War Path (18 page)

Molly got the feeling that perhaps opening her eyes and recognizing the man she loved caught him off guard. She had no way of knowing the blow on her head had come close to ending her, had no memory of the times during these long hours when she had slipped in and out of her fevered state. In fact, three days had been blotted from her life and Molly would never get them back.

“You look as if you've seen me somewhere before,” she said. Her reply alarmed him, but only for a moment. He caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. And the sparkle in her sea-green eyes took on an impish gleam.

“Every man has seen you somewhere before … somewhere. …” Stark replied. “But finding you, now there's the trail. A man has the hope of a woman like you before he closes his eyes at night. A man dreams of a woman like you, at his side, to run the river with, to stand with him against the night.”

“Why, Johnny Stark, you have the soul of a poet,” she drily observed in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

She glanced around the familiar confines of her bedroom in the house where she lived with Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Charity. All was in its proper place, and the cheery fire in the hearth embraced her with its warm glow. Then the reality of what had happened came rushing back and her hand rose to her bandaged head. The pain had lost some of its edge, had dulled to a grinding ache, and there was a faint high-pitched buzzing in her ears as if she were being circled by a swarm of angry bees.

Molly glanced at the man whose rangy frame threatened to shatter the hand-hewn chair on which he'd kept his vigil, only relinquishing his place when Aunt Charity threatened to shoo him away with a broom. Their eyes met. And Stark began to answer her unspoken questions.

“It's been three days since I … found you.”

“If it wasn't for Duchess … she saved my life, Johnny,” Molly weakly told him, with an ungainly glance about the room. She had hoped to find the big mastiff curled by her bedstead.

“She's dead,” Stark said, his features hardening. “I tried but I couldn't save her,” he bitterly added, recalling the long walk back from Fort William Henry with the great beast draped across his shoulders. He rose from the chair to loom over the bed. “Cassius lit out that same night. I dare say he's returned to Cowslip by now. All the Fargos hail from east of Greylock Mountain. But I'll run him to ground. I just couldn't leave until … well … with you … so stricken … not knowing whether you would.…”

“Let me mend, Johnny, and I will accompany you,” the woman replied, struggling to sound stronger than she felt. She reached out from beneath the quilt and caught his rough hand. His grip was strong and reassuring. But judging from his expression there was no way on God's earth he was going to hold off his pursuit any longer than necessary.

“You're a firebrand, Molly Page. There's not another woman like you in all the colonies, I warrant. But there are some trails I must walk alone. And this is one.” He leaned forward. “Are you here with me, Molly? Truly. Look me in the eyes, lass. Do you know where you are?”

“I know I am in bed,” she drily observed. She remembered his recent bout of illness that had laid him low. “One of us or the other is always in bed. But never together.” She squeezed his hand.

“Bold talk is poor bluff without action. Perhaps we should seek out a parson before you speak further.”

Molly placed a hand upon the bandage covering her skull. “Saints preserve me, either I am addled or I do believe the man proposed.” She sighed and sank back against the pillows. “And it only took a cracked skull to snare you.”

“Snare indeed,” he scoffed. “I walked willingly into your camp the moment I first laid eyes on you. Only the time wasn't right, Molly, with the war and all. And I figured a man should have more to offer a woman than a cabin on the back acre of her uncle's farm.”

Molly glanced aside at the bayberry wax candles on the small four-poster table alongside her bed. She inhaled and caught the scent, sweet and fragrant and ripe with memories of languorous spring days. Not that there had ever been peace. Fort Edward was too far west for that, and a thorn in the side of the French and Abenaki. Every Ranger and townsman and farmer knew Atoan and his ally, the French officer named Barbarat, would not rest until the last English soldier and colonial settler was driven back across the Adirondacks. How could any man or woman think of love in such a time? The deliberation took too much effort, it tired her out.

“I shall rest,” she said. Stark's eyebrows arched with concern. “And when I wake, I intend to remember everything that's been said between us.” He relaxed.
She would have none of that. The young woman intended to hold him accountable for all that had passed between them
. “Everything,” she pointedly repeated.

23

“
P
raise be to the Good Lord,” Aunt Charity exclaimed, rising from her ladder-backed rocking chair. Stark had only just brought the good news downstairs that Molly had recognized him and even managed a brief exchange. “Perhaps I should stay upstairs? No. The dear will need her rest.… Oh my … it is all I can do to keep from hurrying to her side.” Charity Page rubbed her plump hands together, pursed her lips and shook her head as if continuing to engage in some inner dialogue, weighing the merits of whether or not she ought to take up the vigil Stark had just abandoned.

“Later, there will be time for making a proper fuss over her, Mother Page,” said Ephraim, rescuing his wife from her indecision. “We can do more for Molly by getting back to our lives. If our niece recognized this big rapscallion then I warrant she is back among us and the worst is over for her. Now all she needs is food and proper sleep.”

Ephraim nodded sagely and leaned on the mantle. He acknowledged their other guest with a wave of his hand, beckoning Robert Rogers to warm his hands by the fire. Page stood aside as he glanced at the commander of the Ranger company who had only recently joined them on his way back from a meeting with Major Ransom. Rogers clapped Stark on the shoulder and then with a nod in Ephraim's direction, knelt and added a log to the blaze.

“Your niece is a remarkable young woman,” Rogers said to Ephraim, positioning the log on the andirons. He was tempted to add that Johnny Stark was a fortunate man to have someone like Molly Page so enamored of him. Like so many of the red-blooded young deerstalkers who comprised the Ranger company, Robert Rogers too had experienced a twinge of envy at the sight of John and Molly together. What man of flesh and blood wouldn't wish such a woman to stand at his side?

Ephraim nodded and took a moment to turn away and dab his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, then wipe a hand across his wrinkled features. Despite the warmth flooding into the room from the crackling flames, the older man shivered. Ephraim's cheeks were flush from a chill that had set in his bones with the first snowfall and that no amount of heat could rebuke.

He kept a woolen shawl pulled about his bony shoulders these days although every time he stooped near the fireplace, the woven hem trailed dangerously close to the flames. Charity cautioned him at first and continued to nag her husband until he removed the shawl and draped it over the back of the wing-backed chair he had freighted over the mountains from Boston.

“And bless you, Johnny Stark,” said Charity and embraced the frontiersman who towered over her.

“What for, little mother?”

“Why, for bringing me such good news from Molly's bedside,” she said, then turned toward her husband and gave him a kiss on his forehead.

“Now, woman, gird thy loins and behave yourself,” Ephraim fussed, his wrinkled features reddening. Page came from stoic stock and was obviously embarrassed by his wife's open display of affection, considering it more of an affliction if the truth be known. In private was another matter entirely. He waved her off with an air of good-natured discomfort.

“See here now, you've ignored our needs long enough. You've grown men to feed, wife.”

It was an articulate reprimand that Charity pointedly ignored. She brushed his protestations aside, overpowered his defenses and gave the venerable old gunsmith a kiss and a tug on his white beard for good measure before trundling off to the kitchen to prepare the day's meal.

“Come along, Father Page,” she said, leading him by the hand. “Leave Johnny Stark to Major Rogers's care. I am sure our guests have important matters to discuss.”

Charity had already set another loaf of brown bread in the oven box and dare not leave it unattended for long. There was a spring to her step now, by heaven, she almost bounded across the floor. Molly was on the mend, she just knew it. Ephraim was quite correct, not that she would admit it to his face, but it was high time she eased back into her role of caring for those who lived beneath her roof.

Now, what was it? Yes, the baked beans. I'll need to add an extra dollop of molasses and brown sugar to the pot. Molly likes them thick and sweet.

The farmer's wife silently congratulated herself for being clever enough to save a portion of the salt pork aside rather than add it all to the beans. A quarter of the inch-thick slab would provide a hearty flavor to the parsnips and wild onions she intended to boil in a separate pot.

The kindly woman hummed to herself as she went about her labor of love. Hungry mouths to feed, grown men to care for, her niece to comfort and fuss over gave her a sense of purpose. Ephraim understood how his wife felt. The way she tripped about the kitchen, it was as if some terrible burden had been lifted from Charity's well-rounded frame.

His own heart felt lighter as well. The howling wilderness had already claimed his only son. Losing Molly would have been intolerable. Still he glanced longingly in the direction of the front room. He hated being kept in the dark. Whatever was said beneath his roof ought to be proper for him to overhear.

“See here. You've no work for me in here, woman,” he said. “My place is.…“

“Not in that front room,” Charity finished. She placed her fingers to her lips and motioned for her husband to be quiet. “There is unfinished business between those two. Could you not tell?”

“Aye.” The gunsmith scowled and scratched his beak of a nose. “That's precisely why I wanted to remain.”

Charity sat him down at the long wooden table that dominated the center of the kitchen and handed him a stag-handled knife and a stack of parsnips and wild onions fresh from the root cellar. But even as she went about her own task, checking the bread in the oven box, stirring the beans in the black iron pot hung above the flames in the kitchen hearth, she strained to listen, infected by the same curiosity that tormented her husband.

“Sam and Moses and the lads will rejoice that Molly is back among us,” Rogers said. He plucked a length of burning bark from the hearth and touched the flame to the bowl of his pipe. Soon a trail of tobacco smoke curled up to wreath his features. He tossed the bark into the fire. “Will you carry word to them? And I am certain Major Ransom will want to be informed. He too showed no small concern for her plight. Even Sir Peter Drennan has sent his condolences.”

“I shall thank you to bring the news to the lads for me, I daresay most of them are still gathered 'neath the sign of the Fox. Tess is no doubt anxious to be quit of them. Men like Moses Shoemaker tend to have a shallow pouch. The only silver he's seen is in his dreams.”

“There has not been a moment of boisterousness since Molly's … attack. Sam Oday, Moses, even a rake like Locksley Barlow have kept a grave watch. But knowing Molly Page has regained her senses will set them a'right.” Rogers frowned. “But the word should come from you.”

“The day is still new,” Stark said. He donned his great coat, slung his possibles bag and powder horn over his shoulder, took up pistol, tomahawk, and Old Abraham. The .50-caliber Pennsylvania long rifle was primed and loaded and seemed an extension of the big man. “The warmer temperatures ought to have cleared the hillsides of snow except where the shade lasts. I hate to waste the daylight for I can be well down the trail before nightfall.”

“See here, John,” Rogers cautioned. “Major Ransom has ordered every man to remain within the settlement. We need every rifle until the reinforcements his lordship promised arrive.”

“One gun won't make a difference.”

“Yours will.”

Stark wasn't buying into the major's argument. Before Rogers could react, Stark brushed past him and headed for the front door. The smaller man caught him by the sleeve of his hunting shirt. “Damn it, Stark.”

Stark scowled, lowered his gaze to Rogers's hand where the major gripped a fistful of his loose-fitting shirt. Then he locked eyes with his friend from whom the Rangers took their name. Robert Rogers nodded, shrugged, hoping to save face, and released his hold.

“See here, Johnny. You are so damn provincial. England and France and Spain are at each other's throats. War has spread across the high seas, to Africa and India … my God. Don't you realize, this is a struggle for empire. And we have the opportunity to play a major part.”

Stark looked away a moment, crossed to the window, peered out through the shutters, then glanced down at his large strong hands. His flesh was weathered to a leathery tan. These hands of his could hold a rifle steady, grasp a tomahawk. They'd worked a plough, cleared rocks from the land, his land, been clasped in prayer, and raised in a clenched fist to cry defiance.

“I don't give a tinker's dam about empires. These are our colonies. This is our land. I'll not speak ill of Major Ransom, but you're a fool to think we are any more than pawns to be used by the Crown. To hell with empires. This land has been fought and paid for with our sweat and blood. I fight for me and mine.”

“Nevertheless, my headstrong friend, you have been ordered to remain in Fort Edward,” said Rogers.