Midwife of the Blue Ridge (20 page)

glow of torch and lantern, he could barely make out his out-

stretched hand as he skirted along the wall. Glisks of yellow light

and the twang and twee of the fiddler tuning his instrument

keeked between the chinks in the stockade. Tom stopped dead at

the scrunch of feet coming his way and called out, “Is that you

Maggie? Maggie Duncan!”

“Quit yer gallie-hooin’, Tom. There’s no more’n three yards

betwixt us.” Maggie stepped out of the shadows, hand in hand

with Jamie Raeburn.

The sight of her so casually comfortable with another man

rankled worse than a full-blown blister on both heels. Like a bull

on the charge, Tom rushed forward and gave Jamie a sharp shove

to the shoulder. “And what are you after, out here in the dark?”

Maggie pushed between the two men. “None of yer concern,

Tom Roberts.”

“Time to go home, miss.” Tom grabbed Maggie by the arm

and pulled her along.

Maggie dragged two long furrows in the dirt. “
Let go!
Let go,

ye brute! Ye hold no dominion over me.”

“I promised your master I’d see you home.” Tom resolutely

jerked Maggie along with him. “And I aim t’ keep my word.”

Maggie wailed, flopped down to the ground, and fl ung one

arm wide, imploring Jamie to save her. “
Jamie!
”

Jamie stepped forward. “She’s with me, Tom. I’ll be taking her

home . . .”

Tom let Maggie loose and grabbed two handfuls of Jamie’s

shirtfront, lifting the man up onto his toes. Their faces but inches

apart, he snarled, “I’m in a bad skin, Raeburn. Fool with me and

there’ll be a new face in hell tomorrow.” He flung Jamie to land

in a sprawl against the stockade.

“Get up! Get up, Jamie, and give him what for!” Maggie

leaped and shouted as Raeburn rose to stand, brushing dirt from

his hands.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
135

Even in dim light, it was plain to see Jamie’s fair face had gone

as white as a freshly plastered wall. Tom cocked his elbows,

clenched his fists, and moved forward. “Best make your feet your

friends and scuttle off, for I intend to come down on you like an

anchor chain!”

Inside the fortyard, the musicians struck up a rousing jig that

happened to keep perfect time with Jamie’s footfalls thudding off

into the darkness. As Maggie’s champion ran off, she cupped

hands to her mouth, shouting,
“Bloody English COWARD!

Tuck tail and run, that’s all yer fi t for!”
She kicked a clod of clay

to smithereens. “I dinna need ye anyway, Jamie Raeburn!” Mag-

gie turned and speared her finger into Tom’s chest. “An’ neither

do I need you. I’ll make my own way home in my own good

time.”

Smirking, Tom caught her by the arm as she tried to push past.

“You go right ahead, miss, and the she- bear I was tracking this

morning will be licking your tasty bones by day bust.”

“
Why?
” Maggie put on a face like a mule eating briars. “Why

do ye plague me so?”

“Fetch your things. I’m taking you home.”

H

Carry ing Maggie’s big basket in one hand, Tom led her by the

other along the ridge trail back to the Martin homeplace. That

morning’s dewy, shade-dappled path had transformed into a sin-

ister tunnel, filled with the flap of winged predators and wisps of

night webs strung across the path, sticking to faces and arms.

Maggie held a lantern aloft, but the candle glim seeping through

the pierced tin barely illuminated their path.

Tom’s silence was the heavy lining to the cloak of night. He

didn’t speak but to offer Maggie a warning now and then to

watch her step over one obstacle or under another. Plodding

through menacing darkness, Maggie quickly developed a fron-

tier sense for the worth of a man’s protection. And although she

bristled thinking on his behavior, she had to admit feeling very

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Blevins

safe with her hand in his. After more than a mile with only night

noise and the scrush of their moccasined feet on the forest fl oor

for company, Maggie gave in. “Why’re ye so quiet?”

“I figured you’re vexed with me . . . have a care

here,” he

warned. “Careful over this snarl.”

“I am vexed. I’m unused to being treated like a fool.”

“Well then, maybe you shouldn’t act a fool.”

“I suppose it’s better to skulk, wallowing in a pint, glowering

at one and all. Or strut about with that . . . that Bess Hawkins

dangling from yer arm like snot from an old drunk’s nose.”

“You shouldn’t be wandering into the dark with the likes of

Jamie Raeburn,” Tom countered. “You don’t seem to under-

stand, Maggie. A fella like that—hell, every fetchin’ fella back at

the station for that matter—they all have but one thing on their

minds—and that thing dwells beneath that pretty striped skirt.

Mind your reputation, miss.”

“Ha! A sermon from a rogue who cavorts with a married

woman . . .”

“Be quiet!” Tom ordered.

“Dinna dare speak so to me . . .”

Tom tossed her basket into the brush. He stepped behind Mag-

gie, wrapped one arm about her waist, and clapped the other

hand over her mouth. Maggie kicked, squirmed, and squealed.

He breathed in her ear, “Somethin’s on our trail!”

Maggie ceased struggling and then she felt it, too—a muffl ed

thud-ump, thud-ump
—reverberating along the soft bottom of the

trail. Tom put a finger to his lips. Maggie nodded, wide-eyed. He

released his grip and took her by the hand. Slipping under boughs

and through bracken, they left the trail to duck behind a large

chestnut. Tom leaned around the tree, his every sense peeled sharp.

Maggie crowded behind him, the tin lantern still lit in her hand.

“Dowse that light!” Tom snarled through clenched teeth.

Maggie fumbled to open the catch on the tiny door. The hot

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
137

metal scorched her fingertip and the lantern toppled to the ground,

the fl ame snuffing itself in the process. As her eyes adjusted to the

starlit night, emerging shadows settled in varying values of purple

black and deep blue gray. Tom remained so statue-still and quiet,

Maggie laid a hand on his shoulder to reassure herself that he was

truly there.

“A bear, maybe?” she asked.

Tom drew several long breaths in through his nose. “I’m not

nosin’ any bear.”

Maggie stretched to peer into the blackness beyond Tom’s

shoulder. A lonesome laurel-blossom breeze rustled in through

the leaves, sweeping over the warm spot where her hand met his

shoulder. “Probably naught but the wind playin’ tricks with our

ears,” she whispered.

Tom’s body shifted, and even though Maggie could not make

out his features, she could feel the reproach of his gaze. “Can you

hush?”

In absolute stillness, they continued to listen. Maggie slipped

her hand to rest square between Tom’s shoulder blades. She

could feel his breath regular and steady as a bell tolling midnight.

His muscle beneath her thumb twitched.

“There’s nothing out there. Let’s go.” Maggie’s impatient whisper

hissed and cut the silence like cold water drizzled on a hot pan. She

stepped around Tom to scramble back up to the trail. He caught

Maggie by both arms and pushed her up against the tree trunk.

“Stay put—I’ll be right back.”

Before Maggie could squeak out a protest, he was gone.

She waited, shifting from one foot to the other, restless as the

tip of a cow’s tail. Startled by pinching tree-bark fi ngers grasp-

ing the hair she’d twisted into a loose knot at the base of her

neck, she gulped back budding panic and squelched the urge to

call out for Tom. Maggie loosened the two silver pins, freeing

her tresses to spill over her shoulders and roll down to her hips.

138 Christine

Blevins

She hugged her hair like a blanket, comforted by its smooth silk

against her skin.

Then she heard them. Voices carried on the breeze. Male

voices in concert with the slow drum of hooves hitting the dirt. A

shadow loomed out from the black hole to her right and Maggie

gasped as Tom stepped in front of her and placed two fi ngers to

her lips. He leaned in and whispered, “Hush.”

The travelers approached the point on the trail directly parallel

with Maggie and Tom’s position. The fecund smell of horse

wafted on the breeze. Hoofbeats plodding forward grew distinct,

accompanied by the clank of tin on tin, equine snorts and snuf-

fles, and the random creak of leather tack. Tom settled a hand on

Maggie’s hip and bent his head to the place where the curve of her

shoulder met her neck, his warm breath on her skin, saying, “Two

on beastback.”

The rhythm of predictable hoofbeats was interrupted by what

sounded like a sack of buckshot being poured into a tin washtub,

and suddenly the air was filled with the clatter of man and beast.

“Whoa!”
both horsemen shouted at once. Their mounts reared

squealing, snorting spurts of mucus and stamping agitated

hooves. After a frantic moment spent calming the horses, a pair

of heavy boots descended on the trail.

“Thatch, thistle, thunder, and thump!”
one man cursed. “God-

damn it, Jeremiah! Your Gunter’s chain has come undone again.”

“All right, Geordie. I’m coming to lend a hand.” Another pair

of boots landed with a thud and crunched along the trail. “I do

detest night riding.”

“Then let’s camp here,” Geordie suggested with a noisy yawn.

“I’m all drug out and saddle sick.”

“Na . . . we can get a few miles in yet. You know as well as I,

Cavendish will flay us alive if we fail to record the plats by week’s

end. Hand me the sack.”

“Cavendish.” Geordie spat out the name. “How I despise that

nancy little bugger . . .”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
139

“Aye, but bugger all, how you love his silver.” Jeremiah chuckled.

“That I do, Jeremiah, that I do—but right now I would gladly

trade it all for a tall pint of March beer and the company of a

good- natured woman—the kind who, when you ask her to sit

down, will lie down instead.”

“I hear you, brother—and that in a nutshell is why we two

will never be rich men.” Jeremiah laughed in tune to the smooth

sound of iron chain slinking its way back into a canvas sack.

“There—grab ahold the other end. On the count of three . . .”

After securing their cargo, the two men remounted and con-

tinued up the trail. Maggie and Tom stayed quiet and still as the

sounds of Geordie and Jeremiah dissipated in the wind.

“Surveyors plotting Portland’s grant . . .” Tom mused.

“Surveyors, eh?” Maggie acknowledged. “I wondered what

business drew Cavendish men here.”

“Cavendish . . . isn’t he the Englishman who offered Seth forty

pounds for your contract?”

“Aye. He’s the one.”

“He’s Portland’s agent?”

“He’s Portland’s son, the ne’er-do- well they shipped off to the

Colonies. Aboard the
Good Intent
, he fancied me and I blacked

his eye with my fi st, drunken lout. I had to spend the better part

of the journey hiding down in the tween—” Maggie sighed. “I

was certain he’d win my contract at auction—he’s a man of

means, ye ken? Och, I shudder t’ think . . .”

Tom leaned down, his mouth at her ear, so close his three- day

beard rasped the soft skin on her jawbone. “I’ll allow no harm

come to thee, Maggie Duncan.”

Those spare words whispered in the dark loosened the taut

wire of wariness she’d strung from her brain to her heart. Mag-

gie wrapped her arms around Tom’s waist and pressed a cheek to

his chest. Tom found her lips in the dark. He kissed her once,

twice—tender and warm.

Twining one hand in her hair, his other at her hip, he pulled

140 Christine

Blevins

Maggie in, kissing her deep and

long—a kiss that made her

moan and feel as if as a stream of liquid silver had slipped

through her and pooled molten between her legs. Maggie rose up

on tiptoes, feeling his full length pressing hard against her thigh.

Tom broke the kiss with a growl and took a step back.

“What’s th’ matter?” Maggie reached out.

Heaving a huge sigh, Tom took her by the hand.

“I’d best get you home. Danger lies on this trail.”

11

Fences Are Down

The thud of Seth’s maul echoed from behind the stable and kept

company with the clack of split logs being tossed onto the woodpile.

Naomi gazed up at the sun, which seemed like an angry fi st pound-

ing the bright blue sky—a hot, still day, without even the slightest

puff of a breeze to cleanse the heat from the back of her neck.

Naomi sat on a rag rug centered in a smidge of shade under

the lone tulipwood in the dooryard, her legs tucked tailor style.

Six long strings of beans dried in the pod were piled on one side.

Battler, sprawled on his back, lay asleep on the other. After

shooing a horsefly from the boy’s face, she continued stripping