An Uncommon Woman

by Laura Frantz

  She opened her mouth to mention it, but the memory of Keturah weeping by the well reined her in. Best leave the past in the past. Some memories needed to lie undisturbed.

  15

  Maddie looks a mite green.” Though said beneath his breath at a distance from the fort’s worst wags, Clay sensed it didn’t matter. That Maddie was poorly was plain to see. “What’s ailing her?”

  “A misery in her stomach.” Jude’s frown made him years older as he watched his wife lean over the washtub, scrubbing half-heartedly. “Been plaguing her ever since Fort Pitt. And no doctor to be had.”

  “Take her to Keturah.” Though he pondered the healing herbs to be had, Clay’s mind leapt toward Tessa instead. Here lately she colored his every thought, making him balk at Jude’s inevitable request.

  “Sounds wise. But we’ll need you to go along to Swan Station. Interpret.”

  Turning away from the sun-soaked common, Clay entered the cooler shade of the blockhouse. He hated to see Maddie suffer. All manner of maladies paraded through his head. Though he didn’t pry for decency’s sake, he suspected dysentery, given her frequent trips to the privy.

  “I could have Keturah brought here,” Clay told him, pouring them both cider. “Spare Maddie the distance to Swan Station.” But even as he said it, difficulties arose. Jasper would likely be her escort, but with his frame of mind, Keturah deserved better company. “Let Maddie decide.”

  Clay drained his cider and sat down while Jude went out. He surveyed the growing papers atop his desk with stoic dismay. He was a fighter and borderman, not a scrivener, but as commander of a military garrison he was to document anything and everything that happened during his tenure, including supervising the fort’s overall affairs—living conditions, disputes, the preservation and use of equipment and supplies, and the enforcement of military and frontier law, loose as it was in the backcountry. An onerous amount of scribbling that made his hand cramp more than his wounded leg.

  In minutes Jude was back, no less grim than before. “Maddie’s partial to riding to Swan Station to seek a remedy once she’s done with the laundry.”

  “Aye.” Clay’s quill dangled precariously over the paper, a drop of ink threatening to fall and mar the document as he dredged up details unrelated to the Spinster Swan.

  The report prior to his arrival here was grim. Along the westernmost border of Virginia and Pennsylvania was an uncurbed trail of destruction that necessitated Fort Tygart and other, smaller stations being built. More than two hundred settlers dead. Fifty-some homesteads burned. Countless captives taken. Entire back settlements deserted, easing the way for enemy encroachment. And now, other than Indians combing the country, an inexplicable lull in any outrages.

  “Musta heard you were coming,” Cutright had quipped that morn, his belly with its gaping weskit shaking in mirth. He reached into a jar on a shelf and handed Clay a twist of celebratory tobacco.

  Clay dismissed the jest. “My sense is that they’re amassing. Strategizing. Preparing to strike collectively.”

  The big belly ceased shaking. “We’ve enough powder and bullet lead to withstand a prolonged siege, aye?”

  “There’s no such thing as enough,” Clay answered, leaving the storekeeper to tend his depleted wares. Few pack trains ventured over the mountains in these uncertain times.

  Pressing the ink to paper, Clay wrote today’s date—6th June, 1770. More men were needed. Cannons, not just bullet lead and gunpowder. Wilderness warfare was fought by a different, ever-changing, endlessly taxing absence of rules. Such demanded all his focus, all his faculties. And yet an uncommon woman with a promise of new stockings danced at the corners of his conscience.

  If Maddie weren’t so miserable, if Jude didn’t have a glint of desperation in his eye, if the woods weren’t so mysteriously still . . . Combined, they forced his hand to revisit the Swans on a mission for Maddie. Hard on the heels of his desire swelled stiff resistance. He had no time to indulge any heart-related whims. With any luck, Miss Swan would be at the ferry and he’d miss her altogether.

  “Ready, Clay?” Maddie stood in the blockhouse doorway, her dress hanging with alarming slackness around her already spare frame.

  “Aye.” He took up his rifle, shot pouch, tomahawk, and other accoutrements.

  “Mighty big of you to act as escort, busy as you be.” Maddie looked askance at his injured leg, unbandaged now and hidden beneath buckskin breeches. “Reckon you’ll get shot at again?”

  His grin was half grimace. She hadn’t lost her humor at least.

  They walked toward the front gate, where Jude had readied their horses. Clay tried to quell his rising anticipation. Though few knew, he’d patrolled the perimeter of Swan land so often he could find his way blindfolded.

  The first mile passed in silence, his senses tuned to the slightest infringement on the peaceful summer’s day. How he longed to enable the back settlements to farm and hunt and live in freedom, as unconcerned about danger as any city dweller.

  A noisy splash through a creek and a slight climb over a rise brought them to the border of Swan land. Their cur, Snuff, began to bark the closer they came. Smoke hung in the humid air about the cabin, as did the reek of boiled turnips. The slant of the sun bespoke two o’clock. Clay pushed back his hat to cool his brow as Rosemary Swan stood up amid the kitchen garden. Keturah was nearby at the creek, rinsing out piggins.

  Nary a trace of Miss Swan.

  Disappointment pummeled him, and then relief reined him in. He dismounted as Jude helped Maddie down then led the horses to a water trough.

  “Well, Colonel Tygart, honored by your coming,” Rosemary said, walking over to meet them and glancing quickly at his wounded leg.

  “A fine day, aye?” Clay removed his hat. “We need to speak to Keturah in private. Maddie’s ailing.”

  Concern crumpled the older woman’s features. “Of course.” She gestured to a wide stump beneath the shade of a rustling elm. “It’s a mite close in the cabin, but out here’s a breeze. Care for something cold to drink from the springhouse?”

  At their combined ayes, Maddie sat down with relief. Jude left the horses to forage while he talked to Zadock and Cyrus near the barn. ’Twas just Clay, Keturah, and Maddie now.

  Keturah took a seat by Maddie, her long, pale braid coiling in her aproned lap. “Keko windji?”

  Both of them looked to Clay, who was determined to master his unease if the conversation turned delicate.

  “Maddie’s in need of your medicine,” he began, interpreting as carefully as he could in both Lenape and English.

  At last Keturah’s thorough questions and Maddie’s honest answers came to an end. Mysteriously, the women disappeared inside the cabin. He sipped the cider Rosemary brought before she returned to the garden, keeping his eyes on the dense woods that blocked his view of the Buckhannon. If they were cut down, the river would be in plain sight. For now, the willow-skirted trail to the ferry was bereft of a rifle-toting slip of a woman, heaven be thanked.

  In time Maddie emerged, her face slack with surprise, while Keturah’s features bore a telling amusement. She studied him beneath finely arched brows before her gaze shot to Jude across the way. “Summon the father to hear the good news.”

  Hear—what? Clay stared hard at her, unsure if he’d heard correctly.

  Keturah nodded. “Mimëntëta.” Baby.

  Maddie regarded them both in bewilderment. Had she not added up this puzzling equation? Suddenly her expression cleared as joy took hold.

  “You’ll be free of your misery in a few months,” Clay told her, thanking Keturah with a hasty, “Wanìshi.”

  Jude nearly toppled as Maddie threw her arms around her stunned husband. “Did you hear that, Jude? I feel a bit like the women of old in the Bible, about to have a child despite my years.”

  Jude stood stupefied. “You sure?”

  Keturah smiled. Clay laughed. And Tessa stepped into the middle of the merriment with a look of wonder on her face, two
dots of color pinking her cheeks. Darting a look at him, she rested her rifle on the ground, her smile for Maddie. The two women embraced, the hullaballoo halting all work. Rosemary brought more to drink, Zadock and Cyrus joining them in a toast. Ross appeared next, toting a broken oar. Had they hit a snag crossing the river? Throwing it aside, the youngest Swan joined in, drinking thirstily from the jug Cyrus uncorked and drawing laughter.

  Clay was far too aware of the woman nearest him. He held himself apart, a bit stilted despite the good news. Having steeled himself in the fortnight since he’d seen her, he’d not let slip a too friendly word or a long look. His new resolve was to treat her no different than he did Maddie or Keturah.

  But Miss Swan was not bound by any rule of restraint, let alone overmountain etiquette. Nor did she play parlor games. It was part of her charm, that folksy groundedness. He recalled all too easily her playful curtsy at the ferry, as pretty as Miss Penrose’s might have been. He never doubted where he stood with this border belle, or where anyone else stood with her for that matter. Dragging a hand over his stubbled jaw, he braced himself.

  “Colonel Tygart, sir.” That clear, lilting voice was like no other. “For a man about to glean a great many stockings, you’re scarecrow stiff. Are you well?”

  He thawed a bit but avoided her eyes. Aye, those eyes made her the belle of the border. He wouldn’t think about the rest of her enticements.

  “I see no stockings,” he said, draining his drink.

  At that she took up her rifle and headed to the cabin, leaving him feeling a mite guilty. Maddie was looking at him as the conversation swirled around them, a rare reproof in her gaze. He winked to ease her, unwilling to dim her enjoyment of the moment as he tried to adjust to the news himself. No longer would she and Jude be his trail companions. A baby changed everything.

  Ross had begun telling the story of how the oar broke mid-river on a snag when Tessa returned with a small bundle bound in linen and tied with twine.

  “Obliged,” he said, taking the offering and tucking it beneath his arm.

  “How is your wound?” she queried, obviously determined to draw him out.

  “Nearly healed.”

  A prickly silence fell between them till Jude motioned to him, wanting to return Maddie to the fort.

  “Won’t you stay for supper?” Rosemary asked. “We’ve ham and hominy aplenty. And my daughter’s made a fine custard tart.”

  “Nay,” Clay replied, despite every fiber of his being pulled toward the cabin table. “Best hasten back, as I’ve a scouting report to hear.” His stomach rumbled, mocking his refusal. Hester’s victuals would serve tonight, and he’d invite Maddie and Jude to join him. But even that was no match for the Swans’ culinary skills and robust company.

  While Maddie said her farewells, he and Jude rounded up the horses. Clay didn’t look back, squashing the ongoing urge to do so. The return trip was made in an altogether different mood, not the uncertain wretchedness of before but jubilant, slack-jawed wonder.

  “If that don’t beat all,” Jude exclaimed, regarding Maddie with awe. “I never figured me for a father. Maybe we better get ourselves some corn-patch-and-cabin rights. Don’t want our child to grow up behind fort walls.”

  Benumbed, Tessa gathered eggs, soaked a deer ham in buttermilk for supper, and swept the yard with a sturdy brush broom Cyrus had made to ward off weeds and snakes. Despite her many chores, the hurt of yesterday followed her about, nearly swallowing her whole each time Clay cut across her conscience. And he cut across without mercy.

  Somehow, in the short span of time since she’d first seen him sitting at their humble table, having delivered a redeemed captive to their door, she’d become captivated by this unlikely hero. And her every waking thought had threads of him woven into them, not unlike the weave of the woolens with a bright blue stripe that Ma preferred.

  The book of poetry. A dance. Their moonlit rendezvous by the garrison’s garden. The low talk at the cabin door that seemed about more than stockings. And then all shattered by his cool regard of her yesterday when Maddie had gotten her glad news. The book of poems now hung heavy in Tessa’s pocket. She had no heart to ponder any now, nor even knit.

  Sakes, Tessa, let no man cause you such misery, even as fine a one as Clay Tygart.

  She hated the lingering humiliation of it. Hated her wholehearted response to him. To try to right herself, she buried the book of poems beneath a pile of hay in the barn. Forced herself to begin fashioning a baby garment for Maddie till she felt less burnt. Yet even then her heart tugged her traitorously toward him, and she looked at the tiny, unfinished garment and pondered Maddie’s happiness instead.

  “What’s turned you mute as a mackerel?” Ross asked her after supper as their brothers, all but Jasper, sat playing the dice game with Keturah.

  Tessa stilled her needles long enough to say, “I’m recovering from being made a fool of.”

  “With Tygart, you mean.”

  An inner wince. “So ’twas plain even to you?”

  “Only because you’re my sister and I’ve studied you.” He scooted his stool closer lest their voices carry. “As for the colonel, I reckon he’s partial to you being out here right regular. Only he’s trying to hide it.”

  “Hush.”

  “It’s plain as daylight.”

  “Colonel Tygart’s likely beholden to a sweetheart overmountain somewhere.” This was what she’d settled on. Some former tie, despite his denial.

  “Well, she ain’t here.”

  Her needles clacked with a vengeance. “Sometimes I sense Keturah’s sweet on him, which muddles matters further.”

  “What? I don’t see that at all. But sure enough, Zadock is sweet on Keturah. Seems like we could turn all that around somehow, especially you and the colonel.”

  “I’ll not help you,” Tessa vowed.

  Ross leaned back with a grunt of disgust. “Here we all sit, not a one of us married, and no sign that’ll ever change.”

  “What about you and the Parker girl?”

  “Mary Rose?” Ross scowled. “It’s like courting her pa.”

  Tessa chuckled despite herself. “We’re a hopeless lot, us Swans. Colonel Tygart even refers to me as the Spinster Swan.”

  “Fighting words.”

  “No need to act roosterish.” Weary, eyes smarting, she put her handwork away. “’Tis true.”

  Stepping away from the game, Keturah took the steaming kettle off the grate and served tea. Blackberry root tonight. Ma dozed in her rocker near the hearth, waiting for her sons to tire of the game. A gentle rain was slurrying down, a welcome sound. The fields needed a good drenching.

  ’Twas almost haying time. Soon the scythes hanging from the barn rafters would be readied for the harvest. Her thoughts canted to the waiting dye shed. Thanks mostly to Keturah’s foraging, they now had elderberries for blue dye, white birch bark for buff, and scaly moss for brown. And a fine field of flax to turn to linen in time. For now, the pulled stalks lay rotting by the creek to ensure a fine sheen for cloth, creating so fearsome a stink it might even drive the Indians away.

  “So, Sister, I reckon you won’t be making any more garments for the colonel, though it was big-hearted of you. He won’t find any finer even east of the mountains.”

  She sipped her tea, aiming for a dispassionate view. “Stands to reason he shuns a back-settlement woman who’s rough as butter spread over stale bread.”

  Ross’s amused snort roused Ma, who got up and began checking the fastened window shutters and barred door. He scratched the beginnings of a beard. “A prim overmountain miss don’t seem right for the colonel somehow.”

  “I’m done thinking about it.” Getting up, Tessa set her cup on the table and went behind the quilt to her corner.

  With any luck, Clay Tygart wouldn’t invade her dreams.

  16

  For a woman of rustic domestic endeavors, Tessa’s knitting needles were a wonder. Even Maddie exclaimed over Clay’s gift, though
a rebuff remained in her eyes.

  “Will you look at that. Fancy clocking to boot,” she said as she clucked over the detailed embroidery. “Part of me hopes these stockings don’t stay up your long legs. Not till you ask forgiveness.”

  “Maddie . . .” Clay began, a note of caution in his tone.

  “I won’t stand by without speaking my mind. You’ve got to get out from under that burden of believing a lie.”

  “A lie?” Temper frayed, he swallowed the epithet between his teeth. “You can’t deny that when I fix my affections on someone, something dire follows.”

  Her prolonged pause seemed confirmation. “It’s just chance, Clay. Seems otherwise, but it’s perilous times we live in. Folks you care about get cut down, so you stop caring, stop letting folks in. Time after time I watch it happen. Don’t you know Miss Swan is partial to you? What’s more, you’re partial to her.”

  “All that aside, it’s a matter best left alone. I wasn’t sent here to conduct a love affair but manage a militia and guard the border. All else is a stumbling block.”

  “Since when is love a stumbling block?” she countered. “My worry is that you’re going to keep passing it by till your only companions in old age are aches and pains and a great many what-ifs.”

  “Not everyone is meant to marry, Maddie.”

  “Well, seems like a man of your years should give it some thought.”

  He made no reply. Trouble was, he didn’t know how old he was. Two and thirty, mayhap. His Quaker kin reckoned he’d been seven or so at the time of his capture. But who knew?

  Maddie aside, he’d not had a moment’s peace since leaving Swan Station. But why? He usually kept his distance from anything in petticoats. His reserved stance had even been in place when the beguiling Miss Penrose cornered him on a Philadelphia street. That caution served him well in every overdone parlor and ballroom, frustrating more than a few women he’d not thought twice about since. So why had all this misfired and left him feeling gut shot instead?

  Because he’d let his guard down and Tessa Swan had ambushed his affections.