Free Midwife of the Blue Ridge by Christine Blevins Page B

smiled and relit his pipe with a brand from the
    fire. “A braw man such as yerself would never stoop t’ work fer a
    horse’s arse of an Englishman . . . my best guess is the smitten sailor.
    Aye, he’s the one who set the likes of Tom Roberts on my trail.”
    Tom tossed back his whiskey, gasped, and hammered chest
    with fi st. “ Whooo-wee! Your whiskey sure drinks fi ne. Kisses
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    like a woman yet kicks like a mule.” He poured himself another.
    “Yup, Josh Stark’s an old friend of mine. He fancies himself head
    over heels with this servant gal. He’s sent twenty-five pounds for
    her paper and I’m to fetch her back.”
    “If I were selling—and mind, I’m not—I wager I could get fi fty
    from the Englishman.” Seth tugged on his pipe. “Truth is, Tommy,
    I canna believe my good fortune. This lass is a godsend—an an-
    swer to a prayer.”
    Tom shook his head. “This gal’s trapped you in her wicked
    snare along with Josh Stark, and most of the men aboard that
    ship. Why sane men behave like such fools over a woman . . .”
    “Och, Tommy—ye dinna ken . . .”
    Tom looked at sleep-tousled Maggie, her dark eyes shining
    bright with curiosity, her face flush with warmth from the fi re.
    “No, friend, I do ken. I’m the first to admit the gal’s prettier than
    a new-laid egg . . .”
    Seth snickered. “D’ye hear that, Maggie? Sounds to me like ye
    managed t’ capture this crafty rascal in that evil snare of yers.”
    Maggie giggled.
    “What’s gotten into you, Seth Martin?” Tom’s voice rose and
    Seth grinned with the satisfaction of seeing his barb hit its mark.
    “You’ve got a fine woman tending your hearth and offspring, and
    here you sit, mooning over a bondwoman like a lovesick calf.”
    Maggie bristled at the way he spat out the word bondwoman .
    This man discussed her as if she were no better than a dockside
    prostitute.
    Tom went on. “I’d not be much of a friend to either you or
    Naomi if I did nothing to discourage this foolishness . . .” He
    reached inside his shirt and drew out a stack of pound notes. “I
    keep my ear pressed to the ground and I know for a fact you’ll be
    needing this cash money sooner rather than later. Now sign over
    the gal’s paper or I’ll have to throttle you.”
    Seth leaned forward. “What’ve ye heard, Tom?”
    “I heard the Irish surveyor y’all hired to file your claims didn’t
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    Blevins
    do such a good job.” Tom reached for the flask. “Fact is, your
    claim sets in the middle of a land grant deeded by King George
    himself to the Duke of Portland back in ’51.”
    “Aye.” Seth’s shoulders slumped. “That sums it up. Drunken
    Irish bastard! If he’d have filed proper I would have learned
    straight off I had no right to settle that land.”
    “What do you intend to do about it?” Tom handed the fl ask
    back.
    “I’ve no chance winning a dispute in court. I’m going to wait
    it out—in time I can—”
    “There is no ‘time,’ Seth. Portland’s already sent an agent to
    see to his holdings.”
    “So it’s come to that . . . I s’pose we’ll just have to begin anew
    somewhere . . . we’ll just have t’ move on.” He drained the fl ask,
    heaved it into the darkness, and buried his face in his hands.
    “Damn it, Seth!” Tom waved the cash in front of his friend.
    “You need this money more than you need that gal. Take the
    money and go home to Naomi.”
    Seth lifted his head and shoved the notes aside. “Naomi’s dy-
    ing, Tom.”
    “No . . .” Tom shook his head. “That can’t be,”
    “Aye, she’s withering away before my very eyes.”
    “She can’t be dying,” Tom said, hoping there was more whis-
    key than truth in Seth’s assertion. “Last I saw, she was fi t, happy,
    and getting ready to birth that new baby.”
    “Born dead. Born too soon. I helped her as best I could, but
    Naomi lost so much blood—I was grateful t’ have but one wee
    grave to dig