A Moonbow Night

by Laura Frantz

  “Mister Morgan—a lawyer?” Surprise bloomed.

  “Law, yes’m. But when he’d done with that, Doctor Walker at Castle Hill talked him into bein’ a Crown surveyor.”

  Tempe listened hard, trying to keep up with so many facts and a lancing too.

  “The Walkers were known to Mister Sion, you see, the good doctor bein’ the first surveyor in Kentucke even before Boone.” Lucian took a breath. “Well, Mister Sion, he leaves Oakwood and rides off to Williamsburg to register the surveys in the land office there. And Miss Harper, bein’ lovesick, takes off after him. What was he to do but marry her lessen she ruin herself runnin’ after him?”

  Nearly forgetting what she did, Tempe began applying the salve. “So they wed?”

  “Yes’m. Right then and there in Williamsburg, though Mister Cornelius raised a ruckus and tried to stop it.” Lucian chuckled, seeming to forget his sore leg. “Instead of a weddin’ feast there was a fight. Mister Cornelius got the worst of it. It wasn’t long before Mister Sion took his bride well beyond his reach to Fort Henry.”

  Fort Henry was a far cry from Oakwood. Lucian had reached the part that befuddled Tempe most. How had Cornelius and Sion come to make their peace in terms of working together? And how had the mighty Morgan adjusted to his genteel bride? Harper, despite her fancy ways, had begun to sound a bit like her impassioned, impetuous brother.

  “Fort Henry is in the wilds, nearly like here,” she remarked. “Quite a leap for a town-bred girl.”

  Lucian was studying the ground, suddenly quiet. “I ain’t never been there. Only heard talk. Some things is better not knowin’.”

  There was a subtle thread of melancholy in Lucian’s story, suggesting Sion hadn’t wanted to be married. Bordermen were often unwed, tethered to danger instead. What sort of life would Harper lead in a rude, picketed fort after Oakwood and Richmond? With a roaming husband to boot?

  Tying a bandage in place, she said, “I’d like to meet her.”

  Lucian all but squirmed on his stump seat. “Well, Miss Tempe—”

  Nate returned, arms full of deadwood, snuffing Lucian’s next words. Finished with her doctoring, Tempe watched as Lucian stood, favoring his leg but helping Nate with the wood. Lord willing, they’d resume their talk in time, though she sensed an odd reluctance about Lucian at the end, as if he rued the rest of his story.

  Nate dropped his load with a clatter, his stomach growling noticeably. “What’s for supper?”

  “Corn cakes. Fish.” Tempe wished she could serve him some of Aylee’s fare. “Maybe some red meat if Mister Morgan and Raven have their way.”

  “Some bear or buffalo would be welcome. I ain’t partial to any more of them turkey eggs.” Nate made a face, a wink following. “But I do favor your ma’s corn cakes. And I confess to a right terrible hankerin’ for a cold swallow of sweet milk . . . cheese.”

  “That’ll have to wait till we come to a fort.” In the back of her mind Tempe held on to the hope they’d spend time behind pickets. Boone’s Fort in particular. It was besieged still, she wagered, Five Killer never far from her thoughts.

  Remembering her promise of a shirt, she busied herself the rest of the afternoon on behalf of Lucian, working beneath the shade of a stout dogwood, the fabric soft beneath her callused hands.

  Thoughts full of Harper and Sion’s elopement, she watched anxiously for Sion’s return, praying for a change of heart in Raven. When they rode in at dusk, her warm welcome had nothing to do with the buffalo they’d taken. She was glad to the heart to see them, one more than the other.

  Sion’s eyes found hers, and he seemed as glad of her as she was of him. Or was she only woolgathering? He made a clean sweep of camp in that canny way he had and, sensing nothing amiss, washed up before bedding down beside her.

  She lay awake, listening to his even breathing, unsure if he slept or was awake. She longed to rouse him, have him tell her what he’d seen, how many steps they’d taken.

  And he . . . did he lay awake, wondering the same of her?

  22

  Love is what carries you, for it is always there, even in the dark . . . shining out at times like gold stitches in a piece of embroidery.

  —WENDELL BERRY, HANNAH COULTER

  They reached the Green in a fever of heat on what Sion counted was the last day of July. Surveying was madness in such weather. Thinking it, he quashed a spasm of guilt. He was pushing the axemen too hard, so he called for a temporary base camp. An awning provided shade for Cornelius to work on his maps while Sion roamed with Raven and Tempe, scouting the next best survey site. The others were only too glad to rest from their labors, leaving Lucian to comb the woods for sallet, wild onions, and the disagreeable turkey eggs that made up their woods fare.

  Now at midafternoon, Sion sat beneath the awning, refiguring calculations. Through the trees he had a dim view of Tempe and Raven on the Green’s pebbly bank. Fishing, the both of them, and enjoying it too. Her airy laugh was in marked contrast to Raven’s sobriety, though once Sion saw an approving smile light his features when Tempe caught a fat perch.

  There was life in that laugh, lived to the brim. No matter her heartache, she’d begun to embrace whatever was handed her, shrugging aside a broody spirit to enter fully within. Some of that newfound joy threatened to spill over on him. He didn’t even want to caution her for being chancy. She made him want to throw down his quill, spill his ink, and grind his pounce beneath his heel.

  “Lookee here, Lucian,” she crowed when she returned, glad as a girl. Her catch dangled from a long stick, the fishes’ gaping mouths hooked.

  Lucian took the offering, his dark features shining his pleasure. “We’ll have us a fine fish supper with some to spare.”

  And so they did, Sion glad that Raven was on guard and not at the evening meal. Though Tempe, he noticed, set aside a large portion for him even before Nate said grace.

  She sat between them, daintily eating her fish and picking out the bones. “Ma always said a body needs bread to wash down any fish bones. But this here’ll have to do.”

  Baked in the coals of a near smokeless fire and salted, the catfish and perch soon disappeared. Sated, Hascal and Spencer burped their appreciation. Sion glared at them as they wiped their hands on their filthy shirts.

  Mindful of his own unshaven, unwashed state, he pondered a good scrubbing. His hand found his jaw. He had soft soap enough in a gourd. His skin itched for a clean shirt. But what need had he of a clean shirt? He was not courting.

  He glanced up. Tempe was looking at him during a lull in the scant conversation. Despite her trail-worn state and the hat she usually wore, she had a summer’s glow about her, skin tan as a doe, a flush of pink riding her cheekbones. She glanced away, as did he.

  Even saddle sore and shy of a wash, she had a natural tidiness and modesty about her. As he thought it, studying the dirt beneath his fingernails, she up and disappeared, the last of daylight with her.

  To the necessary, likely.

  Cornelius, served supper beneath his awning, paused in his work as she passed. The axemen began playing cards while waiting their turn at watch as Lucian cleaned tin cups and trenchers.

  “What say you we have us a round of pokey?”

  Pokey was Nate’s name for any card game. Usually tempted, Sion shook his head. “If I don’t see to this beard . . .” He left off, deciding to shave first. Tempe had told him of a pool of water rimmed by boulders farther downriver, deep enough for a bath.

  Restless, still feverishly hot, he set out with Annie, a clean shirt rolled around a razor, shard of mirror, and comb. He nearly forgot the soft soap, but Nate reminded him at the last.

  He’d be presentable again. Or bust.

  Barefoot, Tempe hovered on a slab of rock, remembering. The pool was smaller than she recalled that time with Pa, shrunken now in summer but still beguiling, only hip deep when it had once been over her head. Her gaze cut clear to the bottom. High above in the cliff side a small falls was a frothing, twis
ting white as it tore free of its rocky spill, misting every rock and bit of moss, stirring the feathery ferns that gathered around the pool’s rim.

  She was torn between shedding her shift or not, but modesty won out. The worn linen pooled around her, then lay limp as water licked her ankles and rose to her neck. Holding her breath, she went under, the pool’s cool embrace erasing every speck of heat.

  When she finished her bath, skin tingling, every nerve enlivened, it was full dark. The camp was not far and the moon was new. Unsure when she’d next bathe, she stood behind the waterfall, missing her beloved moonbow and the Shawnee River country she called home.

  It was now, as Sion said, too late to turn back. Once this bit of surveying was done, they’d ford the Green and chain west to the mammoth underground caves, a favorite haunt of her father. Just yesterday she’d slipped in the telling, nearly spilling her secret.

  “There’s saltpeter in the caves, so P—” She nearly choked on the word Pa, but recovered and changed course. “So people say.”

  Sion had looked hard at her but she’d hurried on, giving him no time to question.

  A-shiver, she raised her eyes. The slant of the moon told her she’d overstayed her welcome, and the men might come looking for her. Her shift, wet to the skin, would be dry by morning. Reluctant to move from behind the watery curtain, she took a small step toward the bank. And froze.

  Sion stood at the farthermost reaches of the pool, where the river had shoved boulders along the bank and hemmed the water in. Had he not seen her? The falls and her white shift hid her well. She stood still as stone to one side, winning an unrivaled look at him through the cascading curtain.

  Never had she watched a man so intently. Modesty nearly made her turn her head. He bent, untying leather garters that held up deerskin leggings. His linen shirt, begrimed and torn in places, was in need of scouring—but first he raised his head and took another look at his rifle where it rested butt end to the ground and barrel to the sky, before stepping into the water, shirt and all. Unbelted, the garment nearly reached his knees, shining like a candle flame in the darkness, a perfect target.

  Had she been his foe, a well-placed arrow would have met an easy mark, and his would have been a watery grave. But she was his friend, if that. More his guide. And if he discovered her here . . .

  His beard was gone. Moonlight limned his clean-shaven features and illuminated his disgust as he pulled his dirty shirt overhead, smeared it with soft soap, and scrubbed it by hand. Waist-deep in water, he worked quickly. Amused, she watched as he rinsed free the soap and wrung the shirt out before he flung it atop a rock.

  In another breath he was gone, disappearing beneath the water for so long she couldn’t tell just where he was. Seconds ticked by and still he did not surface.

  Her gasp seemed loud as a gunshot when one hard hand shackled her left ankle, and with a distinct jerk she was pitched forward into the pool.

  Sputtering, still gasping, she came up out of the water and faced him, stung by his low laughter. “Do you oft lay in wait behind waterfalls, Miss Tucker?”

  Her hands slicked back her hair. “I was here first. You left me little choice.”

  “And are you clean? Or do you need another ducking?”

  Again she went under, held captive by his fierce grasp. He had her by the waist this time, so quick she didn’t have time to dodge him or catch her breath. Water burned her nose and sparked her temper. Wrenching away, she slipped on a mossy stone and nearly went under again. Sure-footed at last, she whacked him with a spray of water, laughing when he shook his head from side to side to clear his vision.

  “Truce,” he said, teeth flashing white.

  She eased then, savoring the feel of the water, this new side of him. The old Sion was no more. This was the man Harper had fallen in love with. She could understand that now. What she couldn’t bridge was the change. The young, quick-to-smile Sion had gotten lost and then was found here tonight ever so briefly, before giving way to the hardened man he’d become.

  Wonder crept in. And a telling awkwardness. She would have to retreat first because he . . . Flushing, she looked away and studied the falls. Because he had nothing on beneath all that water. The realization sent her out of the pool, more mindful of her own immodest state.

  She’d best hasten back to camp the way she’d come. It wouldn’t do to sashay in with him like a strumpet. Though she was a far cry from a lady according to Cornelius Lyon, her sense of decency was unshaken. Turning her back to Sion, she put on her moccasins and gathered up her few belongings, leaving him to the magic of the moonlight.

  Lucian’s leg was still ailing him, so she helped clean up after supper the next eve. “Obliged, Miss Tempe. I’m about to stand watch. Good thing my leg don’t interfere with guard duty.”

  “You’d be a good hand in the middle ground at Boone’s Fort or Harrod’s.”

  “That I’d like to see,” he murmured with a wistful smile. “That I would, aye.”

  The wind had finally gentled, rippling the surface of the river and the shirt she’d sewn him. He wore the walnut-dyed garment proudly, his shoulders a bit straighter. He squatted on the gravelly bank, washing out a kettle, while her gaze roamed, rifle by her side. The Green flowed mostly silent at midsummer, allowing her to hear any approach if one could hear a silent foe. She looked down, her moccasins worn beyond use. Nate, handy with an awl, was making her a new pair.

  She and Lucian returned to camp to find the chain carriers at cards, Cornelius perusing his maps, and Sion checking equipment. Summer daylight meant less rest, and she felt it to her bones. How good a full meal would be. A new shift and stays.

  She unrolled her bedding, nearly sighing at the memory of her feather tick. By now she was used to hard ground if not men on all sides of her. She knew their nighttime habits by heart. Sion never snored. Nate was one to make water from midnight to daylight. Cornelius thrashed and mumbled like a man possessed. Spencer and Hascal raised a ruckus between them, requiring those nearest to poke and prod them into quiet. Raven was so silent she wondered if he slept.

  Once Sion had rolled too close, fitting his lengthy frame to hers in a breathless moment that left her weak all over. Was he thinking she was Harper? Needing his wife? No sooner had she thought it than he came awake and righted himself.

  Since that night she was more aware of him. When he was near, all the other men faded to shadows. Somewhere along the trail she’d succumbed to the lure of him, that sweet pulsing that made her feel so . . . alive. She was too aware of him. Too tuned to him. Astute as he was, did he sense that?

  Lately she had trouble looking him in the eye and answering any simple question he put to her, fearful he might see all that stirred beneath. Betimes the very air seemed to crackle. There was a new tie between them, thin as silk thread, invisible but heartfelt. Or was she only woolgathering?

  Now he stood close by, holding a pocket compass in hand. “Tempe, what can you tell me about the caves?”

  Best ask Raven.

  The words died. She was aware of one thing. He’d started saying Tempe again. The elusive thread between them tightened. “The caves,” she echoed, smoothing out her blanket. “We’re nearly there.”

  He sat down on his bedroll, compass still in hand. “You’ve been before.”

  “Aye.” Even now she felt its chill breath, dank and misty. “There’s an entrance—a large one—near the Green. You can’t miss it.” And then she shivered, recalling the bones she and Pa had come across, bleached and dusty, near the entrance. “There’s said to be an underground river. Fish without eyes. Saltpeter enough for gunpowder to hold all of Kentucke.” She had his attention now. Men were rabid about the caves. Many a time she’d heard talk of their explorations at the inn. Mud in their blood, Ma said.

  Sitting back on her heels, she admitted, “It’s not for the faint of heart. There are bats by the hundreds. Sudden falls. Tight crawls and muddy tunnels.”

  “Light?”

  Sh
e nearly chuckled at his terseness. He had a curious way of carrying on a conversation with a single word. “Cane torches last a good while.”

  “How far did you go?”

  She hesitated, resurrecting that tense time. “I disremember.” She had a bad feeling about the caves. All that dark. “Word is you can go for miles if your light lasts. We—” The word hung in her throat. She sighed, tired of hiding Pa. Big and ornery as he was, he could hide himself. “We didn’t go far.”

  “We?”

  “My pa and I.” She could utter no more. She prayed he wouldn’t dig deeper. To her surprise he changed course.

  “We’ll go on a little ramble. Canoe down the Green and have the rest of the party follow on foot. I need to get the lay of the land before laying any more line.”

  “And just where do you aim to get this canoe?” She stared at him, catching his half smile in the gathering shadows.

  “What do you think Raven and I have been doing away from camp the last day or so?”

  She’d wondered but guessed they’d gone on a scout whilst Cornelius colored his maps and the rest of them rested. How she’d chafed at Sion’s absence.

  Thrusting his compass in the bosom of his hunting shirt, he stood and took up his rifle. “At first light we’ll set out.”

  “You and Raven?” she queried.

  “Nay.” A sly wink—or had she only imagined it? “You and me.”

  23

  He had learned a long time ago, maybe been born with the knowledge that if you made a bold decision and followed it with bold action more often than not you could make it work for you.

  —JANICE HOLT GILES, RUN ME A RIVER

  Raven and Sion had fashioned a well-made bark canoe. Flat-bottomed and wide of beam, it was crafted of birch bark, now sunk beneath the Green by large rocks, the ash paddles hidden in a hollow log. She and Pa had done the same along the Shawnee River, but she never expected Sion to take the time to make one, especially with Raven.