think it.”
“Perhaps.” I turn my attention back to Mary. “I remember little from our life before. Most of my memories hail from the wilderness. The father my brother and sister speak of would never let me venture into the woods alone. He feared natives would take me, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Mary snorts and points at my attire. “Little good that did.”
Her words coax a smile from me. “Aye.”
“I heard different,” says Hannah. “George says you were ever a mischievous and willful girl. No doubt your father forbidding it enticed you.”
I shake my head. “I only recall the freedom I was given after he was taken from this world. My spirit blossomed the moment I stepped into the woods. Time has only deepened my roots.”
“And the natives,” says Mary. “They accepted you among them with little qualm?”
I bristle at her tone. “Why should they not?” I ask. “We showed them no anger and gratefully accepted the aid they offered.”
Mary shrugs. “I have heard many a story of their savagery. Scalping and cannibalism and such tales as are best left unsaid.”
I set my knife upon the table and study her face. “You are a Christian, no?”
“Rebecca,” says Hannah.
My sister-in-law speaks my name carefully, her voice pleading in hopes I will give up my claim. I ignore it. “Are you a Christian, Mary?”
“Aye,” she says.
“Does your god not ask you take eat of his body and drink of his blood in remembrance of him?”
Mary gives me no response, her chin dipping toward her chest, her gaze unable to meet mine.
“Perhaps you should not so quickly judge what you have heard of my people,” I say. “And know this also—the natives did not bring scalping into these lands. That were a custom brought over from across the sea. My people honor all living things…even our enemies.”
I pick up my knife and stick its blade into another coney. “Should I tell you what works I have seen from white men?”
“No,” says Mary quietly. “Of those I have witnessed enough with my own eyes.”
I look away from her and see Hannah’s disappointment plain. I remind myself I am a guest in her home. Quelling the anger pulsing in me at Mary’s claims, I finish the bundle of coneys in little time.
I take up the bucket of entrails, and carry it outside to feed the dogs.
They find me quickly, the lot of them wiggling their tails, begging me give over the meal.
I make them follow me to the barn, their yips entertaining me as I toss the remains into the grass. As the dogs feast, my attention turns to overhearing conversation from the men, the wind breezing through my hair, and the cooking smells wafting across the yard. I delight in all of them.
A whinny from the stables calls me over.
I find my father’s stallion, red with a blaze of white upon its chest. Though old and half-blind, I think he must feel my presence for he saunters toward the fencepost and again whinnies at me.
I set the bucket down, leaving it for one of the dogs to lick clean. I approach the pen and climb the fencepost.
The stallion snorts at my touch, yet I do not pull away. Father taught me long ago not to show any beast fear. Only respect.
I place my cheek against the stallion then stroke his jaw and clap his broad neck.
“I’ve missed you sorely, old friend,” I say.
“Hello, Rebecca.”
Andrew Martin leans against the barn, his hair unwashed and face unshaven. His hollow eyes look on me, and no little urge to reach for my dagger pulses in me as he takes a drought of the small keg in his hand. He wipes the wet remains away with his stained sleeve.
“Been a long time,” he says. “It seems you were a little girl last time I saw you here.”
I loathe the way Andrew looks at me, his eyes wandering from my face to my chest.
“But you’re not anymore,” he says. “Are you?”
My palm rests on the hilt of my dagger. “No, I’m not.”
“You yet enjoy playing with knives, I see.” He takes another swig of his
“Perhaps.” I turn my attention back to Mary. “I remember little from our life before. Most of my memories hail from the wilderness. The father my brother and sister speak of would never let me venture into the woods alone. He feared natives would take me, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Mary snorts and points at my attire. “Little good that did.”
Her words coax a smile from me. “Aye.”
“I heard different,” says Hannah. “George says you were ever a mischievous and willful girl. No doubt your father forbidding it enticed you.”
I shake my head. “I only recall the freedom I was given after he was taken from this world. My spirit blossomed the moment I stepped into the woods. Time has only deepened my roots.”
“And the natives,” says Mary. “They accepted you among them with little qualm?”
I bristle at her tone. “Why should they not?” I ask. “We showed them no anger and gratefully accepted the aid they offered.”
Mary shrugs. “I have heard many a story of their savagery. Scalping and cannibalism and such tales as are best left unsaid.”
I set my knife upon the table and study her face. “You are a Christian, no?”
“Rebecca,” says Hannah.
My sister-in-law speaks my name carefully, her voice pleading in hopes I will give up my claim. I ignore it. “Are you a Christian, Mary?”
“Aye,” she says.
“Does your god not ask you take eat of his body and drink of his blood in remembrance of him?”
Mary gives me no response, her chin dipping toward her chest, her gaze unable to meet mine.
“Perhaps you should not so quickly judge what you have heard of my people,” I say. “And know this also—the natives did not bring scalping into these lands. That were a custom brought over from across the sea. My people honor all living things…even our enemies.”
I pick up my knife and stick its blade into another coney. “Should I tell you what works I have seen from white men?”
“No,” says Mary quietly. “Of those I have witnessed enough with my own eyes.”
I look away from her and see Hannah’s disappointment plain. I remind myself I am a guest in her home. Quelling the anger pulsing in me at Mary’s claims, I finish the bundle of coneys in little time.
I take up the bucket of entrails, and carry it outside to feed the dogs.
They find me quickly, the lot of them wiggling their tails, begging me give over the meal.
I make them follow me to the barn, their yips entertaining me as I toss the remains into the grass. As the dogs feast, my attention turns to overhearing conversation from the men, the wind breezing through my hair, and the cooking smells wafting across the yard. I delight in all of them.
A whinny from the stables calls me over.
I find my father’s stallion, red with a blaze of white upon its chest. Though old and half-blind, I think he must feel my presence for he saunters toward the fencepost and again whinnies at me.
I set the bucket down, leaving it for one of the dogs to lick clean. I approach the pen and climb the fencepost.
The stallion snorts at my touch, yet I do not pull away. Father taught me long ago not to show any beast fear. Only respect.
I place my cheek against the stallion then stroke his jaw and clap his broad neck.
“I’ve missed you sorely, old friend,” I say.
“Hello, Rebecca.”
Andrew Martin leans against the barn, his hair unwashed and face unshaven. His hollow eyes look on me, and no little urge to reach for my dagger pulses in me as he takes a drought of the small keg in his hand. He wipes the wet remains away with his stained sleeve.
“Been a long time,” he says. “It seems you were a little girl last time I saw you here.”
I loathe the way Andrew looks at me, his eyes wandering from my face to my chest.
“But you’re not anymore,” he says. “Are you?”
My palm rests on the hilt of my dagger. “No, I’m not.”
“You yet enjoy playing with knives, I see.” He takes another swig of his
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