A Pioneer Christmas Collection: 9 Stories of Finding Shelter and Love in a Wintry Frontier

The Calling © 2013 by Kathleen Fuller

Print ISBN 978-1-63409-031-5

eBook Editions:

Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-629-4

Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-630-0

All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Cover image: rcphoto/veer.com

Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc.,

P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

Printed in the United States of America.

Defending Truth

Historical Note

Truth and her papa and siblings are fictional, but I’ve anchored them within an actual historical family. Anthony Bledsoe was indeed captain of the home guard while the others rode away to hunt Ferguson, and genealogical records reveal a much younger half brother by the whimsical name of Loving Bledsoe—by some accounts, Lovin or Loven. Where I could, I matched family members as well as events with historical records. Although I kept their location deliberately vague, they probably lived in or around the Watauga Valley in what is now eastern Tennessee, but was then western North Carolina.

In reality, Truth’s younger brother would have been considered old enough to run the hills and go hunting for the family, so that was a bit of dramatic license on my part. I did not, however, exaggerate the tales told after the terrible battle at Kings Mountain, which was a major turning point in the war for independence.

My apologies to the descendents of Joseph Greer, for painting that bold and daring young man in a less than flattering light.

Dedication

Chapter 1

Papa would tan her hide if he knew she was out here again. Too many Indians to worry about. Not to mention Tories. But Papa was still gone, fighting the British, and the young’uns needed fed.

Truth Bledsoe took a better grip on her grandfather’s long rifle and peered through the cold fog of the western North Carolina morning. The narrow path up the mountain lay beneath a carpet of reds and golds, slick with rain. All but a few yards ahead faded into the mist. The forest was still except for the occasional drip of moisture and creak of branch.

With a deep breath, she trudged on, until out of the mist loomed a great boulder tucked into a fold of the mountainside.

Her favorite hunting perch. She slid the rifle up over the edge then, with fingers and toes in various cracks, hoisted herself onto the top. There she settled herself to wait for whatever game might wander past.

She’d taken her share of deer, turkey, and squirrel from this rock. Seen the occasional panther. Even glimpsed a few Indians. Today she was just hoping for something to fill the stew pot.

Her ears strained for shreds of sound. Everything would be muffled in the fog, whether the whoosh of a deer’s snort or the rustle of a squirrel in the leaves.

The snap of a twig, when it came, drew her almost straight up, gun to her shoulder.

Sighted there at the end of her rifle was a man—young, unkempt, hollow cheeked. Not one she recognized from the near settlements.

She did not move or lower the rifle. She’d take no chances. “Who are you?”

No hat, no rifle, no gear to speak of, not even a haversack. Filthy from head to toe. Hunting frock and breeches tattered, and were those—bloodstains?

His already pale face went a shade lighter. His mouth flattened, and his brows came down. “No one of consequence.”

A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Tell me, then, why I should not shoot you. Besides the love of God, of course.” Not a small reason, that.

He swayed a little on his feet. “Because…” His voice dropped. “Because the battle is over.”

She kept the rifle aimed—a girl must be prudent, after all—but lifted her head. Those were most certainly bloodstains then. “Are you wounded?”

Behind the curtain of stringy brown hair, his dark eyes remained wary. One shoulder lifted and fell.

Nothing for it then. Venting a sigh, she propped the rifle against her hip, keeping it leveled toward him, and reached her other hand into her haversack. The man’s gaze shifted, curious, hungry.

When she found the double-fist-sized chunk of johnnycake wrapped in a napkin, she pulled it out and tossed it to him. He caught it midair with only the slightest fumble.

“Slowly. You’ll choke otherwise.” She reached this time for her canteen and swung it toward him. He easily snagged the strap as it sailed through the air.

Still eyeing her with caution and expectation, he unstopped the wooden vessel and took a drink before making short work of the last handful of her flat corn bread.

He wiped one sleeve across his mouth. “Tastes mighty fine. My thanks to you.”

The rifle was getting heavy, but she ignored the burn in her arms and shoulders. “What battle, now?”

The chill those words gave her went all the way from toes to scalp. Lord, have mercy! He must be a Tory.

He’d thought nothing could ever unsettle him again, not after the battle and the horrors he’d witnessed in the days following. Not even being held at gunpoint by a fierce over-the-mountain girl.

After the initial scare they’d given each other, Micah Elliot tried to keep his movements slow and steady. No telling how twitchy she might get with that rifle—and a fine one it was, too, a Pennsylvania model, as long as she was tall. The girl, now, he couldn’t tell, wrapped as she was in a man’s hunting frock, her head covered in a felt hat, one edge cocked and decorated with a turkey feather. Eyes as pale as the mist and almost as cold peered at him from beneath the brim, and her mouth was a thin line above a pointed chin.

He hadn’t reckoned on her taking pity on him and giving him food, either, but he was right grateful for that. And he wasn’t lying about the corn cake being tasty.

“Now.” Her eyes narrowed. “I know you’re not from around here. Who are you, and why are you here?”

How much could he trust her? Colonels Shelby and Sevier had at least tried to be fair after the battle, but he’d had a taste of the legendary savagery of the over-the-mountain men. Worse than Indians, it was said. Whether that was so, he could not say, but his body still carried the aches and bruises of their smoldering fury.

And his head was still a little swimmy, making it hard to pull his tattered thoughts together and come up with a defense. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

She hefted the rifle, and her faded blue skirt swayed a little beneath the coat. “I asked first.”

He fished and came up with a short form of his middle name. “Will.” That was common enough.

Did he imagine it, or did the corner of her mouth lift? Her gaze lost none of its fire. “Well then, Will Williams, and from where do you hail?”

“Oh, so amusing, you are.” She tilted her head, and the misty light outlined a strong cheekbone and jaw. “Get a little johnnycake down your gullet, and you have all kinds of sass.”

He wasn’t going to tell her that the bread barely eased the ache in his gut. “Well, you did feed me. You’re less likely to spend a rifle ball on someone you’ve just given your own provisions to.”

But he stepped back a couple of paces, just to show his goodwill. No sense in tempting the pretty hand of Fortune.

“King’s Mountain, you say.” Her face resumed its grimness. “We heard tell of Ferguson’s men meeting a bloody end there. You were on the Tory side, then?”

She gave him what approached a real smile. “My name is Truth. Truth Bledsoe. My uncle is captain of the home guard for our settlements.”

Would it help his case or hurt it to tell her he was a coward? An escaped loyalist prisoner who could no longer face how neighbor fought neighbor and brother fought brother back home?

She stood, balanced in a small hollow in the side of the boulder, skirts swaying just a little, but she held that long rifle as steady as could be.

“A week, maybe longer.” And not much, even then. They weren’t exactly generous with rations for prisoners.

His gut growled, the hunger sharper than ever. It was becoming more difficult to keep the tremors out of his limbs, standing here under her eye. Better to take the chance of trusting her and die here quickly than dissemble and die of slow starvation. “I was part of the North Carolina militia from above Charlotte Town. Those of us what didn’t die at King’s Mountain were taken by the rebels—I… I mean—”

His heart pounded inside his chest so hard he was sure she heard it. “They carried us to Gilbert Town. Nine of us were hanged. And the rest—”

He couldn’t say the words. Couldn’t inflict the horror of it on her, a mere girl—

“There was unspeakable abuse,” he said. “You don’t know.” He shook his head again.

He swallowed. “I know what you must think of me, but I promise I mean you no harm. You or the settlements. Regardless of what Ferguson said.”

Chapter 2

Truth huffed. She’d stomp back down the trail if she weren’t so particular about stepping downhill on wet leaves. She’d not just spared a Tory—one who’d doubtless faced her father across a battlefield—but fed him. And then bid him go back into hiding.

Telling him, “Shoo, go away, I need to finish hunting,” didn’t sit well with her, but what could she do? He was noisy enough to scare away game for a mile in any direction. And he should know better.

She thought of the way he’d swayed, stumbled a little, and caught himself. Bone weary, he’d looked… maybe soul weary as well. That was the reason she’d had pity on him and not only warned him back into hiding but promised to bring him more food.

His plea still wrung at her. For the love of God. Likely he’d meant it as a common oath. Maybe. But maybe not.

Now, after wasting so much time, she had to see to her sisters and younger brother. Get off the mountain, back to the cabin, and while she was at it, see if Uncle Anthony had any word on Papa. It had been a good two weeks. If he was helping guard prisoners from the battle, then it could be a bit longer, and she’d learned not to fret overmuch when he was out riding with Colonel Sevier and the others.

A chill swept her as the young man’s words came back to mind. From Papa? Never. Oh, he could be stern. ‘Specially after losing Mama three years back, there were times Truth wasn’t sure he was still the papa she’d always known. But maybe that was just on account of growing older herself and seeing life a bit more clearly.

But abuse? No. Maybe he’d lost his temper a time or two, but he was more likely to leave the cabin than take it out on her or the young’uns.

She rounded a bend of the trail and skidded to a halt. Outlined in the thinning mist stood a perfect six-point buck.

Without another thought, she swung the rifle to her shoulder, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. There was no turning down provision when it appeared for the taking.

The familiar recoil of the weapon slammed into her shoulder. Smoke puffed into the air and was lost in the fog. She peered again into the gloom—and there lay the buck, dropped with the single shot.

By long habit, she first reloaded the rifle. Afterward she made quick work of field dressing the animal, saving the organ meats, and tying the cord she always kept in her haversack to the buck’s hind legs for dragging the carcass home. Now her main concern was leaving before a hungry bear caught wind of her kill.

Back at the cabin, her next youngest sister Patience had milked the cow and set the cream to rise, and Thomas had brought in wood. A bright, cheery fire warmed the inside of the cabin, and her two youngest sisters, Thankful and Mercy, were at their morning chore of brushing and braiding each other’s hair.

Setting her rifle in the corner, she flashed him a grin. “A deer. Six-point buck.”

His blue eyes rounded. With a whoop, he went to gather the knives and bowls they used for cutting up the meat.

She tugged off her hat and hung it on its peg. And how would she get food to—what was his name, Will?—without a dozen questions from the young’uns?

Will… Williams. With a snort, she slid out of the worn, fringed hunting frock and hung it up as well.

Together, she knew they’d make short work of it—skinning, cutting the meat into strips for smoking, and saving aside a haunch for roasting. And she set little Mercy to the side on a chair, with the Bible open before her.

“Behold,” Mercy read, her clear, high voice steady, “the heaven and the heaven of heavens is the Lord thy God’s, the earth also, with all that therein is.”

Truth thought of the wildness of the mountains. How great God must be for shaping them.

“For the Lord your God is God of gods, and Lord of lords, a great God, a mighty, and a terrible, which regardeth not persons, nor taketh reward: He doth execute the judgment of the fatherless and widow, and loveth the stranger, in giving him food and raiment. Love ye therefore the stranger: for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt.”

Her hands slowed at her task. Giving him food and raiment. Well, that settled it. She had to do something about that half-starved, soon-to-be-naked man up the mountain whether or not she liked it. She’d just have to figure out a way to do so without the others finding out.

There was only the pop and thunder of rifle and musket fire, the tang of smoke, the screams of the wounded, and the chilling war whoops from the rebel forces surrounding the mountain. Micah crouched, gripping the musket, his bayonet at the ready. Why was the colonel taking so long on the order to charge?

And over everything, Ferguson’s whistle, with which he signaled above the din of battle. Would Micah even be able to hear the under-officer’s order? He strained for the shout, but only the rebel screams and shriek of the whistle ripped at his eardrums. Still, none of his company moved, even when the fire pouring from below tore bloody holes in their hunting coats.

Inexplicably, Ferguson’s whistle now sounded like a whip-poor-will, each beat of the three-beat call punctuated by a rifle wound hitting the breast of the man on Micah’s right….

He wrested himself awake with a gasp. Oh Lord, would he never stop dreaming about it?

As his eyes adjusted to the faint daylight outside the cave where he’d sheltered the last few nights, he heard again the call: Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!

But it was deep autumn, long past the season the woodland bird would customarily take up the mournful, rhythmic melody that gave it its name. And the time of day was all wrong.

He sat up, crept to the mouth of the cave, and listened. Silence, then more slowly, Whip-poor-will?

Heart pounding, he put two fingers to his lips then hesitated. Indians sometimes used such calls, but something told him it wasn’t an Indian. That over-the-mountain girl Truth—aye, a severe name for an equally severe female—had promised to bring him more food.

Not for the first time, he cursed his own need. How he’d managed to leave behind even his knife—

He spotted her then, a skirted form with a hunting frock over, as before, pressed against a massive, gnarled oak. Stiffly, he crawled from the cave and stood.

Rifle in one hand, she reached for something behind the tree and stepped out as well. For a long moment, they merely stared at each other.

“I couldn’t wait,” she said, her voice soft in the predawn gloom. “And I know most of the caves hereabouts. Didn’t figure it could be so hard to narrow it down.” Was it his imagination, or did her lips curve a little? “I hoped the whip-poor-will call would help.”

He looked at the bundle she held. Despite her suspicions, she had come. His eyes burned, and he hoped he didn’t appear too desperate. Those few bites yesterday had reawakened not just his hunger but all his hope of life, it seemed.

She stepped forward and gave the bundle a gentle toss toward his feet then backed away. Still not trusting him either. “I found a few things that might be helpful.”

Micah knelt and tugged at the knot of what he could see now was a wool blanket, worn and much mended. Inside lay a knife, also much used if the nicks of grip and blade were anything to judge by, but the relief of having steel to hand again after losing his own was almost as great as that of the prospect of another meal.

And a meal she’d brought—more johnnycake, with cold roasted venison and an apple, all wrapped in half a handkerchief. His mouth watered, and he took a great bite of the apple. The sweet flavor burst across his tongue.

At the moment, he nearly didn’t mind the shame of having admitted to her yesterday that he’d lost everything in his escape from the rebels. Or of having her stand over him as he set the apple aside and tore into the venison.

He glanced up, forcing himself to chew more slowly then swallow. “My thanks.”

She nodded, and apparently convinced he wouldn’t turn savage, crouched opposite him, the rifle cradled in her arms. Her eyes were but a glint beneath the brim of her hat. “Have you family?”

Another bite. Chew, swallow. “Two sisters, both married.” A brother, turned rebel. My father, dead of the heartbreak. “A brother who is a captain of the local militia.”

Another nod. “And you? Besides the uncle who’s captain of the home guard.”

He considered her clothing and the rifle. “And left you to fend for yourself?”

“The settlement is near enough by,” she said at last. “And both of my uncles have families.”

He finished the venison and started in on the johnnycakes. She stirred and, with the gun stock set against the ground, rose. “I must get back. Wish there was more, but it’s all I could spare for now.”

“It’s—plenty,” he said, and meant it. It was more than he’d had at one time since before the battle. “I thank you, again.”

Hesitating, she gave a single nod then took off her hat and held it out to him. “This was an extra. I expect you’ll need it.”

This one was flat brimmed and plain, he realized, while the one she wore yesterday was cocked.

“Wearing it myself was the easiest way to avoid untoward questions,” she added.

Stepping close enough to reach for the hat, he took hold of the brim—and stopped. The morning light caught her eyes and made them a pale blue, soft as a twilight sky. Dark hair, now uncovered, lay caught in a braid that disappeared inside the wide, fringed collar of her coat, but stray wisps curled about her face and framed the angular cheekbones with unexpected softness.

Eyes widening, she let go of the hat and stepped back. “Well then. Don’t get yourself into too much trouble now, with that knife.”

Chapter 3

It had been a week since she’d been surprised by the Tory hiding on the mountain, and with each visit, Truth coaxed a bit more of his story out of him—traded food and gear for it, more like. But he didn’t seem unhappy about the exchange, though he still hadn’t told her his true name.

And today he’d surprised her by cleaning up. The figure that met her—this time at the hunting rock and not his cave just over the mountain spur—was not the starved, bedraggled one of the first day. He’d put her offerings of well-mended castoff shirt and stockings to use, brushed out his waistcoat, and washed his breeches and hunting frock. His moccasins, though worn and missing laces, were no longer muddy. Most startling of all, however, was finding him clean shaven with hair combed and tied back, dark eyes watching the forest intently for her approach as she walked up the path.

Only that particular intensity let her know this truly was Will—as well as her father’s old hat dangling from his hand and the spare knife stuck in his belt.

And when his eyes lit on her, that strange flutter went through her insides, like she’d felt when he stopped and stared at her the morning she’d given him the hat. He’d gone all still, and his eyes had widened, as if—

Ah, that thought was folly. Hadn’t she had her fill of the settlement boys chasing after her? She’d no time for such foolishness, especially not with Papa gone, which ate more at her as the days passed. No more word had come of the battle, except what little she’d gleaned from Will, so she knew not what to expect.

They sat for the moment almost side by side. A fine, clear morning it was, almost warm, though a light snow had fallen two days before and melted off. Will chewed at the bone of the turkey leg she’d brought and stared off into the forest, as if he hadn’t heard her question. But she knew he had. His quiet was too studied.

He peeled back a piece of the bone and brought it to his mouth to suck the marrow out. “I can’t keep taking your charity.”

Now, that she hadn’t expected either. He was brighter of eye than even a day or two ago. Surer of hand and step, of a certain.

“It’s not my intent to sound ungrateful,” he went on. “But you hardly need another mouth to feed.”

He turned his head and met her gaze. “Why did you take pity on me, Truth Bledsoe?”

She swallowed and looked away. “Can’t just shoot a hurt, starving critter.”

“I—I ran away.” He blinked, but a bitter smile still twisted his mouth. “Hoped to find death over the mountains rather than face another night hearing the groans of the wounded. Or the thought of facing my brother with this loss on our hands.” His chest rose and fell with a breath. “But I’m there again, every night in my dreams.”

“I’m weary of the fighting. Not a week went by, back home, that someone wasn’t getting lynched, or tarred and feathered, or…”

“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place if you don’t like fighting,” she said. His dark gaze returned to her, questioning. “Indians,” she continued. “Three years ago it was so bad they called it ‘the Bloody Seventy-seven.’” The reason she was so set on learning to shoot and carry a rifle. “They say the British set the Cherokee against us because the Crown doesn’t recognize our right to settle here.”

Truth shrugged. “Same as anyone, I reckon. The chance to make a life for ourselves, to work the land and raise a family.” They were words Papa had spoken often, but they came alive for her now. “Papa and the others bought the land fairly from the Cherokee. Trouble is, some of their people don’t recognize that either, but we came here by God’s grace, and by His grace we’ll remain.”

Will sat back, frowning. “God’s grace,” he said, softly. “The loyalist side speaks of that as well. ‘Obey the king; he is God’s instrument of judgment.’ But in the end, whose side is God on?”

The question haunted her still, once she was home. Scrubbing linens in the washtub in the side yard, boiling them, hanging them out to dry. All she could hear was Will’s quiet but impassioned voice, later in the conversation. Where is the grace in neighbor rising up against neighbor? Men who not five years ago worked alongside each other, helped each other build houses and barns. I cannot go home until I know which side I am willing to lay down my life to defend.

What was it about him that tugged at her heart? Compelled her to think of how to get him enough food to bring his strength up, to mend the odd castoff item so he could use—

She looked up to see her uncle Anthony crossing the yard. She straightened the shirt across the rail fence beside the barn then stepped back, wiping her hands down her blue linen skirt. “Any news of Papa?”

In his hiding place on the slope above what he presumed was the Bledsoe farm, Micah shifted for a better look. Three days ago the malaise of starvation had faded enough that he’d crept down the mountain after Truth, for no good reason but curiosity. He hadn’t been overly sure as to her identity the first time she’d walked outside without the hat and hunting frock—especially since a proper cap covered her hair—but the springy, determined stride from house to barn left little doubt. Two other girls were obviously younger, by height, and another girl had flaxen rather than dark hair. He’d also counted only one boy, tallish, but likely too young to be hunting far from the house.

If his guess was right that Truth was the eldest and her father was off fighting, Micah didn’t blame her for being so protective of herself and her family.

Now he watched Truth straighten from her task of washing laundry and greet the rawboned over-the-mountain man approaching with such familiarity. He looked much as the other men at King’s Mountain, and his garb not so different from Micah’s and that of other men from the backcountry, but rougher and hard edged. He wasn’t her father, judging by the restraint of her response. More likely her captain-of-the-home-guard uncle.

The man stayed but a short time, conversing with Truth, casting constant glances toward the trees above the house. Micah knew how to remain still and thus unseen.

Even after the man departed, Micah stayed where he was. Truth’s soft words echoed in his mind. Hospitality is not for repaying.

And yet he couldn’t not at least try. Especially when, to all appearances, she and her sisters and brother were alone.

Chapter 4

Meeting day. Truth beat eggs into a bowl, measured in handfuls of cornmeal, added milk, and stirred. She’d already warned Will not to expect her today, as they’d be walking to church this morning. It’d be the first time in a while, and she was feeling a longing to be there.

She had traded with a neighbor some of her stitching for a ham, and slices of it sizzled in an iron skillet on the coals. Their own hog was ready for butchering, but it wandered the woods until Papa returned. While she stirred the johnnycake batter, she drew a deep breath of the fragrant meat. If there were some left after—not likely with Thomas’s appetite of late—she might could slip away up the mountain—

The front door flew open and bounced against the wall behind. Patience stood there, cheeks flushed and chest heaving as if she’d just run half a mile.

Suspicion trickled through her. He wouldn’t! Truth dropped the wooden spoon against the side of the bowl and pushed it away. “Fry the batter when the ham is done, will you?” she told Patience then brushed past.

Her strides gained fervor until she reached the barn. Mindful of the livestock, she forced herself not to storm inside. Sure enough, a lean male figure in shirtsleeves, with dark hair pulled smoothly back, sat at the cow’s flank, milking away as if he belonged there.

In an effort not to fly at him, she leaned back against the sturdy log wall. “I see you know how to milk, at least.”

He glanced over his shoulder and grinned, flashing dimples and an impressive set of teeth. Gracious, that wasn’t fair. His gaze lingered on her, though his hands never broke rhythm. “There’s little difference between a Carolina backcountry cow and an over-the-mountain one, except that the latter’s a bit more feisty.”

She knotted her hands in her skirts. Idiot man, in her barn, and he dared make a joke? “Where did you find the pail?”

He tipped his head toward the corner. “I washed it first, if you’re wondering.”

He tossed another half smile over his shoulder. “That you are. You and—is it three younger sisters and a brother? Or are there more?”

She clenched her teeth on at least a dozen heated replies, most of which were an insult to his politics, parentage, and character. She must not allow him the upper hand by losing her temper.

“How long have you been watching us?” she said, when she could trust herself to speak civilly.

His milking slowed, as he stripped the last rich drops from the cow. “Three days.” Another glance. “Did you expect me to stay in the cave?”

Another deep, long breath. How on earth was she to suffer this insolence? “I’m glad you’re better,” she said, stammering a little. “But truly—”

He rose, milk pail in one hand, stool in the other, and faced her. His eyes, black in the shadows of the barn, bored into hers. “You’re alone. You need help. You’ve fed and clothed me for a week. At least allow me to ease some of the burden while your father is gone.”

“And what am I to tell others about your being here?” She fought to keep her own voice from trembling.

“What others? You’re not overclose to the main settlement here. I’d stay well enough out of the way.”

“My uncle and aunts. And other folks of the settlement do drop by of an occasion.” He didn’t move, and she grew desperate. “What of my father when he returns?”

She shook her head, but he stepped closer. “Please. Put me to work. At least for a few days. I can’t bear staying up on the mountain, letting you provide for me while I do naught.”

Just as on that first day, something about him caught her. I know next to nothing about him! her reason argued. What is it they were always called—filthy Tories? But this one hadn’t proven himself anything like what she’d been led to believe Tories were. Perhaps his loyalties were misguided and he could be persuaded to see the right of it. Hadn’t he admitted to doubts?

She swallowed but drew herself straighter. “What is your true name, Will Williams? Trust me with that, and I’ll let you stay.”

Hissing, she stepped back. Unfortunately, she understood his reluctance to tell her, and she couldn’t deny the appeal of a strong back and arms around the farm. Perhaps, since he’d trusted her enough to let her bring him provisions and then followed her home and watched without taking advantage—

She shivered. “Lord help us all. For a few days only, and you’ll sleep in the barn.”

A scuff behind her drew her attention, and she turned to find Patience and Thomas standing in the doorway.

“I brought your rifle,” Patience said, scooting the weapon into view, “but it don’t look like you need it at the moment.”

Thomas scratched his nose. “Is he the one you been sneaking away to meet every morning?”

A groan escaped through gritted teeth as she took the rifle and pushed past them. “Come to the house, and now. We’ll be having meeting at home again.”

There was no way she’d leave the place under Will’s care, however pretty he was all cleaned up.

Halfway across the yard, she snarled back over her shoulder, “You might as well come, too.”

Micah handed the milk pail off to the girl who, now that he had a good look, was almost certainly the second eldest, but he couldn’t help gazing after Truth. A slender thing she was, without the bulk of her hunting coat, but with more than enough fire to make any man want to step down.

And he nearly had, except that he knew her need must be as great as his in its own way.

The boy lingered by the barn door. His eyes were pale, reminding Micah of Truth’s, and a scattering of freckles dusted the boy’s nose. “Waiting on me?” Micah asked.

The boy gave a single, grave nod. Micah stowed the milking stool and pointed to the cow. “Do I leave her, or…”

Micah nodded, led the beast from her stall, and returned her to the split-rail pen adjoining the barn. Without a word, he followed the boy to the house.

Truth was dishing food to the plank table with the help of the two youngest girls, both of whom peered at him with doubtful blue eyes. Truth herself refused to look directly at him, but after a moment of turning this way and that, she pointed at a bench near the head of the table. “You. Sit there.”

He settled, back to the wall. He’d barely time to glance about the snug interior of the place before she was there again, a stoneware mug in hand. “It’s a poor excuse for coffee, but it’ll have to do. Drink and be welcome, since you’re here.”

He cradled the vessel in his hands, savoring its warmth, and inhaled. His eyes slid closed. Weak, perhaps, but it was real coffee. He sipped and glanced across to find Truth watching him.

She nodded toward the boy, standing nearly at his elbow. “This is Thomas. These are my sisters Thankful and Mercy”—she indicated the younger girls—“and my sister Patience.” A nod toward the girl now bending over the hearth, from whence he caught the definite aroma of corn cake. “And this,” she went on, “is Will.” She hesitated as if to give him time to correct her. “He was, ah, in the battle with Papa earlier this month.”

The younger children, but Thomas especially, came alive at that. “A battle! Will you tell us about it?”

Thomas scooted into the spot beside Micah. “Did they get that rascal Ferguson?”

The girls piled in around the table as well, and Truth slid a wooden plate of food in front of Micah before gracefully seating herself opposite him.

A plate—a real table—how long had it been? Somehow he’d never appreciated it before.

“Did you know Papa?” one of the younger girls asked shyly. Mercy, he remembered.

Micah shook his head. “I’m from Burke County, North Carolina. Different units.” Very different.

“So why are you here, and Papa ain’t?” Thomas this time. That boy was as sharp as his eldest sister.

He chewed a bite of his ham. The flavor filled his mouth, and for a moment, all he could think of was his sheer unworthiness to be here.

“Your papa,” he said, when his mouth was cleared, “was with the men guarding the prisoners after the battle.” He didn’t know for sure—he seemed to remember the name Bledsoe but couldn’t put a face with it. God willing he wasn’t of those beating or slashing at the prisoners in their fury and frustration on the march northward. “I was—I was released from duty.”

Chapter 5

Micah met Truth’s eyes across the table. “You believe that.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Well then.” Micah took up a paring knife and sketched an elongated oval on top of his johnnycake. “This is the top of a place called King’s Mountain, a long, isolated hilltop on the eastern edge of the mountains, roughly west of Charlotte Town.”

“Here,” he pointed to a place near one end of the oval, “is where Ferguson and his men made camp and took their stand. Loyalists all, no British regulars among them but Ferguson himself.”

He hesitated. Had he betrayed himself by use of that term, and not “Tory,” as the rebel side called them? But no one moved or behaved as though he’d acted amiss.

“Here,” and he pointed around the west and south perimeters of the johnnycake map, “your over-the-mountain men climbed, while militia from the backcountry of North and South Carolina and Virginia surrounded from the other. They whooped and hollered, fit to strike terror into the hearts of the Tories, officers and ordinary soldiers alike.”

Micah glanced up into the faces surrounding him. Children of one of those men, furious at the threat Ferguson had made to lay waste with fire and sword to their homes.

The chill of those war cries still lodged in his chest, but sitting here among the children provided an odd comfort. They deserved to hear the tale of how bravely their father had fought.

“When the loyalists found that their musket fire couldn’t match the long rifles, they resorted to bayonets. Three times they pushed their attackers down the mountain, and three times the over-the-mountain men drove them back up, until the loyalists were surrounded and caught in crossfire from both sides.”

Food was forgotten as everyone, Truth included, sat round-eyed. Micah fought to keep his voice level as he recounted what had been the stuff of nightmares every night since. “Some tied handkerchiefs to their musket barrels and tried to surrender, but Ferguson rode the field, swinging his sword and cutting down anyone who raised a white flag.”

“At last, as more men surrendered, Ferguson himself tried to leave the field, but he was shot from his saddle and dragged.”

Col. Patrick Ferguson, the Scotsman who’d rallied the backcountry loyalists as no one else, who’d made the militia into real troops with endless drills and that hated whistle, who’d thought to threaten the over-the-mountain rebels into submission.

Truth had desperately wanted to stay angry with Will. To not admire the way he’d spun the tale for her family’s benefit and not given away his own loyalties. But the slight tremor in his voice reminded her of that first day, when he’d begged her not to shoot….

She could see him now, surrounded by men trying to surrender. A commander who wouldn’t let them. And then—

Will’s low voice startled her from her musing. She’d stepped outside after breakfast, and apparently he had followed her out.

His eyes narrowed, and a muscle in his lean cheek flexed. “Helped hide me then. Why?”

A sigh escaped her. “Does it never cross your mind that what I said was, indeed, true? That God directed your path here?”

And work he did, from sunup to sundown, without complaint, without hesitation. Mending the cow pen fence, patching the cabin roof. Cutting wood, during which chore Truth made a point of busying herself elsewhere so she’d not be tempted to watch his strong shoulders and arms swinging the ax. More folly—there were fine, manly forms aplenty in the settlements for her to have gone featherheaded over, if she were interested in such. Will would only be here until Papa returned.

But with each passing day, he seemed more at ease. Bantered with Thomas and the girls. Volunteered to fetch the hog from the woods, aided Truth in setting up the smokehouse and doing the butchering.

Yet with each passing day, an unrest gnawed inside her over Papa’s whereabouts. Despite Will’s assurance that Sevier, Shelby, and the other over-the-mountain men had, best he’d heard, committed to escorting the Tory prisoners to a parole camp north of Charlotte Town, as October trickled into November and the weather grew colder and stormier, so did her own worries grow.

She rose from her bed one night when a nearly full moon shone on the frost and, bundled in a woolen blanket, padded over to peer out the window. She pushed open the shutter just a crack. Icy cold air poured in and swirled around her feet. Across the yard, the roof of the barn glinted in the moonlight.

So far, Will had escaped notice from others in the settlement, but that couldn’t continue forever. And then what would she do? Papa was sure to be angry when he returned and found she’d harbored an escaped Tory.

For this past week and more, however, he’d been a Tory no longer. He was simply Will, who had come and somehow made himself needed and necessary.

She didn’t know how to deal with him being here—but now, she wasn’t so sure she wanted him to leave.

The threat of rain the next morning sent Truth scurrying to make sure enough wood was brought in—although Will had been good about keeping the pile stocked—and to bring in anything that shouldn’t be out in the wet. After breakfast, when Will returned to the barn, Truth left Patience in charge of overseeing the younger children’s lessons and slipped out after him.

When she entered, he looked up from where he sat on a bench, carving at a piece of wood. “What are you working on?” she asked.

One shoulder lifted. “Something small for Mercy or Thankful. Haven’t decided which.” He opened his hand to reveal a rough but recognizable cow, emerging from a palm-sized burl of wood. Truth smiled, but he laid aside the carving and the knife. “Did you need aught?”

“Only to bring you this.” She pulled a small rolled bundle from beneath her coat and handed it to him.

Bemused, he untied the rawhide thongs binding it then unfurled two lengths of gray wool.

“As if you haven’t already done enough.” He took one length and wrapped it about his leg, from foot to above the knee.

“Yes, well, you’ve done more than your share, too.” Truth’s fingers itched to help with smoothing the gaiter and tying it down, but she could not fathom why. Will was plenty capable of tying his own.

He finished the second in short order and stood, stretching first one leg then the other. That grin made an appearance. “Very snug. My thanks, as always.”

An answering smile tugged at her own lips. “You’ll need them. I think I smell snow coming.”

He nodded but absently. “It’s about time for your father and the other settlement men to be returning, I’d think.”

She clasped her hands behind her back. This was the conversation she wasn’t keen on having. But what else was there but for Will to go? “Will you be returning home?”

A tiny shake of his head. “Not yet.” His eyes did not leave hers. “I’m indebted to you, Truth Bledsoe.”

Unaccountably, her heart gave an unsteady leap. She swallowed. “You’ve repaid that debt by now, Will Williams.”

A softer smile lighted his lean features, tilted the corners of his dark eyes upward. Had he stepped closer just then? “Micah,” he said.

The smile held, as did his gaze. “Would that I were strong enough to be worthy of it.”

Sadness flickered across his face. He touched her cheek. “If you think so…” Leaving the thought unfinished, he went suddenly still. “How old are you, Truth?”

His hand lingering, he gave another little nod then leaned in. His lips touched hers, held for a heartbeat, then brushed across and were gone.

Will—no, Micah—drew back with a look that was at once triumphant and full of wonder. Of their own volition, her hands stole upward to his face and neck, and this time she rose on tiptoe to meet his kiss. Micah gathered her into his arms—

Chapter 6

Uncle Loven!” Ignoring her own breathlessness, Truth dashed out of the barn and into the yard, where two horses stood, and a rider dismounted.

The youngest of her three uncles, just a few years older than herself, and the one who’d always seemed more like a big brother. He turned and caught her in a quick hug, which Truth returned despite the grime of his leggings and hunting frock. “My, you’re a mess,” she said. If only her heart would stop fluttering—perhaps Loven would think it was merely excitement over Papa returning, and not—something else.

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