Midwife of the Blue Ridge (37 page)

off to join the others.

Seth barely recognized Peavey with his long braids cropped off

and his hair clean of grease and soot. The renegade still sported

the regimental red coat, but he’d replaced moccasins and deer-

skin leggings with boots and breeches. Simon Peavey had not re-

linquished all of his Indian trappings—a clutch of bright feathers

and silver charms dangled from the stock of his rifle. Seth could

not help but sneer. “Yer lookin’ almost white, lad.”

Staying true to his Shawnee upbringing, Simon registered no

reaction. He looked beyond Seth as if he did not exist and an-

nounced, “There’s a good mule and pig back there.”

“Handle this.” Connor slipped the rifl e from his shoulder and

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Blevins

handed it to Peavey. “It’s puttin’ a crick in my neck. Find Figg

and have him tether the beasts—”

“NO!” In three strides Seth stood toe-to-toe with Connor.

“Ye willna take my beasts.” Not a big man, Seth still stood taller

and heavier than the tiny Irishman.

“FIGG!” Connor squawked, and fumbled to extricate a fl at

leather wallet from the front of his baggy shirt.
“Fiiiggg!!”

Moffat and Peavey stood passive while Connor tugged papers

free from the wallet, sputtering and waving the documents in the

air. “We’ve a charter . . . granted by King George himself. A writ

of dispossession . . . signed by the governor in Williamsburg . . .”

Seth snatched the papers from Connor. Unable to read any

of the fl owing, offi cial- looking script, he ran a callused fi nger

over the green wax impression that bonded a loop of scarlet

ribbon to the parchment. “Seal of the Realm,” he said, shaking

his head.

“FIGG!” Connor shouted.
“Fiiigggg!”

Figg appeared at the cabin door and performed a series of

contortions to fit his huge shoulders through the opening. He’d

abandoned his menacing club and in his right hand carried a

round loaf of bread, clutched like a biscuit. His left fi st strangled

the neck of Seth’s last bottle of whiskey and his happy smile was

bedaubed with yellow globs of half-chewed cornbread plastering

the gaps between his stained teeth.

Brady Moffat moved in quick to snatch the bottle from the giant,

thumping him on the back. “You done good, Figgy. Real good.”

In a spray of crumbs and spittle, Figg giggled. “Amen to that,

sez I.”

Connor marched over and slapped the bread from Figg’s hand,

sending it rolling in the dirt. “Ye great gobshite! Where are ye

when I need ye? I’ll tell ye where—stuffi n’ yer piehole—
Jaysus!
”

The little man gave the giant a shove. “Arrah now, fetch the mule

and the pig from the byre.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
265

“STOP!” Seth ran to where big and little stood near the cabin

door. He handed Connor the documents. “We’ll leave th’ land,

no quarrel,” he offered, trying to stay the panic rising in his

throat, “but ye canna have the hog—I beg ye, man—that hog is

the difference between life and death for us.”

“Are ye dim?” Connor rattled the parchment in Seth’s face

and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Yer man there takes what

he wants, and he wants it all.”

Seth followed Connor’s thumb. The wind had calmed a bit—

the tall cornstalks moving but gently, to and

fro, creating a

soothing, undulating backdrop to Seth’s worst fears realized.

Mounted on a jet-black Andalusian, Julian Cavendish sat still as

a military statue at the edge of the cornfield, monitoring his hire-

lings from afar.

Seth could hear his heart drumming in his head. “All I need’s

a bit more time—can ye ask him t’ give me but a day or two?”

“Give ye?” Connor scrunched his face and snorted. “That bas-

tard wouldn’t give ye the steam off’n his piss.” The Irishman

folded and returned the documents to the wallet. “Na, yiv been

cast adrift, boyo. The price ye must pay for squatting on what

belongs t’ another.”

The sight of the king’s seal and Cavendish aloof on horseback

served to sap all strength from Seth. There was no beating a man

who had the means to purchase the power of the law and the

lawless. Seth turned his back on Connor, shuffled away, and

dropped down to sit between Maggie and Susannah. “Everyone

intae the cabin,” he droned. “Gather your things.”

Winnie and Jack took the little ones by the hand and did as

they were told, but Susannah and Maggie did not budge. The

women stayed at his side. Seth buried his face in his hands. He

was beat—beat hollow and thin as a tin cup. A thick torpor of

hopelessness clouded his brain.

Lightning cut the clouds, soon followed by rolling thunder,

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Blevins

and Alexander woke squalling. After a momentary discreet

fidget, Susannah began nursing him under the shawl draped over

her shoulder and the infant quieted.

Lightning flashed again. “We better get a move on,” Moffat

advised. “You know how his lordship hates the wet.”

Connor glanced over his shoulder at Cavendish and barked,

“Figg! Would ye g’won now an’ fetch those beasts so we can be

on our way?”

Figg veered off the path to the stable and wandered toward the

tulip tree. Squatting on haunches in front of Susannah, he tilted

his huge head in slack- jawed fascination, trying to catch a glimpse

beneath the shawl.

Bristling like an angry hedgehog, Maggie leaped to her feet

and gave the big man a two-handed shove that sent Figg sprawl-

ing bung end into a pile of corncobs. “Away wi’ ye—ye great gal-

lumpus. Leave the woman nurse the babe in peace.”

Seth groaned. “Maggie . . . have a care . . .”

Connor ran over. “Jaysus, Figg! Get up—get up, I tell ye!”

Figg struggled mightily to draw his massive frame upright.

“But, Connie, I want to see th’ wee baby . . .”

“Never mind the baby! Go fetch the bleedin’ beasts like I told

ya.” Connor brushed the dust from him, gave him a push, and

Figg lumbered away.

Connor turned to the women. “Can ye believe it?” Shrugging,

he offered a half grin. “The big oaf fancies babies.”

“Fancies babies?” Maggie plopped back onto the bench. “For

what? His breakfast?”

“He meant no harm,” Connor defended staunchly. “He’s sim-

ple.”

“Aye,
he
may be simple,” Maggie retorted, “but what’s yer

excuse?”

Brady Moffat burst out laughing.

Pink-faced, Connor grabbed Maggie by the hair and snarled,

“Yer a fuckin’ mouthy cunt! On yer prayer bones and beg

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
267

mercy . . .” Pulling hard, he bent her head back at an unnatural

angle, forcing her down to knees in the dirt.

Quicker than a hawk’s talon snatching up prey, Susannah

reached out and clamped her hand between Connor’s legs. “Let

Maggie go,” she said.

A fistful of Maggie’s hair in his right hand, Connor fumbled

unsuccessfully to draw a pistol snagged on his belt with his

left.

Seth leaped to his feet. “Susannah! Stop!”

A sweet smile curled the corners of Susannah’s mouth; her

grip tight and steady as a vise, she continued to nurse Alexander

without interruption.

As shrill as a choirboy on Easter morning, Connor squeaked,

“
MOF
- fat!
PEA
- vey!”

Leaning on their rifl es, Brady Moffat and Simon Peavey stood

by, much amused. Moffat called out, “Take care, Connor. That

one chopped the head clean off’n a Shawnee brave—she may

well pinch off your prick.”

“Susannah,” Seth pleaded, “dinna be sae reckless . . .”

Susannah blinked once and gave Connor’s parts a twist.

The wee man’s beet-red eyes near bugged out of his skull.

“Awright!” he yelped, and released Maggie.

Susannah let loose. Connor stumbled backward, doubled over,

gasping in pain.

“It wouldn’t be hard at all, pinchin’ off a nubbins like his,”

Susannah said blithely, pinkie fi nger extended.

“Woo- hoo!” Moffat hooted, slapping his thigh. Maggie gig-

gled and even stoic Simon Peavey cracked a smile.

Connor turned and kicked Susannah’s bushel basket, sending

kernels of corn flying through the air like a spray of bird shot,

screaming, “Drive them off!
Do it!
DO IT!”

Moffat sighed. “C’mon, Peavey. Let’s finish this up.” The gun-

men moved in, rifles raised, herding Seth, Maggie, and Susannah

to the center of the dooryard.

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Blevins

Seth grabbed Brady Moffat by the arm. “Can ye let us gather

a few things fi rst?”

Moffat jerked away and slugged Seth upside the head with the

butt end of his rifl e.

Slumping to his knees, Seth saw double and fingered the knot

rising near his temple. Maggie pushed past Moffat and knelt at

Seth’s side.

“There was no need to wallop him . . . yiv no right . . .”

Connor stormed in with pistol drawn and pressed the barrel

end to the back of Maggie’s head. “Yer the one with no rights,

missie.”
Clack- clack,
the tumbler notched into fully cocked.

“Mr. Connor! Holster that weapon!” The viscount trotted

into the dooryard, ordering his henchman in a voice as clipped as

the Andalusian’s iron- shod hooves on the sunbaked soil. Display-

ing expert horsemanship, the nobleman maneuvered his stamp-

ing and snorting mount to dance a tight circle around the group.

Mouth agape, Connor flinched under his master’s scrutiny.

Immediately uncocking the lock on his pistol, he stuffed the

gun back into his belt, stuttering, “N-no need for concern,

m-m’lord . . .” The little Irishman scuttled like a roach exposed

to the light of day, hurrying to be the first to grab the stallion’s

halter and aid the viscount in his dismount.

Brady Moffat’s slack posture stiffened and he shouldered his

weapon infantry style. “Everything under control here, sir,” he

hiccuped, and scurried with Connor to curry favor.

Peavey’s eyes narrowed at the nobleman’s uncharacteristic in-

trusion. He tipped his head sideways much like a curious hound,

took three long, slow steps back, and dropped his rifle to rest in

his elbow.

The hog came snuffling and grunting into the dooryard, fol-

lowed by Figg, besmeared with and reeking of pig muck. The giant

man held tight the lead he’d tied to the hog and he tugged Ol’ Mule

along by the harness. Cavendish grimaced; pulling a lace-edged

handkerchief from his voluminous sleeve, he held it to his nose.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
269

Connor waved Figg away. “Stay downwind of his lordship,

hear?”

Amid this shabby company, the viscount gleamed like a looking

glass tossed on a refuse pile. Wigless and simply dressed in a bril-

liant white shirt tucked into fawn-colored breeches, this man was

quite different from the powdered fop Seth had encountered aboard

the
Good Intent
. With his sleek dark hair queued in a red satin

ribbon that fluttered on the breeze, Julian Cavendish looked every

bit the country lord.

Maggie and Susannah helped Seth up onto his feet. “Take his

offer.” Maggie spoke quick in his ear.

“What?” Seth swayed, knees buckling. The women on either

side propped him up. He steadied and rubbed his head, trying to

recover his wits and the ability to depend on his legs.

“He’s come to make an offer—take it!” Maggie said.

“She’s right,” Susannah hissed. “Look at him—he wants her

bad.”

Seth blinked and focused. The viscount brushed past his obse-

quious henchmen, tapping his riding quirt against the burnished

leather of his boot. Much like a man judging the fitness of a

horse, he paced to and fro with deliberate regard, attention riv-

eted on Maggie.

“The bastard . . .” Seth muttered.

Maggie urged. “My contract . . . trade it for corn.”

“No!”

“Dinna be a fool. Strike a bargain.”

“Sign ye over to tha’ fi end?” Seth shook his head.

Maggie squeezed his arm. “Send me word when yiv harvested

the corn . . . I’ll run and meet up wi’ yiz . . .”

“Too risky—I willna—”

“Ye must, Seth,” Maggie rasped in his ear. “Yiv no choice.”

Cavendish approached their group slowly. Maggie stood be-

side Seth, staring straight ahead with eyes hard as fl int. Her

waist-length hair had long since tumbled free and the braid-

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Blevins

crimped strands writhed about on the wind like beckoning

arms.

Connor simpered after his master. “You’ve a good eye, yer

grace. She’s a fine piece of goods.”

“Yes . . . she is quite the thing, isn’t she?” Cavendish stepped

close to catch a tendril of Maggie’s hair. He held it to his nose

and breathed deep. He turned to Seth. “You seem inordinately

blessed with a preponderance of females, yeoman.”

Seth did not respond immediately, and Moffat prodded him

between shoulder blades with the barrel end of his rifl e. “His

lordship’s talkin’ to you . . .”

“Leave me be, ye kiss-arse.” Seth shrugged Moffat off with a