was a tiny portrait of Heledd, his late wife, who had returned to Wales nine years ago with…
“William,” she said, recognizing the face in the second frame.
“What is this?” Good Voice leaned forward, staring at what lay in Reginald’s lap. Stone Thrower mirrored her movement.
“I found these among the things William left behind. Heledd must have had them commissioned soon before she passed. He looks to be nearly the age he is now. Here.” Reginald held out the portrait that had captured their attention, his voice gone gruff with feeling. “See the face of your son.”
As Good Voice’s hands cradled the miniature, Anna wept openly, watching William’s parents, hearing as did Lydia the involuntary sounds each made, eloquent of years of pain and loss and wondering.
“They are much alike,” Good Voice whispered at last. “The brows, the mouth…”
“But the eyes…” Stone Thrower said. “He is like you.”
Anna shot to her feet and all but ran from the room. Good Voice and Stone Thrower barely glanced up at her going, but Reginald raised his eyes to Lydia. Eyes still haunted by guilt.
5
Need pulled Anna from the house, where Two Hawks’s parents lingered over their first bittersweet sight of William’s face. Forsaking shawl and propriety, she followed her heart’s tether through the dark, down the wagon lane to the barn, ducking into shadow as Mr. Doyle, finished his chores, left the barn headed for the cottage he shared with Mrs. Doyle. Heart thumping, she laced her arms against the cold and waited for his boot scuffs to fade.
Papa would be angry if he knew she was doing this. But she had to know. Why hadn’t Two Hawks spoken?
It had come to her on her birthday, the idea of Two Hawks working with Papa on the Binne Kill, crafting bateaux, learning the business. Becoming what she’d been for Lydia these past years. An apprentice. Made in a rush at the kitchen table, in a rare moment of privacy, the proposal had caught Two Hawks off guard. When he’d hesitated, she’d reminded him of something he said years ago, when they’d argued over what constituted a man’s proper work. “A man may build a canoe without shame. You told me that, remember? A bateau is like a canoe.”
“It is so,” he’d conceded. “But why do you wish this?”
“Papa won’t give us permission, much less his blessing, to marry if you remain a stranger to him. Papa needs to know you.” Two Hawks’s continued hesitation had made the pit of her stomach drop away. “Will you consider it, working with Papa?”
Mrs. Doyle had trundled in then, apron full of potatoes from the cellar. She stopped short, eyeing them. Two Hawks had stood.
“I will consider,” he’d said, and left her hoping what she’d heard in his voice hadn’t been reluctance but the constraint of Mrs. Doyle’s watchful presence. But it had been reluctance. His refusal to speak to Papa proved it.
The barn door creaked as she pushed it open. Inside, by lantern light, Two Hawks was unrolling his blanket in an empty stall near the door. At her entry, he bolted to his feet in a fluid motion. Startlement fled his expression, replaced by a look she didn’t want to see. Regret. “You should not be here.”
She shut the door to keep light from spilling out. She’d reined in her tears. She would say her piece and not cry through it.
“Why?” She choked on the word as tears came. “Why did you say nothing? It would have worked. It still could. You could sleep in Papa’s workshop. I’d be in town with Lydia and could see you every day. There are clothes you could wear. William didn’t take all of his with him. They’d fit you perfectly until—”
Two Hawks crossed the space between them so swiftly, she broke off in surprise. He stopped near enough that she could feel his warmth, but he didn’t raise a hand to touch her. “I never said I would ask your father this thing you wish. I said I would think about it. I have done so.”
“And now you’re leaving?”
“I must. For a time.” His face was shadowed, the lantern behind him. He kept his arms at his sides. She curled her hands around them, beseeching. The linen of his shirt was soft beneath her fingers, his muscles firm, lean.
An ache lodged in her throat. “I want you to stay.”
A tremor went through him, and he closed his eyes. “Others have need of me.”
She stepped back, her shoes rustling straw. Somewhere in the darkened barn a horse ruckled. “For the hunting? Stone Thrower said he would hunt.”
“He spoke the words of a father and husband,” Two Hawks said, eyes opening to her, still shadowed. “But he is not ready to be the only provider for my mother. I must also provide. An apprentice is given no pay, and I cannot ask your father to hire me. I have no skill at his work. It would not be right.”
“It would keep you safe!”
“At the expense of my people’s safety? They need every warrior, now more than ever, to stand ready for whatever is coming.”
“Two Hawks, you aren’t a warrior. You don’t have to fight.”
He took her by the shoulders, dark eyes earnest and torn. “You must understand. I will not stand by and let my people suffer harm.”
My people. She lowered her chin.
Cupping her face in his hand, he raised it. “Listen. Your father is no longer a warrior, yet when he was needed, he fought on that lake. I think him right for doing it. He held off the British from the north, he and that brave general, Arnold. How can I do less than this man whose blessing my heart craves?”
She searched his face, his words filling her with admiration—and fear. “Is there no hope for peace?”
“We must pray for peace but strengthen our arms for battle.” That he was right only deepened her frustration. She tried to pull away. He didn’t let her. “Why do you think your father did what he did on that lake?”
“Because he’s a man. And men are stubborn, foolhardy creatures, too brave for their own good!”
To her annoyance, Two Hawks grinned. “That is maybe true, but he did it for you.”
“Me? All I wanted was him home safe.”
“What do you think he wanted? Because you are his treasure, he would see you protected.” Two Hawks’s thumb moved gently along her jaw. “When I say I am needed by my people, do you not know you are part of that? Here is something for which your father and I have one heart: I would make your world safe if I can. However I can.”
Tears slid down her cheek, across his fingers. He was good. And brave. And selfless. When she was none of those things. I love you. It was all she wanted to say. As soon as she found breath.
“Leaving the rest aside,” he went on, “I do not wish to see my father bring himself more harm. He is strong to travel but not
to do all that needs to be done for winter. He will try to do it if I am not there to help.”
I love you wasn’t everything she wanted to say, after all. “Papa said you could stay. All of you.”
What a child she sounded. Why couldn’t she be brave for him? Let him do what he felt he must do? If he was disappointed in her, he hid it well.
“It was generous, but my parents wish to be home, among our people. They are needed. As am I.”
I need you. She leaned her forehead against his chest, aching for his arms around her. Only his hands linked them, gripping her shoulders. If she pressed against him, moved but a little…
“I’m so selfish,” she said.
His breath released, warm across the crown of her head. “Bear’s Heart, do you think it easy for me to leave you? In my heart I am just as selfish.”
Thrilling to the sound of the name he’d given her, she raised her face, saw the need in his eyes. He was on the edge of control. She’d pushed him there. Again. It was unfair of her, making him always be the strong one. She would show him she could be strong too. And as insufferably sacrificing.
Stepping back was a tearing inside her. “I shouldn’t have come.”
His gaze was so intense, she thought for an instant he would come after her; he didn’t. “Our words needed to be said. I was wrong to walk away and leave them unsaid.”
They stared at each other. Yearning. Hurting. Hoping.
“Go back to the house,” he said. “I do not wish to anger your father or put another branch across the path between us.”
Anger flared in Anna’s chest, tightening her jaw. “After all he’s done, I cannot understand why he doesn’t see you as—”
“No.” Two Hawks shook his head. “Do not close your heart to him in anger. Whatever else he has done, it is plain he loves you. I will honor that, and him, because he is your father.”
The one pure thing, Papa once called her. The one pure thing in his life. She didn’t feel pure. Nothing felt pure anymore. And yet…Good Voice and Stone Thrower, Two Hawks as well, had forgiven Papa. She’d had weeks to talk with them, to understand that though it had been wrenchingly hard to do, they truly had forgiven. And it had freed them.
“All right. I’ll see you in the morning, before you go.” Her lips felt numb over the words.
Two Hawks’s gaze held sorrow. And tenderness. “Sleep well.”
“And you.” She put her back to him. Her hand was on the barn door when his voice stopped her.
“Bear’s Heart. I would be in two places if I could. But you will have my heart. Tomorrow as I go, it will tear out of me and stay with you.”
“And mine you will take with you,” she said to the barn door, loud enough that he would hear.
“I will guard it well.” Longing thickened his words. “Remember, and think about this…You and I would never know this love if not for what Aubrey did.”
Lydia watched the figures diminishing along the track toward the creek and beyond, to the unknown paths that traced the wilderness between them and Kanowalohale. Good Voice led William’s dappled mare, loaned by Reginald to carry the cornmeal her labor had earned. Stone Thrower, a limp in his stride though he’d cast off his crutches, carried on his person the miniature of William—a parting gift. Two Hawks took what he’d come with, weapons and blanket. But each of them was leaving without the one thing they’d most hoped to find, and for that Lydia’s heart was grieved.
“I cannot say ’tis unhappy I am to see them go,” said Maura Doyle, who’d left breakfast half-cleared to see their guests away. “Though I wish…But there it is. And those pots won’t scrub themselves, will they?”
She sighed and went inside the house.
As Lydia stared after the departing Oneidas, Two Hawks, walking behind his parents, halted and looked back. Standing between her and Reginald, eyes red and puffy, Anna caught her breath. Lydia reached for her hand. The tension thrumming through the girl mounted until she feared Anna might bolt away and leave them.
Two Hawks turned his back and followed his parents. It had been but a last parting gaze.
With a muffled sob Anna pulled away, but instead of bolting down the lane, she hurried into the house.
“Anna,” Reginald said as the door closed.
Lydia’s heart ached for the man, staring after his daughter with all the guilt in the world pouring from his eyes. But she knew when next he met her gaze he’d have shut it away, as he had the evening before when he’d given Good Voice and Stone Thrower all of William he’d had to give. Not enough. He didn’t seem to understand that it could never be enough. She’d hoped the act of condolence Stone Thrower had performed for Reginald—that astonishing ceremony that had taken place in the clearing, back in summer when they’d expected vengeance—would be the first step in Reginald’s coming to terms with half a lifetime of guilt. In embracing a God he’d kept at arm’s length because of that burden.
Instead he’d run away to build boats for General Arnold.
Lydia touched his arm. “Let her be for now. She needs—”
“Time,” Reginald finished for her. “To forget about him. I understand.”
But he didn’t. Not if he thought Anna could simply put Two Hawks out of mind. Did he truly think they’d seen the end of that young man’s involvement in their lives?
“I’d best speak to Rowan, see whether he needs me here today,” he said, putting distance between them with the mundane. “Shall Anna ride in with you?”
The smile he gave her never touched his eyes, nor dispelled the shadow there. There was still William in his gaze. William wanted. William wounded. William.
Lydia ignored the question. “William is of great importance, Reginald, but he isn’t the sun around which we all revolve. Do you expect all our hearts and hopes to hang in abeyance until he returns—or is dragged back—to reckon with what he’s run from? There is life to be lived meantime. Will you live it?”
She’d been too blunt. Inwardly she cringed as Reginald’s face began to close. Then something in his eyes broke open again, meeting hers with a bleeding need.
“Lydia.” He took a step toward her. “When I was in the water, when I thought myself dying, you were—”
“Lydia? I’m ready.”
Neither had heard Anna come out of the house. As they lurched apart, there she stood, a small bag and her new medical case gripped in either hand, looking at Lydia with a brittle determination. She wouldn’t meet her father’s gaze.
“I mean to stay with Lydia for a while, Papa. We’ve babies to deliver.”
Reginald gazed at his daughter’s bowed head. When he spoke, it was not of babies. “Anna, their leaving is for the best. They’ve their world, see, and we—”
“I should like to stay with Lydia for the winter, I think,” Anna interrupted. “Keep busy in town, then maybe it won’t be so…” Her chin quivered; she swallowed whatever she’d intended to say. “I’ll be back another time for my things.” She swung toward Lydia. “If that suits you.”
“Of course,” Lydia said. “Though perhaps you should ask your father if this arrangement is agreeable to him.”
Pain lanced across Reginald’s eyes as Anna met his gaze. He didn’t wait for her to ask. “Aye. ’Tis fine. I’ll drive the cart in with whatever else you need, when next I come in to town.”
“Good,” Anna said. “Thank you.”
Heartache ravaged both their faces. Lydia couldn’t bear it a moment longer. “I’ll get my things then.”
Reginald gave a stiff nod. “I’ll help Rowan saddle the horses.”
Lydia watched him stride away, his limp a disturbing echo of Stone Thrower’s. What had he started to tell her, before Anna interrupted? Something about being in the lake, near to drowning—she shrank from imagining—and then he’d said, “You were…”
What had she been?
“It’s going to be all right,” she said, as much to reassure herself as the man limping away, or Anna, who stood staring towar
d the creek at the emptiness there. Waiting.
6
January 1777
Lachine, Montreal
Private William Llewellyn Aubrey—his name as he’d entered it in the rolls of the King’s Royal Regiment of New York—was beginning to worry about his toes. He no longer felt them inside his cracked leather shoes. Nine years in England had dimmed his memories of New York’s winters, but he judged the cold of Montreal more brutal still. Exposed skin ached after a moment’s acquaintance. Every breath not muffled by layers of wool seared the lungs.
He’d meant to be warm in his billet by now, communing with a cannikin of mulled cider. Such succor wasn’t to be. Between the termination of their guard duty at His Majesty’s storehouse in the village of Lachine and making their report to Sergeant Campbell, William had lost track of Private Sam Reagan—again, blast his elusive hide. Distracted by the door of the officer’s headquarters, which tended to stick fast in the cold, William had wrenched it open and glanced aside to find his fellow guard slipping off through the ranks of a passing company of Royal Highland Emigrants headed off to drill on snowshoes.
It was becoming habit with Sam, this cutting out early. One that left William to take the brunt of Sergeant Campbell’s displeasure. News of recent rebel victories at Trenton and Princeton had every officer of the regiment going about grim faced and snappish, but Campbell, always a surly brute, had taken animosity to another level. He’d fixed upon William as his particular target, which struck William as prodigiously unfair, given it was Sam who played the truant.
Campbell was Scottish born, but unlike most of the Scots who made up Sir John’s regiment, come over the mountains from the Mohawk Valley the previous summer, Campbell had been a Montreal merchant before joining. Somehow it had become known that William had spent the past few years reading law at Oxford’s Queens College, an ambition Campbell had cherished in his younger years but never possessed the means—mayhap the brains as well—to fulfill. In his better moods, the man referred to William sneeringly as Oxford, a sobriquet that reminded William—with the subtlety of a prodding knife tip—that Queens was the last place he’d been certain of who he was, where he belonged, what sort of man he was destined to become.
