a novella

Originally published in The Blacksmith Brides Romance Collection

Chapter 1

Philadelphia, 1774

Meg McCracken plopped onto the padded velvet seat next to her mother. She glared at her three older brothers as they squeezed their bulky frames through the narrow door and sat opposite her in their father’s coach. Her father, Callum McCracken, climbed in last and quirked an eyebrow at her crossed arms.

“Now, Meg―”

“Do not ‘Now, Meg’ me, Father. ’Tis they who need a talking to.” She tilted her chin toward her brothers, who had the gall to grin back at her.

“They are your brothers. They do only what any brother would do for his sister.”

“Is that so? And would you have me be a spinster, then? Because no man can get within a rod of me without one of these great lummoxes planting himself in the way.”

“Those who back off are not worthy of you, I say.” Jamie, the middle of her older brothers and her favorite, winked at her.

“He is correct, you know,” Father said. “You would not respect a man who ran off at the first sign of trouble. You have too much spunk for that. Just like your mother.”

The look that passed between her parents added to the humid autumn heat in the carriage. A sigh slipped from Meg’s lips. She’d grown up watching these two people who were so much in love. Was it any wonder she wanted the same for herself? Those hulking brutes crammed onto the coach’s other seat, however, had blocked every possible suitor so far.

“Was there someone special in attendance tonight? Someone who has caught your eye?” Mother asked.

Meg scowled across the coach. “Even if there were, he would have needed a battering ram to get close to me.”

“I thought not. I did not see anyone new there tonight. So this discussion ’tis not necessary, is it?” Ailsa McCracken hadn’t raised five children, four of them boys, without learning how to diffuse an argument.

Meg gritted her teeth when Jamie winked at her again before he turned the talk to what the men always talked about—war. The ride home would only take a few more minutes or she’d be forced to listen to them rehash every quarrel with England since the Puritans first stepped on the American shore. What was it about men that made them want to fight over any plot of land for any reason imaginable? Or for none at all.

She let her head rest against the plush interior of the coach. For all their tendency to be quarrelsome, she still wanted a man of her own. She was seventeen years old, more than ready to have a home and a husband. A man who loved her and looked at her the way her father looked at her mother.

Was that too much to ask?

***

Meg followed Jamie into the parlor, his rant against the king filling the space around them. It was easy to ignore, since she knew it by heart. She pulled off her long gloves and dropped them on the side table next to a blue vase full of fresh flowers. The scent pleased her, a welcome change from the stuffy ballroom and crowded coach.

“I tell you, the colonies will not stand for any more oppressive acts. ’Tis past time we made it known to King George and everyone else in England. It cannot happen too fast for me,” Jamie said.

She’d heard it before, from all of them, David, Jamie, Andrew, and even Robbie who was asleep upstairs, still a year too young to attend the dance.

Her brothers formed a line facing their father across the room. Their iron-haired patriarch turned to pin David, the oldest, with his frown. “’Tis time to make preparations, is it not?”

“Preparations for what?” Meg asked.

All three brothers stared at her as if she’d said something stupid.

She clamped her hands to her hips and tilted her head. “Whatever is wrong?”

“Did you listen to nothing that was said tonight?” Jamie spread his hands in front of her as if offering her evidence of something.

“Little sister, there was more afoot tonight than I think you know.” David looked from her to their father.

“Be not hard on the lass. What girl her age wants to listen to talk of war when there are handsome men to be danced with?” Her father’s eyes softened as they lingered on her for a moment.

Father was a man to be reckoned with, but he harbored a tender spot where his only daughter was concerned. Something she may have used to her advantage a time or two.

Mother stepped beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders before leading her to a settee and sitting down beside her. A cold feeling gathered in Meg’s middle. What had she missed? They always talked of war—but it never happened.

Did it?

Father turned back to David. “You shall need a soldier’s kit before you enlist. The militia has no funds of its own to outfit the men. I doubt the new army will either.”

“We have some time, several months at least,” David said. “The Continental Congress will not officially raise an army until King George finishes laughing over this last feeble attempt by the Loyalists to divert the war.”

Meg gasped. They were serious. Mother’s grip tightened on her shoulders and Meg leaned into the familiar comfort.

“It pays to be prepared.” Father pivoted and faced his wife. They stared at each other, the silence dragging out as a message only they understood passed between them. “I shall do my best to keep Robbie out of it.”

“Robbie?” Meg’s voice came out little more than a squeak.

Mother drew in a shaky breath. “Sixteen next year. I know not how you shall keep him back.”

“I would rest easier knowing he was here to watch over you and Meg.”

“But you shall be here, Father,” Meg said. “We shall be safe with you.”

Jamie rolled his eyes at her.

She stood and faced Father, a slippery thread of fear coiled in her throat. “Will you not?”

“I wish I could, lass, but since they already deem me a traitor to the Crown, I must fight.”

Mother rose beside her. “We shall be prepared. I will gather what you need for the soldier kits. There is cookware for over a campfire and cups and…” Mother turned her face away and covered her mouth with a trembling hand.

It was real, this threat of war, not just talk anymore. Meg’s brothers were planning for war. And Father. How could this be? Her throat tightened until she had to concentrate to breathe.

Father strode to her and Mother, circling them both with his arms. Arms that had always shielded and protected her. What if he didn’t come back? What if her brothers didn’t? People died in wars. That was the whole point of them, wasn’t it?

The answer—if there was one—would be for them to win, and win as quickly as possible. She must do something to help make that happen. She’d help Mother gather what the lads would need. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

“I shall visit some blacksmiths tomorrow and inquire about soldier’s kits.” Her voice wobbled a bit on the last word, but she lifted her chin and met Father’s nod of approval.

“A good thought, lass. We should each have a new knife as well.”

A knife. Something with which to cut bread… or British soldiers?

Meg shivered.

***

Heat from the forge blew into Alexander Ogilvie’s face. He wiped his brow with a gritty sleeve. September usually brought cooler temperatures to Philadelphia, but the change of seasons seemed reluctant this year. Maybe it was all the talk of war. It sure heated tempers around town. The people remained divided among those who lobbied for independence, those who wanted to repair relations with England, and those who simply wanted to live their lives undisturbed.

Alexander stretched and glanced through the open double doors toward the distant mountains he couldn’t see from his father’s blacksmith shop. If he had his way, he’d pack his belongings, meager though they were, and move west, leaving the rest of the population to fight things out among themselves.

Soon, he’d have enough money saved to do it.

He wasn’t unsympathetic to the Patriot cause, but squabbling over who collected his taxes didn’t matter much to him. As long as he stayed here, he’d be just one more blacksmith mending bean pots and repairing broken hinges. The gentry could talk of their high ideals, but for a working man, it mattered little whose plow he repaired. Independence to him meant leaving the city and building the life he wanted on the frontier.

A life in which he took care of himself and answered to no man for it.

He’d picked up his hammer and tongs when a tall lady with a blue and gold plaid shawl draped over her elbows crossed the street and headed toward the smithy. She wore a white lace cap over the most vivid red hair he’d ever seen. She stopped at the wide double doors. Eyes the blue of a peaceful sky and a chin that came to a slight point, she reminded him of a pixie escaped from Grandda’s stories of the Scottish Highlands.

She cleared her throat, releasing him from whatever spell she’d cast.

“May I be of assistance, mistress?” He laid aside his tools, wishing soot and sweat didn’t cover his hands. Or the rest of him, for that matter.

“I hope so. I have been making the rounds of blacksmiths in town.” Worry lines crinkled the corners of her eyes.

“Allow me a guess. You have a soldier to kit out for the militia.” Probably a husband. How could any woman that beautiful not be married?

“How did you know?”

“You are not the first to come by.” He pointed to a neat line of fire irons and hooks on the table across the room.

“Of course.” She plucked at the fringe along the edge of her shawl. “How silly of me.”

“Not silly at all. Everyone is busy with war coming.” The droop of her shoulders tugged at his heart. “I can make what you need. One more kit shan’t much matter.”

“Oh, but I need four.”

“Four?” Was she to outfit half a regiment?

She nodded. “For my father and three brothers.”

“No husband, then?” He wished he could grab those words back as soon as they left his mouth. At least the heat from the forge already had him flushed enough to cover his embarrassment. What had possessed him? He fully expected her to leave in a huff. A grimy smith like him, asking such a thing of a lady like her. It was the height of impertinence, and Mam had raised him better.

The lady, far from rushing off, blushed a rosy hue as she studied the ground at her feet. “Nay. No husband. But I should order five kits.”

One more for the man courting her, of course. He pushed aside the disappointment he had no right to feel.

“’Tis all but certain that my younger brother will enlist as soon as he turns sixteen.”

Alexander drew in a deep breath. Another brother, not a suitor. “For you, I can make five.”

She offered him a hesitant smile, the merest curve of her lips, and yet his heart squeezed. He’d make her order first. No. He’d drag it out so she might come back more than once.

“I am not sure what they shall need, exactly. Father said to order knives. They shall need something to cook with over a campfire.” She lifted her hands and let them drop. “I know not what else to tell you.”

“Leave it to me. I know what they shall have need of.”

She aimed those incredible blue eyes at him. “Thank you for taking my order. The other smiths were too busy.”

“Aye. War keeps the smithies working.”

She half turned as if to leave.

“I need your name to put with the order.”

The pink in her cheeks darkened. She looked toward the street for a moment. “Of course. ’Tis Meg. Meg McCracken.”

Her eyes met his, and he was lost.

“When may I collect them?”

“As soon as I have finished the order.”

Another smile tugged at her lips, drying his mouth. “Have you an idea when that might be?”

He blinked. How could any woman be so beautiful? Had she just asked another question? He hiked his eyebrows, hoping she’d repeat whatever she’d said. Without thinking him too much of a simpleton.

“When might they be completed for me to collect?”

“Ah, well, I have a list of orders ahead of yours, but shall we say two weeks?” He swallowed. “I could deliver them.” But he really didn’t want to. He wanted her to come back and get them herself. He didn’t want to drop them at a back door with some housemaid.

“No need. I shall fetch them myself.”

Thank heaven.

She took a step toward the doorway, then stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “Which smith should I tell my family has taken our order?”

He sketched as close to a courtly bow as he knew how. “Alexander Ogilvie, at your service.”

She nodded once and left.

Alexander leaned against the anvil and watched her walk away, glad that the wide doors of the smithy left him such a view. The scent of lilacs lingered in her wake. Lilacs and charred cotton.

Charred cotton?

With a yelp, he grabbed an old rag and beat at the side of his shirt where it smoldered in back of his leather apron. There must have been a live coal left on the anvil. Now there was a hole in his shirt.

If he wasn’t careful, he’d have a hole in his heart to match.

paperback ISBN: 979-8300311216 – ebook ASIN: ‎B0DND9821Q – audiobook ASIN: B0DVDZNS89

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