A Moonbow Night

by Laura Frantz

  Aware of Sion beside her, she squinted beneath the brim of her hat and wished for a little shade. Cold water. Light-headed, she followed him as he turned his stallion in the direction Raven had gestured.

  In a few miles they were well beyond the cane on the cusp of the long-anticipated, luxurious grassland. Her grateful eyes took in flame-colored berries and flowers, their names unknown to her, alongside beloved violets and trilliums. In their season, wild strawberries grew in such abundance they stained the horses’ hooves a deep red.

  “The beginning of the Barrens,” she said. “So called because the Indians set fire to the land each spring.”

  Nate angled his hat lower. “Why exactly?”

  “To better chase the game. Buffalo, mostly.”

  The buffalo meat they’d jerked two nights before was heavy in their packs, the memory of roasted marrow bones sweet. She uncapped her canteen and took a swig of lukewarm water.

  “How far to cross?” Sion was studying her, awaiting her answer.

  What had Pa said? “The Barrens are some sixty miles long and nearly as broad. The moon is full. We’d best travel by night lest we be easy prey.”

  “It’ll be a tiresome meadow, day or night,” Nate predicted, looking over his shoulder at the lagging chain carriers.

  “North of here is the Green River,” she told them. “Northwest are the caves.” Cold. Strange. Unforgettable.

  “I’ll lead out at full dark,” Sion said. “Best keep fifty paces between each man.”

  Nate was already looking weary. “How far you reckon we’ll get in a night?”

  “All the way through, mayhap, if a full moon.” Tempe wanted to flinch, but Sion was suffused with a palpable enthusiasm. “We’ll keep to an agreed-upon rendezvous point in case of attack or separation.” His gaze swung to a ridge, another danger. Tempe pushed down any thought of ambush.

  Nate followed close behind them as they moved toward the tulip trees. “I misdoubt we’ll be long in findin’ Corny. Not with his powder horn clinkin’ on the hilt of his knife for all to hear.”

  Truly, it was a wonderment they’d not been ambushed yet. Cornelius made an infernal noise wherever he went, be it with his mouth or his gear. Someone was always trying to shush him. She’d rid the camp of his scarlet handkerchief a ways back by stuffing it in the hollow of a tree, bemused when he hunted high and low for it like a sulky child.

  Lucian was more the man. She’d taken a liking to Lucian, who was an able hand with any task put to him, his mood ever amiable, his patience with his irascible master biblical.

  For now they sought the refuge of the shade, Lucian and Sion standing watch whilst she slipped off her moccasins and waded in the creek. One hour passed, then two. Occasionally she heard Raven’s whistle. She imagined Cornelius in that maze of cane, bewildered and sweating, going in dizzying circles. She’d heard tell of men wearing themselves out and never being found. If anyone could ferret out the Englishman, it would be Raven.

  By dusk her confidence began to wane. Full dark brought an end to the fleeting whistling. She studied the wall of cane, sorry she’d hidden the red handkerchief. A little color might help Raven’s search. Weariness and worry tugged at her. While she stewed, the chain carriers bedded down in the brush, Nate and Lucian with them.

  It was just her and Sion standing watch at opposite ends of camp, she keenly aware of his silhouette. She gnawed on a strip of jerky, craving bread . . . honey. She’d had no honey since leaving Virginia. Bees from the colonies were hard to come by. White man’s flies, Raven called them.

  She felt like a wild creature herself in her worn garments. What man would think her worth pondering even cleaned up? Again that sweet craving for a pretty petticoat or ribbon took root. Bloomed. And then the memory of Cornelius’s unwanted attentions at their change of watch returned, banished only by Sion’s reassuring presence some hundred yards distant. Their last private talk was never far from her thoughts, nor that confident way he’d taken her hand. She’d felt giddy as a girl at his touch. And then the shame of it washed all exhilaration away.

  Maybe it wasn’t counted a sin to feel something for a man, even a married man. A body couldn’t help that, could it? She reckoned it was only wrong if you fed, or acted on, those misplaced feelings.

  And that she would never do.

  Once Sion had looked at Tempe like he would a fetching flower or a striking sunset. Impartial. A thing to be momentarily admired then forgotten. But here lately . . .

  His remedy was to push harder, to be so preoccupied with the task at hand and the danger that they drove out any notice of her. But the magic of the night had snuck up on him. Here she was, off watch, studying the sky like she’d never seen it before, open wonder in her face. Hardened as he was, he wanted to chuckle at her being so childlike, and then he found himself rummaging through his haversack like the moon had worked some spell.

  In minutes his field glasses were in hand. Likely she’d never seen such. Removed from their leather case, their old-style workmanship seemed heavy. Sion took care not to startle her, but he’d noticed she’d begun to be a bit upended in his presence. Because of his being so quiet, he reckoned, both in movement and in speech.

  Coming up behind her, he murmured her name and she half turned. He reached for her rifle and traded it for the field glasses. When she simply turned them over like they were little more than a Gunter’s chain, he set both their guns aside. Enclosing her fingers in his, he positioned the glasses and raised them to her eyes, aiming for the North Star.

  Her smile was his reward. “Such a fearsome sight. These spectacles put me there so close it seems like the stars might cut me if I were to reach out and grab hold.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Star showers . . . and that long sweep of lights that has the look of a gourd. Two of them.”

  “Ursa Major . . . the plough.”

  The field glasses came down. “Why are they called such?”

  “You’d rather they be the Two Gourds?” His voice was husky with mirth.

  “Maybe.”

  He circled behind her, pointing. “Notice the seven stars in each. Two outer stars—Dubhe and Merak—point to the North Star, or Polaris. All together they form a pattern. Like a bear.”

  “A bear? Now that’s fanciful.”

  Another chuckle rose inside him, followed by a bittersweet twinge when she said, “I never knew the stars had names till you surveyors came round. You’re besotted with the stars.”

  “Aye.” They were speaking in unwise whispers when any talk was risky. He was violating his own rule for quiet, yet the need to speak, to break the everlasting monotony, gnawed at him. Or was it merely the sound of her lilting voice?

  And then, as abruptly as he’d handed her the field glasses, she returned them to him, taking up her gun in such a way he knew she was alarmed. Silently cursing his negligence, he reached for Annie and they took cover. But it was only a southwesterly wind kicking up, rustling the summer-dry grasses.

  “You expect Mister Lyon will ever show himself?”

  Sion mulled his answer. “I suspect Raven is befuddling him in that cane, teaching him a lesson he won’t soon forget.”

  Her profile turned thoughtful, the dimple in her cheek more pronounced when she wasn’t smiling. “A cane field at night can be a fearsome thing. Once Pa—”

  He cocked his head toward her as she stuttered then righted herself.

  “People tell of coming through the Barrens and sleeping in the cane to hide themselves,” she finished.

  “There’s no call to sleep. We’ll just cut straight through.”

  “You’ll go on without Raven and Mister Lyon?”

  “If they’re not here soon, aye. Raven’s a master tracker. He’ll catch up to us.” He read resistance in her sudden silence. “Mind telling me why he agreed to come on this jaunt when he’s so all-fired opposed to surveyors?”

  “He owes me a good deed, is all.”

  A mighty big o
ne, likely. He wouldn’t press her for particulars, but the question wouldn’t let him be. Might her heart be tied up in it? For all his Indian-ness, Raven was a tolerable-looking fellow, his stamina staggering. Sometimes Sion was hard put to keep up with him. He felt a queer churning. Of all emotions, jealousy was hardest to stomach.

  Sudden misery led him to ask, “Are you partial to him, Tempe?”

  “Me?” She turned the full force of her gaze his way, her eyes a bold black in the moonlight. “He’s my friend, if that’s what you mean.”

  He listened hard, expecting her to say no more. But she continued, surprising him with her candor. “I never expected his owing me a favor would gain you a guide.”

  “He’s partial to you.”

  “Partial?” She all but chuckled. “You’ve pegged Raven wrong if you’re saying what I think you’re saying.”

  Was she that blind? He felt both aggrieved and relieved. Raven did favor her, whether she owned it or not. What he couldn’t pin down were her feelings for him.

  Her voice came so soft he wasn’t sure he heard her right. “Does it matter?”

  She had him there. Did it?

  He leaned into his rifle, wishing Raven and Cornelius back. It was nigh on midnight now, his fretfulness rising. They should be pushing farther west when the moon was most obliging.

  She looked at the ground, the wind tugging at her braid. “I’ve been wondering about Ma and Russell. Paige. Whether the inn’s still standing or little more than ashes.”

  The melancholy in her tone nicked him. He wanted to reach out and pull her hat free to better see her face. “You’re still thinking of the war party headed that way.”

  “I can think of little else.” There was no blame in her tone, but he felt as guilty as if she’d pointed her finger at him.

  Her uncertainty about the inn rattled him. He doubted it would fall, having stood this long, but who knew? Again he wrestled with the thought of sending her back. “You should see home again by fodder-pulling time.” At her uneasy silence he said, “A fortnight’s surveying and then we aim for the Falls of Ohio. There we part.”

  It sounded sensible. Practical. Mournful. Again came that odd, unwelcome sensation that she mattered more than she should, that she’d somehow gained a foothold when his guard was down. Emotions long buried thrust through the hardened soil of his heart and head and turned him tender.

  He fisted his hand lest he reach for her. Tempe gave him much to admire. Much to question. The matter of her father, what brought her family into Kentucke, remained a riddle. Time would tell, Nate always said. But for the moment, with the moonlight pouring down, calling out every fetching feature . . .

  He was no longer just besotted with the stars.

  21

  I don’t believe that grief passes away. It has its time and place forever. More time is added to it; it becomes a story within a story. But grief and griever alike endure.

  —WENDELL BERRY, JAYBER CROW

  Sion was as good as his word. Once Cornelius emerged from the cane—panting and near mad with thirst, Raven on his heels—they made their midnight trek through the Barrens’ thigh-high grasses. And now, with the Green River wending west like a signpost to guide them, the surveying could resume.

  “Fetching country,” Nate said, encompassing in two words the sum of many admiring glances.

  Tempe’s chest swelled with bittersweet memories. Pa had first shown her this lush country when they’d come into Kentucke and were deciding where to settle. Green River country lay as big and rolling as when they’d first seen it, a sweet tangle of water and timber and foliage with none of the fierce rockiness of Shawnee River country.

  “Prime bottomland for farming,” Nate mused as if envisioning fields and fences as far as the Ohio. He glanced at Tempe. “No forts or settlers to speak of?”

  “None yet,” she answered, looking to Raven for confirmation.

  “This is sacred hunting ground. It will not be easily lost or won.”

  Yet there was no hostile sign that she could see, almost as if the ever-present wind erased all evidence of anyone’s passing, unbending the grasses, covering the dusty tracks of all who passed.

  They camped on the edge of the Barrens that night. Though she was weary in body, Tempe’s thoughts refused to settle. The farther west they chained, the more lax their party became. All but she, Sion, and Raven. The three of them eased not a whit. Negligence was the end of many a traveler.

  “Well, missy. I got me a little pain.” A bit shamefaced, Lucian stood before her after supper, his ebony eyes entreating.

  Tempe tore her gaze from Sion and Raven, who’d just ridden off with nary a goodbye. “A little pain, Lucian?” She’d noticed him limping around as they made camp.

  He looked to his leg. “Here we is, aimin’ to ride farther west, and no saddle’ll hold me.”

  Compassion stirred inside her as he raised the left leg of his breeches, revealing a carbuncle on his inner thigh. She nearly flinched. Chafed by constant movement, the boil looked about to burst. Pondering it, she worried her lower lip with her teeth. “It needs lancing.”

  Once again she wished Aylee was near. Ma always knew what a body was in need of, even to soul and spirit. “I’ll get my awl and some clean linen and medicine.” She took a breath. “It would help if you were to get wet all over first.” None of the men save Sion had bathed. Weary of staying downwind of them, she fetched soft soap for Lucian, which entailed passing by the awning where Cornelius worked.

  “Ah, Mistress Moonbow . . .” The lure in his voice set her further on edge. “Might you have a bit of brandy in your provisions?”

  She looked at him. How had he known? Had he pilfered her belongings in her absence?

  “Mister Morgan has forbidden any spirits.”

  His smile was oily. “But Mister Morgan is not here.”

  Painfully aware of this, she looked in the direction he had taken, an uneasy feeling nearly swallowing her. He and Raven had gone to scout out the best fording place along the Green. She wasn’t needed, Sion said. Hurt by what felt like a rebuff, she’d been most touchy about him being with Raven alone. Always she’d accompanied them before. She sensed some tug-of-war within Raven, a turning. No longer the trusted guide she had counted on.

  Just as Sion had a rarely seen lighter side, Raven had a dark one. She had never felt it before, and her hackles rose. Though Sion had earned his respect as a woodsman, Raven had no sympathy for surveyors. But his dislike went deeper. She could feel it, and it rattled her to her bones.

  “Come, Miss Tucker, what would a wee dram hurt?”

  “What would it help?” she answered, continuing on her way.

  To her dismay, Cornelius followed her to where Lucian sat, his boil exposed. “What if I forbade you to treat my manservant till some brandy was dispensed?”

  “What if I told you Lucian needs spirits worse than you?” she shot back, wanting to be done with him.

  Cornelius chuckled, reaching out and fingering a lock of hair that had slipped free of her fraying braid. Startled, she moved away, glad to see Nate approaching. She said, “Lucian, go and see to your bath at the river’s edge. Hascal’s standing guard.”

  He went, leaving her alone with Cornelius save Nate. A rush of affection overcame her when Nate said, “Best keep your hands to yourself, Corny, or you’ll have more than me to tussle with.”

  “Meaning?” All levity drained from Cornelius’s voice.

  “Ol’ Sion yonder, he’ll lay you out. Remember what happened in Williamsburg.”

  A marked pause. Whatever had happened was enough to return Cornelius to his awning. Never had she seen so slyboots a man. She hoped Harper was nothing like him.

  By the time Lucian returned, looking considerably cleaner despite wearing the same shabby clothing, Cornelius had taken his turn at watch while Nate gathered firewood and the axemen saw to the horses.

  “I’m fixing to make you a shirt,” she told Lucian as she prepared to lan
ce him. “Ma packed a right smart supply of linen. Thread and shears. I’ll use your old shirt for a measure.”

  “You partial to sewin’, Miss Tempe?”

  “That I am.” She wielded the awl, thorn sharp, and lanced away. Lucian stiffened and turned his head as if not watching could lessen the pain.

  “I’ll sew you on some bone buttons.” Tempe rambled, hoping to distract him. “Stitch your initials inside.”

  “That sounds right fancy. One day, iffen we ever get back to Virginny, it’ll bring to mind this trip.”

  “Where’s home, Lucian?”

  He looked east. “Home is Oakwood, where Mister Cornelius’s people come from.”

  “Oakwood? Is it a fine place?”

  “Finer than fine. Acres of tobacco and indigo far as the eye can see. Mister Sion deemed it worthy too. He came surveyin’ for old Mister Lyon a few years back. Met Miss Harper . . .”

  “That’s a sightly name, Harper.”

  “Yes’m. She be—” He quieted as if groping for words. “Beautiful. Like you, Miss Tempe, with your dark hair and smilin’ eyes.”

  Touched, she cleaned the sore place as gently as she could. “I’m a far cry from beautiful, Lucian.”

  “Well, if you ain’t, I don’t know what is.” He batted at a mosquito. “Mister Sion, I reckon he never saw such a sight as Miss Harper, as good as she was pretty. And Miss Harper, she never saw the likes of a borderman before, bein’ shut in and raised proper-like.”

  “So Miss Harper and Sion . . . met,” Tempe said, not wanting the telling to end. Her fancies quickly filled in the gaps. A young, unhardened Sion. The lovely Harper, instantly smitten.

  “Yes’m. Now, old Mister Lyon took a liking to Mister Sion, though Mister Cornelius was of a mind to run him off once the surveyin’ was done. But Miss Harper had done worked her spell. You see, Mister Cornelius didn’t care for a borderman courtin’ his sister even if he did come out of William & Mary studyin’ law—”