The first step, he had explained to her, was to find the perfect tree. Burning down the boat was an all-day and all-night job, and Caleb slept by the fire. Each canoe, three, four, or five rods in length, took him one moon’s turn—a month’s time. Using a stone tool, he would burn and scrape the interior of the log, burn and scrape, burn and scrape, until he reached unburned wood. But the real tool, he told her, was fire.
She looked forward to their conversations. She was no longer self-conscious around him but had begun to trust him, to feel safe in his presence. His friendship was a precious gift, helping to strengthen and sustain her.
She would never have thought it possible that an Indian man and an Amish woman could become friends, but that was exactly what seemed to be happening. She had been taught to believe the Indians were her enemies, to fear and abhor them. She had witnessed their harrowing brutality. But she had also received unexpected kindness from them. Caleb, especially.
A question continued to nettle her: Was it not possible that these people were children of God? Was not the good she saw in them, the kindness, the generosity, a reflection of God’s holy image? Were they not loved by God?
What would Hans say if she were to share these thoughts with him? She closed her eyes, trying to visualize him, to remember him. She could almost hear him give her stern warning: “You are facing a great trial. You must not allow yourself to be confused by heathens.” Her eyes popped open. That was not Hans’s voice she heard, but her father’s! She squeezed her eyes shut, distressed that her mind was becoming disordered.
But the confusion in her mind wasn’t all that distressed her. It was the friendship she was forging with Caleb. She was growing fonder of him than she had any right to be.
13
Not Faxon’s Farm
September 9, 1763
The weather was changing. The dark, low-lying clouds, the wind kicking up, rumbles of thunder off in the distance, and Felix knew an autumn storm was rolling in. It was chilly outside but warm in the barn, and he had plenty of neglected barn chores that needed tending to. The barn smelled of straw and horses and oats and manure, a mélange of strong scents. Felix loved it.
It surprised him, how much he loved this farming life. As a boy, he was enamored with the thought of a life spent on the open sea, like his brother Bairn. When he had first met Benjamin Franklin and watched him work, carefully setting lead type, Felix discovered how letters became words, then word became thoughts, and those thoughts could affect and influence others, and he thought he might follow in the printer’s footsteps.
And then, Felix found himself to be a grown man. It was time to stop dreaming about the future and make some decisions. Should he join the church? Should he leave? He felt as if he was sitting on a fence and watching himself walk by. He couldn’t decide, so he didn’t.
One day, Anna invited him to Beacon Hollow to welcome a new German immigrant family who happened to have a daughter named Rachel, about Felix’s age. As Rachel was introduced to Felix, she had tried to say welcome but it came out as fulcrum. He never understood the expression “getting swept off your feet” until he walked into the kitchen that afternoon and heard that brown-eyed beauty mangle the word welcome. Meeting Rachel on that sunny October afternoon became a shifting point for him, a true fulcrum. The word had never held such promise. The course of his life path was finally set.
Rachel was the one who sparked his interest in horse breeding. She knew there would always be a need among farmers for good workhorses. Without a doubt, she was right.
A door creaked open and he peered out a barn window to see Anna leave the house with Willie. It wasn’t much of a surprise when Benjo and Dannie ran down the house steps and into the barn to announce school was winding up early because a storm was coming. A moment later, Catrina walked up behind them.
“Christy passed through just a short time ago,” Felix told his boys. “He was looking for you two to go fishing at Blue Lake Pond. He said fish rise to the surface in the rain so they’re easier to catch.”
Benjo pumped his arms and leaped up in the air. “I’m on my way,” he said, halfway to the barn door.
Dannie blinked. His mind ran a little slower, but he wasn’t going to be left behind. “I’m coming!” Benjo waited for him to catch up, then the brothers—similar in height, size, and pace—ran down the rest of the length of the barn to get their fishing gear.
That left Catrina and Felix, standing awkwardly in the hall of the barn. Three horses stuck their heads out of their stalls and regarded them with mild interest.
“Do you think it’s wise to let the boys go fishing despite a storm coming?”
He shrugged. “A little rain never hurt anybody.”
“Lightning is attracted to water.”
Oh? He hadn’t thought of that. His boys knew that, right? He wasn’t sure. Christy would surely know, though. Wouldn’t he? Felix ran a hand down the back of his head.
It dawned on him how much he counted on Christy, an Indian boy not much older than his own sons, to teach Benjo and Dannie how to make their way in this world. Was he as careless a father as Catrina made him think he was? Surely not.
She wrinkled her nose, sniffing, as she looked up at rafters. “Needs a little cleaning, don’t you agree?”
He followed her eyes to see spiderwebs hugging the corners of the barn. He sniffed. He guessed it did smell a little ripe in here, but he liked the smell. Still, it would be something for the boys to do on a rainy day.
Felix led one of the yearlings from its stall down the barn and outside to the round pen. Catrina followed behind, coming to stand near the pen, leaning against it with her arms over the top rail. Felix unhooked the shank from the colt’s halter and chirped to him, urging him from a jog to a lope, around and around the pen. Why was she still here? She made him nervous.
“He doesn’t look so very big.”
“No. I suppose not. He’s average-sized.”
“But Tessa said you bred big horses. Very, very big horses.”
“I do, but this isn’t one of them.”
She opened her hands to a make a circle. “Hooves the sizes of dish plates, she said.”
“Tessa is known to exaggerate.” Then he glanced at her. “But I have to admit, she’s right about that. Their hooves are pretty big.”
“I’d like to see one of those big horses.”
After a brief hesitation, he nodded. He unhooked the colt and slipped through the fence, then gestured for her to join him. They walked quite a long way before coming to another large barn, close to the woods, one Felix had built after the first year the stallion had visited Not Faxon’s Farm and left behind the gift of six very large foals.
“How many barns do you have?”
“Two.”
She glanced at him with surprise. “Why do you need two?”
“You’ll see.” He walked past the barn to a paddock. Inside the paddock, two mother horses grazed, their babies moving closely alongside. Catrina followed him to a section of fence; they stood next to each other, separated by a respectful amount of space.
“This barn here,” he said, “holds my broodmares.”
“Oh my,” she whispered. “How old are they? About two months?”
He looked at her dubiously. She guessed correctly. He wouldn’t have expected her to know much about horses. Much about anything, for that matter.
One of the foals neared. Catrina reached out her hand and the little horse bumped her hand with its nose, thinking there might be some oats in it. “I love their overly long legs and dainty little faces.”
Dainty faces? That was a description he had never once considered. Now that she said it aloud, he thought she was right. The foals did have dainty faces, large eyes with long eyelashes.
She absently rubbed her palm up and down one of the foal’s necks, then fiddled with a strand of mane. “Their tails look like they’re made up of more fluff than substance.”
“That’s part of the breed. Sho
rt tails.” Felix gave the baby a gentle pat on the side of its neck and it pranced away.
Thunder rumbled again, this time closer, and then something strange happened to Felix. He turned, expecting Catrina to make another snide remark about what kind of father let his boys go fishing in a thunderstorm, but she was watching the little foals with a soft look on her face. “Such sweet, sweet babies.”
And he felt a lightning bolt hit him. Not literally, of course, but something about the look on her face caused a thrill to shoot straight to his vitals. Beneath her tough appearance he’d recognized a . . . what? How could he even describe it? A vulnerability in her.
Catrina Müller had never been vulnerable about anything. Never.
Which was very bad news for Felix, because he’d always been a sap for vulnerability.
He wondered what Catrina’s life had been like over the last decade. He knew she’d been married twice, a young boy and an old graybeard. He’d even made fun of her bad luck with men, calling her a black widow spider. Not to her face, naturally. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might have loved her husbands. He knew how it felt to lose someone. It shamed him now that he had been so cavalier about her feelings. He felt flooded with protectiveness, tenderness, and yes . . . desire toward her.
Desire? For Catrina Müller?! Was he crazy?
He was entirely unprepared for his reaction to her. How long had it been since he’d felt something for a woman? Too long.
She was watching the foals exchange hellos with their noses, a soft smile on her face. She had a pair of the nicest lips he’d ever seen, and they were downright pretty when she smiled. He fought an impulse to reach out and touch her cheek, to see if it was as soft and smooth as it looked.
Lifting her head, she caught him gawking. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing.” Guiltily, he looked up at the clouds, feeling his face heat up.
A few drops of rain began and she frowned, looking up at the sky. “I thought I could beat it home, but I’d better go wait it out and visit with Dorothea.” She started toward the house, running as the drops turned to steady rain.
Felix shut himself inside the barn. Instead of getting started on the work that waited for him, he simply sat on an old wooden trunk, the very one his mother brought with her from Germany on the Charming Nancy. How could he be sitting here in such a normal way, in this normal place, and yet feel anything but normal? He looked down at himself, his chest, hands, legs, boots. How could he appear the same when everything inside of him suddenly felt completely different?
He’d stood next to Catrina at the fence just now and shared a conversation with her. One simple, little conversation. They’d been alone together twenty minutes at most. Maybe thirty.
But it had been long enough. Long enough to shift everything within him. He set his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. Why her? Catrina? Of all the women on earth, why had he reacted to her in this way? He felt a shocking transformation over the way he felt, as startling as the sound of thunder that rattled the barn’s roof. And he was fairly confident that Catrina did not share his feelings. In fact, she seemed completely unaffected by him, hardly aware of him at all. He’d felt this kind of thunderstruck feeling only one time before. Then, too, he was sunk. Hopelessly in love. It was how he’d felt about his Rachel.
Over years of working with horses, he’d come to trust his senses. He understood horses, how to train them, how to bring out their best. He knew how a horse’s mind worked. But it suddenly occurred to him that when it came to women, he had very little understanding.
He blamed the lightning.
Beacon Hollow
September 18, 1763
Sunday afternoons, according to Tessa’s father, were made for napping. He was exhausted after church service and fellowship, and headed straight to bed as soon as he reached home. At her mother’s encouragement, Tessa took Willie outside to play. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon, unusually warm, with leaves starting to turn shades of red and gold. Back and forth, they tossed the ball that rumpled Martin had left behind. Tessa looked up at the blue sky. “Days like these are called Indian summer, Willie.” She caught the ball and tossed it back. “After we’ve had the first frost and then the weather turns unseasonably warm, it’s supposed to signal the season for Indian attacks on settlers.”
Willie dropped the ball by his feet. His face drained of color. It dawned on Tessa what she had just said without thinking. “Oh Willie, I’m so sorry.”
He ran inside the house.
“What have I done?” Tessa pressed her fists against her eyes. She felt sick. When would she ever learn to think before she spoke? Willie had been doing so much better these last few weeks . . . eating and sleeping, playing with Benjo and Dannie, saying a few words . . . and she rubbed out all that good healing in one stupid sentence. Now he would be terrified that Indians would come to attack Beacon Hollow. Why, why, why did she have to say that? “I am . . . an imbecile.”
“You only spoke the truth.”
Tessa dropped her fists and saw Hans standing just a few rods away.
“You spoke the truth to Willie. None of us are safe, Tessa. Not even here, near Lancaster Town. The Indians are plotting attacks on all white men—everywhere in the colony.”
She clutched her elbows. “That’s not what my father says.”
“That’s because he doesn’t want to accept the reality of the situation. He wants to believe that the Indians can be reasoned with, that they will respect Penn’s Treaties. I don’t mean to criticize your father. It’s a noble thought—to judge a man by his own actions. That kind of thinking might work for some, but not for Indians. They think and act as a group.”
A wind rose and lifted Tessa’s capstrings, making them dance. “But . . . so do the Amish.” Same with the Mennonites and the Dunkers.
He shook his head. “It’s different with us. Our nature is not violent, not corrupt. We are meant to shine brightly in this dark world. And it is a very dark world, Tessa. Look what happened to the Zooks—they did nothing wrong and yet they were brutally murdered.”
Despite the heat, Tessa felt her skin prickle with chill. “My father said that the Zooks had bought property farther north than other white men. They were transgressing past the frontier.”
Hans scoffed. “So it was their fault? Plowing a field and felling a tree meant they were subject to be tomahawked to death? Their bodies chopped to bits while their little boy hid in a hollow tree and watched the desecration as it occurred?”
Tessa gripped her elbows tight against her abdomen. She was sure she was going to be sick. “I . . . didn’t mean that. I just meant that . . .” Her voice drizzled to a stop. She didn’t know what she meant.
“Hear me, Tessa. You are young, but being young doesn’t mean you must remain naïve. The Indians are on the advance, and if we don’t do something soon, we will be the ones whose bodies are desecrated.” Something flared in Hans’s eyes. A crazed look, she thought, but when she look again, his eyes had mellowed. Maybe she was the crazed one.
He lifted up an enormous bridle he had made, crafted out of brand-new leather, including a metal bit. “I came to go stallion hunting with you.” She hadn’t even noticed it until now. “Think it’s big enough?”
Her thoughts felt muddled; she was still furious with herself for what she’d said to Willie, and horrified by Hans’s fear-inspiring predictions. She took the bridle out of his hands and examined it minutely. “Hans, it’s . . . very well made.” And it was. He was a remarkable craftsman. “You’re very clever.”
He grinned.
“But . . . you can’t just slap a bridle on this horse. He’s barely let me touch him.”
Hans’s face flattened with surprise. “Sure you can. We’ll just go slow.”
“It’s not just that . . . it’s . . . he’s a wild animal. Maybe a harness might work. But a bit in his mouth—it’s just not right.”
“Tessa, I know how to break a hors
e. I’ve lived at Not Faxon’s Farm for the last ten years. I’ve seen Felix break dozens of horses.”
“But Felix doesn’t break horses. He trains them.”
A condescending look came over Hans. “Sweet Tessa, let me handle this from here.”
“There’ll be nothin’ of the kind on this afternoon.”
Tessa and Hans turned to find her father standing on the door stoop. “’Tis the Sabbath.” He crossed his arms against his chest. “And where were you this morning, Hans?”
“Dorothea wasn’t faring well this morning. I stayed home to be with her, so Felix and his boys could attend church. Did Felix not tell you?”
“Nae,” he said. “Mayhap it slipped his mind.” He lifted his chin toward Tessa. “’Tis time for the cow to be milked. Dinnae you hear her bellows?”
No, Tessa hadn’t noticed. But now that her father pointed it out, she could hear woeful lows coming from the barn. She turned back to Hans to invite him to sup with them, but he had already mounted his horse and started down the path.
“The cow, Tessa. She is waitin’ fer y’.” Her father held the clean milk bucket out to her.
Tessa grabbed the bucket and ran to the barn. How had such a pleasant afternoon started out so sweetly and ended on such a sour note?
Shawnee Village, Monongahela River
September 26, 1763
The day was cool and smelled of autumn’s arrival. Betsy and Numees were harvesting dried bean pods. Nijlon came to the garden with her infant in her arms and set him down on the ground near a pumpkin, fingercombing his hair before she straightened up. He was an appealing baby, large eyes black as walnuts that followed his mother everywhere, and a geyser of fine black hair that sprouted from the top of his head. He was able to sit by himself now and leaned forward to grasp the pumpkin with both hands. He thumped the orange squash with his chubby hands, like a tiny warrior pounding on a drum, and they all stopped to watch, to watch and to laugh. Unexpected pleasure stole over Betsy.
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