by Laura Frantz
Ma snorted, but Lael was not interested in schoolhouse antics. Though she escaped to Ma Horn’s cabin at the fort as often as she dared, time hung heavy on her hands. She sought solace in the fort’s store, which smelled of coffee beans and leather and snuff. She’d roam the dimly lit interior, her fingers never far from Simon’s note, always alert for the sight or sound of him.
Soon the weather turned as nettlesome as her mood. Heavy sheets of rain kept her confined to the cabin, where she stitched on a sampler beneath Ma’s watchful eye. Always she wondered how her father fared and when he’d return to take them home.
If he returned.
In the cramped loft by the light of a grease lamp, Lael penned a letter to Miss Mayella. The day before she’d mashed and boiled the hulls of walnuts, adding vinegar and salt until the mixture set and became brown ink. Now, taking up a crow quill, she dipped the tip into a small stone well and wrote in a clear hand:
Dear Miss Mayella,
It pleasured me greatly to receive your letter, though teaching did not turn out as I had hoped. I am well. There has been no Indian trouble for some time now . . .
She paused, blowing lightly at the ink. What reason could she give for quitting her post as teacher? She lay the quill aside and hugged her knees to her chest, shivering. Next to her Ransom lay lost in sleep, his breathing quiet and deep.
She took up the quill again, but the lamp smoked and went out. Leaving the unfinished letter on the floor, she climbed atop the corn-husk tick, wrinkling her nose at its rustling and hissing. She wondered if Simon had a fine feather one up on his four hundred, then quickly shut the thought away.
What had Widow Watson told her just yesterday? That Simon Hayes was sparking Piper Cane? He’d begun courting her at Susanna’s wedding, the very one she’d missed. She felt bruised by this new knowledge—and betrayed. Though she’d kept her face carefully composed at the revelation, her heart had twisted with hurt. If true, she was doubly stung by his choice. Why Piper? Overripe as an Indian peach, she’d be more than willing to let him woo her.
When no one was looking, Lael had taken Simon’s note and pitched it into the fire. The orange flames quickly reduced it to ashes, somehow solacing her. But her pocket, and her heart, felt strangely empty . . . but for the blue beads.
12
Restlessness clawed at Lael like a cat. With her chores done she was free to roam, though her allowable range was woefully short. The fort’s front gates were ajar and the sentries a bit lackadaisical at their posts. The Shawnee weren’t known to be winter raiders, and with Pa away, discipline among the militia was a bit lax. Still, they straightened when they saw her, as if something of his indomitable spirit shone through her and stood them at attention.
She and Ransom ventured out along the river, snug in heavy socks and scarves. It had rained the day before then turned bitter, and the world had frozen to crystal. Surely there was no sweeter sight than the river and grass and trees looking as hard and shiny as candy. They’d come out to cut branches of mountain laurel whose waxy leaves stayed green in winter. Though Ma had shaken her head at such high-minded notions, Lael was intent on trimming their tiny cabin from mantle to windowsill with greenery for the holiday.
They’d not wandered far from the fort, but they had tarried and their faces and hands grew pinched by the cold. The leaden sky seemed close enough to touch as they crested Hackberry Ridge. At their backs, the militia was drilling again, a jarring sound that spoke of coming conflict, at odds with Christmas peace.
When they returned half frozen to the cabin, Lael draped the laurel around the mantle’s wide wooden shoulders then set about making tea. Still shivering, she ladled water into an iron kettle and hooked the handle onto the iron crane before swinging it back over the flame. The hearth was soon redolent with sassafras, the roots brewing up strong and pink. She set out three wooden mugs, then remembered Ma was next door at Ma Horn’s winter cabin and Ransom had ventured outside once more to scrape with some boys. She hardly heard the knock on the door but felt it open, letting in a whoosh of bitter wind.
The bulky figure that filled the entryway made her turn her back at once. Unbidden, Widow Watson’s words stiffened her spine and made the heat creep into her cheeks. Where was Ma when she needed her?
“I ain’t seen you for two months and your backside is all the greetin’ I get?”
The harsh words made her spin around, and her own pointed reply shot like small arrows through the cold cabin. “Truth be told, I’d as soon fill your hide with lead as look at you, Simon Hayes.”
His mouth twisted wryly. “’Tis too cold for fightin’ words, Lael. I’m comin’ in, like it or not.”
She could hardly stop him, nor could she keep herself from looking at him. His hair was freshly washed—she could tell by the way it curled and shone—and his buffalo coat was clean and new. He was staring at her, reminding her that she looked less than comely in her simple linsey shift and loose braid.
He shut the door with a decisive thud, watching as she took the kettle of tea off the fire and set it on the table. Good manners waged a silent war within her, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask if he wanted a cup. Not with the new knowledge that festered in her heart.
Her voice, when it came again, was calm but pointed. “Been courtin’?”
He studied her for a long moment and said tersely, “She was handy, is all.”
“Handy,” she echoed. For a fleeting moment Lael felt sorry for Piper Cane. How was it to be handy to a man, like a second-best set of moccasins or an old mule?
“There ain’t been nobody but you, if that’s what you’re wonderin’, ” he told her unflinchingly, eyes on her all the while.
“I was wonderin’. ”
“I merely danced with her a time or two. I never kissed her.”
“That ain’t sayin’ much. You never kissed me . . .” Her voice trailed off in shame, and she couldn’t look at him. Only a hussy would say such a thing. It seemed Ma crouched in a corner, watching her misspeak. He tossed his heavy robe onto a rocking chair and took a quick look about the cabin. When he strode up to her, she felt herself go limp.
She shivered again as he brushed back the wisps of hair around her face before placing his cold mouth on her warm one. But it was hardly the kiss she’d been hankering for.
“I ain’t your sister, Simon,” she chided, stepping back. Turning, she poured herself a cup of tea, surprised at her steady hand.
His silence delighted her. Speechless, he was. The remembrance of their meeting in the woods when she’d been the one at loose ends and he’d taunted her unmercifully was somehow set right.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night, Lael Click, and you’d best be ready,” he said, voice stern. “If you’re not, I know somebody who is.”
Turning her head slowly, she gave him a half smile. Her anger was thawing now, fast as a frozen puddle in spring.
At twilight the next day Simon came. Her back to the door, Ma sat spinning, seemingly unaware of his intentions. Lael hadn’t told her he’d been by or that he had promised to come again. He didn’t enter, just motioned for her to follow. She slipped out quietly into the deepening dusk, oblivious to the cold. She’d not taken pains with her appearance lest she alert both Ma and Ransom, but her hair was freshly brushed and plaited and she’d sprinkled a bit of rosewater on her dress and wool cloak.
There were chaperones everywhere within the fort’s walls—a melee of dogs and children, three women grinding corn, a group of militia men smoking and arguing politics near the smithy. All this was precisely what Simon meant to avoid, she guessed. Holding firmly to her hand, he hurried along the south wall until they’d slipped beyond to the back gate. She nearly balked at his boldness. What would Pa say?
Determination dogged his every stride. If his courting of her was to begin in earnest, his gait seemed to say, it would be well away from the eyes and ears of the fort.
At the river they slowed, not yet speaking, and when she saw th
e waiting canoe, a clump of bittersweet at its bow, she felt torn in two.
“Simon, I—” Her eyes fell on the bittersweet’s burnt-orange beauty and then darted to the far shore. “What if there’s trouble—”
He shook his head. “There’ll be no trouble with the militia about, Lael.”
Indeed, it seemed so. But more than Indians, it was her father that fretted her. Wouldn’t it be just like him to watch her from the woods? And wouldn’t the Indians warm to a challenge, making mischief in clear sight of the fort?
She watched as he untied the hemp rope that secured the boat to shore. Seated, the bittersweet in her lap, she studied him in the deepening darkness. A half moon peered over his left shoulder, turning the river silver white. Lael felt caught up in a dream of danger and delight.
She could not—would not—speak. The gentle slap and slice of the paddles through the water propelled them quickly upriver, the moon following them all the while.
“Cat got your tongue?” he chided.
She bit her lip. “My pa will tan your hide—and mine—if there’s trouble.”
He grinned. “Assumin’ there’s any hide left to tan.”
She shivered and turned her attention to the far bank, noting he wisely kept to the safe shore. Soon the river’s shoals and bends grew unfamiliar to her, though apparently not to him. He rowed with a purpose, his eyes never leaving her face.
Have minutes passed—or hours?
All at once he stilled his paddling. “Look up yonder, Lael.”
He gestured to something behind her, and she turned slightly so as not to rock the canoe. “Yonder where?”
“High on that ridge, above the mist.”
She looked and understanding dawned. This was his ridge, his four hundred. Beyond the mist and moonlight she nearly expected to see a castle crowning the bluff, so great was her excitement. She sighed and her breath made a cloud in the cold air.
“I’ve got a cabin site staked out, but I aim to know how you want it set up.”
“Set up?” she echoed.
“One room or two. A dogtrot or no.”
A little thrill shot through her. She could feel his eyes on her though hers remained on the ridge. “Two big rooms,” she said in a near whisper. “With a dogtrot betwixt them.”
“Two hearths, then?”
“Aye, and a puncheon floor.”
“Pine or white oak?”
“Pine,” she said, a smile in her voice.
“How many windows?”
“Three each.”
“A south porch?”
She turned back to him. “Aye, and a climbing rose all across it.”
“Done.”
Laying aside the paddles, he caught her hands in his and pulled her to him. Her knees came down on the bottom of the boat and she was wedged against him, bittersweet and all. Through the layers of her clothing and cloak—even through his own buffalo robe—she fancied she felt his heartbeat. Her own seemed stilled, as if what was about to happen was too much for her fledgling senses. A flurry of fancy words followed by fancy kisses.
And kiss her he did. She marveled at the smoky, musky scent of him and how his whiskers chafed her cheeks. These were no sisterly kisses, truly. She felt she would drown in their sweetness and lifted her face for more. When at last he drew away, she felt bereft.
“Run away with me—tonight.”
Above them the brilliant moon beckoned, promising to light their way.
Her voice sounded queer and far off, weak with longing and despair. “No runnin’ off like Ma done, Simon.”
He looked at her for a long moment and she at him. So be it, his expression seemed to say. The pull of the paddles drew them back toward the fort against their will. A bevy of stars had come out, some as big as the beads in her pocket.
Did she look like she’d been kissed? Would Ma know just from the sight of her? The fort common was nearly empty now. Simon walked her to the cabin door but didn’t touch her again. She slipped inside and found Ransom peering down at her from the loft, his eyes bright as a coon’s. Ma was sound asleep in her chair.
Simon would be back for Christmas, he’d said, to court her and to kiss her yet again. Then, come spring, with the cabin nearly done, he would face her father.
13
To be sure, Lael thought, these were the finest pair of stockings she’d ever made. She finished them and lay them over her lap, glancing up as Ma placed two mince pies to cool on the cabin windowsill. Five pewter plates shone on the small table at the heart of the cabin, the centerpiece a jar of brandied peaches.
Lael looked about the room, wanting to fix the scene in her mind for always. A tumult of waxy green mountain laurel cascaded over the mantle. A right terrible waste, Ma had said, but it did look festive with Simon’s bittersweet interspersed with it. The sight brought a blush to Lael’s face even now as she recalled every detail of their row on the river together just two nights past.
With Pa away, Ma asked Simon to take Christmas dinner with them. Lael was glad yet wondered if he’d miss the merriment of the large Hayes clan. Pa didn’t hold to such bedevilment as the Hayes clan was given to. His own Quaker boyhood nearly prevented him from celebrating Christmas altogether, for true Quakers dismissed the day as any other. But Ma insisted it be observed, if quietly, with Bible reading and singing hymns. Though it was just midday, fires were being lit on the common in advance of the fiddling. Earlier that day Rab Calloway had driven in a load of cider from his farm for the frolic, and old Amos, the fort fiddler, had sampled a barrel, eyes agleam.
Simon ate heartily of the turkey Ma Horn had roasted on a spit. There was corn pudding and potatoes, turnips and fried apples and a rectangle of johnnycake on a large wooden platter. Simon’s mother had sent a flask of blackberry wine, and each of them, save Ransom, sampled its tart sweetness. By meal’s end Lael felt a tad giddy, what with the overly warm cabin and Simon’s hand on hers beneath the table.
His beloved nearness nearly made her rue her refusal to run away with him, especially since he’d just whispered that a preacher was within fort walls. A Christmas wedding seemed a fine thing but for Pa’s warning words echoing in her ears. The thought of him returning home to find Simon as his son-in-law made her wince. Still, she wondered if he wouldn’t get used to it given time.
Night was falling fast. Ransom got up to feed the turkey carcass to the pack of dogs outside. Beyond the cracked door, a keening wind blew. Simon leaned over and murmured something in her ear. His warm words smelled of blackberry wine but were lost in the commotion outside.
Ma was the first to the door. Ma Horn followed, her smoking pipe abandoned at the hearth. Absently, Lael remembered she’d not yet given Simon the socks she’d made. Now he was pushing away from the table at the queer noise made by the fort’s dogs. Their mournful baying, at first distant, grew hellish.
Lael was the last one out of the cabin. A press of people were at the fort’s gates, now rapidly swinging shut. Sensing trouble, Lael sought out Ransom. But it was too late. He’d already seen the sickening sight.
Lael stood nearly witless on the frozen ground. Coming at her was a woman—nay, a girl—her dress dark with dirt and blood. Even her chestnut hair was matted, partly covering her face in filthy strands. She was supported on both sides by members of the militia who righted her when she stumbled.
“It’s a haint!” Ransom cried, darting behind Lael.
But this was no ghost. This, Lael realized with keen horror, was Piper Cane.
Ma Horn’s cabin was suddenly a beehive of activity. The more capable women, Ma included, came in to tend the stricken girl, whereas a party of men, led by Colonel Corey, rode out of the fort. The bonfires were lit after all, but this was no celebration. Militia lined the pickets, peering through the gun holes, but no fiddle music was heard.
Dazed, Lael stood outside without her cloak, unmindful of anything but the wretched sight of the girl she’d never liked. Simon found her and set his own coat about her
shoulders.
“The Canes were burned out—all killed but Piper,” he told her. “Shawnee.”
Stunned, she could only look at him. All killed but Piper. Mathias and Mercy Cane. The brothers Coe and Hezekiah. Two small sisters. And a baby—hadn’t there been a baby?
“Poor Piper,” she murmured.
“Lucky Piper. Out chasin’ cows when death struck.”
Ma called to Lael from the cabin door. Reluctantly she left him and turned to do Ma’s bidding.
Inside, the women were bathing Piper, laboring to remove all physical traces of the hideous scene. The girl shivered as water and soft soap cascaded over her while she sat stiff as a corpse in an oaken tub. Her shaking didn’t end when she was clothed in Lael’s spare dress and moved to the fire, where Jane McFee combed out her hair. Dear Jane, who’d lost two husbands in the Indian wars, and whose old, usually steady hands now seemed to tremble.
Lael went to throw out the wash water, ashamed of her revulsion. No doubt the Shawnee had taken out their scalping knives before setting fire to the place. Was this what she’d come home and found? Lael blinked back hot tears. While there was no love lost between her and the Canes, seven people had perished. And one girl left destitute.
Colonel Corey and his party of scouts returned on the fifth day, having warned the nearby settlements. They’d tracked the winter raiders along the ancient Warrior’s Trace to the Falls of the Ohio and no farther.
In Ma Horn’s tiny cabin Piper Cane said not a word, just sat in the hickory rocker by the fire. A pall had been cast over any notion of courting. Lael was left to simply dream about her canoe ride with Simon and speak with him in snatches.
On New Year’s Day, Piper Cane left Ma Horn’s and saw the light of day. The dark-haired girl walked as slowly and unsteadily as an old woman across the common to the large blockhouse that was the Hayes’ home, Simon’s mother supporting her. For in the end it was the Hayes clan that took her in.
