The Taming of Shaw MacCade

by Judith E. French

Noah gave a cry of alarm and began to weep. He crawled toward them, then moaned and curled into a ball. The other Raeburns reined in their horses and stared at Mrs. MacCade. Becca remained silent. The only sound was Noah's anguished sobs, the snorts of the horses, and the dull thud of shifting hooves against the earth.

  Abruptly, Drummond brought his rifle up. Shaw's gaze met his, but before Shaw could react, Quinn slammed his own rifle down, knocking the weapon out of his nephew's hand and nearly unseating him. The gun tumbled into the dust as Quinn's return blow caught Drum across the back of the head. Drum slumped forward and would have fallen if Quinn hadn't caught him by the shoulder and dragged him belly down across his own horse's withers.

  "You've made your point, Fiona!" Becca's uncle called. "You're right. This shindig's gettin' out of hand. You'd best let them up."

  "Not until you all drop your guns! MacCade and Raeburn alike!"

  "We can't do that," Campbell replied. "What's to keep your men from murdering us all?"

  "None will shoot ya!" she answered. "We're MacCades, not heathen Comanche. Murdoch, you go first to show good faith."

  Shaw's father stared at Campbell. "Truce?" And when Campbell Raeburn nodded agreement, Murdoch holstered his pistol and bellowed, "MacCades! Hold your fire!"

  Shaw's mother waited until the Raeburns had disarmed, then rested the butt of the heavy scattergun on the ground. "What ya waitin' for, Son?" she urged. "Let her up."

  Rebecca scrambled to her feet and rushed to Noah. She ripped away his torn trousers around the wound and pressed hard on the source of the bleeding. Shaw's mother passed the scattergun to Janie, Leslie's dark-haired Indian woman, and called for clean bandages.

  Shaw hurried to his father's side. From the black stares he, Will, and Payton were giving the Raeburns, Shaw thought they'd be lucky if the shooting didn't start up again within seconds.

  "I never sent my boys to fire your place," his father insisted once he had exhausted his extensive stock of curses. "If I come to take Angel Crossing, you'll know it. It was never my way to hide behind boys or women."

  Campbell's gray eyes were as hard as bullets. "Your son Ewen fired on us first. Him and Bruce MacDuff. We were coming here to demand answers and settle things, but your boys started shooting."

  "Ewen's wounded and so is Noah," Shaw said. "That should satisfy you. Take your family and go home, before worse comes of this day's work."

  "Is that a threat?" Welsh snarled. His face was pale, blotched with angry patches of red, and sweat had soaked dark circles under his arms. He looked to Shaw like what he was—a scared boy who was more talk than fight.

  "You want we should carry your Noah into the house?" Shaw's mother appeared at his side. "Your boy has a bullet that's got to come out, and I'll—"

  "Reckon we'll take him home," Quinn said.

  "Suit yourself," she replied, "but I never turned away no hurt creature. He's safe enough with me."

  "If I'm wrong about who set the fire and ran off my stock," Campbell began, "I'll say—"

  "You shoulda thought about that before you came here," Shaw's father answered harshly. "Now take what's yours and git. Including that gal of yours. And keep her clear of my son."

  Shaw stepped in front of Campbell. "What you saw when you rode up, it wasn't what you thought," he said. "I'd cut off my right arm before I'd do Becca harm."

  Campbell regarded him with utter contempt. "No more than you did Eve?"

  "At least take your nephew home in a wagon," his mother said to Quinn. "No sense takin' a chance on him bleedin' to death on a horse."

  Quinn nodded, and Fiona MacCade called for a team and farm wagon. "And pile some straw in the back," she ordered. "The boy's hurtin'."

  "How's Ewen?" Shaw heard Quinn ask his mother. Drum had regained consciousness and was on his feet, leaning groggily against his mount and rubbing the knot on the back of his head.

  "Ewen's hurtin', but the bullet missed the bone," Ma said. "He'll live if he doesn't take the blood poisonin' or lockjaw. It's decent of you to ask."

  Nigel came forward, leading Rebecca's horse Echo. Shaw took the dun's bridle and led her over to where Bee knelt beside Noah. "How bad is he?" Shaw asked. "Can you stop the bleeding?"

  "I don't know," Becca answered coldly. "He needs a doctor."

  "Ma's had a lot of experience with—"

  "No," she replied. "I'll take care of him." And then she raised her head and looked straight into his eyes. "It will never be over, will it? They'll just keep killing each other until—"

  "Shhh," he cut her off. "Don't talk like that. Do you want me to—"

  "I don't want anything from you," she snapped. "Just stay away from me and mine. Go back to California. Go anywhere. But leave us in peace."

  Hurt rose inside him, squeezing his chest with iron bands. "All right," he responded. "If that's what you want."

  "It's what I want," she said bitterly. "It's what has to be."

  Nodding, he turned and stalked away.

  * * *

  It was near midnight when Rebecca climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Grandma had scoffed at the idea of summoning a doctor for Noah's gunshot wound, saying he could well die before help came.

  "Put him on the dining room table," her grandmother had ordered. "I know what needs doing. The rest is up to the Lord." There, the old woman had washed Noah's wound with water boiled with black walnut leaves, and gave him a leather wad to bite down on. Her father, uncle, Corbett, and Welsh held Noah's arms and legs while Grandma dug out the bullet and bone chips. Drum was there, but his headache was such that he was little help.

  Under Grandma's stern eye, Rebecca had brewed a decoction of Echinacea root, also known as Black Sampson, for both a medicinal tea and for soaking the injured area. Next, she and her grandmother had stemmed Noah's bleeding with powdered alumroot and had bandaged his thigh with soft dressings. Through it all, Noah remained conscious.

  "Noah hurt," he had said over and over. And each time Rebecca had assured him that he'd be fine in a few days, she had hoped that she was telling him the truth.

  And when they had done what they could for Noah's physical body, Poppa read passages from the Bible known for aiding cures, and Grandma had lain healing hands on Noah's head.

  Now, hours later, Noah was tucked into his bed, and Uncle Quinn was sitting with him. "You women have done your share," her uncle had insisted earlier. "If Noah takes the fever or begins to bleed again, I'll call you. Campbell or Corbett can spell me if I get tired."

  Rebecca couldn't remember ever being so weary. Her eyelids seemed leaden; she was drained of strength both physically and emotionally. Her father had said nothing about her ride to the MacCades, but that didn't mean he had forgotten what she'd done. Tomorrow, she was certain, there would be retribution for her disobedience.

  Molly whined from the bottom of the steps, but Rebecca bade her to stay. She wanted to be alone tonight. She hadn't even bothered with a lamp. She knew every step and inch of her room by heart. Surely, she could make her way to bed and fall into it without a light.

  She hesitated at the landing and looked in on Noah. He was asleep, pale, but breathing almost naturally. "Don't forget, Uncle Quinn," she reminded. "Call me if anything changes."

  "I will," he promised. "And try not to worry. I've seen men take far worse injuries and make a full recovery."

  "I hope so," she said before continuing the final flight to her room.

  She pushed open the door and stepped inside. Extending a hand to keep from accidentally walking into a piece of furniture, she moved toward the bed. Then she stopped. The window was open, the curtains fluttering slightly in the night air.

  Rebecca didn't remember leaving her window open when she'd left for the church revival on Saturday. The window was right beside her bed. A sudden thunderstorm would drench her bedclothes, and she never left home without making sure the shutters were pulled shut.

  The door hinges creaked. A chill knifed through her, and she turned, heart racing.
"Who's there?"

  The door swung shut.

  "Who is it?" she demanded. None of her brothers were allowed in her room. They hadn't been since she was ten. It was one of father's inflexible rules. "Pilar?"

  She held her breath, listening. There was no sound, but instinct told her that she wasn't alone. "I warn you. I have a gun," she lied. "I'll shoot to kill." She took a step toward the door, and then another.

  Then something warm and furry brushed against her ankle. Startled, she gasped.

  Meow.

  "Cricket?" Rebecca tittered at her own foolishness and stooped to pick up the cat. But the tabby squirmed away and darted into the darkness. "What are you doing up here, Cricket? Chasing mice?"

  Rebecca chuckled again as the numb, fright-caused pins-and-needles sensations in her hands and feet quickly faded. She was exhausted, leaping at shadows like some silly chit. Even the thought that perhaps she needed a good cry was vaguely disquieting.

  First the fire, and then the senseless violence at the MacCades. And worse, almost as bad as Noah's being shot, was the crushing realization that any hope she had harbored of ever finding happiness with Shaw had been shattered.

  She was hurt and angry. She didn't want to think about Shaw—couldn't think of anything or anyone else. Absently, she reached out for the bedpost...

  ... and touched a man's chest.

  She tried to scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth.

  "Shhh. It's me."

  Fear lent her strength. She lashed out, slapping him across the face, then burst into tears. He seized her. She struggled and they fell onto the bed, limbs entwined. She was angry with him, angrier than she'd ever been; yet his touch, his nearness, thrilled her.

  "Will you stop trying to kill me?" he whispered.

  "You're crazy," she replied in equally hushed tones. "If they find you here, they'll kill you."

  "Do you make a habit of threatening people with guns you don't have?"

  "Be serious. If I scream, someone will put a bullet through your head."

  "Do you want me dead, Becca?"

  "You must be drunk," she flung back at him. She didn't smell any liquor on him, but who could tell? "Don't you understand? My father, my uncle, even my brothers, would shoot you down like a dog."

  He kissed her. For the space of a heartbeat, she slanted her mouth to his and let the wonder of Shaw's caress sweep over her. But then reason filtered through, and she pulled away. "No."

  "Becca, I won't let you leave it that way between us. I had to see you, had to find out why—"

  "How did you get in here?"

  "Through the window. Did you think I climbed down the chimney?"

  "But the dogs," she said. "Jess, the other hounds, they didn't bark."

  "Actually, they did. Will's bitch was in heat. I brought her along. The last I saw of your father's pack, they were chasing her toward the river."

  "You're sure of yourself, aren't you?" she said. "You can't change who I am and who you are. And you have no right here."

  "Who has a better right?" He tried to press his lips to hers again, but she turned her face away.

  "Back there, when I tried to talk to your father, you treated me like... like I was—"

  "A woman?" His deep, resonant voice sent shivers down her spine.

  "You're no different than my father! You think I don't matter. I'm not a child, to be pushed around, ordered about, too stupid to—"

  "I think you're brave, and smart, and tough. And if you expect me to stand by and watch you get shot, it's you who's crazy. Becca, those were real bullets flying by our heads. It could have been you wounded or killed today."

  "Murdered by your crazy mother?"

  Shaw chuckled. "Ma wouldn't have pulled that trigger."

  "She sounded pretty convincing to me."

  "She stopped them, didn't she? Pap's as hotheaded as they come. When his temper is up, he won't back down for anything or anyone. Anyone but Ma, that is. She's his Achilles' heel."

  Shaw draped a long leg over her thigh and rolled closer. One hand stroked the small of her back, and the other touched her cheek. "We parted as enemies today, Becca. I couldn't leave things that way."

  "Don't, don't," she begged him. Her stomach knotted, and she couldn't control her sudden trembling. "There's nothing for us. There can't be. I told you before. You want a woman to spread her legs for—"

  His fingers bit into her shoulders. "Never say that!" he hissed. "I want you. We don't have to stay here while they all drown each other in blood. We can go away. California. Texas. Anywhere, away from their hate."

  An ache rose inside her. How easy it would be to say yes, to forget Noah and Grandma, to think only of herself and what she wanted. He wanted her... as she wanted him. But he hadn't said anything about love. And he hadn't asked her to be his wife. "Let me go," she said.

  "No. I won't. Listen to me, Becca. I've got money. We don't need to stay here. I'll take you anywhere you want to go."

  Was that what he told Eve? she wondered. She still couldn't decide if he was telling the truth about not being the father of her sister's child. And if she could bring herself to abandon her family, she knew that doubt would lie between them like a cold stone.

  But unlike a stone, suspicion would sprout and grow until it consumed their love and destroyed it. "Can I trust you, Shaw?" she murmured, surprising herself that she'd spoken her thoughts aloud.

  "Yes. You can. Always."

  "And you'd do that? Leave your parents, your brothers and sisters? Forever?"

  "Are you asking me if I care about them? Or if I care for you more?"

  "You shouldn't be here," she said. "This is wrong, all wrong."

  "Darlin'." He leaned toward her, and she knew that if she let him kiss her again, she wouldn't be able to fight the yearning inside her.

  "No. I mean it. You have to go."

  "Becca."

  "I can't be the woman you need. I don't know if I want to be. And I still don't know if you're telling me the truth about Eve."

  "If you don't know me after all these years, then maybe you're right."

  The raw hurt in Shaw's voice cut through her like a knife.

  "I'll go," he said, releasing her. And before she could say anything more, he was up and out of the window.

  She forced herself to remain where she was, her heart pounding furiously, her teeth clenched tightly to keep from calling him back. She knew it was right to send him away. He was her enemy. He was a MacCade, and she was a Raeburn. She had a duty to her family. Didn't she?

  All the years of growing up, she and Eve had been like most sisters. They'd argued and fought and gotten on each other's nerves. But she'd always known that she could talk to Eve about things that really mattered.

  She needed to see Eve to make sure she was all right, to prove that what Uncle Quinn had thought he'd seen had been wrong. She had to look her sister in the eye and demand the truth about Shaw. And she needed to put distance between her and Shaw until she got the answer. Because if she didn't...

  If she didn't, she wasn't sure how long she could fight the feelings she had for him.

  She lay there unmoving for a long time. And then she rose, struck a light, and lit the flowered lamp by her bed. Swiftly, she gathered a few belongings, stuffed them into a tapestry bag, and tossed the satchel out the window. She wrote a brief note for her grandmother and propped it on her pillow.

  "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," she called softly. When Cricket jumped up on the bed, Rebecca caught the cat and pushed her into the hall. She locked her bedroom door, propped a chair against the latch, and followed Shaw out the window.

  Chapter 13

  Nearly forty-eight hours later, Rebecca hailed down Joe Turner as he and his keelboaters poled the Kentucky Gal away from Prior's Landing on the Missouri River. "Hey, Joe!" she shouted. She was on foot, having left the mule she'd ridden from Angel Crossing with a Mennonite farmer for safekeeping. "Got room for a passenger?"

  "Depends on t
he passenger." Joe spat a wad of tobacco into the muddy water and leaned on the steering oar to turn the fifty-foot vessel back toward the bank.

  "Me," she answered. "And I'll pay if I have to."

  Joe slapped his leg and guffawed. "Step aboard, sunflower!" he roared. "Pleased t' have ya!"

  Joe Turner was forty, short, round, and as tough as any captain on the river. Joe's oversized head was as bald as an onion, but his chin, arms, and the tops of his bare feet boasted an unusually thick and springy growth of ginger-colored bristles.

  Several times a year, Joe brought a load of cargo up the Little Smoke, and he always spent the night at Angel Crossing when he did. "What on earth are you doin' down here on the Missouri?" Joe heaved a, plank across the six-foot span that separated the heavily loaded keelboat from the bank.

  "On my way to Saint Louis," Rebecca explained. "Visiting relatives."

  "All alone?" Joe strode out on the narrow board with the ease of a man who had spent a lifetime on the water. She nodded, and he extended a hairy paw. "Pshaw! Ain't you a caution? Cavortin' off to the city all by your lonesome!"

  "Don't worry about me, Joe. I can take care of myself."

  "I reckon you kin." He nodded vigorously. "But I cain't take you all the way to Saint Louis. Got to pick up a cargo at Booneville, this side o' Jeff City."

  "I'll catch another ride to Jefferson and take a steamboat from there to Saint Louis." Rebecca stepped onto the cleated walkway that ran alongside the cabin.

  Joe confiscated her bag and tossed it to a lanky mulatto oarsman. "Stow Miss Becca's trunk where it won't get wet." Joe motioned to a man in a red knit hat. "Baptiste! Get that plank. As for the rest of you mangy, egg-suckin' river rats—" Joe's voice rose as his fierce glare encompassed the remainder of his crew. "—you don't speak to the lady. You don't spit or pass wind in her direction. You don't go within arm's length of her. You so much as look her way, and I'll slice off your ballocks an' fry'm for breakfast!"

  Since none of the burly crew showed any sign of disagreement, Joe cheerfully shoved aside boxes and crates to make a place for Rebecca to sit on top of the cabin. "You kin go inside if you want," he offered. "But it's hotter'n hell in there."