by Laura Frantz
What kind of woman was Mistress Morgan?
A quick glance at Cornelius playing cards left Tempe hoping Sion’s wife was nothing like her brother. This tenuous tie was why the two men had been tossed together like flint and steel. There could be no other answer.
As night deepened, her gaze wandered to Sion’s sleeve. Cornelius had bitten the fleshy forearm, which was now swelling. Tempe went to Aylee’s stores and took out the healing herbs while the chain carriers and Cornelius began another round of cards and Lucian stood watch. Nate was bedded down already, snoring softly.
Matter-of-factly, Tempe met Sion’s gaze through the dwindling smoke. “You’re fixing to ask me another question,” he said coolly. “I can feel it.”
She took a breath. Was she so easily read? “Your wound may fester. Best let me look.”
He shrugged, another off-putting gesture she was coming to know. “If it doesn’t worry me, why should it you?”
“I can doctor a bite, but I can’t mend a lost limb.”
He chuckled. “You think Cornelius packs that much venom?”
“For a brother-in-law, he’s frightful kin.”
He said nothing to this, rising from his seat to circle the fire and sit down beside her. Pulling his linen sleeve to his elbow, he offered her his muscled forearm. But for the moment it was a scar that took her notice. Running from wrist to elbow in a seamless line, it posed yet another question.
Setting curiosity aside, she began applying the healing salve made from the ground roots of butterfly weed. He was patient as she worked, his other hand encircling his rifle, attention fixed on their surroundings beyond the golden rim of firelight.
Other than the inn, she felt safest in a rockhouse and was glad for the rain. Raiding parties didn’t like the damp any better than they. Sitting back on her heels, she considered what else she might try if festering set in. Witch hazel? She wanted moonflower, if she could leave the rockhouse and take a nightly tramp when it bloomed.
“You’re an able hand with your doctoring,” he said quietly when she began binding the arm with a strip of linen. “Anything you can’t do?”
“Aye, a great many things. I can’t make peace between men nor bring them back from the dead.” James hovered in her thoughts, but here in the rockhouse he seemed to have stepped aside. Sion lapsed into a pensive silence, leaving Tempe’s mind to roam. Her thoughts kept returning to a festering question . . .
How had Sion laid hold of a woman’s heart?
Little wonder. It was likely the way he carried himself, not cocky but sure, and the sight of all that blue-black hair rivaling Raven’s own. Or the fullness of his shoulders as they turned a worn linen shirt in need of washing into something that sank into the heart and stayed there.
She stole another look at Cornelius as he played cards. Fair of hair, this sister of his? As sweet and amiable as he was surly? Oh, he had moments of charm, but they were when he turned butter tongued and wanted something. She had a hankering Sion’s wife was all her brother was not. She longed to know her name.
As she pondered it he stood and unrolled his sleeve so that it covered her patching. There was just enough light to read by, and she dug for her Psalms, surprised when he produced a book himself. So he could read. Many men couldn’t. Once again she longed to know the whys and wherefores of his past. Boone oft read the Bible and was known for his fondness for Gulliver’s Travels. She’d seen him peruse both at their very inn.
Sitting across from her again, Sion set the slim volume aside and stirred the fire with a stick, then added another chunk of smokeless dogwood.
As the dry wood caught she ventured another question. “What have you there?”
“Herrick.”
She couldn’t hide a rueful smile. “Once I had some poems by him . . . till a bit of lead tore the heart right out of them.”
He was quick to catch on. “I owe you.” Extending a hand around the flames, he offered her his battered volume.
She waved a hand. “Say some verse aloud.”
“Which do you favor?”
She was partial to them all, full of love and loss. Glancing at the card players who were too taken with their game to pay them any attention, she summoned some beginning lines that had been a favorite of James’s. “‘I dare not ask to kiss, I dare not beg a smile . . .’”
Surprise lit his eyes—and an undeniable amusement. “‘Lest having that, or this, I might grow proud the while.’” His gaze fell to the flames. “‘No, no, the utmost share of my desire shall be only to kiss the air that lately kissed thee.’”
Wonder bloomed as he finished with nary a misplaced word. She said, “I never figured you for a man who spouts poetry.”
“Who did you figure me for?” He looked at her with such purposefulness every reply flew out of her head. When she failed to answer, he said, “What have you in hand?”
She opened her forgotten Psalms. “Scripture.”
“Say any by heart?”
“Some. But I’d rather live it by heart.” Isn’t that what Nate had told Aylee whilst he was at the inn? Overhearing them, Tempe had tucked the wise words away, touched that an old snakebitten borderman would speak of such.
“There’s plenty who only pay it lip service.” Sion’s gaze strayed to the rockhouse’s entrance again, but he seemed to be waiting for her to say something. Do something.
She took a breath. One particular Psalm had wended its way around her heart. She was drawn to the mournful, Ma said. Ever since Powell Valley. Its darkness had gone deep. “‘Man is like to vanity; his days are as a shadow that passeth away.’”
“You and Nate kin?” He looked askance at her. “Churched and all that?”
“Churched?” She took his teasing with a smile. “Are you?”
“Nay.”
She wanted more than nay. Why was she so hungry for talk? Sion wasn’t a man given to it, eluding her with his long silences and one-word answers. She’d best content herself with that.
Lucian loomed over them, sleepy-eyed. It was her turn to stand watch and relieve him. But before she did she passed Sion her Psalms.
17
One man’s life is worth a hundred horses.
—DANIEL TRABUE
The next morning Sion halted on a buffalo trail, holding up a hand as the party reined in their horses in back of him. Up ahead, just out of rifle range, was Raven. A little trill of delight coursed through Tempe. Raven looked down at them from his position on a low ridge. She sensed he’d been watching their progress and that Sion had been aware of him for some time but had said nothing. The closer they drew, the more each man sized the other up.
Sion tossed a few terse words over his shoulder. “Is that your Indian, Miss Tucker?”
“He’s not mine, Mister Morgan,” she replied carefully. “But his name is Raven.”
Kicking her mare’s flanks, she maneuvered around Sion, pondering this sudden turn of events. Russell had obviously given Raven word he was needed. The timing was nigh perfect. They were on the edge of the Barrens, that treeless stretch between the Sault and Green Rivers that in no way resembled the Kentucke she loved.
She pushed off the buffalo trace to meet him as he came down from his perch, sweat trickling beneath her arms and between her thighs. Summer had returned with a vengeance after the rain, so sultry it stole her breath.
Raven was mounted on a feisty pony. Chickamauga stock, she guessed. All the tribes were wild about horses and plundered with that in mind more than scalps. It had been the same in Powell Valley, all the horses stolen. Sion’s fine stallion would make a coveted prize.
She reached Raven, the dust already stirring despite the damp. “Hello, oginalii.”
He shunned her friendly greeting. “So you follow the Long Knife?”
She nodded, aware of his gaze on her slow-to-heal lip. “My father—he wants them out of the country.”
Raven looked toward the waiting party. “Not only your father.”
So they w
ere of one purpose, then.
Raven turned half-amused eyes on her as she shifted uneasily in the saddle. “Should we run them into the ground?”
“You’ll not succeed with this Long Knife. We’ll likely eat his dust.”
“And the others?”
She hesitated. “One of them—the yellow hair—can’t be trusted. Another is old but tough as whang leather. The black man is a keen shot—and unafraid. The others are mere boys. Bear cubs.”
“I’ll take them as far as the Falls of Ohio.”
She nearly sighed with relief. It was more than she bargained for. “You’ll be paid for your trouble.”
“White man’s money?” He shrugged, reminding her of Sion. “You should know the Shawnee have taken up the hatchet. Our white father—”
“The English king?”
He gave a nod. “He pays for settlers’ scalps. I can earn more from my British brothers than this man Morgan.”
Other than from the handbill in the barn-shed, it was the first time she’d heard the truth so bluntly. Mad George, known for his raving fits across the sea, had turned on his colonial subjects in a most uncivilized fashion. The cache of British-made muskets in Russell’s keeping was proof. And Raven, she sensed, was alarmingly close to siding with the British. Had she done wrong by asking him here?
She took a breath. “These men—these surveyors—are loyal to the king—”
Raven’s eyes narrowed. “They are not land stealers?”
“They survey under Virginia’s authority as a crown colony.”
His tight smile became a smirk. “They are still land stealers.”
This she couldn’t deny. What was Virginia doing sending surveyors into territory forbidden by the king’s proclamation? And what of Virginia’s bold claim on Kentucke as its westernmost county?
Raven studied her, the sleek feathers in his hair stirring in a sudden wind. “The king makes war on the colonies. The Shawnee and Cherokee and their allies make war on Kentucke’s settlers and surveyors. All is madness, as Scotchie says.”
Madness. The Scottish Indian agent had pegged it properly. “So long as we stay clear of the settlements, the Great Meadow, we should be safe.”
“No, oginalii. Nothing is safe.” He looked past her toward Sion again, his grim expression a burr. “Go talk to the Long Knife. Tell him to turn back.”
Stubborn, she resisted. “There is no talk. No turning back. Morgan is as impatient as a goat tied to a stake.”
Raven gave a rare chuckle. “His would make a prized scalp . . . two hundred pounds sterling.”
Tempe shuddered openly. Though death itself held no terror, she did not warm to the ways it was done.
Wheeling her horse around, she pondered what to say, how to say it. By the time she’d returned to the party, all the men had dismounted save Sion, who sat on his horse with a simple heightened guardedness. The others were studying Raven as if a war party lay in wait, unsure of his intentions.
There was a grudging respect in Sion’s expression that had been missing before. Though he wasn’t privy to her and Raven’s talk, he no doubt sensed the emotion of the moment.
“All right, Miss Tucker. Just say it.”
In one breath she let loose her angst. “You’re liable to lose your scalp for all your surveying.”
There was a prolonged pause. Sion’s eyes—such an uncanny, calm silver—showed no more emotion than a pond’s reflective face. As if they were on some mission to pick posies from here to the Falls of Ohio, not dodge hostile war parties with every step.
“So be it,” he said.
“So be it?” Tempe nearly started as Cornelius voiced an ugly echo.
She herself was full of unspoken concerns. What of your wife, Sion? Least ones? The latter struck her cold. Did he have sons and daughters? She knew what happened to widows, their children apprenticed or bound out or worse . . .
“I’ll not stray another step if a savage himself”—Cornelius gestured to Raven—“advises otherwise.”
Sion’s voice was ice cold. “If you turn back now you’ll have farther to go than where we’re headed. The falls will take you upriver to Fort Henry.”
“Safely upriver?”
“Upriver,” Sion stated flatly.
Cornelius tugged at his linen collar, more agitated. “And the Indian?” He was eyeing Raven again with heightened suspicion. “Is he friend or foe?”
“That depends on your stance,” Sion returned. His gaze swung from Cornelius to Tempe. “Bring him in.”
Tempe returned to Raven halfheartedly, feeling foolish, knowing he wanted little to do with them. But he was regarding her kindly, reminding her of their tie, and no doubt wishing it was just the two of them heading west without a noisy, heavily laden string of packhorses and equipment sure to draw notice.
Only Raven, being of two worlds, could lead them. He was a rogue, a half-blood, whose allegiance was somewhat misty. Being kin to Alexander Cameron—Scotchie—he enjoyed certain privileges full-bloods did not.
Facing him, Tempe could not push any words past her throat, overcome with a dire foreboding that held the taint of Powell Valley.
“Come, oginalii, and show me this onaka, this Long Knife.” With that, Raven maneuvered around her, heading toward the waiting white men.
With Raven among them, Sion pushed hard toward the Green River, going in a northwesterly line till darkness denied them another punishing step. Just shy of a dense canebrake they made camp, and Tempe noted a few familiar landmarks. Spared any signs of settlement and the hatchet marks of surveyors, the Green River country was untrammeled.
The next day was the Sabbath.
“The white man’s rest?” Raven queried her when dawn broke and no one stirred.
“Aye, the Sabbath.” She smiled and reached for her pocketed Psalms, only to remember she’d lent them to Sion. His bedding empty, he stood watch. She could see his shadowy outline, a tan smudge against a world of green.
Lucian stirred, rolling up his bedding before serving breakfast. “Mornin’, Miss Tempe. Mornin’, friend,” he said genially to Raven as if an Indian encamped with them was a usual occurrence.
Raven looked up from the arrow he was fletching to hear Lucian mumble about misplacing his fire-making tools. Reaching for her gun, Tempe mimicked something she’d seen Sion do in place of flint and steel, using a bit of char for powder and pulling the trigger so that the flint sparked and made a flame. Clever, that Sion.
“You is a quick study, Miss Tempe.” Smiling, Lucian took over, using some of the coffee Aylee had packed to brew a full pot. Raven sniffed, his stoicism softening as Lucian served him first.
Opening another pouch, Lucian produced a handful of sugar. “Sweetenin’?” With a half smile, Raven indicated he drop the entire amount into the cup. Lucian did as he bade, stirring it with a twig. Shunning coffee, Tempe longed for a cold glass of buttermilk, as it was so hot.
The woods were already a-shimmer, the dew drying fast. A westerly wind scattered the coffee’s fragrance, teasing the remaining men awake. Hascal soon relieved Sion of watch, and Lucian was quick to hand him a steaming tin cup. Sleeves rolled up, he extended an arm, and Tempe had a clear look at the bite wound. Frustration flared anew at Cornelius’s orneriness. Witch hazel was called for. But not now, and not till Sion had his breakfast.
In the brief time they’d been together, she’d begun to take notice of his personal habits. Camp conditions allowed her a closer if not entirely comfortable look. Uncommonly tidy, Sion picked up after himself in such a fashion that one hardly knew he’d been there. Bordermen were ever cautious, never leaving a trace but always looking for one.
She bit back a smile to find his dark hair once again in need of combing. Often when he first roused it was a bit wild, sticking up in odd black patches that turned him boyish. This morning, like most mornings, he was quiet. She liked that he took care with his words and yet could recite poetry all the same.
But there was a heap of things
she didn’t like.
She went to her own saddlebags and retrieved a sack of beaten biscuits. A smile surfaced as she pictured Ma armed with a broken musket, pummeling the dough into submission.
Holding open the sack, she urged Sion to partake. Was his wife a fine cook? The thought was snatched away by the pure pleasure on his bewhiskered face. Never had she seen him so delighted. As if a beaten biscuit was a wondrous thing.
Soon they all were chewing and sipping, a rare contentment between them. Tempe took Hascal’s share to him as he stood watch. By the time she’d returned the men were readying to throw hatchets at a mark—hardly a Sabbath-worthy pursuit, but about to commence nonetheless.
“Is it true,” Cornelius began, addressing Raven from a safe distance, “that a warrior can launch six or seven arrows for every one to two rifle shots?”
Raven shrugged, eyes narrowing.
“I’ve heard tell one white man is worth one hundred horses,” Hascal said.
Uneasy, Tempe turned her thoughts toward summer Sabbaths when they’d gather with any passersby on the dogtrot and have a little praise. Betimes a traveling preacher would say some words, something to chew on in the week ahead. Here Nate would have to suffice.
He looked askance at the gathering men. “I never could abide any hatchet throwing on the Lord’s Day. As the Good Book says, ‘Honor the Sabbath and keep it holy.’” He winked at Tempe as she poured him more coffee. “You don’t aim to join in, do ye?”
“Nay. Let the men prove themselves. I was never a hand at such.”
“You’re a worthy shot.”
She warmed to the praise. “I hope to be better with bow and arrow.”
Nate’s brows shot upward into silver peaks. “On account of that Raven fellow?”
She nodded. “He’s promised to show me how. A bow is far lighter and quieter than a gun, and nary so dependent on hard-won powder and lead.”
“I’ll bet he’s a fine hand with a hatchet besides.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “The thought of a tomahawk in the hand of a less-than-friendly Indian sure sets my scalp atingle.”
