An Uncommon Woman

by Laura Frantz

  She stepped back from the map with a bittersweet smile. “Care for some of Hester’s flip?”

  “Gladly.” He put a hand on her elbow and they went outside, where everyone had gathered to celebrate the nuptials. ’Twas an odd celebration, muted by their watchful circumstances. Men looked down at them from the rifle platform with cheerless faces, the rising moon reflecting off myriad gun barrels.

  Clay soon drained his cup and asked for seconds, leaving the throng to disappear inside Hester’s cabin. Tessa followed, heartened by the sight of him bearing two drinks and handing Cyrus some flip of his own.

  “Mighty kind, Colonel.” Cyrus raised up with a wince, his back against the log wall. His color was a shade better, but still Tessa fretted. “Suppose I’ll tarry here a while longer, aye?”

  “Would be wise. Sometimes we even have a physic pass through. But between your great-aunt and your sister and Maddie, you should recover in time.”

  “Still can’t stand without getting woozy-headed.”

  “You lost a great deal of blood.” Clay took a drink of his own flip as laughter erupted outside. “Keep to bed for the time being.”

  “Ma is now Mistress Westfall, sounds like.” Cyrus looked to Tessa for confirmation, or maybe to gauge her feelings about the matter.

  Tessa sat down on the side of the bed with a smile while Clay stood in the open doorway with his back to them. “I’m glad Westfall’s isn’t far.”

  Cyrus motioned her closer. “Wish it was your wedding instead.”

  Putting a finger to her lips, Tessa shushed him unnecessarily, the building laughter masking her brother’s whispered words.

  In time Ruth appeared, slipping past Clay to stand at the end of the bed. Cyrus flushed to the roots of his tawny hair.

  “Need some company?” she asked, sporting a basket. “Checkers? Or cards?”

  He nodded, still looking a bit sheepish, while Tessa fetched a small table to set between the bed and Ruth’s chair. She then left them to their game, drawn outside again, but Clay was back in the blockhouse meeting with two spies who’d just ridden in.

  Ma and Westfall were clearly enjoying their new circumstances, the details falling into place. They hoped to leave come morning, after spending their first night in the cabin Westfall always occupied when forting up.

  With a glance at the rifle platform, Tessa moved away from the merriment into the summer twilight. The flip she’d drunk made her a bit loose limbed, lessening the tension she’d felt since coming in at a gallop the night before. She gave thanks as she walked along the fort’s perimeter. The horses jostled and nickered softly as she passed, no longer milling about moodily or restlessly like they did in times of danger.

  No one was near the spring. Bending low, she ran her fingers through an eddy of cold water and cupped her hand for a drink. Unlike those fearful moments at the well, her being here was free of that shadowy feeling, the silhouette now walking toward her reassuring.

  Clay.

  “You’re a worthy watchdog,” she teased. “Just needed to take a turn.”

  “Already feeling the pinch of these walls, no doubt.”

  “Betimes, aye, but ’tis safer here than home,” she admitted, drying her hand on her apron. “I can’t imagine how it must be for you.”

  “Like caging a panther,” he confessed. “Come morning, when most of the settlement gets beyond these gates, I’ll want to go with them.”

  “You have your scouting.”

  “That keeps me sane, aye.”

  They fell into step together. “I never figured you for a farmer, Clay. Staying put in one place.”

  “’Tis tempting. I’ve been awarded a tract along the western Monongahela for my stint in the Seven Years’ War. Prime bottom land for farming.”

  “Have you walked it?”

  “Twice, aye.” He paused at the rear gate and looked out a loophole. “A square-mile piece, well timbered along the river with two springs. Worthy of a stone house like my kin’s in outer Philadelphia.”

  “A solid stone house then, like our springhouse,” she said as he pulled back from the wall. “More to my liking than logs.”

  “More enduring.” They walked on, bypassing the black hulk of the smithy with its taint of iron and ash. “This garrison was built with green wood that won’t last more than a few years at most.”

  “My hope is we have an even bigger frolic taking these pickets down than we did putting them up.”

  “Wish I’d witnessed it. You helped feed the builders, no doubt. You’re a fine hand at the hearth.”

  “You’re remembering that muster-day cake.”

  “Nay. I’m remembering that muster-day kiss.”

  She couldn’t resist a little ribbing. “That called-for kiss?”

  “Your first, I’d be willing to wager.” He turned toward her, bringing a sudden standstill to their walking.

  “My very first,” she said, looking up at him. “But not yours, I’d wager.”

  He removed his hat and let it dangle in one hand. “Called for or nay, such a kiss is not easily forgotten.”

  He reached for her, his hands framing the curve of her shoulders where the ruffled edge of her fichu ended. Her breathing, shallow till now, all but stopped as his hands moved down the length of her arms before entwining her fingers in his own. In the near darkness she couldn’t see his features plainly but sensed his purpose.

  With a seamless step not unlike that of a dance, he moved her beneath the smithy eave, out of sight of any on the rifle platform who might turn around and look down on them. He was close, so close she smelled the leathery-tobacco scent of him. He let go of her hands and encircled her with his arms. Gently yet boldly, as if sure of her willingness.

  His mouth met hers as if he’d been kissing her for a long time. This was no called-for kiss. It felt true and sweet and good. Not obligatory but passionate. Not hasty but lasting. When it ended she wanted to begin all over again.

  “To be honest, this has been on my mind since that first day we met,” he whispered against her hair.

  “Truly? When I followed you outside and asked you to bring Keturah’s belongings?”

  “It’s a smitten man who wants to kiss a woman at first meeting.”

  “What took you so long?” she chided, wanting to reclaim all that time lost to them.

  “Pure Tygart stubbornness.” The smile in his voice made her nestle closer. “If I’d known you felt the same . . .”

  “I felt lightning struck at first meeting. I went into the barn when you rode off and fell back into a pile of hay. I’ve not recovered yet.”

  His low laugh so near her ear was the richest sound she’d ever heard. “So, what are we to make of all this?”

  “We’re not going to let any more time get away from us. Or settlement business come between us.” She sighed, mostly in pleasure, her desire for his company and to be outside fort walls equally strong. “I’ll not hide the fact I’d like to be away from so many prying eyes.”

  “Didn’t I hear Cyrus say something about a pie? There’s a mess of berries a half mile from here in that deadfall near Slade Creek. Might make a good jaunt.” He seemed to reconsider. “But chancy.”

  “I’ll risk it for nobody but you.” She slipped her arms about his shoulders, unwilling for their closeness to end even as his hands tightened about her waist. “A pie might help bring Cyrus round.”

  “We’ll see what morning brings,” he told her.

  Another lingering kiss. More whispered words. Then he took her hand and they started to inch their way toward the merriment. She’d nearly forgotten about her mother’s nuptials. How she wished they were her own, hers and Clay’s.

  When they came into the circle of light made by the flickering of a pine-knot torch, heads turned. Pride and pleasure turned her bashful. She didn’t miss Maddie’s knowing smile or Hester’s unmistakable glee, or even Ma’s own pleased surprise as she stood by her groom.

  Only when spies came in to g
ive a report did Clay release her hand. There was a warmth and security in his touch that left her missing him even though he was only a few feet away in the blockhouse.

  Time ticked on and Hester brought another round of flip. The watch changed. Ruth was still inside the cabin entertaining Cyrus, intent on their game. Stifling a yawn, Tessa went to sit near the doorway of Hester’s cabin, wondering what, if any, news the spies brought.

  Open-eyed, she prayed for peace. For Cyrus’s healing. For Keturah and the Moravians far beyond the Buckhannon. For Maddie’s baby to be born well and safe. For Ma and Westfall to make a good beginning. In a sea of needs, her and Clay’s romantic leanings seemed small and swallowed up. How was she supposed to pray about that?

  Giddy as a girl, she was. Over a few kisses. Whispered words. The clasp of a callused hand.

  26

  The morn was blessedly cool. Clay rued being away from the fort, from Tessa, but he couldn’t rest till he saw for himself there was nothing of concern to prevent settlers from returning to the harvest. Yet no matter how vigilant the fort spies and settlers, the Indians might strike again anytime, anywhere.

  “Never saw better country,” Jude said, removing his hat to fan his face. “Except your land along the Monongahela.”

  “Pity it’s a hundred miles north or we could lay out a house site.”

  Jude gave him a knowing grin. “I always wondered what woman would make you want to end your roving ways. The Spinster Swan it is.”

  “If she’ll have me.”

  “Have you? That wedding last night should have been a double. No sense waiting. But who’s going to marry you? You can’t marry yourself.”

  “That’s the trouble. As it stands, there’s no one to officiate unless an itinerant preacher happens by. I’ll not do as some and pledge troth without benefit of clergy.”

  “Take her to Pitt. I recall a sober preacher there.”

  Clay said nothing, committing Jude’s words to heart. They reined in beneath an ancient chestnut tree near the idle Swan ferry, resting their horses after a ten-mile circuit. The day held a touch of fall, the leaves of late July showing a summer’s weariness, their vibrancy fading. In the distance came the reassuring ring of an axe. The Swan brothers, all but Cyrus, were home, the sound blessed confirmation. Ross, usually at the ferry, was likely in the fields. Folks would have to swim or float their belongings across, but lately there’d been few travelers, given word of the Clendennin massacre had spread.

  “Why do you think that war party took no prisoners?” Jude asked, eyes on the river.

  “They were traveling fast, not wanting captives but vengeance after what happened to Chief Bull and his party.”

  “What do you make of them that nearly ambushed the Swans that night? Think it was the same who attacked the Clendennins?”

  “Nay. The Clendennins seemed to be the work of Shawnee or mayhap Wyandot. That wikhegan on Zadock’s roan was pure Lenape.”

  Jude gave a low whistle of consternation. “You ain’t said much, but I know you well enough to see the hackles it raised. Care to tell me more?”

  “It’s personal.” Clay reached for his canteen and took a swig of water. “Hearkens back to my time as a captive.”

  “Living with the Wolf clan along the Cuyahoga?”

  Clay gave a nod. “You recall that Lenape brother whose brother I replaced when he died of disease?”

  “Ghost eyes, they called you. Këshkinko. I recollect his was Tamanen. ’Twas him who marked Cyrus’s horse.”

  “We were raised together, shared a father and mother. Sisters. Everything we did was to best the other. Close as blood brothers, we were.” Clay took another drink, still stung by the uncanny circumstance. “Keturah was his wife in the Lenape tradition. Nothing binding under white law, but still his wife as far as the tribe is concerned.”

  Jude grimaced. “And you knew nothing of the bond between them?”

  “None. Keturah was made captive of another band of Lenape before marrying Tamanen and becoming part of his clan. I’d since left them and had no knowledge of their tie till she spoke of it that day with Heckewelder.”

  “And somehow, for some reason, Tamanen came here and spooked the Swans, then marked their horse to send a message to you.”

  “That’s part of it, aye. Bad blood, mayhap.”

  “Bad blood? Because of you living like brothers and then you forsaking your Lenape ways?”

  “Stands to reason, aye? He’s a war chief. He’s lost not only his Indian kin to disease but also a white brother and a wife. I had something to do with Keturah. Who knows the depth of his reasoning or his wanting revenge, if that’s what it is.”

  “I’d be mighty nervy then.” Jude looked over his shoulder with a grimace. “When a grudge becomes personal, it ain’t likely to end easy.”

  “Tamanen’s clever—and ruthless.” Clay turned his horse east, recalling the many times Tamanen had bested and outwitted him. “It’s his nature to settle a score, no matter how small or how much time has passed.”

  They rode back to the fort in silence, daylight giving way to the flash of fireflies and a pale sunset. ’Twas hard to keep his mind on the task at hand, as Tessa met him at the beginning and end of every thought. But he felt an odd peace undergirding it all, knowing she was behind those picketed walls, hopefully anticipating his return.

  He half expected to see her serve him supper, but ’twas Hester who was at his hearth, concocting venison stew and wheaten bread.

  “How’s Cyrus?” he asked.

  She poked at the hearth, scattering the embers beneath a kettle to end its singing. “Taken a turn for the worse.”

  Dismay overrode his weariness. He hung his shot pouch and powder horn from a peg and stored his rifle, then went straight to her cabin.

  Tessa was by her brother’s side, head bent. Was she praying? Her small hand was clasped in Cyrus’s much larger one. His eyes were closed, his pallor disturbingly washed-out. His wound was grievous, but with time and attention Clay figured he’d get well.

  He rested a hand on Tessa’s shoulder. She looked up at him, her gaze holding a well of hurt. Cyrus’s breathing was alarmingly shallow. It shook Clay that a man could go from playing checkers to lying motionless in a matter of hours.

  “Your ma leave with Westfall?” he asked her softly.

  “Aye.” She reached up and laid her hand on his. “When they went, Cyrus was on his feet, and then afterward he began to bleed again.”

  He bit back a rebuke about Cyrus being up and around so soon. The Swan men were many things, including willful. Dropping to his haunches, he pondered what to do. Indecision often spelled disaster, a life lost. Keturah’s remedies were never so needed as now. Maddie did what she could but was no physic or Lenape healer.

  His own mostly minor injuries, gotten in wartime or with the tribe, trickled through his memory before becoming a deluge. He rubbed his scarred jaw. “Slippery elm bark.”

  Tessa searched his face as if seeking all he could possibly remember, as if knowing her brother’s life depended on it.

  “Mayhap the wound needs suturing with linen thread. I’d hoped to avoid such, but if needs be we ready a needle.” Here there’d be no stitching skin with the inner bark of basswood or the fiber from the long tendon of a deer’s leg. Or the purifying properties of steam. But in truth he put more stock in them than white man’s medicine.

  “I can ride out to fetch slippery elm,” Tessa said. “Shouldn’t have far to go. But first, mightn’t you pray with me?”

  His mind became blank as inkless paper, but the plea in her lovely face couldn’t be denied. Removing his hat, he bent his head, feeling the warmth of her fingers lacing through his own. Her lips were moving but he couldn’t make out the words. Still, it was a rare, hallowed moment that seemed to fight back the darkness of the unknown future as they said amen.

  He pulled himself to his feet. “As for that remedy, I’ll ask Jude. You try to get some water down Cyrus in the meantime
.”

  Ruth and Maddie helped Tessa and Hester keep watch of Cyrus, the slippery elm remedy and careful stitches soon in place. Meanwhile, Clay kept the door open to his blockhouse quarters, able to watch the comings and goings of all who entered and exited the fort.

  It was almost a relief to return to the mundane the next morn. He sat at his desk and managed various interruptions by settlers wanting to address some matter, returning to his paperwork between times. His latest report was half written, penned with no small sorrow.

  There has been no mischief done in this county since the 17th instance when a family of nine persons was killed and scalped about eight miles above this, on the North Branch opposite . . .

  Having no heart to finish, he set down his quill and tried to read. He perused the latest laws from the colonial government tongue in cheek. Some he overlooked as petty, and others, if enforced, would fine half the settlement.

  In the interest of good morals and the suppression of vice, a penalty of fifty cents was to be exacted for swearing. For drunkenness, ten lashes across a bare back. For laboring on the Sabbath, one dollar was owed. Stealing land warrants resulted in death.

  His attention wandered to the open doorway. Toward Hester’s.

  What about kissing a spinster in the nighttime shadows?

  He leaned back, the creak of the wood slats against his weight a testament to their age. That somebody had hauled a Windsor chair clear to the back settlements was more than a tad befuddling. That it ended up in this blockhouse, more befuddling still. Most frontier furniture was a far cry from eastern colonial parlors. A stump for a seat and a couple of planks nailed down for a table sufficed.

  If he returned to the Monongahela country and laid the foundation for a stone house, what would he furnish it with in time? What belongings would Tessa want? He could send east for what was needed. York and Lancaster had fine furniture makers. The orders could be delivered in wagons to Fort Pitt, not too far from his acreage, or floated downriver.

  Tessa had a hankering for finer things. Things not even a stone house along the Monongahela might offer. She craved poetry. Hand fans. English tea. Yet she made do with what her rusticated life offered.