Daughter of the Sword (10 page)

She paused, completely out of chores, hot, thirsty, and hungry, yet reluctant to go in and face those disconcerting gray eyes that convicted her, without trial, of frivolity, wantonness, and perhaps even worse.

“Deborah!” called her mother. “Fetch a fresh bucket of water, please.”

Hurrying to the door, she almost collided with Dane, who was carrying the kitchen bucket. He put out a hand to steady her. Its strong warmth shocked through her arm, her blood, her whole body. The touch lasted only a moment but left her weak, as confused as if a whirlwind had swooped her up, spun her dizzingly about, then left her, unsupported by its devilish force, to either stand or fall.

“I beg your pardon.” His mouth quirked ironically. “You do rush to your errands! But I'll do this one.”

When Deborah, unnerved, said nothing, he halted in mid-stride and scanned her searchingly. “You're flushed, Miss Whitlaw. Are you ill? The sun—”

“I'm used to the sun!” she muttered, eluding that dangerously exciting hand which he stretched toward her.
It's you I'm not used to and never will be!
“I suppose
you
can hardly be expected to understand that washing's a fatiguing task!”

“You'd be most surprised, Miss Whitlaw, at some of the things I
do
understand. I wonder if you can realize, for example, how joyous one can be at the chance to scrub one's clothes when they're caked with filth, blood, and vermin?”

She gazed at him in astonished revulsion, jousting lance splintered by his war-axe. His eyes changed.

“I'm sorry.” His tone was full of self-disgust. “You're too young for such talk, and a female besides, for all you cut me up so ferociously.” A rueful smile made him seem quite different from his usual overbearing self. “Why, Miss Deborah, must I always be seeking your pardon?”

It was the first time he'd called her that, but she was too disturbed and upset by her chaotic feelings to be friends easily at his first softening. Retreating a pace and looking somewhat past him, she said with frost, “It must be, sir, because you recognize that you offend!”

She passed him, head high, and was mortified to hear him, as he moved toward the well-house, burst into whistling “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” That gave no evidence of a contrite and chastised spirit!

As she started setting the table, her mother gave her a chiding look. “Why must you give Dane the rough side of your tongue, daughter? We almost surely owe him for your father's and brother's lives and our safety.”

That was undeniable. But all the same … There was no way Deborah could explain the contretemps in which Dane was forever finding her without causing her mother consternation—which would manifest itself, Deborah feared, in a sharp curtailment of
her
freedom.

If Mother knew, for instance, that her children were getting Bowie lessons from Johnny! No, Deborah felt her waspishness toward Dane was fully justified, but she couldn't convince her parents of that without revealing things of which she didn't want them to even dream.

“Mr. Hunter's terribly condescending, Mother!”

Leticia's surprised blue gaze was difficult to meet. “Why, to me he's seemed extremely courteous.”

“To you, no doubt, he has been, but to me he's—” Deborah struggled, bit her lip. “Oh, never mind! I'll try, Mother, really try to be polite, but he's
so
provoking!”

Mother's puzzled look warmed into a smile of swift comprehension, but all she said was, “Try, my dear. Angels can do no more.”

Deborah, with effort, refrained from saying she neither was nor wished to be one of the heavenly host. A fragrant aroma teased her nostrils. She tracked it to the flower-patterned china teapot, taken from the china cupboard for the first time since the move to Kansas.

“Earl Grey tea,” said Mother. “And do look in the hamper!” To Dane, who'd returned with the bucket, she sparkled happily, “I don't know how to thank you! We never go hungry, but the fare gets monotonous. These wonderful tins! You must have brought them from England I've never seen such elegant things!”

Lifting tins and jars out of the hamper, she flourished them at Deborah. “Isn't it like Christmas, birthdays, and the Fourth of July all in one?”

Dane grinned at mention of this last holiday and Leticia flushed to the roots of her soft brown hair. “My tongue galloped off with me, Dane, but the Fourth is a great holiday with us and—”

“Madam,” he said, grinning more broadly, “I understand perfectly. Of course a nation must celebrate its birth.” He selected a can and handed it to her. “I especially recommend this truffled hare pâté, and the truffled woodcock is almost as good.”

In spite of resenting Dane's lordliness, Deborah couldn't keep her mouth from watering as she saw the array of delicacies: salmon, oysters, French sardines, mutton stew, marmalade, figs, raisins, a reddish-orange cheese, parcels of sugar and coffee; and a packet which Dane tapped.

“You may want to save this Bombay duck for a journey, which is what it was used for by Indians of the East. It's not duck at all, but dried bummelo fish.”

“How peculiar!” Mother looked suddenly stricken. “But Dane, these are provisions for your western excursion! We can't take them.”

“We brought far too much,” said Dane negligently. “The housekeeper was sure we'd famish ‘amongst the savages' and ordered in prodigious supplies from Fortnum's in Piccadilly. We took as little as we dared without causing her apoplexy, but we still have enough to open a shop.”

“I wish you'd give away all of that miserable canned Australian beef!” called Rolf from the next room. “Stringy, tasteless stuff! Fresh rabbit's much better.”

“Do you feel up to having some for dinner?” Mother asked, crossing to the bedroom door. “I've dredged it in meal and soaked it for a bit in vinegar water to make it tender.”

“Any food you or Miss Deborah bring will taste like ambrosia.”

Snorting at Rolf's melting reply, Dane went to stand by his hostess. “And what about the food I bring you, my boy? The ladies must perforce give you breakfast and tend to you when I'm not here, but while I am, I'll see to your needs.”

Rolf groaned. “And I thought this to be one invalidism I'd enjoy!”

“If you'll give me his plate, Mrs. Whitlaw?” Dane suggested.

“It's mighty ramshackle of you!” grumbled Rolf. And then, craftily he said, “Didn't you engage to go paint that Delaware guide this week—the one who brought back those gold nuggets from the South Platte last year?”

“I've sent my excuses to Fall Leaf. There's plenty of time. Don't fret about my painting, youngling. My first concern is to get you back on your feet.”

“You're too good to me by half!” Rolf growled. “But there it is; you've bullied me from the nursery and will probably keep it up till we're in the family vault!”

Dane thanked Leticia for the plate of rabbit and potatoes, then disappeared with it into the bedroom. She followed with a steaming cup of tea and the china sugar bowl, also brought out for this occasion. Returning, she began putting away Dane's offerings, lingering over each small treasure with such delight that Deborah was shaken, glimpsing for the first time what a wrench it had been for Leticia to leave New Hampshire, how valiant she was in cheerfully bearing the grinding everyday drudgeries and harshness of frontier life.

“Real coffee!” she said, sniffing the aroma of fresh-ground beans. “I can hardly wait to see how surprised your father will be when we serve him some of this tonight!” A frown creased her brow, and she paused with a jar of marmalade, glowing rich gold in her hand. “We can't take it all, though. It really is too much.”

With short, vengeful jabs, Deborah forked the meat onto a platter and dished up the potatoes, then set the teakettle on to heat. “I'm sure Mr. Hunter was telling the truth, Mother.” Her tone was so acid that even she was startled at its sound. “Their housekeeper sent so much of this kind of frippery that we're doing them a favor to lighten their supply load.”

“Exactly so.” Dane, behind her, put down Rolf's emptied plate and cup. “Apart from that, we can't both of us eat you out of house and home, as we're in the way of doing, without replenishing the larder.”

He seated Mother, then Deborah, and sat down facing them—just as if, Deborah thought resentfully, he were the master of the house!

“Will you ask the blessing?” Mother requested.

“I don't believe in God,” he said gently. “But I'm glad you do, Mrs. Whitlaw. It will bless me to hear you pray.”

After a horrified stare that dimmed to sadness, Mother bowed her head. So did Dane. Deborah scarcely heard her mother's soft voice.

Dane was kind and considerate of Leticia even when admitting atheism, an almost unimaginable thing. Why, then, was he so ready to mock her—Deborah? And why, oh, why, did he have to appear when some outrage of Rolf's had put her in an unexplainable position?

She resolved to ignore him. But the tea, which Mother poured out after grace, was so delicious, especially sweetened with real sugar, that Deborah was compelled to express appreciation.

“Your pleasure is doubly mine,” Dane said. His gray eyes touched her in a way that made her heart leap.

Wildly, in a tumult of conflicting desires, she thought that his kiss would never have the taste of blood, that he could sear away that branding of Rolf's.

If he would …

v

A battalion of Free Staters had invaded Missouri and searched West Point for Hambleton and his men, who were not found, but James Montgomery, the black-bearded Campbellite preacher from Ohio who'd made a log fortress of his home in southeastern Kansas and who was that region's acknowledged Free State leader, had raided north, within fifteen miles of Lecompton, the pro-slavery capital.

Free Staters, especially neighbors of the murdered men, wanted blood for that spilled May 19 at Marais des Cygnes. That part of the Territory seethed, and so did Thos, eager to get into the fray. Deborah feared that at the next crisis, he couldn't be held back, a fear shared by Sara, though Johnny seemed to think it was inevitable.

“There's war coming,” he told them after Deborah and Thos had survived their first knife lesson since the day they'd met the Hunters and Rolf had been wounded by the night riders. “It's been fated since the first slave was brought to these shores; that was the wind we planted and the whirlwind we'll reap.”

Rolf's eyes shone. He'd been moved to Melissa Eden's house a few days ago in the buggy, but this was his first horseback outing and a bandage was still bulked beneath his fine linen shirt. He and Dane had been invited by Thos to meet the twins at the blacksmith's so that Dane could ask permission to sketch, and, of course, the English brothers had been asked to stay for dinner.

Johnny seemed to trust Dane, but his smoky eyes went hard when he looked at Rolf, probably because Rolf's gaze rested familiarly on Sara, as if she'd been a mare he was thinking of buying. He laughed now and said, “A real war? I envy you!”

“I don't.” Dane's quiet tone was taut with controlled anger and something else—horror? Pity?

“Maybe this excitement over gold in the Rockies will drain off the worst hotheads,” said Deborah hopefully.

“Cesli tatanka!”
scoffed Johnny.

“Unfortunately,” said Dane, “the mostly young men who'll do the fighting won't be the ones to declare war. The split between agricultural and industrial interests, deepened by the hatchets of abolitionists and pro-slavers, are bound to crack this nation apart. The only question is: Will the South be allowed to separate, or will the North fight to hold it?”

“Going to be war soon or late.” Johnny scowled as he cut off a bite of tough beef and the edge of his hunting knife grated on the delft plate.
“Tatanka wakan,
even if the North let the South go, which it won't, there'd be a fuss over the western lands just opening up, and slaves would be running away north whilst the abolitionists would be helping them. The whole border'd be the way Kansas is right now. No, this boil's coming to a head! Cain't be no real peace till it's lanced and the poison's drained and the wound can heal clean instead of growin' a thin scab over a putrefying abscess.”

Violently, Sara pushed back her chair. “No matter which side wins, it won't help my people!” Her eyes gleamed and in that moment she was hostile to them all, even Thos. “If only Tecumseh had been able to get the other tribes to join those of the Northwest who fought on the British side in 1812! He journeyed south and west, telling chiefs the white tide would soon be lapping against them, but they didn't believe! Tucumseh fell in battle, and with him died the spirit of the Shawnee.”

“I've heard of him,” Dane said. “The British commissioned him a brigadier general. He was a military genius.”

“Which the British commander wasn't,” rejoined Sara, though obviously surprised and pleased that the great leader of her tribe had been heard of in England.

“But would it have made a difference to the Indians if the British had won?” Deborah asked.

“Who knows? In return for Tecumseh's help against the Americans, the British were ready to promise that they'd prohibit further taking of Indian lands. The point is that if, right then, the Indians east of the Rockies had united, they might have had some chance of holding their lands, which instead have been nibbled away as the tide crumbles the sand.”

Springing up, she began clearing away the dishes. Deborah helped, wishing to comfort her friend but not knowing what she could truthfully say.

It hadn't been only settlement from the East, but the time of the free-ranging Indian had been numbered from when Coronado, seeking for golden Quivira, had written to the king of Spain that though he found no gold, the soil was “rich and black … well watered by arroyos, springs, and rivers … the most suitable that has been found for growing all the products of Spain.”