by Laura Frantz
“Ever consider building a rifle platform in that silver maple?”
Ross and Tessa stared at him.
“Ponder it,” he added, handing back her pole. “Might make a fine lookout with so much sign reported.”
He led his horse up the sandy bank, then swung himself in the saddle. With a fare-thee-well, they poled back across the Buckhannon, the west wind hastening them.
“Pa never saw a need for such,” Ross said in wonderment as they bumped up to the shore.
“And Pa got himself killed,” she replied.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent awaiting the expected party that never materialized, fishing, and pondering the treed platform. Ross even shimmied up the giant maple to determine a suitable height. Soon she was peering up the soaring trunk to see the worn soles of his shoes dangling.
“You all right?” she called.
“Speechless is what I am. Up here you can see clear to Fort Tygart.”
“I’m not much concerned about that,” she answered, setting her jaw against the poison itch now at her back. “The colonel keeps harping about sign. Any of that to be had from up there?”
Silence. And then, as if the wind had knocked him from his perch, there was a soul-shaking rustle as Ross came crashing down through the branches in a flurry of torn leaves and twigs. Breathless, he landed with ankle-bruising force, nearly toppling her.
“The colonel ain’t wrong.” Winded, face stricken, he began backing up the riverbank toward the trail to home. “There’s half a dozen redmen or better at the falls.”
Perilously close. Breath snatched, heart in her throat, Tessa followed him. They were no longer walking but running, she herself hardly slowed by her ten-pound rifle. The fat crappie they’d caught for supper stayed on the bank.
14
They burst into the Swan clearing, alerting Zadock stacking wood and Jasper corralled with the horses. In one agile leap, Ross jumped atop the nearest mount and dashed north to sound an alarm.
Tessa looked about wildly. “Where’s Cyrus?”
“Gone hunting,” Jasper replied as coolly as if she’d merely warned of wasps.
Soon all were barred inside the cabin save Ross and Cyrus. Cyrus’s fondness for turkey, the deafening shot that brought one down, might spell the end of him.
And Clay? Tessa paced by the hearth, the sound of guns being readied and positions taken in the adjoining blockhouse raking her nerves. Clay was out there somewhere. Lord, hedge him in.
Just as she’d heeded Ma’s advice and settled on a chair, a terrific roar tore through the cabin. She started, staunching the urge to throw her apron over her head like she’d done in childhood. The very cabin seemed to shake.
Who had shot—and why?
In its aftermath came a dreadful silence before a resonant halloo in the clearing.
Clay?
Her very bones seemed to melt, an odd comingling of joy and stark relief. She rose from her seat and went to peer out a loophole. Clay was at the edge of the north woods, bare chested, his linen hunting shirt suspended like a flag of truce from his upraised rifle. Fury—and fear—soared.
“Hold your fire, you blatherskate!” She hurled the words at whichever brother had misfired behind the blockhouse wall. ’Twas one of Pa’s Scots terms, reserved for the most heated moments.
She rushed to the door and unbarred it, the seconds till Clay reached the cabin stretching taut. He brushed past her, the earthy scent of pennyroyal riding the air. Ma and Keturah regarded him with deep concern as they stood by the hearth.
Tessa took in the whole of him in one grateful glance, beginning with his sodden buckskins now as black as the hair plastered to his blessedly intact skull. Never mind the indecency of wearing no shirt. Ma took the dripping garment from his rifle tip and hung it from a peg to dry while he looked out the loophole Tessa had forsaken, rifle ready.
It grew eerily still. Too still. The closed-up cabin felt like a bake oven. Only the Lord knew how long they’d be cooped up together. No doubt Clay had come across the same Indians Ross had seen from his lofty seat. Had he abandoned his horse? Likely he and the stallion had swum the river, as the ferry hadn’t been waiting. Maybe the Indians would pass them by.
Supper waited on the table, a savory kettle of stew and a stack of corncakes a foot high. The fare grew cold, all appetites lost.
Clay reached for his still soggy shirt. Pulling it on, his arms overhead and head hidden, he was a riveting sight. Tessa tried not to gape. Hester would be scandalized. ’Twas a moment meant for a wife maybe, intimate and unguarded. But her close scrutiny gained her something else besides.
In the shuttered, barred cabin, where the day’s dying light crept through an occasional crack, she saw blood pooling beneath his moccasin. Confounded, she went to him and knelt, reaching out a hand to examine his leg in a way that made Ma gasp.
“You got hit,” Tessa said, calling for rags in the next breath.
But how badly? And by whom?
“Hope it wasn’t you,” he teased beneath his breath.
“Not I. One of my blatherskate brothers.”
“Blatherskate? From the Scots song ‘Maggie Lauder.’” He chuckled. “His aim’s off, so it’s nothing to fret about. I’ve had worse.”
The flesh below the knee was torn, warm, and bleeding in a way that made her stomach sink. His buckskin breeches were ruined, but better them than his leg.
When Ma brought warm water, Tessa cleaned the wound, grateful for the shadows even though they made her task tricky. She prayed for a clean mending and no infection. Ma hovered, neither of them paying much mind to Keturah’s exchange in Lenape with Clay.
Keturah crossed the cabin to the corner she shared with Tessa and returned with a highly ornamented buckskin pouch. They watched as she mixed water and a white powder from her stores to form a poultice.
“Buck brush and yarrow,” Clay told them, answering their unspoken questions. “A cure-all for many ailments, especially wounds.”
Expertly Keturah applied the paste before finishing what Tessa had started and binding his leg with clean cloth.
“She’s a kikehwèt,” he said, eyes on Tessa. “A healer.”
Tessa repeated the odd word, noting Keturah’s face light up when she echoed it without stumbling.
“You ought to let her treat you too,” he finished with a lingering look at her reddened forearms. “The Lenape are known for their curative powers no matter how savage some think them.”
Preoccupied with him, she’d forgotten herself, yet at the mention her inflamed skin began itching anew.
“An oatmeal poultice usually cures poison vine,” Ma said.
“Mayhap it’s not poison vine,” Clay replied, switching to Lenape and looking at Keturah again.
Their unintelligible exchange made Tessa feel fenced out. Apart. And left her wishing herself away from the cabin, even in the chancy woods.
Keturah said a few words and Clay translated, “Jewelweed.” He looked at Tessa. “Want me to get some? You look right miserable.”
“You’d go out that door again? With your leg like it is?”
“My leg is less worrisome.”
She flushed, the heat of it tying her tongue. “Maybe when the danger passes.”
As if sensing her befuddlement, Ma motioned toward the table. “Might as well eat.” She began ladling stew into a bowl while Tessa brought butter and filled a mug with buttermilk. “When you’re done I’ll take the kettle to my sons.”
To Tessa’s surprise, Clay bowed his head briefly before eating. At table’s end, Keturah sat and sorted through her medicine pouch while they adjusted to the novelty of having the commander of Fort Tygart at their table again. Other than an occasional noise from the blockhouse, all was still but far from peaceful. Any minute the firing might begin in earnest. Her ongoing fear was that Indians would fire the cabin, burning them all to ashes. ’Twas a dread she’d carried since childhood.
As if privy to her thought
s, Clay began speaking in low tones. “Once it’s full dark I’ll return to the fort.”
Another twinge of regret. “We sighted the Indians at the falls—rather, Ross did—near the top of that silver maple.”
“So, you took my counsel to heart after all.” He glanced at her as he ate. “I tracked four Shawnee on my return to the ferry. God be thanked you weren’t there.”
Another tremor shot through her. So close. If they’d dallied . . . If they’d not heeded his words to make use of that high perch . . . Woe to anyone in the Indians’ path.
“I owe you,” she said quietly.
Their eyes met, held. Even in the darkness she felt a sudden charge as if he’d reached out and brushed her flushed cheek with callused fingers. She wanted him to with a deep-seated need stronger than her hunger or her fear. With effort she looked away.
“You’re exposed on the river,” he continued softly. “I’d rather you keep to home.”
Like any sensible woman would.
His warning was one she’d best heed. She ran a frightful risk, as did Ross. After Pa’s passing Ma had talked of forsaking their ferry license, but Jasper had stood his ground. “One day, when that ferry’s lined our pockets with velvet and that ferry house becomes a tavern with nary a bed to spare, you’ll thank me.”
If he’d voiced such to Clay, there’d have been a verbal tussle, she knew. Though the ferry was a chancy endeavor, some adventurous soul had to do it.
“Hester tells me you make a fine pair of stockings.” He pushed his empty bowl aside. “I’ve need of some.”
What all was Hester telling him? “Stockings seem meager thanks for saving our hides.”
He got up and returned to the loophole, favoring his hurt leg only slightly, his rifle waiting. She picked up his empty bowl and spoon and cup, struck by the odd delight it gave her while Ma took the kettle and remaining corncakes to her brothers.
In time, a shame-faced Zadock appeared, having mastered his humiliation and dredged up an apology. “Might have been worse had Jasper not grabbed hold of the barrel once he saw it was you.”
“No harm done,” Clay returned easily with a shake of his hand. “Nothing that won’t mend.”
Visibly relieved, Zadock returned to his loophole. Dusk came calmly, the time Clay would depart. Till then, Tessa and Ma began knitting in the dark while Keturah curled up like a cat on the trundle bed behind the quilt wall. Here lately she’d forsaken sleeping on the floor.
“Where’s your horse?” Tessa asked Clay, sensing his restlessness.
“Likely returned to the fort by now,” he answered with a glance at his bandaged leg as if pondering his next move.
She abandoned her knitting, both of them moving to the barred door. He was so near she breathed in the earthy scent of his river-soaked shirt. “Take one of ours. They’re fleet and know the way same as your stallion.”
“Obliged,” he said in that low, easy manner that flipped her stomach. “I’ll be back for my stockings.”
She knelt to make certain the bandage would hold. “Don’t tarry long or you’re liable to have more stockings than savages to fret about.”
Reaching up, he brushed back the wisp of hair that strayed free of her cap. Again, that woozy spark charged through her. Did she imagine it or was he a bit beguiled, same as she? Glad for the darkness, glad he couldn’t see how hard his leaving was for her, she unbarred the door and he passed outside. Overcome, almost light-headed, she let the bar drop back into place with a thud.
She took his place at the loophole, her prayers making a way for him in the darkness. The heartache was not knowing if he would reach the fort. If she would ever see him again. But at least her worries about Cyrus faded when he returned, humming, with a brace of turkeys. He was surprised to find them cooped up inside, his day unspoiled by trouble.
With plans to feast on turkey and dumplings on the morrow, the women went to bed, or tried to, while the men continued an all-night vigil in the blockhouse.
By week’s end, Tessa had made Clay enough stockings for every day of the week. Four of blue and gray worsted wool, three of white linen, even embroidering clocked patterns at the ankles on the Sabbath pair. No word came that he’d failed to reach Fort Tygart, though she doubted he’d ever die at the hands of Indians. He’d been one of them, spoke their language, knew their ways. If anything, the recapture of Colonel Tygart would be a coup of the highest honor. Keeping him captive was another matter.
Her skin had nearly healed, the jewelweed Keturah applied surprisingly effective. Ever since Clay had told them Keturah was a healer, she spent as much time in the woods as she could, adding to her medicine pouch.
Sometimes Zadock would follow her. ’Twas he who took pains to teach her—reacquaint her with—the white talk. Through his gentle, persistent efforts, Keturah began stringing words into simple sentences, her halting speech becoming surer. As days passed, she seemed more at ease around them, if not the simple, open-hearted girl of before.
Jasper regarded this in sullen silence, taking the edge off Tessa’s pleasure. He was often away at the fort in his new duties as captain of the militia, his absences relieving the festering tension she now felt in his presence.
“What’s the matter with my oldest son?” Ma wondered aloud as she and Tessa watched him ride off once more.
Tessa looked away from the field of blooming flax flowers, so rich a blue it seemed the sky had turned upside down. “Once Jasper was sweet on Keturah, so long ago you might not remember. Now Zadock is sweet on her and Jasper is aggravated by them both.”
“Jasper’s discontent with her being here is plain enough.” Ma’s eyes narrowed. “He’s keen for word from her overmountain kin. To muddle matters, I sense Keturah is fond of Colonel Tygart.”
Overly fond? Tessa toyed with the strings of her cap and tried to view things dispassionately, yet something green and irritating uncoiled in her belly. Or did Keturah simply look to Clay as a kindred Lenape spirit and former captive?
“Reckon Colonel Tygart’s wound’s still ailing him?” Ma asked her. “A man might lose a leg if poisoning set in.”
“I pray not.” Still sore with disgust over the incident, Tessa pointed out the obvious. “Jasper sees the colonel right regular and hasn’t made mention of such.”
On this hung her hopes. A lesser man would begrudge her brother, stay clear of them all. She’d seen feuds erupt over pigs and property lines. Taking a bullet was ample grounds for some too.
“And you, Daughter? What of your heart?” Ma took a step forward, plucking a frail flax flower whose lifespan was but a day. “Dare I hope Hester’s matchmaking is bearing fruit?”
“Fruit, nay,” Tessa replied wryly. “Stockings, aye.”
But he’d not returned to claim his stockings despite her admonition not to tarry. Had he forgotten? Granted, he had far weightier matters to ponder than leg coverings, but it was the one fragile tie between them, however foolish. She’d knitted the stockings with greater care than she’d knit anything before, fashioning spatterdashes from stout woolen cloth to better protect his legs on forays, at least from brush if not bullet lead.
“I saw the colonel take leave of you that night”—a knowing smile softened Ma’s deeply lined features—“with a reluctance that had little to do with Indians and a lame leg.”
Though the bottom dropped out of her stomach at the mere mention, Tessa said nothing, unwilling to read more into their parting banter at the cabin door than she should. Reaching out, she plucked her own flax flower, the blue not unlike the hue of Clay’s contrary eye.
“A man like that could take you away from here,” Ma mused. “To civilized parts.”
“Nay. Clayton Tygart’s a borderman to the marrow, come to the fort that bears his name. I’ve heard no talk of his returning east.”
“Well, word is the Tygarts are of sound Quaker stock, some of his kin wealthy Philadelphians.”
“Which means he wouldn’t settle for a rough-shod woman who goe
s about barefoot with her bonnet strings untied.”
“You can mend your loose ways,” Ma said.
“Make a silk purse from a sow’s ear?” Tessa opened her hand and let the wind whip the flax blossom away. “Not likely.”
“My worry is that the colonel will dally with you here in the wilds yet disown you in town.”
“As common soldiers do?” They’d seen it often when eastern regiments came through long enough for some flip and a romp. More than one settlement baby lacked a father when all was said and done. “I’m not the dallying kind, Ma. And Colonel Tygart is no common soldier.”
“Love makes fools of us all,” Ma said.
“Aye, at any age, ’twould seem.” Tessa couldn’t resist a jibe of her own. “What’s this I hear about you and the widower Westfall?”
“Fort gossip, is all.” Still, Ma flushed so deeply she had the look of a girl. “I’m speaking of Colonel Tygart, not Eb Westfall. I’d not want to see you ill used.”
Their talk dwindled when Keturah rejoined them, the sun making a dreamy halo of her hair. A white honeysuckle basket of her own making hung from her slender shoulder, the straps fashioned of sturdy bittersweet. The basket overflowed with dwarf ginseng, starflower, and the tender leaves of the stinging nettle.
Tessa greeted her, dispelling the tetchiness of a moment before. “I’m partial to nettles with ramps and bacon.”
“He-he,” Keturah replied with a smile of her own, falling into step beside them. “Tea?”
Zadock had taught her this. Each night after supper he lingered at table while they had tea fashioned from some wild root or berry of Keturah’s making. Jasper, refusing to partake, swore Keturah would poison them all, but Ma hushed such talk.
Tea, indeed. A dusty memory resurfaced, of Dutch cups from a tidy corner cupboard and Mistress Braam’s blue-veined, work-worn hands. For Candlemas and May Day she would serve her girls, Tessa included, a fine brew that tasted of flowers. What had become of that finery? Had it somehow given Tessa a taste of life beyond these mountains, as Ma claimed?
