Chapter Two
Deborah stood in the shadows of an ancient leaning pine tree, her horse's reins clutched tightly in her gloved hand. Just through the clearing she could see the crude cabin with its door hanging ajar. An Indian man diligently swung an axe in the side yard; but he was not her Indian. This had to be the brother, the man who owned the garden her friends had trampled.
Though it had been more than a week since the incident, Deborah couldn't push it from her mind. It was not so much the garden and the uprooted vegetables she thought of, as it was the man. Instead of concentrating on figuring out a way to escape her impending marriage to Tom, she found herself thinking of the sharp-tongued red man and the argument they'd had. She'd told herself when she'd left Host's Wealth this afternoon that she was coming to attempt to make amends with the owner of the garden. But she knew she came to get another glimpse of him.
Inhaling the warm September air, Deborah stepped out of the shadows of the woods line and walked toward the man chopping wood. He looked much like her Indian, only he was shorter with a broader nose. His thick midnight hair was cut at shoulder's length with a battered leather hat perched on his head. Instead of the shocking loincloth her Indian had worn, the man was clothed in a pair of dark breeches and a threadbare white shirt.
The Indian brother looked up from his arduous task, squinted, then laid down his axe and came toward her. There was a hesitant but welcoming smile on his lips. "Good afternoon." He swept off his hat. "I am John Wolf. Are you lost?" His English was clear and plain, but lacked the rhythm of his brother's.
"Hullo." Deborah shaded her eyes with her hand. She wasn't even sure what she intended to say. "No, no, I'm not lost. I came because of the garden." She pointed in its direction. Some of the vegetables had been replanted, but most of the uprooted plants lay in the dirt, brown and wilted beyond saving.
John glanced at the ruined plot. "Much of my crop was lost." He looked up at her with dark, complacent eyes. "Our Lord has always provided for my family. Somehow he will replace the loss."
"That's why I came. To pay for the damages."
"You did this?"
Deborah blinked. "No, I didn't. Didn't he tell you?"
John smiled. "My brother? He said a red bird had flown through."
"A red bird?"
"You are the woman who was here wearing a coat of red?"
"Yes, yes, that was me. Then he told you I offered to pay for the damages and he refused."
"If you did not commit the sin, there is no need for absolution."
Deborah moved her reins from one hand to the other. "I'm not asking for absolution." She pulled a small bag from the waistband of her riding gown. "But will you accept my offering anyway?"
John looked up at the sun directly overhead. "It is warm for September. Will you come into my home and quench your thirst?" He motioned toward the cabin.
"Won't you just take the coin?" She eyed the cabin, wondering if her Indian might be inside.
"Come and we will speak of it. Let no man say a guest comes to my door and I do not offer comfort." He took the reins from her hand and led her horse to a tree where he attached the leather ties securely. "Please," he urged.
Curious, Deborah nodded. "Come to think of it, I am thirsty."
John led the way to the cabin. "I have only water to offer, but it is cold and good." He smiled, showing a set of crooked white teeth. "My well is deep."
Deborah followed him into the dimly lit one-room cabin. To her surprise she saw a white woman with a heavy mane of brilliant red hair standing in the corner. The woman spun around to face them.
"Bridget, bring a drink to share with our guest." John turned to Deborah. "I'm sorry, but I do not know your name.
"Lady . . ." she hesitated. "I'm Deborah Montague of Host's Wealth."
A crease of concern etched John's forehead. "Your father is Lord Manchester?"
She nodded. "He is."
Bridget wiped her hands on her apron. Her bright red cheeks were dewy with perspiration. "John, I've nothing but water. She glanced at Deborah in obvious embarrassment. "Don't you think the lady—"
"Water will be fine, wife," John interrupted softly. "You can send Mary for it if you wish. Mary . . ."
To Deborah's astonishment a little girl appeared from behind Bridget's worn but clean skirts. "Yes, Papa?" she called softly. The child's skin was a deep copper-brown like her father's but down her back hung a thick braid of red hair.
"Bring up a bucket of water." He patted the child on the head as she slipped by. "Hurry, daanus."
Bridget watched her husband offer Deborah a hand-hewn chair at their tiny table in the center of the room.
"Haven't I seen you before?" Deborah asked the young woman hiding in the shadows.
The woman shook her head. "Must be someone else you've mistaken me for."
"No? Didn't you once work at the Friendship plantation down the river?"
John sat across the table from Deborah. "Yes, that was my Bridget. She was once indentured there but now she is free."
Deborah surveyed the cramped cabin with interest. Though the room was dim, it was obviously well kept with swept floors and sweet-smelling herbs sprinkled across the wood floor. Bark baskets, animal hides, and strings of dried vegetables hung from the ceiling and lined the walls. It wasn't what she'd expected at all. "Could we discuss the payment now, Mr. Wolf?"
"Just John . . ."
"John, then."
Little Mary came in the door carrying a bark bucket. Water sloshed over the sides, spilling onto her knee-length woolen gown. "Here 'tis, Papa." She set the bucket at his feet, staring at Deborah, her eyes round with curiosity.
Deborah smiled. "Your name is Mary?"
She nodded.
"What a pretty name," Deborah went on. "I have a sister named Mary who lives across the Chesapeake."
John got up and returned to the table with two dented pewter tankards. He dipped one into the water bucket and offered it graciously to Deborah before filling his own.
Deborah sipped the icy water from the cup, realizing how thirsty she'd been. Mary continued to watch her father's guest, her dark eyes fastened on a silver broach pinned to Deborah's lace stock.
Deborah set down her tankard. "Do you like it, Mary?" She fingered the shiny metal.
The little girl nodded.
"Then you may have it." Deborah removed the oval pin at her neck and placed in Mary's tiny bronze-colored hand.
Mary looked to her father, and when he nodded his approval, her lips turned into a heavenly smile. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Deborah thought Mary was the most beautiful child she'd ever seen.
John leaned to whisper in his daughter's ear and the child nodded, running to a platform bed along the wall. A moment later she returned with a doll cradled in her arm. Without a word, she laid it in Deborah's lap.
Deborah lifted the doll high in the air, smiling. "What a pretty doll," she marveled. The doll was shaped of a soft cloth with hair made from black wool. It was dressed in a soft animal hide tunic with an intricate pattern of quilling and beadwork across the front. Smoothing the doll's braided hair, Deborah held it out to return it.
Mary's smile faded. She shook her head. "A gift for a gift," she said softly. She spoke just like Deborah's Indian with the same singsong melody in her voice.
Deborah glanced at John in confusion.
"You must accept it," he told her. "To not accept would . . . would cast dishonor across your face and hers. My daughter is right, a gift for a gift."
Touched, Deborah lowered the doll to her lap. It had to be the child's greatest possession, and yet she had offered it gladly. It was the sincerest gift Deborah had ever been given. "Thank you, Mary," she offered.
The child beamed.
"Has she a name?"
"Olekee."
"O-le-kee," Deborah repeated. "What does it mean?"
"Olekee Suuklan, Yesterday's Rain in the tongue of my mother's people," John answered.
"Well, I will treasure Olekee always, Mary." Deborah turned to John. "I have to go now, but I want you to accept this"—She slid the pouch of coins across the table—"as my gift."
John hesitated.
"You said the Lord always provides; well, he's providing. Take it."
"I'm not a man in need of charity."
She frowned. "It's not charity. My friends ruined your crop and I'm repaying you. Someone has to be responsible for their actions even if they aren't."
John nodded thoughtfully. "This is true. A man must be responsible for his friends."
She smiled.
John laid his hand on the soft leather bag. "Thank you, Deborah."
Footsteps coming in the door made Deborah turn. She was so startled to see her Indian that she gave a small gasp. Today he wore a pair of buckskin breeches, but his chest was still bare. On his feet he wore a pair of knee-high moccasins. He carried a string of trout in his hand.
"Brother . . ." John rose. "You've met Deborah."
"What's she doing here?" he demanded crossly.
"Have better manners," John chastised. "In my home no one is unwelcome. The Lord our Jesus turned away no one."
Tshingee handed his string of fish to Bridget and she made a hasty exit from the cabin. Mary trailed behind her mother, engrossed in studying her shiny new gift.
"She shouldn't be here." Tshingee's face was stony with rage. "She destroyed your property."
"She didn't do it."
Tshingee turned his dark gaze on Deborah, who rose out of her chair beneath his scrutiny. "Why did you come? I told you we didn't want your coin," he told her hotly.
"It wasn't your loss," Deborah answered with equal intensity.
"And what would you know of losses, my little red bird?" The whipcord muscles of Tshingee's shoulders tensed.
"Tshingee!" John raised his voice. "This is my home. I will not have my guests spoken to in this manner."
"It's all right." Deborah lifted her hand. "I'm going."
"No. Stay," John urged. "Share our meal. There's fresh trout and corn cakes."
"Thank you, but I must get home. I appreciate your kindness and your welcoming me into your home." Her smile slipped from her face as she turned to stare at his brother. "But you!" she accused. "I've never met anyone any ruder." Picking up momentum she stepped forward, poking his bare chest with a finger. "Where were you when your mother was teaching your brother manners, hm?"
Startled, Tshingee stared at the woman. How dare she speak to him in such a tone! But the faster she spoke, the more amused he became.
"What have I done to you, tell me that. I have apologized for what I had nothing to do with. I brought money to buy more food for the winter for your brother's family . . ." Deborah paused, her dark eyes widened indignantly. "What, pray tell, is so damned funny?"
John stood stock-still, watching the exchange between his brother and the woman he called his "Red Bird." It was obvious Tshingee was attracted to the sharp-tongued white girl. It seemed the Wildcat of the Wolf Clan had met his match.
Tshingee made no response but to broaden his grin.
Miffed, Deborah walked past him and out into the sunshine. Tshingee followed a footstep behind. "My brother accepted your coin?"
"He's got more sense than you have," she answered over her shoulder. She untied the reins of her horse and moved to mount. "Well?"
Tshingee arched his left eyebrow. "Well?" he mocked her.
"Are you going to give me a hand or not?"
He chuckled, lifting a hand to smooth her steed's mane. "You want my hand?"
Deborah was certain he was taunting her. He knew exactly what she meant. "Yes, to help me into my saddle," she snapped.
Tshingee studied the leather sidesaddle, his mouth twisting in concentration. "I always wondered how one got into one of those things."
She lifted her dark eyelashes. Her cheeks were bright red, her lips pursed. Tshingee had never met a more attractive woman . . . nor one as irritating.
"A gentleman aids a lady into the saddle," she told him.
Tshingee took a step back, crossing his arms over his bare chest. "If you cannot get onto the horse on your own, you should not ride. Mary did not ride until she was old enough to mount herself."
In a huff of exasperation, Deborah brushed passed Tshingee, leading her horse. Climbing up on the stump she'd used before, she struggled to get up on the saddle. The hem of her gown caught on the horn and she nearly fell to the ground.
Deborah glanced over to see Tshingee standing in exactly the same place. He was still chuckling, his bronze face spread in a wide grin.
"Blasted skirts," she muttered, lifting them above her knees. Grasping the leather horn, she swung unceremoniously into the saddle, righting herself before she fell over the other side. Catching her balance, she arranged her skirts presentably and lifted her reins to go. "You see, I'm perfectly able to mount myself," she told Tshingee.
"It would be much easier if you rode astride."
Deborah raised her chin aloofly, straightening her befeathered cocked hat. "Ladies do not ride astride, sir."
He smiled lazily. "You would be surprised at the things a lady such as yourself might do . . . given a chance."
The tension in the air was so sharp that Deborah could taste it on the tip of her tongue. A pleasant shiver trickled down her spine; she was entranced. It was obvious this man was attracted to her. But what was shocking to her was that the feeling was mutual.
"Good day to you, sir," she said, tearing her gaze from his.
"Tell me your name again, my Red Bird," he urged gently. His voice carried on the wind, bathing her in a strange warmth.
"Deborah," she answered.
He nodded, then turned and walked away.
"You wanted me, sir?" Deborah stood in the doorway of her father's paneled office. It was a dark, ominous room with heavy, faded drapes pulled across the windows. Deborah had always hated this room—it was a place where decisions were made and deals were struck. No doubt the Earl had bargained for her betrothal in this very room.
"Yes, Deborah. Come in and sit down," her father answered from behind his desk. The Earl of Manchester was a rotund man with a red face and sagging jowls.
Deborah eyed her half-brother, James, standing near the fireplace. He had a smug grin on his face. He was barely fourteen, without a hair on his chin, yet in their household he was given all of the rights of a full grown man. Silly child, Deborah thought. Poor, silly child.
Closing the door gently behind her, she leaned against it. "What do you wish to speak to me about?"
The Earl waved a chubby hand. "No. Sit down. Lady Celia will be with us in a moment."
Deborah seated herself in a stiff, high-backed chair. Catching James's attention, she lifted her eyebrows questioningly. It was obvious he knew why she'd been summoned. More than likely, he had something to do with it. But the young blond-haired boy responded only with a smirk, moving to stand behind his father.
The office door swung open and Lady Manchester hurried in with a flurry of silk skirts and rustling undergarments. "My apologies, sir." She closed the door behind her. "The entire kitchen was in an uproar. I fear supper will be late."
The Earl indicated a seat. "Please sit, my lady."
Celia glanced disapprovingly at her stepdaughter as she passed her, taking the chair nearest the Earl's desk.
Lord Manchester cleared his throat. "I've two matters to take up with you, daughter."
"Oh?" Deborah folded her hands neatly in her lap, hoping her stepmother wouldn't notice the tear along the bottom of her white stomacher. She'd ripped it rescuing her little half-sister Anne's kitten from a tree in the orchard.
"James tells me that you told him you'll not be marrying Thomas Hogarth."
Deborah glared at James. His pinched little face was still screwed up in a smug grin. You're as ugly as your mother, she thought to herself. Her eyes met her father's.
"Well, Deborah. Did you or did you not tell James that you have no intentions of marrying your betrothed?"
"You didn't ask me if I wanted to marry him."
"That was not my question."
"Deborah," Lady Celia interrupted with a squeak. "Answer your father's question. He has no time for your mummery."
Deborah stared at the portrait of her grandfather Montague that hung over the cold fireplace. "Yes. I told James I wasn't marrying him."
"Why?" her father demanded.
She glanced at him. "Because I'm not. I don't love him."
Celia gave another squeak and James giggled.
"I fail to see what has that to do with anything." The Earl pushed up from behind his desk. His burgundy waistcoat was unbuttoned at his middle to reveal a bulging stomach.
Moisture formed in the corners of Deborah's dark eyes. She looked away, refusing to allow them to see her weakness. "I'm not a piece of livestock to be auctioned off."
"A young lady doesn't choose whom she's to marry!" Celia declared. "Only a father knows what is best for his daughters."
Deborah blinked away her tears. Her father could care less about her and she knew it. They all knew it. She was a female and, therefore, unimportant. At her age, she was becoming a burden.
The Earl was silent for a moment and then he spoke again. "I want to hear nothing else of this, do you understand me? You will marry Thomas Hogarth come spring. The papers have already been signed. Is that clear?"
Deborah nodded, her determination growing stronger. She wouldn't marry him. That was final. But for right now all she wanted to do was escape from this cloying room. "May I be excused?" She rose up in her chair.
"No. Sit down. I told you, there were two things." Lord Manchester folded his arms over his protruding stomach. "James says you've been across the north woods. He says you spoke with the half-breed that lives on that plot of land I'm acquiring."
Deborah looked up at James. "An enemy spy, are you?"
Celia glared at Deborah. "Don't speak to your brother in that manner. It's not becoming of you."
Her father poured himself a draught of sherry. "Did you or did you not speak with John Wolf?"
"On the hunt last week we went through his garden, ruined it all. I went to apologize." She didn't tell him about the coins she took from his box beneath the loose panel near the hearth. "You always said you wanted James to be responsible for what he did."
"Young ladies do not traipse about the woods unescorted at your age." Celia leaned forward in her chair. "You know the dangers. Your virtue could be at stake."
Deborah laughed. "It seems my virtue has already been sold."
"Deborah! Apologize to your mother!"
"I'm sorry, Lady Celia. That was uncalled for," Deborah responded by rote.
"I do not wish to hear about you being near that man or his family again," he ordered. "Is that understood?"
"What if he doesn't want to sell you his land? He has a wife, a child," Deborah stood up. "He has as much right to this land as we do."
"Lord Hogarth is in need of that water access and so are we. You know the price of tobacco these days, girl. With the price she's bringing in England, we can't afford not to put up that new prize house."
"You're talking about expanding your business, I'm talking about the man's livelihood!"
"He's a half-breed," James scoffed, repeating what he'd heard his father say only yesterday.
"And what has that to do with anything?" Deborah demanded, enraged.
James sauntered forward. "This is men's business. You can't be expected to understand."
"You little worm!" Deborah slammed her fist into her brother's chest, nearly knocking him over backward.
"Deborah!" Lord Manchester bellowed. "How dare you!"
Celia leaped to her son's rescue. "I told you she was getting out of hand! It high time she was married and out of this house! She's nothing but a disruption!"
The Earl pushed aside his wife in an effort to get to Deborah. "You ever lay a hand on my son again and I'll take a switch to your back, young lady!"
Deborah's lower lip quivered, but she held her ground.
"You are dismissed!" her father shouted. "Go to your chamber! You will have supper in your room and see me in the morning! There'll be no riding for you for a week."
Deborah left the study, her head lowered, but the moment she was in the hall, she broke into a grin. The punishment would be well worth it. She'd been wanting to smack that whining little brat for ages . . .