Page 35 of The Lady of Red River Valley (Ladies of the Wilderness #2)

Chapter Fifteen

E leanor stood near the window in the governor’s house and held Miriam while the baby cried.

She had begun to fuss moments before Governor Semple and William had been called away with news of riders approaching, and her fever had started soon after.

There was nothing Eleanor or Nicolette could do to soothe the little girl, and there were no other signs or symptoms to help them diagnose her ailment.

Miriam’s incessant cries only added to the fear and tension permeating the house. Eleanor had not stopped praying since she had watched the riders leave the fort gates. Old John and his wife, Isla, had come, but even they could not distract Eleanor from her worries, or Miriam from her tears.

“There, there,” Isla said as she came up to Eleanor. “I’ve set a kettle to boil and we’ll have some tea in short order. Hand me the wee bairn and I’ll take a turn at comforting her.”

Though the baby’s cries had worn on Eleanor’s patience, and given her a headache, she knew Miriam would be even more upset with someone else.

Eleanor tried to smile at Isla, but it was a weak attempt. “I’ll try to lay her down again,” she said. “Perhaps she’s exhausted herself enough to sleep.”

There was an irritated gleam in Isla’s eyes, but Eleanor could not bring herself to care whether she had insulted the lady by refusing her offer.

With one last look toward the closed fort gate, Eleanor walked Miriam back to the bedroom and laid down on the bed with her.

Miriam’s cheeks were red and her eyes were glossy.

There was a stench to her breath that Eleanor did not like, nor recognize.

She would have sent for the fort doctors, but they were two of the men who had gone out with Governor Semple.

Even if they had stayed, Old John had forbidden any of them from leaving the governor’s house until the men returned.

Earlier, Mr. Burke had returned to the fort, in search of a fieldpiece and all the men the fort could spare.

Old John had gone out to speak with him, then came back to the house to report that they would only spare one more man to head to the plains.

They needed as many as possible to stay and defend the fort.

Panic had threatened Eleanor all day. It hid at the fringes of her conscious mind, ready to attack at a moment of weakness.

The only way Eleanor had known to keep it at bay was to pray and recite Scripture she’d memorized as a child at the hands of the family cook.

Mrs. O’Leary had been a kind, Christ-like woman who had taken Eleanor under her wing.

If not for the love of the staff, Eleanor would have had no one.

The child continued to cry, twisting and turning on the bed in a fit of frustration and pain.

“Oh, love,” Eleanor whispered as she smoothed Miriam’s blond curls against her sweating brow. “I wish I knew what ailed you and what would make you better.”

Slowly, Miriam began to calm, though her tears continued. Her eyelids closed, and whimpers came from her lips, but her exhaustion finally won over.

The room grew quiet and Eleanor let out a long, weary breath. She whispered a prayer of thanksgiving and then lay in the silence.

But the quiet was almost worse than the cries, because in the silence, her fears grew louder. She had no way of knowing what Arran and William were facing on the plains. No way of knowing if they were safe or injured.

No way of knowing if they would return to her.

Panic seized her. It raced up her legs like a demon unleashed, rushing toward her chest. Her heart pounded and dread filled every part of her being.

She could not lie still. She had to move, to fight or to run. But she could not stay here.

Her breathing was labored as she stood from the bed and left the room.

Moving helped, as did seeing the familiar faces of those waiting with her.

“Is the bairn finally asleep?” Old John asked.

Eleanor nodded, taking one deep breath after another. Her heartrate began to slow and her legs didn’t feel as weak or wobbly. She walked to the window and looked out again.

There were several people in the yard, voyageurs and company men who were speaking in small groups, and the settlers who had flooded into the fort from Colony Gardens at the first sign of attack.

Their reports of half-blood men, armed and dangerously disguised, were filled with dread and fear, but they did not have any other news to share.

A distant sound made Eleanor’s head come up as she listened. It sounded like corn popping over an open fire.

“Gunfire.” Old John rose from his chair and went to the door. He opened it and the sound grew louder, carrying on the breeze. “Aye.”

“Gunfire?” Eleanor put a hand up to her throat, the panic threatening to return. “Who is shooting?”

Old John shook his head. “I dinna ken.”

About a dozen men gathered in the yard and after a few harried moments of arguing, several of them left the fort, their muskets clutched in their hands.

“Why is there so much gunfire?” Eleanor asked, joining Old John at the open door.

Slowly, Old John closed the door, his eyes heavy with sorrow. He did not answer Eleanor but went to the musket he had brought with him and lifted it to his shoulder. He walked to the window and stared outside.

The sounds continued, though more sporadic.

Each popping noise made her flinch, forcing her to consider where the bullets landed.

Had any of those taken down Arran or William?

She couldn’t even comprehend what might happen if it took down both of them—or any of the other men from the fort.

Was Angus with them? What might Fiona be feeling?

“I must go to Fiona,” Eleanor said. “Nicolette, please come for me if Miriam awakens.”

“Nay.” Old John shook his head. “I canna let ye leave. Arran said to watch over ye.”

“I must go to my friend.” Eleanor reached for her bonnet on the hook near the door. “She must be afraid.”

“I canna allow it.” Old John’s wrinkled face was set like stone. “If those bullets took down our men, the enemy will be upon us shortly. I canna risk ye leaving now. I will defend ye with my life, as I promised Arran.”

The Bois-Br?lés might be upon them soon? A different kind of fear filled Eleanor—this time for Miriam. She could not leave Miriam now.

She nodded at Old John and then set her bonnet back on its hook.

An hour passed, and no one said a word. Miriam continued to sleep while the others sat in the common room.

Isla stitched, and Nicolette ground wheat, but all Eleanor could do was stare out the window with Old John.

Finally, she went to her room to check on Miriam and then brought her journal back with her.

For another hour, she sat at the table and wrote.

Still, no one left the fort, and no one returned.

It was cathartic to spill her heart onto the page, and she had this overwhelming need to record everything that had happened, if—God forbid—she should perish today.

Perhaps someone would come across her words and know the names of the people who meant the most to her.

In some small way, she felt that if her journal remained intact, the lives of those who mattered would live on.

A commotion started in the yard. Eleanor looked up from the book, her heart pumping hard again.

“The gate’s being opened,” Old John said. He held his musket in tight hands, his knuckles turning white.

Eleanor gripped her pen, her fingers stiff from writing for so long.

Old John watched for several moments, then he moved toward the door. “It looks like two of our men. I’m going to see what they have to say.”

He left and closed the door. Eleanor stood, her journal forgotten, and went to the window.

Several dozen men had already congregated in a group as Old John joined them.

Though only a few minutes had passed, it felt like another hour before the group broke apart and Old John made his way back to the governor’s house.

Eleanor met him at the door and pulled it open wide. “What is the news?” She almost didn’t want to know—but she couldn’t wait another moment. “Is it good? Bad?”

Old John’s countenance was heavy. “It isna good.”

Eleanor briefly closed her eyes and pressed her mouth together, refusing to give in to her tears. She had to stay strong, if for no other reason than to care for Miriam.

“Mr. Burke and the ten others who left when the gunfire started were too late. Twenty-three men were already dead near Seven Oaks when they arrived. Mr. Burke was shot and another man from the second group was killed. The dead men were being robbed by the Bois-Br?lés who remained. It’s thought that some men got away and are still hiding, while others were taken prisoners of Cuthbert Grant. ”

“What of Reverend West—or Arran?” Eleanor asked.

Old John shook his head, his brow tilted as he met Eleanor’s gaze. “The runners who just returned were sent back before they could identify the slain, though they did see Semple’s body.”

“The governor is dead?” Isla asked in horror.

“Aye.”

Eleanor clung to Old John’s sleeve. “But they did not see Arran or William’s bodies?”

“I dinna ken, lass.” Old John put his gnarled hand over Eleanor’s, compassion in his eyes. “But ye must prepare for the worst.”

Grief and shock washed over Eleanor and she stumbled as she tried to find a chair.

“Dinna fash,” Old John said in a gentle, soothing voice. “We dinna ken the whole of it. Mayhap they’re alive.”

Pain unlike anything Eleanor had ever experienced, or even imagined, pierced her soul. She turned her desperate gaze to Old John, trying to hold on to reality, though she could only find a delicate thread to grasp.

“Please,” she begged Old John, though she didn’t know what to ask. “Please.” It was all she could think to say.