Part 3
In two long strides, Mingo crossed to his gun and powder. Flinging the door open, he headed between the cabins toward the shouting, with Daniel on his heels.
"They took th' gold! They be gittin' away!" a man yelled. Mingo caught a glimpse of a figure fleeing on horseback with a half dozen others close behind. A shot rang out and a ball nicked the post beside him, spraying bits of wood in his face.
Mingo ran to the nearest horse, a chestnut tied to a low branch, and flipped the reins free. Behind him, he could hear shouts from the camp as men spilled from the cabins along with Daniel, who was calling his name. Reaching to take hold of the animal's neck, he jumped, pulling himself up onto the horse's bare back, and then dug his heels into the animal's sides.
Slushy mud flew from the horse's hooves. Holding his rifle in his left hand, Mingo leaned close against the horse's neck to avoid a low hanging branch as he urged the animal around the bend. The last rider in the group was in sight, but even if his gun were loaded, he doubted he could make the shot.
The horse thundered under him as the path straightened. A thin branch scraped across his face, catching the corner of his right eye. He blinked and opened his eyes wider in an effort to see past the sudden blurriness and not lose sight of the thieves.
Ahead, the group slowed as they came to a stream then charged across to the opposite bank, to the north. The path became wetter and the chestnut slipped, causing Mingo to ease back on the reins.
Splashing into the shallow, ice-crusted water, Mingo quickly looked to his right, then left. A glint of light through the trees made him pull hard on the leather straps held tightly in his right hand. The horse wheeled, his footing unsure, but Mingo kept his gaze focused as he peered into the darkness. There was another glint downstream and, ignoring the main group, Mingo turned the animal to the left, westward, and kicked it to a run.
Frigid water soaked his soft boots and pant legs as icy droplets sprayed about him. Nearing where he'd seen the reflection, he tugged gently on the reins and carefully inspected the bank on his right as the horse slowed to a walk. It was thick with brush. A little further on, he found a trampled area, glistening with dampness in the dim light. He urged the animal over and it heaved itself up onto the bank.
A few yards beyond the stream, the brush gave way to woodland and Mingo stopped for a moment to load his gun, his fingers stiff with cold. But for the snorting of his horse, there was silence around him; he was alone.
The main group of thieves, Mingo was certain, was likely heading north to draw the militia away while others carrying the gold, the ones he pursued, would circle around to rejoin them later. When the militia and Daniel came after him, they would head north, along the main trail, unaware. But, there was not enoughtime for him to return and alert them.
At the press of his heels, the horse began to pick its way through the low undergrowth, the wind rising. He'd follow on, by himself.
Half an hour later, he reached the edge of a clearing. Clouds gathered overhead and sleet began to fall, filling the air with a soft tapping sound as the hard pellets hit bare trunks and dead leaves on the ground. He squinted, ducking his head against its sting. From a break in the clouds, there was enough light to see, and as best as he could tell, the clearing went on for at least a mile to the west, perhaps even more beyond the rise that lay before him.
While considering his options, Mingo stretched his back in an effort to ease the stiffness. If he entered the clearing, he would be in the open and easily seen, but hugging the forest's edge in safety would cause him to fall further behind and he would have little hope of catching up to those he followed. He glanced about the area and took a deep breath of the cold air.
There was little choice. Mingo urged the horse forward.
After an hour's ride, the northerly wind and sleet began to lessen, and with the clouds thinning somewhat, it was easier to see. The horse snorted noisily as Mingo reined it to a stop. Although he'd come several miles without sighting anyone, he sat up tall, eyes carefully raking the surrounding gray haze in search of movement.
Fingers tingling from the cold, he bent his left arm to pull his gun closer and heard the crack of ice coating his sleeve. Mingo laid the gun across his lap, along with the reins, and wiped the slush off his face with his hands.
Moonlight shone through a break in the clouds and the area suddenly became lighter. Nothing moved in the distance. He exhaled deeply, a white fog appearing then dissipating from his breath. He would have to turn back. They could try to pick up a trail at daylight unless it snowed, covering the tracks. There would be little hope then.
The gap in the clouds closed and he leaned down to gather one of the leather straps that had fallen then patted the heaving animal's neck. As he gently tugged on the reins, turning the horse to his left to return to Frist's camp, Mingo noticed the gray shape of boulders…and saw an unmistakable flash followed by the musket's report.
He kicked the horse, but the metal ball cut deep into his upper left shoulder, nearly knocking him off his mount. Gun falling to the ground, he threw himself forward, grasping at the horse's mane in an effort to hold on as the frightened horse bolted, but he could not and fell hard onto the rocky ground, landing on his side.
Daggers of pain pierced his chest as he drew a breath. Rolling onto his back, he struggled to draw air into his lungs. He heard hoof beats. The pounding drew closer, stopped.
Someone came near, grass crunching underfoot. A shape leaned over him and he felt the hard barrel of a gun press against his chest where his jacket was thrown open. Grayness licked at the edge of his vision and Mingo fought to stay conscious.
"It be a lousy injun!" the stocky man grunted in a raspy voice. Without moving his gun from the Indian's chest, the man kicked where he thought he'd find ribs and was satisfied to hear a gasp of pain for his effort. "Eh, ye got mo' yer filthy frien's wid ye?"
There was no answer and the man carefully stepped away, turning his head in search of others, but saw none. He wondered why an Indian had followed him and not one of the guards. What would an Indian care if the gold disappeared?
The man's horse pawed at the ground, and he jerked on the reins wrapped around his fist. It wouldn't do for him to lose his horse- and the gold- in this awful weather.
He looked around again. He had heard and seen only one rider- probably nobody else had followed. Why this one hadn't crossed the river after his men he didn't know, but the Indian wasn't going anywhere. The area lightened for a moment and he leaned as close as he dared.
"Gonna sen' ye t' yer heathen god- how ye like that!" he crowed, pointing his gun at the Indian who lay at his feet.
The thief pulled the trigger.
It clicked.
"Blasted wet powder!" he hissed. He stepped back in disgust, reaching for his knife. He could slit the heathen's throat, but would have to get close- a lot closer than he wanted to. Even dying, a wild Indian could still fight and he had the ugly scar across his gut to prove it.
The man licked his lips nervously -too much time wasted already. He could see the bloody chest, could hear the labored breathing of the Indian. There was no need to risk getting close; the heathen would be dead by daylight- sooner, if lucky.
"Ye ain't a' goin' nowheres," he spat before quickly climbing onto his horse. He reached back to check the bags of gold tied to his saddle, then whipped the horse into a run.
Through a icy, dark fog, Mingo heard muffled hoofbeats fading. He struggled to breathe as fire tore through his lungs. Gasping a wet, choking breath, he rolled over onto his side, drawing his legs up against the pain.
Cold was seeping into his body; his feet and hands already numb. At least I am not dead, Mingo thought, rousing to full awareness. Something soft and cold touched his face and he slowly opened his eyes. Another landed on his lashes and he blinked.
Snow.
He closed his eyes and groaned as more icy flakes landed delicately around him, on him. It would cover his tracks; no one would be able to find him.
Without help, he would die.
Bleeding to death alone is what I deserve, Mingo thought bitterly. He had betrayed the only two people to befriend him and hurt the woman he loved with all his heart.
The wind stirred, slicing through his body, bringing his focus back to the pain. Brushing away the wetness from his eyes with a shaking hand, he barely made out the mass of boulders nearby.
With his right arm, Mingo pulled weakly at a clump of dead grass and pushed with his feet, edging a few inches closer to the rocks. Struggling, he reached out again and yet again for the boulders and what shelter they could give until the pain faded, his eyes closed, and, with a final vision of a tearful Jemima Kathleen, he felt the cold and hurt no more.
Daniel raised the worn metal cup to his lips and let steam from the strong, black coffee warm his face before taking a sip. Upstairs, he could hear Jemima softly crying. He looked to Rebecca.
"Isn't there anythin' I can do?" he asked, with a heavy sigh.
His wife shook her head. Rebecca reached across the scrubbed, planked table where her family and Mingo had sat for so many meals together and took her husband's rough hand in hers.
"No, you did everything you could, Dan," she answered quietly.
"Wish I knew that fer cert'in." He set the cup down then covered Becky's hand with his.
"You followed the trail as far as possible- you stayed four days searching on your own after-" she faltered for a moment, then took a breath and continued, "-after the horse was found. What more could you do?"
Daniel was quiet. Once Frist's men had gotten horses from the camp's lean-to shed, he and the militia followed the thieves across the river for two days. The militia was looking for any sign of the gold, he was looking for a glimpse of Mingo. They found neither.
On his own, he had turned south to scour yet again the snowy hills and valleys as best he could. The snow, deepening by the hour, made it nearly impossible to search, much less travel.
Upon his return to the militia's camp, he learned the horse Mingo rode out on was found three miles northwest of camp, streaked with dried blood. There was no wound on the animal…the blood must have been Mingo's. Alone, he rode out to comb route to the north the thieves had taken from camp, concentrating on the immediate area. Still, he found no sign of Mingo.
By the end of the week, the snowdrifts prevented any further searching and forced him to the eastern side of the mountain range in order to head south. He returned home to his family a little over three weeks after leaving. Daniel sighed.
"I just keep thinkin' that if we'd done or said somethin' diff'rent to Mingo, this whole situation might never have happened," he explained.
Mingo's words by the fire came back to him- what he was, not who. It stung mightily to admit that when Mingo asked if openly declaring his feelings to Jemima was what he would want, Daniel did not have an answer.
While searching the hills and on the long, cold walk home, Daniel did a powerful lot of thinking about what Mingo said. He thought about his own anger at learning of Mingo's feelings for Jemima, as well.
Mainly, Daniel tried to convince himself that his rage was from being caught off guard. Being surprised in a situation never put him in a good mood andMingo's confession had surprised him mightily.
Still, he had always kept his temper in other, difficult circumstances. In the end, Daniel was forced to admit that Mingo's words had an uncomfortable ring of truth to them.
That had hurt worst of all.
Daniel considered himself a fair man, even prided himself on it. He had fought and risked his life at times for others acceptance- often Mingo's- among the closed-minded settlers and traders. A man should practice what he preached and Daniel tried hard. Yet, when faced with Mingo's question, he had no answer. Maybe if he'd had some inkling…
"Becky, were you s'prised at how Mingo and 'Mima felt 'bout each other?"
Rebecca turned her gaze to the fireplace. On the mantle were two of the books Mingo had given to Jemima. Cinncinatus confided to her that it took Mingo a year to get that first poetry book for Jemima, asking traders who were heading east if they could acquire one for him. Most looked at Mingo as if he had lost all sense, but he persisted until he found a man willing to search out a bookseller in exchange for not an inconsiderable number of furs.
She thought of Jemima's seventeenth birthday. Mingo gave her two more books, delighting her daughter to no end. From the bed she shared with Dan, a gap in the curtains gave her a view of them sitting on the rug by the fire, heads together, bent over the volumes. The two talked late into the night and she had fallen asleep knowing Jemima was safe.
Too, there was the early morning she awoke from a short, uneasy rest to find her daughter asleep at Mingo's side with her hand on his, exhausted from caring for their injured friend. Jemima did not leave him the entire time he was unconscious and stayed close by, attentive and patient, during the following weeks as Mingo recovered.
Becky had seen those same worried, tearful eyes light up in happiness every time Mingo entered their home. Even so, she was certain Jemima had not realized her feelings were more than a deep friendship for Mingo.
When Jemima returned from Williamsburg, Rebecca saw a change, albeit a subtle one, in Mingo's behavior. He watched Jemima only to look away suddenly, as if ill at ease or unsure of himself. Whereas he had teased her in the past, he no longer did, other than to make the occasional gentle comment bringing a smile to her daughter's lips.
As he distanced himself from Jemima, Mingo drew away from her and Dan in small ways, too. He hesitated when asked to stay for dinner and seemed more thoughtful, sometimes restrained, when talking. He also spent more time trapping or hunting alone. Dan, of course, brushed it off when she mentioned it, but Rebecca was sure of what she saw.
The reason for Mingo's behavior became apparent only when she inadvertently saw them embrace and kiss. She should have known - Jemima's reluctance to marry…Mingo's growing silence and distance. Most of all, though, was the way they looked at each other.
Always, even if unknowingly, Mingo and Jemima saw each other through eyes filled with love. Rebecca knew because when Dan looked at her, she saw the same expression in her husband's eyes.
"No, not really," she answered finally, turning back to Daniel. "Maybe I didn't see it clearly before, but I can't say I was surprised."
"I had no idea Mingo felt that way 'bout Jemima…no idea a'tall!" Daniel said critically. How had he failed to see it? His best friend had been in love with his daughter, and she with him…and he'd known nothing of it.
All the time they spent walking side by side over hundreds of miles, nights talking by the campfire, yet Mingo never said a word.
Had Mingo wanted to? Had he been afraid to?
One night last summer, Daniel admitted his disappointment to Mingo that Jemima did not meet anyone in Williamsburg. In addition, she had already refused Jericho and Silas Cummings, both good, honest men. Never dreaming Mingo harbored such feelings for Jemima, Daniel continued, saying there were few men to choose from in Ken Tuckee and he could not think of any man in the area he wanted to see his daughter wed. He added he hoped Jemima would not let another opportunity pass, should a suitable man from a respectable family offer.
Mingo said little in reply other than to wish him goodnight before rolling up in his blanket and turning on his side, away from him.
Had Mingo rightly taken that as a sign his mixed parentage wasn't acceptable? Had he made Mingo feel less than equal?
What had it been like for his friend, in love yet ashamed to speak of his feelings?
Thinking of how much he loved his own wife and how empty his life would be without Becky, Daniel shut his eyes, his head bowed.
He'd failed his friend; he'd failed his daughter.
"I'd give 'bout anythin' fer a second chance," Daniel said quietly, bringing his gaze up to meet Rebecca's. He shook his head. Then, thinking not just about Mingo, but also himself, he added, "You think you know a body…"
"A person's heart can be hard to read, especially when it is guarded closely," Rebecca replied with a sad, thoughtful expression. "I thought Mingo knew how we felt about him. There's nothing we could have done differently, Dan."
"Maybe you're right," he conceded, wanting with all his heart to believe what she said was true, but unable to. He rubbed Rebecca's hand absently. Above them, Jemima's sobs were quieter. Daniel hoped she could get some sleep. It had been a rough evening for them all.
He placed both hands on the table and pushed, coming to his feet. Rebecca rose and came around the table to stand beside him. She wrapped her arms around his middle; Daniel held her close. Over her head, he looked at the dying fire.
"Still, it's not much comfort. Not much a'tall."
Eyes barely open, Mingo lay still and looked around. White. Everything was white. At the edge of his vision, he could see figures moving and they were white, too.
I must be dead, he reasoned. He saw the figures come closer…angels? He blinked in the harsh light- no, not angels- Creeks. He let his eyes close.
He was in Hell.
It was only fitting, he admitted, as the whiteness faded. It was only what he deserved. Mingo sighed with painful acceptance and lost awareness.
"And what are we to do with him?" the woman quietly asked the man at her side, in their native Creek language. The Cherokee's eyes had opened briefly, without his speaking. He was still breathing and so she knew he was not dead.
She stepped closer to get a better look at the man who lay half-curled in the rock's protective hollow. His shoulder and chest were caked with drying blood. He was large with thick arms and legs- a strong man. His face was unmarked by disease or injury, and there was a look of intelligence about him.
At his side were a knife and a long, leather strap- a whip. She drew back, fearful. She'd heard of men taking members of other tribes away to be slaves for white settlers on the flatland farms.
"We can take him back, give help as we are able," the man replied simply, pulling his ragged blanket tighter about his shoulders. The sun did little to warm the air.
The woman thought. Banished from their tribe, they had little to offer but a crude camp. Still, the Cherokee covered with blood before them had even less. The injured man would freeze to death if no one provided help. With a serious injury and having been out in the cold, it was surprising the wounded Indian was still alive. They could share their meager comforts with him.
Was this not what the white teacher said they were to do? Why did they endure exile if they were not going to follow the teachings of the white man's book about the Great Spirit called God?
They would help him, she decided. Cautiously, she leaned closer and touched the unconscious man, then stepped back, quickly. He did not stir.
With difficulty, her husband managed to lift the Cherokee across his shoulder and stood. He made sure of his footing, and then nodded to his wife. Silently, she turned, leading the way to their camp in a cave, west of the meadow. She offered a prayer that they were not too late to save the Indian whose name they did not know.
Israel pulled his arm back then swung with all his might. Thwack! Dust flew from the heavy, multi-colored rag rug. He screwed his face up in concentration and then hauled back for another blow.
"Israel, please be careful of it," his sister said, her voice barely above a whisper. There was no emotion in her words and no trace of displeasure crossed her features.
"Gotta get the dust out," he answered, and laid into the rug again, watching his sister as he did. She wrung the soapy curtain then dropped it into the bucket of clean water heated over the morning's fire. Steam curled from the water- there was still a hard chill to the air. Israel wondered if his ma's earlier than normal spring-cleaning was a way to keep his sister busy. It was sure keeping him busy.
"I worked a long time on that," she murmured. "Please do not hit it so hard."
Israel frowned. For almost two months now, Jemima had been sad and quiet. He couldn't get a rise out her no matter how he tried. She never got angry anymore; she never smiled or laughed, either.
Something had happened, but he wasn't sure what. Israel only knew it happened about the time Mingo left and didn't return. Three weeks later, Pa came home and said their friend was dead. Ma and Jemima cried. He did too, but tried to hide it. He was too old to cry- he was nearly a man.
He missed Mingo. Israel sighed and whacked the rug again, harder. This time Jemima said nothing.
Mingo had been a second pa to him- showing him how to do all sorts of useful things in the forest, even teaching him how to use the bullwhip. It always hurt him to see the scar on Mingo's arm caused by his own stubborn foolishness. The cut barely healed, Mingo had taken him to a clearing away from the cabin- and Ma- to teach him how to use the whip properly. Mingo had a way of talking to him that didn't make him feel dumb or like a child.
Israel enjoyed the times when Mingo read stories in the evening, at the cabin. It was even something he had looked forward to. Jemima and Mingo were always talking about books. He wasn't so partial to them himself, but Mingo made them come alive. Now Mingo was never coming back. Israel bit his lip to make it stop trembling.
Everything had changed. The cabin was too quiet. Ma spoke softer now, especially to his sister and she had a sad look as she watched Jemima go silently about her chores. Ma didn't fuss no matter what he did. A scolding or whippin'– any kind of response from Ma like before would be better than the quiet correction and hug before sending him back to his work.
Even Pa was different, Israel thought. He looked older and tired, didn't joke like before. Sometimes Pa sat staring at the fire just lost in thought, as if he was pondering something hard to figure out. He didn't talk as much now, either.
It worried Israel. It worried him a lot.
He gave the rug another blow, then decided it was aired enough and pulled it from where it hung over the lower limb of the oak tree. The edges dragged the ground and he was sure his sister would make a fuss over the dirt. He hoped Jemima would, but she just kept washing the red-checkered curtains.
Israel unrolled a smaller throw rug and tossed it over the limb, pulling at the edges to straighten it. It was over six weeks since Pa had come home with the news about Mingo. He wondered if things would ever be back to normal, then decided it couldn't because Mingo was gone.
Israel bent to pick up the willow rug beater he'd tossed aside. As he stood, he spotted something moving in the woods beyond the clearing and froze, gaping at the familiar shape.
Mingo!
The trail was one Mingo had walked hundreds of times and he knew it well. Down the hill, just beyond the rock outcropping was the Boone cabin…and Jemima Kathleen.
He leaned his musket against a rock and absently rubbed his shoulder, which ached from the lingering cold in the air. The wound had healed, for the most part, but the pain remained and he could not yet raise his arm above chest height. Perhaps when the weather warmed it would heal further.
If not, it mattered little.
Life held nothing to look forward to. He had no place to go, no friends, and no possibility for happiness.
There was only one reason for his return- he would see Kathleen and make sure she was all right. How he could make amends, Mingo did not know, but come what may, he would try.
Daniel and Rebecca would surely be angry; he only hoped Jemima Kathleen could find forgiveness in her heart for him.
He could not live knowing Jemima Kathleen hated him.
Mingo flexed his arm, working out some of the tightness before retrieving his musket. Lone Owl had found it in the meadow and rubbed the gun with grease to protect it. The Indian couple nursed him back to health, sharing their scant food supply with him. He owed them his life, such as it was.
After speaking with Jemima Kathleen and her parents, he decided he would collect the money Cinncinatus owed him for furs sold earlier in the winter and buy shot, powder, and supplies, and then leave. He would take provisions to Lone Owl and White Deer and insist on their accepting specie for later use. After that, he did not know. He would deal with the future later.
Gathering his courage, Mingo set off, rounding the bend in the trail, past the stand of Poplars and over the small run that filled to overflowing when the spring rains came. He descended the shallow slope where blackberry vines would soon burst with white blossoms, and steeled his heart for whatever Daniel and Rebecca had to say.
He deserved their anger and mistrust. He deserved far worse from Kathleen.
Heart pounding, Mingo stepped into the clearing… and saw her. There was a shout and he heard his name called as Israel ran toward him. Mingo willed his legs to move and without taking his eyes from Jemima Kathleen, walked across the yard to where she stood, stopping several paces away.
His gun fell against a stack of cut wood. Israel squeezed his hand then ran off to the cabin, his whoops of joy bringing Rebecca and Daniel to the porch, asking their son what was the matter.
Mingo turned to look at them, but no words came. Rebecca wiped her eyes; Daniel stared.
"Please, may I speak to your daughter?" Mingo finally managed.
After gently pushing Israel toward the cabin door, Rebecca took her husband's arm. Daniel made as if to say something then simply nodded.
Mingo turned back to Kathleen and slowly covered the distance between them, coming to stand two arm length's away.
Water dripped down her arms from the wet rag she clutched to her breast, and she wore a faded apron with a frayed shawl, her hair tied back in an old rag. To Mingo, she had never looked more beautiful.
She stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted slightly. Mingo looked away briefly as he remembered how soft they'd felt against his own. He drew a deep breath and began.
"Kathleen…I am very sorry for the hurt I've caused you. Truly, I never meant to hurt you. I would rather die than hurt you."
Tears coming to her eyes, she said nothing.
"I had no right to say what I did or…kiss you. If you can, Kathleen, I beg you to forgive my forward behavior."
"Then, you did not mean what you said?" she asked, her words barely above a whisper.
"I never meant to say such things to you," he replied, though he'd meant them with all his heart.
"And our kiss…you do not… care for me?" Tears were running down her cheeks.
Mingo felt his heart ache. How could he explain? He stepped closer and lifted his hand to brush the tears away then stopped, knowing that if he touched her, this time he would not be able to let her go.
"Kathleen, I care for you more than anything in this world, but-"
"And I care for you- I love you!"
"You and I…we should not-" Mingo stopped, taken aback as her words sank in. He shook his head, desperate for her to comprehend what he was trying to say. "No, Kathleen, we cannot…"
She dropped the wet material and came to him, taking his hands. His were rough and dark; hers were soft and fair. She held them tightly between her own.
"Mingo, I don't understand!"
"We should not…there are reasons…" The ache increased, his throat tightened. "What reasons? Why should we be apart?"
"Our being together…is not right."
"You do not wish to be in my company?"
"You are a joy..." ...my only joy.
"I see no reason why we can't-"
"I…I have no home to offer you," he interrupted, barely able to think straight.
"Can you not build one?" she countered.
She was so close... he could smell fragrance of the herbsfrom her soap and he thought of how soft hercheek had felt against his.He raised his head, looking away to the trees...anything but Kathleen, trying to clear his thoughts, to remember the reasons that kept them apart. "I am older than you."
"Do you still think of me as a child?" she asked. He could hear the hurt in her voice.
"No!" Mingo shook his head. "No, you are not a child, Kathleen."
"Is age so important between hearts?" she asked, holding his hands to her chest. Through her thin dress, he could feel the warmth of her on his fingers.
"You might wish for someone your own age-" This was unbearable!
"If that were so, I've had ample opportunity," she replied impatiently.
"No one would approve-"
"Do you choose actions based on other's opinions?" she asked in disbelief.
"It would be difficult for you if…" His words trailed off. Please, God, help her understand!
"Not if we are together. You have not given me one good reason!" Kathleen's frustration was turning to anger. "You say that I am not a child, yet you do not think I am capable of making my own decisions or knowing my own heart! I don't understand! Mingo, there isno reason we can't-"
Mingo pulled his hands from hers, stumbling away.
"Can't you see? I am an Indian!" he said desperately, spreading his arms out wide before letting them fall to his sides. "I am despised and looked down upon by my own father's blood! On any given day, there is someone in Boonesborough who wouldn't think twice of killing me for what I am- and two more men who would gladly help!"
Jemima Kathleen's eyes widened. On the porch, Rebecca tightened her hold on Daniel's arm.
"I can not truly be a member of my mother's world, either. I am mistrusted and my actions are always suspect. In the eyes of my own people, I am worse than a half-breed, for I have lived as an Englishman!"
He lifted his hands, pleading for her to understand. "I live between two worlds as best I can, Kathleen. There's little joy…there's little hope. Please, listen to me! I cannot have you brought down to such an existence. I will not."
Jemima Kathleen looked at him steadily, a determined fire flaring to life in her eyes. He had thought her beautiful before…now she was breathtaking.
"I do not care what other people think," she said, slowly advancing toward to him, "and I do not care who your parents are or if you are fourteen years older than I. I do not care if we live under the sky by day and sleep under the stars by night! I love you for who you are, Mingo, and nothing will ever change that!"
She stopped in front of him. Her look softened and she placed her hand gently on his arm. "Please, Mingo, listen to what I am saying."
"Kathleen, we cannot." He took her hands in his, holding them tightly. "I want you to have a life that is better than the one I can give you.I...care about you."
"And I love you. I want to share my life with you…only you," she whispered.
Dear God, he wanted her; she was all he wanted. How could he fight this? Mingo touched her cheek with his fingers.
Could he walk away and leave her forever?
She was his life.
He could not.
With a sigh, Mingo wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "I have little to offer," he said quietly as she embraced him in return. "I have nothing to give you."
"I only want your love. It will be enough."
He closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against her hair. "You have my love, Jemima Kathleen-"
Boone.
Mingo looked to the porch where her parents stood, Daniel leaning on Ticklicker. If Daniel were going to shoot him, now would be the time to do it. He released Kathleen and took a step away from her. He swallowed, took a breath.
"Rebecca…Daniel…I have no right to ask…"
He waited, but Daniel did not answer.
Deep in thought, Daniel silently leaned Ticklicker against the porch rail, then, with Rebecca at his side, slowly crossed the yard to the couple. He stood in front of his daughter, watching her intently.
"'Mima, are you cert'in this is what you want?" Daniel asked gently, taking her hands in his. In her eyes, he saw a woman in love, one who would hold onto that love come what may. He blinked quickly- she was so much like her mother. He wondered if Mingo knew just how special Jemima was.
She smiled. "Yes, Pa, with all my heart."
Daniel sucked in a deep breath and nodded. It was the answer he'd expected, but somehow, it was still hard to hear. Letting go of his daughter was harder than he expected. He smiled at her, to reassure himself as much as Jemima. "I know."
He squeezed Jemima's hands then released them. She was no longer his little girl- her heart belonged to another.
He turned to face Mingo, who waited uncertainly. Daniel looked at his friend as if he could see into the very soul of the man who would claim Jemima's heart. After a long moment, Daniel was sure.
"Take care of my daughter, Mingo. She's-" He stopped suddenly, unable to continue.
"I will…with all my heart," Mingo answered, looking from Daniel to Rebecca.
Daniel nodded andcleared his throat, blinking rapidly.
"I know you will." He cleared his throat again and put his arm around his wife. An immense weight lifted from his heart and Daniel smiled as he watched Mingo take Jemima's hand.
"Well,Mingo, I'd say you got things 'pert near straightened out. What's missin' is your kissin' my daughter and askin' her t'marry you."
Mingo and Jemima looked at each other with pure joy.
Daniel turned awayandled Rebecca to the cabin then stopped at the steps. He hefted Ticklicker before turning back to the pair. Daniel motioned toward them with the tip of his gun and grinned.
"Now, you two jus' stay out here in the cold fer as long as you want to."
Wiping away a tear, Rebecca laughed as her husband pulled herup the step, ontothe porch where Israel stood peeking around the corner. In the doorway, Rebecca stopped to look over her shoulder at Mingo and Jemima, now wrapped in each other's arms.
"Mingo," Rebecca called sweetly.
He looked up.
"Welcome to the family!"
I hope you have enjoyed this. If so, please leave a review or drop me an email. There will be a sequel...eventually!
