The Pursuit of Tamsen Littlejohn

by Benton, Lori

  Tamsen’s voice made his eyes open. “How did you find us?”

  Bears snorted. “How do you find two wildcats quarreling in the woods?”

  “Listen for their yowling,” Cade said dryly. He knelt beside Jesse, lips pressed tight, worry in the slant of his brows. “We were headed for Greenbird Cove, but stopped in at the Teagues’ first. Saved us the trip.”

  “So you know everything?”

  Cade nodded. Jesse saw the anger his pa was keeping in check. Then something like a grin twitched his mouth. “Except why I find my son on his back in the snow with his wife threatening to ride off and leave him.”

  Absurdly pleased by the word wife, Jesse allowed them their amusement. “You’re busting to laugh. Don’t hold back on my account.”

  “Don’t you dare laugh, either of you.” Tamsen’s cloak swished into view again, but it was clear by her tone she was nearly laughing herself—from relief, he hoped. “We’re trying to reach your father’s town,” she told Bears, her tone sobering a bit. “His ribs are broken—worse than he wants me to think. I feared we wouldn’t make it.”

  Swathed in his blanket, Bears looked down at Tamsen.

  “You will make it, Little Wildcat. But,” he added with a chin-jerk at Jesse and a feigned solemnity ruined by the bobbing of his jaunty white plume, “he will not enjoy the journey.”

  Late December 1787

  The old woman, called Blackbird, sat with legs crossed, back hunched in a bow, as her crooked fingers wove the strips of river cane spread before her. She was making a mat, like those scattering the dirt floor of the lodge. Some of the strips were the cane’s natural tan, others dyed shades of rust and black, the varying hues woven into an intricate diamond pattern.

  Blackbird’s granddaughter, White Shell, newly married sister of Catches Bears, set aside the basket she was weaving to tend a pot of corn soup bubbling over the central fire.

  Tamsen took the opportunity to examine the young woman’s work. The basket was actually two, one nested inside the other, but woven of a piece. White Shell had begun with the inside base and worked up the sides, where the canes bent downward, forming the rim. Then the outer basket was woven down toward its own base, enclosing the inner basket. She’d used only tan and rust shades, creating a simpler design than her grandmother’s, but the double construction was a feat of skill, the weave dense enough to hold corn flour.

  Tamsen, who knew something of dyes, touched a cane of Blackbird’s mat, a russet one, still damp from soaking. “Is this color from bloodroot?”

  White Shell peered past rising steam. “Yes. And the black? You know?”

  “Butternut?”

  “That is English word, I think. You make color?”

  “Not for this manner of work.” Tamsen spoke slowly so the young woman could follow her English and brushed a fold of her petticoat. “For cloth.”

  Blackbird, who spoke no English—or none she would admit to—raised her beadlike eyes from her work and said something that sounded like i’hya.

  “That is word for this.” White Shell pointed to the cane strips. “All colors, i’hya. Cane, you call it.”

  “I’hya.” Tamsen had learned a smattering of Cherokee in the fortnight she and Jesse had taken refuge in Thunder-Going’s town. Though at first she’d been afraid to leave Jesse’s side, eventually she’d come to see that the town’s inhabitants were welcoming. She was, however, still a little awed by Blackbird. She leaned again to touch the old woman’s mat and said, “Uwoduhi,” hoping she’d said beautiful.

  Hands never stilling, Blackbird spoke a stream of Cherokee.

  “My grandmother thanks you for kind word.” White Shell gestured at the mat. “But this is simple. Not what she make before hands …” Lacking the words, she crooked her supple fingers into claws.

  Blackbird nodded toward a sleeping bench, and the women began pulling out basket after basket, Tamsen marveling at the designs, the sturdy construction, the skill and time each had demanded. White Shell held up an oblong basket with a fitted lid. “This is make when my father is in belly.”

  Before Thunder-Going-Away was born. Yet the basket was still tight enough it likely could hold water. “Your grandmother is what my people call a master craftsman. Or craftswoman.”

  White Shell translated. Tamsen was gratified to see her words pleased the old woman. It was difficult to imagine, looking at her bent frame, whitened hair, eyes nearly lost in crinkled beds, but Blackbird had in her younger days gone on the warpath with the men. She’d fought Creeks, Chickasaws, and the French. Now she was what the Cherokees called Ghighau, Beloved Woman. She had a voice in the council, and her presence brought prestige to Thunder-Going’s settlement—still small as far as Cherokee towns went, comprising a mere dozen thatch-roofed lodges.

  Tamsen, Jesse, and Cade had been given places in Thunder-Going’s lodge, since White Shell and her husband, along with Blackbird, had moved into their own. There Jesse had spent much of the past weeks flat on his back, his ribs healing. Gradually, as she’d ventured from his side, Tamsen had overcome her shyness with the Ani-yun-wiya, or the Real People, as the Cherokees called themselves, and accustomed herself to the rhythm of yet another strange way of life.

  Every morning the women went to a nearby creek to bathe—even in winter, breaking through ice to reach the water. Once Tamsen accompanied White Shell but stopped short of joining the bathers, not just for dread of the cold. Going about with her hair uncovered was one thing, but bathing in the open?

  This lack of privacy in a Cherokee town, for bathing and other intimate activities, was a thing she hadn’t yet reconciled with her own sense of modesty.

  “Then where bathe?” White Shell, aglow in the first weeks of pregnancy, had asked in a cloud of frosted breath, standing knee-deep in frigid water, naked save for a short stroud skirt.

  “In your father’s lodge, behind a buffalo hide. But only when no one’s there,” she added hastily.

  The women tittered when White Shell translated her words, slipping wet feet into moccasins and wrapping themselves in blankets for the trek back through the cold.

  “Even with Wildcat you not bare skin?”

  Through a heated blush Tamsen tried to explain. “Jesse is my husband, but we … We’ve never …”

  Tamsen faltered at discussing such matters, but White Shell’s curiosity was piqued. She widened her doe-brown eyes. “Never …?”

  “Never done what you and your husband did to make that baby in your belly. Not yet.” If she’d hoped White Shell would fail to follow her blurted English, Tamsen hoped in vain. The woman’s round face scrunched in disbelief.

  “I see why some unega—white men—take wife of Ani-yun-wiya. If as you say, from where so many unega come? Pop from the ground like mushrooms?”

  Since that day at the creek, Tamsen had caught herself glancing at White Shell’s belly, distracted by thoughts of babies, and of making them with Jesse.

  They slept each night beneath the same furs, barely touching, a restraint fallen between them. First his broken ribs had been the barrier, but as she’d struggled to adjust to the communal living of the Cherokees, the thought of finally consummating their union while Thunder-Going—often Cade as well—lay within full sight and hearing of them … It was just too much. Yet it was all she could think about.

  “You try, with basket?” White Shell’s question snatched Tamsen back to the present. She was pointing at the cane strips spread between them. “You try weaving?”

  “I—I’d like to try. But right now, I need to see Jesse.” Her cheeks warmed, though White Shell couldn’t know the ache of wanting breaking over her in waves, the pull she felt to go to Jesse, if only to see him and hear his voice. But as Tamsen rocked back on her heels to stand, she caught the watchful eyes of Blackbird and sensed, despite the barrier of language, the old woman understood perfectly.

  Cracked ribs had to be the most confounding nuisance Jesse had ever put up with. The bruising across his midriff had fa
ded to a sickly yellow brown. He could sneeze now without thinking it was like to finish him. Still the ache would catch him unawares while reaching for a stick of wood or standing to his feet, leaving him frozen in place till it eased. So it didn’t surprise him when, sitting on his sleeping bench in Thunder-Going’s lodge, restless as a tethered hawk, he mentioned his aim of joining Cade on his next hunting foray and Cade said, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  His pa didn’t even look up from the bearskin he’d taken on his way back from Greenbird Cove, where he’d gone after seeing Jesse and Tamsen settled with Thunder-Going, to gather more of their winter supplies and clothing.

  “I can’t sit another day doing nothing, Pa.”

  “Healing ain’t nothing.” Cade meant to use Thunder-Going’s town as a base for the winter hunt, but between Jesse’s injury and the late start, it promised a spare harvest. “Cracked ribs take their time mending. You know as much.”

  Jesse glowered. Cade glanced up and glowered back.

  The door-hide moved aside as Thunder-Going ducked within. He let the hide fall, eying them. “Look at the two of you, scowling at each other like bears awake in winter.”

  Cade snorted. “This son of mine insists I take him hunting.”

  Thunder-Going came to the fire and settled on a mat, taking up his pipe. Tamping fresh tobacco into the bowl, he said, “You might let this impatient one have his way, but here is what will follow: the woman who is my mother will come hunting too—to drag one of you back by his neck scruff.” Thunder-Going’s eyes crinkled. “I will let you guess which of you that will be.”

  Jesse, who could have overpowered Blackbird with both arms tied behind his back, felt a quelling. At first Blackbird had bound his ribs and fed him foul teas and clucked over him like a fretful hen, but never had a colonel of militia possessed so reproachful a glare as that bent and wrinkled Ghighau turned on him days later, catching him too soon on his feet.

  “That ought to put paid to the notion, Jesse.” Cade unearthed his pipe and joined Thunder-Going at the fire. The pair fell back into Tsalagi, discussing the doings in Franklin … North Carolina. Wherever.

  Stifling an urge to grind his teeth, Jesse eased himself down on the sleeping bench, half-listening to his elders talk.

  The muster against the Creeks that the Trimbles had tried to entice him into had come to nothing. Franklin’s governor, John Sevier, had expected to be out on campaign before Christmas, but so far no firm orders to march had come.

  Jesse was glad. Always with these campaigns it was the women and children—on both sides—who suffered, which made him realize Cade was right. He needed to stick close by. Not on account of his ribs, or not the broken ones. His heart’s rib, Tamsen. He wished she’d come back from White Shell’s lodge. He wished they had their own small hut …

  “Having no orders to march has not kept Sevier to home,” Cade was saying. “He has kept busy with his militia, raiding Dragging Canoe’s towns.”

  “What is it your Book says?” Thunder-Going asked. “ ‘A wise man sees trouble coming and gets out of the way.’ Sevier is not such a man, but one who goes running to make trouble. If he is not careful, he will stir up the rest of the Ani-yun-wiya to war.” Watching his pipe smoke tendril upward, joining the fire’s thicker column rising to the roof hole, Thunder-Going said, “I am for peace if it can be found, but I am like this trickle of smoke from my pipe, one voice among many, easily swallowed and lost. Most of the people may be for war. If that is so, it will be a fire not easily put out.”

  He met Cade’s gaze. “And what of the new unega state? Have our troublesome neighbors been given leave by the Thirteen Fires to call themselves Franklin?”

  Cade shook his head. “Sevier lost a supporter over to the Carolina faction, a judge called Campbell. Jonesborough was overrun by Tipton’s men again, and the Franklinites driven out. Most have rallied down on the Nolichucky, in Greenville.”

  Jesse perked up at that news. Down on the Nolichucky. Had Dominic and Seth made for thence? Greenville was far enough removed from Sycamore Shoals to keep them out of Tate Allard’s sights. And what of Kincaid? Might the unrest have persuaded him to forget Tamsen, go back to Virginia?

  Could he have forgotten Tamsen, having met her but the once, if he’d thought her carried off against her will? He’d have done what Kincaid was doing, soliciting the strength of any and all who would aid him—even a couple of ne’er-do-wells like the Trimbles—to get her back.

  As for Parrish, the man had much to lose while Tamsen had a voice to raise against him. He’d proven his ruthlessness already. Jesse knew in his gut the man hadn’t left off the hunt.

  He waited for Thunder-Going to speak, but the man sat contemplating the fire, apparently having nothing more to say on Sevier’s travails or the infant State of Franklin. Jesse let a few seconds pass to be sure, then cleared his throat.

  “Pa? Don’t reckon you’ve heard aught of Kincaid or Parrish?”

  Cade seemed to have some trouble with his pipe, for he fixed his attention on it as he spoke. “Tate says they’ve cleared out of Sycamore Shoals. He hasn’t seen them, or the Trimbles, since the night you got Tamsen away.”

  Had the light streaming through the smoke hole been brighter, Jesse would’ve known for certain, but it almost seemed Cade wore an evasive look.

  “There something about Parrish you ain’t telling, Pa? If he’s gotten wind of where we …” Jesse let the question trail off, as the door-hide swept aside and Tamsen came in.

  Talk of her pursuers was dropped by silent consent. Not that Jesse could’ve minded what they’d been talking about with his wife standing there ravishing his eyes. When he finally looked away, dazzled, he noticed Cade and Thunder-Going exchanging long-suffering looks. Wordless, they rose and took their pipes out-of-doors. Tamsen stepped aside to let them pass but lingered in the doorway, looking at Jesse almost shyly.

  “Come here,” he said, reclining to an elbow, barely wincing at the pain it caused. She came, kneeling beside the bench so their faces were on the level.

  “How is it today? May I check the bruising?”

  Jesse grinned. “Blackbird sent you in her stead, eh? I like this arrangement.” In the warm lodge, he wore only a breechclout and long linen shirt, easily rucked up to bare his ribs.

  He sucked in a breath at her touch. While she kept her gaze fixed on the remnants of his bruises, he devoured her with his eyes. Her glossy hair was pulled back and braided, but a few curls had worked loose to frame her face, still faintly golden from the autumn. Her lips were red and soft, and close …

  He croaked a mite when he asked, “Have a good visit with the women, did you?”

  “It was nice.” The tip of her tongue passed over her lips. He stared at it, wanting to lie back and pull her atop him, though it’d set his ribs back a week.

  “You give the weaving a try?”

  “Not yet.” She moved her hand beneath his shirt—not a mere touch this time, a caress—and a jolt of pleasure shot through him. He held his breath. “Jesse?”

  “Aye?”

  At last she let their eyes meet. Hers were hungry, exposed. “I missed you.”

  Next he knew he had her across his lap, so lost in the touch and taste of her he barely felt the ache it caused his ribs. She returned his kiss with the hunger her eyes had promised, fingers stroking through his hair, down his neck, his shoulders. He pulled back long enough to say, “I missed you too,” then kissed her again, heart leaping like every one of his ribs might crack wide to let it out to dance with hers.

  “Tamsen—” Their lips met between words he’d barely breath to speak. “D’you want to … now?” His mind spun with notions on how they could proceed, grasping one idea and flinging it aside for another while his hands moved down her back, unraveling her braid.

  She pulled back, and her gaze swept the lodge, settling on the doorway, where nothing but a hide prevented anyone walking in. “I don’t want to wait another second.”r />
  There was hesitation in her voice, but she hadn’t said no, and he couldn’t stop grinning like a fool. Still there was that swaying hide, and no way to bar it. “We could hang the buffalo robe. Like when you bathe. If Thunder-Going or someone else comes in and sees it hanging, they’ll likely go back out.”

  She frowned, considering this, but even as she did so, he knew it wasn’t right. As much as he longed for her, had waited for her … this wasn’t how he wanted it to be. Not hurried and furtive, half their senses trained on that swaying hide.

  “No,” he said. Confusion bloomed in her eyes. “Not no.” He brushed her face with his fingertips, thinking he was like to drown in those dark-blossom eyes. “I want to make love to you—every day for the rest of my life starting now. But not like this.”

  She bit her lip at his declaration, lashes sweeping down as color suffused her cheeks. “I’ve wanted it too, Jesse. But … I don’t know. Even if Thunder-Going and Cade stayed away, something about it feels wrong. Why should it feel wrong?”

  He thought maybe he knew. “More’n once I’ve started to ask you … Do you even remember that night at the Teagues’? You’d been through so much.”

  She bit her lip, frowning. “Some of it, but it’s foggy.” Her eyes glistened. “I want to remember. A bride ought to remember her wedding day. Are you disappointed I can’t?”

  “No.” He touched her face, knowing she was disappointed. “I wish I could change that for you, but I don’t know …” He paused, as the solution dropped into his mind, perfect as a sunset. “Wait. I do know. Let’s get married.”

  She responded to his lightened tone, the anticipation he knew must be in his eyes, with a ravishing smile. “Jesse, we are married. You remember it, surely?”

  “I do, for a fact.” He let her see in his eyes what wanting her every moment since had cost him. Her eyes went all melting … yielding. It took all the self-control left him to refrain from kissing her again. “But hear what I’m thinking now. We could be married in the way of the people here, then we’d both have that to remember.”