Shiloh

by Lori Benton

  The day was mild after a chilly start, clouded without rain. After the corn harvest, at both farms, it was good to be out with only Neil for company, though Ian’s thoughts turned often to Seona, their wedding, and all that would come after. Building a home. Filling it with children, he hoped, though if all they ever had were Gabriel and Mandy, he would be content.

  At midday they climbed a ridge and spied a big, straight poplar fallen along its crest, still firm and green. Leaning their rifles against it, they took a seat and a drink, then broke into the provisions each carried in a knapsack, sharing what they found there.

  “So,” Neil said after a time. “Matthew and Catriona.”

  Ian shot his neighbor a look. “Ye’ve talked to Matthew then?”

  “I have.” Neil gave him a smile full of the knowledge of his son’s pain and Catriona’s. “They’ve my blessing, for what it’s worth.”

  “A lot.” After a moment Ian added, “They’ve mine, too, but I’ve been thinking I should write to my da . . .”

  “Maybe wait on that,” Neil said. “Could be it isna what the Almighty has for them, a life together. Though I ken the lad loves your sister.”

  “And she him, apparently.”

  Neil chewed a piece of jerked meat, swallowed, said, “She truly isna put off by what concerns Matthew? Given what I ken of human frailty—and wickedness—such bigotry isna like to end anytime soon, unless the Lord return and set up a more perfect Kingdom on this earth.”

  Ian smiled at the notion. “According to Seona, my sister would take Matthew and whatever comes with him, rather than not.”

  Neil hadn’t spoken in some time about the violation of his daughter’s school cabin. He had been justifiably outraged by it, every bit as much as Matthew, though his was the cooler temper, the more bridled tongue. Still . . . “Maggie’s school,” Ian said. “Did ye ever get to the bottom of who did the deed?”

  “Anyone who cares enough to expose the culprit doesna ken who to blame.” Neil’s jaw firmed. “Or say they dinna. And we both know who Matthew blames.”

  The name Aram Crane hovered like a haunt on the ridge where they rested. Had it anything to do with the man, or was Matthew ready to ascribe every evil that befell to the shifty, ghostlike Crane? Others in Shiloh might have done such a deed. He prayed it had been another, for if it was Crane, it meant the man was watching the MacGregors again—more than watching—and had surely taken note of their new neighbors. The thought made him itch to be back home, ready to stand between all threats and those he loved. As he had promised to do.

  He didn’t like this. It recalled too keenly his frustration, years ago at Mountain Laurel, when he couldn’t be sure whom to trust, didn’t know who was manipulating circumstances to their own ends. They had all been working at cross-purposes. Wheels within wheels. He and Seona—and Judith—had been caught in them and had their hearts ground. He whispered a prayer that it wouldn’t be so for Catriona. For Matthew.

  They moved on, rifles primed, but neither took a shot until evening when Neil startled a doe and brought it down cleanly before it could flee.

  Early on the second day, Ian shot an elk cow.

  Homeward bound, they were making use of meandering trails, dragging their meat on a travois, taking it in turns. In the lead with the burden, Ian caught a boot on something sprawled across the trail where it angled around a tall rock outcrop. He went down on his knees on the brushy slope, bruising himself on stones.

  “Steady!” Neil called from behind, grabbing the travois to keep meat and hides from tipping. “All right, man?”

  “Aye.” Ian winced as he pushed upright. “Tripped on a limb.”

  He was about to rise when the smell hit him: an earthy odor, tainted with decay, perceptible near the ground. He looked more closely at what had tripped him, half-hidden among rocks. A limb it was, but not from a tree.

  “Neil,” he said, beckoning his neighbor forward.

  Neil edged between the travois and the outcrop to see what Ian had discerned: a leg—the lower part of one, stripped of stocking and footwear, the flesh browned and hardened, drawn up tight to the bone.

  Not just a leg, Ian discovered as he wrenched aside weeds downslope of the trail. An entire body, decayed and scavenged though still mostly articulated, lay among a thicket of huckleberry bushes tinged with autumn red, growing in patches below the trail. What was visible of the body wore the remnants of breeches and coat.

  Ian lowered himself down the slope, parting shrubs, following the slender length of the corpse to its head. The hair plastered to the nearly fleshless skull was bleached pale, long but likely too short for a woman’s.

  “A man,” Ian said, aware his neighbor had come down the slope behind him. “Took a fall, d’ye think?” He turned to look at the lip of the outcrop looming above, intending to judge its angle. Instead he caught sight of Neil MacGregor’s face, gone ashen as no physician’s ought, even at sight of a corpse gone empty-socketed, teeth bared in a rictus grin.

  “Let me closer,” Neil said. “Let me see him.”

  They exchanged places on the uneven turf, boots cracking branches. Neil dropped to his knees beside the remains, said something in Gaelic under his breath, then began tugging at the stiffened garments. He got his fingers inside the coat, furtled about, and pulled a small object free: a tiny wooden horse, polished smooth, had been protected in a pocket next to the dead man’s heart.

  “God have mercy.” Neil MacGregor stared at the wee horse, shock and devastation writ across his face. “Matthew carved this. Maggie gave it to him.”

  “Him?” Ian asked, though with dawning dismay.

  Blue eyes locked with his, Neil nodded. “Francis Waring.”

  Francis was laid to rest in the burial ground that contained his mother and four elder brothers. Of Colonel Waring’s once-full quiver, only his daughter, Anni, and Lem, his son with Goodenough, remained. Elias Waring stood at the head of this newest grave, bent over a cane, looking alarmingly aged since Ian and Neil had brought him the grim news and his son’s remains. A few came forward to speak of Francis, who for all his half-wild ways had been loved by many in Shiloh, the MacGregors not least of which. Sandwiched between Catriona and Lem, Maggie wept openly.

  Seona had accompanied Ian to the burial, then to the Warings’ large stone house for a supper. They had refrained from speaking to the grieving man about a wedding ceremony. “Soon,” Ian whispered as they mingled with guests in the parlor. “Not today.”

  “No,” Seona agreed with a disappointment he found endearing. “Best we wait.”

  Spotting Anni and Willa, she drifted over to talk with them. Ian watched her offer Anni a comforting embrace. It tugged a tempered smile, seeing her at last forming friendships among the women of Shiloh. Deeper was a rooted unease. A sense that for all his building and gathering and planning for their future, it could all come crashing down in an instant. All Seona’s trust in him turn to disillusion.

  “I almost wish we hadna found him,” said a voice at his shoulder.

  Jarred from his thoughts, Ian turned to see Neil MacGregor with a glass of brandy in hand. Full, as though he had no more than sipped it.

  “Better to know than go on wondering.”

  Neil caught Ian’s glance at his glass. “I need to ride out after this, check on Hector Lacey’s foot. Best I no’ partake—much,” he added, taking a sip. “I didna really mean what I said. ’Tis hard watching my lass grieve, is all.”

  Ian followed Neil’s nod down the passage, in full view from the parlor doorway. Maggie stood at the other end, Catriona and Lem hovering. Ian’s sister had an arm around Maggie, whose face was marked by weeping.

  “Even so,” Neil went on, “better she grieves now and find a way past this—for unless my eyes betray me, that young man has eyes for none but her.”

  With another glance at Lem, oblivious to all but Maggie, Ian asked, “Are ye inclined to favor such a match?”

  “If she comes to favor the lad.”


  “They’re young,” Ian said.

  Neil eyed him with a trace of amusement in his gaze. “And just how old are ye, young Cameron? I dinna think I’ve ever inquired.”

  “Today I feel fifty.”

  Far closer to fifty than Ian, Neil arched a brow. “The past days are weighing on me too, but in truth, man—what is your age?”

  “Seven and twenty since the spring,” Ian said as a group of mourners broke apart in the parlor, revealing Colonel Waring and Matthew in conversation by the hearth. Intense conversation by the angle of their bodies, the furrowing of Matthew’s brow. The lad’s outrage over Francis’s death had been the least contained of anyone’s. As well as his suspicion over who was to blame.

  Recalling the scene when he and Neil brought Francis down from the mountain, Ian revised suspicion to certainty. Rather than entertain the notion it might have been an accidental fall, even a bear or a panther to blame—“Francis was too woods-canny for any of that!”—Matthew steadfastly maintained it was the work of their old nemesis, until Neil had commanded him to hold his wheesht about Crane and forbidden him to say a word of it in front of his mother and sister.

  What Joseph Tames-His-Horse thought about the death, Ian hadn’t a clue. While he had backed Neil in attempting to bank Matthew’s rage, Joseph had not disagreed with the lad’s assessment.

  “Now I wonder what that’s about?” Neil asked, spotting his son and Elias Waring by the hearth. The Colonel looked aside and caught them watching. The old man nodded, took Matthew by the arm, and steered him their way.

  “Matthew tells me you intend riding out to Hector Lacey,” Colonel Waring said when they reached the passage, his voice grief-ravaged but controlled. “Thank you both for being here and, again, for bringing Francis home.”

  “No’ as anyone hoped, Colonel,” Neil said. “I’m verra sorry for it. We loved him. But aye, I do need to be heading back into the hills to check on my most recalcitrant of patients.”

  Ian caught Matthew’s gaze. The lad looked away but lingered at Waring’s side as if he had more to say.

  “We’ll ride home with ye then, Seona and I,” Ian said to Neil.

  Waring turned a sorrowful gaze on him. “I hope all is well with you and yours, Mr. Cameron. It would seem your new additions are settling well in Shiloh.” The old man shot a look at Seona, seated beside his daughter. “Though I’ve wondered you haven’t spoken to me of changing that one’s Miss to a Mrs.”

  Ian’s face warmed. “Aye, sir. I mean to but didn’t think today the time.”

  “Who among us knows what tomorrow will bring?” the Colonel asked. “Let us speak of it before you go.”

  They had done so, he, Seona, and the Colonel, while Neil and Matthew fetched their horses. A wedding date was set for early October. Colonel Waring agreed to come to the farm to officiate. By then Goodenough, Willa, Catriona, Lem, even Maggie had joined the conversation. All seemed at least to some degree cheered.

  Though Catriona had avoided Matthew during the burial, supper, and the ride home to follow, she was solicitous of Maggie and wanted to spend the rest of the day with her. Seona headed inside the MacGregors’ house at Maggie’s invitation, promising to be back out shortly to ride home with Ian. Meaning to head out to Lacey’s isolated cabin, Neil didn’t unsaddle Seamus. Matthew volunteered to tend the other horses. “Catriona?” he called as his sister and Ian’s mounted the front steps of the house. When Catriona turned back, he asked awkwardly, “I just . . . Do you want me to unsaddle Juturna?”

  “I do, thank you,” Catriona replied, then went into the house, leaving Matthew staring after her with longing. Schooling his features, he took up the leads of two of the horses and headed toward the stable, from which Joseph Tames-His-Horse emerged.

  Willa and Neil frowned after their son. On the ride home, when Neil had asked Matthew what he and Elias Waring had been speaking about by the hearth, Matthew had brushed off the question, saying, “About the horses. A new filly.”

  “Waring does have a new filly,” Neil granted, turning now to Ian. “But ye saw them. Did that look like talk of horses?”

  “What talk?” Joseph asked, having come to fetch the other two needing stabling.

  Willa took Josephine from the sling she wore and held the baby to her shoulder, gazing worriedly at her clan brother.

  “Ian and I noted Matthew and Colonel Waring in a rather intense conversation after the burial today,” Neil explained.

  A burial which Joseph hadn’t dared attend, though he owed his life to Francis. “Did they speak of Crane?”

  “We couldn’t hear a word,” Ian said.

  “But it is what you are thinking?” Joseph pressed.

  “I fear Matthew will do something rash,” Willa said, cupping her daughter’s small head. “And if he convinces the Colonel it was Crane killed Francis, there may be two in favor of doing so.”

  Three, Ian thought, gazing at the tall Mohawk warrior with his jaw set.

  “Would you think of leaving now with Matthew?” Willa asked her brother. “Going up to Canada sooner than planned?”

  “Aye,” Neil said. “That may be best. Get the lad awa’ so calmer brains can prevail.”

  Ian wondered what exactly Neil had in mind for calmer brains to do about the problem of Crane, but Joseph’s reply distracted him.

  “I do not agree. But I will keep watch on Matthew. Closer than he will like.”

  Though it was all he said before he led the horses into the stable, it was enough to betray Joseph’s concern. For all of Willa’s family. None of them would rest easy, Ian feared, until Aram Crane was found and his threat—or the prospect of it—eliminated.

  34

  The clamor of hammer and saw awakened memories of Mountain Laurel. Malcolm in his cooperage. Ian working in that same shop. Good memories, in the main, but Seona found no comfort in the sound there in Naomi’s cabin, planning her wedding with her mama while Naomi minded dinner. The children were outside with Catriona.

  The woodworking noises came from the old stable, which Ian had left standing for a shop, with most of the horse boxes removed to make a larger space. Early that morning Joseph and Matthew had arrived, driving a wagonload of seasoned wood for new school furnishings. Undaunted, Maggie meant to reopen her school so long as any parent allowed a child to attend. Catriona would help when the fall session started up, teaching the youngest of Maggie’s pupils.

  Given how things were between him and Catriona, it surprised Seona that Matthew had come with his uncle.

  “He’s here for Joseph to keep an eye on,” Ian had said, taking her aside.

  To prevent his going after Crane. Ever since Francis Waring was found, Seona hadn’t been able to shake the sense of being watched or the fear that, lured by rumors of gold, Crane was out there plotting how to get some. Ian planned to use the latest gold from John Reynold to buy fittings for the house he meant to build come spring. For the time being, he had hidden it. Exactly where, she didn’t want to know.

  She forced her attention back to the gowns spread on Naomi’s counterpane. Brought from Boston, they were some of Lily’s best work, though none without wear. They were deciding which to smarten up into a wedding gown. Her own sashed green, her mama’s blue, or one of Catriona’s, a pale-yellow calico.

  “Catriona thinks the green.” She had worn it only once since leaving Boston—for Francis’s burial—and the straw bonnet with its matching ribbon. It was on the thin side for autumn, same as it had been for a March day in Boston. “Maybe add an overskirt cut away with some lace? Or turn my spencer into a pelisse? What do you think, Mama?”

  Getting no reply, Seona turned to find Lily gazing out the window.

  “Mama?”

  “What’s that, girl-baby?”

  Behind them Naomi clanked a spoon against a kettle’s rim. “Ain’t like you to go woolgathering, Lily.”

  Seona’s mama snatched her gaze from the window. “Thinking I’d take dinner out to them working. If it�
��s ready. As for the gowns,” she added, “Catriona’s right. Your green is best. Brings out your beautiful eyes. Let me worry about smartening it up. I should look at altering that spencer too. Might be a nippy day, come October.”

  As Lily moved to the hearth to ladle stew into bowls, Naomi said, “Best get those gowns put up afore hungry babies come tumbling in.”

  Seona returned each to its rightful cabin. Catriona was at the table with Gabriel and Mandy, dinners before them, when she came back. Seona thanked her for looking after the pair, noting the strain in Catriona’s smile. It couldn’t be easy, having Matthew there at the farm.

  Lily came in from taking dinner to the shop.

  “How’s Daddy doing over there?” Naomi asked. “Any sign of Ally?”

  “Malcolm’s watching the work, taking it easy. Don’t think Ally’s up from the pasture.”

  Naomi set aside the biggest bowl. “He’ll be along. My boy don’t miss a meal.”

  Lily and Seona took over helping the children eat. When Seona’s back was turned, cleaning up a spill, Catriona left her dinner untouched and slipped from the cabin.

  Naomi turned from the hearth, spied the leavings, and clucked her tongue. “Let that be mine. I’ll save the rest in the kettle for Ally. Hand me that bowl.”

  Though her own appetite wasn’t robust, Seona ate what was given her. With the children still working on theirs and Naomi needing water for washing up, she took a bucket to the springhouse, nearer the new stable than the old. She was about to cut through its open doors and down the center aisle to the far door—the shortest route—when she heard voices from within.

  “I don’t see it at all. Neither do you. You’re afraid. I understand.”

  “You don’t, Catriona. You saw one instance—one of the worst, I’ll grant—but you cannot know what it’s like to live with it every day. I don’t want that for you.”

  “Why not let me decide what I want for me?”