The Heart's Stronghold

by Amanda Barratt

  “What? What is it?”

  “The baby …” She groaned again.

  Instantly, he stood, sweeping her into his arms. Urgency sped through him. “Let’s go find Granny Anderson.” Cradling her close, he strode the length of the fort. Fires still blazed, men working feverishly to extinguish them.

  “A miracle,” she murmured, looking up at him as he carried her.

  “What?”

  “I prayed for a miracle. And then you came.” She smiled, resting her hand against his stubbled jaw. “God is with us, Silas.”

  Just as they reached the threshold of Granny Anderson’s cabin, the second miracle of the night came, visited upon them through cleansing drops of water from the heavens that drenched the fort and doused the flames.

  Rain.

  Chapter 12

  The fort?” Rosina gasped out between contractions. Hours melded together in a haze of female voices, the pungent scent of herbs, and the pain of bringing a new life into the world.

  “It stands.” A smile flickered across Jemima’s weary face as she pressed a cool cloth to Rosina’s forehead. “The Shawnee have retreated. Boonesborough is ours.”

  Rosina would have thrown her arms around her friend in a celebratory embrace if not for the next seize of agony slicing her body.

  “Pant now.” Despite being as wrinkled as an old apple and hobbled with rheumatism, Granny Anderson had cared for the youngest children while their parents defended the fort and was now proving an able midwife with Jemima as assistant. “The head is nearly born.”

  Rosina moaned. Sweat slicked her body, the building pressure within seeming never to end. But pain meant life. She was alive. Alive and ushering life in. The most divine of miracles.

  “There. Now one more push, and ’twill all be at an end.” Granny bent over Rosina’s spread legs.

  Every fiber of her being drew inward with concentration as she pushed, rearing up and gripping the sheets in her clenched hands. Release followed as the child slipped from within her.

  Spent, she lay back against the bed, eyes closed. A snip. Footsteps. She opened her eyes. Granny and Jemima bent over the table. Silence echoed.

  “What? What’s happening? Why isn’t it crying?” Rosina tried to sit up. Sudden panic clawed at her.

  But in the next instant came the sweetest of sounds. The mewling of a babe. Gently rocking, Jemima carried the baby to Rosina.

  “Meet your daughter.” A smile wreathed Jemima’s sunburned face.

  Granny Anderson propped her up with pillows and helped her to sit. Rosina took the bundle reverently. She cradled the infant in her arms, marveling at the weight of her. Blue eyes blinked up at her.

  “Is she really mine?” She brushed her fingertips gently over the downy hair wreathing the little head. Tears suddenly rose to her eyes.

  “Aye.” Jemima laughed through a sheen of moisture in her own gaze. “She’s really yours.”

  Rosina pulled back the blanket in awe of the perfection before her. Tiny toes. Little arms and fingers that tucked into fists. A puckered mouth. Nose the size of a button.

  Each part nothing less than a miracle.

  “Silas.” She met Jemima’s gaze. “I want to see Silas. And Chloe. Bring them both.”

  “You can fetch him.” Granny Anderson stood on the other side of the bed, looking down at the baby. “But not for half an hour. We’ve still got to finish, then mother and baby must both be tidied up before any visitors. Those are orders, Mistress Callaway.” Yet a smile creased her wrinkled face.

  Grinning, Jemima left the cabin, door creaking closed behind her.

  While Granny worked, Rosina looked down at her baby nestled in the crook of her arm. Jeremiah’s face came suddenly to mind. He’d missed this day. Would miss everything about the child he’d fathered.

  A lump rose to her throat.

  He’d shown her little in the way of kindness. But he’d come to a miserable end, and doubtless, eternity offered him little better. In her heart, the anger she’d once felt toward him had dissipated, just as the flames engulfing Fort Boonesborough were washed away by cleansing rain.

  “Your baby will have a father, Jeremiah,” she whispered. “And I can promise you he’ll be good and strong and brave.”

  Finished with tending Rosina, Granny took the baby and carried her to the table to be washed. Rosina lay in bed, fingering the ends of her freshly plaited braid. What a sight she must be. The past ten days had done her no favors, nor had the hours of childbirth.

  Thank You, Lord, for a man who sees me for more than the prettiness of my face.

  Jemima bustled in just as Granny carried the baby back to Rosina. Bending toward Rosina, Jemima whispered, “He’s a fine man, your Silas. A right fine man.”

  Rosina flushed. Jemima squeezed her shoulder and moved toward the table.

  They entered, Silas holding Chloe’s hand. The little girl looked as fresh and rested as a summer’s morn, while Silas bore marks of another sleepless night. He’d donned a clean shirt, and his face looked newly washed, though unshaven. A smile spread across it.

  “Come here, Chloe,” Rosina said softly.

  Chloe approached the bed, eyes filled with nervous curiosity. “Is it your baby?” A lisp tinged Chloe’s words, her smile shy.

  Rosina laughed. “Aye. My daughter.” She looked up at Silas.

  His gaze turned soft as he knelt beside the bed. He reached out a hand and rested it against the babe’s head, almost hesitant. “She’s perfect.”

  “Come outside, Chloe. You’d like some tea with sweetening, wouldn’t you? Miss Rosina needs to rest.” Jemima took Chloe’s hand, drawing her away. “You can come back later.”

  Granny Anderson following, the threesome left the cabin, leaving Silas, Rosina, and her baby alone.

  “Here,” Rosina said softly. “Hold her.”

  Silas held out his arms, breath tangled in his chest as Rosina placed the tiny bundle into his arms. He gazed down at the scrunched little face, eyes burning with emotion.

  “She’s … so …” He’d spent the past days yelling orders at the top of his lungs, and now the miracle of a babe had left him speechless.

  Just as it should be.

  “Aye.” Propped up with pillows in the middle of the bed, a quilt pulled to her waist, Rosina nodded, eyes soft with maternal love. “Perfect. I know.”

  “What will you name her?” Silas tucked the infant closer to his chest. She was so fragile. Like fine porcelain. And beautiful. Like her mother.

  “I wanted some help with that.” A gentle smile spread across Rosina’s lips. “I was thinking Faith Miracle. Do you like it?”

  “Faith Miracle Whiting.” He turned the name on his tongue.

  “Nay.” She shook her head. “Faith Miracle Longridge.”

  He opened his mouth, but no words came. She couldn’t mean …

  “I want you to be my daughter’s father. Chloe’s too. If … that is, if you’ll have us.”

  Love, tender and precious, swelled through his chest. “There’s nothing I’d like more.”

  “Me too.” She leaned forward and softly pressed a kiss against his lips. He kissed her back, her daughter in his arms. His beloved Rosina. His at long last.

  She drew away, leaning back against the pillows. Fatigue marked her face, but her expression was peaceful and content. “I heard about the fort.”

  “Aye. We withstood the siege. Two of the men are dead. Several wounded.” The weight that had settled on his chest loosened as he spoke the words. They’d survived and held the fort. The colonial flag would continue to flutter above Boonesborough, and the settlers would remain free.

  He’d scarce imagined such a thing could be possible.

  “When Jeremiah died, I thought to go east as soon as it was safe.” Her braid lay across the pillow like a rich, dark ribbon, and her tone grew low and sleepy. “But I find I’ve a love for Kentucke too deep to deny. What say you, Captain Longridge? Shall we settle this wild land and watch o
ur children grow up upon its soil?”

  He absorbed her words, smiling slowly. ’Twould not be an easy task, and there was no guarantee they’d not encounter danger. But the steps that made history were never trod with gossamer slippers. Strong backs and determined hearts were needed to carve out a future worth having. “Aye. But first you must rest. I’ll not have my bride too weary to dance at her wedding frolic.” He stood, placing the baby beside her and pressing a kiss against her forehead. “Sleep, my love.”

  Eyes half closed, arms around her infant, she nestled into the pillows. “A wedding frolic …,” she murmured.

  With a final kiss, he left her to sleep, trusting that while they were apart God would keep her safe. Only He knew what trials the days ahead would hold, what paths they would walk.

  But tomorrow brimmed with the sweet truth of knowing the woman he loved, his to cherish unreservedly, would walk beside him on those paths. For better, for worse. In good times and bad. Till death parted them and sent them homeward to an even better life. But until that day came, they’d live for today.

  And for the promise of tomorrow.

  “Amen,” Silas whispered, closing the cabin door, taking in the walls of the fort, the land he loved, and the song of a redbird soaring high overhead.

  So be it, Lord.

  Author’s Note

  Though the main characters in A Promise for Tomorrow are fictional, the events surrounding the Siege of Boonesborough are not. In my portrayal of this historical event, I tried my best to stay as close to what we know to have actually occurred, utilizing biographies and documentaries as resources. Of course, any errors are my own.

  On the morning of September 18, 1778, eleven days after Chief Blackfish and his army arrived at Fort Boonesborough, the siege ended with the fort in the hands of Daniel Boone and the settlers. On the heels of the grueling winter at Valley Forge and other military losses, the victory at Boonesborough was a much-needed win for the American colonists against the British and their Native American allies in the War for Independence.

  Including Daniel Boone in this story was such a treat for my history-loving heart. His bravery in the midst of almost unbeatable odds and his determination to carve out a civilization founded on freedom and independence truly earned him a place among the ranks of great American heroes.

  In telling the story from the point of view of Kentucky’s white settlers, I have in no way intended to demean or negatively portray the Native Americans who lived during this tumultuous period in history. Daniel Boone himself held the Shawnee people in great respect. Soon after the siege, the militia asked him to guide them to the village where he was held in captivity so harsh reprisals against the Native Americans could be made. Boone refused. Soon after, he left Fort Boonesborough and went home to North Carolina. He never again dwelt within the fortification that bore his name.

  Thank you for spending time with Silas and Rosina! It was a joy penning this frontier tale and researching the fascinating history of our forefathers. Most importantly, I hope this story encouraged you to draw closer to the One who holds all our tomorrows.

  Blessings,

  Amanda

  ECPA bestselling author Amanda Barratt fell in love with writing in grade school when she wrote her first story—a spinoff of Jane Eyre. Now Amanda writes romantic, historical fiction, penning stories of beauty and brokenness set against the backdrop of bygone eras not so very different from our own.

  She’s the author of several novels and novellas, including My Dearest Dietrich: A Novel of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Lost Love. Two of her novellas have been finalists in the FHL Reader’s Choice Awards.

  Amanda lives in the woods of Michigan with her fabulous family, where she can be found reading way too many books, plotting her next novel, and jotting down imaginary travel itineraries for her dream vacation to Europe. She loves hearing from readers on Facebook and through her website amandabarratt.net.