Heart's Heritage Read online

  Heart’s Heritage ©2012 by Ramona K. Cecil

  The Magistrate’s Folly ©2012 by Lisa Karon Richardson

  Print ISBN 978-1-63409-712-3

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-840-3

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-841-0

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  Heart’s Heritage

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  The Magistrate’s Folly

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 1

  Indiana Territory, April, 1812

  Annie aimed the musket’s barrel at the center of the deer hide shirt covering the stranger’s broad chest and prayed she wouldn’t be required to pull the trigger. At the same time, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the presence of her late husband’s Irish wolfhound, Cap’n Brody. The big dog—whose muzzle easily reached the shoulder of the man’s horse—appeared to have the stranger effectively treed, lending an extra dose of courage to Annie. She strove to keep her voice strong and steady. “State your name and purpose, Monsieur.”

  Willing her heart to slow its pace, she hefted the gun and glared down its barrel at her target. She knew all the residents of Deux Fleuves, and most of those living in neighboring settlements within a twenty-five mile radius. But she’d never seen this man, who sat unflinchingly regarding her from atop his black gelding. And she was sure she would have remembered one so comely. She guessed him to be not quite thirty years in age. Several days’ worth of rusty stubble covered his angular face. His gray-green eyes held an intense look, glancing about as if attempting to ferret out additional threats beyond her musket and Cap’n Brody.

  “Is this Jonah Martin’s place?” His casual tone held no hint of fear, but the way he sat straighter in the saddle spoke of his respect for her weapon.

  “Oui.” Best not to offer too much information, but allow him to believe Jonah might appear at any moment.

  “I mean no harm.” He held up both hands, empty palms forward as if to demonstrate the sincerity of his claim. “I’d just like to speak to your pa.”

  “You have not yet said who you are, or for what reason you are here.” Though his words had fallen short of persuading her he was harmless, he must know something of Jonah to realize her husband had been old enough to have a daughter Annie’s age.

  “I’m Brock Martin, Jonah Martin’s nephew.” He dragged off his black felt hat, revealing a shock of thick, russet hair.

  The name sparked an obscure memory. Jonah had said very little about his extended family. According to Papa, there’d been some sort of falling-out between Jonah and his brother, Henry, years ago. But she did recall her husband once mentioning a nephew named Brock. She’d thought the name odd, and it had stuck in her mind. If this man was indeed Jonah’s kin, he deserved to know his uncle was no longer living.

  Slowly she relaxed her arms, allowing the weight of the weapon to pull the barrel downward. “I am sorry to tell you, Jonah is dead.” Saying the words aloud jarred Annie, filling her with renewed sadness and a measure of the same disbelief now registering on her visitor’s face. Even after two weeks, she could still hardly believe that the man she married only six weeks ago was no longer living.

  “Your pa is dead?” Brock’s soft voice held stunned disappointment.

  “Oui. My papa is dead. But Jonah was not my papa. He was my husband.”

  Only a slight rise of his eyebrows revealed surprise at her statement.

  “May I dismount? I’ve been riding for several hours, and I’d like to see my uncle’s grave if he is buried here.” He cast a wary glance down at Cap’n Brody.

  “He is. Cap’n Brody, come here.” At her call the dog moved away from the horse, but only far enough to allow the man room to dismount.

  “You look nothing like Jonah.” She voiced her thoughts while her gaze followed Brock’s slow, deliberate movements as he dismounted and tied his horse to a low branch of a sycamore.

  Though she kept hold of her musket, Cap’n Brody’s congenial bark and happy swishing tail eased Annie’s mind concerning the man’s intent. Watching the dog trot over to greet Brock with a friendly lick on the hand, Annie remembered Jonah’s comment that he’d stake his life on Cap’n Brody’s appraisal of a man.

  In his moccasin-clad feet, Brock Martin stood maybe a few inches short of six feet tall. As he walked toward her, his lean, muscular frame moved with a kind of tense grace that reminded Annie of a panther.

  “Been told I took after my ma’s family.” His well-shaped lips tipped in an easy smile, and his gaze radiated a genuine friendliness.

  “Hey, there, Big’un.” He stopped to give Cap’n Brody a generous scratch between the ears, causing the dog to nuzzle his hand and beg for more attention.

  Suddenly self-conscious, Annie reached up with jerky, ineffective motions, attempting to smooth unruly curls from her face. “I’m Annie—Annie Martin.” She offered her hand in greeting.

  His warm, strong fingers wrapped a bit tentatively around her proffered hand, as if not quite sure what to do with it. After an awkward pause, he gave it a little shake. “Brock Martin,” he said with a quick laugh. “Reckon I said that already.” The shy way his gaze scooted from hers reminded Annie of one of Obadiah and Bess Dunbar’s little boys greeting her at church.

  “I’ll show you where he’s buried.” Hefting the musket in her right hand, she led him to the gravesite several yards east of the cabin. Despite Cap’n Brody’s approval of the stranger, it wouldn’t hurt to remind the man she was still armed.

  Neither spoke as they waded through a whispering stand of fragrant, knee-high prairie grasses with Cap’n Brody lumbering between them. At last they stood before the row of little mounds. For a few moments, they allowed the happy chatter of birds and the constant, deep-throated gurgling of Piney Branch Creek along the ravine behind the cabin to fill the silence.

  Brock stared at Jonah’s fresh grave while Cap’n Brody began his usual low, mournful whine
when near his late master’s resting place. Annie couldn’t describe Brock’s look as one of grief, but there was certainly a sadness that spoke of regret.

  “You’ve not seen him since he and his family moved here from Kentucky?” Somehow a conversation with this man felt more comfortable with Jonah intervening, even if it be from the grave.

  “I last saw him when I was five. I barely remember him.” Brock’s gaze remained fixed on the wooden slab bearing Jonah’s name, age, and date of death. “What did he die of?”

  Annie’s throat tightened as she recounted how, two weeks ago, a neighbor had found Jonah dead a half mile from Fort Deux Fleuves with a Shawnee arrow in his back. Though theirs had not been a love match, she had held a fondness for her father’s old friend who’d lately become her husband.

  “I—I asked him to go to the fort.” Annie’s confession surprised her. She hadn’t shared that with anyone else, even the preacher’s wife, Bess Dunbar, who was like a surrogate mother to Annie. Since Jonah’s death, the guilt she felt for that act had built up inside her with each passing day like a festering sore. As much as it hurt to say it aloud, it was high time she lanced it. It felt good to get it out.

  She stole a sideways glance at Jonah’s kinsman, wondering how he would react to that piece of information.

  The sweet look of compassion on his face caused her eyes to sting. She sensed this man knew the devastating power of guilt.

  He reached over and clasped her hand in his and gave it a quick, warm squeeze.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” he said softly. “I reckon if anyone’s to blame, it’s old Tecumseh. He’s got a good part of the Shawnee in Indiana Territory all worked up.”

  With a silent nod, Annie swallowed down the knot of tears that had gathered in her throat and returned Brock’s kind smile. A portion of her guilt seeped away.

  His attention drifted from Jonah’s grave to each of the other four grave markers in turn. He stared for a moment at the weathered gray board bearing Clara Martin’s name, then turned a questioning look to Annie. “What—what happened?”

  Annie’s gaze slid from Clara’s marker to those of Clara and Jonah’s three children, Patience, Grace, and William. “A bilious fever took them early last year. Losing them all at once like that hit Jonah really hard.”

  She shook her head and winced. “Such great sadness.” It hurt to remember Jonah’s inconsolable agony.

  Glancing over at Brock’s profile as he continued studying the grave markers, she couldn’t begin to guess what might be going through his mind. “My papa insisted we stay with him for two weeks. He was afraid Jonah might do himself harm.”

  “Your father knew my uncle well?” His lack of knowledge about Jonah confirmed Annie’s suspicion that Jonah and Brock’s father had not been close.

  “Oui. My papa, Gerard Blanchet, and Jonah served together in the War for Independence.” Papa and Jonah had been like brothers as far back as Annie could remember. It seemed odd to know more about Jonah than his blood kin knew.

  “Your father has not been gone long, then?” His gentle tone and tender look caused her to once again blink back hot tears.

  “He died six weeks ago. Rabies.” Annie saw the question in his eyes, yet appreciated his good manners not to ask why Jonah had chosen a seventeen-year-old girl for a wife. But perhaps because of his kindnesses, she felt compelled to satisfy his curiosity.

  “That’s why—that’s why Jonah and I …”

  “I understand,” he murmured with a nod and look that told her he meant it.

  She silently thanked the man for again rushing gallantly to her rescue.

  Oddly, a measure of relief washed through her as she turned from the graves and started walking back to the cabin. Jonah was dead now, so it shouldn’t matter whether or not his nephew approved of her marriage of convenience to his uncle. But she was glad that he at least seemed to have no ill feelings toward her.

  Brock fell in step beside her with Cap’n Brody loping along, sniffing and nudging his hand. After a few steps, Brock cleared his throat and a tight, almost embarrassed tone crept into his voice.

  “I remember Aunt Clara’s letter to Ma in ’05, saying the family had moved here to The Forks. I just can’t rightly remember why.”

  Annie absently shoved her fingers into Cap’n Brody’s scruffy coat. “After the war, Papa and Jonah were each given forty acres of land in Kentucky as payment for their military service.”

  Brock nodded. “Yes, I remember Pa mentioning Jonah’s bounty land grant.” His voice lifted as if happy to discover a shared knowledge.

  “Papa was a trapper and trader: a voyageur.” Annie couldn’t help the pride that crept into her voice. “So he never settled on his Kentucky land. Before the war, he’d trapped here along the White and Muscatatuck Rivers and liked the place, so he came back to it. Seven years ago, treaties with the Indians opened up land here for sale.”

  Pausing, she glanced at Brock. Would he resent her father’s influence over his kinsman? At his mute nod, she continued.

  “Papa knew the land here was better for farming than what they’d been given in Kentucky. So he sold his bounty land grant there and talked Jonah into doing the same.” Her words crept out slowly at first, as if testing the air. “Papa and Jonah used the money to buy land together, here.”

  Brock’s reaction resembled nothing close to what she’d expected. Grinning, he shook his head as if in amazement and gave an odd little snort. “Reckon it runs in the family,” he muttered.

  When they reached the cabin’s front door, Annie stopped, unsure what to do. It was impolite not to invite a visitor into one’s home. Yet, for a woman to invite a man inside without a chaperone would be both scandalous and unwise.

  Annie glanced about as if the answer might be found floating on the April breeze. “Would—would you like a cup of water or something to eat? I could bring something out….”

  “No. Please don’t trouble yourself.” His words rushed from his mouth as if he sensed her dilemma. He stuck his hand out toward her and a slow grin crept across his face. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Annie. I’m glad Uncle Jonah was not alone in his last days.”

  The confident strength in Brock’s warm grasp suddenly reminded Annie very much of Jonah. After administering Cap’n Brody’s begged-for scratch behind the ears, Brock turned toward his horse, and Annie realized he’d never mentioned what he’d wanted to talk to Jonah about.

  He untied his horse and, in one fluid motion, planted a foot in the stirrup and swung to the saddle with barely a creak of the leather. As he took up the reins, his gaze swept the area around them before settling back on Annie’s face. “I just wish I’d had the chance to know him.”

  The regret in his voice touched Annie, making her long to tell him all she knew about Jonah. There was something about this man she found at once curious and compelling. Studying his handsome profile, it made her sad to think that after this one brief meeting, he would ride away and she would likely never see him again.

  “Will you be staying at Fort Deux Fleuves?” The hopeful question bounded unbidden from her lips.

  He frowned. Even at a distance, she could see his figure tense in the saddle. Once again, his face swung slowly around, his narrowed gaze scrutinizing the fields of infant wheat, the creek behind the cabin, and the woods beyond.

  “No.” The word snapped from his lips. At her raised brows, his tone moderated, and he glanced at the cabin behind her. “I—I’d hoped to stay here….” His voice wilted, and a deep reddish hue suffused his features.

  This time, it was Annie who hurried to Brock’s rescue. “You should make yourself known to Preacher Obadiah Dunbar and his wife, Bess. There’s never a stranger comes through these parts that the Dunbars don’t offer their hospitality.”

  Annie felt pleased with herself when a look of interest lit his face. With the afternoon waning, he wouldn’t want to be benighted without the protection of a sturdy cabin around him. And tomorrow was Sunday. S
he’d never known Bess to allow a guest to leave without partaking of their Sabbath meal.

  “Besides,” she said with a grin, “Papa, Jonah, and Obadiah would talk for hours about the war and their younger years. I imagine Obadiah could tell you stories about Jonah I haven’t even heard.”

  She gave him quick directions to the Dunbar place, hoping she’d convinced him to seek out the preacher’s homestead.

  Brock’s gray-green gaze seemed to study her face for a moment, making her stomach flutter as if it were filled with a swarm of butterflies.

  “Much obliged, Annie. Believe I’ll take your advice.” His lips stretched in a lazy grin, and he nodded and tipped the brim of his hat at her. Wheeling his horse around, he kicked it into a canter in the direction of Obadiah and Bess Dunbar’s farm.

  Cap’n Brody’s sorrowful whines echoed Annie’s feelings exactly. She watched until the horse and rider disappeared over a hill, a herd of questions crowding her mind. Why had he just now come to see Jonah after all these years? And what exactly had caused the rift between Jonah and Brock’s father in the first place?

  Other more troubling questions crept to the front of her thoughts. Why had he seemed so skittish, especially when she’d asked if he planned to stay at Fort Deux Fleuves?

  Heaving a sigh, she burrowed her fingers in the thick hair at the dog’s neck. “Maybe Obadiah will convince him to stay for Sunday services tomorrow, and we’ll learn more then, Cap’n.”

  The dog licked her hand in response, then slinked back into the cabin.

  Annie continued to stare at the empty rise awash in the gold of the dipping sun, her doubts of ever seeing the man again growing with the shadows. Nothing in Brock Martin’s conversation had suggested he was a Christian. Most likely, by dawn tomorrow, he’d leave the Deux Fleuves settlement behind.

  She turned and stepped into the cabin. Still, no harm in freshening her best Sunday frock.

  Chapter 2

  Brock fidgeted on the split-log trestle bench, one of several that, on Sunday mornings, transformed the building from a garrison house and trading post into a makeshift church. According to Obadiah Dunbar, the building also regularly housed in its upper floor the occasional passing troop of soldiers. At the thought, beads of sweat broke out at Brock’s hairline, though he’d been assured no such troops were presently about.