Chapter 8

The storm was coming. Rosina could sense it. It remained to be seen when the first clap of thunder would strike, the maiden streak of lightning slash the sky.

But it approached. Of that there could be no doubt.

The men had been closeted inside the main blockhouse for over an hour. Rosina kept to Jemima’s cabin, watching over Chloe and some of the other children, mindful of the Shawnee only a short distance outside the fort.

She sat in the rocker by the hearth and distractedly read aloud from a storybook while the children listened, clustered on the cabin floor with rapt expressions on their grimy faces. The dim interior of the cabin was stifling with so many bodies cramped within, the odor of sweat permeating the air.

If she couldn’t do something different soon, she was going to go crazy.

Blessedly, Peggy arrived. The new bride’s cheeks were spots of color against her pale face. Her eyes shone with barely tamped-down terror. Rosina put her to work showing the children how to make a puppet out of an old sock and slipped from the cabin as soon as they were occupied.

A strange kind of stillness hovered over the fort. Most of the men were at the blockhouse meeting, and nary a cabin door was left ajar to let out some of the cloying heat. Moving as quickly as the bulk of her child would allow, Rosina crossed toward the blockhouse. Her breath came in short bursts, strands of hair escaping her hastily woven braid.

As she neared, the door swung open, and the men emerged single file. She stepped back into the midafternoon shadows and tried to read their expressions as they exited. She noted Flanders Callaway, who ducked out the door and clapped his hat atop his head with the expression of one out to vanquish the world.

Minutes passed. Men left and crossed the fort. Still, Rosina waited. Finally, Silas strode from the blockhouse. She stepped forward in his path. He looked up. Their eyes met. She tried to read his.

Weariness. Worry. Fear. But overshadowing them all, another emotion. One she wished did not live in his fathomless eyes.

He approached her. With steadfast bravery, he’d accompanied Boone out of the fort this morning. She’d been close enough to hear the murmurs from those standing by, sentences like “There’s the last we’ll see of them” and “Fools, the both of them.”

“I was just about to go in search of you.” A softness that seemed at odds with the harsh reality around them threaded his voice.

“Why?” She wove her fingers together behind her back.

“Can we … might we speak privately?”

She drew in a breath. The air held the tang of smoke from the cooking fires of those beyond the fort. Supper for those within Boonesborough would likely be naught more than a square of cold corn cake. “I … I suppose so.”

“Thank you.” Placing a hand against the small of her back, he started in the direction of his cabin. His touch was not heavy or possessive. More guide than command, the gesture that of a gentleman.

“What happened?” She looked up at him as they walked, his moccasined strides matching hers, the sun high and beating mercilessly.

“Many think Boone is a traitor and that he wishes to surrender fort and settlers without a fight.” Bitterness tinged Silas’s words. “ ’Twas not a peaceable meeting.”

They passed several of the men on the way to their cabins. All wore grim expressions.

“What do you think?”

“Boone’s aim was to try for a delay. A semblance of peace while we await reinforcements. He tried to talk sense into the men, to explain to them the size of the army we’re up against, but it was no good. Boone asked for those who favored surrender to turn out or speak up. Then Callaway vowed he’d kill the first man who agreed to surrender.”

Surrender. The word crept down her spine, chilling her. “Did you say anything?”

Silas rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I said we should try and stall for a few more days, but that I’d be prepared to fight if it came down to it. Squire declared he would fight to the death, as did others. There were some pretty speeches.” He chuckled, a dry sound. “In the end, when the vote was taken, it was unanimous. Stand our ground and fight. All Boone could get them to promise was to arrange another parlay with Blackfish in an attempt to stall.” They’d reached Silas’s cabin. He placed a hand on the door, turning back to her.

“Come inside,” he said quietly.

She did so, following him in, eyes adjusting to the dimness. The fort gossips hopefully had more pressing matters on their minds than observing a widow and an unmarried man going off alone together. She stood in the center of the cabin, hands knotted at her waist, while Silas lit a stub of a candle, the scent of tallow permeating the air.

Why did he seek her out? For that matter, why did he want anything to do with her at all? By all appearances, she’d forsaken him. Could his goodness truly extend to giving grace for something such as that?

He moved to the mantel and stood, head bent, one hand resting on the wood. She bit her lip. What battle was he fighting? The struggle with Blackfish? Or did something else tear at him?

He looked up. In a single stride, he crossed the distance between them, gathering her hands in his. His scent overwhelmed her. The candle sputtered. A heaviness filled the air between them.

“I know not who will come out victorious in the struggle that lies ahead. Boone is the finest of commanders, but we’re outnumbered five to one, if not more.” His gaze delved into hers. A strand of hair fell across his forehead as he bent his head toward her. “If … if the worst happens, I don’t want regrets between us. I don’t know why you married Jeremiah when you did. I reckon it’s not my place to ask you. But you’re here now. Marry me, Rosina. I love you. I believe at times I’ve half gone off my head for love of you. Please. Let us promise ourselves to each other. If the worst comes, at least we’ll have that promise.”

Tears burned her eyes. She turned away from him, unable to look him in the face. Nay, he didn’t know why she’d become the bride of Jeremiah Whiting. He couldn’t know. How would he view her if he did?

She’d allowed herself to treasure thoughts of him in the secret places of her mind, but it could not go beyond that. If she told him the truth, and they survived whatever lay ahead, he’d want nothing to do with her. She was ruined. Forced into marriage because she was no longer chaste. Unworthy to be the wife of a man of honor like Silas Longridge. She was sullied, a piece of linen no longer white. He wouldn’t want her. And she wasn’t sure if she could live with herself after hearing from his lips that he did not.

She turned back, trembling from head to foot. He regarded her, pain lancing his expression, as if he knew her answer before she spoke it.

“I cannot promise myself to you.” Tears sped down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

“Why not?” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Do you not care for me?”

“I …” The anguish in his gaze made her long to give him something. Perhaps this week would see the destruction of Boonesborough and its inhabitants, and the memory of any words they spoke would vanish along with their earthly selves. In that case, could she not offer him a ray of hope? Just a little one? “I do care for you. But … ’tis too soon. After Jeremiah.”

“You loved him then?” His tone was a hoarse whisper of disbelief.

She let silence be her answer.

He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, chest falling in a weighty sigh. Like a man stricken. Felled by the blow of her words.

Guilt wracked her insides.

“I beg you. Let us not talk of this now,” she hastened. “Not when everything is so uncertain. I want to help. Tell me what I can do.” She brushed a hand against his forearm. Strength emanated from him, in each muscle and sinew. Strength … and a wound that she had caused.

“Do?” His brow furrowed.

For now, the defense of Boonesborough was all that mattered. Best to leave the luxury of woes of the heart until that had passed. The decision emboldened her. “I can aim true. Jemima says that women must don men’s garb and man the loopholes. To give the appearance of more men at the fort than what there truly are.” Her words tumbled over each other.

He shook his head. “In your condition, you’d best keep to the cabins.”

She lifted her chin. “If the fort is taken, my condition will matter little to our captors. Let me help. I promise you’ll find me a good shot.”

He seemed about to refuse, then something in his expression broke, and he gave a grudging nod. “If it comes to an exchange of fire, aye, you can join the rest. But only if you promise to take the place I give you and do exactly as you’re told.”

Rosina nodded. “I will.”

He swallowed, face lined and, right now, aged beyond his years. She forced aside the longing to take him into her arms and hold him close. “For now, let’s pray to God it doesn’t come to that. For all our sakes.”

Monday evening passed in a haze as sticky as the September heat. Silas and Captain Boone parlayed with Blackfish once more. Rosina had waited in the cabin, relegated to caring for some of the littlest children, to hear the results. Jemima returned and told her that Blackfish requested an answer to Hamilton’s letter, but Boone and Silas managed to buy more time for negotiations among the fort inhabitants and gain permission for the women to go outside the fort to collect water without fear of reprisal. In return, the Indians could continue to help themselves to cattle and crops for food. A tidy arrangement.

But the Shawnee and British were running out of patience. They’d come to take Boonesborough, not wait around at the settlers’ convenience. Jemima said her pa told her Blackfish’s gaze had taken on a cold, calculating gleam. This would be the final delay.

Rosina slept little that Monday night, curled beside Chloe on the cornhusk mattress, the little girl’s even breaths a reassuring cadence. Jemima and Flanders didn’t come to bed until after midnight. Rosina reckoned they were with Boone, helping to prepare the fort’s defenses. She’d offered to help in any way, but over and over Jemima cautioned her to stay inside and watch over the children. Thus, she did, most of Tuesday morning. But the inactivity of the task chafed, despite its needfulness, and she escaped the cabin midmorning. Outside the cabin door, a breeze soothed her flushed cheeks, and she rested one hand against her middle as she took in the sights around her.

’Twas a fortification making ready for battle. Men stood at intervals below and along the walls, eyeing the Indians’ encampment. Several young men, Flanders Callaway included, bent their backs to the task of digging a well near the center of the fort. Sweat streamed down their dirty faces. Truly though, water would be of the utmost importance, as the well already within the fort gave little water.

A few women strode purposefully toward the smithy carrying armfuls of metal bowls and utensils to be melted into bullets. Rosina spied two lithe-looking young men carrying rifles. One of them pushed back his broad-brimmed hat, revealing a familiar sunburned face.

Why, ’twas Betsy Callaway, dressed as a boy. And her sister, Fanny. Both of the girls had been good friends of hers and Jemima’s, and had been captured along with Jemima in the summer of 1776 and rescued by Boone and a party of other men. Rosina would’ve been among them by the creek that day had her father not insisted she remain inside that Sabbath afternoon and mend his waistcoat.

Now the girls marched back and forth in front of the gates, likely to make their invaders believe there were a greater number of men within the stockade. Doubtless, Jemima was somewhere in the fort doing the same or some other important task for preparation.

Rosina pressed her lips together. And here she’d been relegated to tending the children, a task that could be performed by the older women too feeble to be of active help.

Well, she wasn’t going to stand for it. She’d find Jemima or Silas and demand to be given a task.

Shouting sounded in the distance. Rosina stiffened. A scattering of others headed toward the fort gates as the call came again. She followed them, skirt trailing in the kicked-up dust. Heat baked her head, and she stood pressed up next to an elderly man. His eyes were squints in his liver-spotted face, and he reeked of unwashed skin and garments. As they all likely did.

“Boone!” Rosina recognized the voice of the dark-skinned man who’d borne the white flag of truce. It rang across the pickets, landing on all ears. Doubtless he stood within fifty yards of the fort entrance. “Chief Blackfish and his warriors wish to see your women.”

Footsteps sounded behind her, pressing through the crowd. Captain Boone and Jemima, followed by Silas. The three of them drew near the front gates, slightly apart from the others.

“What’s that you say?” Boone called.

“Chief Blackfish has heard you have a very pretty daughter. He and his warriors desire to look upon her.”

A gasp went up from inside the fort. Rosina swallowed, throat gritty. Was this some kind of trick? Would they truly attack a defenseless woman?

“Since my daughter’s kidnapping, she and the other women are very much fearful of Indians.” Though loud, Boone’s voice had a guarded edge.

“All she need do is come outside. Blackfish will look upon her from a distance.”

Jemima Boone was one of the most fearless people Rosina had ever met. But to leave the fort gates alone and face a party of warriors …?

“Pardon me.” Rosina nudged the man beside her. He let her pass. She elbowed her way forward, sidling through, until she reached Jemima and Flanders. Captain Boone had both hands on his daughter’s shoulders as he spoke quietly to her. Silas stood slightly to the side, hand resting on the powder horn at his waist. She avoided his gaze.

Before she could speak, Boone turned to her. “Mistress Whiting.” Gravity etched itself across his unshaven face. Sweat ringed the collar of his hunting shirt. “Jemima has agreed to go. Will you go with her?”

“Nay.” Silas’s voice sliced the air. “I won’t permit it.”

Boone nodded slowly. “I understand.”

“Wait.” The boldness of her tone surprised her. Had her father heard her, she’d have gotten a strapping and gone to bed without supper. But Boone paused, looking down at her from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. She cleared her dry throat. “Is it necessary for Jemima to go?”

“Doing as they ask may give us more time.”

“Is there danger?”

“Rosina—”

She turned to Silas, leveling him with a look. Surprisingly, he silenced.

Boone drew a weighty breath. “I think not. They would not stoop to attack an unarmed woman, especially my daughter. But I cannot promise anything.”

Rosina reached and clasped Jemima’s hand. Sweat slicked her friend’s calloused palm. Jemima glanced at her. Her blue eyes were steely in her freckled face, but a trace of fear filled their depths.

“I’ll go with her.” The declaration came out strong. Determined.

Boone nodded. “Fine then. We’ll be keeping watch.” He slung his rifle from his back and held it in both hands. Flanders’s forehead creased as he eyed the two of them, reluctance in his gaze, though he made no move to speak against his wife’s decision. Silas stood at his side, motionless, hands fisted around his own weapon. Had their encounter in his cabin gone differently, would he have put up more of an effort to stop her? She shoved aside the question. She didn’t want him to stop her. She could face this.

“Are you sure you want to come?” Jemima whispered, her voice sounding suddenly young and scared. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m coming.” She wouldn’t let her friend face this alone. Even Daniel Boone’s daughter wasn’t invincible.

They dropped hands. Jemima turned to Flanders. The two embraced, Flanders whispering something in Jemima’s ear before pressing a kiss against her lips. Rosina swallowed, caught by the intimacy of the moment between husband and wife.

Jemima broke away from her husband. “Let’s get this over with then.” She set her slim jaw.

Shoulders straight, the two women approached the fort gates. The towering pickets creaked open. Behind them, Rosina sensed the gazes of the settlement upon them. Her legs shook. Perspiration slid down her back. Her skirt swished in the warm breeze. Overhead the sky was pale blue, sunlight raining down.

Each step they took carried them away from the strong walls that spelled shelter.

Just keep walking. God help us.

She forced herself to face the assembled Shawnee with lifted chin and unblinking gaze. They eyed her openly, curiously. Beside the interpreter stood a well-built man with plucked and braided hair bedecked in a fine English-style shirt open at the throat, adorned with silver bangles and beaded jewelry. Obviously, this must be Blackfish. The other warriors were dressed in simple buckskin, many bare-chested. A hatchet glinted from the belt of a muscled young warrior.

Jeremiah’s bloodied body rose before her mind in a stark flash of memory. Her heart hammered.

Captain Boone thought they would be safe. Permitted his beloved daughter to face them.

There was nothing to be afraid of. She played the statement through her mind as Jemima stood beside her, utterly still.

The chief turned to his interpreter and exchanged a few words.

“Chief Blackfish asks you to let down your hair,” the interpreter called.

Rosina glanced at her friend. Jemima quirked a brow, a fleeting gesture of amusement, before lifting her hands to her pinned-up hair. Rosina’s fingers fumbled for her braid. She ran them quickly through the thick, dark strands, the ribbon that secured them crumpled in her fist. Jemima pulled out her comb and shook free her lush auburn mane.

Wind played with the strands, pulling them away from Rosina’s face. She stared straight ahead at the onlookers. Chief Blackfish watched them, a smile spreading across his lined face. Several of the warriors grinned. Yet they were not lascivious smirks, but gestures of almost boyish enjoyment.

Feet rooted to the grass, the women stood a couple of minutes longer.

“Let’s go,” Jemima murmured. They turned and made their way toward the fort, the gates opening to receive them. They hastened inside, and the gates shut.

Boone and Flanders waited just inside. Boone pulled his daughter close in a quick embrace. A smile softened Rosina’s lips. What would it be like to have such a kind and loving father? She could scarce imagine it.

Silas approached and stopped beside her. “Are you well?”

Her hair still hung unbound about her shoulders. But her hands remained at her waist. Whether weary or unwilling to put herself to rights, she couldn’t tell. “I’m fine.”

Relief showed in his face. He’d worried about her. The knowledge pooled through her. In a gentler time, she’d have let herself bask in it. But perhaps hours from the start of a siege, this was not that time. They must focus on securing the fort, personal feelings aside.

Thus, she gathered her hair and bound it with the creased, sweat-dampened ribbon. “I’d best go see if Chloe’s all right.”

He nodded, and she walked away.