by Laura Frantz
It was still light enough to draw a bead, but she was having trouble managing the rifle with her bad hand. Resting the gun in the crotch of a large laurel, she’d get one shot off if she was lucky. She wasn’t aiming, just scaring. All she wanted was to give the three captives a chance to run. If she wasn’t so crippled she’d risk two shots, reloading before the Indians took to the hills after her.
Lucian had the best chance of escape, being unbound. His captors had obviously taken a liking to him. He gathered wood and water while Hascal and Spencer sat tied hand to hand, the both of them scared witless, looked like. Frustrated and fearful of the worst, she wished she could simply holler down and ask the stricken boys and Lucian what had become of the missing men.
They were nearing the Indian towns. At a nearby creek a few of the warriors were washing off their war paint. In the fast-fading light their armbands and earrings and bangles gave off a fearsome shine.
Two hundred yards distant, she continued to look for signs of Sion and Nate. Nate’s disadvantage was his age. But Sion . . . Sion was clever, and as good as the Indians at the Indian game.
For now she had to content herself with hiding in the clump of bushes, the rocky ledge biting her backside, and bide her time till the right moment presented itself. Pa’s horse was well fed and watered and tethered to the bush just behind her, and blessedly quiet.
One shot and then she’d ride back toward the inn.
She blinked, vision sharpening at the sight of Five Killer at the edge of the woods. Nearby, she made out Big Jim, looking as hale and hearty as he’d likely been that day in Powell Valley, and entirely within her sights. She drew a bead on the both of them. If she could but muster strength in her hand . . . strength enough to aim true . . .
She braced herself for the flash in the pan. Writhing white smoke. The acrid stench of powder. With her good hand, she pulled the trigger. A deafening roar was followed by the spent ball kicking up dust near the Indians’ cookfire, sending warriors scrambling.
Without waiting to survey the melee, she thrust Pa’s rifle in its saddle holster and mounted in a rush, her leg and hand hardly slowing her. Nearly dancing, the gelding shot off like a bullet east, stumbling once as they careened downhill off the ridge’s backside.
Father in heaven, help the captives get away.
She could do no more for the tattered remains of Sion’s surveying party.
The aroma of rich venison broth nudged Sion awake. His memory of the bear-man was hazy—first his appearing and then his return, a deer draped over the pommel of his saddle. After that his focus narrowed to his own shoulder, consumed as he was by an unrelenting ache.
Flat on his back, unable to turn over or sit up or make water, he lay still. Listening. Praying. Willing his wits to sharpen.
“If you can stand this, you can stand anything.”
The burning worsened as the stranger poured whiskey over the wound. Sion’s shoulder seized, seemed set on fire.
“Arrow’s poisoned . . . Tempe’ll never forgive me if I don’t bring you through.”
Poisoned? Sion had heard of such, but this made him a believer. Though he was liable to die, he felt an odd peace. If he couldn’t be in Tempe’s hands, the next best were her father’s. His future father-in-law. The man who’d fled Virginia over a crime he thought was a hanging offense. For all his bearishness, August Tucker bore Tempe’s deft touch, the same crease in his furrowed brow, the same memorable cadence to his speech. And although Sion and Tempe’s father had little in common, they’d found common ground in Tempe herself.
Sion’s voice seemed little more than a frog’s hoarse croak in the gathering darkness. “Where is she?”
August capped the flask of whiskey. “Your guess is as good as mine. She galloped out of my rockhouse a few days back, none too pleased with me but bent on finding you.”
Sion’s head whirled. So Raven had not harmed her but mayhap helped her get away? There could be no other explanation. Clenching his fist, he spoke past the pain. “She on foot?”
“Nay. Took my best horse without a by-your-leave—and a rifle.”
At this, half the worry went out of him. “She’s a hand with a gun, I’ll grant you that. But she’s tore up enough I misdoubt she’ll use it.” As if sensing his remaining disquiet, Smokey stretched out alongside him, her soulful eyes never leaving him. “How’d you find me?”
“You were easy enough to track with two men dead,” August said.
“Two?”
“I come upon a man a mite older than me and buried him along Shawnee Creek a ways back.”
Nate. Sion swallowed, grateful for the misery in his shoulder that made all softness retreat.
“I didn’t see any violence done him. He looked real peaceful. Like he just got tired and laid down on the trail and went to sleep.”
Could it be? Nate had often said he wanted to go easy.
I ain’t so blessed that the Lord’ll send a chariot of fire down from heaven to take me home like He did Elijah, but I’d be glad to go easy.
“But there was this other man . . .” August’s voice sounded weary, as if the ugly memory wrung something out of him. “He died hard. Looked like the Indians didn’t even want his scalp.”
Sion pondered this. Cornelius had died as he’d lived. It was Nate’s death he struggled with, their lack of a farewell. Nate had a heart ailment. All that running at the end, the threat of death hanging over them. Mayhap Nate just gave out . . .
He swallowed, the knot in his throat rivaling his shoulder. Abruptly, he changed course. “We need to find Tempe.”
“Aye, we will. She’s plucky. Tough as whang leather.”
“You’re not fretted about her.”
“I’m more fretted about you.” Setting the whiskey aside, August began tearing apart what looked to be a woman’s petticoat. “This’ll hurt some, but we need to apply witch hazel. Bind the wound tight. Let it draw out the poison.”
Sion let him do what he would, no easier about Tempe. Would he ever know the satisfaction of telling her the good news about her pa? Best let it slip now lest he not have the chance. The words came choppy and breathless. “I have something that needs knowing.”
August grunted. “You asking for her hand?”
Sion ignored the good-natured question. “You need to know you’re not a wanted man in Virginia.”
August’s ministrations stilled. Sion filled the tense silence. “You may have beaten Frederick Ice and left him for dead, but he didn’t die. He’s alive to this day, or was when I left Virginia last spring.”
Still August said nothing. Sion could only guess the gist of his thoughts. How to make up for years swallowed by the wilderness? A wary mind-set so ingrained he’d likely always call the rockhouse home?
With the beginning of a grin, August finished tending his wound. “You sure?”
“Sure as I’m laid out here with a hole in my shoulder.”
August began to chuckle then, his broad chest shaking with a shuddering laugh. “Reckon the Almighty sent you into the wilderness to tell me that?”
“Nay. He sent me into the wilderness to wed your daughter.”
Sobering, August cast an appraising glance toward the woods. “We’d best be finding her, then, though you should know we cache supplies in various places so she’s not at wit’s end. And we agreed long ago that if we were separated we’d return straightaway to the inn—or what’s left of it.”
“You’ve been burnt out, then.”
“To the ground.”
“What’ll you do once we find Tempe?”
“Go join Harrod or Boone or Logan and hold the middle ground.”
“We’ll come along too, provided we can find a preacher.”
Reaching out, August punched Sion’s good shoulder. “You’d best get better right quick. Tempe’s not one to wait. Patience is not her virtue.”
32
Here we are all, by day; by night we’re hurl’d
By dreams, each one
into a several world.
—ROBERT HERRICK
She was dog-tired. Discouraged. The trail had gone cold after she came upon a dead campfire and some bloodied rags. Now just forty miles from the inn and near the Warrior’s Path, she pondered what to do. Russell and Ma and Paige were east of the mountains. Pa was holed up along the Shawnee. Sion seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. Her coming across Cornelius’s body still haunted. She feared Sion lay in some unknown spot, lifeless and unmourned, and she’d never know. It happened to the best of men. If not Indians, any manner of mischief might have befallen him.
Her heart craved all she did not own at this present moment. A bath. Cool linen sheets and a feather tick. A hot meal. Sassafras tea.
A kiss.
Shutting her eyes, she allowed herself one memory. Only one. She always harkened back to that breathless, startling first kiss in the hollow sycamore. Unending it had been, and yet not nearly long enough. His arms had wrapped round her, surprisingly strong yet gentle. She needed his strength. She craved the timbre of his voice. That way he had of subduing any situation, surmounting any obstacle.
Missing him came in spates, much like grief, upending her when she least expected it. She missed other things too, all distant.
The lure of Boonesborough was strong. But not because of James. She longed to be with capable women like the Boones and Esther Hart. Sharing her burdens. Her fears and tears. Any joys to be had. Instinct and prayer told her to go home even if home was no more.
“Come along, Nero,” she told Pa’s horse in an aggravated huff.
Snorting, full of cane, it looked fit for anything, but she herself was spent. Hopping on a downed log, she climbed onto the gelding’s broad chestnut back and headed toward the inn, or what was left of it.
Was she dreaming? Just below the falls on the banks of the Shawnee came the whack of an axe. Pa? The sound renewed her flagging spirits, and she kneed Nero with a vengeance. Up the riverbank he scrambled, navigating oaks and elms just touched by autumn’s paintbrush.
It was now late August. No calendar was needed. She could tell by the look and smell of the land. ’Twas Indian summer nearly. Her favorite season. A touch of frost would soon deepen the forest’s color. It was the time they’d ready the inn for winter, the rock foundation banked with a thick matting of cornstalks and pumpkin vine . . .
Whack, whack, whack.
Her spirit quickened. Not Pa’s familiar cadence with an axe, nor her brother’s. Might some bold soul have jumped their claim?
Her leg hardly pained her as she abandoned Nero and started uphill on foot. Walking toward the noise, she smelled smoke and—could it be? Meat . . . bread. All known, beloved sounds and smells. Like the inn had not burned but was still standing.
She was hurrying now, praying it wasn’t some dream and in her half-starved state she was touched with strange visions.
The figure in the clearing had his back to her, broad and bare, his skin the rich brown of chestnut. A sheen of sweat glazed him, evidence of the heat and his steady work. His dark hair was plaited and clubbed like the Boone men wore theirs . . .
Emotion choked her. In that heart-stopping moment the woodcutter turned around, a look of pure joy riding his handsome, half-bearded features. Dropping the axe, he opened his arms wide.
“Tempe.”
She could not answer. Her hand went to her mouth to keep from crying out. She stumbled when she started toward him, her legs were so trembly. The shirtless stranger came toward her at a run, like a bear or charging buffalo.
Sion. Her Sion. Come home.
Wrapped in each other’s arms for long moments, neither spoke. ’Twas sweet, this homecoming. A hallowed moment. She gradually became aware of her surroundings, of another noise that came from the little glen that used to house her gathering.
She tore her eyes away from that to look into Sion’s face. To make sure he was whole.
Here.
He was drinking her in as well, a question in his eyes. His gaze slid from her face to her leg. Suddenly impish, she almost lifted a petticoat. “’Tis slowly mending. Should be well enough for our wedding day.”
The lines about his eyes crinkled with mirth. “So you’ll accept my humble proposal, then.” He looked like he might laugh from the sheer joy of it. “Your father’s given his blessing.”
“He’s here?”
“Aye, splitting shingles for the roof.”
Her eyes widened. “Shingles? I see no roof—”
“All in good time, aye?” He tucked a breeze-tossed strand of hair behind her ear. “He found me when I was arrow-shot through the shoulder. If not for him . . .”
“I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Nor I you.”
Did she imagine the unclouded brightness in his gaze? It made him almost a stranger. ’Twas like a curtain pulled back on broad daylight.
With a halloo, August emerged into stark sunlight, looking at her as if she’d only been berry picking, Smokey on his heels. “About time, Daughter.” His smile was warm and triumphant. “I’m not a wanted man but free, your borderman tells me. Seems likely cause for a celebration. Let’s have us a wedding, aye? We only lack a justice of the peace, a few guests. Your ma and brother and Paige needs be sent for.”
Free? She turned to Sion, read the confirmation in his eyes. Head full of questions, heart overflowing, she focused on one needful thing.
An Indian summer wedding. At long last.
A fortnight later, Pa returned with Ma, Paige, Russell, and a string of packhorses laden with supplies, the trace dusty with a few beeves and sheep. Tempe’s family’s surprise was plain to find men who had previously come by the inn gathered for a different purpose—a small army of them felling trees and hauling hearth rock and riving shingles. With the middle ground calmer, if only for the time being, they’d come because they’d heard the Moonbow had been burnt out. In a show of support they worked feverishly, their presence sending a message to the Indians that they were here to stay.
Squire Boone was among them. As preacher he would marry Sion and Tempe before going over mountain to lead another party to Boonesborough. To be blessed by a Boone was more than Tempe’s heart could hold. During those frenzied autumn days of building and cooking and sewing a new marrying dress, Tempe wondered if the ceremony would come to be.
Two cabins were taking shape, not as large as the original Moonbow Inn but a start. Sion was taking extra care to hew log walls rather than leave the logs round. Alongside him Russell labored, gaze often straying to Paige as she helped Tempe tend the animals and build fence. Something had changed between her brother and Paige. Tempe felt a little loss that she’d missed the turning point of their courtship, and then gladness took hold. For the first time since Powell Valley, Russell seemed more whole, working away with little thought of his limp.
At last she and Sion stood beneath an ancient oak, its charred trunk a reminder of the fire that had ravaged the inn, the tree’s brilliant foliage a testament to the coming cold. Bible in hand, Squire Boone married them with few words. Of those he did speak, each rolled over Tempe like a heavenly benediction slightly muted by the distant rush of the falls.
Their wedding eve, she and Sion sat on the rock ledge that had come to be such a part of her story. The mist was like a bridal veil, the falls more subdued in autumn. The air wafting around them held both warmth and chill. Indian summer bore a colorful, memorable welcome. Only the Almighty could have created such a night. Or maybe it was more the company she kept.
Through the trees came the sounds of laughter and the squeak of a fiddle as the wedding celebration ebbed. Wanting to be alone, they’d come here, not expecting any moonbow but granted one nonetheless.
Despite the moonbow’s appeal, his first, it was Tempe Sion studied, tracing the arc of her cheek with a forefinger. She studied him in turn, wanting him to kiss her like the groom he was and snuff any worries about sitting on this rock so exposed. His rifle lay within reac
h, the shine of silver bewitching.
She said at last, “I wish Nate could have been here.”
His brow creased, turning him more pensive. “I think of him often—Lucian and the axemen too.”
“You think they got away?”
A slight lift to his wide shoulders. “Some captives want to stay. Not all have a Mistress Moonbow to return to.”
The half smile she gave him was fleeting. And Raven? Was he even now on the Warrior’s Trail? The war path? It had been surprisingly quiet. Too quiet, Pa had said as he finished chinking and daubing both cabins. There was a surprising absence of sign.
“Next spring when your pa goes to trade with the Cherokee, he’ll make inquiries, see if they can be found.”
She was glad of this, her mind turning a corner as she let go of the past. “Sion, I’ve been wondering if we shouldn’t stay right here, at least at first . . .”
“Not go to Boonesborough, you mean.” His eyes held a question she’d not been ready to answer until now.
“Not Boonesborough, nay. You could continue surveying, if not for the Loyal, then the settlers coming over the Gap and stopping by the inn. Maybe in time we’ll settle out along the Green like you once said, or over by the Harts near Boonesborough. For now it’s good to be near kin.” She felt the need to stay close. Being on the trail had taught her many things, the importance of family foremost. “I want our children, at least our firstborn, to make his appearance right here.”
“His?” He wound a long strand of her hair around a callused finger, his intensity making her insides spin.
She nodded. “A borderman needs a son, seems like.”
“And if it’s a girl?”
A flush turned her warm. “Then I’d like to name her Chenoa after the river in the middle ground.”
He nodded, pensive. “Our son we’ll call James.”
She stilled. The earnestness in his expression moved her. “Sion James Morgan.”
