She held her smile in place until the gates closed behind the men as they left the fort and headed straight toward their would-be attackers.
But as the gates shut, shielding them from view, Rosina’s smile wobbled. Momentarily.
“What do you think Blackfish will do?” Rosina turned to Jemima.
“Can’t rightly say.” Jemima shrugged, swiping a strand of rust-colored hair away from her freckled face. “He’s a wily one, Blackfish. No doubt he’ll put on a great show, fussing about how much he’s missed Pa, his adopted son.”
“Do you think they’re safe?” Rosina hated the waver in her voice. The possibility that this would all end in their being surrendered as Shawnee and British captives was real. One hand went instinctively to the rounded place where her child rested, while her other hand settled atop Chloe’s head.
“You want the truth?” Jemima’s eyes snapped. She looked even more the fiery frontierswoman than usual, exchanging her dress for a boyish-looking shirt cut to mid-calf, paired with leggings and moccasins. “I trust Pa. But I don’t like him going out there. Not one bit.” She swung around, striding toward her cabin, clasping her rifle as easily as a genteel lady might clutch a lace fan.
Rosina bit her lip, breath tangling in her chest. She’d already borne witness once to an arrow-riddled body, a fallen man. She’d not opened her heart to that man, so there had been little to grieve. But now …
Dear God, what will become of them?
What if her chance for a future with Silas was stolen a second time?
A memory surfaced, timeworn and gossamer.
She’d been seventeen, recently arrived in Boonesborough, after the arduous journey across Boone’s Trace. The day had not begun well. Her father had spent nigh on an hour berating her for going barefoot like Jemima and her friends. Finally, she’d fled the cabin and slipped from the fort. Deerlike, she ran, taking deep gulps of spring air. Sunlight drenched the forest, but she’d scarce heeded the beauty, angry tears stinging her eyes and tracking down her cheeks. In that moment, she’d not feared an Indian arrow or a ravaging animal. Freedom from her father was all she sought. From his strict rule over her life, forcing her into the wilderness as an escape from his past in Virginia, one rife with countless gaming debts and cuckolded husbands.
Suddenly she stumbled, tripping over a patch of thick-growing cane. The sharp stalk sliced deep into the tender sole of her foot. She cried out, clutching the injured limb. Blood dripped from the gash, leaving a trail on the forest floor.
Lifting her gaze to the sky, the thick trees rising high, her heart pounded beneath her stays. In her overwrought state, she’d not realized how far she’d traveled. Now she was alone in a place she’d never seen, without any recollection of the path she’d traveled. And wounded in the bargain.
How daft could she be? Jemima would scoff at her if she saw this predicament. Jemima, ever the daughter of the great Boone, as at home in the wilderness as her father.
Wincing, Rosina sat down on the forest floor in an ungainly heap, grabbing her foot again and turning it to assess the damage. With a wry look at her petticoat, she ripped a strip of fabric. Her favorite petticoat too, the one with the little blue flowers.
Sucking in shallow breaths through gritted teeth, she struggled to knot the fabric tightly.
A branch cracked. Footsteps. Her breath clogged her lungs. Her jaw trembled. Even on a good day, she would be no match for a pursuing Indian. Now …?
A tear trickled down her cheek, stinging a scratch where a branch had slapped against the side of her face.
A man appeared from the depths of the forest. Relief flooded through her. Not an Indian, but a settler. She made a hobbling attempt to stand as he approached. She’d noticed him before at Boonesborough. He and Captain Boone seemed always together, about some task. But while Boone was pushing two score, this man looked closer to Rosina’s age, perhaps about five and twenty. He’d hair the color of the black pearl necklace her mother, God rest her, had once owned, ebony and shining. It hung, unbound, to his jaw. The width of his shoulders bespoke hard work, the outline of muscle and sinew evident beneath his butternut hunting shirt and buckskin jacket. A gleaming rifle was slung over his back by a strap.
What a sight she must appear. Petticoat torn, curls tangled, cheek scratched and tearstained, foot bloodied.
He nodded, the gesture formal in light of where they stood.
“Miss Rosina, isn’t it? I don’t recall our being formally introduced.”
She shifted, foot aching. “Captain Longridge, I believe.”
“I saw you sneak out of the fort. Figured you were running from something, so I thought I’d follow and find out what. Besides, it isn’t safe to be traipsing through the wilderness unarmed.”
She hung her head at the mild censure in his tone. “My behavior was imprudent. I was angry and discomfited. I didn’t stop to cipher the danger before I set off.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “From the looks of things, you didn’t stop to cipher much at all. What got you riled?”
She blew out a breath. “Oh … I don’t know. My father. He’s always berating me about some offense or other. No matter how hard I try, I can never seem to please him. I just couldn’t endure it another moment.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Have you ever felt like that—bursting with vexation until you feel you’ll explode if you don’t get it out?”
He studied her, empathy in his eyes. “Aye, miss. I know the feeling well. Not with a parent, but with others. I’ve learned something though. No matter how ireful we become in our minds, taking foolish risks is never justified.” His tone wasn’t chiding. More as if he meant to counsel, steady her with his words. “Come.” He held out a sun-browned hand. “Let’s get you home.”
She expected him to merely guide her, not swing her into his arms, bloodied foot and all. Didn’t expect settling against his broad chest as they continued toward the fort and experiencing a sweep of sensations she’d never before reckoned with. Being cradled in his strong arms made her feel safe. Cherished. As if, after this, she could face anything, even the wrath of her father. He smelled of pine, sun-warmed fabric, and woodsmoke—a curiously alluring blend.
When he’d set her down in front of her father’s cabin and nodded farewell, he’d taken a portion of her heart with him. She’d returned to face her father, filled with a glow not even his harsh words could eradicate.
Today, watching Boone and Silas approach Chief Blackfish, she was a much wiser woman than the girl who’d raced headlong into the forest. A widow and a mother-to-be. She was past girlhood hurts, sober, and full of much she wished she hadn’t been forced to endure.
One thing remained unaltered. Silas Longridge still carried a piece of her heart. Much as he’d once carried her.
“Well, Boone, I’ve come to take your fort. If you surrender, you shall be treated well. If not, I will put all the other prisoners to death and reserve the young squaws for wives.”
Following along with Blackfish’s words, spoken in the Shawnee language, Silas sucked in a quick breath, glancing at Boone. The red-haired captain merely gave a short nod, sitting opposite Chief Blackfish on a blanket spread across the grass. Silas stood behind him, hands behind his back. After the formal greetings, where Blackfish expressed grief over Boone’s departure—real or feigned, Silas couldn’t tell—and an accusation from another chief, Moluntha, who said Boone was responsible for the murder of his son, which Boone denied, the official business had begun.
The young squaws? That would mean Rosina. Beautiful as she was with her dark hair and deep blue eyes, she’d be a prize among the Indian braves—with child or no.
Did Boone realize how many lives were at stake here? How much depended on his actions? Of course he did. Boone knew these people, had dwelt with them and respected them. If anyone could see them through, ’twould be he.
“I have here a letter from Governor Hamilton.” Blackfish held out a folded sheet of paper, the rich stationery creased and wrinkled.
Boone reached out and took it. The Indian forces stood around in a circle, arms folded, eyes buttonholed by the painted designs on their faces.
Silas leaned over Boone’s shoulder and quickly scanned the letter’s contents. In so many words, it reiterated Boone’s promise to surrender Boonesborough without a battle, and stated Governor Hamilton’s guarantee of safe passage for all who surrendered and came willingly to Detroit. The British would compensate for lost property and allow those at the fort who held American military rank to receive the equivalent rank in the British forces. But if the settlers did not surrender, they would have the Shawnee to deal with, and whatever happened to them was out of the governor’s hands.
A slow burn twisted through Silas. How could they make such a decision? Death by Shawnee hands or surrender to the British?
With admirable calm, Boone handed the letter back to Blackfish. Bedecked in the finery befitting his rank—silver earrings, red ochre painted over the top half of his face, a ruffled shirt of snowy white, and a braided belt of red and black—the tall, muscled chief made a fearsome sight, sitting straight and cross-legged on the colorful blanket.
“And this”—Blackfish held up a belt of multicolored wampum—“is my letter to Boonesborough.” He passed the belt into Boone’s hands. It was finely worked, containing three trails of beads. “The red represents the warpath.” Blackfish pointed to the strand of red. “The white is the path of peace we take together, back to Detroit. And the black”—Blackfish pointed again—“represents the death you will all die if you do not surrender.”
Silas stared at the belt. The three paths they must choose from. In color as stark as it was vivid, lay their options.
“You decide.” Blackfish jabbed a finger toward the belt. “You decide which path to take.”
Boone nodded. He even smiled slightly. “I will surely do that,” he answered in fluent Shawnee. “But my decision will take time. I must needs consult with others at the fort. I’ve only recently returned. While I’ve been away, others have assumed my command.”
Blackfish offered a nod. “Do that. But while you talk, my people are hungry.”
Boone gestured to the cattle and corn in the nearby fields. “Take what you need. I only ask that you treat what we have as you would treat what is yours and not waste it.”
Blackfish expressed his thanks. Looking around at the group of Indians and British soldiers, Silas wasn’t so sure any of them had gratitude on their minds. Blood lust, yes. Victory, yes. But gratitude? Not likely.
Boone stood. As they had upon their arrival, Boone and Blackfish shook hands. The chief motioned to a young Shawnee brave, who strode inside the arbor, returning with a bundle wrapped in deer hide. He handed the bundle to Blackfish, who passed it solemnly to Boone. Silas swatted away a pesky fly as Boone took the bundle.
“Cured buffalo tongues. A delicacy for your women,” said Blackfish.
“Many thanks,” Boone answered.
The chief turned to Silas, offering his hand. Silas shook it, his fingers enveloped in a grip of steel. His hand ached after Blackfish drew away.
In silence, steps measured and slow, they returned to the fort. Silas sensed the gazes of those in the fort and those in the peach orchard on them, eyeing their journey. The former willing them safe passage. The latter? What thoughts ran through their minds, Silas could not be certain.
Once the gates were barred behind them, Boone faced the swarm of settlers. He passed the bundle of meat to Jemima.
“Take these to my cabin, Daughter. Chief Blackfish was kind enough to offer us a gift of buffalo tongue.”
“Chuck it in the fire, girl!” shouted Richard Callaway. “It’s likely poisoned.”
Chin jutted, Jemima shot him a look as fiery as her hair and strode toward her father’s cabin.
“Men, we’ll gather in the blockhouse and discuss Blackfish’s proposal.” Backdropped by the high log walls, Boone spoke in a clear, loud voice, steady in tone and manner despite the fact that not all eyes looked to him favorably. “Meeting will commence in half an hour. We’ll determine our course of action and take it from there.”
Beside him, Silas faced the crowd of settlers. Young and old, male and female, strong and feeble. Good man and wastrel alike. People who had wagered much to travel to this great frontier, seeking freedom and riches, a parcel of land to call their own, a new beginning. The future rested in their hands.
And God’s. Silas sent a silent prayer heavenward that somehow the fort and its inhabitants might be saved.
Rosina stood on the fringes of the group alongside some older women, listening to Boone. Her forehead furrowed in a look more pondering than fearful.
Everything in him wanted to race to her side. If the worst happened, and the men were killed and the women taken captive, he’d not want regrets for her to remember. He’d want her to know how much he still loved her—no matter what had happened between her and Jeremiah. What import was that now?
After the meeting, he’d tell her. Voice the words he’d kept inside his heart. He’d offer them, and himself, to be her own as long as they both had breath in their lungs.
Aye, now was no time to wait for tomorrow.
’Twas today or never.