Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] (14 page)

“I suppose so.” Logan stood, pleased to see that his legs didn’t feel as if he were on board a ship. “We better be off.”

~ ~ ~

His original intent was not to stay in MacLaughlin’s Mill for the night. But then he hadn’t planned on having a run-in with a bear either. And he still hadn’t figured out why Rachel and he and the dog too weren’t torn to shreds. Not that he was complaining, but he’d seen what an angry bear could do. And he’d have wagered a goodly sum that bear was angry.

“This is it? This is MacLaughlin’s Mill?” Rachel stepped around him and stared at the few buildings that made up the village. There were several cabins, similar to his own, though generally larger, and the mill for which the place was named. It sat squat beside the river, its paddled wheel turning with the current.

“The Campbells’ place is over there.” Logan pointed toward one of the crude, log cabins before starting toward it.

Rachel had no choice but to follow. She kept her gaze forward but she knew several people watched her as she walked across the cleared area. Most of them called out a greeting to Mr. MacQuaid to which he responded in a much friendlier tone than he typically used with her.

He raised his hand to the planked door, but before he rapped his knuckles against the splintered wood, he leveled a look at her. “These are good people. Decent hardworking people. I’d appreciate it if you’d mind yourself.”

Rachel’s chin shot up. “Are you implying that I don’t know how to behave in society?” The very idea. She was known for her charming wit and gracious manner. Well, perhaps not known exactly, however she certainly got along with people. Unlike her accuser who lived by himself on a mountaintop and rarely spoke more than two adjoining sentences.

“I am saying they won’t appreciate stories about being the queen’s lady and knowing the king.”

“But I
am
one of her highness’s ladies in waiting. And as for the—”

“Just keep it to yourself then, if you insist upon believing it.” Logan refused to be intimidated by her stare even though it had turned haughty with that certain tilt of her head that made it appear she stared down her nose at him.

“Are there any other orders, Mr. MacQuaid?”

“Nay.” He turned back and knocked, forgetting too late that he should have demanded she stop pretending to converse with the dog. But the door was swept open and Penny Campbell’s broad face was beaming at him, her work-roughened hands pulling him into the cabin.

“Glad I am to see you Logan lad. It’s been too long. Malcolm will be glad you’ve come.”

“We can only stay for the night, Penny,” Logan said, bussing her soundly on her cheek and watching the apples brighten in them.

“Well ’tis grateful we are to have you for however long.” She paused as if realizing what he’d said and glanced around his shoulder toward the woman still standing in the doorway. The surprise that darkened Penny’s blue eyes was quickly blinked away and those same eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Oh, you’ve brought a guest.”

Logan nodded, wondering what the older woman would think of his “guest’s” appearance. Rachel’s hair was a tangle of curls that brushing only seemed to make bushier. And her clothes... He hadn’t realized himself just how tattered and torn, not to mentioned burned, her gown was.

But she held her chin high and curtsied when he presented her to Penny. Curtsied in a way that made him wonder if she had indeed practiced in the court of King George. Which was absurd. She glanced at him when he introduced her simply as Rachel Elliott and he wondered if she would insist upon keeping up her charade of being a Lady.

He never knew if she planned to point out his omission for right then Angus came barreling through the doorway.

“I thought that was you I saw from the fields.” He glanced apologetically toward his mother. “I have Papa’s permission to come check.” He grinned when she dismissed his statement with a wave of her hand. With the other she lifted a heavy iron kettle hung from a hook over the fire.

“I’ve no doubt your papa will be here soon himself.” She set the kettle on a trivet and turned back. “Sit. Sit,” she said with another wave of her hands. “You must be tired from your journey.”

Though the furnishings were crude, they were more plentiful than in Logan’s cabin. Rachel settled quickly into a chair near the homemade table. Logan, she noticed, did not. He was reaching up to a shelf above the hearth following Mistress Campbell’s instructions to lift down a china teapot. It was delicately shaped with gold scrollwork and it seemed so out of place in this cabin with its heavy wood furnishings and sturdy occupants.

The teapot didn’t seem out of place in Logan MacQuaid’s large hands. Rachel watched as he passed the porcelain to the woman who quickly pressed it to her ample breast. Rachel thought him crude when first she saw him, large and coarse. But now Rachel knew different. He was tall and broad-shouldered true, but any bulk was muscle. And his hands beneath the work-rough calluses and scarred knuckles were those of a gentleman, long fingered and tapered.

“Do you not like tea, then?”

The silence clued her that something was amiss. Rachel’s gaze flew to Mistress Campbell’s face and she realized the woman had asked her a question... perhaps more than one. She also realized she was staring at Logan MacQuaid’s hands, and remembering what they felt like on her body.

She felt herself flush. “Tea? Oh yes, I love tea. I haven’t had any in so long.” That was one of the myriad things not available on the mountain. “And I simply adore it. At home we take tea with the queen nearly every afternoon and it’s such a delightful—”

“Would you like me to help you with that, Penny?”

That
was carrying the small teapot to the table. A chore the mistress of the house was more than capable of handling on her on. She shook her mobcapped head and continued to stare at Rachel, a bewildered expression on her round face.

Logan’s glare was not difficult to understand.

Rachel felt the heat of it to the soles of her blistered feet. So what if he didn’t want her to talk about her life... her real life. He didn’t believe her so he assumed no one else would. Rachel sighed. Chances that anyone would credit such a phenomenal happening were remote.

For heaven’s sake, she knew it true... had lived it... and the more time that went by, the more she began to doubt it herself. If it weren’t for the memories of Liz, of the way she was murdered, Rachel might wonder if Logan was right to think her mad.

At any rate, what would be accomplished by speaking of the past? So Rachel smiled sweetly, accepted a chipped pottery cup filled to the brim with fragrant, steaming tea, and held her tongue.

“The teapot was all we were able to save when we made the trek here,” the woman said in way of explanation, or apology, for the crude mug.

Her words seemed so heartfelt and sad that Rachel felt a strange empathy for her. It seemed they had both endured a journey to this wild land... that they both had regrets.

Rachel held the cup as if it were the royal china and took a delicate sip. Her smile was angelic. “I do believe this is the finest tea I have ever tasted.” Her reward was the look of gratitude on Mistress ‘Campbell’s round face. And the softening of Logan’s scowl.

The son, Angus, after his initial burst of words, was a quiet sort who still stood in the corner by the door. Rachel had glanced around at him once only to notice the way the lad looked at Logan. As if he admired him above all of God’s creatures.

Poor, misguided youth, Rachel thought at the time.

She was reminded of her earlier thoughts when Logan motioned the boy closer. “How have ye been doing, Angus? I’ve a favor to be asking, if you don’t mind.”

“Do you want me to see to your place?” he asked as if he was being offered a dukedom.

“Aye. There’s a cow up there who would be as grateful as I if you milked her.”

“I’ll leave straightaway... may I, Mother?”

“Wait a moment,” Logan laughed. “I think there’s time to eat a bite first.”

His mother agreed and it was when the boy stepped up to the table to reach for the hunk of bread Penny sliced from a still warm loaf that Rachel saw he had only one arm. The other was no more than a stub, ending above the elbow, the skin rough and puckered.

As soon as Rachel realized she stared her gaze jerked down to watch the steam rising from her tea. What could have happened to him? He wasn’t much more than a boy. Fourteen at most. She drank too deeply, burning her tongue in the process.

Angus ate two more slices of bread and a bowl of stew, joking and talking with Logan the entire time before pushing to his feet and grabbing up his jacket.

“We should be back in less than a fortnight.” Logan turned to the woman. “I’m sorry to be taking your boy away from you for so long.”

“You know he would do anything for you.” Penny paused. “Malcolm and I would as well.”

Do anything for Logan MacQuaid? Rachel could hardly believe her ears. She, of course, was stuck with him, trying to save his life, but these people were under no such obligation. Why should they care so much for this silent, moody man? Perhaps she would ask the woman if she ever got the chance.

“I’ll stop and say my goodbyes to Papa,” the boy said as he bent down to kiss his mother’s rosy cheek.

And then Logan stood, announcing his intention to go to the fields with Angus and give Malcolm a hand, and Rachel found herself alone with Mistress Campbell, who appeared as curious about Rachel as Rachel was about their relationship with Logan.

“Would you like some more tea?” The older woman stepped toward Rachel. “Or something to eat? I was planning on waiting until they came in from the fields but if you’re hungry...”

“No.” Rachel held up her hand. “I’m fine, really.” She glanced around the cabin. It was larger than Logan’s and, crude though it was, showed signs of a woman’s touch. There were curtains of striped fabric hanging by the windows. And a door leading to another room. Rachel imagined it was a bedroom. Probably with a real bed, unlike the pallet of furs Logan MacQuaid slept on.

There was also a room or some sort of loft reached by a ladder. Rachel didn’t realize she stared at it until Mistress Campbell asked if she wished to rest. “You can have Angus’s bed since he won’t be needing it tonight.”

“Thank you but I’m not tired.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie. Now that she was off her feet, Rachel found herself much more comfortable. “Your son,” she began before she lost her nerve. “He isn’t afraid to go up on the mountain by himself?”

The woman looked up from peeling potatoes and smiled. “Angus fears very little.”

“That’s good, I suppose. Yet, I would think...”

“If your meaning because of his arm that he should fear more, it seems to be just the opposite.”

“I didn’t mean...” But of course she had. Rachel glanced down at her lap. “What happened to him?” And why do you all adore Logan MacQuaid so, she wanted to add but didn’t.

“His arm had to be cut off, amputated, it was. By Logan MacQuaid.”

Rachel was certain her eyes were large as saucers.

“’Twas during the wars.”

“The wars?”

Mistress Campbell looked at her as if she were quite ignorant. “With the Cherokee.”

“Oh.”

“We were on our way to Fort Prince George, because of the trouble, and we were spending the night at Sutter’s Ford when the Cherokee attacked. It was a small war party and the men, including my Malcolm, were well armed. The children and I were huddled, standing on a table inside the hearth. But then Malcolm called out for me to bring him a powder horn. Before I could move, Angus had scrambled off the table and was racing across the cabin.” She paused and Rachel wasn’t certain she would continue. But she picked out another potato, examining it a moment, then spoke again.

“It’s strange, isn’t it, when one moment in time seems to change everything. When if you had all your prayers answered, it would only be for that one instant to be given back to you.” She looked up, her gaze locking with Rachel’s, the knife and half-peeled potato forgotten. “You see, I hesitated when Malcolm called. The musket fire and screams paralyzed me into letting my son almost die.”

She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the memory. “The savages were repelled, but Angus was shot... he was in a bad way. Burning up with fever and the arm was festered.” She looked up and smiled. “And that’s when Logan MacQuaid happened by. On his way to kill the heathens, he told us, when Sutter invited him to sit a spell. He’d had his own losses and was out for revenge. But he took one look at Angus and stayed a fortnight.”

“And that’s when he amputated your son’s arm?” Rachel realized she gripped the chair arms and forced her fingers to loosen.

“Had to. If he wouldn’t have the lad would be dead singing with the angels right now.”

Rachel wondered if people had the right idea about angels. She’d seen no heavenly chorus. But this wasn’t the time to debate the issue. Besides, there were other things she wished to know. “Didn’t you ever... I mean, his arm. Was there no other way?”

“You would have had to see him. To see the boy. To see Logan when he did it.” The knife sliced through the potato. “There was no other way to save my boy.”

She chopped another potato before she glanced up. “I don’t know what got into me, talking your ear off the way I did. It’s not like me at all.” She smiled. “Truth is some of what I said, I’ve never told another person. Malcolm and I never even talked about the day it happened.” Gathering up the quartered potatoes, she dumped them into a pot and swung it back over the stove. With a sigh she wiped her hands down the front of her apron. “I think we each blame ourselves for what happened.”

“It’s no one’s fault. Not really.” Rachel pushed out of the chair and wrapped both arms around the woman’s ample shoulders. “Sometimes things happen. We don’t know why. But there is a reason.” She held her close. “There’s always a reason.”

~ ~ ~

“Looks like it’ll be an early winter.”

Logan knelt beside the river, splashing water over his face and chest and grunted his agreement to Malcolm. It was nearly dusk and they’d been chopping corn husks for fodder for several hours. And he couldn’t help worrying what kind of mischief Rachel had accomplished while he was gone.