Shadowbrook by Beverly Swerling

Not even John was stupid enough to put his horses on half rations. But he was stupid enough—or mean enough—to ignore the fact that it wasn’t lowered supply causing the financial troubles at Shadowbrook, simply less demand: cheap Pennsylvania wheat was driving the better New York product out of the market.
    Quent walked back to where Corm squatted on the ground, checking the sight of his long gun. “My father’s been an invalid for years. I can’t remember the last time he was able to walk without sticks. But he’s always been too ornery to die. What makes my mother think that’s about to change?”
    Cormac got to his feet and tested the repair he’d made to the long gun’s carrying strap. “Good thing that dirk of yours is so sharp. You sliced this through nice and clean. Made it easy to fix.”
    Quent looked at the scar his dirk had made on Cormac’s face. Twenty years and the pain and guilt were no less, despite the fact that a short time after it happened both boys had solemnly smoked the calumet, and the fight was truly over, forgotten and forgiven. Quent made himself ignore the scar and his feelings; it was a sin against the calumet to do otherwise. “Tell me why my mother thinks the old bastard’s going to die.”
    “Your uncle, Caleb Devrey, Miss Lorene’s brother, he’s a doctor and he came and said so.”
    “All the way from New York City?”
    “Yes. He said—”
    There was a terrible noise. Nicole was rocking back and forth, making a sound of grief and pain that was like the scrape of a sharp stone on glass, so piercing it hurt the ears.
    Cormac swung around.
“Est-ce que vous êtes folle? Silence!”
    The girl didn’t stop wailing. “Who is she?” Quent demanded. “And why are you responsible for her?”
    “It’s a long story. I told you, I’ll explain later. Listen, about your father, you’ve got to—”
    Quent turned away and strode over to Nicole. “You must be quiet. We’re in the middle of Iroquois country.”
    Her cries got louder, and she looked at him as if he were not there. Quent knew she was gazing into some terrible hell in her own mind.
    He picked her up. She was limp in his grip, her arms clasped over her heart, her mouth still open, still making those terrible noises. Carring her over to the stream, he waded into the middle of it, then dropped her. She landed on her backside, and tiny though she was, made a formidable splash.
    Even this late in the season the water was icy with the melting snow of the high peaks to the east. Nicole screamed and flailed around, beating the racing water with her fists, trying to get to her feet but constantly defeated by the slippery, uneven rocks that formed the streambed. Quent watched as she eventually managed to stand up. The struggle had left her soaked from head to foot. Her dress, already torn and filthy from their flight through the forest, clung to every generous curve of her small body. “You are a madman!
Un idiot!”
    “I told you, we’re in Iroquois country. You were keening so’s a half-dead deaf-and-blind old man could find us, let alone a few bloodthirsty braves.”
    She shuddered. “Those Indians, the ones back there at the glen, they will come looking for us?”
    “I don’t think so. That bunch has no reason to want us dead and every reason to want us alive. But that doesn’t mean you should tempt fate. There are others around who have different intentions.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was making any sound at all.” She stopped looking at him and looked down at herself. Her cheeks reddened when she saw how much the wet garments revealed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured again.
    “It doesn’t matter,” Quent said kindly. “We seem to be pretty much alone, for the moment. Ohio Country’s a big place.”
    “What is this Ohio Country? I thought we were in the
pays d’en haut!”
    “Not exactly. That’s what the Canadians call the land north of us around the big lakes. As far as the Potawatomi and