An Uncommon Woman

by Laura Frantz

  “I’m sorry to tell you there is seldom a satisfactory ending to recovering these captives. As it is, Fort Pitt may be decommissioned and no longer serve as a meeting place for the tribes and colonial government, a place to treat and enforce peace or to make war.”

  Her fingers went to her locket as Clay and the commandant talked on, her gaze straying beyond the men. The maps on the office walls only underscored how vast was Indian territory, a confusion of mountains and valleys, a wash of lakes and rivers without end. Where in this web was her beloved brother? Was Ross even alive?

  “I bid you a safe journey then.” Edmonstone was on his feet as Clay ended the matter, his attention pulled to the door where the line waited. “Mistress Tygart, I hope to see you again. And I will do everything in my power to enlist your brother’s safe return.”

  The words, though kindly said, seemed rote. How many times had the commandant had to deliver this same message?

  On their way out, Clay was delayed by McKee, the Indian agent. A half blood, he was a curious mix of two worlds, both red and white, his respect for Clay obvious. Unlike his commander, he didn’t indulge in pleasantries and protocol and spoke Lenape with Clay as if wanting to maintain some sort of privacy. A third man joined them, his attire and manner as Indian as McKee’s. His stony eyes took her in so intently she nearly flinched.

  He spoke in Lenape too, gesturing to her in a manner that returned her gaze to him, if only briefly. Standing aside as the trio talked, she watched an Indian woman with a baby on her back walk past, her step light, her doeskin garments colored with beads. Tessa’s thoughts, always so full of Ross, left room for Keturah too. How did her old friend fare? Was she happy with the Moravians, glad to return to the territory she’d lived in for so long with the Lenape?

  Clay was speaking as emphatically as she’d ever heard him, McKee and the third man listening closely, occasionally asking an unintelligible question. Occasionally even McKee’s gaze would stray to her, then back to Clay again. Though their words were lost to her, she sensed the matter being discussed was more personal than passing. After several intense minutes, the other two men walked in the direction of the fort.

  “Who was that with McKee?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder at them.

  “Simon Girty.”

  Her brows peaked. Hester seemed to hover and hiss. Dirty Girty. All her life she’d heard of him, but never had she thought to encounter him. Taken by Indians as a child, he’d never forsaken his feral ways, even turning on his own white kin. “He’s not soon forgotten.”

  “You never know from which corner help will come,” was all Clay said. Did he mean the matter with Ross?

  She mastered the shudder in her spirit, the sense that Girty and even McKee were not lightly dealt with, nor men you could turn your back on. But Clay had shown no unease in their presence and had from all appearances known them for a very long time.

  “Needs be we head east straightaway. Once we have our fill of Philadelphia we’ll return here to see what’s transpired in our absence.” Clay took her by the arm, turning in the direction of the inn.

  His decisive words kindled new courage. “If you think that best, aye.”

  36

  Clay settled accounts with their hostess and bade the officials farewell, and then they started east. Soon Fort Pitt was a speck of brick on the far horizon. Three hundred miles spread out before them, the distance daunting. Though Tessa set her sights forward, she couldn’t quiet the notion that by leaving Pitt she was somehow leaving Ross. Turning her back on the border, the far-flung west, was somehow akin to turning her back on her brother, or so the knife’s edge of pain said. But waiting along the Buckhannon seemed unendurable too.

  When they came upon a boundary marker along a particularly alluring stretch of the Monongahela River, Clay said, “Here marks Tygart land.”

  “Whatever would we call it?” she wondered, spying a treed rise that begged for a fine house. “Surely not Tygart Station. These woods seem peaceable in a way the Buckhannon’s never been.”

  “Plenty of oaks. Oak Run. Oak Grove. Oak Hill.” With a shrug, he turned in the direction of Fort Pitt. “A home of solid stone, not logs. Furnishings from overmountain. Enough fancies to make you feel you’ve one foot in town.”

  She smiled, envisioning it. “But first, Philadelphia.”

  They set a brisk pace, their hard riding through the foothills of the mountains eclipsing conversation, though in time a companionable silence ensued. Since leaving town, Clay had become quieter, as if his conversations with McKee and Girty weighted him in ways he couldn’t share. To counter it, she forced a gladness she didn’t own, if only to lighten his load. No need to burden him with cares he couldn’t control. As for herself, she tried to outrun her sorrow with every league they traveled. Yet no matter where she went, flashes of Ross followed. And Jasper.

  Daylight trickled to dark, turning their thoughts to bedding down. They slowed, searching for a suitable spot to overnight, their horses spent. Together they removed saddles and bedrolls and what was needed to keep them till first light. The weariness of the trail had taken hold again, that sun-lined, sunburnt look born of the heat and dust and miles.

  “You look deep in thought,” he said, settling beside her on a saddle blanket.

  She smiled, fingers seeking her locket again, afraid she might lose it in the rigors of travel. “I’m remembering that blessed bath and bed. What followed . . .”

  “We’re making good time,” he told her with a wink. “Should see the spires of Philadelphia by week’s end.”

  Lately at close of day they’d been joining hands and murmuring cumbersome if heartfelt prayers. For those at home on the Buckhannon and at Fort Tygart. For those far away like Keturah and Ross. For themselves as they pushed into the unknown. They partook of Semple’s beaten biscuits and some jerked meat as the wind awoke, a touch of autumn in its grip.

  Clay draped an arm about her, pulling her closer, the both of them a knot of warmth in the chill, blackening woods. He kissed her softly, an invitation. She returned the kiss, burrowing nearer, forgetting the insects and sideways slash of the wind. But ’twas impossible to ignore the howling wolves or the distant thunder of approaching hooves. At once, Clay pulled away from her and got to his feet, rifle in hand.

  A man’s voice grated in the near dark. “Tygart, that you?”

  A split second’s surprise.

  “Aye, Girty,” Clay answered as the buckskin-clad man appeared in their makeshift camp. “What brings you?”

  Long minutes passed. The men were speaking Indian again. Did it give them greater expression than the white tongue? She sat completely still and waited for the intrusion to come to an end. The moon rose, white and full as a melon from the field.

  In time Clay turned toward her, his expression unreadable, the shadow of Girty in back of him. “Prepare to return to Fort Pitt at first light.”

  She got little sleep. How could she rest with the snoring, volatile Girty but a few feet away? There was little time for questions. She would trust Clay that returning west was what was called for. Secretly, she rejoiced. Maybe the Lord was answering their persistent prayers. She just hadn’t expected help to come in the form of the renegade Girty. Or a return to Fort Pitt.

  At first light she rode in back of them, glad the miles they’d traveled from Pitt hadn’t been many. The weather, so sunny at the outset, was now clad in mists and spiderwebs. Maples brightened the landscape, the first trees to color their leaves, and she dwelt on the beauty around her instead of the unpredictable present.

  When at last they headed downhill toward town and the fort, Girty bade them farewell. Breathing easier, she looked at Clay, withholding the dozen or so questions begging to be asked.

  “I don’t want to raise your hopes, but I told Girty and McKee I’d give half my land along the Monongahela to return Ross.” He lowered the brim of his hat against the setting sun. “Seems there’s been a move made by the Lenape in that di
rection, though I don’t yet know the gist of it.”

  She stared at him, reins slack in her hands. Blossom moseyed along toward Semple’s as if she was as anxious to return there. “You’d give up half your land? Clay . . .” She swallowed, so moved she couldn’t finish.

  “Like I said, I don’t know details, but I need to talk to McKee and Girty again once we’re settled at Semple’s.”

  “Can I go with you? See what this is about?”

  “I’d rather you wait till I find out more.” He swiped a hand across his unshaven jaw, eyes narrowing to take in the busy waterfront. “All I know at present is that it involves Netawatwees, a sachem—chief—of the Lenape.”

  Tessa said no more as the tavern came into view. Did the news have to do with Ross? Keturah? The warriors Clay had taken down in the woods that eventful day? Pondering it, she dismounted at Semple’s, giving Clay a last look as he reined Bolt toward Fort Pitt.

  37

  Clay awaited McKee and Girty on the arrowhead tip of land where the three rivers mingled, surely one of most spectacular sights in British North America. Small wonder both Virginia and Pennsylvania waged an ongoing territorial war over which colony claimed it. Few white men ventured past Pitt. Until the border settled and peace was achieved, the West would remain no-man’s-land.

  Girty and McKee appeared along Fort Pitt’s westernmost wall, walking past Edmonstone’s dwelling. Clay prayed silently as the men walked toward him, trusting McKee but never sure of Girty. They greeted him in Lenape and told him what they knew and had learned since his leaving Fort Pitt with Tessa the day before.

  He listened, saying little, as Girty did most of the talking, McKee adding what he knew. In a mere quarter of an hour the matter was laid out. Would he agree to it? If so, the plan would be enacted in the morning when the sun was two fingers high. No mention was made of his land along the Monongahela, but surely it had sweetened this chancy endeavor.

  Out of the corner of his eye Clay caught sight of Tessa. She was walking toward them, her indigo skirts unsettled by the wind, one hand on her new straw hat to keep it in place. The locket about her throat glinted in the late afternoon sun, a reminder of their new, everlasting tie. His wish that she remain at Semple’s was short-lived.

  Her face was pinched in concern. “I’m sorry, Clay. I couldn’t stay away. Your dealings with Girty don’t set well with me. I’m not even sure about McKee.”

  He wouldn’t argue. Both men had critics aplenty. Warmed by her concern, he took her hand and led her to the shade of an ancient elm where one leafy arm extended over the water. They sat atop an overturned canoe, boats of every kind tied to moorings along the river’s edge.

  “Please, Clay, tell me everything. Two heads are better than one, aye?”

  He pondered his reply, carefully navigating the proposition before him. “The Lenape chief, Netawatwees, is said to have called for a meeting at Keturah’s request.”

  “Keturah? Is she well?”

  “It would seem so, considering her summons.”

  Tessa’s expression eased. “Would the meeting be here?”

  “Nay. Downriver a bit, well into Indian territory. The chief won’t come to Pitt—a den of poisonous snakes, he says.”

  She nodded in understanding. “So he wants to meet with you? No one else?”

  She had him there. He wouldn’t lie. “He asked that you come too. Keturah is his adopted daughter among the Lenape, remember. When she first came to be with the People years ago, Netawatwees took her into his family.”

  “We must go, then.”

  “I told McKee and Girty I would, aye. But not you.”

  “Nay? Why not? Keturah—and the chief—asked for me.”

  “I’m not yet sure of the truth of that. Such might be an outright lie, a ruse. I won’t know till I get there.” The words were tight, the tension ratcheting inside him word by word. “In the morning I’ll leave with McKee and Girty by canoe. Keturah might well be the key to Ross, but I could be mistaken.”

  Tessa paused, obviously trying to make sense of matters. “I’ve never pressed you, but I sense the Indians you killed that day you came after me, including the one who fell then disappeared, were known to you.”

  “The one marked like a wolf, he was my Lenape brother. He was also Keturah’s husband. And kin to Netawatwees. He was—” He had an inkling Tamanen still lived—“rather, is a chief in his own right.”

  “Oh, Clay.” Tears stood in her eyes. “If you go downriver you might be—”

  “I might be ambushed, aye.” Her blatant alarm fed his own. He was taking a frightful risk. “Taken captive again. Made to pay for what I did in the woods that day. Girty obviously wants my land along the Monongahela. McKee has some stake in this I’m not sure about.”

  “Will you let Captain Edmonstone know?”

  “I will if only to make him aware something is afoot. If I don’t return in a timely manner, then Edmonstone will investigate.”

  “I’m going with you.” She stared at him as if wanting to commit every last detail of him to heart. “I can’t lose you. You—”

  “Tessa . . .” He took her hands in his, enfolding them and holding them firmly. “Tomorrow you’ll stay safely at Semple’s and pray against any trickery, any deceit. For now, it’s nearing supper.” He silenced the voice that taunted it would be their last. “We’d best turn in early if I’m to be up before first light.”

  She dressed for travel. Did Clay notice? She was clad in her sturdiest shoes, her most enduring dress and stockings, even her plainest fichu, but her hopes were dashed when he said, “Pitt is no place for a lady even at dawn.”

  “I’m no lady, remember,” she replied, but he was so preoccupied getting ready to depart he seemed to pay no notice.

  At the bedchamber door, he drew her into his arms but kissed her with only a spark of the passion of before, as if his mind was already on the river and what awaited. She listened to his footfall on the stair and then the closing of a door.

  Careful to stay well behind him and out of sight, she left Semple’s and walked the back alleys till she came to the waterfront just as the sun touched the rooftops. This early, the town was like a sleeping, cantankerous giant struggling to awaken. Few were out at such an hour, especially the revelers who stayed up all night, as the taverns never seemed to shut their doors.

  McKee and Girty were waiting. How it grieved her to stand at a distance while they climbed into the waiting canoe, the stoutest she’d ever seen. Clay took the middle position while Girty sat in the bow and McKee the stern. Their rifles, shot pouches, and other accoutrements were near at hand. Little time was wasted. The sun was indeed two fingers high when they launched, their oars slicing through the water with a quiet trill.

  At the last, Clay gave a look over his shoulder. Did he know she’d followed? If ever a heart was in a look, it was in his. Her stomach somersaulted and she felt breathless, even light-headed. Memories rushed forward, her last of Pa, Jasper, Ross. Only then, she hadn’t realized how final those moments were. If she had she would have looked harder. Longer. As it was, she watched till Clay turned into a speck on that vast river now swathed pure gold as the sun rose.

  The Ohio was the mightiest river she’d ever seen, so large and so long it seemed to have no end. Indian territory. Few ventured there. Many never returned. She’d heard the stories. They were even more frightful than those along the border.

  Steeling her resolve, she ran toward the waterfront as if her life—and his—depended on it. Her heels sank into the sandy bank as her hands fumbled with the rope tying a canoe to shore. She’d not been raised on the river for naught. In seconds the boat floated atop the water, and she settled in the stern on her knees, the oar in her hands smooth if unfamiliar. No one watched or ran after her or called her thief.

  The shore became smaller and smaller as she paddled in Clay’s wake. Though she could no longer see him, as he’d gone around a bend, she was thankful this river road went west and there w
as no tangle of waterways to choose from, no rocks or rapids as it curved lazily. Here the water wasn’t deep. She could see the pebbly bottom. Thankful, too, the rising sun was at her back and not in her eyes, her straw hat forgotten at Semple’s.

  The day was warm. Clear. The river was mercifully calm, no wind to ruffle its smooth surface. Soon she settled into a steady rhythm, the dull ache in her arms measuring the distance. A lone flatboat or keelboat was all she saw, though great herons and a black bear dotted the waterfront as she glided past.

  No longer did she see Clay’s canoe. With three men paddling, they easily outdistanced her. Undaunted, she kept on, unable to shake off the foreboding that losing sight of him meant losing him forever. Unsure of their meeting place, she kept a close watch on the banks, which were nearly a half mile apart in places, looking for any movement, any landed canoe.

  As the sun climbed, Indians appeared along the waterfront. Women and near-naked children. A few men. Their lingering stares raised the hair on the back of her neck, and she paddled harder, gaining momentum, heart thrumming in her ears more from disquiet than exertion.

  Lord, please, peace. And some sign.

  Another sharp river bend that blocked her view of the watery road ahead, and then . . .

  There sat Clay, his canoe turned like a wall to block her way. Girty and McKee were regarding her with amused scorn, their oars idle. But Clay—fury roared through his features at the sight of her. ’Twas in the tightening of his tanned features, the lightning-quick sternness of his eyes. His mouth was not merely a grim line but so pronounced it slanted downward into a fierce frown.

  To Girty he said tersely, “Fashion a tow rope and tie her on.”

  Doused with cold humiliation, Tessa rued ever setting foot on the riverbank. Only a fool would follow a man into the wilderness when he’d told her to stay behind. Not only had she defied Clay, now she would slow them unnecessarily. Eyes down, she lay aside her oar, the wind hardly cooling her fiery face while Girty tethered her canoe.