Prairie Fire by Catherine Palmer Page A

in his throat.
    “You know what, Uncle Jack? Nobody made me a speech.” Chipper frowned. “Did you come to say a speech about me? Or … are you gonna fight Papa again?”
    “I didn’t come here to fight anybody, Chipper,” Jack said, taking another step into the midst of the gathered tables. He searched the child’s blue eyes and read the longing in them. “All right, little buddy, I’ll make you a speech. How’s that?”
    “Yeah!” Chipper said, pumping a little fist. “Get a cup.”
    Aware of the tension racing through the crowd, Jack knew one wrong step could put him in danger. These people didn’t trust him … and rightly so. He had tried to take the boy. He had disrupted previous gatherings. He had battled Seth Hunter with words, weapons, and fists. Any one of them might choose this moment to exact revenge.
    If he had his way, Jack would speak his piece and get out. But Chipper was gazing at him with a plea for reconciliation. Jack glanced to a table in search of a cup.
    “Take this, Mr. Cornwall.” It was Caitrin’s musical voice. Both hands outstretched, she offered a tin mug filled with cider.
    Jack met the woman’s eyes for an instant. It was all the satisfaction he could permit himself. Even so, the sight of shining green eyes, fiery hair, and lips soft with pleading nearly derailed him. Forcing his focus back to the boy, he lifted the cup.
    “I’ve known Chipper since he was born,” he addressed the gathering. “He used to weigh not much more than a sack of dried peas. Yep, he was a wrinkled little thing and about as bald-headed as an old fence post.”
    “Uncle Jack!” Chipper clamped his hands on his head and squealed in delight.
    The crowd murmured, and a few low chuckles gave Jack the encouragement to continue. “Fact is, at the start I could hold Chipper in one hand. Right there in my palm, just like that. When he got bigger, he liked to ride around on my shoulders. Liked to eat mushed-up pawpaws. And he liked to holler, too. That boy could put up quite a squall to get what he wanted.”
    Chipper giggled, and the party guests began to relax. The blond hulk sat down on a bench next to Caitrin. “My nephew always knew what he wanted,” Jack went on, “and not a one of us who loved the little rascal ever had the heart to tell him no. Now Chipper’s made up his mind to have himself a papa and a mama.”
    Jack turned to Seth Hunter—the field hand Jack’s father had driven from the Cornwall property, enraged at his Yankee sympathies and his secret courtship of beautiful, golden-haired Mary. Seth stood straight and tall, his hand on his bride’s shoulder and his arm around his son. Behind Seth stretched his properties—a house, a barn, and fields that had brought in a good harvest. Around the man sat friends and neighbors who would defend him with their lives.
    “The boy chose well,” Jack said, lifting his cup to honor the man who had been his enemy for so long. Then he returned to his nephew. “Here’s to Chipper. May his days be filled with fishing, swimming, kite flying, and all the joys of boyhood. And may he live a long, happy life in the sheltering arms of his parents … Seth and Rosie Hunter.”
    A stunned pause gripped the wedding guests for a moment. And then they lifted their cups and sang out, “To Chipper!”
    Before he could choke on words that had been torn from his gut, Jack tipped up his tin cup and downed the cider. That’s right, that voice inside him whispered. Make peace. If you want to win, you have to lose. The last shall be first.
    His stomach churning in rebellion at words that reeked of weakness, Jack leaned over and slammed the tin cup on a table. No! Fight. Stand up for yourself. Take the boy. Take Caitrin.
    Bitterness rose in his throat, threatening to strangle him. From the moment he had ridden away from the woman, he had searched for a way to make her his own. But every scheme he cooked up involved violence and bloodshed. Every plan except this