“Oh.” The news was a shock, only because she’d quite forgot the small matter of Ian’s former wife. “That’s … very good of him.”

Ian lifted one shoulder.

“Aye, well, it’s manners to send word, if it’s a formal visit—and this is,” he added, glancing at her. “But ye’re right, it’s good of him to go himself. I dinna ken whether it’s respect for Uncle Jamie, or for Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa—”

“He thinks highly of her, then.” Rachel tried to make that a statement and not a question, but Ian was sensitive to tones of voice.

“She’s one of his people, his family,” he said simply. “She was with him in Unadilla, the last time I saw her. Long before you and I were wed.” He turned to the window again, shading his eyes against the light.

“Where d’ye think Silvia’s gone?”

No more than a moment’s thought supplied the answer.

“She’s gone to get her daughters,” Rachel said, with certainty. Ian stared at her.

“Is she in any condition to ride?”

“Absolutely not.” Agitation made Rachel stiffen, and Oggy dug his fingers into her breast in order to hold on. “Ow!”

“I’d best go find her then. Give Mrs. Brant my apologies about her dinner.”

85

A Moonlicht Flicht

IAN PAUSED TO PUT on his bearskin jacket—there was only a haze in the sky, but it was the lavender color that foretold snow, and the air was chilling fast—but didn’t bother to arm himself beyond the knife in his belt. Even if Gabriel Hardman was a lapsed Quaker, he didn’t think a maimed man on crutches would be a difficulty. He was glad that he hadn’t roached his hair for this visit; if he had to ride to Canajoharie and back in the cold and snow, his own pelt would serve him well enough.

He strode out of the house, heading for the barn where they’d left their horses. Silvia wasn’t a good rider, and even if she’d managed to saddle and bridle her horse alone, she wouldn’t have got far.

He’d heard the random bangs of pistol fire, but hadn’t paid attention. His mother hailed him, though, and he saw that she and the Sachem had had their contest: a grubby handkerchief was pinned to a huge, bare oak, perforated with singed and blackened holes.

Jenny was flushed from the cold, and her cap had come off when she threw back the hood of her cloak. She was groping behind her head in search of it, and laughing at something the Sachem had said to her, and despite her silver-gray hair, Ian, rather startled, thought she looked like a girl.

“Okwaho, iahtahtehkonah,” the Sachem said, seeing Ian. He smiled broadly, looking at Jenny. “Your mother is deadly.”