For Love or Country: The MacGregor Legacy | Book 2 (2 page)

“Argh! They got me, Hugh!” Miles called to him.

“Just hang on and keep going.” Hugh glanced over his shoulder. The movement twisted the arrow still lanced into his side and caused a wave of dizziness to wash over him.

Something pierced his left thigh, stinging his flesh. Shock reverberated through his system as he glanced down to see another arrow had hit his leg. Warm blood oozed over his breeches, soaking and discoloring the white material. Hugh struggled to stay seated as his energy evaporated, and his remaining strength drained with his life’s blood. The jarring of his winded horse pushed both arrows deeper. Hugh groaned from the pain and almost lost consciousness.

The two Indians closed in on him from the front, and Hugh couldn’t find the strength to guide his horse in another direction. Instead, the animal slowed to a trot, then walked, until he stopped altogether. The Indians grabbed the reins and pulled Hugh down. Hugh grabbed his side as he landed on his right hip and gritted his teeth in agony.

A moment later, Miles landed beside him. Blood now soaked his shirt beneath the opening of his red coat. His pale face was testament to how much blood he had already lost. Hugh hoped their end would be swift and merciful. The thought of more torture was enough to make him pray for death. Instead, he sat still and held his head up when he could find the strength. He would not be a coward. If he had to die, he wanted it to be with honor.

“I am Red Fox,” said the man who had stared at Hugh and shot him in the side. “You on MacGregor land. They fight redcoats.” He pointed at them. “You enemy. We take you to War Woman.” He bent and broke the long stem of the arrow sticking out of Hugh’s thigh and side. Red Fox moved over and did the same for Miles.

“A woman?” Hugh blinked with a weary sigh. His body swayed one way and then the other, his head numb from a loss of blood. “Dying . . . by the hand . . . of a woman . . .” Hugh took a deep breath to gather what little strength he had left. “Has no honor.” His head rolled back on his shoulders and his blurry vision saw a mixture of colors and light. “Kill us now.”

***

The next morning Tyra slid the latch back and swung open the side kitchen door. The rising sun cast an orange-pink glow across the slanted gray clouds. The frigid air promised another cold day, but it didn’t look like more snow would fall. As much as she enjoyed the rare snow, she rubbed her hands in a silent thank-you to the Almighty. Harsh weather would make things harder on her father and brothers.

With The MacGregor Quest plantation located southeast of Wilmington, their homestead overlooked the road and a semicircle dirt drive. On the other side, lay the Cape Fear River, shimmering like diamonds when the sun’s rays angled upon the surface of the water. The swampy woods served as their only neighbors on the right and on the left their rice fields extended for several acres beyond the stables. Tyra followed the familiar path to the well on the swampy side. Patches of snow still lingered where their house shaded the ground. A thick white frost covered the rest.

As she walked toward the well, her black boots crunched against the stiff white frost layering the grass like thick pie crust. She breathed in the crisp air, allowing it to cleanse her lungs. Winter was here, so they kept the doors and windows closed and the hearths burning, but at times it almost stifled them.

The sound of men’s voices carried in the breeze. Tyra paused and tilted her head to hear better. A horse snorted. It sounded like they were on the other side of the house by the swamp. She rushed back to the house and entered through the front door to keep from alarming her mother who was no doubt still in the kitchen.

Hurrying down the hall, Tyra tried to keep her footsteps light. She opened her father’s study and reached above the hearth to lift the rifle from where it hung on the wall. A quick search in the desk drawer revealed a pouch containing round bullets and gunpowder. Tyra loaded the rifle as her father had shown her and slipped out of the study. She rushed down the hall and out the front door, determined to meet the men before they reached the house. Lifting the hem of her brown skirt, Tyra ran down the porch steps, hoping she wouldn’t trip. She rounded the corner and lifted the rifle, taking aim.

“War Woman, we bring you redcoats!” Red Fox called out. He led two horses carrying wounded British soldiers. Both men looked unconscious as they lay over the back of each horse with broken arrows sticking out of them. Tyra’s gaze scanned the somber expression of the other ten Tuscarora Indians surrounding them. She lowered her rifle in stark confusion. “They on MacGregor Land. Redcoats enemy to MacGregor.”

“What happened?” The words slipped from Tyra’s mouth before she could halt them. She hoped her tone did not sound like an accusation. Would this deed now bring British wrath down upon their heads? They had heard rumors the British were heading toward Wilmington. She had to find a way to protect her mother and Kirk. How could she make this right?

“We bring them for justice.” Red Fox continued walking toward her. Tyra knew him to be a fair man, but he did not always understand the white man’s ways. She wished her father was here to speak for her.

“You found them on MacGregor land?” Fear iced up Tyra’s spine, but she stiffened to keep from shivering. Fear would not aid her now. Instead, she hoped to draw strength from the Lord and the wits He gave her just as her mother had always done. She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Were there more of them?”

“We killed two others.” Red Fox turned to glance back at the wounded men and nodded his dark head toward them. “These two live. We bring them to War Woman. You decide fate.”

“What were they doing?” she asked.

“Riding to your house. Your father and brothers gone. We stop them.” He pointed to one of the men with an arrow in his side and thigh. “This one must be leader.”

“What did you do with the others?” Tyra accepted the reins of the two horses he handed over to her. “I have heard more redcoats are coming. I do not want your tribe to be in danger.” Tyra thought of his wife and daughter, a close friend from childhood. “Their army has too many soldiers, many more than the small tribe you have left in the swamps.”

“We will bury them as your people do.” He nodded his head to the two wounded men. “How will you judge them?”

“I shall try and get them to talk. I cannot fight hundreds of soldiers when they come, but if I save their lives, the new soldiers may give my family mercy.”

Red Fox laughed and exchanged doubtful glances with his friends. “Few white men understand mercy. Your father and brothers rare.”

Tyra swallowed at the memory of their smiling faces at the Christmas feast. A hollow spot formed in her throat. She gripped the reins tight in her hand. “You speak the truth, but I must try. I am only one woman. I cannot fight hundreds of soldiers.”

“War Woman fight with wisdom.” Red Fox pointed to his own head. “If you need us, you find us in swamp.”

“Indeed, I will.” Tyra nodded.

Red Fox motioned to his men, and they followed him back to the woods.

A groan caught Tyra’s attention. She looked over to see the one with two arrows grimacing in his semi-conscious state. If she didn’t hurry, he would soon awaken and the pain would be unbearable.

Tyra led the horses to the front of the house where it would be easier to carry them inside. Indecision wrestled in her heart. How would she get them down and drag them inside without causing them further damage and pain? She couldn’t leave them like this to die.

Chapter 2

2

H
ugh woke to a searing headache and the enticing aroma of bacon and strong coffee. He blinked as gray light filtered through the curtained windows. Blue walls surrounded him with a cold hearth on the far side, a dresser and a wash basin on the other. His thigh throbbed like a ball of fire branding through his skin.

Where was he? Nothing about this chamber looked familiar. Memories of savages attacking him and his men came to mind. He had lost two men in the struggle, but he hoped Miles still lived. Hugh had passed out from exhaustion and a loss of blood, and couldn’t remember anything else. If only he had the energy to drag himself from bed and leave the comfort of this chamber to learn more. As captain, he was in charge. It was his duty to see to the well-being of his men.

Even the slightest movement to sit up cost him more discomfort than he could bear. He gritted his teeth and reached down. Bandages were wrapped around his leg. Someone had taken the time to remove the arrowheads from his torn flesh and repair the wounds. Surely, no rebels would have done such a thing for a wounded British soldier. He must be among friends—Tories who were still loyal to the king. Hugh relaxed against the goose-feather pillows.

Footsteps echoed down the hall drawing near to the door. A knock sounded on the other side. He braced himself wondering what matronly woman would soon cross the threshold. In spite of his pain, Hugh forced a smile, determined to properly thank the people who had saved his life.

“Come in,” he called, wincing from the sharp stab shooting through his side.

The knob turned, clicked, and the hinges creaked as the door opened. Instead of a middle-aged woman, a young female strode in carrying a silver tray of food. Her strides were purposeful and deliberate. Wavy hair flowed down her back in vibrant shades of red and auburn. The sides were pinned up by silver combs. Amazed, Hugh lost his voice as she turned piercing green eyes upon him. Her expression didn’t hold the welcoming warmth he had hoped to find. She paused.

“Good. I see you are awake.” She glanced down at the tray and back at him with a lift of a red eyebrow. “I assume you are hungry?”

Hugh managed a slight nod, since his throat remained unusually dry. Was she as tall as she appeared? Perhaps his sense of perception was off from lying flat on his back.

She carried the tray to a table by the bed. A revolver lay on the far corner of the tray just out of his reach. Alarm slammed through him. Why would a respectable woman carry around such a weapon in her own home?

“Your eyes do not deceive you Captain Donahue Morgan. It is a revolver.” Her wide eyes met his gaze. “And I assure you, I know how to use it. The Indians do not call me War Woman for naught.”

War Woman?
He coughed and cleared his throat. A burst of pain sliced through his side, clamping down on his flesh in a squeezing pinch.

“Now, can you feed yourself or do I need to do it as well?” She cocked her head as if he were an inconvenient child.

He cleared his parched throat and swallowed. “I can manage.” He motioned to the tray. “If you would be so kind as to bring my breakfast to me . . . without the revolver, of course.”

“Of course.” She snapped, removing the gun and setting the tray over his lap. A whiff of honey teased his nose. Too bad her character wasn’t as sweet as the aroma surrounding her. Up close, he noticed a few dotted freckles across her creamy complexion. Her oval face drew a silhouette full of mystery and intrigue.

Was there a measure of disdain in her tone or had he imagined it? Perhaps someone else in her family had saved him and brought him in out of the cold against her approval. Hugh picked up the steaming cup of coffee. As dry as his throat was, he would have preferred a glass of water, but this would do. If he complained, she might decide to use the revolver on him.

He swallowed the warm brew, welcoming the soothing refreshment it brought, jolting the rest of him. With his throat feeling better, he met her gaze as he set down his cup. “I am afraid you have an unfair advantage. You know my name, where I am, and have a weapon. I am wounded, without my weapons, and completely at your mercy. Who should I thank for saving my life?”

“My name is Tyra MacGregor.” She gestured around the chamber with a sad smile. “This property is The MacGregor Quest, my parents’ rice plantation—or what is left of it.”

“Miss MacGregor, I am in your debt.”

“You say it now, Captain Morgan, but I fear I must beg your forgiveness. I read through your letters. By the time I found them in your pocket, there was so much blood on them. I tried to read a few lines to determine if they were worth salvaging. My curiosity got the best of me. ’Tis a fault I have not quite overcome. I was curious to know what kind of man we had brought into our home.”

“I suppose there is no harm . . . this time.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “After all, there were no details to be kept from a Tory family such as yourselves. His Majesty would be pleased to know you have saved and cared so well for his British soldiers.”

“You presume too much, Captain.” Her tone grew defensive. “I saved you out of Christian charity and naught else. I have heard a British troop is marching toward Wilmington, and I had hoped you might grant my mother and I, and my brother, a bit of mercy. I will not have you believe a lie.” She crossed her arms and tilted her head, and her radiant hair fell over her shoulder. “Besides, all the townspeople know which side my father and brothers fight on. You will no doubt soon discover all the rebels in the area.”

“And is it why you brought a revolver in here?” Hugh asked, disbelief coloring his original image of her.

“No.” Her cheeks grew a shade darker. “’Tis because you are a man. Were you a rebel or a Tory, I would do what is necessary to protect myself.”

“I see.” A new respect for her blossomed. Too bad she wasn’t a Tory. Disappointment filled his chest as he watched her cross her arms.

“I assume Colonel Neil Morgan is a relative?” she asked. It was a piece of information she no doubt picked up from his bloody letters.

“He is my elder brother,” Hugh said, pushing away the annoying concern continuing to haunt him since his brother’s imprisonment.

“I hope you find him . . . in good health.” Her voice faded as she turned from Hugh, grabbing the revolver from the table and securing it in a pouch hanging from the belt on her waist. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? She walked toward the window where she pulled back the navy drapes.

Hugh finished chewing his bacon and took a bite of porridge. It was warm and smooth going down his throat. It pooled in his stomach like balm on a wound. He was famished. Hugh took another bite and swallowed. Was it true British troops were on the way? Perhaps he could join up with them and convince the commanding officer to spare a few men for his commission. He glanced over at the woman staring out the window. It was brave to save the life of one’s enemy and honesty was something he valued. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I do not wish to bore you.” She didn’t turn around. “While you recover, you will be cared for by myself, and my mother, Lauren MacGregor. Kirk, my younger brother will assist you in relieving yourself. He is ten and three.”

“Miss MacGregor, thank you for saving my life and for all your care.” Relief poured through him knowing he would not have to be humiliated at having two women assist him to the chamber pot—especially by a woman as radiant as she. While her stark beauty was enough to stir an attraction in him, her bold mystery appealed to him even more. He sensed she had much more depth and grit than most of the women he knew back home. None of them carried around a revolver. And how did she manage to thwart the savages? More silence filled the room as he ate.

“Well, I shall leave you to eat in peace.” She turned from the window.

“Wait.” Hugh wiped his mouth with a napkin as she paused by the foot of his bed. “What about my comrade, Miles Carter? Those savages managed to kill two of my men, but I thought perhaps he might have survived.”

“I am sorry.” Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she rubbed her palms together in distress. “We tried to save him, but he passed away late last night. Now that I know his name, I shall have my brother carve his name on a wooden cross. We will give him a proper Christian burial this morning.”

Hugh didn’t respond. A deep ache buried inside as he processed the news of another loss. The back of his throat throbbed with pressure and anger shot through him. Had they tried everything? She had admitted to being a rebel. “How do I know you tried everything and did not merely let him die?”

“Then why save you?” She leaned forward. “Those savages you referred to are our friends. Around here, if you trespass on someone’s land, you risk getting shot. The Tuscaroras have taken it upon themselves to protect us and our land while my father and brothers are away fighting for our freedom.”

“You speak treason!”

“Then I suppose you shall have to get better before you can do aught about it.” She strode across the chamber and slammed the door behind her.

***

Tyra stood outside Captain Morgan’s chamber and waited for the door to stop vibrating in its frame. It wasn’t often her temper got the best of her, but Captain Morgan had an arrogance about him and it grated on her nerves. It didn’t matter that his English sounded like honey nearly stealing her breath. Accusing her of treason was beyond ridiculous, especially since she had never set foot on England’s soil or swore any allegiance to England’s king. She was born an American colonist, and as far as she was concerned, she was American.

“What did he do?” Kirk rushed from the kitchen with a piece of bread in his hand. “It sounds as if you wanna kill him, not save him.”

“He is British and ’tis enough.” Tyra snapped, breaking into a brisk pace toward the kitchen. “As soon as you finish breaking your fast, we need firewood brought into the house for all the hearths.”

“Red Fox came back with other British soldiers. They are dead.” Kirk followed her. “What will we do with ‘em?”

“Bury them, as is proper.” Tyra entered the kitchen to see her mother kneading dough for more bread. She had tied a light blue apron around her dark green gown. It was covered in white flour as she pounded the dough. She looked up and smiled.

“Lass, ye might want to slam fewer doors if ye plan to appeal to his mercy on our behalf for saving his life.”

“I am sorry, Mama. I was at least civil to the man.” Tyra strode over and poured a cup of water from the bucket and drained it dry. “It does vex me he is in your and Da’s master chamber as if he was the king himself, especially after he accused me of treason.”

“Treason?” Her mother paused, giving her a sharp look. “Tyra, what did ye say to provoke him?”

“I told you she had to do something.” Kirk grinned and pointed at her as if he had figured out the answer to a puzzle.

“I told him the truth.” Tyra crossed her arms and turned to face her mother as she looked down at her. “He thought I saved his life because we are loyal subjects to his high and mighty king. I could not, in good conscience, allow him to believe such a lie. Not when my father and brothers are risking their lives fighting against such tyranny.” Tyra took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. Just the mere subject raised her patriotic heart and duty to her country. In spite of how women were viewed to be emotional supporters and contribute as best as they could from the homefront, Tyra longed to be joining her brothers on the front lines of the war. If she truly believed in their freedom as they did, why should her sacrifice be less than theirs?

“So he knows we are rebels?” Her mother asked, wiping her hands on her apron in distress. “What was his response? Will he be merciful?”

Tyra dropped her gaze, now feeling guilty she had not held her tongue or temper in check. Had she put all of them in danger? Was Captain Morgan a forgiving man or a tyrant? She had not even bothered to determine his character before she blurted everything out to him.

“Tyra, what are ye not telling me, lass?” Mama prompted, watching her with suspicion.

“Honest, Mama, I did naught to cause him to be unmerciful unless he already has a tendency to be that way.” Tyra walked to the doorway. “I shall go outside and begin digging the graves for the other British soldiers. I will take the wagon to the other side of the woods away from the swamp.”

“No need,” Kirk said. “Red Fox is still outside with a few men. He wanted to speak to you. He said he will help you dispose of the bodies the white man’s way.” Kirk scratched the side of his brown head. “I think he might be worried you are mad at him for killing them.”

“Any time a man takes the life of another, he ought to feel a wee bit of remorse,” Mama said, rolling out the dough with a roller. “I have never understood how men could be so cold-hearted. It goes to show the Tuscaroras have not lost their human nature after all the wars and murder they have endured.”

“They have always been good to us,” Kirk said, walking toward Tyra. “I shall go with you.”

“Nay.” Mama shook her head and pointed to the northeast side of the house. “First, go to Captain Morgan’s chamber and assist the man with his personal needs. ’Tisn’t proper yer sister and I would have to do it if there is a male here in the house. And be respectful. We still might need an advocate in the British Army afore all is over.”

Tyra strode from the kitchen, down the hall, and out the front door. She gasped as the frigid air clawed into her lungs, forcing a tight cough from her. Red Fox stood from where he had been sitting on the front porch steps. The others lounging around the yard merely looked up.

“We have the other red coats.” He cupped his hands and blew warm air on his fingers. “War Woman saved the life of their leader. Are you angry we killed MacGregor enemy?”

“No.” She shook her head. “We thank you for protecting our family. I saved their leader because hundreds more redcoats are coming, and I hoped they might have mercy on my mother and brother since we saved his life.”

“Have we caused War Woman trouble?” Red Fox scratched the side of his temple as he tilted his head. “Your father told us to look out for you.”