Rapture's Betrayal (11 page)

Moeder,
Kirsten thought,
will not be happy about this.
But she understood and agreed with her father. Satisfied with what she heard, she stood to leave. Pain shot through her leg as blood flowed freely whereas before it had been restricted by her position. She gasped and the tavern became ominously quiet at the thud made by her falling against the outer wall.

There was a shuffling from within and then the curtain was wrenched aside. Kirsten found herself the object of several suspicious male gazes as men peered at her through the open window.

“Kirsten!” Her cousin Martin was the first to recognize her. “What are you doing listening outside the window?”

Her face flamed as she encountered the startled gaze of her father. Anger darkened James's countenance, and Kirsten knew she was in deep trouble.
“Vader—”

“You had better be able to explain yourself, daughter.” His stern tone made Kirsten turn pale.

“I wanted to know . . .” she began and then hesitated as she experienced the force of the anger that emanated from the room's occupants. “I want to help!”

James seemed taken aback, and his daughter sensed it. To have his sincerity questioned by a fellow Patriot and moments later to find her eavesdropping on their discussion! “Help?” he said.

Kirsten nodded. “Help. And I
can
help,
Vader.
I can shoot, and I can organize the women . . .”

She stopped when she heard first one male chuckle and then another as the men laughed at the notion of women helping.

“Stop it!” Kirsten cried. “Do you think I—we—take this war lightly? Do you believe it is only your honor that is threatened by enemy troops? Who has more reason to fear the lecherous dogs than we do? . Do you think I relish thinking of what they'll do to me if I am caught helpless?”

The men's laughter ceased abruptly. Kirsten glared at them, the light of determination in her eyes.

Now that she had their attention, her tone softened. “You tell us nothing and expect us to stand by meekly while you decide our fates. I—we women—want to know what you are planning!”

She stared at each man present, hard. “There must be something we can do. Because we are women, are we to stay in our homes while you fight our battles?”

“We'll need a hospital,” John DeVore suggested, and Kirsten smiled at him as she nodded.

“And a way to send word from family to family should the need arise,” another man said.

Kirsten brightened as several others spoke of ways in which the women could help.

“Vader?”
She caught James's attention as the men left the window outside which she stood to resume their seats. “I'm sorry if I've displeased you.” She was hard pressed not to cry.

Her father studied her a long moment. “You have not displeased me, daughter.” He suddenly smiled. “Go home, Kirsten. I'll talk with you later. In the meantime, try to help your
moeder
understand what has to be.”

Kirsten nodded and then left for home.

The Tories settled in on the Randolph farm, and word spread through the village quickly. With the news came stories of cruelty and recruits. The Loyalists were building an army, and they cared not if their soldiers were willing.

His fists clenched at his sides, Miles stared at the two men before him. William Randolph was angry with his son, and the other man, the Tory leader, observed the scene between son and father, seeming to take great pleasure, Miles thought, from the tense exchange.

“You'll not shame me, boy!” William bellowed. “We need you. England needs you!”

“I'll not fight my friends, Father.”

William's closed knuckles struck the side of his son's face, and the youth reeled backward under the force of the blow. “You'll join the ranks or pay for your disloyalty!” the older man sputtered. “I'm your father. You'll obey me or—” He narrowed his gaze, and then an evil smile turned up the corners of his thin lips. “You love your mother, don't you, boy?”

Miles felt a jolt of alarm. “Yes, sir.”
Damn
you,
you old bastard! Someday I'll take Mother away from here. From you and your cruel ways!

His father's smile vanished. “I'll give you the night to reconsider Greene's generous offer.” He gestured toward the man beside him. “If you should still prove disagreeable in the morning . . .” His voice dropped off ominously, his implied threat hanging in the air. “Do you understand, son?”

Miles nodded.
Don't call me son! I'll never be like you. I'll never admit to being your son!

The two older men turned, and the man called Greene slapped Randolph's back. “You're a man after my own 'eart, Will,” the Tory growled. William chuckled and the two moved down the hall, talking earnestly, oblivious to the hate-filled gaze of William's son.

Listening, watching him go, Miles felt a wave of revulsion for the man who'd sired him. He wouldn't join the Tory army, he vowed.

His shoulders slumped. But how could he not when the man had virtually threatened his mother?

Kirsten, Miles thought. He had to talk to Kirsten. Soon. Tonight. He hurried to his room and scribbled a note. Next, he gave it to their stable boy, instructing Jims to take it to the Van Atta farm.

Then, Miles waited anxiously for Kirsten's answer.

 

 

Kirsten was on the turnpike to the tavern when she heard someone beckoning her. She stopped and turned toward the sound. To her surprise, she saw Jims, calling and waving for her to wait for him.

“Jims,” she said by way of greeting, and as the boy came closer, she saw the note and guessed its source.

“Good day to you, Mistress Kirsten.” The lad smiled, then handed her the note. “Miles sent this.”

Nodding, Kirsten accepted and unrolled the piece of parchment. She scanned the message quickly and then thoughtfully eyed the dark-haired stable boy. “Tell Miles I'll be there.”

Jims inclined his head and started to turn.

Kirsten stopped him. “Jims?” The boy glanced at her. “Is everything all right at the Randolphs'?”

The youth's face darkened for a moment. “As right as can be expected, I 'magine.”

She gave him a wry smile. After a brief inquiry and the ensuing exchange about Jims's mother, the boy left Kirsten to continue toward her cousin's tavern.

The urgency of Miles's note lingered in Kirsten's thoughts as she went on to the inn. Miles had begged her to meet him in the usual place. He'd told her it was a matter of the utmost importance.

Kirsten frowned with concern as she entered Martin's establishment. She anticipated the night, anxious to find out what was bothering her younger cousin.

Martin Hoppe came out of the back room as Kirsten stepped inside. He grinned when he saw her. “Kirsten. I see your
vader
has spoken to you.”

She nodded. “He said you wanted to see me.”

The innkeeper inclined his head and then gestured toward the back door and an outbuilding in the rear yard. “Come into the summer kitchen. I'm making
oblyen.”
He saw Kirsten's eyes light up. “You would like one?”

“Yes, thank you.” She loved the way Martin made the wafer-cakes. In fact, she enjoyed most Dutch sweets.

He smiled and helped her to find a seat in the cluttered workroom. When he had poured her a cup of cider and set a plate of fresh-baked
oblyen
before her, Martin placed a second batch of the cakes into the brick oven and then turned to gaze at his young cousin.

“I have been thinking about what you said, Kirsten.”

She blinked up at him as she took a bite. “About what?”

“About the women wanting to help. I have spoken to Margaretha about it, and she agrees.” Margaretha was Martin's younger sister. She was pretty but frail, the apple of her brother's eye.

“I told her of my concerns, and together we thought of a plan,” he continued. “She came up with the idea.”

Kirsten paused in the act of chewing. “A plan?”

He nodded. “We were discussing what to do if we were attacked by British troops . . . how we could keep the children and”—he paused—“women safe. And we realized that we needed a shelter for all to flee to. That's when Margaretha thought of the Van Voorhees' place.”

The Van Voorhees' farm was miles outside of the village—a huge brick structure that was solid and sound. Kirsten found Martin eyeing her intently.

“That would be a good place to hide the children,” she said.

He didn't correct her by adding and women. He simply gazed at her and agreed.

“You want me to speak to the Van Voorheeses?” Kirsten guessed. There must have been some reason for his summons.

Martin shook his head. “I spoke with the family myself last night. They are Patriots—unlike those that have chosen to be neutral or loyal to the King. They have agreed to help us.”

Kirsten was puzzled.

Her cousin grinned at her. “Can you not guess why I have asked you here?”

She frowned and told him no.

“What would happen if the British attacked this day, this very second?”

“We'd be helpless,” she said.

“Not entirely. But surely you can see the need to prepare.” He drew a breath before he went on. “Kirsten, I need you to meet with the women and to decide how best to gather supplies to leave at the Van Voorhees' farm. Also, there should be some kind of system to alert each Patriot family should the need arise.”

“I see,” she said, her heart pounding with excitement. Here was work to help the cause! “You want me to handle this, be in charge.”

“Yes. We'll need food and linens, clothes and utensils. We can't expect the Van Voorheeses to feed everyone for any great length of time.”

She agreed. “We'll need medical supplies in case anyone is wounded on the way. And, if any of the militia men are hurt . . . It might be wise to bring them to the farm rather than the church.”

Martin frowned. “I don't know about that. That's something we'll have to think about.” He had gone back to his baking, and now he wiped his flour-covered hands on a linen cloth. “Come downstairs to the cellar. There are some things down there I want you to see. You might find them useful.”

Kirsten followed Martin outside and back into the main part of the inn. The door to the cellar was in the winter kitchen attached to the tavern common room. Martin went down the steps first, his way lit by candlelight. Kirsten was close on his heels, watching her feet to avoid tripping on the wooden stairs.

The room smelled musty. At first, she could see nothing and wondered what it was that Martin had spoken about. Then, her cousin moved toward the far end of the cellar, and the glow of the burning taper lit up the corner.

Kirsten's jaw dropped open. Stacked in the corner were wooden crates of various sizes. At least twenty of them, she guessed. Maybe more. Her gaze shifted to the right, and she caught sight of several large barrel-shaped casks.

“How did you get all this down here?”

Martin looked at her. “We managed.”

The cellar had a low ceiling. She could just stand upright, while Martin, she'd noticed, had to bend slightly for he was too tall.

“What is in the crates?”

“Fabric, guns, ammunition, and other necessities. The barrels hold flour and grain, as well as other foods preserved in brine.” He hesitated. “For you,” he said. “For the shelter.”

She blinked up at him. “But aren't these supplies for the inn?”

He shook his head. “These are gifts, compliments of the British Navy.” His teeth flashed white in the candle glow. “I've a friend south of here who's a privateer.”

“Booty?” she said, and then laughed when he nodded, his dark eyes twinkling. “Wonderful! It's kind of George's men to be so generous with their things. Remind me to thank them someday.” And then she and Martin began listing the supplies.

 

 

As Richard stared at the familiar landscape, his heart lurched. Kirsten was only miles away. He'd had no idea when he'd joined up with the Loyalists that his travels would again take him toward Hoppertown.

How was she faring? he wondered. A single day hadn't gone by since he'd left her that he didn't think of her, that he didn't recall the sweet scent of her, the taste of her soft flesh. The first days after his departure from Hoppertown had been the worst. She'd filled his every waking hour, her image consuming his dream-filled nights. After a time, the ache left by her loss had eased some, and he'd convinced himself that he was better off without her. His feelings, he was sure, had been rooted in lust. He'd been a long time without a woman, and he'd been vulnerable, ripe for her charms.

But the knowledge that she was only a short distance away now brought back memories of their time together, of the caring she'd given him while he'd healed. She had saved his life, so he simply wanted to show her he was fully recovered, to thank her one last time. The way he'd been forced to leave had been less than desirable.

“Canfield?” Merritt Abernathy interrupted Richard's thoughts. “We're nearly there. The Greenes sent word they've taken up residence on a farm belonging to William Randolph.” Elias and John had gone on ahead, while Allen, Heinerman, and the others, including Maddox, had stopped for a time to rest and wait for word.

Randolph. Richard wasn't familiar with the man. “How long will we be staying?” Except for the brief mention of Biv, he'd come no closer to discovering the man's identity.

“Only a few days I reckon.”

Richard was aware of Abernathy's stare and felt slightly unnerved by it. But the man's attention was only fleeting. Richard relaxed as they traveled on. He should be cautious, he decided. But he had to be careful his imagination didn't get the best of him.

The night was clear, but the moon was only a golden sliver in a star-studded black sky when Kirsten slipped from the house for her meeting with Miles. The temperature was mild; and the forest sounds were somehow soothing and familiar this night as she followed the path to the small clearing known only to her younger cousin and herself.

Miles was waiting when she arrived. His eyes lit up at the sight of her, and he rushed forward to greet her. Detecting anxiety and strain in his expression, Kirsten grew concerned. Heart thumping with anticipation, she followed him to their favorite sitting place and sat down beside him on the flat rock. She removed her linen cap and cradled it in her hands.

“What's wrong?” she asked after waiting several moments for him to speak.

He hesitated a moment, then said, “My father, he's been pressing me to join the Tories.”

“Oh, no.”

He nodded; his face went taut in the moonlight. “I don't want to go, Kirsten, but he's—” He stopped abruptly.

“He's what?” she encouraged softly.

“He'll not take no for an answer. I've got the night to think about it, and if I don't do it then . . .” Turning to face her, he grabbed her hands, clutching them tightly. Her cap tumbled to the forest floor unnoticed. “I'm afraid, Kirsten, afraid of what he'll do if I don't join them, afraid of what will happen if I go.”

He drew a deep breath, releasing it in a shaky sigh. “Damn them all! Why are we fighting anyway? Why can't we live in peace?”

Kirsten stared at him with compassion. She understood the battle inside him, but she believed in the cause—the right to live freely without the dictates of King George. “What are you going to do?” she said.