A Moonbow Night

by Laura Frantz

  “You’re sure?” Tempe queried.

  “When they stopped to rest I got ahead of them and circled back, saying I was moving west.” His half smile was for her. “No lie.”

  Nate motioned to his belt. “Just whose scalps are they parading?”

  A slight pause. “Two land stealers along the French Broad.”

  Tempe went cold. Though quietly spoken, the slur seemed more epithet. Nate winced but Sion stayed stoic, slipping his next words in beneath the jarring beat of Tempe’s heart.

  “It’s a small war party headed to Boone’s,” he said, easing into a sitting position. “Virginia militia might be inside Kentucke, mayhap at the settlements by now, with enough powder and bullet lead to last.”

  Raven shrugged. “It matters little. More Cherokee are gathering to fight. Shawnee come from the Ohio with their allies—and swivels.”

  Cannon? A combined force, then, determined to oust the settlers once and for all. Could it be done? Tempe began fanning her face with her hat. The stoutest pickets couldn’t withstand cannon fire, nor were the keenest sharpshooters a match for a three-pound cannonball.

  Raven was full of grim news. “This war party plans to burn the settlers’ crops. Butcher their livestock.”

  Tempe longed to put a hand to Raven’s lips and staunch the words. Cornelius and the chain carriers emerged from the back of the rockhouse to listen. Still whey-faced. Still wary.

  “We’ll leave out again at dawn.” Sion looked around the circle, indicating all of them, taking in every face but Tempe’s own. Could he sense her resistance? “We’ve but a few miles more to survey prime ripe bottomland before crossing the Barrens. Tempe and Raven will scout while we run the line.”

  Her chin came up. He’d called her by her given name with surprising ease. No more Miss Tucker? She longed to crawl inside his head and account for the switch. Should she call him Sion in return? Pondering this was far more pleasant than leaving the relative safety of the rockhouse. Or fretting over the Indians passing too near the inn.

  As the men began talking about the equipment, Tempe got to her feet and gathered up the clean clothes. Raven shadowed her, his back to the others.

  “You are worried?”

  Straightening, she took another look out the rockhouse at the woods. “I’m thinking of Russell. Ma and Paige.”

  “You think the war party will make trouble for them.” At her nod, he said, “Your adadoda has come back. He casts a long shadow.”

  Yes, her father had returned. Somehow this failed to bring the comfort of before. She cast a glance at Sion, wondering if the men could hear them. Her tongue worried her lip, still slightly tender. “I saw who was leading the war party.” The knowledge sat like a stone inside her, plummeting ever deeper.

  “Hiskyteehee?”

  She could only nod, swallowed up by the memory of the scalps on Five Killer’s belt. Despite the glare of war paint and tattoos, she knew it was he.

  “Five Killer is a hard enemy,” Raven admitted.

  She began folding strange breeches and shirts and stockings she’d torn from the bushes earlier, needing a distraction, unmindful of any immodesty. “He came to us late one night at the inn . . . left a handbill of war.” She darted another glance at Sion and lowered her voice. What would he make of their talk? “Russell has a cache of British muskets. I don’t know how he came by them.”

  She felt certain the Chickamaugas would force Russell into mending their muskets, maybe use the inn as a way station for supplies like powder and bullet lead. If so, Ma and Paige would be at their mercy.

  Raven studied her. “Are you loyal to the king, oginalii?”

  Was she? Or did she unwillingly harbor her father’s hatred of anything British, given his near hanging at Tory hands? If Pa found out Russell was siding with the Tories and Indians in their fight . . . If Boone and his kinsmen discovered the same . . .

  She turned Raven’s question around. “Are you?”

  “For now I am your friend.” His kindly eyes held hers. “I have not forgotten what you did for me.”

  “Only what a body should do—”

  “No. Not everyone.” His intensity returned, raising his voice a notch. “Since that day you freed me from the man-trap, you see past the color of my skin. My clan. This war. You are goodness to the bone.”

  Self-conscious, she dropped her gaze to his beaded neck, the oiled skin almost iridescent, his shoulders tattooed with twin crescent moons in blue. He was of the Anikawi, the blue clan. Five Killer belonged to the Aniwayi, the war or wolf clan. She shoved the reminder to the back of her conscience, taking in Raven’s solid, less threatening form. He shunned the split ears of most of his clansmen, wearing strands of trade beads about his neck instead. Chevrons of cobalt blue. Red whitehearts. White rattlesnake beads. She was most appreciative of the garters that held up his leggings. The blue and white design of interlocking crosses appeared to be loomed they were so finely finger woven.

  Aylee’s loom leapt to mind with a heartfelt pang, followed next by a niggling question. Did Raven have a woman? Or was this beadwork by his hand? In asking him on this perilous journey, had Tempe deprived him of his love?

  Her gaze fell to his worn moccasins. Of buffalo hide, they looked much sturdier than her own and far more artful.

  The rockhouse quieted. She’d missed the gist of Sion’s conversation by indulging in her own. Leaning into Raven, she mouthed near his ear, “Say nothing of my father.”

  Later, when the others weren’t so near, she’d tell him why.

  19

  All you need for happiness is a good gun, a good horse, and a good wife.

  —DANIEL BOONE

  They ate a cold supper, unwilling to risk a fire even in a rockhouse. Stringy jerked meat, dried corn, and the few remaining beaten biscuits filled their tense bellies, and then Sion watched Tempe leave the shelter without her rifle. Though both Hascal and Raven were at watch, Sion’s every nerve stood on end and left him wishing he could accompany her himself. But she needed privacy. It went hard on a woman being with so many men. Just that morning he’d nearly laid Cornelius out for staring at her so blatantly with a misplaced longing. For now Cornelius was farther back in the cavern along with Spencer and Lucian.

  Beside Sion sat Nate, patching his moccasins with deerskin nearer the rockhouse entrance. Fireflies flared in the woods, drawing Sion’s notice, but it was Tempe he looked for. Minutes stretched long and lonesome. When she didn’t return in the time he reckoned she needed, he could hardly sit still.

  Nate seemed not to notice, working his awl and sinew with patient deliberation, squinting in the fast-fading light. “You remember the Cherokee word for father?”

  “Easy enough. Sounds like daddy.” Sion leaned a shoulder into the rock wall, Annie across his lap. “Adadoda.”

  “Well, our little miss was talking with Mister Raven about her daddy, then.”

  Sion pulled his gaze from the woods to look at him. “What do you mean?”

  “And here I thought Ayl—Mistress Tucker”—Nate cleared his throat—“was a widow woman. But I’m beginning to believe . . .”

  “What makes you think they weren’t talking about Raven’s pa?”

  “’Cuz she was doin’ most of the talkin’.”

  Sion resumed his watching. “Learn anything else?”

  “A few words here and there. Seems they were most het up about the war party more’n anything—that lead Indian who goes by the name of Five Killer.”

  Sion held his peace, mulling the words till memory served. “Isn’t that one of the Cherokee who lit into Boone’s party in ’73 and killed his son?”

  Nate exhaled. “I disremember exactly.”

  Tired of waiting, Sion pushed himself to his feet.

  Nate abandoned his mending. “You goin’ after little miss?”

  “Mayhap.”

  “Just you remember she may be in need of some solitude.”

  “It’s too chancy for solitude.”
>
  This Nate couldn’t argue. Over the ledge Sion went, landing soundlessly on a tuft of springy moss. A blackberry vine wended a thorny arm within reach. He picked a tendril clean and ate a few overripe berries, gaze swinging wide. The late-July lushness hid Tempe. Standing watch, Hascal and Raven saw him pass, but he didn’t ask them where Tempe had gone nor tell them he was looking for her.

  The sturdy, sleek bodies of the horses surrounded her, their moods and quirks plain. Even at rest, Cornelius’s mount was wound tight as a fiddle string, amusing her with its eye rolling and sidestepping. Sion’s horse was much like him. Quietly powerful. Able minded. Controlled. Whilst her own mare, Dulcey, was sweet if feather headed, tearing away at the clover in a state of unparalleled bliss, Tempe was most drawn to Raven’s mount.

  Lowering his shaggy head, the pony nuzzled her as she stroked his muzzle before picking the burrs from his coat. A curry comb was needed but not near at hand. She spied a hoof pick in the grass, abandoned. One of the tasks of the chain men was to see to the horses, but Hascal and Spencer were too nervy from the Indian scare to be of much use. Glad for the solitude, she was of a mind to bed down right here and shun the men. One in particular was like a bee in her bonnet. It wasn’t Cornelius Lyon.

  The twilight deepened. At home the milking would be done and the supper dishes washed. Russell would take up his fiddle or retire to the barn-shed, depending on their lodgers. Paige would flirt and cajole, be it with Russell or a stranger. At a distance their familiar ways were more endearing. Near at hand they rubbed her raw.

  Her nimble fingers swept Raven’s pony clean of tangles. He nuzzled her again, catching her under an upraised arm so that it tickled and she nearly laughed.

  “You rascal,” she whispered, laying her cheek against his sturdy neck and taking in his herby breath. Of all God’s creatures, horses seemed the most needful yet the cleverest.

  “Tempe.”

  She whirled, aggravation trumping surprise.

  Sion stood behind her as if out on a Sabbath stroll. “Would you rather I call you Miss Tucker?”

  “Tempe’ll do.” She let go a breath. “My name’s no matter. It’s your being here so sudden-like—”

  “On account of your leaving without your gun.” He held out her weapon.

  “I won’t use it. It’s merely for show. A bluff.” At the quirk of his brow she said, “I could never kill another human being—”

  “Not even one intent on killing you?”

  “Nay.” She took hold of the flintlock reluctantly, avoiding his gaze.

  “You’ve been away from camp a mite too long, besides.”

  She gave another pat to Raven’s pony. “I was thinking about bedding down here with the horses.”

  He grinned, then covered it by rubbing his whiskered jaw. “I’m liable to come out here of a morning and find the horses took. You too.”

  “There’s worse things.”

  His brows peaked. “Worse things than being took?”

  Far worse. There’s heartache. Regret. Lost chances. Shattered dreams . . .

  His gaze was combing the woods again, as if sure Five Killer would reappear. In another surprising move he took her hand. Shock skittered through her. Mercy, how long it had been since she’d felt the touch of a man’s hand. He led her beyond the horses to a secluded cove even farther away from the rockhouse. Away even from the guard.

  Her heart began a little jig. She tried not to look at him. Tried to remember just who he was. Harper’s own. Yet something had tripped inside her, some thawing, some warmth. When he let go of her hand she missed his strength, that sense of purposefulness about him. James had had that same quality. Aye, it was James she missed.

  “Sit back to back with me.”

  She did as he bid, understanding the need for extra vigilance, relieved to be facing outward. Thus situated, their backs touched where their hands once had. She took in the night sky riddled with stars like she’d heard decorated the new rebel flag. Flintlock forgotten, she leaned into him and he her, albeit ever so slightly.

  His low words carried over his shoulder as he turned his head. “I’m of a mind to send you back.”

  She inclined her ear to catch every syllable. They were nearly cheek to cheek. “Back?” she echoed.

  “Aye. To the inn.”

  She knew what he meant but wanted to prolong this moment. The sweetness. The stillness. Yet time pulsed on, drawing them ever toward a deeper danger.

  “No woman should be outside log walls.” The sudden heat in his voice was like the heat of the woods. Unrelenting. Searing. “At first light you need to set out toward home. Once we reach the Barrens, it’ll be too late.”

  “And Raven?”

  “I’ll give him double wages to see you safely there, enough to trump the scalp bounties I hear the British are paying.”

  How had he come by this? Had Raven revealed such? “What if I want to keep on to the Ohio?”

  “Then you’re more a fool than I reckoned.”

  “What does that make you?”

  “Twice the fool you are.”

  She smiled, but it was a sad smile, quickly fading. “Tomorrow doesn’t affright me.”

  “And that’s what affrights me.” The honest edge to his voice seemed to belong to someone else entirely. The Sion she knew was no more. This borderman was almost . . . gabby. “I think you court death. Court it in ways I can’t reckon.”

  She cocked her head, listening for anything ominous through the blackness. “I reckon we have little to do with it, this living and dying.” She said the words slowly, examining her timeworn grief in a new light. If God called James home in His perfect time, shouldn’t that speak peace to her harassed heart? “God only gives a man so much time, so many breaths. It’s written in His book.”

  “You believe that?” he queried.

  “And you don’t?” she hissed back.

  “Nay. There’s been too much lost.” He swallowed, seemed to stumble. “You’ll understand better once you lose something irreplaceable. Some piece of yourself.”

  “I have.” She hugged her knees closer, forgetting to keep her gaze outward.

  Five Killer cut across her conscience. Seeing him again, wanting to give in to her hate, left her feeling further from James. Five Killer had not been brought to justice, but God was just. And God had seen fit to take James. Her greater woe was that James’s death had been so unmerciful. No matter how she worked it, there had been nothing redeeming about that day shy of eternity.

  She said, “Back in ’73 it seems I left my very soul in Powell Valley.”

  “Powell Valley?” His voice was so low it was nearly lost to her. “Boone’s first try at settling Kentucke. When his son was killed . . .”

  There had been others lost that day. But for the moment she forgot them, adjusting to Sion’s knowing.

  “What was he to you, Tempe?”

  An oriole flushed from a bush, rapid in its wing beat. Startled, she looked up, weighing her answer. What had James been to her? What had been lost? Her girlhood. The first flush of youth. The purest sort of love. A man who wanted to stand by her. Share his name. His days.

  “What was he to me?” she echoed. “I was to be Tempe Tucker Boone.”

  A long silence fell betwixt them, broken by a mockingbird’s cry. Should she tell him all the rest? That instead she’d reaped a barrenness of heart, her mind eaten up by angst. That Pa had foundered and lived on the run, haunted. That Russell was still not right. That Ma was forced to live a lie as widowed innkeeper. Was there no end to Powell Valley?

  “You love him still.”

  It was not a question, thus she did not answer. Could not. Sorrow took hold of her, making a mess of thought and emotion.

  I will always love him.

  The Indians had taken much. But they couldn’t kill love. Love, unlike many things, never failed. Love endured.

  “In light of all that, why would you go another step?” The question was softly, even respectfu
lly worded, no hint of exasperation within.

  Because death is the door that leads to James.

  She got to her feet, the weariness of spending too many nights on the ground with too many men catching up with her. Without another word she started away from him, her rifle a reminder of what awaited should she push west.

  “You need to think hard on turning back,” Sion repeated.

  To the east, Ma’s table and her own feather tick beckoned. She missed Paige’s chatter, Russell’s moody silences, every leather hinge and dusty corner of the inn. And Smokey. She missed Sion’s dog, not the ill-bred mongrels crowding the dogtrot.

  Night had overtaken them, the rising moon shiny as a newly minted copper shilling.

  Stay or flee?

  She’d have her answer come morning. First it needed praying for.

  Sleep would not come. Yet it wasn’t Sion’s offer to return to the inn that consumed her but the last of her memories from ’73. She’d lain on hard ground like this back then, but there’d been hope in her heart. And love. Always love.

  Those final October days in Powell Valley, Tempe and the other women and children gathered grapes and pawpaws and nuts, nearly hooting with glee over the beloved chinkapins, whilst the men dug a pit to roast a whole beef. Out of pouches spilled meal and dried corn, beans and fruit, even coveted herbs and spices. Tempe smelled something akin to cake, quite a feat without a familiar fireplace and proper cooking vessels.

  Their clever skill at making do with whatever was at hand was both a delight and a befuddlement. A reminder that they’d let go of everything. Farms. Fields. Possessions. Once James and Russell and the Mendenhalls returned, they’d all break camp and press on toward distant, unknown places they’d call their own, crossing into the land beyond to reach the unclaimed Kentucke meadowlands. For now hearts were high from several days’ rest and the coming nuptials.

  She’d soon be a married woman. Beloved. Changed. Wiser to the ways of the world. For now twilight was creeping closer, filling in the forest’s nooks and crannies as Saturday ebbed. Tempe listened past the call of a whippoorwill and the fading shuffle of a busy camp to hear the sounds she craved above all else. An excited whinny. A careful halloo.