Frontier Bride

Neither spoke for a moment. Then Randolph bent to kiss his wife’s forehead. Without looking at Hannah, he said. “You will…tend to her?” His voice broke.

“Aye.”

Without another word, he was gone.

Chapter One (#ulink_7ef6b0c6-7478-5007-82dd-b51f27a071b6)

Philadelphia—April 1763

“I declare, Hannah lass, Randolph’s gone soft in the head. But ye do not have to go along with him.” The burr of her Scottish homeland gave Jeanne MacDougall’s speech a pleasant softness, in spite of her adamant tone.

Hannah shook her head and gave a swipe with the towel to the dish she was drying. She was helping Mistress MacDougall with the washing up in the big kitchen of the MacDougalls’ inn. “I’ve a contract, mum. With three more years to run.”

“There’s nothing in that contract that says he has the right to drag ye off to live in the wilderness with no one for miles around.” Mistress MacDougall’s ample chest heaved with indignation. In the past her relations with her son-in-law had always been cordial, but she was furious over his plan to take her grandchildren away from the culture and civilization of Philadelphia for an uncertain existence on the frontier.

“There are four families going,” Hannah replied gently. “I’m sure we’ll stay nigh one another.”

“And what about the savages?”

“Savages,” Hannah repeated under her breath, tightening her grip on the pewter bowl. She had dealt with savages before. The debt collectors back in London who had seized her mother’s bed from beneath her as she lay dying. The doctor who had refused to give Hannah even a little bit of physic to ease her mother’s pain. The magistrate who had declared that an eighteen-year-old girl who had just buried her only parent should be imprisoned or transported to pay the costs of her mother’s illness. “I’m not afraid of the savages,” she said with a grim smile.

“I can’t believe Randolph’s serious about this venture,” Mistress MacDougall said, wringing out a towel as if she wished it were her son-in-law’s neck.

“It’s hard to lose the children,” Hannah agreed. “But you should hear him describe the lands they’re opening up along the Ohio River—rich green meadows crisscrossed with silver nvers. The fish practically jump into your boat as you glide along, he says, and the crops grow themselves.”

“I suppose the deer shoot themselves, too,” Jeanne MacDougall huffed. “Ye’d better hope so, or ye’ll all starve to death. Randolph knows nothing about hunting.”

“I expect we’ll all help each other, at least until we get through the first winter.”

Mistress MacDougall shuddered and her voice became teary. “Sometimes I just don’t think I can bear it. First we lose Prissy…and now the children.”

Hannah dried one hand on her apron and put it on the older woman’s sleeve. “I’ll bring them back with me for a visit when my term’s done,” she said soberly.

She leaned over to look through the door to the front tavern where Peggy and Jacob were playing precariously on a hogshead of ale. She and the children had spent a lot of time at the MacDougalls’ these past months. The Websters’ roomy house at the end of the lane, which had seemed so welcoming to her when she first arrived in America, was now full of shadows and grief. The children preferred to be here in the bright, busy inn with their grandparents. Especially since their father was rarely at home these days.

“Mind that doesn’t tip over on your little brother,” she called to Peggy. The girl’s laughter stopped abruptly. She jumped to the floor and steadied the wobbling barrel. Hannah bit her lip and immediately regretted her words of caution. It was so seldom that Peggy played these days. Losing her mother at the age of eleven had given her an instant boost into adulthood.

“Go ahead and climb, if you like. Just have a care.” Hannah smiled at the towheaded pair then turned back to Mistress MacDougall. “They’re fine children. You should be proud.”

“They’re all I have left of my Prissy,” Jeanne MacDougall said. “‘Tis unjust of Randolph to take them so far.”

“Mr. Webster says that he needs a new start—that they all do. Or they’ll never get over Priscil…Mistress Webster’s death.”

Jeanne MacDougall’s mournful expression turned sharp. “Ye seem to be very well versed on what my son-in-law is feeling and saying.”

Hannah felt her cheeks flame. She hoped she was misinterpreting the direction of Mistress MacDougall’s comment. “I’ve heard him talk with the children. And with the other gentlemen who are joining us with their families. They’ve met often at the house these past months.”

Mistress MacDougall’s face softened. “Ye’ve had a lot of work, Hannah, and no female in the house to give ye a kind word.”

“Mr. Webster has been gone so much that it’s mostly been just the children and I. In truth, ‘tis not so hard as…” She stopped.

“As when ye was nursing my daughter day and night and caring for the bairns, as well.”

Hannah nodded. “The sadness weighed us all down those last weeks.”

Mistress MacDougall took the towel from Hannah’s hand and pulled her over to sit beside her on the rough wood settle by the fire. “I was going to have Mr. MacDougall talk to ye, Hannah. But ye know how men are—great for blathering until ye have something you really want them to say.”

Hannah hid a smile. She had never heard dour old Mr. MacDougall “blather.”

“The fact is, lass, it’s just not right,” Mistress MacDougall continued.

“Not right?”

The older woman looked down at her hands and shifted her bulky form on the hard bench. “When Randolph hired ye to care for Priscilla, that was one thing. But now, he’s a lone man, a widower. And ye are an attractive young woman. It’s not a proper situation.”

The color returned to Hannah’s cheeks. So she hadn’t misunderstood Mistress MacDougall’s earlier remark. She had no idea how to reply. The idea was so absurd. Mr. Webster scarcely spoke to her, rarely looked at her. When he noted her presence at all, it was to give some kind of order about the children.

“Forgive my speaking plain, Mistress MacDougall, but you’re very mistaken. Mr. Webster pays me less mind than he does one of his horses. He was devoted to Priscilla, and I warrant it’ll be a long time before he cares to cast his eye on any other woman.”

“I’m not questioning his integrity, Hannah, nor yours. It’s just that if ye head off together alone, folks are bound to talk.”

“We’ll not be alone…”

Mistress MacDougall held up a hand to ward off Hannah’s protest. “And so, Mr. MacDougall and I have decided to buy your contract from Randolph. We can use ye here at the inn.” She gave Hannah’s hand a pat. “We’re not as young as we used to be, ye know.”

Hannah sat back hard against the straight back of the settle. The offer was a surprise, and she was not at all sure that it was a welcome one. When Mr. Webster had first talked of journeying west, she had been disappointed and concerned. But now, after weeks of listening to him and the other men talk of their hopes and dreams for the new land, an odd anticipation had begun to smolder in her middle like a poorly banked fire.

“It’s overkind of you, Mistress MacDougall…” she stammered, then paused as loud male voices interrupted from the front room. “You have guests. I’d best see to the children.” She stood and picked up a tray of clean mugs to carry out to the taproom. Mistress MacDougall’s words had left her feeling dizzy. It was disconcerting to be presented suddenly with a choice about her own future. Her life had not been her own to manage for so very long.

She stopped in the doorway. Her glance went immediately to Peggy and Jacob. She had promised PrisciUa to care for them. Could she bear to send them off by themselves into an uncertain wilderness?

“Strike me blind, Webster! You didn’t tell me that in Philadelphia the barmaids wear the faces of angels.”

The smooth, deep voice made Hannah’s head jerk toward the group of men who had just entered. Randolph Webster was there, and some of the other men she had met at the Webster house. But it was the unshaven stranger standing at the front of the group who held her gaze. His dark eyes surveyed her with undisguised admiration.

“And not just the face. The whole of her is of divine making, I’d wager.” His smile flashed white against several day’s growth of dark beard.

He took two long steps toward her, then swept off his fur cap and gave her a little bow. “These gents need ale, mistress, if you would be so kind. And you may bring me a tankard, as well, though, I swear, a mere drink of your beauty could quench a devil’s thirst.”

Hannah’s eyes went past the man to seek out Randolph Webster, who was listening to the newcomer with a look of surprise. The other men in the group were grinning. She recognized Amos Crawford and Hugh Trask, a burly fellow who always made Hannah feel vaguely uncomfortable when he visited the Webster household.

She was about to make a reply to the stranger’s request when Trask shouldered his way through the man and put an arm around her waist, almost toppling the heavy tray to the ground. His body pressed heavily against the thin muslin of her dress. “The captain’s right,” he said, leaning over her. “We’ve a powerful thirst, sweetheart. For ale…and mayhap something more if the tap’s runnin’.” He looked back to the other men with a leering smile.

Holding the tray awkwardly, Hannah pulled herself out of his grasp. “I beg your pardon, sir!” she said with a grimace of disgust. The words came out less forcefully than she would have liked.

Suddenly the tray was plucked from her by the bearded stranger, who shot Trask an angry look, then steadied Hannah with a gentle hand on her elbow. “It appears you could use some lessons in treating a lady, Trask. Are you all right, mistress?” he asked.

Belatedly Randolph Webster shook off his dazed expression and came over to join Hannah and the two men. He moved between Hannah and Trask, then addressed the stranger. “She’s not a barmaid, Reed. She’s…ah…she lives with me.”