Daughter of the Sword by Jeanne Williams Page A

eat you out of house and home, as we’re in the way of doing, without replenishing the larder.”
    He seated Mother, then Deborah, and sat down facing them—just as if, Deborah thought resentfully, he were the master of the house!
    â€œWill you ask the blessing?” Mother requested.
    â€œI don’t believe in God,” he said gently. “But I’m glad you do, Mrs. Whitlaw. It will bless me to hear you pray.”
    After a horrified stare that dimmed to sadness, Mother bowed her head. So did Dane. Deborah scarcely heard her mother’s soft voice.
    Dane was kind and considerate of Leticia even when admitting atheism, an almost unimaginable thing. Why, then, was he so ready to mock her—Deborah? And why, oh, why, did he have to appear when some outrage of Rolf’s had put her in an unexplainable position?
    She resolved to ignore him. But the tea, which Mother poured out after grace, was so delicious, especially sweetened with real sugar, that Deborah was compelled to express appreciation.
    â€œYour pleasure is doubly mine,” Dane said. His gray eyes touched her in a way that made her heart leap.
    Wildly, in a tumult of conflicting desires, she thought that his kiss would never have the taste of blood, that he could sear away that branding of Rolf’s.
    If he would …

v
    A battalion of Free Staters had invaded Missouri and searched West Point for Hambleton and his men, who were not found, but James Montgomery, the black-bearded Campbellite preacher from Ohio who’d made a log fortress of his home in southeastern Kansas and who was that region’s acknowledged Free State leader, had raided north, within fifteen miles of Lecompton, the pro-slavery capital.
    Free Staters, especially neighbors of the murdered men, wanted blood for that spilled May 19 at Marais des Cygnes. That part of the Territory seethed, and so did Thos, eager to get into the fray. Deborah feared that at the next crisis, he couldn’t be held back, a fear shared by Sara, though Johnny seemed to think it was inevitable.
    â€œThere’s war coming,” he told them after Deborah and Thos had survived their first knife lesson since the day they’d met the Hunters and Rolf had been wounded by the night riders. “It’s been fated since the first slave was brought to these shores; that was the wind we planted and the whirlwind we’ll reap.”
    Rolf’s eyes shone. He’d been moved to Melissa Eden’s house a few days ago in the buggy, but this was his first horseback outing and a bandage was still bulked beneath his fine linen shirt. He and Dane had been invited by Thos to meet the twins at the blacksmith’s so that Dane could ask permission to sketch, and, of course, the English brothers had been asked to stay for dinner.
    Johnny seemed to trust Dane, but his smoky eyes went hard when he looked at Rolf, probably because Rolf’s gaze rested familiarly on Sara, as if she’d been a mare he was thinking of buying. He laughed now and said, “A real war? I envy you!”
    â€œI don’t.” Dane’s quiet tone was taut with controlled anger and something else—horror? Pity?
    â€œMaybe this excitement over gold in the Rockies will drain off the worst hotheads,” said Deborah hopefully.
    â€œCesli tatanka!” scoffed Johnny.
    â€œUnfortunately,” said Dane, “the mostly young men who’ll do the fighting won’t be the ones to declare war. The split between agricultural and industrial interests, deepened by the hatchets of abolitionists and pro-slavers, are bound to crack this nation apart. The only question is: Will the South be allowed to separate, or will the North fight to hold it?”
    â€œGoing to be war soon or late.” Johnny scowled as he cut off a bite of tough beef and the edge of his hunting knife grated on the delft plate. “Tatanka wakan, even if the North let the South go, which it won’t,