The Taming of Shaw MacCade

by Judith E. French

  Oddly, the rose-colored quarte felt warm to her touch, almost pulsing with heat. Puzzled by the tingling but oddly comforting sensation that radiated through her fingers and up her arm, Rebecca smiled. I'm imagining things, she thought. But the pleasant feeling persisted, and as she stepped outside into the bright sunlight, a heavy weight lifted from her heart.

  Her grandmother's words of advice echoed through her mind: Find... a good man. Marry and have children.

  Rebecca inhaled deeply and stared up at the vast Missouri sky. "But what if I already have?" she whispered aloud. "What if he's been right in front of my eyes all my life and I can't have him?"

  Chapter 9

  The closest Rebecca's father came to apologizing was the following evening when he drew her aside before supper and said, "I love you, Becca. God forgive me, you've always been my favorite. You have to trust that I know what's best for you."

  "Meaning you don't trust me to do the right thing?" she replied. Her father's face was drawn. She couldn't help noticing the dark shadows beneath his bloodshot eyes. She wasn't about to back down, but she was sorry to cause him distress.

  "Usually, I do trust your judgment," he admitted gravely. "But you're young, and you have much of your mother's impulsive nature. An innocent young woman's heart can be swayed by dark forces that she doesn't understand."

  Her stomach knotted. "I love you too, Poppa. You've always been a good father to me. But I can't forget that you drove Eve and Jamie away." She held his gaze without flinching. "It tears me up to think that she can't be with us when she needs us most."

  It took a long time for him to answer. "I've had my say about your sister. It's you I'm most concerned about now. You think about what you're risking. And if you turn a deaf ear to my words, be sure you're willing to reap the harvest you sow." His mouth thinned."'Honor thy father and thy mother,'" he quoted, "'that thy days may be long upon the land.'"

  "With my whole heart and with my whole soul," she answered. "Jeremiah twenty-two."

  Amusement flickered behind the gray Raeburn eyes. "Close. It's thirty-two. If you'd have been born a boy, I might have made a preacher of you." Then he hugged her. "Don't let Shaw MacCade come between us, Becca. He isn't worth a hair of your head."

  * * *

  "You know you're treadin' on thin ice," Shaw's mother said as she slammed a mound of biscuit dough onto the floured board and began to knead it. "No, Bruce didn't tell me. Neither did Ewen. Word gets around fast when a MacCade starts following a Raeburn girl around like some love-struck hound."

  "Ma." Shaw shoved his coffee cup away. "I'm old enough to shave. And past the time for you to—"

  "Hell's fire, boy!" She wiped the back of a floury hand across her damp forehead. It was only midmorning, but the red ball of the sun had already heated the valley so that it felt like August, and the woodstove added to the steadily rising temperature.

  She took a breath and produced a startlingly original and graphic oath. "I carried you under my heart and brought you into this world in a flood of pain and blood. That gives me the right to hand out advice whenever I feel like it."

  Gesturing with her battered rolling pin, she said, "Mind you, boy. I'll take no sass from you. I listen to enough from your father."

  Shaw pushed the purring white cat off his lap, stood, and reached for his slouch hat. He had heard it said that southern women were soft-spoken, meek-mannered, and deferred to their menfolk. But whoever had started that falsehood surely hadn't had a Carolina mountain lady for a mother.

  "Don't think you're runnin' off," she admonished. She pointed to the chair. "You sit and cool your heels until we've had this out." Grimacing, she laid down her rolling pin—a family heirloom that had come over the sea from Scotland long ago—and wiped her hands on her faded apron.

  Deliberately, she went to the door, looked around, and then returned to take a seat across the table from Shaw. "Have you bedded Becca Raeburn?" she asked in a low voice.

  It was his turn to swear. "No, I have not! And that's a hell of a question for a mother to ask her grown son."

  She raised her eyebrows. "You think I don't know where all you kids came from? Or that you've had your eye on her since she was twelve years old?" His mother chuckled, and her sky-blue eyes twinkled merrily. "Why wouldn't I ask? Chances are, running after a woman's skirt is what got your brother Laird shot."

  Shaw straightened until his shirt stretched so tautly across his shoulders the seams threatened to tear. "You think Campbell Raeburn killed Laird over his daughter?"

  His mother looked dubious. "Never said Campbell shot Laird." She shrugged. "Your pappy sure thinks so."

  Her threadbare, gingham dress was too tight across the bodice and stomach. The garment had been washed until it was difficult to tell if it had originally been blue or green. Her once-blond hair, now darkened and streaked with gray, spilled untidily from her old-fashioned mobcap. Her full face was freckled, tanned as bronze as an Indian's, and prematurely aged by hard work and Missouri weather.

  No one, not even a son who loved her, could look at Fiona MacCade and say she was a beauty now. But neither could anyone doubt her strength of will or her uncanny ability to read people and situations.

  "If you don't think Campbell Raeburn killed Laird, you must have some idea who did," Shaw said.

  "Said I don't know. If I did..." She trailed off, and he read the anguish in her gaze. "I said your brother probably got killed over a girl. If not Campbell's, some other man's. Laird was a lad for the ladies. You know it, and I know it. He would futter anything in skirts."

  Shaw couldn't believe he was having this conversation with his mother. "I don't think—"

  "You don't think. That's the trouble. You let that man-root between your legs do all the thinkin' for you." She covered his hand with her worn one. "I lost three sons, boy. My firstborn dead with the cord wrapped around his throat, a ten-year-old of snakebite, and Laird from lead poisoning. I don't plan on puttin' any more in that grave plot ahead of me. It ain't natural for a mother to bury her young 'uns."

  "Ma, I—"

  "Now, you listen to me. I know Becca Raeburn. She's a fine figure of a woman. She's got spunk, and she's got more sense than all those brothers of hers put together. But she's not for you. They're church folks, not hard-drinkin', foulmouthed rascals like I raised. You trail after her, and you'll split this county apart like that earthquake they had down New Madrid Way, forty years ago."

  "Ma, I—"

  "Hush." She squeezed his hand. "Let me say what I been chewin' on. You're bound and determined to find out who killed Laird. I can't stop you from that. But I can ask you to stay away from Becca. You're too dear to me to lose you when I can name a half dozen pretty girls who'd dance naked to the altar for a chance to be your wife."

  Shaw's jaw tightened. "Who said anything about me wanting a wife? You know me. I'm not likely to settle down and grow corn and potatoes. There's a lot of this country I haven't seen yet."

  "Umm-hmm." She leaned back and folded her arms over her generous bosom. "So you say. But bear in mind what I'm tellin' you. Stay away from her."

  "Does Pap know I took her home from Eden Spring after the fire?"

  "You think you wouldn't have heard it if he had? He ain't changed none, Shaw. Harder headed than a Tennessee mule. But they'll be plenty of folks anxious to pass on the news. You keep your distance from your pappy as well. He's gettin' on in years, but his fist still packs a powerful right punch." She winked as she returned to her biscuits. "And he ain't shy of usin' it on his sons, neither."

  Shaw touched his jaw. "I got one of those Carolina kisses from him the day I got back. But that doesn't change anything. I'm not scared of him anymore. I haven't been since I was sixteen."

  "Never said you was. Just warnin' you that your pappy—"

  "My memory's good enough to remember how he is."

  She nodded. "If he's hard, he's had good reason to be. In spite of it, he's a good husband and a good father. He's never laid
a hand on me. I grew up with a weak pappy, and I saw him take his fist to my mother more than once. The MacDuffs used to be quality. They owned bottomland back in Carolina, but instead of tendin' it themselves, they bought slaves to do their work for them."

  "I never knew that."

  "Slavery's the worst kind of evil. Rough as the MacCades can be, not one of them ever stooped to buyin' and sellin' human beings. But all the MacDuff men take the easy road. They bend with the wind. Your cousin Bruce is that way, and you know it. A strong man is what a family needs. Better to have a stone wall to stand behind when a twister cuts across your path."

  "You believe there's one comin', do you, Ma?"

  Her eyes welled up with tears. "Trouble's comin', Shaw, sure as winter. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but so long as Raeburns and MacCades stand on Missouri soil, blood's bound to be spilled again."

  "And there's no way to stop it?"

  "I thought there was... one time. When Becca's ma married your father's brother, it looked like the war was over. But that old Scottish curse reared up to strike them down. Your Uncle Robert died young, and so did any hope of us gettin' along with the likes of them."

  Shaw moved to the bread table and put his arms around his mother affectionately. "I missed you, Ma."

  "Stop your nonsense. I know what you're up to."

  He pinched off a piece of raw dough and popped it in his mouth.

  "Now, get out of my biscuits," his mother scolded fondly. "They'll be plenty at noonin'."

  "Yes'm," he teased, snatching another bite.

  "And you tell those brothers of yours that the next time they come in here drunk and wake me out of my sound sleep, I'll tar the lot of you."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "I mean it. And I mean what I say about that Raeburn girl, too."

  "I hear you, Ma." She was still making threats as he sauntered out of the kitchen. There wasn't any sense in arguing with his mother about Becca. Not when he hadn't made up his mind what he was going to do about her.

  Maybe he'd hunt up Bruce and ride out to the spot where Laird had been shot. He'd been there twice already, but there was always the possibility that he'd missed something. And maybe Bruce would recall something about the incident that he'd forgotten... something that would point a finger at the killer.

  * * *

  That week was so busy with folks crossing the river that it was easy for Rebecca to push Shaw out of her mind during the daylight hours. Well, not exactly easy, but at least possible. Once supper was over and she had an hour or so to herself before bed, it was more difficult not to think of him. And nothing could keep Shaw's image out of her dreams.

  On Friday, a party of twenty-two stopped at Angel Crossing for the night. The travelers, bound for Oregon, needed horses shod, repairs made to their wagons, and last-minute supplies.

  Rebecca helped Pilar prepare meals for their guests. She organized the campground, showed the women where to get fresh water, and treated minor ailments such as blisters and infected splinters with her grandmother's stock of herbal medicináis.

  One waif-thin woman in an oversized sun'oonnet appeared at the back door of the house, leading a carrot-topped toddler by the hand and carrying a swaddled infant. The mother, hardly more than a child herself, was barefoot and painfully shy. Her oldest was suffering from a large ringworm infection on his arm, and the baby's eyes were red-rimmed and inflamed.

  Rebecca soothed both mother's and urchin's anxiety with mugs of milk and biscuits spread with honey, then ground a paste of black walnut rind and applied it to the boy's ringworm. After scrubbing her hands thoroughly with Pilar's homemade lye soap, Rebecca brewed a solution of goldenseal to wash the baby's sore eyes.

  "Money be scarce as hens' teeth," the woman admitted. "I kin give you a pear sapling fer pay."

  Knowing that to refuse would be a grave insult, Rebecca accepted an eighteen-inch fruit tree from a bundle in the covered wagon. Then she showed the mother the blackberry thicket near the woods. Although the berries wouldn't be ripe until later in the summer, the leaves could be chewed to relieve toothache or brewed to cure dysentery and stomachache. Rebecca always advised westward parties to take along a stock of blackberry leaves for emergencies on the trail.

  Early the following morning, Rebecca, her brother Corbett, and her father began ferrying the wagons, animals, and passengers across the Little Smoke. It was late in the day before they made the final trip. There was just enough time left for Rebecca to plant the little pear tree before beginning preparations for the evening meal.

  As she scooped soft dirt around the base of the sapling, she couldn't help thinking about the other trees the farmer and his wife were taking west. She wondered if they would ever blossom and produce fruit on the shore of that far-off Pacific Ocean.

  Strangely, she'd never had the desire to go with the travelers to see the vast new lands. As she'd told Shaw, she loved Missouri and the river. She couldn't imagine crossing deserts and mountains to start over where there were no churches, no stores, and often no neighbors.

  It's why Shaw and I would have no chance, she thought. A shiver passed through her. They were so different. In the Bible, Ruth had left her family to go to a foreign land with her dead husband's mother. "Thy people shall be my people," it read.

  If I found out that Shaw was telling the truth about Eve's baby, and I really loved Shaw with all my heart and soul, I'd be willing to do that. Wouldn't I? Leave everything and everyone I care about for him?

  She grimaced, wondering if Ruth would have felt that way if her mother-in-law had been a MacCade.

  * * *

  That Saturday afternoon, Rebecca, her grandmother, her uncle, Noah, Pilar, and Corbett attended a special worship service. Leaving the twins to guard Angel Crossing and operate the ferry, the rest of the family declared a holiday. Rebecca thought they all looked fine in their best summer outfits. Grandma had sewn a new black coat and trousers for Noah every bit as grand as her father's and Uncle Quinn's. Rebecca's stylish green muslin had a tiny floral design, a tight waist, and a full skirt. Every perfect stitch had been done by hand, also by her grandmother.

  Sewing was not one of Rebecca's talents. As Pilar was fond of saying, "Becca's hand with a needle is almost as bad as her cooking."

  John Jarrell was the regular pastor at the church, but two brothers, the Reverends William and Wilson Albright, circuit-riding Methodists from Ohio, were the guest speakers. After two long sermons, the women of the congregation brought out baskets of food that they'd prepared for the shared supper.

  In early evening, just before dusk, everyone gathered on the bank of Rocky Creek, a branch of the Little Smoke River, for adult baptisms. Despite his handicap, Noah was among those to be fully immersed and welcomed as a full member of the church. The guest clerics were to perform the ceremony.

  A procession of six male sinners, including Noah and one of Dagmar Hedger's sons, filed out. The boys—all splendidly garbed in spotless white robes—and the three ministers waded into the waist-deep stream. Rebecca could see how excited Noah was. A grin split his face, and he wiggled from head to toe. Rebecca doubted if Noah had any real understanding of what baptism meant, but he loved the attention.

  Both Ohio preachers wore heavy robes of black, but Rebecca could glimpse starched white shirts and tight cravats above the satin collars. Tall top hats completed their costumes. Strange attire for splashing around in a creek in bare feet, Rebecca mused. And despite her father's stern glance and her grandmother's warning pinch, it was all she could do to keep a straight face.

  A quick glance at Pastor Jarrell's demeanor told Rebecca that he was equally amused by his guests' ceremonial regalia. Sensible John Jarrell, bald and bareheaded, was more suitably clad in a plain white shirt, black string tie, and worn black pants.

  Inside the church, Mary Barker, the organist, pounded out the notes of an old hymn. The choir raised their voices in a valiant attempt to add pomp to the baptism. Then Noah tripped, grabbed one of the Albrigh
ts' hands to steady his balance, and both he and the minister tumbled into the water.

  Dagmar Hedger cried out in alarm, but Noah struggled manfully up, grinned, and waved at their father. Reverend William Albright retrieved his hat and attempted to recover his dignity as the choir launched into another off-key chorus of "Amazing Grace."

  Reverend Wilson Albright, the visiting minister who hadn't fallen in, began to pray over the first white-robed figure. He raised his voice to be heard over the singers, and they fell silent.

  But now, another sound could be heard: a deep, earthshaking reverberation. Rebecca looked around, certain she heard horses or even a cattle stampede. The noise seemed to be coming from the far side of the creek.

  The opposite bank jutted to the height of a man's head. Cottonwood, willow, and underbrush studded the rocky lip of the low bluff. Beyond, Rebecca remembered a grassy hollow and farther yet, a long, sloping hill.

  A buck lunged out of the thickest part of the foliage and plunged into the creek. Jeff Baker's hounds yipped and strained at their ties. Forgetting preachers and baptism, Noah whooped with delight, gesturing at the deer.

  The thunder grew louder. Suddenly, a massive, shaggy head burst through the trees. As Rebecca stared, speechless, a buffalo cow leaped over the bank, followed by a bawling calf.

  Ministers and congregation scattered to safety as twenty or thirty more bison crashed into the waterway. The huge animals churned through the shallow water, up the gravel beach, and thundered past the church at a dead run.

  Women screamed. Horses neighed. Bison bawled and snorted, white foam flying from their open mouths. Rebecca gasped as a young bull plummeted over the drop with a rider in a broad-brimmed slouch hat clinging to the beast's matted hump. Bison and man lurched into a deep hole in the creek and went under. The enraged animal struggled to stand on the submerged rocks, found a footing, and shook himself like a wet dog. Curving ivory horns flashed as he fought to dislodge the object on his back.

  Suddenly, the rider threw himself clear. With lightning speed, the enraged bull doubled back and charged his tormentor, churning the water into brown foam with his hooves. The man grabbed a tree root protruding from the cliff wall and climbed hand over hand out of the animal's reach. Bellowing a final defiant roar, the buffalo wheeled and trotted downstream. When he reached a muddy slope a hundred yards south of where Rebecca stood, the animal plowed up it. Tail raised high and head low, the half-ton irate mammal vanished into the brush.