Daughter of the Sword by Jeanne Williams Read Free Book Online

sunny, the roof dripped sullenly into every bucket, kettle, and pan that could be spared.
    After one torrential storm followed by a steady all-day drizzle, the rafters had sunk deep into the walls and the roof sagged till it seemed certain to cave in. Father and Thos had gone to the river and cut several stout posts with which to prop up the overburdened rafter-poles.
    Fortunately, it hadn’t rained again for a month, so they escaped real disaster, but Mother had given thanks with special fervor when they’d moved out of the soddy, which, rafters propped up by more posts, served now as a stable.
    Chickens clucked, making for the coop where they’d be shut up safe for the night, Venus was over by the stable, standing companionably by Belshazzar, who whinnied and ambled forward to meet his pasture mate, who gave an answering and heartfelt response.
    Rolf ordered the hounds away from the chickens, enforcing his commands by slashes of the whip, which sent the dogs huddling off behind the house.
    Mother and Father, thank goodness, were already home, and the familiar smell of frying jackrabbit and cornbread drifted out.
    â€œI’m afraid we’re late,” said Deborah, “and we’ll have to hurry with our chores, so you’ll excuse us for making rather hasty introductions.”
    Dane frowned. “We’ll ride on to Lawrence. Stopping at this hour is presumptuous.”
    â€œ You may go to Lawrence,” drawled Rolf, “but I’m invited to supper, and I’m staying.”
    â€œBut of course you’ll both stay!” called Father from the door. “You must be the English brothers everyone in town’s talking about! Let’s take care of your horses, and then you must meet Mrs. Whitlaw and share our table.” He came forward, putting out his hand as the Hunters dismounted. “I’m Josiah Whitlaw.”
    The brothers introduced themselves and Deborah was glad to see the respect and swiftly hidden surprise in their expressions. Father was in shirtsleeves, his dark trousers were worn shiny, and his fingers were permanently stained from setting type, but he was carefully shaved and his diction was as cultivated as that of his guests.
    Leaving them to him with vast relief, Deborah handed her mother Sara’s gift of light bread, quickly explained her ruined sleeves, and carried skim milk and cornbread to the subdued hounds, fetching them a pan of water before she fed the chickens and collected five eggs from the hay nests in the coop.
    Usually Thos milked Venus, but he’d been rubbing down and watering the horses, lingering over the sleek blood bay and handsome gray as he gave them some corn. He was patting Nebuchadnezzar a trifle guiltily as Deborah passed him with the pail.
    â€œI’ll milk,” she told him. “You still have to bring in wood and water.”
    â€œThanks, ’Borah.” Thos gave her a searching look. “I have to clean those rabbits, too. Young Mr. Hunter gave them to us. Cross your heart?”
    It was an old code between them, asking for and promising complete truth, which Deborah at that moment wasn’t sure she cared for. “Don’t wheedle, Thos! You’d best tend to your chores.”
    The setting sun reddened his hair as he blocked her way. “Don’t you get skitterish, my girl! Did either of those fellows say or do anything they shouldn’t?”
    â€œIt’s a fine time to worry about that, isn’t it, now you’ve asked them home and Father’s met them?”
    Thos flushed. “Quit beating around the bush, or I’ll wait for them on the road to Lawrence and see what they have to say about it.”
    â€œOh, for heaven’s sake!”
    â€œNo. For yours.”
    She couldn’t lie to him; he’d have known it immediately through that extreme sensitivity they’d always had to each other. But neither could she let him fight either of the older, bigger