An Uncommon Woman

by Laura Frantz

  Lord, forgive me.

  It took all the self-control Clay had to keep from overturning Tessa’s canoe in anger. Her flushed, repentant features didn’t assuage him one whit. He’d married a strong-willed woman and here was proof. He paddled harder, ire stiffening his strokes. The semblance of peace he’d had thinking her safely at Semple’s took wing. Now their present predicament called out every protective instinct he had. Not only was he in grave danger, but so was she. And if this all went wrong and propelled them headlong into an ambush . . .

  In another mile or more they left the middle of the river where they’d been out of firing range. A hard sweep on the right with their oars turned them toward the bank. They beached the canoe, making little noise.

  Clay lifted Tessa out like a wayward child and planted her firmly on the bank. Being experienced woodsmen, they left little trail once they cut into the woods. Soundlessly, Girty and McKee led the way, Clay behind Tessa at the rear. That bone-deep certainty of being watched overcame him, though he saw no one.

  Tessa cast him an entreating look as they traversed what was little more than a game trail. He paid her no mind, still a-simmer at her rebelliousness. The forest was different here than along the Buckhannon, autumn’s entrance more telling, sassafras and sweet gum leading the colorful charge of leaves. Half a league in, the swift tumbling of a stream had them pause for a drink. When Clay stood, he smelled smoke. Indian tobacco. Girty and McKee wiped dripping water from their faces and communicated with hand gestures.

  As Clay watched them, Tessa faced him. He put a finger to his lips. The apology he guessed she’d been about to make remained unspoken. Wretchedness marred her lovely face. Was she fretting over the ill feeling between them? Wanting to make amends if the worst happened?

  They continued on. The longer they walked, the less wary Clay felt. Surely, if there was any trickery, they’d by now have been overtaken and dispatched. Though their combined rifles were formidable, they couldn’t withstand a surprise attack.

  At last they came to the edge of a small meadow, an awning of skins at its heart providing shade from the sun. Beneath it sat an aged Indian in eagle headdress.

  Netawatwees.

  Taking cover behind a sprawling laurel bush to better assess the clearing, Tessa stood in back of the men as they peered through the waxy leaves. The awning shaded an Indian who was seated and appeared to be waiting. Keturah’s Lenape father? Winded and sore over defying Clay, she vowed to cause him no more trouble. She simply stood, absently fingering the locket, and prayed for peace as McKee stepped into the open, then Clay.

  Girty hung back with her, saying, “Any sign of your brother?”

  Her gaze sharpened and probed the shadows behind the chief. A flicker of movement was their answer. Her brother was on his feet now, though he made no move toward her. She closed her eyes to dispel any woolgathering. Ross was alive. Well.

  Not a ruse then. Not a ploy to draw them here and harm them. Or was it too soon to be sure?

  As Clay and McKee seated themselves facing the chief, Girty led her into the clearing. Netawatwees studied her as a heavily beaded, buckskin-skirted woman drew her beneath the awning toward the waiting Ross.

  There, in the shade, his beloved grin erased every fear she’d ever had about recovering him. He embraced her tightly, looking as if his entire ordeal was more adventure. Save for a welt on his cheek, he seemed robust as ever, his good humor intact. “Welcome, Sister. I never thought to see you so far west.”

  “I never thought to see you again,” she whispered through her tears as all the events of summer’s end caught up with her. “What a time we’ve had since the raid on the cabin that day.”

  They sat down atop reed mats, facing forward to better see the smoking ceremony now taking place between the chief, Clay, Girty, and McKee. Unspeakably weary, arms still aching from her furious paddle downriver, Tessa fell quiet, savoring the sweet fellowship of her brother’s presence. And then . . .

  “Don’t be fooled.” Eyes on the woods, Ross lost his joyous spark. “There’s an army of Lenape surrounding us.”

  The unwelcome words tore Tessa’s attention from him to the dense foliage ringing the meadow. “They mean us harm?”

  “I pray not. Plenty of bad blood between Clay and Tamanen, Keturah’s husband, though.”

  “Is Tamanen here?”

  “He’s recovering with the Moravians along the Tuscarawas. His fellow warriors brought him to Keturah after the fight with Clay.”

  Relief flooded her. Since Keturah was a noted healer, this made sense. Though there was ill feeling between Clay and his Indian brother, Tessa knew Clay had not wanted to harm him.

  “How did they know Keturah was there?”

  “Indian spies. Messengers. Not much that goes on in Indian territory is missed.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Tamanen told Keturah that I’d been taken north,” Ross continued quietly, eyes on the smoking men. “Keturah knew your heart would be on the ground, so she sent word to her Indian father, Netawatwees, to help bring me back. It took time, but here I am.” Ross looked at her, eyes soft. “What’s more, Keturah traded herself for me, told Tamanen she’d return to the Lenape if they would give me up. Seems like a healer is worth more to the Indians than somebody who tinkers with guns.”

  Throat tight, Tessa looked toward Clay, stone pipe in hand, features stoic. But did Keturah want to return to her Indian life?

  Reaching into his shoulder pouch, Ross withdrew something familiar. Beloved. The worn doll she’d found in the Braam cabin prior to Keturah’s return. Tessa’s fingers closed around the small cloth figure. ’Twas no worse for wear, unaltered but for one thing. On its bodice something had been stitched in vermilion thread.

  A red heart.

  Tenderness smote her, the warmth in her chest and haze in her eyes intensifying as she studied the new adornment and what it meant.

  A true friend, Keturah was. One who “loveth at all times,” one born for adversity. She was no swallow friend who flew to you in summer but was gone in winter, as the preacher Matthew Henry said. Her affections did not turn with the wind or change with the weather. No matter where life took the two of them, the bond between them would be unbroken.

  “You all right, Sister?”

  “In time, maybe.” Swiping at her eyes with a quick hand, she tucked the doll inside her bodice, where it nested with Clay’s locket.

  The smoking had come to an end, and the talking commenced. Nothing was done hurriedly but in a manner of quiet courtesy. Since their conversation was in Lenape, the words were lost to Tessa. But watching Clay in this unusual setting, she saw him in a new light. His direct, measured speech. His gracious, controlled mannerisms. All bespoke the Indian influence.

  Though her nerves had settled, she was still anxious to see Ross and Clay on the banks of Fort Pitt, if not the Buckhannon. Ma needed telling, Ross returned. Keturah must know her noble mission was complete.

  Sitting was nearly unendurable when she felt like flying. Her heart, so full where it had been fractured, resumed an easier rhythm.

  At last Clay came to her without a trace of anger. Extending his hand, he clasped hers and led her to Netawatwees. She bowed her head respectfully, unsure of what was required of her. The chief’s lined face registered pleasure as she spoke a final word Keturah had taught her.

  “Wanìshi.” I thank you.

  Where the mood had been unhurried before, now a sense of urgency overcame them. With sure-footed haste they took their leave of camp—she, Clay, Ross, and McKee—while Girty remained behind with their second canoe.

  With a last look at the woods, Tessa sat at the canoe’s middle, hands in her lap, as the men paddled. The swift ride upriver was taken with the noon sun high above them, the water a restive blue.

  When the bastions of Fort Pitt came into view, Tessa wanted to weep as joy gained the upper hand. She had only to look at Ross and Clay to feel whole again. Thankful.

  “Whe
re to next, my wayward wife?” Clay winked at her, pausing in his paddling for just an instant. “East toward Philadelphia?”

  “Nay,” she replied with a growing certainty. “South toward our land along the Monongahela. Maybe once we send word to Ma, Ross can help us get settled before he returns to the Buckhannon. Philadelphia can wait.”

  Clay smiled as Ross hooted his glee. McKee laughed and paddled harder, finally returning them safely to shore in the shadow of Fort Pitt. Together they stood on solid ground and looked farther down the Monongahela as it stretched to distant foothills, blue and beckoning, theirs for the taking. Tessa felt a stirring of something she’d not felt in a long time. Renewed hope.

  A fresh start awaited. A new land. A new life.

  1

  Kentucke, Indian Territory, 1777

  In the fading lavender twilight, at the edge of a clearing, stood half a dozen Shawnee warriors. They looked to the small log cabin nestled in the bosom of the greening ridge, as earthy and unassuming as the ground it sat upon. If not for the cabin’s breathtaking view of the river and rolling hills, arguably the finest in the territory, most passersby would easily dismiss such a place, provided they found it at all. The Indians regarded it with studied intent, taking in the sagging front porch, the willow baskets and butter churn to one side, and the vacant rocking chair still astir from the hurry of a moment before. Six brown bodies gleamed with bear grease, each perfectly still, their only movement that of sharp, dark eyes.

  Inside the cabin, Ezekial Click handed a rifle to his son, Ransom, before opening the door and stepping onto the porch. His wife, Sara, took up a second gun just inside. A sudden breath of wind sent the spent blossoms of a lone dogwood tree scurrying across the clearing. From the porch, Click began speaking in the Shawnee tongue. Slowly. Respectfully. A smattering of Shawnee followed—forceful yet oddly, even hauntingly, melodic.

  Sara and Ransom darted a glance out the door, troubled by every word, yet the unintelligible banter continued. At last, silence came. And then, in plain English, one brave shouted, “Click, show us your pretty daughter!”

  Within the cabin, all eyes fastened on the girl hovering on the loft steps. At thirteen, Lael Click was just a slip of a thing, but her oval face showed a woman’s composure. Her pale green eyes fastened on her father’s back just beyond the yawning door frame.

  She put one cautious foot to the floor, then tread the worn pine boards until she stood in her father’s shadow. She dared not look at her mother. Without further prompting she stepped forward into a dying shaft of sunlight. A sudden breeze caught the hem of her thin indigo shift and it ballooned, exposing two bare brown feet.

  The same brave shouted, “Let down your hair!”

  She hesitated, hearing her mother’s sharp intake of breath. With trembling hands she reached for the horn combs that held back the weight of fair hair. Her mane tumbled nearly to her feet, as tangled and luxuriant as wild honeysuckle vine.

  Woven in with the evening shadows was a chorus of tree frogs and katydids and the scent of soil and spring, but Lael noticed none of these things. Beside her, her father stood stoically and she fought to do the same, remembering his oft-repeated words of warning: Never give way to fear in an Indian’s sight.

  Softly she expelled a ragged breath, watching as each warrior turned away. Only the tallest tarried, his eyes lingering on her as she swept up her hair with unsteady hands and subdued it with the combs.

  At last they were gone, slipping away into the wall of woods. Invisible but ever present. Silent. Perhaps deadly.

  Evening was a somber affair, as if the Shawnee themselves had stayed for supper. To Lael, the cold cornbread and buttermilk that filled their wooden bowls seemed as tasteless as the cabin’s chinking. Somehow she managed a sip of cider and a half-hearted bite now and then. Across from her, her mother managed neither. Only her younger brother Ransom ate, taking his portion and her own, as if oblivious to all the trouble.

  Looking up, she saw a hint of a smile on her father’s face. Was he trying to put her at ease? Not possible. He sat facing the cabin door, his loaded rifle lounging against the table like an uninvited guest. Despite his defensive stance, he seemed not at all anxious like her ma but so calm she could almost believe the Indians had simply paid them a social call and they could go on about their business as if nothing had happened.

  He took out his hunting knife, sliced a second sliver of cornbread, then stood. Lael watched his long shadow fall across the table and caught his quick wink as he turned away. Swallowing a smile, she concentrated on the cabin’s rafters and the ropes strung like spiderwebs above their heads. The sight of her favorite coverlet brought some comfort, its pattern made bright with dogwood blossoms and running vines. Here and there hung linsey dresses, a pair of winter boots, some woolen leggins, strings of dried apples and leather-britches beans, bunches of tobacco, and other sundry articles. Opposite was the loft where she and Ransom slept.

  The cabin door creaked then closed as Pa disappeared onto the porch, leaving her to gather up the dirty dishes while her mother made mountain tea. Lael watched her add sassafras roots to the kettle, her bony hands shaking.

  “Ma, I don’t care for any tea tonight,” she said.

  “Very well. Cover the coals, then.”

  Lael took a small shovel and buried the red embers with a small mountain of ash to better start a fire come morning. When she turned around, her ma had disappeared behind the tattered quilt that divided the main cabin from their corner bedroom. Ransom soon followed suit, climbing the loft ladder to play quietly with a small army of wooden soldiers garrisoned under the trundle bed.

  Left alone, she couldn’t stay still, so taut in mind and body she felt she might snap. Soon every last dish and remaining crumb were cleaned up and put away. With Ma looking as though she might fall to pieces, Lael’s resolve to stay grounded only strengthened. Yet she found herself doing foolish things like snuffing out the candles before their time and pouring the dirty dishwater through a crack in the floor rather than risk setting foot outside.

  The clock on the mantel sounded overloud in the strained silence, reminding her the day was done. Soon she’d have to settle in for the night. But where was Pa? She took in the open door, dangerously ajar, and the fireflies dancing in the mounting gloom. She sighed, pushed back a wisp of hair, and took a timid step toward the porch.

  How far could an Indian arrow fly?

  Peering around the door frame she found Pa sitting in the same place she’d found him years ago that raw November morning after his escape from the Shawnee. They had long thought him dead, and indeed all remnants of his life as a white man seemed to have been stamped out of him. His caped hunting shirt was smeared with bear grease, his deerskin leggins soiled beyond redemption. Except for an eagle-feathered scalp lock, his head was plucked completely clean of the hair that had been as fair as her own. Savage as he was, she’d hardly recognized him. Only his eyes reminded her of the man she once knew, their depths a wild, unsurrendered blue.

  Tonight he was watching the woods, his gun across his knees, and his demeanor told her he shouldn’t be disturbed. Without a word she turned and climbed to the loft, where she found Ransom asleep. There, in the lonesome light of a tallow candle, she shook her hair free of the horn combs a second time.

  The shears she’d kept hidden since the Shawnee departed seemed cold and heavy in her hand, but her unbound hair was warm and soft as melted butter. She brought the two together, then hesitated. Looking down, she imagined the strands lying like discarded ribbon at her feet.

  A sudden noise below made her jerk the scissors out of sight. Pa had come in to collect his pipe. Her sudden movement seemed to catch his eye.

  “You’d best be abed, Daughter,” he called over his shoulder, his tone a trifle scolding.

  She sank down on the corn-husk tick, losing the last of her resolve, and tucked the scissors away. If she changed her mind come morning, they’d be near. Catlike, she climbed over the slu
mbering body in the trundle bed beneath her, surprised that a seven-year-old boy could snore so loud.

  The night was black as the inside of an iron skillet and nearly as hot. She lay atop the rustling tick, eyes open, craving sleep. The night sounds outside the loft window were reassuringly familiar, as was her brother’s rhythmic breathing. All was the same as it had ever been but different. The coming of the Indians had changed everything.

  In just a few moments’ time the Shawnee had thrown open the door to Pa’s past, and now there would be no shutting it.

  She, for one, didn’t like looking back.

  Acknowledgments

  So many hands, heads, and hearts go into the making of a book. The Revell team has now published eleven of my novels and are among the very best at bringing edifying books to readers everywhere, as is my agent, Janet Grant. Special thanks to Revell’s art director, Gayle Raymer, who put a face on this novel, giving me the frontier cover that is so true to the story.

  A special shout-out to my first reader and faithful Kentucky friend, Patti Jones, who bypassed the novelty of the final published story to peruse the first draft. Her savvy eye for superfluous wording is second to none and so appreciated. Here’s hoping the finished, polished book surprises and delights Patti’s succinct, historical-loving heart.

  To dear friend and author Joan Hochstetler—I’m beyond honored she read the manuscript despite her own brimming schedule and offered valuable insight and direction about this story. Given her rich family heritage and knowledge of both the American frontier and the American Revolution, this book is better for it. Her own work has inspired me in countless ways, especially her Northkill Amish and The American Patriot series.

  Last, but never least, a huge, heartfelt thanks to reading friends who find frontier America as fascinating and novel worthy as I do. You are one of God’s best gifts (Phil. 1:3).