by Laura Frantz
Her heart wrenched. “I’m sorry about your kin.” How many times had she mouthed such? How long must she keep saying it?
He stayed stoic. “Everybody’s got a sad tale to tell.” His eyes fluttered closed, perhaps to spare her his scrutiny. “I hear you come into Kentucke with Boone—or tried to—back in ’73.”
Had Ma told him this? Tempe focused on Sion’s broad back as if it were ballast that could keep her from sinking. How different he was from James. Her ongoing angst, held at bay by the events of the day, came rushing back. She felt weighted with misery.
“Mistress Moonbow.” Cornelius stood before her, returning her to the present. “Our fearless leader, the mighty Morgan, is in need of your expertise.” He cast Nate a baleful glance. “If Methuselah here can do without you.”
“Go ahead, steal her away,” Nate answered. “Just you be respectful whilst you’re doin’ it.”
Cornelius offered her his arm. When she refused him he made a contrary face. “I insist. How else are we to tame the wilderness without a show of civility?”
Nate snorted and rolled over, his loaded rifle his bedfellow. Tempe lay her hand on Cornelius’s arm reluctantly, the slender limb beneath the fine linen almost skeletal compared to Sion’s burly forearm.
Lucian stood guard at the outer edge of the camp. Was he a hand with a gun? She and her escort navigated the brushy ground to the circle where Sion held sway, a pointed stick in hand. In the dirt he’d drawn a map. To the east he’d denoted the wall of mountains and the Gap. Tempe noted the inn marked on the hillside fronting the falls. Now he worked his way west, the stick never settling, surprising her with what he knew.
He handed her the stick, wordlessly communicating his wish. The other men looked on as if this was some sort of test.
Impressed, she studied the curves and bends he’d made of the Shawnee. “We’ll need to ford the river here”—she marked an X and moved on—“then head northwest toward the Green River, cutting a wide swath around Logan’s Fort where the trouble lies.” Even as she said it she felt a pull toward those pickets, be it Harrod’s or Boonesborough. Never had she seen the three Kentucke forts, though she’d heard aplenty, forever wondering if the pictures painted in her mind of the Great Meadow were merely that—fanciful pictures.
“Overland some thirty miles north lies the easternmost end of the Green.” She left off, recalling the canoe she and Pa had filled full of stones and sunk for future use along its banks. “We’ll have no need of boats. We’ll simply chain our way west till . . .” She shot Sion a questioning look. “Till you tire of surveying or run up against the Sault River.”
“The Ohio—Belle-Rivière?” Cornelius looked up from the crude map. “Shall we go all the way to the falls?”
She gave a nod and handed Sion the stick, torn between sitting among them or retreating. Weary, mindful of her glaring lip, she chose retreat.
Tossing the stick aside, Sion stood, gaze sweeping the woods, which were finally cooling. In a few terse words he relieved Lucian of his watch, and one of the axemen was posted.
Tempe felt a girlish shyness as Sion turned to her. He had a fierce energy about him even as night crawled in. Was he all business, this borderman? Had he no more room for kindly conversation? Once again she sensed she’d missed her chance there on the riverbank when he’d first asked her, with a stark unguardedness, to show him the moonbow. Now his tanned face, slightly stern, invited no talk.
She focused on the sky beyond his shadow, an intense golden-orange, the color of the squash and pumpkins in their garden. They were in a heavy growth of hardwood trees and bushy windfalls, the first step from home.
He shouldered his rifle. “We sleep in a circle. One of us stands watch.”
“My turn is coming, you mean.”
“Aye. For now we’ll bed down around Nate.”
Spencer, the youngest chain carrier, was already on the ground atop saddle blankets, feet to an imaginary fire. Sion began to unroll his bedding while she awkwardly filled the space between him and Nate, well away from Cornelius. Across the way he was still regarding her like buttered bread. She shivered. Though she was being paid wages, no amount of coin could make up for his unwanted attention.
Mistress Moonbow, indeed.
Nate was soon snoring, reminding her uncomfortably of Pa. Was he bedding down in the rockhouse, ruing he’d struck her and sent her off with these men? No matter. The memory of his fury was growing smaller, much like her hurt lip. It was Russell she was most fretful about and the cache of British-made muskets, the bloodshed to come.
She made herself small, curling up in a ball. Why did everything remind her of that first try at Kentucke? Of James? She’d lain on hard ground like this that last night in Powell Valley, waiting for him, dreaming of her wedding day.
If she could have but one wish, it would be to reverse time. Return to the girl she’d been. Have the man nearest her be not Sion but him.
Her James.
Was it any wonder she dreamed of being on the trail again, this time in ’73?
That last, expectant morning had dawned dry, warmed by a southwest wind that sent gold-tipped leaves shaking down like rain. The horses had been hobbled in a meadowy place downstream from camp, the clover thick. It was there Tempe and James’s littlest sister, Livvy, walked to bid the small party bound for Castle’s Woods farewell. Though she’d dreamed of a few private moments alone with James, it wasn’t to be. Time enough for that when he returned, she reckoned.
For now she took in his sun-streaked hair, worn loose, and his sure, steady movements as he strapped on his powder horn and bullet pouch. Beside him was her brother. Russell was counted a good woodsman, considered one of the best shots in the backcountry. James himself was no stranger to the wilds. His father had bred that into him, taking him out as a boy on long hunts in the fall and winter, wrapping him in his own hunting shirt when the weather turned bitter.
Their hatchets hung at their waists, their skinning knives whetted and sheathed. They looked fit for anything. Fleet of foot. Fearless.
Tempe tried not to think of snakes. Sinkholes. Brush to fight. Galled feet. Worse.
James looked up and smiled, scattering her fears, nearly making her forget the provisions she’d brought him. Tempe passed him a packet of rockahominy sweetened with maple syrup. Their fingers touched. Tingled. At that moment Livvy let loose of Tempe’s hand, flinging herself against James, her small head a dark stain upon his linsey shirt.
How she wanted to do the same. Tempe’s throat clenched as he stroked his sister’s tumbled hair, unkempt from sleep. They drew apart reluctantly, Livvy’s chin a-wobble.
Russell came to the rescue. “What? No ‘fare thee well’ for me?” He grabbed hold of the little girl and began spinning her around till he’d gained a reluctant giggle, giving James and Tempe a quiet moment.
Shyness engulfed her. Tempe was struck right then by how chancy life was. Like a spider’s web or an eggshell or a butterfly’s wings. Their world seemed made of little losses. She was always having to say goodbye, part with something. A brilliant sunset. A blossom. A sweet feeling.
James’s eyes sought hers, saying more than words ever could. Precious seconds ticked by, and then practicality rushed in. Pulling a string of whang leather from her pocket, she came behind him, gathered up strands of his sandy hair, and tied it back. It was a wife’s privilege, and she gave herself up to the delight of it.
“Stay safe,” she whispered over his hard shoulder. “Keep your powder dry.”
He bent, picked a flaming maple leaf off the ground, and tucked it behind her ear. “Aye, Lady of the Woods.”
Her heart felt swollen, too big for her chest. Did he know she was undone in little moments like these? When he turned fanciful? Poetic? Betimes he nearly made her forget just who she was. Poor. Plain. Besotted.
“Tempe . . .” He leaned in, brushing her flushed cheek with his lips, tarrying so near only she could hear. “I wish you could go with me.”
/>
Her very bones seemed to melt. She balled her hands into fists beneath her apron lest she reach for him. Try to hold on.
The Mendenhalls appeared just then. The rising sun burst through the trees, sending spokes of light across the waiting horses’ flanks. James’s father came next, wanting to say a few parting words. Soon the small party faded into the forest.
Heartsore, Tempe stood looking after them till little Livvy tugged on her hand.
16
The further we went the richer the land became . . . amazing blue grass, white clover, buffalo grass, and reed pines waist high . . . in cultivated meadows, and such was its appearance without end in little dells.
—JAMES NOURSE
Sion couldn’t rid himself of the notion that Tempe might do their party more harm than good. Every one of them to a man seemed distracted by her presence, himself included. With her beside him the previous night, he’d slept little, acutely aware of every turn and sleepy sigh she made, reminding him of Harper again and again.
She’d awakened slightly red-eyed, as if she’d been crying or had gotten little sleep. He had a notion to ask her if she was having second thoughts, then tossed aside any softness.
At the moment she was modestly rubbing pennyroyal on her bare arms and neck to keep away seed ticks. Leering like loons, Cornelius and crew were doing the same a few feet away, giving her little privacy.
They were in for a long march, and thunder grumbled in the distance like a disgruntled tyrant. Dawn broke. The woods were dark since the skies were a pitted pewter, ripe with rain. Glad for a reprieve from the heat, Sion led off, Tempe behind him.
They came to the fording place she’d chosen, and she went ahead of him, her skittish mare soon swayed by Tempe’s calm. She held her gun high in her right hand, the reins in her left. Mid-river she was up to her waist, never showing a hint of disquiet. His own chest seemed to thunder with the tension of the moment. He followed close behind, jaw set at the Shawnee’s tricky currents. Was the Green River as cold?
The ensuing rain was far warmer, running over him in refreshing trails, easing the taint of sweat and unwashed garments. His horse found its footing on the rocky sand the very second Cornelius gave a howl. Precious supplies—maps and paints and more—were embedded in that cry, all in danger of being swept away.
Be calm.
Sion didn’t dare shout the words, lest they unravel Cornelius completely. The man was terrified of water, and this was water at its worst, a seething, foaming mass of green between impossibly wide banks. But Tempe had chosen well. No other fording place was half so agreeable, yet Cornelius still wrestled, panic in his strained face. His bay, every bit as high-tempered as its rider, sensed that fear and began to give way to the current.
“Hold your ground!” Sion yelled as Tempe watched alongside him, riveted to the struggle and clearly anxious to intervene.
She turned on him, blame in her gaze. “You best help him.”
“If I do I’ll be coming to his rescue the rest of the trip.”
She kneed her horse forward, but his hand shot out and stayed her. “Nay.”
It was Lucian who came to his master’s aid, swimming out to grab the bridle and lead horse and rider in. Once his feet gained solid ground, Cornelius began rummaging through dripping saddlebags, his expression answering to the sorry state within. He’d not heeded Sion’s advice to wrap his supplies in protective gear, yet he was all too willing to place the blame.
He flung out an epithet, hands full of sodden papers. “I suppose we’re to cross another river after this?”
Rain was pelting down, and the sparse woods they were heading into offered no reprieve from the damp.
“There are Indian mounds ahead,” Tempe told them. “Some rock shelters. I say we find one and dry out, maybe build a small fire to help save those papers. The smoke won’t be seen in a rockhouse—”
“Just smelled,” Sion cut in, relaying his caution. “We’ve come but eight miles. We need another five or more before making camp.”
“In this damp?”
Their eyes met, his disdainful. “Are you a fair-weather guide, then?”
“Nay, I am not. Just wise to the signs.” She glanced at the swollen sky. “Another few miles and we’ll walk into lightning on a stretch with little cover. It’s the start of the Barrens. It isn’t named such for naught.”
Her words were lost as thunder burst around them and lightning lit the woods. A packhorse began a mulish dance as Sion turned toward the men. “Be alert for a rockhouse to overnight in. The Barrens are just beyond.”
Cornelius scoffed. “Acquiescing, Morgan? To a woman?” The sarcastic jibe rose above the punishing rain. “That’s not like you. If only you’d been so attentive to my—”
Sion swung round. “Don’t dredge up the past.”
“The past?” A thoroughly soaked Cornelius faced him, fists full of damp maps bleeding color. “Is that all it is to you—the past? All but forgotten? By heaven, but you’re a hard man, Morgan.”
“Better than soft.” The slur, quietly stated, carried the force of a fist.
Flinging his ruined maps aside, Cornelius charged Sion, ramming him squarely in the stomach and catching him off guard. Like a pair of wind-toppled trees they tumbled, Sion easily gaining the upper hand but for Cornelius’s fury.
Nearly snarling, likely knowing he could never best him, Cornelius bit Sion on the forearm. His teeth sank through the thin linen of Sion’s shirt, deep enough to tear fabric and draw blood. Grinding his jaw to keep from hollering, Sion threw him off, springing to his feet before Cornelius lunged at him again.
Tempe and the chain carriers ringed them, leaving only Lucian paying any attention to the dripping woods and danger.
Sion wanted to ignore his arm but sensed it might cause him grief. He’d known a man in a fight whose bite proved fatal. Dead within days he was, the puncture wound worse than that of any animal.
“I’d rather be bit by a rattler,” Nate said, backing off from the both of them. “‘Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry: for anger resteth in the bosom of fools.’”
Tempe was staring at them both like she’d witnessed a cock fight. Hascal and Spencer knew better than to say a word. They understood how things stood between Sion and Cornelius even if they didn’t know the root of all the trouble.
“See to the horses,” Sion told them in an attempt to restore order. He gestured to a wall of limestone fronting the north bank of the river, in which he hoped was a rockhouse. “Find some shelter. I’ll see about supper.” With that he stuck out a hand to help Cornelius up, but Cornelius was having none of it.
Spitting into the dirt just shy of Sion’s outstretched hand, Cornelius glowered at him before getting to his feet and retrieving his ruined maps, leaving him alone with the too-silent Tempe.
Face full of questions, she implored him with a look, but he simply shouldered his gun and took to the woods.
Sion risked two shots, the gunfire rising above the storm. Turkeys, Tempe wagered. The birds liked to flee into the open when it rained and were easy prey. Lucian had made a small fire, and Cornelius’s maps were gathered round, a marvel of artistry even half ruined. She’d not thought there was much to the man till now, but some artistic thread ran deep, giving rise to such giftedness. Drawn with pen and ink and painted with watercolors, the maps bespoke hours of painstaking labor.
She no longer blamed him for panicking fording a cantankerous river or being put out about his maps, but she didn’t care for the petulance marring his face when Sion was near or that he’d bitten their leader, a rash and unmanly act if there ever was one.
Stepping widely around him, she helped Lucian tend the fire and gathered wood before it became too sodden to burn, ever alert for Sion’s return as the others huddled in the rockhouse. She needed to see to his arm without any onlookers and ask her burning question.
The rain had quieted when he returned at dusk, soaked to the skin, his buckskins as black as his sha
ggy mane of hair, two plump turkeys dangling at his side. He came from the west, framed by a crack of yellow light riding the horizon—and looking no more inclined to talk than he had after the tussle.
Wordlessly she approached and took a bird from him. Finding a spot on which to work, she laid the turkey on its back and began plucking some of the breast feathers before taking the meat. Sion did the same beside her, their quiet movements muted by the dripping all around them. Her newly sharpened knife made the task quick.
Eyes on the bird in hand, she finally broached her clamoring question. “Before we go another step, I would know about this bad blood between you and—” She worried her tender lip with her teeth, nearly saying “the banty rooster.”
“Cornelius?” Beside her, Sion cleaned his knife in the rain-slicked grass. “He’s my”—he swallowed as if the word was distasteful—“brother-in-law.”
Her heart stilled. Near kin? This was the last thing she expected to hear. She found her voice. “He wed your sister?”
“Nay . . . I wed his.” Picking up both birds, he made for the rockhouse, leaving her standing slack-jawed beneath a sprawling chestnut tree. She began cleaning her own knife, barely aware of what she did.
Sion . . . married.
The vicious bite on his arm was no match for the vicious bite of his words.
A pile of stripped turkey bones left Tempe longing for bread. Or maybe it was simply a longing for home, for a time before she knew too much. Suddenly the tenor of the journey had changed and she felt uprooted again. She’d asked her bold question expecting an altogether different answer, and now she looked at the dark stranger across the smoky haze of the campfire, adjusting her sights.
Sion Morgan. Scout. Surveyor. Borderman. Virginian. Tightly wed.
It cut her to the quick, it did. But why? Many frontiersmen had wives back of the settlements. But his shocking revelation spurred more questions.
