by Laura Frantz
“Is that all, you reckon? The widow Tucker, he calls you.” Tempe turned loose another waffle. “I suppose Pa expects me to unravel that too. Well, it’s entirely his doing if folks are fooled into believing you’ve no man about the place save Russell.”
“Shush!” Aylee cautioned, their sharpened voices in danger of carrying beyond the kitchen.
Aylee took the iron while Tempe made ready to serve, wishing she’d gone to milk in Paige’s place. She was not of a mood to step on the dogtrot and pretend all was well. Yet when she walked onto the porch it seemed all was right in Sion’s world, with Nate Stoner risen and a plate of savory waffles to boot.
“Thankee kindly,” Nate said with a humility that moved her. He bent his head, murmuring the rambling grace that had been missing from their table since Pa went into hiding. Russell could but choke out a few thankful words in his absence.
“Father, we thank Thee for this food, for all the blessings Thou dost give. Strengthen our bodies and our souls, and let us for Thy service live. Amen.”
Sion merely gave her a hint of a smile, eyes averted. Had he overheard what had just played out in the kitchen? She prayed not. Her words came calm and certain-like, belying the storm inside her. “I suppose the both of you will soon be on your way.”
“Aye,” he answered, taking the plate she offered.
Unwilling to return to the kitchen, she set the coffeepot between Sion and Nate and picked up an empty basket. But once she set foot in the woods she found she had no heart for her usual gathering.
It was the river’s solace she sought, as if its roar and rush could carry her troubles away. At the bend in the trail she looked back. Ma stood on the dogtrot talking with Sion.
Confusion doused her. Pa’s plan might well backfire. Sion was not likely to overlook her outright refusal at first. What would he now make of her aye, meek as a lamb?
She reached the river, abandoning her basket to walk out on a rocky ledge nearest the falls. Mist cooled her face and neck, leaving tiny glistening beads over the indigo of her marrying dress.
How different her life would have been had she wed James. In the span of four years’ time they’d have shared vows, a bed, babies. Settling out from a fort had been his plan. She’d never forgotten how he’d drawn her a replica of their cabin in the dust of the trail a fortnight before he died. How gleeful she had been back then. How heedless of the heartache to come.
She looked down as she stepped onto a flat boulder that led to other boulders lining the river. Her shoes felt strange. Rarely worn, they pinched her feet. Mindful of snakes after Nate’s ordeal, she’d begun wearing them. Of all God’s creatures, she had an everlasting fear of snakes.
She hovered on the mist-slicked ledge. One errant step and she would slide over. Away from Pa’s befuddling plan. Away from Ma’s meddling and Russell’s melancholy.
Into James’s arms.
15
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction . . .
A careless shoe-string in whose tie
I see a wild civility,
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.
—ROBERT HERRICK
Aylee’s surprising words hardly had time to settle when Sion placed his unfinished breakfast on the dogtrot’s planks and made for the river. Behind him Nate was talking—courting—with little notice of his leaving.
Sion had an uneasy feeling about Tempe. He didn’t know what he’d say to her once he found her, though he’d rather lay it out plain.
You first refused me, and now your ma comes telling me you’ll do as you denied.
Yet he sensed she was too tender, that for the moment something had so undone her she’d fled to the river, and he’d best tease open the reasons with care.
He saw her long before he set foot on the boulder-strewn bank. Again her dress was a puzzle to him. Hardly a work dress, it was finely made as if for some special occasion. A lacy cap perched on the back of her head, beneath which she’d pinned her plaited hair. She wore shoes—another oddity. Mayhap Nate’s calamity made her cautious.
He drew nearer, undetected. She was entirely too close to the waterfall, hovering on the very lip of the limestone cliff. Tendrils of her hair were tossed about in the damp, moving air. A corner of her apron lifted. Even the hem of her skirt was stirring.
“Tempe.”
He wasn’t sure she could hear him over the force of the falls, but she turned toward him too quickly, one foot failing her.
Fright darkened her face just as fear smacked all the breath from him. He lunged toward her. Nothing was sweeter than the feel of her wrist, soft and small in his leathery grip. He jerked her forward, out of harm’s way.
“You shouldn’t stand so close,” he shouted.
Her face crumpled, her sore lip trembling. With a gentle hand he tightened his hold on her, not letting go till they’d backtracked to the sandy riverbank far from slippery rock.
Only then did he release her. He expected no thanks, but she gave him a small, sorrowful smile, glancing over her shoulder to the falls as if she’d only dreamed of such a close call. When she faced him again, her eyes were no longer damp but resolute.
“I’m considering going with you, Mister Morgan.”
He made no reply, unwilling to tell her Aylee had just said the same.
She looked up at him, brows pensive. “But I’ll only go if you’ll take Raven too.”
The Cherokee? This was the last thing he’d expected. He’d not met this man, but suddenly it seemed the most important thing to do.
“He knows the country better than I do. He speaks the Indian tongue more than Cherokee.” She looked to the woods as if hoping he’d materialize. “He’ll be . . . security.”
Security? An Indian? By heaven, she was a bewilderment. A mass of contradictions. “What makes you think he’ll go?”
Her chin came up. “He owes me a favor.”
A favor. He could only make a wild conjecture as to what that entailed. Was she . . . partial to this Indian?
“It might take some time to find him.” Her tone was unconcerned, and he felt an odd amusement. As if she could round up a red man at will in untold acres of wilderness. “He’s usually not far.”
“So be it,” he said. “He’ll be paid wages same as you. We leave as soon as you locate him.”
He watched as she shed her clumsy shoes, then averted his eyes when she peeled off her stockings. She placed both in her empty basket.
Barefoot, she made quick work of the rocky shore, heading west as if she knew just where this Cherokee was. As for himself, he hardly minded staying on for another meal, another night’s rest on a feather tick. But his gut churned as he thought of Cornelius and whatever mischief might have befallen the rest of his party in his absence. He’d been away for too long.
What would the next hours bring?
Tempe stood in the doorway of the barn-shed, relieved to find Russell at work on an unfinished chair. The fragrance of wood shavings sweetened the air, something she’d miss on the trace.
He looked up, chisel suspended. Her thoughts swung to the hidden muskets . . . Alexander Cameron’s deadly words . . . Russell’s increasing absences. But for the moment her love for her brother was uppermost.
“You leaving?” he asked when she didn’t speak.
“Morgan’s unwilling to wait any longer. Mister Stoner is well enough to travel.” There was no complaint buried in her words, just stark urgency. “I wanted Raven to come, but he can’t be found.”
“It’s Pa’s doing, you going.” Russell’s low words were garbled, so soft only she could hear them. “Same as that mark on your lip.”
She said nothing, just shifted the saddlebags in her arms. Her mare waited, stamping impatiently beyond the entrance. In the clearing Sion and Nate were saddling up. Aylee was dashing about wit
h provisions, her usual calm decidedly stirred.
“You want me to tell Raven next time he comes?”
She nodded again, sick inside, so afflicted by all that was happening she didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Should he decide to go, you’ll be easy enough to follow.” There was an underlying fretfulness in the words, an odd sheen in Russell’s eyes that added to her angst.
Easy to follow, aye, with so many men and horses, and now a lone woman in the mix. “I’ll miss you,” she choked out, haunted by a wild worry she might never see him again. Maybe now was the time to settle her nettlesome questions. She’d best start with the guns in the barn-shed. “Russell, I know about the mus—”
“Tempe? You leavin’ us?” Paige’s alarmed words snuffed Tempe’s query as the girl rounded the corner of the barn-shed. “And here you cautioned me not to ride off with a passel of men!”
What could she say to this? A deeper misery lined Tempe’s insides. “There’s much that you don’t know. I’ll leave it to Russell to tell the why of it. Truth be told, I’d rather join up with a war party of Chickamaugas.”
In minutes she’d tied on her saddlebags, talking to the mare in coaxing tones if only to settle herself. Goodbyes were wrenching. They bled the heart right out of a person. But Russell had risen to the occasion, abandoning his woodworking to pat her on the shoulder at least.
Paige was crying now, head bent more from a missed opportunity than Tempe’s leaving, likely. Tempe ignored her, wishing she had wits enough to risk a farewell without breaking down. Untethering her mare, she swung herself into the saddle as Sion and Nate mounted and bid Aylee goodbye.
Tempe took a hard look at her home place, lingering on the meadow bereft of all her gathering. The berries had been sacked and hung from the rafters amid aromatic herb bundles, enough to last through the long winter to come. She had a sudden, unassailable urge to climb the loft steps a final time and bid her feather bed and dower chest goodbye.
For a moment it seemed she hovered between two worlds, both dark. ’Twas 1777. The year of the bloody sevens, some were calling it, and it was but July. Was she the only one who sensed they were walking into the midst of an ordeal like ’73?
They rode single file, Sion ahead and Nate behind. Hemming her in. Respectful. Protective. Suffocating. Back rigid, she sat uncomfortably in the saddle, unsure of her free-spirited mare that was adept at snatching brush lining the trail without missing a step. Rarely did Tempe ride. She much preferred a soft, moccasined footfall.
They covered miles at a steady pace almost dulling in its regularity. She’d slept little the night before, tossed about by Pa’s brutish behavior and being foisted upon a surveying party.
So weary was she that she barely noticed the wonders around her. She’d been this way before many times. But mounted on Dulcey, surrounded by two strange men—this was another world, and the woods seemed almost new.
Sion said not a word. He was tireless in his scrutiny. She fancied he had eyes in the back of his head. Nary a sound or sight escaped him. It seemed he hardly breathed. Once again a dozen questions begged answering. She’d bide her time and have them satisfied one by one. There was naught like the familiarity of a camp to spill secrets, though she intended to hold tight to her own.
Within eight miles, just as sweat made a damp patch on her bodice and her throat was chalked with dust, she heard a high, nervy whinny.
The camp.
A burst of color amid the crush of green woods made her think a parakeet was near, but it was simply Cornelius’s head covering, a square of flaming red flannel.
His greeting was no less colorful. On sight of her he called out precariously loudly, “Well, who have we here?” Eyes alight, he came forward as she dismounted, making a little bow and kissing her hand. “Mistress Moonbow?”
She cracked a smile as her feet hit solid ground, finding his flair almost refreshing after Sion’s stony reserve.
The other men got to their feet, gazes swinging between her and their leader and Nate, who had yet to dismount and still looked haggard. Ma had packed a bundle of medicine just in case. He’d have need of it, looked like.
Cornelius stared at Sion, expression hardening. “Is she camp cook?”
“No need,” Sion replied, unbuckling her saddle’s girth. “Lucian does ably.”
“Laundress, then?”
Tempe’s smile faded as Sion swung her saddle over a downed log. “She’s here to keep you fools from being swallowed up by the cane or gored by a buffalo . . . or worse.”
Cornelius stared at her unashamedly as if seeing her in a new light. His gaze traveled the length of her in a way that made her skin crawl. Or maybe it was the garb she wore, suited for the task at hand but unfit for civilized society. Skirts cut to mid-calf that revealed leggings and moccasins. A bodice that now seemed too tight though her stays were loose. She wore Russell’s black felt hat in a childish token that made him seem nearer. Its broad brim shadowed her features but made her scalp itchy and hot. Her braid snaked to her hips, fraying and in need of smoothing.
“She has the look of a guide,” Cornelius conceded. “But can she shoot?”
Sion snatched the red handkerchief from Cornelius’s head, balling it in his fist. “Ask her.”
“I matched Mister Morgan,” she said quietly, removing Russell’s hat and fanning her face.
“Would that you had bested him,” Cornelius muttered, scowling at Sion. The tension between them seemed hatchet-sharp, like that brawling day at the inn.
As Lucian led her horse away, Tempe turned to Nate, who dismounted slowly as if weighted with stone. Pity lanced her. It was unbearably hot, and the evening promised no respite. She spied a mosquito on Nate’s grizzled cheek. Was he too weary to lift a hand and bat it away? An unnatural lethargy glazed his eyes. Fever? Was he failing again? It would be a sorry journey without Nate Stoner, this she knew.
“Well then, we shall remember our manners.” With a wave of his hand, Cornelius made proper introductions. “Here is my manservant, Lucian, and our two axemen and chain carriers, Hascal and Spencer.”
She smiled at the two youngest men, who were regarding her with mingled curiosity and interest. “If you’ll help me cut some pine we’ll make a bough bed. Mister Stoner is still ailing and needs to be off that leg.”
Feeling Sion’s eyes on her, she retreated to the nearest pine. She slipped her hatchet free and began chopping at the lower limbs. Making a bough bed was something Pa had taught her early on, a way to make peace with the wilderness. Now the memory brought a little pang. The men began hacking, mimicking her as she used her hatchet as a carrying pole, draping a great many branches over the handle. Rather than tell them what to do, she began planting the rough ends in the ground, laying the boughs in one direction. They followed suit and soon had a thick, fragrant bed beneath a sugar tree.
Sion approached as she unrolled a deerskin and then a saddle blanket atop the branches. “We should have left Nate at the inn.”
The inn? When we need every gun we can get?
She continued to smooth the bedding, casting a concerned look over her shoulder at Nate . . . who was nowhere to be found. “Where is he?”
Sion checked a smile. “He . . . um . . . has business.”
Business. Her attention returned to the task at hand, her face heating the color of Cornelius’s handkerchief. She’d soon get used to such things, outnumbered by so many men.
Nate returned, seemingly relieved and touched by her efforts. “Think I’ll lay down a spell. Wake me for some supper, if you please. I don’t care to miss your ma’s fixin’s.”
Aylee had indeed packed a feast, filling a saddlebag and sparing them a cookfire. Chunks of smoked ham and cheese. Cornbread now beginning to crumble. Dried corn and assorted nuts. After supper, Tempe made a pretense of picking berries in order to have a moment of privacy.
When she returned to camp the men were still seated, all but Lucian, who was washing tin cups at the creek,
and Nate, who lay on his bough bed. She knelt beside him, wishing for a little of her mother’s poise. “Best take a look at that leg, Mister Stoner.”
“That’s just plain Nate to you.” He gave her a wink. “It’s a sight better’n it was, thanks to your ma. She has a way about her, she does.”
Still a worrisome color, the wound was healing slowly, the swelling gone.
“Tell me if it pains you.” She glanced at her open saddlebag. “I have a secret stash—a bit of gooseberry wine to hasten you back to health, or at least help you sleep.”
“This here bough bed you fixed for me is help enough.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Best keep that stash hidden. One of our party is powerful fond of spirits.”
“I know just the one,” she whispered, remembering Cornelius, the metheglin, and the lead ball burrowed in her book. She’d brought the poems along with her Psalms but misdoubted she’d have time for either.
Nate settled back, seemingly restored after a meal. “‘I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep . . .’”
“‘For thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety,’” she finished.
He regarded her through half-shut eyes. “Yer ma ever get lonesome with no other menfolk about the place save Russell?”
She hesitated, wanting to blurt out the truth about Pa. “I reckon she does,” she replied as honestly as she could. Ma saw Pa so seldom, betimes she seemed more widow. “But Ma isn’t one to complain about her lot.”
“She’s missin’ you ’bout now, I figure.”
“And you, Nate?” She turned the question around gently. “Surely there are folks missing you.”
“Me? Nary a one.” He shifted on the bed, resting his head on the curve of his saddle. “My wife, my one daughter—they passed some time ago. We were livin’ at Fort Henry when it was called Fort Fincastle. Met Sion there a few years back when he was actin’ as scout.”
Scout? She’d figured him for a borderman. He’d honed his skills along the upper Ohio River, then. Fort Henry was nearly as treacherous as Kentucke, continually harassed by Indian unrest.
