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
414 Christine
Blevins
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.”
416 Christine
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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.