The Patriot's Daughter

Stranger in the Woods

I GASP UNDER THE pressure of fingernails digging roughly into my skin and carelessly pushing me up against the tree's rough surface. I feel the muscle that's holding me down through bulky limbs.
My eyes lock with . . . the face of a boy?
Instinctively, I place my palms flat on the chest of the stranger and push with all of my might. Kicking my leg out as he stumbles backwards, I hit him full force in the gut with my boot. He only loses balance for a moment, not easily taken off guard by my move.
I catch a breath, forcing a strand of hair out of my mouth. "Who are you?" I begin to circle him, putting distance between us with nimble steps. I run my eyes over him in two blinks.
His clothes say that he is a regular citizen, but his shoes are more sturdy, like they're ready to defend the ground on which he stands. A haversack wraps across his shoulder to his hip, several pieces of paper peeking through the top of the small bag. He shuffles to the side and back curiously, silent, seeming to relax once he perceives me as no threat.
I study the paper again. Parchment. The type that costs more than normal . . .
Messenger?
The stranger dips his head the slightest bit, peering under a mysterious gaze. My muscles tense more than before. His eyes land square on mine. "I was going to ask you the same question, Miss." The rasp in his voice is light. A mix of man and adolescent.
I stop in front of him, now yards away, clenching the blade wrapped by my fingers. "I asked first."
He stands with his hand on the bag, which I must assume holds a weapon of some sort inside. His brow furrows in and back up. "Do you really believe I would hurt a small, foreign girl like you?"
I quicken—"You're one to speak. You seem hardly of age yourself." It's obvious he isn't all boy. His height and strapping build add a look of valor to his demeanor, but I refuse to be impressed, tilting my head to the side. "How old are you anyways, twelve?" I flutter my eyelashes. "Perhaps thirteen?"
A winsome grin tugs at his lips, and he flicks a brow upwards. "You seem to have great intuition."
I return his narrowed gaze. It becomes clear by his stare that he has the upper hand, challenging eyes leveled on mine.
Just who does he think he is . . .
Suddenly the stranger turns casually, walking towards the tree I leaned against earlier. A short ponytail lies at the nape of his neck, dirty blonde hair held by a black ribbon. "I suggest you scurry back to where you came from if you wish to not tell me your name."
I stay in my place, feet planted on the ground. "If it is just a name you want, you could have asked for one before I insulted you."
A hint of mischief appears on his face as he crosses his ankles and let's the tree fully support his weight. "And are you apologizing for such a repulsive insult, Miss . . . ?"
"Hardly," I chuckle. "Though I would expect you to be able to stand such an offense if you really are more than just a—diminutive boy." I cock my head to the side, my mouth a sly smile. 
He stands still for a short moment, then releases his grip on the flap and crosses his arms this time, his actions appearing more carefree by the second.
I wave my hand. "Are you not aware that I hold a dagger?"
"Oh—I am fully aware, but you won't use it. Yet, anyway."
I only furrow my brow at him with a beady stare, wanting to say something back, but not knowing what. He slightly grins at my hesitation, obviously pleased with himself. I draw in a sharp breath. "You're right, I won't . . . yet. But do not doubt my ability to slice with this thing. You wouldn't be the first I've used it on."
It's not a lie. Though only on animals for our dinner table, I have in fact used the blade. But, I'm sure I could cut through human skin just as easily enough to defend myself if there was ever a need. God forbid.
He adjusts a broad shoulder against the tree. "Tough choice of words for a child to use."
Irritated by his audacity, my brow furrows in. "I'm no child."
He remains silent. Eyes fluttering to mine, his hand slides into the haversack and makes me instinctively crouch.
I ready my blade.
But rather than a weapon emerging from inside, a ripe apple rests in his palm as he pulls his hand out.
He gestures to the fruit. "Hungry?"
I let out a relieved breath, but continue to stay silent with knees still bent, ready for anything as I eye the apple suspiciously. Of course it looks appealing, and it makes my mouth water. I haven't eaten in hours nor seen an apple so ripe and red in months. But I pull back and whisper in my head not to accept the delicious invitation, shaking my head stiffly.
"Don't say I didn't offer." He shrugs at my reluctance, taking a wide bite near to the apple's core.
I ignore the tempting sounds of his chewing. "Might I ask again who you are? Or should I perhaps just pry the words out of you?" I glance at the blade, eyes then running down to his weaponless hand. "You don't seem to have much fight in you."
"Perhaps." He nods, but there's something else lying behind his eyes. "But really, Miss, you shouldn't judge someone so quickly whom you've only just met."
"Ah ha, except we haven't met."
"So, you are willing to give me a name then?"
   I shake my head like a parent aggravated by her persistent child. And I thought I was stubborn. "I also never said that I desired to meet."
"Well? Do you?" He smiles, prodding in a relentless way.
"Please. Stop with the child's play. I am simply a lady who has run into a suspicious stranger, and is trying to decide if he is only a local schoolboy!"
"Miss, I can assure you," his voice turns stern, "I am quite the contrary."
Noting how his words carry more grit, a light shudder runs across my skin. Then the playful tone that was there before comes back, as if on cue, as he lets out an impatient sigh. "Though I can't blame a poor settlement girl for such bad judgment."
I tilt up my chin. "Must I remind you that you have no idea to whom you are speaking?"
"I can't help but hear pretentiousness in those words." He lowers the apple from his mouth and takes a few steps forward. I stay in my place but keep the knife at my hip ready for use. "But, you're right again. I don't. So tell me then . . . why not end my misery and reveal who you really are?" His eyes glint mysteriously as his legs carry him closer to me. "What is it that you are hiding?"
"I might not be hiding anything. Pity for you really." My eyes flash, burning into his. "You'll never find out." Inching closer, he appears larger the nearer he gets. "However," hiding a gulp, I fumble backwards slightly, "I have just as much reason to question you as you do me, do I not?"
"True." With him standing now only a few feet away, I raise my blade higher as a threat. He raises his hands to show that he holds no weapon. "How about we introduce ourselves so that the suspicion will fade?"
I pause, making confidence sound in my voice. "I will always be suspicious of the people I meet until after long years of knowing them."
A lazy smile spreads across his lips. "Well, you have to at least start with knowing them." He glances at my only weapon. "Like civilized people . . ." His smirk stays in the corners of his mouth and it makes me doubt if I can trust him.
No, of course I cannot! It would be foolish to let my guard down, Papa would not be proud. Though . . . it wouldn't hurt to learn the young man's name.
Carefully, I lower the blade slightly and let it rest by my waist, still available for use. "Are you a messenger?"
He finally lowers his arms and stands still. "Ah—very observant. Yes and no. I do participate in the work of a messenger, but this time is . . . different," he trails off.
My curiosity beats any control of my tongue. "This time?"
His eyebrows shoot up. "It'd be my pleasure to stay a little longer and perhaps indulge you with stories of the dangers a messenger like myself encounters, stories so captivating they would make you swoon, but unfortunately, I'm needed elsewhere."
My mouth parts in a stumble to find a response, head shaking. "I—"
He smiles playfully once again, like he's holding a secret wrapped up tightly in a covering, not willing to risk letting it be discovered, but tempting me to take a peek under it's veil.
   My cheeks redden. "Do you always smile so cunningly?" I squirm uncomfortably under his stare, now eager for his leaving.
  His grin widens in satisfaction, charm etched across his face. "In all honesty, Miss, it's not hard to smile when there is something right in front of you to smile about."
My skin grows an even deeper shade of red, as red as the apple still in his hand. I glance at the ground in embarrassment. I've never been talked to in such a way by the opposite gender. I do wish someone would tell me, are they always this bold with their words?
We stand there for a short moment, completely silent. I feel him studying me in an intriguing sort of way. He seems . . . eager. So very eager to get me to talk, while trying to act like he doesn't really care. Perhaps he's just curious . . . who wouldn't be after running into a stranger in the mysterious woods?
I try to ignore the redness I can practically feel racing up my neck, asking the same question as before. "Where did you come from?"
He points a rough looking finger at me, the skin coated in dried dirt, it's cuticles peeling from lack of care. "Where did you come from?"
I shake my head. "This bantering is a waste of my time."
"If that were the case, you wouldn't still be here." He tilts his chin up with a sparkle in his eye.
   "Because you know me so well now, do you?"
He flashes a smile. "I could! Come on then, where are you from?"
I contort every possible feature in my face. "Do you realize that your argument is completely illogical? You demand for my name when you refuse to give me your own!"
"As do you!" His face contorts back.
I huff, crunching the sides of my dress with both hands. "Just—how about we go our separate ways, resuming our own business? You said you're needed elsewhere, after all," I lightly mock, flicking up a brow.
He pauses and I watch him run a hand through his blonde hair. Ready to end this frustrating encounter, I pause as he suddenly walks closer, his steps cautious.
"Listen . . . I apologize if I've upset you." He lifts his hand up, pointing behind my back. "I shouldn't even be here. I'm supposed to be there."
My muscles tense instinctively. "River Springs?" I raise a brow and lower my voice. "What business do you have there?"
He takes another step forward, eyes growing softer. "You see . . . I'm looking for someone. That is why I'm so relentless about names. They're often my number one tool, the last piece to the puzzle. If I have something I need to deliver—" grinning, he pats the paper poking out of the bag at his waist, taking yet another step forward, "then I need a name. Otherwise delivering is nearly impossible." His grin softly fades, replaced with a flash of regret. "My name isn't important, Miss. I'm just a messenger whom I'm sure you will find no worth in remembering after we depart." He takes one more step, nearly closing the gap between us, and I notice that it's not just charm hidden behind his eyes, but also a past. Grief. Pain. Endurance.
This messenger is different . . . very different from ones that I've met in Papa's militia.
As I inch barely closer, intrigued, his gaze falls on the rest of my face, studying me with this gentle nature I've only ever seen in Papa.
There's always a twinkle in Papa's eyes. Always some sort of gleam. For a moment, it's as if that same twinkle hides behind the young man's eyes. The one that makes me feel safe, as though I'm being held even though there are no arms wrapped around me. I catch this odd resemblance between the two, perplexed at how alike something feels about them. I know it's not their features or hair color, but their presence, their manner.
Yes, that's it.
It's somehow the same.
He furrows his brow in, sweeping a thoughtful gaze over my face, and his boot barely brush mine. "This chat has been nice, Miss. But I must leave." My lips fumble, body frozen as he strides past me. "I have duties. I can't explain, I'm sorry."
I whip around in ire, glancing upward and catching a Red Cardinal fly above, looking back down to eye the stranger taking urgent strides. My fists clench and my mouth curls. "You're just going to leave, just like that?"
"Maybe I should have been more clear." He spins, great annoyance shining in his eyes as they lie on mine. "If you wish to not give me a name, then I will be going." He adjusts the bag at his waist, swinging it to his other side. He blinks once, twice, before shrugging his shoulders indifferently. "Fine. Good day, Miss." He nods, turning and proceeding towards my town.
My eyes linger on his figure, lips pursed. "Oh for the love of . . ." A mumble slides out of my gritted teeth. "It's Maddie! Maddie Holt!"
He whips around in a beat. His eyes light with a sudden unbelief. Trampling through leaves and twigs, an air of excitement takes over his steps. "Maddie Holt, you're Maddie Holt?"
My gaze stays on the excitement in his eyes and the vigor burning inside of them. "Yes . . ."
    "The real Maddie Holt?"
"Yes, yes. I am." I shake my head in puzzlement, following his every movement. He reaches down, searching through the bag I sense never leaves his reach. "What is it? Am I . . ." I trail off, my eyes casting down to the ground. Is Papa harmed? Captured? Worse? I look up with a snap of my head. "Are you here for me?"
He leans in, an impish smile on his lips. "I guess it's my turn to give a name." Though authority and decorum lies behind his voice, as does this hint of effortlessness, like the words roll off his tongue without much thought as he speaks. "Miss Holt, my name is Liam O'Dally, a messenger and patriot sent by Col. John Holt to deliver you a letter regarding our opposition." His voice lowers. "From your father."
I open my mouth, only to close it after no words come to mind. For a moment, I only stare into the eyes of a messenger sent on the colonel's behalf and can see nothing else.
"Miss Holt?"
Then I see the piece of parchment paper, perfectly folded, lying in his hand, waiting for me to retrieve. I see it's yellow hue, glistening faintly under the sun's warm bath. The mysterious messenger, Liam, nudges the letter closer to me, his smile fading.
Our eyes meet. My pulse quickens.
I wrap my fingers around the scratchy piece of paper, somehow sensing, feeling, hearing, already seeing the words of my Papa written inside.

***

*Hope you enjoyed chapter 3!! What did you think of Liam?? Pretty charming, yea? :)