Rapture's Betrayal (3 page)

Murmuring words of encouragement, she looped the piece of hemp about his body. She flinched when he groaned, but hardened herself against his body's protest. Finally the rope was secure. Kirsten's brow furrowed as she pondered what to do next.

She tugged on the rope.
I have to get my arms under his!
She cried out at first, staggering under his dead weight. When she tried again, however, her burden felt lighter. Utilizing his last ounce of strength, the man rose to his feet. Then, exhausted by the effort, he passed out.

He fell against the wooden platform with a thud. Kirsten inhaled sharply as she fought to keep him from sliding to the ground.

It was like a game of tug of war as Kirsten battled with the inert form of the Continental. Finally, she was able to push him halfway onto the wagon. Grabbing hold of the rope, she then moved to the front end of the vehicle, slipped the piece of hemp under the seat, and pulled it to her over the top. She heaved until her efforts warmed her.

There was a loud scraping noise as the man slid across the wooden platform. Kirsten felt faint with relief at her success. Time was precious; she had to hurry before the sun rose and the townspeople woke. She grabbed the reins, hopped up onto the wagon seat, and clicked her tongue. Hilga shifted and then obeyed the command. Soon the wagon was rolling along the road back to the Van Atta homestead. Fortunately, the wheels ran smoothly through the mud on the return trip.

Kirsten maneuvered the wagon beside a thicket near the edge of the Van Atta property. After a quick check to see how the man had fared, she jumped down and ran toward the barn. No one moved within its dark depths, save the horses inside their stalls. Soon, the groom Pieter would be rising, and the barn would be stirring with life.

She couldn't bring him here! A barn was not safe from the British, who often appropriated the horses and cattle of Hoppertown residents. And she couldn't risk endangering her parents.

On the far side of her father's land were the remains of the old Van Atta mill. It had been abandoned when Kirsten's grandfather had built one closer to the village. The ruin held fond memories for Kirsten. She and cousin Miles had played there often as young children. But that was before the war, before the bloodshed . . . Those days were forever gone.

I'll take him to the mill's cellar.
Hurrying to the wagon, Kirsten then headed for the safety of the deserted mill.

The man, wrapped in several blankets, was sleeping peacefully on the dirt floor of the cellar when Kirsten made for home. He'd be safe until morning, shielded from the weather by the wooden floor of the room above.

His wounds would need more doctoring, though. Tomorrow she'd bring a bread-and-milk poultice.

It was near daybreak, with the birds chirping their morning song, when Kirsten crept past the room in which her parents' still slept and slid tiredly onto the soft feather tick of her bed.

“Kirsten? Kirsten! Get up, you lazy daughter. There are chores to be done!”

Groaning, Kirsten sat up and yawned. She brushed back a tumble of platinum blond hair and blinked to clear the sleep from her eyes.

“
Kirsten!
Did you hear me?” Her mother's voice was sharp, even through the closed doors of the alcove bed.

“Yes,
Moeder.
I'm getting up.”

“Well, be quick about it. Your
vader
has been up for over an hour.” The door closed with a click; Agnes Van Atta had left the room.

Kirsten stretched and wondered why she was so tired. Her eyes widened as the memory of the injured soldier came to her. Was he all right? She hoped he was comfortable and that he hadn't somehow stumbled from the sanctuary of the mill.

He'll need the poultice
. . .
and something to eat.
Kirsten began making a mental list of supplies for her patient. Then she gasped, remembering that she'd left her mud-encrusted shoes to dry on the front stoop. There would be an awful scene if her mother discovered that she'd been out last night.

“Kir-sten!” Her mother's high-pitched shrill made Kirsten flinch.

Drat. It was too late; her mother must have found the footwear. “I'm coming,
Moeder
.”

Kirsten opened the alcove doors and peered out cautiously. As she'd feared, her scowling mother stood not far from the bed, a damp shoe in each hand.

“Good morning!” The young woman beamed at her mother. “A wonderful day, isn't it?”

“Don't you good morning me, young woman! Not when you can see what I'm holding!”

“You mean my shoes?”

Agnes Van Atta's lips twitched with annoyance. “Of course, your shoes!”

“Are you upset?” Kirsten padded in her bare feet across the cold floor to the
kast
, the wardrobe, from which she took out the day's clothes. She laid these garments carefully on the bed before she pulled off her nightgown.

“Of course, I'm upset!” her mother said. “You were out during the night again!”

“There was a storm.” Kirsten sat on a chair to put on her stockings.

“What were you doing?” Her mother looked concerned. “Your
vader
will not like this.”

“What are you going to tell him?” Kirsten blinked in pretended innocence. “That he should be angry because I saw to the animals? That I finished the milking before you rose from your bed?” She turned from her mother as she slipped on a second striped petticoat. Next, she donned a dress of blue calico.

“You've finished the milking?” Agnes asked, sounding surprised. Kirsten nodded as she slipped on her apron and tied the strings.

“And the chickens—they are fed?” her mother asked.

“Of course,
Moeder.
That reminds me—I must tell
Vader
that we need more feed.” Kirsten straightened her bedding and closed the alcove doors. She could sense that her mother's anger had cooled as she put away her nightgown and shut the
kast.
The spring nights were cool, and the need for warmth made quilted bedcovers and light flannel gowns customary.

There had been no need for her lie. She had seen to the animals before going to bed so that she could sleep later in the morning. But Kirsten would have fabricated an excuse if necessary. A man's life was at stake.

She braided her hair and then pinned up her silver blond plaits. When she was done with her toilet, she grabbed a broom from the corner of the room and proceeded to sweep the bedchamber floor.

“And just what do you think you're doing?” her mother asked. She had not yet left the room.

Kirsten sighed as she met her mother's gaze. She was tired of being treated like a child. Her parents meant well—she knew they feared for her safety—but . . . “I'm doing my chores,
Moeder
.”

“What about your shoes?” Wrinkling her nose with distaste, Agnes raised the muddy footwear. “Really, Kirsten, you should take better care of your belongings.”

“I'll clean them.” Flushing, Kirsten reached for her shoes.

Her mother shook her head. “Never mind, daughter. Go ahead with your sweeping. I'll put them outside—you can clean them later.” She moved toward the door. “When you're done sweeping, you had best clean the hearth. You'll need a clean feather. I noticed yesterday that the last one mysteriously disappeared.” And then, gesturing for Kirsten to continue with the broom, Agnes Van Atta left her daughter's bedchamber.

Kirsten thought the day would never end. As she worked quickly to finish her chores, she found her mind wandering to the wounded soldier.

What if he was bleeding again! She churned the butter with vicious pumps. He could be dying! She had to see him; she had to know.

When the butter was ready, Kirsten placed the store in the coolest section of the pantry. Later the firkin—the vessel that held the butter—would join others in the cellar under the house. Kirsten was outside picking early greens for her mother when she saw her father wave to her on his way to the sawmill. Smiling, she called out a greeting. She was climbing the steps with the basket of peas when the top section of the Dutch door opened.

Agnes glanced at her daughter's full basket. Her face softened as she met Kirsten's gaze. “There's suppawn on the table,” she said gruffly. “You best come and eat while it's still warm.”

“But,
Vader
—”

Her mother frowned. “Your
vader
is too busy to eat right now.”

Kirsten stifled her disappointment as she sat down at the table board. She looked forward each evening to the family meal. By this hour her chores were done and she could relax and enjoy her father's attention.

She saw a plate of
olijkoecks
at the other end of the table, and her spirits rose. She'd pilfer an extra share for her patient! If awake, he'd surely enjoy the fruit-sweetened fried batter cakes.

Her heartbeat quickened. The man had to be alive—he had to! Night and the freedom to escape to check on her patient seemed a long way off.

The night was warm; the day's spring breeze had dried the dampness left by yesterday's storm. It was after the
klapperman'
s second visit that Kirsten slipped out of the house. In the barn, she changed quickly, donning the breeches she'd worn the day before and a clean shirt. She had taken up the satchel full of provisions for her patient and was ready to go when she heard male voices outside.

“'Ey, Will, are ye in a mind for a tasty morsel this night?”

“Well, that depends now. What exactly do ye mean by a morsel?” The night reverberated with their shared laughter.

Peering through a crack in the barn boards, Kirsten tensed.
There are British soldiers on Vader's property!
She was trapped!

Clutching the sack to her breasts protectively, she envisioned the injured man at the mill. The soldier was defenseless in his condition; she had to get to him right away—before the British found him!

The Britons' voices receded as they left the barn area. “I guess we've been spared, Hilga,” Kirsten whispered. She was startled when she heard a squawk and then angry clucks. “They're stealing
Moeder's
hens!”

She frowned as she peeked out into the yard. The two redcoats were heading toward the village; one carried a limp chicken. She glanced toward the house and was glad to see that the windows remained dark.
Thank God they didn't wake Moeder and Vader.

Tugging her dark calico cap over her blond plaits, she crept from the barn and headed toward the mill where the soldier waited.

The old wooden structure was built a foot above the ground on a brick foundation. The dirt cellar underneath had been dug out after the construction of the main floor, leaving a small storage area not quite high enough for a man to stand up in, though Kirsten had no difficulty walking about the room. The wooden walls of the main level were splintered and rotten, but the foundation was solid, giving the cellar stability and making it a safe place to hide. The only access to the cellar room was a break in the foundation wall, which her grandfather had blocked off many years before the abandonment of the mill. A few steps led down to the old entry. The dilapidated look of the entire structure made the whole mill seem unsafe, keeping away unwanted intruders.
An ideal place,
Kirsten thought,
for my Continental soldier.

The makeshift door she'd wedged in the cellar opening refused to budge until she gave it a good swift kick, jarring the nailed-together boards loose so she could pry them away. Kirsten allowed her eyes to adjust to the dark room, her heart picking up its pace when she spied the wounded man lying against the far wall.

Is he dead?
The hairs rose at the back of her neck as she crawled inside to feel the man's brow. Her patient was burning with fever. If she didn't work fast to bring his temperature down, he could die within days . . . perhaps hours.

She left the cellar room to rummage through her satchel until she found the tinder box. She needed light and a fire to heat the man's poultice. When the flint struck steel, it produced a spark which Kirsten fanned to flame amid the dried grass and bits of wood she'd brought along. She then pulled a candle from her sack, held its wick to the fire, and set the lighted taper near her patient.

To her delight, she found items left in the cellar from her days of play there. She and Miles had come to the mill and had fished in the stream whenever they had finished their chores early. They had cooked their catch over an open fire in an old iron skillet provided by Aunt Catherine, Miles's mother. They had also heated water in a kettle Aunt Catherine had given them so they could make tea while they shared their fish feast.

Kirsten found the kettle where she'd hidden it years ago, beneath the bottom steps of the old staircase leading up to the main floor of the mill. Made of pig iron, the kettle was rust free.

She washed the kettle in the stream by the mill's waterwheel, and then poured the milk she'd brought in a small jar into it, and set the kettle over the fire she'd made. When the milk boiled, she added a few crumbs of bread. While the concoction simmered, she took a piece of linen from her satchel, as well as a container filled with lard. She coated the fabric with the lard, then waited for the bread-milk mixture to cool a bit before dipping the cloth into the milk until it was saturated.

The man lay as still as death, moaning only once when she carefully unbound his bloody bandages. Kirsten gasped; the wound had begun to fester and she had to cut away the crusty part of the bandage with the knife she'd brought. Next, she lowered the hot compress gingerly over the infection before returning to the fire to prepare a poultice for his arm.

Her patient was filthy. Her main concern, however, was not bathing him but saving him.

With the second compress in place, she rinsed out the kettle and drew fresh water from the stream. Then she doused the fire. Her lips twisted as she eyed the bottom of her shirt. It would be difficult enough to explain one of her father's shirts missing—but two? She cut through the cloth with one clean swipe of her knife.

She knew only one way to bring his fever down. She began to bathe his brow with the cool water from the stream. As the taper burned low, she lit another. Her vigil over the wounded man continued until, exhausted, Kirsten fell asleep.

Hours later, when the night was quiet, she awoke with a start. She blinked and focused on her surroundings. The taper had burned low, and the cellar air was rife with the scent of tallow. As she inspected her patient, she recalled that earlier he'd thrashed wildly in the throes of fever. It had taken all of her strength to keep him still so he wouldn't hurt himself further. Finally, exhausted by his struggles, he'd slept. She had continued to bathe him with the water.

Butterflies fluttered in the pit of Kirsten's stomach as she studied him. The newly washed male features displayed character and an odd strength despite his vulnerable state. The stubble of beard on his chin, she noticed, did nothing to detract from his handsome face. But he was thin, too thin. She had a feeling he had suffered much, more than at his attacker's hands.

A faint scar ran across his brow to disappear into his tawny hair. Lines of pain were etched on his face, and dark shadows encircled his closed eyes.

Studying him, Kirsten was infused with a sudden warmth . . . a feeling akin to tenderness. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch him, stroking his brow and running a finger along his jaw. Boldly, she smoothed the hair from his forehead. She gasped when her hand was caught within strong masculine fingers.