Daughters of Harwood House Trilogy : Three Romances Tell the Saga of Sisters Sold into Indentured Service (9781630586140)

by Crawford, Dianna; Laity, Sally

  Apparently still put off by their unexpected arrival, Mr. Smith gave a grudging grunt at the man’s levity.

  Mr. Kinyon swept a glance around in the darkness, taking measure of the camp. “Where’s our Miss Harwood, Eustice?”

  “She ain’t your anything,” the trader rasped. “Don’t be gettin’ any notions about her in yer head. But seein’ as how you two are here, yer welcome to stay. The more weapons the better.”

  Listening to the exchange, Rose felt silly crouched down in the shadowed confines of the tarp, but she wasn’t certain it would be prudent to stand and present herself.

  Mr. Smith made the decision for her. “As fer my cook, my property, she’s already abed.” He didn’t bother to gesture in her direction.

  The braided fellow tilted his dark head. “Now that’s a real shame. I was lookin’ forward to seein’ this property of yours. Reckon it can wait’ll mornin’. Think I’ll mosey over and see what our Shawnee brothers think of the new gal. That might be pretty interestin’.” He flashed an amused grin.

  Rose watched from her haven as the man left his friend and joined the Indians sitting cross-legged around the other campfire. From what she could tell in the limited light, he appeared to have a darker complexion than either Smith or Kinyon. Possibly he was an Indian himself, though the easy way he had of speaking like a white man surprised her. She returned her attention to the trader and their other visitor.

  “I drunk up most of the tea, but I believe there’s some dregs left in the pot,” Smith said. “There’s cups in that sack by yer foot.”

  Deciding his tone had taken on a smidgen of friendliness, Rose eased down on her makeshift bed and laid her head on her wadded-up shawl. An owl hooted from not far away, and as she leaned out from the tarp toward the sound, her breath caught at the beauty of the night sky. Millions of stars twinkled like diamonds against the cobalt blue, reminding her of the awesome power of God and His tender care for His creation. She hoped He hadn’t forgotten her and her plight. Deep in thought, she breathed in the night air bearing traces of woodsmoke, damp earth, and the ever-present pine.

  The firelight reflecting on the tarp was blocked momentarily then reappeared as Mr. Kinyon moved between her sleeping spot and the fire to settle down with her owner. “Don’t s’pose you heard anything new from up New York way while you was down in Baltimore.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just wonderin’, since the French sent that large force down from Fort Frontenac on the Ontario. Hear tell they’re plannin’ to build forts down as far as the Ohio. The Federation’s gettin’ real nervous.”

  “You talkin’ the Iroquois Federation? What difference would it make to them, I’d like ta know. If anybody should start worryin’, it should be us English traders.”

  “The Mohawks especially are concerned about the Senecas. Pretty much all the Seneca villages have pulled up stakes an’ are now hangin’ out at the French posts. Lots of gifts an’ promises have been made to ’em. The other tribes are afraid the French’ll woo ’em into attackin’ the English tradin’ posts along the rivers.”

  Listening to the news, Rose edged forward a bit and tugged her cloak more closely around herself. She’d hoped the conflict between the Indian tribes and the settlers had eased long ago as the colonies became more populated.

  Kinyon continued in his even tone. “Since the Federation chiefs signed agreements to support the English, you’d better believe they ain’t happy. If there’s trouble, they say they won’t attack their Seneca brothers. They figure that’d destroy their own treaties.”

  The trader snorted. “Aw, just more of the same ol’ gossip. Most of the Iroquois tribes are partial to our trade goods. They’ll stick with us. ‘Sides, it don’t have nothin’ to do with me. My store’s in a Shawnee town. Way south of all that squabblin’ betwixt the governor of New York an’ the Frenchies.”

  Shawnee town? Weren’t the Shawnee a tribe of Indians? Why, that awful man was carting her off to the wilds to live in an Indian town! Rose’s spirits sank to a new low. Each piece of information she’d heard this day was worse than the one before. She settled into her uncomfortable, lumpy bed, her thoughts awhirl in her head. This whole thing had to be a really bad dream. Soon she’d wake up to find all would be well.

  Lord God in heaven, please make this circumstance merely a horrible nightmare. Ever since Mother passed away, I’ve been faithful to do my duty. I took care of my family just as I was supposed to. I ran a fine household. I lived the life You ordained. But now…I feel as if I’ve been thrown out to be devoured by wolves.

  Hot tears trailed down her cheeks, and Rose curled into a ball, pulling her cloak over her head. It was bad enough having had to dispose of treasured family possessions and be forced to leave her beloved homeland to endure endless days of seasickness and weeks on a ship tossed about on angry waves. Then to be humiliated before leering strangers on an auction block and parted from her sisters for an interminable time. But now this! This was far worse. Here she was in the midst of some frightful, unknown wilderness with an uncouth man dragging her off to a village of heathens who spoke a tongue she did not understand—and who might invariably decide to murder her in the end. What had she done to deserve such a horrid fate?

  Chapter 6

  A cacophony of birdsong drew Rose out of deep slumber. Surmising she must have left the window open, she snuggled deeper into her warm haven for a few more moments of sleep before rising to prepare breakfast for her family.

  The raucous rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker brought her fully awake, to the realization that there was no window, there was no family. She was in the middle of nowhere, a lone woman in a camp full of men, most of whom were heathen Indians.

  As she rolled over to take a look beyond her trunk, every bone in her body ached, and muscles she’d been completely oblivious to all of her life protested. The mere thought of having to get on that blasted mangy horse again made her want to groan aloud. Nevertheless, she managed a painful roll onto her side and raised her head enough to peek out at the camp.

  The faint blush of dawn was just beginning to make an appearance through a break in the trees. Rose barely made out two men slumbering beneath furry hides near the dead campfire, likely Mr. Kinyon and his friend. Off to one side of them, loud snoring interspersed with the occasional snort drifted from beneath a strung tarp. She smirked. Mr. Smith, of course.

  A number of yards away, the Indians occupying the other camp also lay sleeping. At least it would allow her time to go down to the creek and make herself more presentable. Perhaps more than presentable. She needed to look as good as humanly possible so Mr. Kinyon would feel compelled to do all in his power to redeem her from Mr. Smith and reunite her with her sisters.

  She eased gingerly to her knees and crawled out from under her tarp then forced herself to stand, biting her lip at the aches and pains the slightest movement caused. Cautiously picking up her valise so as not to disturb the others, she tiptoed on stiff legs out of the camp toward the sound of the rushing creek.

  But…fifty pounds. That was a fortune indeed, an insurmountable amount of money for someone to acquire. Father, it cannot be Your will that I be taken into a land of wild savages. The Bible says that nothing is too hard for You. Surely You can get me back to civilization.

  Detecting movement back at the camp, Rose looked over her shoulder and saw one of the Indians beginning to stir. Once again she was reminded of her precarious situation. She hoped the God who made the heavens truly knew about her. And truly cared.

  Nate shifted position on his sleeping mat to alleviate the annoyance of the sharp pebble poking into his hip. The rock wasn’t the only thing irritating him. He should be halfway to his mother’s by now, sleeping in a soft, warm bed and waking to the smell of bacon and biscuits at some friendly inn. But no. One brief encounter with a single female—an Englishwoman, at that—and here he was, sleeping out in the open on the rocky ground. He stifled a disgusted groan at h
is insanity.

  Lifting his head slightly, he surveyed the camp and surrounding pasture in the faint daylight. Cows! Smith was bringing along cows to go with his new cook! There seemed no end to the man’s foolhardiness. At the other camp, he saw one of the trader’s hired Shawnee braves at work coaxing a new fire to life. Rumbling snores emitting from a nearby tarp announced Eustice Smith’s sleeping presence.

  He could not see around Miss Harwood’s trunk at the other strung tarp. But maybe if he got up and gathered sticks for a fire he might “accidentally” catch a peek at the lady. He kicked aside his buffalo robe and rose with a stretch onto his moccasined feet. Then, realizing the possibility she might see him at the same time, he smoothed his rumpled buckskins and untied the thong holding his hair at the back of his neck. Using his fingers, he tamed the unruly mess as best he could and retied the leather strip around his queue again. After all, the fact that most women seemed to consider him handsome was not lost on him. No sense spoiling the image. He felt a smug grin tug at his lips.

  As he began gathering wood from deadfall at the edge of the camp, he caught a flash of motion coming from the trees. He thought in reflex of his musket’s location then realized it was merely the woman returning from the direction of the mountain stream. The same dress she’d worn before still clung enticingly to her young, womanly curves, and he noticed that the brown shade was as soft as that of a fawn and matched her coiled hair. Her complexion, still pink from the cold water, made her gray-blue eyes appear large and luminous. He remembered then why he’d come back.

  She walked—or limped, to be more precise—out of the forest and came to an abrupt stop when she saw him. Realizing he’d been gawking unabashedly, he stepped forward. “Excuse me, miss. I musta forgot my manners. I’ll get you a cook fire goin’ before I go wash up.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kinyon. That’s very kind of you,” she said softly. She turned and dropped her valise on the trunk.

  Reveling in the sound of that lovely, refined voice of hers, Nate caught himself staring at her trim figure again. Any man worth his salt would be most fortunate to bask in her attributes. Not that he was of a mind to forfeit his adventurous life just to settle down, but he could understand why others might be so inclined. Giving himself a mental shake, he turned his attention to gathering enough kindling to start a fire.

  Moments later, kneeling down to feed dry grass to some banked embers while he coaxed a spark to flame, he sensed rather than heard her light step behind him. He turned on his heel.

  She gazed down at him. “No doubt you’ll think this sounds silly, but I’ve not the slightest idea what sort of meal is required of me or what is to be done.”

  “Meal, miss? When we’re on the trail we usually just finish off the game we shot an’ roasted the night before. I notice you got a pot of somethin’ sittin’ on that firestone. What’s in there?”

  She grimaced. “Some sort of a cornmeal mixture he called ‘mush.’ Disgusting concoction, I thought.”

  Nate had to smile. He opened his mouth to reply, but movement on the far side of the campfire interrupted him.

  Where he lay on a sleeping mat, Bob propped himself up on an elbow with a lazy grin and peered up at Miss Harwood. “Now I see what the big hurry was all about.”

  Ignoring the barb he knew was directed at him, Nate gave his full attention to nursing the tiny flame again.

  Miss Harwood moved to his side. “How do you do,” she whispered to the half-breed Indian. She put a finger to her lips then pointed to the tarp where Mr. Smith still sawed wood. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Rose Harwood.”

  He sprang to his feet, an eager gleam in his dark eyes. “That’s a real purty name,” he said in a much quieter tone. “From now on, ever’ time I see a rose, it’ll put me in mind of you.” Taking a step closer, he bowed at the waist. “My name is Robert Bloom Jr., Miss Harwood. But if you prefer, my ma’s people call me Boy on a Black Horse.”

  Tucking his chin at his partner’s overt display of interest, Nate let out a small huff. “An’ the rest of us call him Horse Bob or just Bob most of the time.” Glancing up at her, he remembered to smile.

  She returned his smile then switched her attention to his partner. “I believe I shall call you Mr. Bloom. If you don’t mind, of course.”

  “No, miss. I’d be pleased. It’s got a real respectful ring to it, don’t it?”

  The guy was taking a real shine to the Englishwoman, Nate realized. Gritting his teeth, he tossed a few sticks on the growing fire then stood to his feet. “I’ll take the teakettle down to the stream an’ fill it whilst Bob an’ me wash up.” He nailed his partner with a glare.

  Watching after the pair as they took their leave, Rose felt renewed hope blossoming in her chest. Perhaps she could glean some much-desired information from those two frontiersmen if she invited them to breakfast. She sensed that even the dusky-skinned man seemed intent on making a good impression on her. He might be another ally in her effort to return to civilization. With that thought in mind, she stirred some extra cornmeal and water into the pot. With any luck, there’d be sufficient milk left from last eve, and a touch of extra sugar should make it better than yesterday’s.

  She worked quietly, hoping Mr. Smith would sleep longer. At the other camp, however, she noticed that more of the Indians were up and about. She wished they’d stop ogling her…but comforted herself with the assurance that they simply weren’t used to seeing many fair-skinned women.

  Rose added more wood to the fire and positioned the pot of mush over the flames. As she stirred the mixture, she saw that her hands were now soiled with soot and dirt. Not only that, but a loose wisp of hair was flying about on the breeze. Noticing the two tall, leather-clad men striding out of the trees toward her, she wiped her hands on the smudged apron she’d worn last eve then tucked the strand of hair back into proper order. She focused on Mr. Kinyon, hoping her assessment did not appear anything beyond casual interest. To her own amazement, she decided buckskin suited the man far more than did proper English garb. In that comfortable clothing he appeared infinitely more capable of keeping her safe.

  As the two passed her trunk, they each grabbed an end and brought it over near the fire. “For milady to sit on,” Kinyon announced quietly. He placed the teakettle among some outer embers.

  From his quiet tone, Rose concluded she wasn’t the only one who wanted to delay the trader’s awakening. “Thank you again. The mush will be ready in a few minutes. I’d be most pleased if you both would join us for breakfast this morn.”

  Mr. Bloom smiled, the whiteness of his teeth brilliant against his dark skin and much tidier braids. “We were hopin’ you’d give us an invite.”

  “Then do have a seat, gentlemen.” Rose felt a rush of heat in her cheeks at the awareness that there were no chairs to be had.

  The men didn’t seem to notice. They dropped down onto the ground and crossed their legs, while she perched on her trunk. “I have a question to ask of you…if you wouldn’t mind answering.”

  “Anything,” they answered in unison, then swapped peculiar looks.

  Rose did her best to squelch a smile. “Mr. Kinyon, I couldn’t help overhearing you speaking to Mr. Smith last eve. About the French and a tribe of Indians, I mean, attacking English trading posts. I—”

  Kinyon raised a hand, stilling her. “You needn’t be worryin’ about that sort’a thing. Where you’re goin’ is way to the south of the area we were discussin’—unless I figger out a way to talk ol’ Eustice into sendin’ you back out with me first.”

  “That’s just it, don’t you see?” She inclined her head. “I’ve asked the man at least a dozen times where it is he’s taking me. But he has yet to answer me.”

  “No wonder.” Mr. Bloom chuckled.

  Glaring at his partner, Mr. Kinyon picked up a small stick and smoothed out the dirt before him. He drew a large square then pointed the stick at the center. “Think of that space as bigger’n your whole
England. To the west are these mountains we’re crossin’.” He sketched a rough map in the dirt. “At the north end are some huge inland seas of freshwater that are as far west as the Mississippi River an’ run into each other until they empty into the St. Lawrence River that dumps into the Atlantic. Along them lakes an’ both rivers is where the Frenchies have forts an’ fur tradin’ posts.”

  “I’ve read about the Mississippi. Doesn’t it flow all the way down to New Orleans, the port on the southern coast?”

  “Right.” He pointed to the far bottom corner of his dirt map. “An’ the French have decided they want everything in the center area that New York an’ Virginia have claimed. Them Frenchies are a greedy bunch, so they brought in some soldiers an’ established a store…about here.” He indicated a spot not far below the most eastern lake.

  “And just where is Mr. Smith’s trading post located?”

  He pointed farther south with the tip of the stick. “I’d put it here. On the Muskingum River just before it pours into the Ohio.”

  “Well, that doesn’t look so very far to me,” Rose said, trying to sound hopeful despite the niggle of dread spreading through her.

  “It might not look far on a map,” Mr. Bloom cut in. “But what with all the rivers an’ creeks we’ll be crossin’ to get there, it’ll take four, maybe five weeks through some not-so-friendly Indian country. ‘Specially with the horses an’ all Smith’s trade goods.”

  “Not so friendly?” Purposely overlooking the proposition of spending four or five interminable weeks on the trail, Rose mouthed her main concern.

  Mr. Kinyon quickly stepped in. “Bob means not so friendly to the French, lass. The English have made treaties with most of the tribes where Smith’s store is located. An’ the tribes want English goods as much as the English want the furs the Indians provide.”