A Moonbow Night

by Laura Frantz

  With a sigh, Aylee stared out the window. “Love won’t be forced.”

  Nay, it would not. Love would be denied, rebuffed, cut down. Nipped in the bud long before the blossom. But never forced.

  “Best tend your own orchard, Tempe Grace, and stay out of your brother’s.” Aylee turned toward her. “I did not tell you, but last time John Holder was by here he asked if he could court you.”

  “Captain Holder?” Disgust doubled Tempe’s aggravation. “Seems like a man of courting mind could ask himself.”

  “You give him no room.” Aylee’s retort was swift, as if she’d been seeking such a confrontation. “Nary a warm word passes your lips, nor a kindly glance.”

  “Would you have me make free with him, then?” Tempe’s tone sharpened. “The last time I smiled at a longhunter, he pinched me a blue place through my petticoat.” Her thoughts traveled backwards, unhappily, at the half-truth. Nay, the last man she’d spoken to had been Sion, and he’d been respectful, as guarded as she.

  “John Holder would be a good provider. He aims to operate a ferry and tavern along the Chenoa downriver from Boone’s Fort.”

  “John Holder is sweet on Fanny Callaway and has sired a child by Margaret Drake, both of them at Boonesborough. I scarce think he has time to walk out with me.”

  Aylee began fanning herself again, whether from the heat of the kitchen or the shameful news, Tempe didn’t know. “Where’d you get such?”

  “There’s advantages to keeping your mouth shut. You hear a heap better.”

  Letting go of her apron, Aylee chuckled. “I may have the gift of gab, but you’re just like your pa. Slow to speak . . . if not slow to anger.”

  The weight in Aylee’s words struck Tempe hard. She’d tried to tame her temper. It had gone easier given what Pa had done in Virginia. His crime was an everlasting reproach, the repercussions from an unbridled spirit ever before her.

  Desperate to turn the tide of conversation, she was relieved when Aylee said, “I’ve been some worried about Paige. I overheard that Cornelius Lyon fella sweet-talking her when he was here.”

  “Maybe she simply means to get a rise out of Russell.” Tempe wiped her hands on her apron, gaze straying to the window again. “Like as not she’s missing her brother. It’s been a year or better since he’s come by from Harrod’s Fort.”

  “I pray the surveyors won’t be back thisaway.”

  “Then we’ve another dog to tend.” Tempe’s thoughts swung to Smokey. At last count they had nine curs. But Smokey could hardly be called a mongrel. Fine collie-bred she was, and sweet-tempered. Tempe had grown attached to the creature, sneaking it scraps and spending time she didn’t have, its shaggy head in her lap, its expressive eyes asking questions she couldn’t answer. It seemed Sion’s dog missed him. Would he be back to claim her?

  “Morgan’s party’ll fare no better than Harrod’s surveyors, truth be told. I’ve not forgot all those names in the Reckoning.” Aylee bent over a barrel of kraut. Tempe smelled the potent brine as the lid was lifted. “I misdoubt Paige has the gumption to go with the surveyors. She’s a mite fearful. You know how skittish she is around Raven. The others.”

  “The others?”

  “Aye. Some of Nancy Ward’s kin.”

  “Nanyehi?” The name slid easily off Tempe’s tongue. Pa spoke of this beloved woman of the Cherokee often enough. He was familiar with the Overhill sect, trading with them and on friendly terms with their Indian agent. He was likely there now, taking advantage of British trade goods.

  “They’ve been passing by here lately when you’re not near at hand. Peaceable, seems like.”

  Tempe stared at her mother, nearly forgetting to crank the spit and baste the smoking venison. “Why do they come?”

  “To hear tell of the trouble between the settlements and Shawnee and such. Betimes Russell fixes something for them or makes a trade.”

  Truly, Russell was never idle. A wonder with iron and anvil, crafting everything from fishhooks to horseshoes to knives. Word had spread about what a hand he was. But . . .

  “And Russell—he’s at peace with it?” The thought of her brother dealing with the very Indians who would have killed him in Powell Valley gave her pause.

  “So long as they’re amiable, like Raven . . .” Aylee left off, uncertainty in her voice. “Maybe it’s best you keep to home. Curtail your rambles. You can never be sure of Indians, what with the fresh trouble in the settlements and the change of weather.”

  Curtail her rambles? The very thought made Tempe itch. Granted, spring to Indian summer was always a chancy spell. Smoothing her irritation as best she could, she said meekly, “All right, Ma. I will.”

  9

  How love came in, I do not know, whether by the eye, or ear, or no: Or whether with the soul it came.

  —ROBERT HERRICK

  The rolling water was up to the horse’s hocks now. In two steps it licked the stallion’s belly, darkening the underside of the saddlebags. Sion pressed on, the reins in his left hand, his rifle held high in his right, out of harm’s way.

  The fording place spanning the Shawnee was still a challenge even in June, the rock marker barely visible above the river’s relentless rush. First to cross, Beck climbed the gravelly bank with unsteady legs as if the current had stripped all the strength out of him.

  Levi Todd came next, bobbing along in the current woodenly, used to the rigors of the frontier. The others followed without mishap, Nate giving a resounding amen when all reached the south shore.

  They soon parted ways, Todd bent on the Virginia settlements and what help he could garner there for the struggling Kentucke stations. No sooner had his buckskin-clad back disappeared than Cornelius started in.

  “We’ve yet to see an Indian, Morgan, and still this everlasting caution. ‘No talk. Walk in water. Shun soft ground. Backtrack now and again to throw any trackers off the trail.’ Ad nauseam.”

  Sion looked up the rocky trace the frontiersman had taken. “You aren’t shackled, Cornelius. Follow Todd if you must.”

  For a tense second, indecision warred on the Englishman’s flushed face. He slapped at a mosquito but said nothing more, and Sion faced forward again, leading.

  ’Twas the hottest day yet. Nary a breath of wind stirred. It took concentrated effort to breathe. The sultry air hung thick and sticky, ripe for a storm. Cicadas unreeled their raggety tunes, but the birdsong was muted as it tended to be in the heat of summer, the forest a crush of vivid greens. Sion felt more aggravation than admiration, ignoring the asters with their bewitching butterflies and the clumps of blood-colored phlox that begged a second look.

  They were heading west along the Shawnee, away from danger, back toward the Moonbow Inn. Toward Tempe and her lame brother and widowed mother and serving girl, an odd assortment in the wilderness.

  His mission was twofold. Reclaim his dog and learn the whereabouts of the guide Todd had told him about. Then their surveying could begin in earnest. What they’d accomplished thus far was barely passable, hindered by a bout of foggy weather and Cornelius’s temper.

  He felt fresh disgust they couldn’t survey the Great Meadow where the Kentucke settlements stood. Mayhap the unclaimed land along the Green River would bear fruit. Once they secured a guide, they could construct a base camp, giving Cornelius a place to make his maps. Sion’s own field notes and diagrams were becoming quite complex and needed organizing.

  They journeyed on, past dense canebrakes and breathless bottoms, massive sandstone cliffs on every side. His eye lingered on the caves—rockhouses—etched into the cliff’s face, a perfect cover in time of danger or storm. They overnighted in one, leaving the horses to graze in a secluded cove. The next morning they continued into denser wilderness, most of it uphill. Nary a blaze mark on a tree, no sign of a claim anywhere. The country was theirs for the taking.

  “Just think, Morgan. Virginia law says four hundred acres can be yours if you build an improvement and raise a crop of corn.”

&nb
sp; There was mocking in Cornelius’s voice. For a poor settler, this might seem a dream, but to surveyors paid in vast tracts of land, it was a pittance.

  Ignoring Cornelius’s arrogance, Sion looked over his shoulder down the line. The horses were merely plodding now. Beck’s saddle sore had returned, and another packhorse had thrown a shoe. They were all struggling, every man, fighting brush and fallen timber and swarms of insects, sick to death of meat and in need of bread. Hascal’s feet were scalded on account of walking with wet moccasins, the bane of the frontier. They all were in want of another soaking, a clean shirt.

  All held fast to the promise of the Moonbow Inn, a phantasm or fancy. Sion felt an odd anticipation. A small hope. Trouble was, he’d begun to question his own motives. Why was he not more aggravated by all their backtracking to the inn? The pleasure he felt had more to do with burgeoning pewter plates. Yet he’d deny it to his dying day.

  When at last they saw and smelled the inn’s wood smoke, Sion’s breathing eased. Lifting a sleeve, he slicked the sweat from his brow, nearly toppling his hat. Next he gave the signal to stop. The halted packhorses waited wearily beneath their loads, snorting and huffing, tails swishing at flies. Taking Annie from the saddle holster, Sion walked to the rear of the line where Cornelius stood, their last ugly encounter firmly in mind.

  “If you make any trouble for these people”—Sion canted his head toward the inn—“I’ll exact a stiff penalty.”

  “Stiff, aye?” Cornelius’s smirk was wide. “I merely misfired—”

  “You’ll act the gentleman you pretend to be.” With one hand, Sion maneuvered his rifle so that the barrel’s tip rested against Cornelius’s chest. “You’ll mind your thirst—”

  “The metheglin, you mean.”

  “You’ll take care with the ladies.”

  Cornelius snorted. “Ladies is generous. They’re naught but a bunch of ill-bred, backwoods hussies—”

  The barrel pressed harder, level with his heart. Sion continued evenly, “And you’ll mind your tongue lest you lose it alongside your scalp.”

  Lucian spoke up, clearly spent. “Should I see about supper, Mister Morgan?”

  “Aye, if they’ll have us.” Sion looked toward the inn, seeing little through the trees but detecting something savory. The feast they’d had at first, nearly wiped away by their fracas in the keeping room, was joyfully resurrected in his memory. Butter molded with a dogwood flower. Steaming catfish. Potatoes and hominy. Rich cream gravy.

  When they finally cleared the trees, anticipation faded to dismay. In back of the inn was a great many people. Two dingy tents had been pitched in the yard. Horses were hobbled to the side, ripping at the grass and undergrowth. It had been a while since he’d seen so many folks in one place. There was safety in numbers. Likely they had gathered here because they’d heard of the trouble in the settlements and were going to wait it out before braving riskier ground.

  He made his way to the dogtrot whilst Nate and the others managed the horses. He wagered they’d get no supper, his party at least. The best he could do was find out about the guide.

  The dogs had been expelled from the dogtrot. There was simply no room. Several men sprawled about, no doubt waiting to be fed. Seasoned woodsmen, from the look of them, who might have what he was in need of. They regarded him in broody silence.

  Sion cleared his throat and came straight to the point. “I’m looking for a man by the name of Tucker. Tim Tucker.”

  A stream of tobacco juice flew past as a low ripple of laughter washed across the porch.

  “What you askin’ for?” This from a one-eyed monstrosity of a man who’d clearly tangled with a bear and lost.

  Sion eased his rifle to the ground. “I’m in need of a guide.”

  “You ain’t from around here, are ye?”

  “Nay,” Sion answered. “Fort Patrick Henry.”

  The man spat again, his face scrunched in thought. “You come to the right place. Who sent ye?”

  “Levi Todd from Logan’s.”

  “Standing Fort? St. Asaph’s they once called it.” The mauled man got up from his stump of a chair, outright amusement on his face. Cracking open the door to the keeping room, he bellowed, “Tem Tucker in there?”

  Sion sensed something amiss, some private jest, long before the door opened wider and Tempe stepped onto the dogtrot.

  “Here’s yer guide,” another man drawled. “And ain’t she a pretty one?”

  Laughter split the air, great, gaping guffaws that made a fool of Sion if not Tempe.

  Sion took a step back, heat filling every pore, every crevice. “My mistake,” he said, taking his rifle in hand again.

  Tempe looked hard at him, a flash of something he couldn’t name in her eyes. He turned to go, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him.

  “Now just you wait,” the man called. “Todd told no lie. Tem Tucker’s the best shot along the Shawnee, mebbe even farther. We’ll have us a little target practice and show ye—”

  “A shooting match, McRae?” came her soft voice. “Or your supper?”

  Sion turned back around to see Tempe wipe doughy hands on her grease-speckled apron. “I don’t hardly have time for the both of them.”

  “Sup first. Shoot later,” McRae returned gruffly.

  Without another look at Sion, Tempe slipped inside, shutting the door forcefully behind her.

  A crowd had gathered, the sun casting russet fingers of light through the trees as it slid slowly from sight. Sion stood along a rail fence, watching Russell limp toward a gate at a distance of one hundred yards. In his hands was a tanned deerskin that he affixed to the wood, carefully marking a circle at the center with a piece of charcoal.

  A number of men had gathered, but Tempe kept back, sweeping the empty dogtrot with a brisk broom as if she wasn’t part and parcel of the drama unfolding around her. Her temper had cooled from being called onto the porch, which cost her a burnt skillet of potatoes. Thankfully, the men had eaten them with nary a complaint as if aware their tomfoolery was the cause.

  She was dog-tired, her plan for a bath below the falls tucked away. A mosquito had bitten her, raising an itchy lesion on her neck, and she felt sore and unattractive in the midst of so many men. Her nettled thoughts spun back to that twilight in Powell Valley along the creek with James. Despite the grime of the trace, he’d made her feel giddy, pretty, exquisitely alive. Now she just felt worn and soiled as an old moccasin.

  The men kept looking to the porch, all but Sion. She still didn’t understand their amused talk, why she’d been mixed up with a guide and Levi Todd. Todd and McRae were among the few who knew their name. The ensuing laughter hadn’t bothered her, as it was directed at Sion. Though he’d stayed stoic, she sensed his deep discomfiture. And hers. He now knew they were Tuckers. What would he make of that?

  She took her time sweeping the dogtrot, swinging the broom this way and that, till there was no more dust left to settle. In the field bordering the corn, the men had formed a line as if weary of waiting for her. One by one they began proving their marksmanship, filling the far field with noise and smoke.

  Reluctantly, she put the broom aside and went to get her gun. Pa had taught her to shoot after Powell Valley when they’d lived at Blackmore’s Fort, before the terrible trouble with the Loyal. Back then hunger had honed whatever innate ability she had. She took a quiet pride in it but shunned any matches or contests.

  “A right terrible waste of powder,” she said without rancor as she took her place at the end of the line. No one could dispute the words. Powder was a precious commodity. There never seemed enough.

  Sion was two men ahead of her. The broad set of his shoulders was a fine distraction, so wide it would take two skins to make him a shirt. He wore one of linsey once dyed a rich indigo but now faded to pale blue with so much use. She knew he was a good marksman just as she knew the sun would set and the moonbow would appear. Cornelius and the rest of their party she was less sure of. The older, silver-h
aired man with them simply leaned against the fence, smoking a pipe and talking with Russell between bouts of gunfire.

  There were grunts and grimaces as men shot wide of the mark. Tempe’s breath grew shallow as the intense heat of dusk pressed down, casting long shadows that made shooting more chancy.

  She watched as Sion stepped into place and took aim. No matter how she felt about the man and this silly match, his rifle was a work of art. Of beautifully grained maple, the stock was decorated in brass, as was the butt plate and patch box and trigger guard. A stallion among geldings. He raised it to his shoulder and sighted. The crowd quieted when he paused ever so briefly before squeezing the trigger. The rifle roared.

  Dead center.

  There were whistles of admiration and a few glances tossed her way. She couldn’t best him. She could only match him. How would he feel about that? Not all men took kindly to soldierly women.

  The man ahead of her shot second best. He swaggered away in marked contrast to Sion’s handsome reserve. A tendril of admiration grew for this borderman, but she brushed it away before it took root.

  “Best shot takes all the lead dug out of the target,” Russell called.

  Tempe tamped down a queer excitement. There were worse tasks than splitting lead with this stranger, but given the strain of the moment, could she match him?

  Her rifle felt heavy, and she took her time getting her bearings whilst the men around her reloaded. Bracing herself for the kick since she was not a stout woman, she squinted and sighted. A trickle of sweat made an itchy trail down her back. Taking a steadying breath, she sighted a second time. The shot rang out, choking and blinding her with burnt powder, but it was true.

  “Nary a hair’s width off!” a man shouted.

  To the left of the target, Russell gave her a long look. Even at a distance she read his admiration. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Sion. Rather than a bonnet full of bullets, she’d rather have the why of his coming and this strange talk of a guide.