Rachel
by
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Early October dusk settled over the central Pennsylvania wilderness. Almost hidden by towering trees, a log shack huddled by a small corn field. Inside, Rachel Stewart moved to light a candle in the window, pausing to shade her eyes and peer out toward the gate. She addressed a dark-haired toddler bouncing on the bed. "Your daddy is four days late, Willie. Surely he will come tonight." Sitting on a stool in front of the fireplace she started rhythmically pushing on her spinning wheel treadle. "As soon as I finish spinning this roving, we'll go to sleep. The yarn is for a new scarf I'm knitting for your daddy." She jumped at a heavy rapping, then smiled. "That will be him, funning me by knocking." She hurried to the door, smoothing back stray wisps of long brown hair, and pulling her worn apron straight. Opening the door, she stared at a tall militiaman standing on the stoop. He stepped back and removed his hat. Glancing past him at the two horses tied to a nearby tree, she asked, "Who are you? Isn't that my husband's horse? Where is he?" He hesitated, then saluted. "Private Barton Ames, Ma'am, First Brigade of the Eleventh Division, Pennsylvania Militia." He turned his hat in both bony hands, keeping his eyes down to watch them at work. "I have bad news for you." A coldness rose inside her and spread outward, numbing her arms and legs. She groped for support on the rough door frame, and sucked in air, unconsciously reaching to protect her unborn child. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but Captain James Stewart is dead. He's been buried in the Presbyterian Church Cemetery at Lancaster." "No, no, that can't be!" The ground started swinging in an arc. A light-headed sensation engulfed her. Barton dropped his hat as he reached out to catch her. "Please don't fall, Ma'am. Here, I'll help you inside." "Dead? My James dead? He said he'd come home in two weeks." The dizziness faded, and Rachel drew away, adjusting her cap with long, thin fingers. She took a deep breath. "You'd best come in." She didn't recognize her own strangled voice. The soldier took her arm again, but she pulled away. As they entered the one-room cabin Rachel stepped to the bed, scooped up her child and held him close. He wrapped his arms and legs about her body. Barton asked, "How old's the boy?" Rachel's green eyes met his, then dropped to her son. "Nearly two. He favors his father, James. James," she whispered, and stroked her son's black hair. She thought, James can't be dead. We love each other too much. We've been married but three years. I can see him turning to wave when he left, so proud of his new uniform and rank of Captain. She smiled at the image and drew herself up straight. "He is not dead. You must have the wrong James Stewart. There is another here in the township." Her voice dwindled as she watched the soldier reach to an inner pocket and withdraw a gold watch.
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About the Book
Rachel Stewart has a toddler, William, and is five-and-a-half months pregnant when she receives word that her husband has died and been buried. Her exploitative father, William Bratton, Esquire, tries to take control of her life. He sells all her belongings at an auction, pays James’ debts, and keeps the remaining money. Women in frontier Pennsylvania in 1804 have few legal rights, including over their children. In the eyes of the court, her son is considered an orphan, and her father takes Willie to raise. Baffled by a court system that supports her father, Rachel struggles to be independent and to keep her sons. She is aided by her two brothers-in-law, her mother, and her friends, but it is a long, difficult conflict.
About the Author
Lori Micken, a retired biology teacher, lives on a small ranch near Livingston, Montana, where she and Linda Stewart raise Shetland Sheep. Born in Cut Bank, Montana, Lori remained n the state all her life. Genealogy is one of her hobbies. Rachel is the result of research in Pennsylvania and five year’s writing effort. Ms. Micken writes for W.O.W., a science magazine for kids. In her first book, Homespun Talk, she edited and published her mother’s newspaper columns. She has written two books of western poetry, Hayhooks, Black Lace, and Levis, and Bungies, Bulls and Bras.