by Laura Frantz
He was walking slowly toward them, scarecrow thin, his fair hair tied back with whang leather. When he saw her, he stopped. She took a shy step toward him and did the same.
Try as she might, she couldn’t master her swirling emotions. Something lonesome and long dead pulled at her as she looked at him and remembered a great many things at once. Neddy reading to her in the firelight. Neddy teaching her to spell her name. Neddy bringing her a sugar lump from the fort store. Tears mingled with her salty sweat and stung her flushed face.
Without a moment’s hesitation Neddy did what Pa would never do. Reaching out a long arm, he pulled her into a snug embrace and let her cry.
“Lael girl, you look the same as you did when you were six years old, only handsomer.” His voice was deep and warm; he smelled of smoke and dirt and toil. His thin face seemed almost to shine.
“Well, now,” Ma Horn huffed, looking as if she might crow at any minute. “Let’s go in and have us a little visit.”
7
In the dog days of August, Lael was called home on account of a letter. As it passed from her mother’s hand to her own, Lael was doubly struck with the indigo wax seal and the elegant hand that had penned the ivory envelope. Though the edges were crimped and the ink slightly blurred from days spent in a saddlebag, it was nevertheless a wonder. Suddenly the queer, formal handwriting took a familiar turn. Miss Mayella!
Had it been only three years since Miss Mayella had left the settlement school and returned home to Virginia? Since then no genteel teacher had dared venture to the frontier, with the British giving guns to the Indians and the colonies at war.
With Ma looking over her shoulder, Lael devoured the shocking contents. A teacher was needed in the settlement. Who else, given her high marks and her father’s reputation, could it be but Lael? If she would accept the position, a small stipend would be paid by the Virginia Society of Education.
Lael let the letter fall to the porch planks where Ma snatched it up. Home less than a day, she couldn’t seem to get her bearings and now was befuddled with this unpleasant proposal.
“We’ll have to tell your pa the good news,” Ma said, a tad triumphant.
Lael sat down hard in the churning chair, all the breath knocked out of her. Was Ma so anxious to be rid of her? Ma’s wide, satisfied smile belied her need to restore the Click name to its former glory, before all the trouble had tarnished it. Lael could decipher her thoughts simply by studying her.
Unable to endure it, Lael looked away. Surely she could count on Pa to see reason. Why, she was no more a teacher than he was a preacher. Ma simply hadn’t pondered it properly. She was needed here, truly. All the chores of autumn were yet undone, as evidenced by the burgeoning garden and field of corn.
And her favorite task by far—digging ginseng for profit—was about to begin. Ma Horn had told her all the best places to find the rich roots, even drawing a crude map of sorts, marking coveted spots known to few in the settlement. Lael liked the thought of earning money this way, exchanging it for some trinket for her mother and Ransom or perhaps a beaver-felt hat for Pa.
Weary from the long trip down the mountain, Lael was glad to see the day dwindle to an end so she could escape to the loft. After being gone for so long the loft seemed strange to her— smaller and more crowded. Or perhaps it was Ransom who had changed. He seemed all knees and elbows now, nearly filling the rectangular trundle bed. She could see so much of Neddy in him, and the likeness touched her.
Tonight he seemed as restless as she, the heat lying like a wool blanket over the top of them, suffocatingly close.
“I can’t sleep,” he said softly, reaching up to touch her hand as it dangled over the side of the bed.
“Lie still and I’ll tell you a story,” she whispered into the darkness.
“About Pa?”
“Aye, about Pa,” she said, thinking of Neddy. Her voice was soft as she began, mindful of Ma and Pa just below. “Back before you were born—long before there were any forts or settlers here—Pa came into Kentucke.”
“By hisself?”
“Aye, by himself. He’d had a friend who’d gone before him, crossing over the Cumberlands, but he’d never come back.”
At this Ransom rolled closer, and she wondered if the story was too stirring, true as it was. Lowering her head, she made her voice as soothing as could be. “Pa thought he might find his friend and see what the land was like besides. Once he crossed the gap he felt like he’d entered a new world, full of animals he’d never before seen—and trees and rolling rivers he couldn’t name. He became so lost in the wonder of it all that he forgot to be careful. It wasn’t long till he sensed he wasn’t alone.”
“Shawnee?”
“Cherokee,” she answered. “They tracked him to some limestone bluffs not far from here, where the river bends toward the first falls. He stood with his horse and his gun overlooking the water far below, and he did the only thing he could to save himself.”
“He . . . jumped.” Ransom’s breathless whisper seemed suspended in the hot air.
“Sure enough. He jumped straight into the arms of a sugar maple, just filled out with spring leaves. A big branch broke his fall and he landed on his feet. He still had his rifle but had to leave his horse behind.”
“Did he ever find his friend?”
Lael fell silent. One week later he came across his friend’s body in the hollow of a sycamore tree, an arrow protruding from his back. “I’ll save that story for another time. Now go to sleep.”
He obliged, his breathing soon even and restful, making her feel less lonesome. Lying atop the faded quilt, she could see the outline of the apple-green dress in the dimness, but its beauty failed to move her. She supposed Ma had forgotten to store it away, rarely coming to the loft except to hang strings of beans and apples to dry. Not a word had she spoken about the wedding, except to say they’d gone and bid a blessing to the happy couple.
She lay a long time, trying not to think of Simon. Strangely, Lael felt homesick, her mind returning to Pigeon Ridge and Ma Horn’s tiny, shady cabin. Up so high, the mountain air was blessedly cool in the evenings while the river valleys here below seemed gripped with fever.
Rolling over, she wiped her brow with the edge of a sheet and groped for her brush on the small shelf above. The mother-of-pearl handle conformed to her hand, a present from Pa from some trading post in Pennsylvania following one of his long hunts. The stiff bristles slid easily from her sunburned scalp to the silky ends, freshly washed and smelling of soft soap and lavender. Counting out her customary hundred strokes, she set the brush aside and began braiding the long length.
Let down your hair.
Would the memory of the Shawnee calling to her ever dim? Now that she was home, would they return? Were they watching her window even now? The moon, blessedly bright, cast gentle light on the cracked window frame. Her hands stilled on her half-finished braid, and she got up and edged closer to the opening. But it wasn’t what she heard or saw that touched her with an icy finger of alarm.
It was what she sensed that scared her.
In two days’ time, Pa came home with the finest horse Lael had ever seen. Black as night, the stallion high-stepped its way into the clearing and up to the cabin steps as if demanding introductions.
Ransom gaped from the cabin stoop, his grin wide and empty, having just eaten an apple that stole his two front teeth. “Where’d you get that fine animal?”
“Fort Harrod,” Pa said, examining the horse’s teeth.
“How much you trade for ’im?”
“I didn’t trade. I paid,” he replied, going along with the boy’s attempt at manly banter.
“Who’s he for?”
“The new teacher.”
Ransom swung around to look at Lael where she sat paring apples on the porch. Pushing her displeasure down, she took a bite of apple and looked the other way.
“You mean you get to be my teacher,” Ransom called to her, “and sass me all day long
?”
Reluctant, she got up and fed an apple to the animal, admiring him despite herself. She needed a means to carry her to the settlement school, but a mule would have been sufficient. Looking on, she sensed this horse was high-spirited and intelligent and hard to handle.
“What’s his name?” Ransom asked.
Pa shrugged and looked at Lael.
“His name is Pride,” she stated matter-of-factly as if she’d been waiting to name him all her life. Beside her, Ma seemed to swell, already sitting on her high horse.
Aye, Pride, Lael mused, trying not to cry.
Pride goeth before a fall.
8
Fort Click stood staunch in the Indian summer sun, its outlying cornfields erect and baked a burnt brown from the waning heat. Above its massive gates her father’s name had been carved for all to see, the letters as bold and roughhewn as the man himself. Despite this, Fort Click was more stranger than friend. Only in times of Indian attack did they grace its gates and live within its walls. The mischief the Shawnee had made coming to their cabin wasn’t enough to send them there.
As she rode beside her father, Lael could see women carrying buckets to the spring between the fort’s south wall and the river two hundred yards distant. The fort’s massive gates, front and back, were open wide, the sentries at their posts. Inside the stockade, a dusty common divided rows of cramped cabins and at the far corners immense blockhouses loomed, their projecting second stories rife with gun holes. It was the southeast corner she knew best, having once lived there with the Hayes clan.
“Ezekial!” From every corner of the fort came greetings as folks hurried out to meet them. Lael was used to the fuss, even found it amusing, if maddening. Sometimes a simple errand kept them overnight as he was called upon to settle a dispute or discuss the war, sign some document or meet with settlement scouts.
She smiled, thinking it was good to be back among people, at least the ones who respected her father. But she herself soon drew a small crowd on account of her fine horse. The attention the stallion garnered stained her face an unflattering crimson, and she tried to hide behind the brim of her bonnet. She was none too comfortable in her dress, either.
Ma had insisted she look the part of the schoolteacher, even if she didn’t feel like one. The moss-green fabric was overly warm and itchy against her skin, the kerchief at her neck so starched it could stand by itself. The dread in her heart deepened when she caught sight of the schoolhouse centered in the common. Rarely used of late except to store corn, it looked more like a coop with the chickens scratching about in the dirt yard before the door.
She could hear Harrison Hayes at work in the blacksmith’s shop, and the sound buoyed her a bit. With a nod, Pa veered off toward its rough walls, taking Pride with him. She started toward the schoolhouse on foot, hoping to see Simon. He was frequently at the fort, Susanna told her, when he wasn’t at work on his four hundred acres. It was this, and Ma’s insistence that she take the position, that had finally swayed her.
Throwing open the schoolhouse door, she entered, only to be stung by the stifling heat. There were no windows to speak of, just a few log loopholes covered over with oiled paper, letting in precious little air and light. Despite the benches and one crude desk and chair, it was austere as could be. Some kind soul had cleaned it up in advance of her coming, but the smell of corn and hay still lingered.
This was the place she’d come as a little girl soon after Pa’s capture. Susanna had been here—and Simon. A host of memories had been made within these walls, most of them bittersweet. Miss Mayella had been here, with her fancy dresses and her blue-veined hands. The smell of her perfume had been near to divine, and Lael remembered that she’d never raised her voice, not once.
A small noise startled her. She spun, her skirts grazing the dusty floor. Simon? Nay. The sight of an almost forgotten figure made her heart hammer a bit harder. Piper Cane. Piper had been here too, but she hadn’t been a friend then . . . or now.
“Hello, Piper.” The words seemed a bit strained, too forced to be friendly.
The young woman said nothing in reply, just pushed her small sisters toward the empty benches at the back of the room. They came forward, heads down, taking a seat. Try as she might, Lael couldn’t recall their names. The Cane clan lived just beyond the fort’s gates to the west, and the Clicks gave them a wide berth.
“I could hardly believe it when I heard. But here you are . . . the new teacher.” Piper’s voice was the same as it had been. A trifle high, still girlish. She’d simply grown taller, her once flat figure bewitchingly buxom, the peculiar shade of chestnut hair that marked all the Canes stacked like a beehive atop her head.
She looked past Lael as if remembering days gone by, her features pinched with displeasure. Lael swallowed down a bitter reply. Piper was likely carrying the Cane grudge against the Clicks to the grave. But Lael hardly blamed her. Piper had lost a beloved brother at the salt licks when Pa surrendered. And he’d never come back.
She stayed silent, relieved when other children started coming in, noisy as a flock of geese. She’d not even had to ring the bell. Piper soon slipped away and Lael went to the door, her hands full of a slate and stylus to count attendance. She smiled in remembrance as every girl dropped a curtsy and every boy bowed as they entered. Miss Mayella had once insisted on this, and though Lael had not thought to enforce it, the genteel custom lingered.
Fifteen pupils, most of them small. She turned and recounted primers, woefully short. When she swung back around, all were seated, dinner baskets tucked beneath the crude benches. Inside the small windowless room, she eyed the log loopholes and felt nearly suffocated. It was only nine o’clock. As the children spelled and read in unison, then chorused Scripture verses by teams just like she remembered from Miss Mayella’s time, her mind wandered.
Each time she took her eyes off the boys at the back of the room there was a ruckus. She’d been warned about the Cane boys being lively, but on this first day she figured she’d have no trouble. They were too big for school, truly, and she’d turn them out if she had to. Ever since the salt licks the Canes had made trouble for the Clicks with their talk. Had their rancor followed her to the schoolhouse as well? Catching Hezekiah Cane’s eye, she stared him down. He quieted and she continued the lesson.
At day’s end, she drank deeply from the water dipper, unmindful of the dead rat at the bottom of the piggin. One obliging boy carried it out by its tail, just as he did the snake atop her desk the next day. She froze, mindful that the whole class looked on. Who was to blame for this piece of work? The only ones she could ascertain were guiltless were the smallest children on the front bench, the wee girls as fetching as a row of flowers.
Color high, her patience was fraying fast as thread. Her only salvation lay in knowing Ransom wasn’t here to tell Ma and Pa about the trouble. Just that morning he’d come down with a toothache and Ma wrapped his swollen jaw with an onion poultice, insisting he stay behind.
Coe Cane snickered from the back row. The minutes dragged on, dwindling to the spelldown at day’s end. She went to the door and studied the sky. The sun foretold one o’clock. If she dismissed school too soon, would anyone care? She reckoned there was no hurry. She wouldn’t return home till week’s end. She’d be staying with Widow Douglas, an arrangement Ma had made without telling her until just this morning. She’d simply handed her a knapsack of her belongings and said she’d see her in a few days’ time, then hastily kissed her cheek. Though Ma never said so, Lael knew she was fearful of the Shawnees’ return and thought sending Lael to the fort would remove the danger. But the brisk send-off hurt just the same.
She turned and surveyed her students, most of which were scratching at their slates . . . save two. Going to the back of the room, she rang the bell. On a slate atop her desk, misspelled but full of meanness, were scrawled two telling words.
Injun lover.
9
Lael plunged Pride into the dense woods east of Hackbe
rry Ridge, putting as much distance between her and the fort as possible. Instead of being nearly befuddled by the beauty of late fall, the colorful maples and oaks she so loved left her cold. They shed their brilliant leaves despite her indifference, goaded by a bitter wind, and her simple cape was soon splashed with crimson and gold.
A storm was coming—she could smell the dampness—but she didn’t dare start home. The musky, spicy shadows of the woods drew her in and she gave Pride his head, feeling she’d lost her own. For hours she wandered, so lost in thought that she paid no mind to the lengthening shadows and the sun’s cold tilt to the west. All was quiet until a twig snapped a brittle warning.
At the sound she leaped off Pride and slipped behind the rotting top of a sycamore snag. Its bulk hid her well but the stallion followed, his shrill whinny exposing her. Breathless, she peered through the dead branches and her stomach seemed to drop away. An Indian pony? Its rider was yet obscured by brush, but the sudden sight of boots and breeches assured her this was no Shawnee. She got up from her hiding place and onto Pride’s broad back in a rush, praying the rider would veer the other way, but he’d already heard her and was now headed straight for her. Simon? Of all the places she’d longed to meet him, here and now hadn’t been among them.
Simon Hayes looked as smug as Lael had ever seen him. Astride a horse nearly as fine as her own, he refused to let her pass on the narrow mountain path. The surprise she felt at meeting up with him and the pain of her present predicament nearly left her speechless.
“Kindly remove your hat,” she said at last.
He paid her no mind. The dun-colored felt remained firmly in place. He leaned forward in the saddle, looking like he owned time and would take all he pleased. Dusk was falling fast, casting velvety shadows in all the nooks and crannies of the woods.
