Defiant (49 page)

“Bein’ a soldier’s wife is no’ easy.”

Sarah hastily wiped her tears away. “You must think me weak.”

“Nay. I think no such thing.” Annie smiled, but it was a sad smile. “I’ve wept oceans waitin’ for Iain to return.”

And Sarah knew that Annie understood.

T
o keep her mind off her worries, Sarah threw herself into learning the life of a farmwife. And she had much to learn—how to cook and clean, how to make butter and cheese, how to salt meat and pickle vegetables, how to tend and harvest a kitchen garden, how to milk a cow and care for hens. With each new task she mastered, Sarah felt her confidence grow, the days long, but also deeply satisfying.

Annie and Amalie were patient with her, encouraging her, answering her questions not only about farm life, but also
motherhood. She’d never even held a baby before, but Annie and Amalie welcomed her help in caring for their little ones and shared with her their experiences of childbirth. And as her belly grew bigger day by day, and the child grew vigorous inside her, she felt joy to think she would soon have a baby of her own.

But at night, she was lonely, her grief for Uncle William still strong, her fears for Connor haunting her dreams. If he were killed, if he did not return…

Of the war, they heard but little. Outside of Albany, news traveled slowly. Once in a while, Morgan would hear of this skirmish or that. One newspaper reported that the Rangers had driven Bougainville’s forces northward, stranding them for a time on the Isle-aux-Noix and forcing Bougainville to withdraw to Montreal. Another claimed the Rangers had harrowed the countryside, offering Canadian partisans the chance to retain their lands by laying down arms and promising not to fight. So many partisans had deserted that Bourlamaque—who, Sarah learned, had once been Amalie’s guardian and was the very commander who had lied to Uncle William about Morgan’s death—had found himself deprived of men and had retreated to Montreal as well. Another said the Rangers had moved northward with Haviland’s army, meeting up with Murray and Amherst’s forces in preparation for a great battle at Montreal.

June became July, and July became August.

It became clear that something was troubling Amalie. She tried to deny it, but Sarah and Annie did not miss the troubled look on her face or the quiet sound of her tears at night or the worry in Morgan’s eyes. Only when Sarah caught her weeping one afternoon did Amalie explain, sitting down with Sarah and Annie at the table, her twins in her arms.

“I hope you do not hate me for saying this, but I grieve for my country.” Tears glimmered in her eyes, her voice unsteady. “I want the war to end, so that there will be no more killing. I want Iain, Connor, and Joseph to come safely home. But what will become of my countrymen in Quebec and Montreal and the Ursuline sisters at Trois Rivières who raised me? Will they be torn from their homes like the poor Acadians? If Montreal falls, Bourlamaque, who was so kind to me, will leave forever. My father will have given his life
for nothing
.”

“Oh, Amalie.” Annie rested a hand on Amalie’s arm. “We dinnae hate you. We shall grieve wi’ you.”

Sarah had been so eager for Connor to come home that she hadn’t thought what the end of the war would mean to Amalie. “We could not hate you. You are our sister.”

And Sarah realized as she spoke that Annie and Amalie were more her sisters than her blood sisters had ever been.

September 23

S
arah picked apples, filling her white cotton apron, then spilling the fruit carefully into the bushel basket. Busy hens chased insects through the grass, and the autumn sun shone warm and bright, birds singing in the trees, which had only begun to change color.

“Apple.” Little Iain Cameron held up his chubby hands, the hems of his frock high enough to reveal tiny moccasins on his feet.

She handed the child a single red apple, his eagerness to help making her smile. “Put it in the basket with the others.”

He did as she asked, then toddled back for another. “Apple.”

The dogs began to bark and ran toward the road. Sarah heard hoofbeats and looked up to see a rider approaching. Musket in hand, Morgan emerged from the barn, called off the dogs, and spoke with the rider for some time.

And Sarah knew there must be news of the war.

“Come, sweet boy.” She reached down, lifted Iain Cameron into her arms, and carried him toward the house, where Annie and Amalie stood, watching, on the doorstep. She set the squirming boy on the ground near his mother’s feet and took Amalie’s hand, standing with her sisters-by-marriage, her pulse tripping.

Whatever the news, Sarah, you dinnae have to bear the weight of it alone.

Connor’s voice echoed in her mind as Morgan turned toward the house, his expression giving nothing away, the rider spurring his horse back the way he’d come.

Morgan stopped before them, his hair tied back in a leather thong, sweat on his brow. “Two weeks ago, Vaudreuil sought terms from Amherst. Montreal has surrendered.”

As he reached for Amalie and drew her into his arms to comfort her, Sarah met Annie’s gaze and saw in Annie’s eyes the same overwhelming relief that she felt.

The war was over.

The men were coming home.

C
onnor tied his snowshoes onto his tumpline and set the heavy pack on the bed beside Iain’s, looking around the cabin one last time. “’Tis strange to be sayin’ farewell to the cabin and the island.”

“For you and Joseph especially. I’ve been on the farm for most of two years now, while you’ve both been here. Still, this cabin was my home for three years.” Iain glanced about. “Iain Cameron was born here.”

“Aye, so he was.” Connor remembered that night—waiting through the long hours with Iain, sharing a flask of rum, feeling a sharp surge of relief when he’d heard the child’s first cry.

And it struck Connor that soon Iain would be waiting with him while Sarah gave birth. He pushed the thought—and the fear it conjured—from his mind.

“Are you ready?” Iain met Connor’s gaze.

“Aye.” He followed Iain outside and toward the parade grounds for one last muster.

Connor, Iain, Joseph, and their men had arrived yesterday afternoon after the long march south from Montreal, leaving war behind them, each man thinking of home. No sooner had they settled in than Dougie had begun to play his fiddle and McHugh his pipes, the rum flowing freely as they celebrated the end of war. It had been a fine
céilidh
, the men telling war
stories and dancing with each other until they were witless and legless with drink. Aye, there were surely more than a few who’d awoken thirsty and with aching heads this morn.

But, apart from the pair of breeches that hung from the whipping post, one could not tell the men had spent the night making merry. They stood mustered in neat rows, their gear upon their backs, their faces solemn. Connor knew what they were feeling, for he felt it, too.

This was farewell.

While Joseph and his men stood nearby, Iain and Connor walked among the ranks, but rather than checking the men’s gear, they thanked the men for their skill, their courage, their willingness to fight, and asked each one where he was going and what he planned to do next.

“What’s to become of you, lad?” Iain asked young Jabez Fitch.

Fitch grinned. “I’m goin’ to marry—if Hannah will have me.”

Connor gave Fitch a reassuring clap on the shoulder. “She’d be a fool to turn you away. You’re a strong and good-hearted lad.”

Fitch turned red to the roots of his hair. “Thank you, sir. And thank you, both of you, for bringin’ us safely through.”

But not all of them had come safely through, and Connor could not stop himself from looking toward the little cemetery where so many men—so many friends—lay buried, this victory bought with their suffering, their blood, their very lives.

When Connor and Iain had spoken with each and every man, they took their places before the company, and Iain started to say a word. But before he could speak, McHugh stepped forward, a long rifle in one hand, a bottle of scotch in the other.

He handed them to Iain and Connor. “We got these for you—our way of thankin’ the two of you and Morgan for all you’ve done. You made men out of us, so you did.” McHugh’s voice quavered. “You’re the strongest and the most damnably stubborn Scotsmen I ken and an honor to your noble clan. We’ll no’ be forgettin’ you.”

And then Connor saw.

The names of every man who’d ever served with the Rangers had been carefully carved into the wooden butt and stock of the rifle. Connor and Iain held it together, slowly turning it over, reading the names—more than three hundred in all.
Killy McBride. McHugh. Cam. Robert Wallace. Billy Maguire. David Page. Charles Graham. Jabez Fitch. Old Archie. James Hill. Gordie. Jonny Harden. Angus Stewart. Forbes.

A shout went up and became the Mahican war cry, both Rangers and Joseph’s warriors joining in, the ululation transforming into a shouted tribute Connor had heard only one time before.

“MacKinnon! MacKinnon! MacKinnon! MacKinnon! MacKinnon!”

When the men had fallen silent, Iain spoke. “Thank you, lads. ’Tis a fine gift.”

“Aye, we thank you.” Connor’s throat was tight. “And we promise no’ to drink all the scotch afore we reach home, deprivin’ Morgan of his share.”

The men chuckled.

Iain’s face went grave. “Never has the world seen a war such as this one, but you turned the tide of it, spillin’ your own blood to keep frontier families safe. Years from now, people will remember the Rangers, the sacrifices you made, the battles you fought, the victories you won. I pray that peace will follow you all your days.”

Connor expected Iain to dismiss the men. Although he and Iain were both majors now, it was Iain who had led the Rangers the first three years of the war, he who’d brought them together. He was by right The MacKinnon. But Iain stepped aside.

“You fought wi’ them longer than I did, lad. You’re a damned fine warrior, perhaps the best amongst us. The right to dismiss them should be yours.”

Connor shook his head and started to object, but the men shouted him down.

“You’ve been wi’ us every day of these past five years, Connor MacKinnon,” Forbes shouted. “You’ve earnt the right to be the man who sends us home!”

Moved by this honor, Connor faced the company, his gaze taking in the familiar faces of his brothers-in-arms. He swallowed the hard knot in his throat, the moment bittersweet. Then he called out in a strong voice: “Rangers, dismissed!”

An emptiness hung in the air as the men slowly turned and walked away.

Connor knew he would not see most of them again and yet he was happy for them, for they had loved ones waiting for them
at home just as he had. But Connor could not return to Sarah yet. He and Iain, aided by a few volunteers from the Rangers, as well as Joseph and his men, had one last mission, one last duty to perform.

Father Delavay stood outside his cabin, waiting for them.

“Are you ready, Father?” Connor asked.

It was a long journey to Quebec.

“
Oui
. It is time I was home.”

S
arah sat near the fire, humming as she stitched another bed gown for the baby, trying to keep her stitches even. Nearby, Amalie fed her twins, nursing one at each breast, while Annie bathed Iain Cameron and Mara in the washtub before the fire. Morgan sat by the door, cleaning his musket, Artair and Beatan asleep near his feet. With a nip of fall in the air, it was a homey evening, the sort Sarah had come to cherish.

If only Connor would come home.

Almost a fortnight had passed since they’d learned of the British victory. The news had been two weeks old when they’d received it, and Sarah had expected the men to be home any day. But each day thus far had ended in disappointment, the sun setting with no sign of them. Now the sun had all but set again, taking Sarah’s hopes with it for another day.

But if Annie could endure the wait, so could Sarah.

“The cider press is repaired.” Morgan stood his cleaned musket beside the door. “Once we get the last of the crop in, I’ll start makin’…”

Artair and Beatan sat up, their tails thumping on the braided rug. They stood, whining and scratching at the door.

And then Sarah heard it.

Singing.

Morgan peeked out the curtains and chuckled. “They’re home.”

He opened the door and walked outside, wolfhounds at his heels. Sarah set her stitching aside and followed him out the door, her heart thrumming.

Up the road came Connor and Iain driving a large wagon, Killy, Dougie, Forbes, McHugh, and Brendan walking alongside them. The setting sun bathed them in gold, the sky behind them ablaze with streaks of rose and gold. They sang as they
came, Sarah scarce able to make out the words through the heavy Scottish burr.

“Hey! Johnnie Cope are ye waukin’ yet? / Or are your drums a-beating yet? / If ye were waukin’ I wad wait / Tae gang tae the coals in the mornin’.”

When Connor saw her, he stood and waved, the wagon coming to a halt before the door. Connor leapt to the ground, grabbed her up in his arms, and held her tight.

“Och, Sarah!” But almost as soon he’d embraced her, he released her and stepped back, a look of surprise on his face. He pressed one big hand to her rounded abdomen. “You’ve quite the belly now. Look how the babe has grown! Are you well? How are you feelin’?”

“I’m very well, and so is our baby.” She let her gaze travel over him, savoring the sight of him from his handsome face with its thick stubble to the road dust on his breeches and moccasins. “Is it over, Connor? Are you truly home for good?”

“I dinnae ken for certain whether Britain and France will make peace, but we’ve won the war here.” He smiled, his gaze warm. “The Rangers are disbanded. Joseph and his men have returned to Stockbridge. I’ve come home to stay.”

She leapt into his arms, her heart singing.

“I’ve missed you, too, Princess.” Connor held her close, kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. “I’d have been here sooner, but Iain and I needed to get Father Delavay safely to Quebec.”