Midwife of the Blue Ridge (58 page)

her arms across her chest, and hissed through clenched teeth,

“I’m stayin’ put.”

“By God! Thee will do as I say!”

Figg stepped between the fractious pair. He grabbed Maggie

around the waist and tossed her up and over his shoulder like a

sack of meal, clamping one massive arm over her thighs.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
409

“Set me down!” Maggie twisted and squirmed, pounding big

beefy shoulders with useless fists. “Set me down, Figg!”

“Ye promised Tom, Maggie.”

“Good man.” Tom pressed his hunting knife into Figg’s great

palm. “I’m counting on you to keep her safe. Off with you now.”

He sent Figg on his way with a slap on the back. “Keep to the

trees—”

Maggie lifted her tear-streaked face and cried out, “Yer an

angersome man, Tom Roberts, but I love none but you. D’ye

hear? None but you!”

Tom watched Figg lope away with Maggie bouncing on his

shoulder, her arms outstretched.

“If I could but live through this,” he muttered, “I will grate-

fully spend the rest of my life in those arms.”

A third rifle shot sounded and Tom pressed back against the

buckeye. The lead ball buzzed past, tearing a furrow through the

bark at eye level. Knowing Peavey would reload before showing

himself, Tom pulled one pistol from his belt and waited before

peering around the tree trunk.

Twenty yards away, Simon crept out from a thick tangle of

mountain laurel, rifle stock firm at his shoulder. A heavy oaken

war club, curved like a cutlass with a smooth, round ball carved

at the striking end, dangled from his waist. He had stripped

down to breechclout and leggings, and the morning sunlight

dappled his tanned skin, blending his body into the surround-

ings. Simon slipped through the trees, stalking his prey without

registering a sound.

Tom drew a deep breath and stepped out from behind the

buckeye. Shouting “PEAVEY!” he feinted to the left, then dove

to the right.

Simon swiveled, fired, and missed.

Tom landed in a somersault, bounded to his feet, and dis-

charged his pistol. The shot grazed a bloody stripe along Peavey’s

thigh muscle.

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Not even bothering to glance at his leg, Peavey tossed his

smoking rifle, loosed his war club, and charged forward, full

speed, screaming.
“Coo-wigh! Coo-wigh-wigh!”

Tom yanked the other pistol from his belt. He brooked a fi rm

stance, cocked back the hammer, and braced his right wrist with

his weak left hand. Peavey sped toward him, a blur in the linger-

ing smoke and haze. Tom squeezed the trigger. The shot spun off

target. Simon swung the club in a wide arc and struck Tom a

blow square on his bloodied arm.

Sharp arrows of pain coursed through the very marrow of his

bones to burst into his brain. Tom’s legs buckled and he dropped

to his knees. Peavey toppled him with a pair of vicious blows to

the ribs. Choking and coughing up gobs of bloody spittle, Tom

rolled onto his back, striving to free the tomahawk from his belt.

Simon bent close and easily twisted the tomahawk from Tom’s

feeble grip. He flung it aside. Planting a moccasined foot on

Tom’s chest, he pinned him helplessly to the earth.

Tom rasped between ragged breaths, “Do what you will with

me, Peavey, but let Maggie go in peace.”

“Always such a hero.” Simon sneered. “You were the one that

left her behind—left her to that English pig!” With his full weight

pressing down on Tom’s chest, he snarled, “I saved her. She’s

mine now—MY dream-woman—MINE!” Peavey stepped back

and raised the war club over his head to strike.

“SIMON!”

He froze at the sound of his name, glanced up, and saw Mag-

gie running with Figg gallumping along at her heels. In that spare

moment, jealous rage coalesced into sweet longing. Simon’s eyes

grew as soft as springtime, revealing a young man desperate in

love. His arm dropped.

“I’ll go with ye, lad,” Maggie cried out. “I’ll do whatever ye

say—I’ll go with ye willing! Just dinna kill Tom. I canna bear for

him t’ die! I canna bear it.”

Simon’s shoulders rose and fell in a sigh of true understanding.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
411

Looking down at Tom, his green eyes narrowed and turned hard

as glass. He swung the club up to deal the deathblow.

“NO!” Figg whipped his arm, hurling the knife in his hand to

fl y end over end, sinking the blade deep into Peavey’s chest.

The heavy club thumped to the ground and Simon sank to his

knees, clutching the knife embedded in his heart. Tom pushed up

on his elbows and caught Simon as he fell. Maggie ran up and

helped lower him to lie with his head cradled in her lap.

Simon gazed up with eyes once again the verdant green of new

leaves in the springtime.
“Mag-kie . . .”
He breathed her Shaw-

nee name.

“Sha, laddie . . .” Crooning softly, Maggie stroked his cheek.

She pressed a palm to his chest and the diminishing beat of his

damaged heart.

Simon fought to garner a breath and grasped at the air for her

hand. “Mag- kie?
Mag-kie!
”

She took his frantic hand and held it to her breast. “I’m right

here, lad . . . right here.”

He flashed a boyish smile. His eyes fluttered shut, and as life

left him he whispered, “I loved you—I did.”

A shuddered sob choked in Maggie’s throat. She laid Simon’s

head gently on the ground and leaned into Tom.

“As slippery as a river trout, she is,” Figg mumbled as he

shuffled to stand over them. “Tried t’ keep her safe—tried—but

she squirmed away.” Stunned and confused, he stared down at

Simon’s dead body. “I din’t mean t’ kill him, but he meant Tom

harm, an’ no harm must come t’ Tom—Maggie sed, no harm . . .”

Huge shoulders heaved and he began to cry.

“Aww, Figg . . .” Tom strained his neck looking up at the tear-

ful Goliath. “You’re a good man—brave and true. You saved our

very lives.”

Figg blubbered on, “But Simon’s dead and Maggie’s vexed

with me . . .”

“Och, Figgy, ye silly great gowk. I’m not vexed, just a bit sad

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is all.” Maggie tugged the big man by the thumb, drawing him

down to sit beside her. She threw her arms around his tree- stump

neck and kissed his tearstained cheek. “Dinna fash so. When we

get back home, I will bake ye a double batch o’ shortbread.”

Figg swiped his snotty nose on the back of his hand. “D’ye

hear, Tom? A double batch.”

“Set aside your dreams of shortbread.” Tom braced against

Figg and struggled to his feet. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

Following Simon’s trail, the Shawnee war party broke through

the brush in solemn, single file. Figg and Maggie rose to stand at

either side of Tom and she whispered, “What do we do now?”

Tom chuckled then winced. “Not much.”

“Ye see the fella wearin’ the blue blanket? The one comin’

straight for us?”

“The one carrying my rifl e?”

“Aye. He’s called Waythea. He’s known as a reasonable man.

Talk t’ him.”

Standing unarmed, with his knife buried to the hilt in a Shaw-

nee warrior dead at his feet, Tom was not as confident in his ne-

gotiating capabilities. He waited what seemed an eternity as the

armed band marched to stand in a close circle around them.

The war party presented an odd sight. A number of the Indi-

ans had donned goods they’d plundered. A few of the tawny war-

riors were garbed in ruffled lace shirts, and one very serious brave

was proudly decked out in the viscount’s velvet nightcap and silk

dressing robe.

Cavendish was dragged forth last, his arms slung over the

shoulders of two young braves, face bloodied, anguished eyes

catatonic in terror.

Waythea stood over Simon’s dead body, shaking his head.

“My wife will tear her hair when she learns of her little brother’s

death.”

Tom’s lungs ached with every breath and he fought back a

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
413

wave of nausea. With his head spinning, he struggled to fi nd the

correct Algonquian words.

“Please know . . . know that I never meant for things to come

to this pass.” Tom wavered and Figg caught him up, saving him

the humiliation of dropping bung end in the dirt.

Waythea held up a hand. “We will take our brother home to

be buried. Perhaps in the next world, Penagashea will not be as

lost as he was in this one.” Whisking his blanket from his shoul-

ders, he spread it on the ground and rolled Simon’s body onto the

makeshift bier. Six warriors came forward to stand three on ei-

ther side. They hoisted the blanket and marched away.

Figg lowered Tom to rest on a fallen log.

Waythea turned to leave. He paused and turned back.

“It is a sad day, Ghizhibatoo,” Waythea said, “but not unex-

pected. After all, Penagashea did kill the white fawn.” He slipped

Tom’s rifle from his shoulder and set it on the ground at Tom’s

feet. “Go in peace, brother.” The war leader strode away, waving

his fellows to follow.

Wincing, Tom reached down and tugged his rifl e onto his lap.

Maggie and Figg sat down beside him and they watched the Indi-

ans maneuver in orderly retreat.

Cavendish stirred, roused by the movement and the deference

shown to Tom. “Roberts!” he cried. “Parlay with the heathens

on my behalf. Anything I have is yours—Spanish dollars—the

Scotswoman—name your heart’s desire!”

Tom shut his eyes, drew a deep breath, and ran his hand down

the smooth iron barrel. He traced a fingertip over the silver heart

embedded in the rifl e stock.

“Ye ken, Tom,” Maggie said. “A bullet in his brain would be a

kindness.”

Shaking his head, Tom shrugged. “Wet powder . . .”

Writhing and screaming, Cavendish cried, “Roberts! Help me!

I beg you!” The viscount’s captors silenced his pitiful pleas with

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a musket butt to the head. Dragging his slouched body, they dis-

appeared, lost in the tangle of mountain laurel.

Tom struggled to stand. “Lend me a hand there, Figg.”

“Och, Tom!” Maggie scolded. “Bide a wee! Ye need t’ rest.”

“Ah, Maggie . . . it’s been so long since I last et, my belly is

cursing my teeth.” Tom handed her his rifle and draped an arm

over Figg’s broad shoulder. “What we truly need is a warm fi re

and something to eat. What d’ye say, Figgy?”

Figg grinned wide. “Amen t’ that, sez I.”

Epilogue

The Blue Ridge

“There they are, Susannah!” Maggie pointed. “D’ye see ’em? Up

there, at the top of the ridge.”

Leaning on their long rifles, Tom and Seth stood on a broad

promontory jutting out over the valley—tall man, small man—

sentinels silhouetted against a golden sky.

“Hoy, lads!” Maggie called with a wave. “Lend a lass a help-

ing hand, aye?”

Tom and Seth turned as one. Surprised smiles graced their

faces. The men set weapons down and hastened to assist the

women up the steep rickle of stones.

Susannah seated baby Alexander firm on her hip and clasped

Seth’s hand. “The camp’s settled, an’ we’ve a fine rabbit stew on

the boil.”

“So we decided t’ come an’ see the lay of the land,” Maggie

added.

Tom pulled Maggie up and led her to the edge. He swept his

hand across the view—a vast expanse of dark pines and bright

broadleaves cloaking rolling hills. “There it is. Our claim—from

that tight bend in the river straight north to that limestone

cliff.”

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Seth and Susannah came to stand beside Tom and Maggie.

“My place is just west of Tom’s. Can ye believe it, Susannah?”

Seth rested a hand on her sturdy shoulder. “Surveyed, lined out

on paper, and recorded—legal and proper!”

Maggie smiled and noted how Seth’s hand lingered on Susan-

nah’s shoulder, and how Susannah didn’t seem to mind.

Friday, Patch, and Little Black came scrambling up, followed

by Jack, Winnie, and Mary. Bonnet strings flying, Mary ran up

and gave her mother a hug. Jack raised a ruckus, leaping about

with arms over his head, proclaiming, “I’m king of the hill! King

of the hill!”

Winnie shouted, “Down with tyrants!” and pulled Jack into a

headlock for a good knuckle scrubbing.

Susannah’s brow furrowed. “Where’s Battler?”

Mary pointed down trail. “Here he comes.”

“Whoa, Figgy, whoa!” Astraddle tall, broad shoulders, Battler

held tight to Figg’s ears. Figg swung Battler off and sent the boy

to sclim up and join the others.

“C’mon up, Figg,” Tom urged.

“Naw, Tommy.” Figg shook his great head. “Not one fer

heights, am I.”

Battler marched over and tugged Susannah’s skirt. “I’m hun-

gry!”

Seth snatched Battler into his arms and tickled his pudgy belly.

“Leave Susannah be, ye wee hellion.”

Breathless between giggles, Battler insisted, “But I’m hungry,

Da. I’m hungry.”

“It is almost supper time,” Susannah reminded Seth.