by RITA GERLACH
“Philadelphia has promised full support,” Johnson said. “Charleston, Wilmington, and Baltimore have joined in giving them aid. New York guarantees a ten-year supply of food. Certainly there will be some kind of resolution.”
“That is comforting to hear.” Hanson wiped his face with a handkerchief and stuffed it back into his pocket. “Would it not be simpler if Boston paid what the Crown demands?”
Nash stood against the wall, his good leg bent with the sole of his boot against the whitewashed timbers.
“It would, Mr. Hanson. But try to suggest it to the Bostonians. They’re taking a stand against the oppressors.”
“You speak the truth, Jack,” Johnson said. “Tell us—is our county secure?”
“Our town is too large for the Indians to make war here.”
He pulled away from the wall, walked over to the table and sat down. “The Indians have proven themselves to be merciless and tireless. Our settlers are scattered, and that put them at a disadvantage. By the time we saw smoke rising over the trees or over some hill, and made our way to them, they were dead and their cabins burned to the ground.”
“These are sad events indeed,” said Johnson. “You saw as you came into town the large amount of refugees we have?”
“I did.”
“The good people of Fredericktown have opened their hearts as well as their homes and churches. In speaking to some of the men, they mean to move their families east once they’ve rested.”
Nash stood. “I must be getting back to Laurel Hill, gentlemen. I’m not too far from town, and beyond the war parties.”
“Well, I say we recess, gentlemen,” Hanson said. “But before we do, let us bow our heads in prayer for our country.”
After a brief but moving prayer, the men gathered up their hats and stepped out of the courthouse. Mr. Boyd and Nash walked out together.
“Why not come and stay a few days at Richfield, Jack? And you too, Mr. Boyd.” said Tom Johnson, stopping them before climbing into his carriage. “I would enjoy your company.”
Mr. Boyd raised his brows and thought a moment. “Well, I suppose my daughter can do without me for a while. I haven’t been to Richfield in a very long time.”
“Excellent. You can ride out with me.”
“Gladly. But there’s Theresa at the door. A moment and I’ll return.”
While Mr. Boyd crossed the way to inform his daughter he would be away, Johnson squashed on his hat. “Jack? Will you come? Can you resist my table?”
Nash smiled. “I cannot, sir.”
“You know my cook is heralded the best in the county, don’t you?”
“I do. I haven’t had home cooking by female hands in ages.”
The memory of his stepmother’s feast at Standforth flashed in his mind. He took up the reins of his horse and climbed into the saddle.
“I accept your invitation, Mr. Johnson. Thank you.”
With a click of his tongue, he turned Meteor into the street and galloped ahead of the carriage unaware the coach carrying Rebecah turned onto the track that led straight to Market Street.
CHAPTER 6
Fredericktown, Maryland
Though a bit battered, the coach rumbled across the bridge spanning the Monocacy River and rolled over the broad dirt road leading into town. Log homes came into view, and then brick row houses with yards crowded with hollyhock and larkspur. A black dog ran alongside the coach and barked. The horses were slowed, and Rebecah put her head out the window and shoed him away, for fear he’d be caught beneath the wheels.
Her heart pounded. Nash had no idea she was coming. She wondered what he would do and say. She pushed back the glad tears forming in her eyes, and then smoothed her dress with nervous fingers. There wasn’t anything she could do about her torn sleeve. The pin she attached to it would have to do.
The horses came to a halt. Some townspeople gathered around, speaking to the driver and to Stone, handing them the bills, asking questions.
“Battered and bruised, gentlemen,” said Mac. “We ran off the road in the storm. But we’re here in one piece, praise be. Me and Stone, and the lady we bring, were held up by a band of ruffians. But we took shots at them and they ran like frightened rabbits into the woods. We’ll tell you more over a pint of ale after we see to the horses.”
Eyebrows were raised at the mention of such surly fellows, of Stone’s marksmanship, and the mysterious lady they had risked life and limb for.
“She’s a young lass and pretty as a picture. Brave a lady as ever I saw. English,” she heard Stone say.
Rebecah shut her eyes, wishing he had not mentioned she was British. She might be unwelcomed. And why did he lead them on to think she was pretty? To her she was nothing of the kind. Her hair was an unruly mass of curls, her eyes too large for her liking, and her nose too small. But in reality, Rebecah was winsome to look at, able to set men’s hearts at a gallop.
“British!” a man spat. Rebecah’s heart sank.
“Take it easy,” Mac said. “Most of our mothers were British. Besides women don’t care about politics.”
Mac opened the coach door, lowered the step, and held out his hand. She asked, “Is it safe to do so?”
“Of course it is, miss.”
Men stared at the pretty foot that stepped out. The slipper that concealed it was beige satin with a strap; the stocking, with an inch showing, was opaque white. The brim of her hat dipped over one eye and shaded her face. She could see it in their faces, how their prejudice melted like wax to flame.
“Good, sirs. Do you have an inn where I may find lodging?”
The men drew off their hats. An old man stepped forward. “Mrs. Cottonwood takes lodgers. That’s her house at the end of the street.”
Rebecah looked at the red brick house with the English style garden in the front. She lifted her bag in one hand and her skirts with the other. Offers were made to help, but instead she handed her valise to a boy. As she strolled away, she heard them talking behind her.
“Who is she?”
“Don’t know, but she’s mighty pretty.”
“Did you hear her voice? Like an angel.”
A young woman stood on the street corner. A basket filled with peaches hung from her arm. “Miss! Wait. I wish to speak to you.”
Rebecah stopped as the girl hurried to her.
“My name is Theresa Boyd. My father is the town clerk. We have a large house, and I heard you ask about lodging. Mrs. Cottonwood hasn’t any space left since taking in so many refugees from the frontier.”
“Refugees?”
“Yes, because of the Indians. But not to worry, we are safe here. We have a spare room with a nice view.”
Rebecah felt touched by Theresa’s kind offer, as well as relieved. If there were no rooms in the town, she would have had to rely on the charity of the church.
“But you don’t know me.”
“Perhaps in England, people are more wary of strangers. But in Fredericktown, we believe in helping our neighbors, strangers or not. Billy Wallens, bring the lady’s valise.”
The boy grinned from ear to ear when Theresa handed him an enormous, bright yellow peach as payment. The valise was light, and he carried it ahead of them without effort.
Rebecah looked at her gown. “I’m afraid I have made a poor impression, Miss Boyd. I shall be glad nonetheless, to be out of this gown. It’s ruined.”
Theresa gazed at it. “It looks perfect to me. I shall clean it for you, and stitch up that sleeve. Your journey was difficult?”
“Some of it, yes. I’ll tell you about it later,” Rebecah said, as they walked beneath a wisteria. “My name is Rebecah Brent by the way.”
“Yes, I know who you are.” Theresa smiled at Rebecah’s bewildered look. “Captain Nash…”
“Captain?”
“He’s Captain Nash now, appointed to lead the rangers. He told me about you. Well, he didn’t actually tell me, he was wounded and . . .”
“Wounded? He is alright?�
�
“Don’t be alarmed. He survived his wound, although he walks with a slight limp—barely noticeable.”
Theresa paused, a cautious but anxious look on her face.
“Is there something else you wish to tell me, Miss Boyd?”
“Yes…He spoke your name in his sleep.”
Rebecah’s heart leaped. “Did he?”
“Yes and with great feeling, Miss Brent. I offered to write to you for him. But he evaded all conversation dealing with matters of his heart. He is wretched inside. He did not say why.”
“I know the reason.” Hopeless grief grew in her heart again. “I need to see him. Is there anyone who could take me to Laurel Hill?”
Theresa’s eyes lit up. “I can. My papa has a carriage, and I’m an excellent driver. He allows me to use it whenever I want.”
“May I speak to him?”
“I’m afraid he has gone to Richfield Plantation and won’t be back for a few days.”
“Is Laurel Hill far?”
“Not too far. Come inside and refresh yourself while I hitch the horses.”
Rebecah stopped walking. She had never imagined a woman hitching horses. “You can do that on your own?”
“Certainly I can.”
They entered the cool foyer. Rebecah was shown to a room kept for guests—and wounded friends. She washed her face and hands, brushed out her hair. All the while, butterflies danced in her stomach. Her hands trembled, and the thrill of seeing the man she loved again gave her joy she had not felt in a very long time.
* * *
Theresa snapped the reins and the horses went faster. Rebecah held her breath and gripped the edge of the seat. As they came to a bend in the road, Theresa slowed the carriage. A stone house came into view. Sunlight sparkled in the windows, and an oak bowed its branches over a broad porch.
“We are here.” Theresa drew the horses to a stop. “Are you ready?”
Staring at the door, Rebecah swallowed. “I don’t know what I’m going to say or do. He may be glad to see me, but then he may shut the door in my face.”
“Why would he do that? He’s a gentleman.”
“You’re right.” She adjusted the ribbon of her hat. “I should not give into my nerves.”
Lifting her skirts, she climbed down and walked up the steps. Her hands felt moist and her stomach jittery. With Theresa standing beside her, she swallowed and rapped upon the door.
Any moment he would answer. She would see his face and he hers. She would smile and so would he. He would be happy to see her. She stood back, bit her lip between her teeth and waited.
The door opened and a black man appeared.
“Is Mr. John Nash at home? I wish to see him, please.”
“Oh, Lord.” Joab’s eyes widened and he smiled.
“Will you tell him Miss Rebecah Brent and Miss Boyd is here to see him? I have come a long way, you see, and…
“Captain John ain’t here, Miss Rebecah.”
She sucked in a breath. “Oh…Where can I find him?”
“He’s gone to Richfield Manor and won’t be back for a few days.”
“Just like Papa.” Theresa shook her head. “He said nothing of Captain Nash going with him, Joab.”
“Is it far?” Rebecah asked.
“Too far to travel today,” Theresa said.
“Yes, and I mustn’t intrude upon his host.” She gave Joab a kind smile. “Do you know when he may come home?”
“He did not say.” Joab opened the door wider. “Come on inside and I’ll bring you ladies something cool to drink. Mighty warm today despite the rain.”
Rebecah stepped over the threshold. There was something grand in that action, something satisfying. At last, she stood in his house. She was speechless, stunned. She took in a deep breath, as if to take in everything that was a part of him.
The walls were whitewashed and the fireplace made of mountain stone. Cedar logs stacked beside it filled the room with their scent. On the wall, hung muskets, flintlock pistols, and a powder horn. There were no curtains over the windows. Shutters hung alongside them. The polished walnut floor was bare and clean, and the furnishings few.
Joab handed the ladies mugs of cold apple cider.
“I was stacking firewood next to the kitchen hearth when I heard your knock, Miss Rebecah. Before opening the door, I peered through the window. To my surprise, I saw a pair of young ladies climb out of Mr. Boyd’s carriage. I know it were his cause I recognize his horse Perty.”
A horse outside neighed, and footsteps crossed the porch. A breath escaped Rebecah’s lips and she felt the blood drain from her face.
Jack! Her heart raced.
Joab opened the door and a shadow spread over the floor.
“We’ve come to call, Joab.”
Theresa leaned toward Rebecah. “It’s Mrs. Cottonwood. Her timing is awful. You aren’t going to like her, Rebecah.”
“She’s the lady with the lodging in town?”
“Yes. And I bet she’s brought her daughter Drusilla with her.”
Mrs. Cottonwood stepped inside in her old-fashioned rust-colored dress, with her hair piled up under a large hat. Behind her stood a dark-haired beauty—but still a child.
“I see others have arrived before us. Good day, Miss Boyd.”
Theresa inclined her head. Rebecah wondered why she had ignored her.
“Drusilla and I have brought a picnic. Roast chicken and apple pie.” She showed Joab the basket. “We shall save some for you of course.”
She craned her plump neck. “Well, where is he?”
He raised his hand for her to stop her cackling. “He ain’t at home, Mrs. Cottonwood.”
“Not at home?” Mrs. Cottonwood drawled. “He must be since he has other guests.”
“Sorry, but he ain’t here. It’s gonna rain again. So you best hurry home.”
“Mama!” Drusilla stamped her foot.
Mrs. Cottonwood frowned. “There’s no rain coming, Joab, just going. Look what you’ve done. You’ve upset my poor girl.”
Joab screwed up his face. “Beg your pardon, Miss Drusilla.”
Mrs. Cottonwood put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders, and narrowed her eyes. She looked Rebecah up and down, shifted her eyes to Theresa.
“I know you Miss Boyd. But who’s this?”
Rebecah stood and curtseyed short. “I’m Rebecah Brent, madam. It is a pleasure to meet you and your daughter.”
Mrs. Cottonwood’s button eyes bore down on her. The prominent round cheeks and wide mouth gave the town gossip the look of an autumn pumpkin.
“Brent you say?”
“Yes.”
“This is my daughter Drusilla.” Mrs. Cottonwood pulled Drusilla forward. “John Nash is very fond of her.”
Drusilla blushed, and Rebecah felt a stab. She looked at Drusilla and wondered how fond Nash was of her. What did she mean to him? Had he pledged his love to her?
No, it cannot be true.
Mrs. Cottonwood raised her brows. “So you’re the traveler that was held up. I heard the whole story. It’s the talk of the town.” She bustled over to her like a fat hen. “You must’ve been scared out of your wits, Miss Brent. He did not ravish you, did he?”
“Brave Mr. Stone chased them off,” Rebecah said. “I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”
“Fortunate for you, the coachman knew what to do.” Mrs. Cottonwood sighed. “Oh, we poor women these days. Life is such a danger. And for you to travel across the sea and land to get here.”
“Mama!” Drusilla cried, having been forgotten. Mrs. Cottonwood told her to be quiet.
“We must be going. Thank you, Joab.” Rebecah walked to the door with Theresa. She turned to Mrs. Cottonwood. “Would you do me a favor, Mrs. Cottonwood?”
“I shall try.”
“If you should see Captain Nash, please do not mention you saw me. It is a surprise.”
Mrs. Cottonwood wrinkled her nose. “Why should I tell him anything, my dear? Yo
u think me a gossip?”
“Well, no, of course not. I only meant…”
“I think he will know soon enough you are here, if he does not know already. He may be glad for your visit, but I assure you, he is more interested in Drusilla.”
With her head erect, Mrs. Cottonwood took her daughter by the hand and marched out the door. Their carriage pulled away, and Rebecah felt things might not go as well as she hoped.
CHAPTER 7
South of town people gathered on a hill destined to become barracks for Hessian prisoners. Morning had come, and the day was warm and sunny, the sky blue.
Nash leaned against the trunk of an oak loading his brace of pistols. He wore buckskins, fringed along the sleeves, and leggings.
Out on the grass, townsfolk sat on blankets and chairs brought from the nearby homes. Tables under the trees were bountiful with food and drink. Pastries tempted children’s hands. The ladies did not hesitate to fill a plate or offer samples of their baking.
Nash watched Clarke take his turn at the tomahawk throw. He swung, missed the bull’s eye by an inch. Behind Nash, Black Hawk stood grave and quiet in deerskin and beaded moccasins.
“It’s your turn, Black Hawk. Let the people see real marksmanship.”
Black Hawk raised his hand. “No, this is for white men.” The eagle feathers in his hair swayed in the breeze. Billy Wallens counted them aloud.
Nash laughed and shook his head. “It’s for all of us to try. No doubt you will win. Go on. Show us.”
Black Hawk took a tomahawk from one of the men. The crowd grew silent. Boys ran to the front to see an Indian’s skill. With one powerful sweep of his arm, Black Hawk threw the tomahawk, sinking it dead center. People cheered and boys stared with wonder.
The bull’s eye was the size of a gold piece made from a piece of tin, set on an A-frame piece of clapboard. Black Hawk showed no emotion as he turned around to see his competitors’ reactions.
“It is now your chance, my brother. I will catch you another fat turkey if you match my mark.”
“You doubt I could match it, Black Hawk? Well, we’ll see.”
Nash stepped forward, and locked eyes on the target ahead. He lifted his arm and hurled the tomahawk. It whirled through the air. With a thud, it sunk deep beside Black Hawk’s.
