Chapter 5

Rebecca got little sleep on the nights following Shaw's confrontation with her father. In the time since she'd been told that he was dead, she'd almost—but not quite—put his ghost to rest.

Now, Shaw was back, and she doubted that she would ever sleep easily again. Seeing him brought back a flood of memories, and looking into those liquid eyes made her doubt everything she wanted out of life.

She'd considered herself settled, happy except for her longing to unite Eve with the family. But Shaw blew in on an unsettling western wind and turned everything upside down.

Even Angel Crossing had changed in the blink of an eye. Quinn, her father, and brothers began to carry weapons everywhere they went—even on routine chores to the outbuildings—and they insisted that the dogs be left loose all the time. The twins checked the stores of powder and shot while Corbett took his life savings and ordered a new five-shot Colt revolver from a merchant in Saint Louis.

Rebecca kept busy carrying westward gold seekers, immigrants, and neighbors back and forth across the river. Corbett, Welsh, and Drummond had never taken much interest in the ferry, and the current alarm gave them a good excuse to leave the work to her. Rebecca preferred the river to waiting on customers at the store or helping Pilar prepare the huge midday meals. And so long as she didn't sit still, she had no time to dwell on Shaw MacCade and the danger that rode with him.

Several farmers and one circuit-riding Methodist preacher stopped by to pass the news that pro-slavers and abolitionists had gotten into a shooting altercation south of Saint Louis city, and that wild Shaw MacCade wasn't dead and had come back home looking for trouble. According to local gossip, old Murdoch, the leader of the MacCade clan, was tired of waiting for action on his civil suit to regain Angel Crossing and meant to take the law into his own hands.

But in spite of Rebecca's concern, two weeks passed without incident. On Saturday, May nineteenth, Rebecca accompanied Jorgan Anderson to a potluck supper and dance at Eden Spring, a small town about fifteen miles from Angel Crossing.

Jorgan was a bachelor who raised mules for the westward trade. Nearing forty, placid, and slow talking, the big Swedish farmer wasn't Rebecca's first choice for a prospective bridegroom. But Jorgan was not only unfailingly good-natured; he was the only man to continue to call on her in the past few years.

It's not as though I'm swamped with beaus, Rebecca admitted to herself as she dressed for the frolic. The bad blood between the Raeburns and the MacCades combined with the rumors about Eve's disgrace had been enough to make suitors as scarce as hens' teeth. Rebecca's girlhood friends had all married and most had children, while she remained under her father's roof.

Since she was a child, she'd known that she wanted a home of her own, a husband, and children. But other than Shaw, she'd met no man that she could imagine sharing her dreams and hopes with. And having him—if she could forgive what he'd done to Eve—would mean betraying her family and giving up everyone and everything else she held dear.

Rebecca gave a small sigh of resignation. Shaw had made it perfectly clear to her years ago that he wasn't the marrying kind. They'd been friends when they were children and too young to realize what trouble it could cause. Now, even that bond had frayed beyond mending. The stranger wearing Shaw's face who'd come here to threaten her father's life was someone she didn't know anymore. So why was she so obsessed with him? And why had her thoughts turned to subjects no church-going woman should admit to?

Shaw had ruined everything by coming back from the grave, even her pleasure at being asked to this dance by Jorgan. There was no logical reason why she should change her mind about wanting to go. She hadn't been to Eden Spring in several months, and she loved to dance. She knew she should be eager to visit with her old acquaintances, but she kept making excuses to herself that she was needed here at home.

Jorgan was a hardworking man, and she knew that with a little encouragement, he would propose marriage. But seeing Shaw again had left her confused and angry. She didn't feel like dancing, let alone spending an evening listening to Jorgan explain how he'd cured one of his mules of bots.

"Best you stay close to home," her brother Corbett agreed when she confided her reluctance to go. "With the MacCades riled up, it's safer for you right here. Besides, with those travelers staying the night, Grandma can use your help lookin' after them."

"No such thing," Grandma insisted. "This girl stays home too much as it is. Becca should go to the dance with Anderson. Unless my mind is slippin', he still owns a hundred acres of bottomland, and he's a decent churchgoer."

"I'm not interested in Jorgan's bottomland," Rebecca protested.

"Pash!" Grandma scoffed. "You could do far worse for yourself than Jorgan. You want to end up a dried-out old spinster, keeping house for Noah and your father? You need a husband and young 'uns of your own."

She rapped her son with a knitting needle to get his attention. "Campbell, you tell Becca to go on like she planned. I don't think any MacCades are comin' here. I think it's all a bunch of crazy talk."

"Grandma's right. Bee's not getting any younger." Drum looked up from the cinch he was mending. "She'll be sportin' gray hair and warts any day now, won't she, Uncle Quinn?"

"Didn't your pop tell you two he wanted those rotten posts replaced on the far corral? Best you get to it instead of devilin' your sister." Uncle Quinn's soft-spoken drawl gave little evidence of his fiery temper.

But even Drum had enough sense to back off from a man who had once fought off a war party of hostile Indians single-handedly. Grinning, he punched Welsh playfully on the arm, tugged a broad-brimmed hat over his unruly hair, and headed out the door.

"You did give Jorgan your word," her father said thoughtfully. "And a Raeburn's word is his bond, unlike some. Jorgan will look out for you. You go on and enjoy yourself."

"And what if there's trouble while I'm gone?" Rebecca asked him.

Her father stroked his neatly trimmed beard. "If the MacCades come down on us, one gun more or less won't make a difference. And truth tell, it would ease my heart to know you were well away from the shootin'."

* * *

Jorgan came for her in a high-wheeled farm wagon pulled by a team of rawboned bay mules. His older sister Dagmar, her baby daughter Annika, and two of Anna's brood rode in a mound of straw in the back, amid rolls of bedding and hampers of food. Squeezed in between them stood a large keg of pickled fish and a smaller cask of wild honey that Jorgan was taking to sell at Ben Nichols' general store in Eden Springs.

"Hope you don't mind Dagmar's company," Jorgan said as he helped Rebecca up onto the wagon seat. "A widow with kids don't get out much. She and the boys didn't want to miss a chance to shop in town."

Rebecca used her few words of Swedish to greet the red-cheeked Dagmar and Jorgan's nephews. The handsome boys were too shy to speak. Dagmar, despite her first marriage to an English emigrant and second marriage five years ago to Sam Hedger, a good decade her junior, had only a smattering of English. Rebecca often wondered how the jolly woman managed her household, since neither the deceased Sam nor his daughters from his first marriage knew any Swedish.

"Better we have Dagmar with us," Jorgan continued. "For to look proper, with you and me not handfasted, and us to stay away the night from—"

"I agree," Rebecca replied. "So as not to give the church members reason to talk." Truthfully, she was glad for Dagmar's company and that of her children. She thought the boys must be Georg and Fisk, but the older one might be Lars or even Jens. Dagmar had five sons from her two marriages, and the boys were all blond Vikings with hair as yellow as Noah's, pale blue eyes, and round, red-cheeked faces.

"Dagmar wants to know how your brothers are," Jorgan translated. "And your grandmother? She says to tell you that Noah is so kind to bring her fresh fish from the river, and she is grateful. All the children to feed."

"They're all well," Rebecca replied. "Thank her for me." Dagmar was a good-hearted soul who never failed to ask about the family's health. She came to the house once a month to take tea with Grandma.

As the wagon rolled along the rough track, Jorgan, Dagmar, and the two boys kept up a constant dialogue in Swedish, leaving Rebecca free to her own thoughts.

It was a perfect spring day. The rolling green hills, knee-high grass carpeted by masses of sweet-smelling wildflowers, and the great bowl of azure sky above were breathtaking. Any other time, Rebecca would have delighted in the wild beauty around her and the welcome break from everyday chores, but this afternoon, she couldn't tear her thoughts away from Shaw.

Not even the new-hatched duckling smell of Dagmar's gray-eyed baby girl could keep Rebecca from reliving precious memories of Shaw. She dutifully cuddled small Annika and bounced her on her knee while Dagmar napped, but nothing could still Rebecca's unrest.

It was all so unfair! Shaw was supposed to be dead. With him dead, she could forget what might have been and make a new life. But now that he was back, all the hurt and regret came crashing back.

There, in that meadow to the west, at the spot where the grassy plains and tree line met, she and Shaw had crawled through the damp ferns to watch the birth of a buffalo calf. And just to the left, near that rise, she'd held her breath in wonder as Shaw had gotten close enough to a wild horse to toss a rope over the animal's head.

And ahead, where the trail dipped and plunged through a rocky creek, the two of them had left their ponies to try to catch trout with their bare hands. She'd slipped and cut her foot on a sharp stone, and Shaw had packed the bleeding wound with spiderwebs and tied it up with his red kerchief. He'd promised her that if she didn't cry, he'd show her where a wolf had dug her den.

She hadn't cried.

And he'd never known that she and her sister had crept up and lain belly-down in the bushes watching him and his brothers skinny-dipping when she was fifteen. It had been her first hint that Shaw had grown up, and that pizzles could be objects of great interest—depending on whom they belonged to.

Oh, Shaw, she thought. Where did it all go wrong for us?

But she knew the answer. It had all been wrong between them from the day they'd been born. No MacCade and Raeburn could ever remain fast friends. They never had, and this time would be no different.

Far back, so long ago that no one knew the date for certain, Red Robert, of the Clan Raeburn, had burned for the love of his neighbor's daughter, Betsy MacCade. Betsy's father had pledged her to a Gordon, but on their wedding day, Red Robert came riding to the church on a great black horse and stole the bride away.

The MacCades and the Gordons pursued the couple into the Highlands, and in the ensuing battle, both Red Robert and the unhappy bridegroom were killed. Nine months later, Betsy gave birth to a Raeburn child. Mad with grief and shame, she called Red Robert's mother, Annie, and his young sisters to come unarmed and without their menfolk to claim the infant boy.

But when the Raeburn women arrived, Betsy threw the baby from the castle window to his death and ordered her clansmen to put Red Robert's kin to the sword. Legend said that Annie Raeburn, stabbed through seven times, managed to crawl to the body of her grandchild and cradle him in her bleeding arms. With her dying breath, Annie cursed both clans and swore that no union of MacCade and Raeburn would ever prosper.

In time, so the story went, the MacCades sought revenge on the Raeburns. Murder followed murder, down through the years, until 'twas said that no grass would grow on the blood-soaked glen that nestled between their lands. From Scotland to North Carolina to Missouri, the hatred that the families bore for each other simmered.

Even Rebecca's own mother's life had been ruined by the feud. Despite the fact that Rebecca's grandfather had been shot and killed by a MacCade back in the Carolina mountains when she was three, Margaret had insisted on marrying Robert MacCade.

After Robert's drowning, she'd married Poppa, but the quarreling over Angel Crossing had prevented her from ever finding happiness. She'd died young and bitter.

So why would I be any different?

Better to choose a solid man like Jorgan Anderson, marry him, and bear his children. Life with Jorgan might be commonplace, but it could be bought without ghosts and curses.

"Yes," she murmured.

"What's that, Rebecca?" Jorgan turned toward her and smiled. "What did you say?"

"A good day for a frolic," she answered, smiling back at him. And for forgetting things that can never be, she added silently.

"Ya!" he agreed, slapping the reins over the mules' backs. "A good day for a frolic."

* * *

"Swing your partners short an' tall! Lead those ladies around the hall!" the caller chanted above the swirl of fiddle music, clapping hands, and the stamp of work boots.

A bewhiskered old gentleman without a tooth in his head gallantly offered Rebecca his bony arm and sashayed the length of the room without missing a beat. Directly across from her, Rebecca caught sight of Jorgan dancing with Janet Nichols, wife of their host. Nichols' mill was the largest building in Eden Springs and a good place for a square dance, so long as you remembered to dodge the support pillars and an occasional bag of grain.

The walls were lined with enthusiastic onlookers, young and old, some waiting their turn on the dance floor, others content to watch. More than a dozen lanterns hung from the hand-hewn beams, illuminating the huge millstones and dusty iron gears near the raised platform where the four fiddlers perched on overturned baskets. Standing in front of them, one-armed Patty O'Rourke, veteran of the last war with England, alternately pounded a flat hand drum against his knee and sang along with the music.

Beyond the loading platform, under the starry sky, flat-bed wagons were heaped with food and pitchers of sweet cider, lemongrass tea, and spring water. Each guest had brought a dish to share, and the air was heavy with the scents of roast pork, barbecued beef, venison stew, pumpkin pies, gingerbread, yeast breads, and vegetables of every kind.

Stronger drinks were available as well. Although the Nichols were Baptist and hard against spirits, nothing could keep some of the merrymakers from sipping from jugs in the shadows or strolling down to Jake's to order a tall mug of cheap beer.

Rebecca knew that Jorgan liked his pint as much as anyone, but out of courtesy to her, he hadn't been among those men who repeatedly made excuses to go outside. And he avoided the crowd of rowdies under the trees on the far side of the street.

"Allemande left!" the caller cried.

The dance ended with a grand flourish, and Jorgan came to claim her hand again. "Thirsty?" he asked.

Rebecca shook her head, and they joined a group forming a circle for "Crow in the Cornfield." Jorgan was breathing hard and sweat trickled down his forehead, but he was obviously enjoying himself as much as she was.

The fiddlers played faster and faster as the steps became more intricate. Rebecca and Jorgan ducked under the arched hands of another couple, then they parted, each going in different directions to join new partners.

Rebecca passed from a red-faced cowboy she'd never seen before to a huge, black-bearded cattle drover. She recognized the man as a frequent ferry passenger, but couldn't think of his name. "You sure are pretty tonight, Miss Raeburn," he said. "Prettiest gal here." With each swirl of music, he swung her faster, until she could hardly keep her balance.

"Not so—" she began, then let out a gasp as her hand slipped out of the drover's and she spun away to collide with a broad male chest.

Strong arms locked around her waist. "Evenin', Becca," a familiar voice murmured in her ear.

Stunned, she stared up into Shaw MacCade's face.

"Close your mouth, darlin'," he teased. "You'll catch flies."

She struggled to regain her breath. She'd been warm from the press of bodies and the lively dance steps, but being trapped in Shaw's hard embrace made her skin feel like it was on fire. "Let go of me," she whispered urgently.

He was so close that she could feel the hard planes of his muscular thighs, smell the faint bite of liquor on his breath. "You're drunk," she accused. Already, beads of perspiration were forming between her breasts, and the heat of his body burned through her dress and shift. Her heart was racing with a terrifying excitement.

"Not yet, darlin'," he answered, "but then the night's young."

She pressed both palms against his chest and tried to shove him away, but it was like trying to move a stone wall. "Shaw, please. People will—"

"Rebecca? Is there a problem?" Jorgan put his hand on Shaw's arm. "The lady is vit me." His Swedish accent, usually barely noticeable, hung so thick in the air that Rebecca had trouble making out his words.

"So I see." Shaw released her and stepped back.

"It's all right, Jorgan," Rebecca said. "I slipped and Shaw—"

Jorgan scowled suspiciously into Shaw's face as his spine stiffened and his big, callused fists clenched. "You two know each other?"

"Becca and I are old friends." Shaw flashed her a boyish grin. "You might say we grew up together."

He was drunk! He had to be to act so... so... She knew she should be angry at Shaw for the threats he'd made to her father and for making a public spectacle of her here on the dance floor. But she couldn't help noticing the dark, unruly hair that curled around his sharply hewn face, or the tiny nick where he must have cut himself shaving.

"Old friends? Could be," Jorgan muttered, glancing from one to the other in confusion. "But tonight, Miss Rebecca is vit me."

"Fair enough." Shaw's reply was for Jorgan, but his gaze held hers. "Best you take better care of her, Sven."

Several of the dancers had stopped and were staring at them. "His name is Jorgan," Rebecca stammered. "Jorgan Anderson. Jorgan... Shaw MacCade."

Shaw gave the slightest nod of acknowledgment. "Maybe you'll save a dance for me later, Becca."

She was too upset to reply.

"I told you that Miss Raeburn is with me," Jorgan growled.

Shaw shrugged. "We'll see."

Before she could think of an answer to that remark, Shaw moved away, leaving Jorgan glaring after him. She looped her arm around Jorgan's. "They're waiting for us," she said. "Don't worry about Shaw. It was nothing."

"Isn't that the MacCade who just—"

"Not tonight, Jorgan. Please. I hear enough of that talk at home. Could we just enjoy the—"

"He did not look—" Jorgan struggled for the word. "—respectful to you."

"I'm sure Shaw's been drinking. And he meant no harm." She squeezed Jorgan's arm. "Look, there's Jessica and her husband. She's waving for us to join them."

Still frowning, he led her toward her friends as the caller began a new dance. "Not respectful at all," he repeated.

* * *

An hour or more passed before voices rose in anger near the fiddlers. The violins hesitated, started again, and then broke off. Rebecca and the others around her strained to see what was happening.

A knot of people quickly gathered in one corner. "We'd better go outside," Jorgan said to her. But before they could make their way through the crowd, curses had tuned to blows.

"It's Shaw MacCade!" somebody shouted. "He's fighting with the new smithy."

Through a gap in the throng, Rebecca saw Shaw and the blacksmith, toe-to-toe, slamming each other with bare fists. Then an onlooker spun Shaw's cousin Bruce MacDuff around and punched him in the jaw. He lashed back at his attacker, and two more cowboys joined the fray.

Suddenly, Shaw landed a hard right, and the blacksmith crashed through the spectators and landed on his back. Shaw dove after him, and the two rolled over and over on the floor.

Two women were screaming, and another, the smith's young bride, was weeping uncontrollably and clutching the side of her face. More men began to push and shove each other.

"Look out, Shaw! He's got a knife!" one of the MacCades shouted.

Rebecca caught the metallic gleam in the lantern light as Jorgan grabbed her hand and tried to plow a path to the nearest door. But people were crowding in from outside to see the excitement.

Then someone tripped the bearded drover, and he fell against Jorgan. He tried to shove the drover away, and before Rebecca could voice her protest, the two were fistfighting. An angry woman stuck her face close to Rebecca's and began to swear in German at her. Rebecca backed away, putting a supporting post and two wrestling farmers between her and the virago.

Since reaching the door seemed impossible in the mob, and she had no desire to become part of the entertainment, Rebecca worked her way back until she reached a spot where several bags of grain were heaped one upon another. She climbed up on the bags and got as far from the melee as possible.

Overhead, one of the fiddlers perched on a cross beam, laughing. He yelled something at Rebecca, took a sip from a pocket flask, and then began to play "Devil in the Henhouse."

Rebecca tried to see what had happened to Shaw, but couldn't. When the schoolmaster landed on one of the outer bags of grain and lay there only half conscious, she considered climbing up to the musician's level to get away from the free-for-all.

But then she saw the lantern shatter, sending glass and lamp oil spilling across the dusty floor. In seconds, there was a whoosh of flame and the first scream of panic.

"Fire!"