The Pursuit of Tamsen Littlejohn

by Benton, Lori

  “There’s another thing we need to talk about.” He bent to pull on his moccasins. The hem of his shirt had darkened, wicking up water off his breechclout. “Back when Cade and me were bringing the beeves to market, before Morganton, we got ourselves invited to a wedding. Friends of ours. Cherokees.”

  She was fairly certain she concealed the jolt that went through her. She remembered now, that first day she milked the cow, his saying that the Cherokees knew him and Cade. She hadn’t translated that into friendship, though. “Do they ever come here, your Cherokee friends?”

  “Not often. Ain’t safe. It ain’t always safe for us to go to them. There’s miles of hazards between. But we promised to be there, Cade and me—for White Shell’s wedding—not knowing things would change.”

  Her presence had complicated everything for them.

  “You should go,” she said, then before she lost her nerve, “I’ll go with you, if that’s what you mean to ask.”

  “Not exactly.” He shot her a half-worried look as he reached for his bullet-bag. “It’s at Chota—the principal Overhill town. A few days’ riding for me and Cade, if we don’t run into trouble on the way.”

  Hostile Indians, she supposed he meant. Dragging Canoe’s braves, the Chickamaugas. Or were they Creeks? Not that she’d be able to tell the difference if either knocked at their cabin door.

  She studied his face in profile, trying to guess what he wanted her to say, finally deciding he didn’t want to take her to Chota. She’d slow them down, or maybe be seen along the way, recognized, bring down worse trouble than Indians on them all.

  “When will you go?” she asked, as a sliver of unease pierced her.

  “Once the corn’s in. Or Cade comes back.” He stood and slung his rifle across his shoulder, searching her face. “I don’t have to go. Cade can make my excuses to White Shell and—”

  “I want you to go. I’ll be fine on my own.”

  She’d managed to shock him. “I don’t aim to leave you alone. You’ll stay with Tate and Janet till we come back. They know who’s looking for you, and I trust Tate to keep you safe.”

  The sliver of unease worked deeper.

  “That’s settled, then,” she said with as firm a nod as she could muster. “I’m ready for supper. How about you?”

  Without waiting on his reply, she started back the way they’d come. His hand on her arm halted her. He nodded toward another path descending along the creek. “Cabin’s that way.”

  Chin high, Tamsen started down the right path with a stride she hoped looked fearless.

  Shoulders aching, Tamsen shifted the lid aside and tilted the churn toward the firelight to check her progress. Instead of lumps of gathered butter, a disheartening puffy mess floated in the milk.

  The churn was an old one, stored in the Allards’ barn until the family’s cornhusking a week past, which Tamsen and Jesse and neighbors from down along Stony Creek attended. Janet had wiped the churn clean of cobwebs and presented it to Tamsen who, after watching Bethany dash gallons of milk into butter, thought it a task she could accomplish without strict supervision.

  She might have been a tad too optimistic about that. Hearing a sound, she raised her head to listen. Bethany was hallooing the cabin. After fitting the lid back in place, Tamsen grasped the dasher and resumed churning until the girl’s slight form shadowed the doorway.

  “Thought you might’ve waited till I got here.” In seconds the girl was at Tamsen’s side, pale braid swinging in the firelight. “How long you been at it?”

  “Nigh on an hour.”

  “You ought to be long done. Let’s have a peek.” Bethany took the dasher from her grasp, removed the lid, and bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Your cream’s too warm. It won’t firm up. You need cold water. Be back in a shake.”

  The girl snatched up a bucket from the hearth, then hurried out. Back so quick she must have sprinted to the creek, she poured water into the churn and took up the dasher. “Let’s see can I make it come right.”

  “That’s kind of you. I could use a rest.” Tamsen kept her tone bright as she relinquished the stool, drawing a brief twist of Bethany’s lips and a dimming of her pleasure in catching Tamsen on the edge of domestic disaster. Again.

  In the past two weeks, Bethany had arrived at the cabin in time to save Tamsen’s first attempt at soap making, candle dipping … the list was long. On those occasions when nothing needed salvaging, the girl could be counted on to arrive armed with a gathering basket and a rifle as long as she was tall. She’d taken Tamsen into the woods to harvest late cherries, rose hips, persimmons, ginseng (’sang, she called it), walnuts, hazelnuts, hickory nuts, chinquapins—all while keeping up a running chatter on their preparation and uses.

  Once she’d shot a turkey.

  At times this relentless onslaught of proficiency did make Tamsen feel embarrassingly obtuse. And at times, it mattered.

  “Your butter’s ready for rinsing.”

  Tamsen started. She hadn’t noticed Bethany leave off churning and come to stand beside her at the table, where borrowed butter molds waited.

  “Think you can manage getting it into the molds?”

  Tamsen forced a smile. “Of course.”

  Bethany frowned, openly dubious. “I only ask because—”

  “Because you are determined to make me look incapable in Jesse’s eyes.” Tamsen instantly regretted the words. Though she’d spoken calmly, Bethany stepped back, blue eyes flashing.

  “I am determined to do no such thing. And if’n I was, I needn’t try …” Bethany let her words trail, defiance freezing on her face.

  They both turned toward the door. Men’s voices, easy and companionable, reached them from the stable. Tamsen felt her heart leap. Let it be Jesse and Cade.

  The silent prayer was barely formed before Bethany rushed to the open door, doubtless eager to boast of her latest domestic rescue. But the girl’s posture slumped. “It’s the Trimbles, come a’calling.”

  Tamsen joined her in the doorway, thinking she had to be mistaken. But it was the Trimbles, whom she’d first glimpsed in Jonesborough, racing to the courthouse brawl. The pair had shown up at the Allard cornhusking. Dominic, the elder, had danced with Bethany when a fiddle was played, under Tate’s narrowed gaze.

  The brothers hitched their mounts and started for the cabin. Looking for Jesse? There could be no other reason for their presence. Unless since the husking, when Jesse had introduced her as his wife, her stepfather had reached Sycamore Shoals and they’d seen her portrait—put her face with that likeness. Panic fluttered beneath her ribs.

  “Best see to your butter.” Bethany tossed the words with a mingle of pride and pique as she stepped from the cabin, voice brightening as she said, “What’s brought you rascals back to our neck of the wood?”

  Tamsen stepped back inside. From the yard came Bethany’s laughter, Seth’s and Dominic’s deeper tones, while she transferred the perfectly firmed butter to a wooden bowl to rinse, then kneaded in the salt. She’d pressed the last of it into the molds before Bethany stuck her head in the door.

  “You done yet? Come out and greet your guests.” She turned her face to the dooryard. “You boys thirsty? We got fresh buttermilk here if’n you fancy a taste.”

  Seth stepped into the doorway, brown hair shining in the sunlight. “It’d be welcome, ma’am, if it’s no trouble to ye.”

  Tamsen wiped greasy hands on a rag and fetched two tin cups. She dipped them full of buttermilk and carried them to the door.

  “There she is—Mrs. Jesse Bird.” Dominic grinned as she came into the light. He was leaner than Seth and taller, with a sandiness to his hair. Little resemblance marked the brothers, aside from both needing the attentions of a razor. Dominic reached for a cup. “Never took Jesse for such a sly fox, finding himself a beauty and getting hitched afore anyone hears peep.”

  “And here’s us thinking he was sweet on Bethany,” Seth added. Dominic shoved him with an elbow, sloshing milk onto th
e ground. “Look what ye made me do!”

  “Now, boys,” Bethany said, charmed by their play, or pretending to be. “There’s plenty buttermilk to go ’round.”

  Tamsen cringed at the girl’s suggestive tone. Was she taking out her resentment by flirting with these two?

  “Dom’s just happy you ain’t Jesse’s drink of choice,” said Seth. “Reckon he’d have dragged me up this cove sooner than the husking had he known.”

  “Now you know.” Bethany watched them drink, speculation in her gaze.

  “Jesse isn’t home,” Tamsen said. “Are you here to see him?”

  “Aye. Allard too,” Seth replied. “Governor Sevier’s calling up militia for a winter campaign. The Georgians are going against the Creeks. Franklin’s sending fifteen hundred volunteers. By Christmas, most like.”

  “There’s land promised every man that musters,” Dominic said. “Land in the bend of the Tennessee River. We know the Injun won’t muster but thought Jesse might. He’s got no ties with the Creeks.”

  The Injun. Cade. And Tamsen hadn’t missed the flash of mistrust in Dominic’s eyes as he’d said it. “Jesse isn’t here,” she repeated.

  Bethany shot her a look, then smiled at the Trimbles. “Y’all come over the ridge and sup with us. You can bring your news to Jesse after. He’ll be along.”

  “I’m sure he will.” Seth touched his hat, but his gaze swept Tamsen in a way that made the blood rise to her cheeks. “I’d not stray far with a wife like you waiting on me—if’n ye don’t mind me sayin’.”

  She minded, but merely pressed her lips tight and glanced toward the creek, the ridge, across the cleared cornfield to the woods, anxious for Jesse. Nothing moved through the fiery autumn foliage but a flock of crows.

  Bethany seemed to mind Seth’s comment too, or the attention directed at Tamsen. “Jesse might even be at our place. He was over early, then out with Pa, rounding up our hogs.”

  The brothers downed the buttermilk and handed Tamsen the cups. Seth went to fetch the horses.

  “I don’t think you should go off with those two,” Tamsen whispered when both Trimbles were busy with their mounts. “Stay here; wait for Jesse to come home.”

  Bethany wrinkled her nose at the suggestion and didn’t bother lowering her voice. “If you want folk to stick around, you might try being more neighborly, make a body feel welcome in your home.”

  “Never mind it, sweetheart,” Dominic told her, coming around his horse to mount. “You’re welcome enough for two.”

  Tamsen’s stomach tightened. “Bethany, truly, you ought to wait here with me.”

  But when Dominic swung into the saddle and reached down for her, Bethany allowed him to lift her up to sit behind him. She tucked bare feet under her petticoat and wrapped her arms around Dominic’s middle, and the horses started off.

  “I’ll be by tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder. “If’n I find the time!”

  They’d barely disappeared into the bright skirt of the woods, heading up the ridge, when Jesse’s voice called out behind Tamsen, down at the stable. She turned to see him swing off his horse and jog up the slope to the yard. Instinctively she moved toward him, wanting the shelter of his body, the reassurance of his touch. Realization of the need—unthinking, visceral—drew her up short.

  “Who’d Beth ride off with?” Jesse’s hair was damp. He’d been by the swimming hole before heading home to her.

  “The Trimbles.” She watched his face darken. “They rode up a bit ago, looking for you. It was something about a muster. Against the Creeks. Franklinites are joining up with Georgia. Bethany invited the Trimbles home for supper.”

  Jesse’s mouth compressed as he gazed toward the ridge, as if he debated riding after the girl and her chancy escort, to be sure she reached home safely.

  Tamsen ventured, “Maybe you should, just to be sure.”

  “I better.” Jesse caught her gaze then, his softening with surprise and pleasure that they’d come to agreement without ever speaking the words. “I appreciate the kindness you show her, given she hasn’t exactly returned it.”

  Bethany’s jealousy still rested uneasy on her mind, but Tamsen couldn’t bring herself to say anything—like the fact that she’d lost her patience with the girl today—that might erase that look from his eyes, a look of approbation and warmth that made it hard to breathe, much less speak.

  “No sign of Cade?” he asked her.

  Tamsen found her breath. “Still no. I’d hoped he’d come riding in with you. Did you get Tate’s hogs rounded up?”

  “We did.” He was turning to go for his horse when their stomachs growled in chorus. “Now I’m hungry as—”

  “A bear? I’ll have corn mush waiting for you.” It was the only dish she’d yet to produce with anything like consistency.

  “I’ll be quick as I can,” he promised, the anticipation on his face exceeding all hope of what he knew she could manage at the hearth.

  She went into the cabin, flushed with warmth, yet still wishing they could admit their lie to the Allards.

  Half-wishing it wasn’t a lie.

  Despite all her efforts, one thing was evident—she wasn’t going to save this meal. The beans were hard pellets, roiling in the pot. The cornmeal cakes had scorched, but it hardly mattered since they were hard as rocks. While her back was turned dealing with them, the venison began to char. Now in a sweating panic, she was trying to salvage something from the mess to feed the Reverend Teague, waiting outside the cabin with Jesse.

  Since the harvest season prevented his scattered flock from traveling to meetings, Luther Teague turned itinerant in the autumn. This was to be his last night in Greenbird Cove. He’d spent the previous two across the ridge at the Allards’, praying for the family’s needs, telling Bible stories to the children, serving their elders meatier fare. The reverend had refused her attempt to repay him for the linen, shoes, and sundry items Molly had purchased for her in Sycamore Shoals, yet Tamsen wished at least to thank him for his care of his far-flung congregation—of which she felt a part—in the only other way she could, by offering him a roof and a meal.

  There would be no meal. As for the roof, it was fast filling with smoke from the meat on the spit. She was reaching with a towel to yank it from the flames when Jesse poked his head into the cabin.

  “Smoke’s coming out the door. Everything all right?”

  She whirled on him, tempted to hurl a few choice words she’d have blushed for the reverend to hear.

  Jesse’s eyes widened. “Your skirt!”

  She barely had time to register the smell of scorching linen before he’d bounded into the cabin, snatched up her petticoat, and smothered the kindled hem.

  Not only had she ruined supper and smoked the cabin, she’d also managed to set herself aflame.

  Reverend Teague came inside, face taut with concern as Jesse hastily brushed down her skirt. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  “Bit charred is all.” Jesse’s face was chalky. With a hand that shook ever so slightly, he pushed back a strand of hair that had slipped from her cap to curl in the hearth’s warmth. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve ruined everything.” Smoke and tears stung her eyes. She’d so wanted to get this right.

  Jesse moved the venison off the spit. “The meat’s all right. Look, if you cut away the burnt part—”

  “But everything else. We can’t have just meat to our supper.”

  “Of course not.” Reverend Teague came around the table. “This bowl of apples looks inviting after the filling meals I’ve had of late.” He patted his waistline, which was thicker than when they’d met weeks ago. “Why don’t I slice a few, you serve the venison, and we’ll all enjoy what matters most, each other’s company in the Lord?”

  Stillness settled over the smoky cabin as they awaited her response. Tamsen felt the urge to cry for pure relief. Maybe the meal—better yet, what she’d meant by it—was salvageable after all. “All right. I’ll just—”
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  “Good heavens,” said Bethany Allard, appearing in the doorway as if by dark magic. She tilted her small nose to sniff the air. “Mama, was I right? We’re just in time.”

  Behind her, Janet looked less certain of their welcome than her daughter, who marched across the cabin, took up the towel, and lifted the lid from the bean pot.

  “Didn’t you soak ’em first? Never mind. We’ve brought biscuits, jam, pie, chicken, and I can’t remember what. But this smoke! We’d best move the table out-of-doors. Don’t you think so? Jesse, can you and Pa tote it out?”

  “This is the first chance we’ve had to talk, you and I,” Reverend Teague said as Tamsen joined him at the edge of the yard, away from the activity around the table where the Allards were clearing the supper leavings, preparing to head back over the ridge.

  “So it is.” She smiled as they stood side by side where the cabin yard began its slope toward the harvested cornfield, staring out over the break in the hills to the ridges rolling away westward, a bright, rumpled crazy quilt of red and green and gold. Part of what she’d hoped to accomplish with her supper was time alone to speak to Luther Teague. The Allards’ arrival had curtailed that part of the plan. Until now.

  “How are you here, with Jesse?” the reverend asked.

  “He’s worried over Cade being gone so long.” The answer didn’t speak to what he’d asked, but Reverend Teague didn’t press.

  “Cade’s a grown man. And a capable one. If there’s anything troubling him, more than likely he’s gone off to work it out or pray it through. Rest your mind easy about Cade.”

  She nodded, wishing she could.

  “I’ve had opportunity to watch you with your neighbors.” The reverend bent his head toward the voices in the yard behind them. “There’s been some strain from that quarter, I take it?”

  “They’ve been kind,” Tamsen hurried to say. “Bethany’s been a help to me.”

  “So I have observed.” His wry tone made Tamsen look more closely. Humor sparkled in the reverend’s eyes, and understanding. “I suppose it would be worse if she knew the truth, that you and Jesse aren’t married.”