MacFarlane's Ridge (44 page)

Cam didn’t care anymore. She was fighting for her life, and for Robert, and Mollie and Ian and little Hamish.

She gave in to the demons.

No one had been more startled than Robert when Cam launched herself at Stave, but he regained his composure quickly, snatching up the musket when it landed with a soft thud. For a moment, he considered bashing Stave in the head with it, but then he saw Sinclair brandishing the saber in his direction.

“Back away,” ordered Wayne, glancing sideways at Cam and Stave, flailing at each other on the ground.

Rob held the musket by the barrel, waving the stock menacingly at him. “Come on, then, laddie. ‘Tis just the two of us now, aye?” he said softly.

The blade of the saber slashed downwards, glinting in the sunlight, barely missing Rob’s arm. He raised the stock of the musket slightly, and the blade bounced off it.

“You’ve caused me no small trouble, Robert. Fraser is fit to be tied,” Sinclair said amicably. “He wanted to send the whole garrison out with me, but I figured that Stave and Tumblesby would be enough.”

Rob swung the musket at him, and Sinclair jumped back nimbly.

“It would appear you were wrong,” Rob replied. He noticed a slight movement out of the corner of his eye, and realized that Meador had quietly appeared at the edge of the treeline again, and in his hands was a large stone.

Sinclair lashed at him again, and this time grazed the side of Rob’s thigh. Rob grunted, but held his grasp firm on the barrel of the musket.

There was a strange sound from his left, a heavy thud and a squashing sound, and a squeal of fright from Cam. Rob glanced over and saw that Meador had dispatched Corporal Stave with the stone.

Wayne Sinclair made the mistake of looking too.

Rob swung the musket with all his might into Sinclair’s right wrist. He could hear bones crack, and as the fingers shot open in reflex, the saber dropped to the ground. In an instant, he had snatched it, and he leveled it at Sinclair, who was clutching his broken forearm.

“Ah!” gasped Sinclair. He laughed, a low throaty sound, and reeled backwards, bracing himself against a large tree. “You sneaking Scot bastard! You won’t kill me though, will you, wee Robbie? You’ve had your chance, a few times before, and you’ve always let me live,” he chuckled. “You can’t kill me, Rob.”

Rob pointed the tip of the blade at Sinclair’s chest.

“I’m very sorry,” he said softly, “but the alternative is unthinkable.”

Without any second thoughts at all, he pushed the blade home.

Cam had blood in her eyes, and at first she was quite sure it was her own. Once she had wiped it away, and could see again, she wished she hadn’t.

What was left of Corporal Stave’s head could have fit in a zip-loc baggie.

She crawled off of him, and vomited into the soft green ferns beneath her. Meador’s hand was there, then, steadying her, and she saw the bloody rock discarded and forgotten against a tree.

“Thank you,” she croaked. He nodded politely, and she watched him as he pulled a dead limb from the bushes and began to scrape at the dirt.

“Gotta bury Peyton. And the woman,” he said, and set about his business.

She turned to Rob, not knowing what she would see. He was standing over Wayne Sinclair, whose own saber was protruding from his sternum. Rob looked up at her.

“I had to do it, aye?”

She nodded, speechless. “Aye.” And then she was in his arms, and she was sobbing furiously, for Wanda and for Peyton Basham and even for herself and for Robert.

She did not cry for Wayne Sinclair.

Meador dragged the red-coated corpses into the woods, stripping them of their valuables. Wanda and Peyton Basham were buried beside each other in the clearing in which they had died. Rob fashioned a pair of crosses from short branches, and tied them together with strips of brown vine. Above Basham’s grave hung the gold crucifix, and the purple crystal on its worn thong dangled from Wanda’s cross.

Meador’s hands were clasped before him, and he began to speak softly. “Our Father,
who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.”

Rob stepped forward, holding Cam tightly against him. “Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

“Amen,” Cam echoed.

As they walked out of the clearing, she paused to look behind her. The sun was now completely risen, and through the trees beams of light were shining. She could see soft particles of dust drifting in the light, and for one brief moment, she felt that maybe Wanda had been right in the end, after all.

She knelt beside the wooden cross, and clasped the purple crystal in her hand. “You knew all along, didn’t you?” she asked softly. “You knew I would come back, and you knew I would want to stay.” She looked up. Rob and Ambrose were waiting expectantly for her. “I do belong here. And you knew it the whole time.”

She rose to her feet, and released the crystal, which swung in an odd circular motion, back and forth. “Oh, Wanda,” she blinked. “Peace, love and light to you too, honey.”

Cam walked away then, and when she looked back, the crystal was still.

MacFarlane’s Ridge

September 1777

“Come on, ye great beastie! Move along, then!” shouted Ian MacFarlane. He was in the process of clearing trees from the hillside, and the oxen he had bought two months before were as stubborn as was legend. He jerked on the leather reins once more, and hoped he could get the pile of logs up the hill to the house without losing any of them. Charlie nipped at their giant heels, barking, but still the oxen remained defiant.

It was a warm day, but not a muggy one, thankfully. Although it was only September, the leaves in the mountains were beginning to turn early, and Mollie had predicted that fall would be coming soon.

Mollie. How he loved her. After Sarah died, he had never thought he would feel the same again, and he didn’t, didn’t feel the same towards her sister at all. This was different. Sarah had been sweet, good and kind and simple, but Mollie was fierce and strong and passionate. When he looked at her, sometimes he felt he loved her so much his heart would just snap in two.

And the bairns… she had raised Hamish as though he were her own son, rather than a stepson or a nephew, both of which he was. And the two little ones, little Hugh with his dark eyes and curling black hair like Robbie’s, and wee Sarah with her pale blonde fringe, like her mother and her aunt.

Ian smiled and tugged the reins once more, and the oxen began to move, slow lumbering steps, but obedient nonetheless.

Tom Kerr came up the hillside trail towards him, waving his one arm.

“Have ye heard the latest, Ian?”

Ian led the oxen patiently. “Nae, and what might that be?”

“Tis a
ceilidh
!” the other man beamed. “To be held a fortnight from now! Sally and I are hostin’ it.”

Ian grinned, ruffling a hand through his sandy hair. A ceilidh hadn’t been held in this part of Virginia in as long as Ian could remember. He remembered hearing his father tell of attending the gatherings as a boy, in Scotland, watching his kinsmen gather and celebrate their long-dead ancestors with food and whiskey and dance and song.

“That is a fine thing,” he said, meaning it. “Tis something we’ve been needin’ on the Ridge for some time, ye ken.”

“Aye,” agreed Tom. “We’ve had our share of sadness of late.” A brief shadow flitted across his face.

Ian nodded. “You’ll be sure to tell Mollie, aye? She can help Sally wi’ the cooking.”

“She’s already agreed to that. And that German lass, she says even though she ain’t a Scot she’d be happy to bake some bread for the breakin’.”

“Fine bread she makes, aye? Mollie’s been trying to make some like hers but it doesna seem to come out quite right,” said Ian with a smile. “Who shall be attending, then?”

Alan ticked off the names on his fingers. “All my boys an’ their wives and bairns, a few of the Murray lads, an entire gaggle o’ MacGregors. Sally reckons we’ll have nigh on two hundred or so.”

“Aye, an’ at least half of them being your get, Tom!” Both men laughed. A celebration was just what the Ridge needed. It had been far too long.

September 17, 1777

Oh, so much to do and so little time! I am busy trying to help Sally with preparations for the
ceilidh
, which is just two days away! Sally’s girls have been helping out watching the wee ones, but there are so many small children under my feet that I fear I cannot keep track of them all. Just yesterday Hamish fell into the pond and nearly Drowned, he would have been lost for sure were it not for Miss Catharine Kerr, who is only nine but jumped in promptly to pull Hamish to safety! I shall bake the girl a pie every week for a year.

Little Thomas Jefferson – whom we have decided to call Young Tom, as Thomas Jefferson is a large mouthful for such a small boy – has become the apple of his grandfather’s eye. He is a handsome child with dark hair, and doesn’t look one bit like Betsy. I am still wondering who his father is, but it seems improper to mention it to anyone. I catch myself peeking at the Murray and MacGregor lads occasionally, hoping to see some Resemblance, but I have failed thus far.

Angus has not yet heard from his wife, and I cannot tell if his moods are the result of worry or anger. He and the boy Jamie have become quite close, and young Jamie has turned into quite the landlubber! He has become a passing good Carpenter, and even tells me – in strictest confidence of course – that he may just decide to stay here at the Ridge after all. I rather hope he does. Hamish adores him, although I suspect that this is because Jamie encourages him to say naughty words.

It took some time for them to make their way back to Virginia, stopping periodically along the way at tiny settlements that were known to be unsympathetic to the British. When they arrived at Front Royal, Virginia, at the northernmost point of the Shenandoah Valley, Ambrose Meador presented them with a surprise gift.

They were seated in a tavern, using the last of what little money they possessed, which had come from the pockets of Tumblesby and Sinclair. Stave had carried nothing.

Cam was thoroughly miserable. It was hot and she hadn’t taken more than a washrag bath in weeks. She could smell herself, and worse yet, everyone else. They had been sleeping nights on the hard ground, her limbs were stiff and aching. She had commented to Meador that what she wanted more than anything was to jump into the hot spring under Ian’s cabin again.

As she nibbled a large drumstick, she noticed Meador speaking quietly to the publican. She hoped they had enough money to pay for their meal.

“What do you suppose he’s doing?” she asked.

“I dinna ken at all, and I find with Ambrose sometimes tis best not to ask,” smiled Robert. He was holding her hand in his and nuzzling gently on the tips of her fingers.

Cam blushed. “You’d better stop that. I’m sure people don’t behave like this in the middle of a public house,” she smiled.

“Aye, well, it would depend on what sort o’ people and what sort o’ house, then, wouldn’t it?” Rob laughed.

She looked back at him, now almost completely unaware of the other patrons in the room. She had been through so much for him – no, she had been through it with him. And somehow, she couldn’t imagine it any other way. Far in the back of her mind, she heard a voice – Wanda’s voice – telling her what she had known for so long. Stay with him, Cam. You belong.

“Ah beg pardon,” came Ambrose Meador’s voice. Cam glanced up, blushing, and noticed he was smiling.

“Have a seat, will ye?” asked Rob generously.

Meador shook his head. “Ah have something for you,” he said simply, and handed Rob a brass key. “Ah’ll find you in the morning.” With that, Ambrose Meador turned on his heel and left the tavern.

Cam stared at the key. “Oh. Do you think it’s for a room upstairs?”

Rob snorted. “Judging from the looks the keeper is giving us, I’ll wager that’s exactly what it is.” He flushed again, although she wasn’t sure if it was from the ale he’d consumed or something else. “Er.”

She raised a brow questioningly. “Problem?”

“A wee bit of one, aye.” He looked uncomfortable. His brow creased for a moment, and he stared at her, eyes searching. “Ye never answered my question, Cameron Clark.”

She gazed back at him. “What question was that?”

His dark brows furrowed a bit. “Ye know damned well what I’m asking you. Will ye be stayin’ at the Ridge, when we get there?”

He was right. She had not told him anything one way or the other. “Do you want me to stay… for a while?” she asked softly.

His eyes widened. “A while? No, I dinna want you to stay for a while, damn it!” He slammed a fist onto the table. “I want you to stay there with me, and be a part of my life and raise bairns and kine wi’ me!”

“Kine?”

“Cows!” he snapped. Regaining his composure once more, he took a deep breath. “If ‘tis only for a while, then, I’ll not have ye stay. I shall take ye back to that cave myself and send ye home, once and for all.”

Cam couldn’t think of anything to say.

“On the other hand,” he glowered, “I want ye more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. More than any woman, or any ship, even more than I wanted to stay alive when I was aboard that prison ship. All I could think of was you, Cameron Clark.” He fingered the key in his hand. “You’re welcome to use this key, lass, and have a fine feather mattress to sleep upon, Christ knows ye deserve it. But I’ll not come up there and spend the night in your bed knowing that ye mean to go back to your place, d’ye hear me?”

She caught the reflection of the inn’s great fire, flashing in his black eyes. “Robert, I wouldn’t think you ---“

He took her hand once more, and held it so tightly she thought the bones would snap. “Cameron Clark, I’ll have ye forever, or I’ll not have ye at all.”

Cam looked into the fire for a long time. She contemplated her life, back in Haver Springs, and her shop and the old house on Meador Street. How lonely she had been, all those years, and she had never even realized it. She thought of Troy, and Alice and Hal, the only people in Haver Springs who could care less whether she came back or not. She loved them all so much.

If she were in Haver Springs right now, her life would be exactly the same as it had been before the day when Sarah MacFarlane had stumbled into Cam’s garage.

She blinked, and a slow smile crept across her face. “What is it you’re always saying?”

“What?”

She leaned up, and kissed his lips lightly. “The alternative is unthinkable.”

“That’s it, then, lass? You’re sure?”

“Aye,” she assured him. “One thing.”

“Anything, Cameron Clark, anything ye wish at all,” he growled, nuzzling her palm. She shivered as hot sparks shot through her body.

“Oh,” she murmured, and hoped that nobody was looking at her. “When we get back to MacFarlane’s Ridge. We’ll need, er...”

“Mm?” he arched his eyebrows quizzically.

“A proper bed to sleep in,” she said in a low voice. “You did say that you wouldn’t… what was it? Take me on the ground like a common whore?”

He rolled his eyes. “Aye, that I did. A great bed ye shall have, with a fat feather mattress.”

“And soft round pillows,” she prompted, another delicious shiver tingling down her spine.

“And plump thick quilts,” he murmured.

“Yes. Very plump thick quilts,” agreed Cam.

“Ye shall have all of that, and anything else you like,” Rob whispered. “And you shall have always my life, my heart, and my soul, Cameron Clark.”

The other diners forgotten, she took his other hand, and rose to her feet. “And you will have mine, Robert MacFarlane. Always.”

He pocketed the brass key, and they slipped upstairs wordlessly.

MacFarlane’s Ridge

It was a crisp fall morning, and the
ceilidh
was well underway. The treetops had recently exploded in a blaze of orange and red, and the underlying scent of the cool weather to come was in the air.

Mollie Duncan MacFarlane peered through her front door, a fat baby in each arm, and could hear the festivities on the hillside below her house. Tom and Sally Kerr certainly knew how to host a party. Well over a hundred guests were camped at fires between Mollie’s and the Kerr house, and as soon as Ian came back with Angus and Jamie, they would be on their way to join in the celebration. Hamish had been dispatched to the party already in the company of Sally Kerr’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Morag.

Angus lived with young Jamie in the small house previously occupied by Mollie herself, before her marriage to Ian,. There had still been no word from Angus’ wife, and privately Mollie suspected the worst. She was certain that, for one reason or another, Winnie would never come back to the ridge.

Up on the slope above the house she shared with Ian and her children, Mollie could still see the framework of Rob’s cabin. Jamie had taken it upon himself to finish the roof, and it was frequently slept in by the occasional traveler who happened to find himself passing across the ridge on his way to the wilderness in the west.

Mollie felt a catch in her throat. So much had happened over the past two years. So many people who had come and gone…

Angus and Ian appeared on the path, with Jamie dragging something behind him.

“Mollie! Come see what wee Jamie’s made!” called her husband.

She squinted in the sunlight. “What in the devil – it’s a wagon!”

“Aye, ‘tis a wagon,” announced Jamie proudly. “I made it myself out of an old crate, with hemlock branches sliced up for the wheels, ye see?”

Mollie stepped forward and examined it closely. He had done a fine job; the little wagon positively gleamed.

“Well,” she said politely, “it’s very nice. But it seems a bit small to put anything in, aye?”

Angus and Ian stifled grins, as Jamie’s freckled face turned crimson. “Well, ye see, Auntie, that’s the point, isn’t it? For small things, ye ken?”

Mollie had the feeling she was missing out on part of a colossal joke. “What sort o’ small things, Jamie?”