Ride the Fire (7 page)

She looked up, met his gaze, felt her pulse trip under the penetrating power of those blue eyes. She’d forgotten how bonny he was without his beard, could scarce find her own tongue.

“Good morning, Master Kenleigh.” She started to ask him how he’d slept, but felt a bit awkward since she had banished him to the cold of straw and barn. “Thank you for the water.”

He dropped the firewood one piece at a time onto the sizeable pile already next to the fireplace.

“You’re welcome.”

Strange it was to talk with him this way, as if he were a friend or acquaintance. Too flustered to braid her hair in his presence, she simply used the thong to tie it back.

“I’m afraid I overslept again. I’ll soon have breakfast ready.”

He nodded, strode outside again. Beyond him, she could see that the horses already roamed the paddock. While he carried in the rest of the firewood, she measured cornmeal into boiling water, cut salted pork into thick strips, set them on the fire in an iron skillet to fry. Then she hurried to the well for more water for tea. By the time he had carried the last load of firewood inside and had fed the rest of the livestock, she had breakfast on the table.

They ate in an awkward silence at first.

Then he spoke. “How long have you been out here, Mistress Stewart?”

“Almost four years. Andrew traded a team of horses and a wagon for the claim to the land and the cabin shortly before we were wed. And you, Master Kenleigh?”

He didn’t answer her.

“The people who started this farm returned east to escape the war. Yet you and your husband chose that time to build a life here. Why?”

Bethie sipped her tea, forced herself to meet his steady gaze.

“Andrew came over from Ulster with my father when they were young lads. It had always been his dream to have a farm of his own. He worked off his indenture, tried farmin’ back east, but he kept movin’ west, startin’ over. He said the frontier was the only place a man could truly breathe free.”

“Is that where you were born—Ulster?’

“Nay. I was born on my father’s farm near Paxton, but my parents came from Ulster.”

She did not like to talk about her family.

He had finished his breakfast and leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the back of the chair beside him.

“Lots of settlers in this part of the country have been killed in this war.”

“Aye. I knew a woman who...” She looked into her teacup. “I was so . . .”

“Afraid?” He finished her sentence, his voice soft, almost soothing.

She closed her eyes, remembered nights of sleepless terror.

“Aye. But Andrew wouldna leave. He said no Frenchman or red Indian would drive him from his land.”

“He’s dead. Why do you stay?”

Shocked by his brusque words, the cold tone of his voice, she could only stare at him.

Because I have no place to go.
She thought it, but she did not say it. Any answer she might give would come too close to her secret shame, too close to the truth. And she would not speak of that with anyone.

Shaken, she stood, walked to the hearth, picked up the milk pail.

“Poor Dorcas. I nearly forgot her. She’ll be aching with milk by now.”

And with that, she turned and fled to the safety of the barn.

He’d wanted to ask her what plans she had for the birth of her child, but he had hurt her today, had roused her grief. He’d seen the color leave her face the moment he’d spoken. He’d seen the pain in her eyes. Her husband, the man whose child she carried, was not yet three months in the grave.

“He’s dead,” Nicholas had said with all the sensitivity of a rock. Perhaps he’d spent too many years talking to his horse.

But, damn it, she should not be out here! She should be on her parents’ farm near Paxton, where the women of her family could fuss and fret over her, where her father could send for the midwife and see to it that his daughter was brought safely to bed when the hour came. He supposed she hadn’t made the journey home because she was too far along by the time her husband had died. She would have had to forsake her livestock and all her belongings to travel a long distance on horseback, pregnant and alone, across icy rivers and through the mountains in the midst of a war in the cold and dark of winter. Taken together, he could see why a woman wouldn’t find that appealing. No doubt she’d felt safer remaining here than trying to make her way back home.

It was far too late now to attempt any such journey. From the look of her, the baby would be born within the month. That meant the baby would be born here. There was no help for it now.

Nicholas dipped the currycomb into the bucket of soapy water and began to scrub grime from the mare’s coat. Perhaps there was a wife on a nearby farmstead who would be willing to aid her, someone he could fetch for her. Or perhaps Mistress Stewart had some plan of her own. Nicholas was suddenly irritated to find himself so caught up in her plight. This wasn’t his baby. He hadn’t put her husband in the grave. She wasn’t his wife. He had promised to protect her only so long as he sheltered beneath her roof, and he was strong enough now to pack his things, saddle Zeus and ride west along the Ohio River as he’d planned. So why didn’t he leave?

Because I’d never forgive myself if I left her out here, helpless and alone.

His father had spoken a little of birth to him, had described for him the wonder of watching as Nicholas and his siblings were born. And Jamie, his uncle and perhaps closest friend, had confided in him the helplessness and wrenching guilt he’d felt holding his wife Brighid as she had labored to bring their two sons into the world.

Surely Jamie and Brighid would have more children by now. Six years was a long time, and they had been deeply in love.

Nicholas had been an adult and newly returned from Oxford when his mother had given birth to little Emma Rose. As he’d sat below with a glass of brandy in hand, he’d found himself enraged that his father had not exercised better restraint and had thus forced his mother to endure this anguish again. He’d told his father so, only to receive a tongue-lashing from his mother the next day.

Emma Rose.

Nicholas fought to squelch the sudden rush of emotion, dipped a bit of old wool into the bucket and began gently to wash the valley between the mare’s empty teats. She tried to pull away from him, raised one hoof off the ground as if to kick. He stroked her flank, spoke softly.

“Steady, girl.”

What was wrong with him? First the nightmares. Then memories of Lyda and his baby. Now his family. He needed to return to the wild, where the emptiness and the wide-open spaces would drive aught else from his mind. He needed to gaze upon the dark waters of the great river to the west, listen to the friendly chatter of beavers busy with their dams, sleep under an endless heaven bright with stars. He needed to ride away.

But first he would find a farmwife to help Mistress Stewart and see her safely settled out of harm’s way.

Would she know what to do? How badly would it hurt? What if something went wrong? Would the baby be born alive? Was this the end? Would she die tonight and the child with her?

There were many worries, but no answers. Then, figuring it was best to sleep while she could, she crawled back into bed and closed her eyes. But her fears would not leave her, and she slept but little. Finally, sometime in the dead of night, she gave up trying to sleep and began to alternate pacing the floor with rocking in her chair. The pangs began to grow stronger and more frequent. Each started as a tightening across her lower belly that spread to her back. But still the pain was manageable.

Her fears began to lessen. She could do this. She could bring her baby into the world alone. She could survive.

Perhaps he would never be free.

A glow on the eastern horizon heralded the approach of dawn. He strode to the well, hoping to wash the aftertaste of horror from his mouth, stopped in his tracks. Through the parchment window he could see the glow of candles. Odd that she was already awake. Since he’d moved into the barn, she’d almost always slept until the sun was up. And then he heard it, a soft moan, almost like the sound of a woman lost in the pleasures of sex. But this was no moan of pleasure.

She was having the baby.

He walked to the door, and when the moan had ceased, knocked softly.

“Mistress Stewart? Is there aught you need? Is there any farm nearby where I might find a woman able to help you?”

Her voice sounded muffled by the closed door, but Nicholas could still hear her fear. “Nay. No one. Please! Leave me in peace!”

He tried to do as she asked. He fed the horses, the chickens, the geese, the cattle, the hogs. He spread fresh straw for the horses and the milk cow. He began to fidget with his traps.

But he could not keep his eyes off the cabin. Nor could he prevent himself from hearing her moans, which had grown louder and more frequent.

If there was one thing he understood, it was pain. But she was not his wife, nor his lover, nor even kin. She was little more than a stranger, a woman whose path he’d chanced to cross at an unlucky time. Why should her anguish distress him so deeply?

Had he become so hard-hearted that he could even ask himself that question?

A sobbing wail.

He swore under his breath, threw the trap he held aside, stomped to the door. He could not sit idly by and do nothing.

“Mistress Stewart, if you don’t open this door, I’ll break it down!”