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THE LASS SHRUGGED AS if to say nothing.
Thomas studied her. He had heard English words carried along of the wind.
Now, he was nae certain. French Canadian lasses did not speak English fluently, and he was in no condition to make sane or sound judgments. He needed sleep and food too badly.
And warmth. If he did not get some heat surrounding his lungs, the cough would take him before morning. His death mattered not, but he had to live so he could save the others.
He continued down the hill. Snow drifted in flakes larger than earlier. At the porch, another spasm doubled him over.
Ach! He wished she could speak at least a little English. Explaining things would be so much easier. He pointed at Dominic, then at the barn beyond the house. “Besoins tendant.” Needs tending. “La neige est plus difficile.” Snow comes harder.
The lass swam before him in a tired haze. He bothered not to speak of the rubdown the horse needed nor the water. He did not voice his fear there may be little to no hay left.
He pointed to the door. “Aliments. Manger.” Food. Eat.
She twisted her head back and forth. “Il n’y en a pas.”
There is none?
His mother would not have taken every last bite of food. She would have known that mayhap Thomas, or even someone like this lass, might come by and need sustenance.
He started to ask if she found the cellar but then thought better of it. ‘Twas easier to show her than to find the French, so he made his way inside. He walked past the stairs that cut the house in half. At the back wall, he turned. She still stood in the threshold. Icy wind gusts blasted around her and into the house. Fingal, beside the lass, licked her hand.
She moved not.
Thomas opened a door beneath the staircase and entered a small closet. He knelt down and flung aside a green rug. He grabbed a large chain and lifted the door upward. He stood, stepped back into the room, and pointed.
“Cave. Aliments.” Cellar. Food.
She nodded, but still did not move. Thomas shook his head. Hopefully, she would find what she could and put something together for them. Already the world darkened, as much from the impending snow as the day’s waning.
He tramped to the front door. The lass flattened against the doorframe in her haste to allow him a wide berth. He made his way to the end of the porch. He grabbed the horse’s reins.
Fingers touched his arm.
He reeled around. He seized her wrist and twisted it upward. She cried out. She bent her knees against the pain.
And the terror.
What do ye do, McQueen?
She was a mere spit of a lass. A strong wind could blow her over, and he was getting ready to attack her for her touch? He released her.
She stumbled back. Her eyes fasted to his face like old sap to a worn bucket. Her fingers rubbed her wrist where he had squeezed.
Ach! How could he explain to her that his hands were used to war? That when he was touched, he defended himself first and asked questions second.
That doing so ‘twas the only reason he still lived.
The words jumbled from her heaving chest. “Bois de chauffage. Nous en avons besoin.”
Firewood? Had the lass only needed to tell him they needed more?
“I am sorry.” He dared not look to see if he had left a bruise. “I have been at war for two years now. It turns a man hard.”
Her eyes narrowed.
He ground his teeth tight but nonetheless worked the French.
She spun around and raced into the house. The door slammed.
Fingal whined.
Thomas wanted to throttle the dog. “I dinna need ye to fuss at me for my ire. After all, she is French. I have a right to hate her.”
The dog pawed the air.
“And ye know I nae longer have a gentle hand.”
But even he had to admit the two times the lass had gotten near his person he had reacted with unnecessary harshness, and neither time had she done anything to provoke him.
Fingal let loose a questioning whine.
“Fine,” Thomas spat. “I shall try to remember she is a lass and not a Native.”
The French part of her? Well, that simply could not be undone.
He grabbed Dominic’s reins and turned for the barn. To his left weeds filled the kitchen garden. Beyond that and across the Patapsco Road the tobacco hills had been burned in preparation for planting of the seedlings, but they were otherwise bare. What would that say for their crop this year? They did not totally rely on tobacco as so many others, for the trading post generated a large portion of their income.
At least, he hoped it still did. He lifted his gaze to the faded blue building shadowing the Patapsco Road. The guilt pricked at him. What had they done since the traders had all been driven eastward and unable to go to the Indian towns? How had they put food on the table? Clothes on their back? William was resourceful, and Mac was one of the smartest men Thomas knew. But war made things hard, and Thomas had abandoned them in the midst of it.
A swirl of snow blew around his face. Where was his family? How long had they been gone? Had he miscalculated Iron Gun’s ability to send warriors to the settlements in the dead of winter?
A Dhia! Dear God.
He grabbed the top rail of the fence. The cold wood bit into his palm.
He had crafted his plans with care. He knew exactly what he was to do and what his future held. But had he planned it all for naught? Had Thomas, in fact, arrived too late to save them?
––––––––
ELIZABETH SHIVERED in the doorway. The woodsman had stopped at the fence. Was he ill again? Or was he catching his breath?
And if he died, could she figure out how to saddle his horse and ride?
Elizabeth! ‘Tis sinful to think such things.
‘Twas another thing to add to an already long list for confession.
The homesickness saturated her. Her gut spun. Her heart burned. In Nova Scotia, she had been free to attend Holy Mass as often as she wished. A priest was always nearby for confession.
‘Twas not so here.
She slammed the door closed.
She had no wish to spend the night alone in this strange house, but neither did she wish to spend it with the woodsman. She rubbed her wrist. She had underestimated the strength in his otherwise frail frame. What would she do if he decided to take liberties with her?
Her gaze slid to the bedroom. Locking herself inside was her only hope. And yet, beyond the stairs, the door to the cellar stood open. She needed to eat almost as badly as she needed to be rid of him.
She sped to the closet. Stairs, rambling below those on the main floor, tumbled into the dark, shifting shadows. If she battled her fear of the dark and went below for food for herself, she would be free of him at least for the night.
She signed herself with a cross. She eased down the stairs. Dim light shafted into the room from rectangular windows above her head. Shelving, mostly empty, lined three of the walls. Below these were large wooden bins filled with straw.
She shifted the boxes back and forth and on and off each other. She drew her hand through the straw to feel for vegetables or fruit. Behind her, some sort of creature scratched its way to freedom. She paid it no mind, shifted another box, and dug again.
Within a few minutes, she had managed to gather some ginger root, topless carrots and parsnips, a few good-sized sweet potatoes, some bags of ground corn, and a rotten head of cabbage. The ginger root and cornmeal she ignored, the cabbage she tossed aside, and the best of the rest she stuffed into the pocket of Josué’s coat and pants. She was so hungry eating them raw seemed appetizing.
She found a box of apples. She yanked her shirt free of Josué’s pants, lifted the hem to make a sling, and flung a few inside. She had no idea how long she would have to stay in that bedroom, and she did not intend to be hungry while there.
She surveyed what was left. It was poor pickings and hardly enough for a grown man. She pulled an apple from her shirt and set it atop a barrel. She hastened up the stairs. The man’s heavy feet began a slow but deliberate pounding along the porch. She raced into the main room and past the staircase.
The front door opened. Cold wind ripped into her face. She sprang into the bedroom. The apples tumbled to the floor.
She whirled around. She slammed the door closed. She twisted the key in the lock.
Fingal whined. Black paws scratched beneath the door.
“I take it ye have locked yourself away?”
“Oui. And I am not coming out.”
“Have it your way,” he muttered.
Elizabeth leaned her back against the wood and slid downward. She plucked an apple from the floor beside her, rubbed it on her sleeve, and bit into it. It was mealy and tart and tasted nothing like the sweet apples from home, but she was desperate. She lifted it for a second bite.
The man’s heavy steps drilled their way across the room. “By God’s teeth, you wench!” He slammed his fist against the door.
Elizabeth jumped to her feet and spun around.
More pounding. The door juddered in its frame.
“Did ye take all the good food?”
The fear spiraled her from head to toe. The half-eaten apple fell from her hand and rolled under the bed.
He started coughing. This time, deep spasms heaved from his chest in his quest for air. He must surely be doubled over from the pain.
She backed herself into the far corner of the room. What would he do to her if he managed to breach the door? He was capable of great hurts. Her sore arm was a testament to that.
“If I live to see tomorrow, I will make short work of ye!”
She lowered to the ground, tented her legs, and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Ye will not see me tomorrow,” she whispered. “For I will be gone from here.”
And you.
Being alone in the woods may well be a frightening prospect.
But the thought of being in this house alone with him was terrifying.
––––––––
THOMAS WAS SURPRISED this latest bout had not killed him. It certainly had felt as if his chest were ripping open.
A setback?
He hoped not. He had too much to do to before he died.
He threw himself to the stairs and ground his elbows into his knees, the only human he had any real contact with the past two years locked away in his bedroom in his home.
Why was she here? Where were she and her brother going?
And good heavens, what was he to do with her now?
And I am not coming out!
The heat roared through his veins. He jerked to his feet and slammed his palms against the door.
“Ye can use the English! I struggled against the French, and ye never said a word!”
By God’s teeth, he ought to tear the door down. The right kind of tools and the anger he could fuel into his hands would make short work of it and her. He would worry about his pained arm later.
But then what? Would he take the food? Would he set her outside in the cold? And he had been harsh with her earlier. Not once, but twice.
What he had just done would not help.
He turned around. He let his back fall against the door. He lifted his hands in the air and looked at them. He had long fingers, which had made tomahawk gripping and rifle carrying easy for him. But why had he not been able to stay his hands earlier? Had they been so deep in blood and war the past two years they had lost the gentleness with which he had loved Catharine and Dougald? If he could nae stay his hand against the French lass, could he do so against his family?
His stomach growled. His body ached with a deep fire.
Would that I could curl up here on the floor and die.
But he could not. It mattered not how tired he was. It mattered little if he had to search the cellar for food and forage outside for firewood. He needed to find his family. He needed to see that they were alright.
He would now, however, do so from afar. After all, saving them from Iron Gun was easy.
Saving them from Thomas McQueen was an entirely different matter.