Caleb’s mouth took on that grim look of his, his lips formed almost a straight line. “You may do as you see fit,” he told her, “but I have seen half bloods hung for much less than the stealing of a chicken’s egg.”
His words startled her. Not only had it not occurred to her to think of food as belonging to anyone—the Indians viewed it as belonging to all—but she was also faced with the realization that they had crossed into the white man’s world.
She sat on the stoop of Beacon Hollow while Caleb hunted for a rabbit or wild turkey, providing for them as he had done on a daily basis for the last ten days. But before he had returned, a wagon came rumbling up the path. She recognized Bairn Bauer at once by his tall posture on the wagon seat. The Bauers were coming home and she had no idea where Caleb had gone, or if she would ever see him again. She knew he wouldn’t appear at Beacon Hollow; he was convinced that half bloods were not welcome in the white man’s world. He couldn’t return to the village, for helping her escape had put him in great danger. He was a slave. As kindhearted as the villagers could be, it was no small thing to betray them, and he had done that in two ways: by leaving, and by taking Betsy with him.
Caleb was never far from her thoughts, and as the days passed, she came to realize the enormous effect he’d had on her. He had changed the way she saw the world, the way she understood life to be. Even the life she wanted for herself. When she was with the Indian village, she longed to be reunited with her brothers, with Hans, with her own people.
But now that she was restored, she found herself worrying about Nijlon and Numees, concerned they might still be searching for her, frantic with fear. She had grown to care for them. She missed them. She missed Caleb. She couldn’t help herself—it hurt a little that he had so readily left her at Beacon Hollow and had not sought her out since.
She did not share her swirl of confusion with Hans, though he was eager, almost obsessively eager, to hear every detail about her captivity. She felt a strange reluctance to speak of it with him. She did not want to relive those first few weeks after the raid, the terror, and the violence, and yet he did not want to hear about the peaceful village by the river. Two days ago, for the first time, she mentioned the two sisters who had treated her so kindly and he looked at her as if she had spoken nonsense.
She quickly recognized the look on him, the one that overcame him when she spoke of any pleasant memories among the Indians. She knew the stance, the arms crossed tightly against his chest, the clenched set of his jaw, the furrowed brow. That was when she knew to change the subject.
Hans was desperate for her to feel at home in Stoney Ridge, to be the girl he had remembered her to be. He was sweetly attentive, stopping by Beacon Hollow once or twice each day, encouraging her to eat more to regain her health. Her health was quite strong, she thought, but he believed her to be too thin. “Did you sleep well?” he would inquire each time he saw her, studying her face with concern.
“Of course,” she said with a smile, though it was a lie. The truth was, she had not slept soundly since her return. Night after night she was awakened by a strange and recurring medley of dreams—Johnny ahead of her in the long line of captives, getting farther and farther away from her. Her mother’s panicked words to her, as the warriors circled their home, to watch over her brothers. And somewhere in each dream would be Caleb, wandering alone in the wilderness, without a home to return to. Without anyone to belong to. She would startle awake, gasping for air, and sit upright. As she listened to Tessa’s soft breathing next to her, and to Willie’s whiffling snore on the cot, her heart would slow its forceful pounding. She would lie back down and try to sleep, or at least to rest, until she heard sounds of Anna and Bairn stirring below in the kitchen. Then she would rise and start the day, grateful to silence her dreams.
Betsy had been so determined to get back to the world she belonged in that it had never once occurred to her she might not belong to it any longer.
16
Beacon Hollow
November 18, 1763
Tessa was on her hands and knees in the fenced garden near the house, sifting through the carrot patch with a trowel, searching for any buried and overlooked carrots. The stallion’s fondness for carrots was not unlike Maria Müller’s sweet tooth—unquenchable. This fall, the horse had become so trusting of Tessa that she no longer had to wait for him to find her in the woods. She would whistle for him, then wait to hear a nicker in response. Soon, he would emerge, eager for carrots. Gaining the horse’s trust had become a solace to her, her only succor, and she used every excuse she could to escape to the woods.
“You make a lovely picture,” said an achingly familiar deep voice.
Tessa stilled, wiping her hands on her apron. She’d not been aware Hans was nearby until he spoke, and felt instantly frazzled by his presence.
Hans had come to Beacon Hollow each day since Betsy had been restored to them, but he had not sought Tessa out. The uncertainty of what lay unspoken between them felt like a heavy weight. To her, anyway. He seemed unaware of her heartache.
He unhitched the garden gate and came in, then sat gingerly on the ground next to her. He raked a hand through the soil she had overturned, as if studying its dark contents. She turned her face from him, for looking at him would only dazzle and scatter her thoughts. He didn’t say anything for the longest time, and she had to keep telling herself, Do not cry. Do not cry.
In a somber tone, he said, “Betsy and I will be married soon, just as we originally had planned, before the massacre.” He was silent for a long moment, then reached for her chin and tipped her head up so she would look at him. “You understand, don’t you, Tessa?” He gave her a sweet, sad smile, the one that could make her forgive him almost anything. “You’ve always been so understanding. So supportive.”
She thought he was going to say more, but he did not continue. He dropped his hand and turned his attention back to the soil, sifting it through his fingers.
She took a moment to find words for her thoughts. She would not cry. “Of course. Of course I do,” she said, feeling a sting of guilt as the lie passed her lips.
“That’s my girl.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the top of her head before rising to his feet.
She watched him as he went through the garden gate, carefully latched it behind him, and strolled to the house. All she could think was, But I’m not a girl. Don’t you see? Haven’t you noticed? I’m not a girl.
As soon as he went into the house, she threw the trowel in the ground and ran from the garden, ran far away from the house that held Betsy and Hans and all their big fat love and happiness. She ran and ran and ran, until she reached the sheep pond and could go no farther.
She dropped to the ground, panting, and stared at her reflection in the sheep pond. Her face looked white and bleak. With sudden, stabbing intensity, she faced what she’d known all along—that Hans had never loved her at all. The dreams she’d had for them were hopelessly one-sided. Even if Betsy had not been restored when she did, even if Tessa and Hans had married, he would never have loved her, not the way she wanted to be loved. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her fists against her eyes. Soon sobs wracked her body and tears streamed down her face. She cried and cried, until she had emptied herself.
When she had no more tears to cry, she sucked in some deep breaths, splashed her hands in the cold water, and rinsed her face. When she lifted her head, she saw someone across the pond. A man was watching her. An Indian.
She jumped to her feet, prepared to run, but he lifted his hands to show he had no weapon and meant no harm.
He walked around the sheep pond until he stood a few rods away. “You are not well?”
“I am well,” she said, still poised to flee, and then it dawned on her that he was speaking in her dialect. Not English.
“You received a death message?”
“No.”
“Then your mind is unhinged?”
“My mind? No! My mind is fine.”
>
“When I saw you first, you screamed. And now, you wail like someone is dead.”
She gasped. “You! It was you! I knew I saw someone in the woods. The night Betsy Zook was restored to us. You tried to capture the black stallion.”
He shook his head. “You cannot capture such a horse.”
She relaxed, ever so slightly, though she watched him carefully. “No. No one can.” Wait. She did a double take. This Indian had blue eyes. She’d never seen an Indian with anything but dark brown eyes, nearly black. Everything else about him looked Indian—straight dark hair that draped over his shoulders, prominent cheekbones, high forehead, beardless, tall and muscular. But those blue eyes—they were the color of a tropical sea, though she’d never actually seen an ocean.
“Betsy Zook. She is well?”
Betsy Zook. He pronounced the consonants with precision, almost emphasizing them. Bet-See Zok. As if he had said the name many times, had his own way of saying it. Something clicked over in Tessa’s mind. “Did you . . . did you help Betsy Zook escape from the savages?”
He looked away. “She called us savages?”
Tessa frowned. “No. No, she didn’t.” It was a phrase Tessa had picked up from Hans, and she felt a sudden shame. Clearly, this Indian was no savage. Just the opposite. There was a courtliness about him that reminded her of Will Sock.
“And so she is well?”
Of course. More than well. Tessa bit her lip. “She has everything she ever wanted.”
The Indian narrowed his eyes, tipping his head slightly as if he could read her mind. “You are not glad she has returned.”
Tessa stiffened. “It wouldn’t be Christian to not be glad for such a . . . miracle.”
“Perhaps not,” the Indian said, eyes crinkling almost as if he were amused with her, “but it would be honest.” He took a step closer. “What can you tell me of this horse?”
“The black stallion? Quite a lot, actually.” It was her favorite subject, in fact. The blue-eyed Indian seemed riveted to her every word as she started to explain what history she knew of the horse. She told him the background of the stallion breaking into her uncle’s broodmare pasture one year, and from that a new breed had developed—the Conestoga breed.
Usually, this was the point where she bored others, but the Indian was listening so carefully that she was encouraged to keep talking. She told him that her uncle trained the first- and second-year foals to work the wagon her father had designed and built. She surprised herself with how much she knew about the horse, about his habits. She even told him that the horse was learning to trust her. “I probably set things back with the horse when I screamed at him the other night. I thought you were a danger to him.”
“I am no danger. Not to the horse. Not to anyone.”
Tessa could sense as much. There was humanity in those blue eyes. “Do you want me to take you to Betsy? I’m sure she’d like to see you.”
He gave a slight shake of his head.
“You could come to Beacon Hollow. Other Indians stay with us, especially when the weather gets cold.”
His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Other Indians?”
“The Conestogas. I figured you might be staying with them. They’re peaceful people. Indiantown isn’t far from here.”
He went still. “Which direction?”
She pointed to a ridge of tall pointed trees, off in the distance. “It’s not far. Ten miles or so, just beyond those trees. It’s a small village near the Susquehanna River. There aren’t many Conestogas left anymore, not after the great sickness last year. It nearly wiped them out. I’m sure they would welcome you.” She wasn’t sure, actually. She should seek out her father; he would know. “May I ask your name?”
“Askuwheteau. An Indian becomes his name. My name means ‘to keep watch.’”
“My name is Tessa. And I don’t know what it means.”
He tipped his head. “Perhaps it means Little Girl with Big Feelings.” He lifted his hands high in the air as he spoke.
She was not a girl. Why did everyone think she was? She was a full-fledged woman, complete with a full-blown broken heart.
“My Christian name is Caleb.”
His Christian name? “Did Betsy have an Indian name?”
“Yes. Hurit. It means ‘beautiful girl.’”
Of course it did. “Shall I tell Betsy I saw you?”
“No.” He kept his eyes fixed on a spot on the ground. “You said she has everything she wants.”
“Not everything, I suppose,” Tessa said. “She talks often about her missing brother, Johnny. He’s still with the sava—the Indians.” Her voice became gentle. “I’ve heard her cry in the night for him when she thinks I’m asleep.”
He lifted his head and their eyes met. Something flickered through the Indian’s eyes, a feeling that Tessa recognized at once. This Indian worked hard to keep the expression out of his face, but she saw it, all the same.
He loved her. This Indian loved Betsy Zook.
Not Faxon’s Home
November 19, 1763
Felix read and reread the same passage in the book a dozen times, and he still didn’t understand it. When Tessa stopped by to drop off some jars of freshly made apple butter for Dorothea, he thrust the book in her hands. “Read that. Explain it to me.”
She looked at the cover. “Othello? By William Shakespeare? Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of him.”
“Where’d you get the book?”
“From Martin Gingerich.”
Tessa looked so stunned that he frowned at her. “Is it so surprising to see me reading a book?”
“It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you with a book other than when you read the Bible verses at church. Plus . . . I didn’t know Martin could read.”
Felix rolled his eyes. “Of course he can read, Tessa.”
“Why did he loan you a book?”
“Because last week at church I happened to mention to him that someone considered me to be intellectually lazy.”
A laugh burst out of Tessa. “Someone like Catrina!”
He scowled, then glanced at her. “Think she’s right?”
He saw her bite her lower lip in a feeble attempt to keep from smiling.
“Fine,” he said, knowing he sounded testy. “Then explain that passage to me.” He pointed to a paragraph.
“‘O beware, my lord, of jealousy. It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on.’” She read it again and again. Then she handed it back to him. “I have no idea what it means. What’s the story about?”
He rubbed his jaw. “This fellow Othello loves Desdemonda but thinks she is cheating on him with Cassio.”
“So who’s the monster? Cassio?”
“No, no. The monster isn’t a person. It’s jealousy.” He took the book back from her. “Othello is getting a warning to avoid the green-eyed monster.” Yes! Yes, that was it. Now he understood the passage. He read it again, just to be sure. He looked up at Tessa but she was gone.
Beacon Hollow
November 20, 1763
On Sunday, Betsy woke to the first real snowfall of winter. There had been dustings of snow all week, but it melted away as the sun rose. Not today. By midday, when Hans arrived at Beacon Hollow, the snow was six inches deep and still falling.
Hans’s eyes were dancing. In his arms was a large bundle wrapped in a flour sack. He marched straight inside, laughing, encouraging everyone in the house—which consisted of Tessa, Betsy, and Willie—to draw near to see what he had brought to show them.
Betsy saw Tessa grab her shawl and slip outside. Though she and Tessa shared a bed like sisters, they did not act like sisters. Tessa was polite to Betsy but not warm, not the way she was with Willie. Betsy had tried to befriend her, but to no avail. Tessa would answer Betsy’s questions with a yes or a no or ask my mother.
Hans didn’t notice the departure of Tessa; he stood by the fire with the bundle in his arms, a
broad grin on his face. Hanging from the rafter above his head were bundles of dried herbs—lavender, thyme, rosemary—that added a sweet pungency to the air.
Whatever was in the sack made a loud thump when he set it on the tabletop. “I’d nearly forgotten. Look. Look at this!” He reached in and pulled out a large, thick Bible. “It was one of the few things that did not perish in the attack. It was found in the cellar.”
Betsy clapped her hands around her mouth to cover a gasp. This Bible. Her father’s prized Froschauer Bible, kept in his family for generations, brought over on the ship from Germany. How her father had treasured this Bible! He had refused to let his sons touch it for fear they would smudge it with dirty hands.
The last time she had seen this Bible was on the night of the raid. When the first sounds of war whoops had rent the air, her mother bundled a tablecloth with their meager family valuables—this Bible and a purse of gold coins—and shoved it in Betsy’s hands. “Go to the cellar and stay there,” her mother said. “Keep watch over your brothers.” She put one hand on Betsy’s head. At the time, Betsy had thought of it as a prayer, but now she realized it was a benediction. A goodbye blessing. “Pray to God, Betsy. He will not fail you.”
Betsy and Johnny hurried down to the cellar and hid themselves, terrified, listening to the sounds of the attack above them, but Willie never came down. It was only when she arrived at Beacon Hollow that she learned he had escaped by running from the house and hiding in the hollow tree.
Betsy didn’t think she could ever touch this Bible again without her mind traveling right back to that awful night. She glanced at Willie. He was staring at the Bible, eyes wide, then his small face crumpled. He turned and bolted up the stairs to the loft. She looked at Hans. “I think perhaps it’s . . . too soon.”
Disappointed, Hans put the Bible back into the flour sack. “My apologies. I meant well.”
The Return Page 18
