by Laura Frantz
“Look there on the right flank, Colonel.”
Clay circled the skittish mount, speaking to it in low, soothing tones, while Lemuel stood back. No visible signs of harm other than he’d bolted, thrown his rider, and . . .
Clay stopped. Squinted. Behind him someone held up a pine-knot torch to illumine the painted flank. Though hastily made on an animal that wanted none of it, two black arrows were clearly drawn, each tip facing opposite directions. Hanging from the pommel on a leather strap was a wolf’s paw. Clay grabbed the torch and looked closer.
Tamanen. His symbol. His unmistakable mark.
A small storm burst inside Clay. He ran hot, then cold. His turmoil wasn’t easily hidden. Jude knew. Their eyes met in weighted understanding.
“Wash it clean,” Clay said with a calm he didn’t feel as Jude did away with the dangling paw.
With a nod, Jude turned the horse over to Lemuel. Clay took to his heels and returned to Hester’s, wanting to make sure Tessa was all right.
When Clay did finally tumble into bed at dawn, Tessa kept him awake. Lying on his back, arm behind his head, he let the sweet memory of her on harvest day return to him, overriding the horror that had followed. Their easy if heartfelt banter. The way she’d taken his hand at the last. And then her parting words, so softly spoken yet arrow-sharp. They’d gone straight to his soul, rattling his carefully constructed defenses that Maddie had first begun to tear down.
What are you afraid of, Clay?
He wasn’t afraid of the wilderness or Indians or tomorrow or any matter that might be brought to him that begged resolution. He wasn’t even afraid of Tamanen and his outright, personal declaration of war.
He was only afraid of loving a woman with soulful eyes and hair as black as moonless midnight.
24
Even an expected siege didn’t keep the fort’s inhabitants from table. The next morn, Hester served up a formidable mound of biscuits made from newly ground wheaten flour. Slathered with butter and molasses, they satisfied the fussiest appetites. With Cyrus asleep in the corner and Lemuel at the wall, the rest of them sat down together. Ma was now among them, another reason to give thanks, as she and Westfall had made it in by midnight.
The tragic details about the Clendennins were revisited, and Tessa listened with deep-seated horror. She couldn’t abide a renewal of war. She desperately wanted to cover her ears.
“So, the savages have finally struck,” Hester lamented. “And struck hard.”
“All killed,” Jasper told them. He reached for the bread, but the news turned Tessa’s stomach so she could not eat. “The colonel helped bury the dead.”
“So many young ones . . .” Ma looked like she might cry. “And a new babe too.”
“Wonder why they didn’t take ’em captive?” Ross said. “The colonel says they oft adopt whites into the tribe to replace their dead.”
Jasper shot him a warning look. “None of that heathen talk at table.”
“If they’re traveling fast and captives can’t keep up, they’re killed,” Zadock continued despite Jasper’s irritation. “Only the hardiest survive.”
“I’ve lost count of all the raids, the burned-out homesteads, since settling in this valley. Seems like we could just abide together in peace.” Ma’s worn hands cradled her steaming teacup. “Reckon the colonel’s going to send out a party to track them?”
“Nay. Such would weaken defenses here.” Jasper swallowed another mouthful. “He’s doubled the spies and now all the border is on alert, nearly everyone forted up.”
“Which gives the Indians freedom to plunder whichever farm they please,” Ma said.
“Nothing short of the king’s army can halt that,” Hester told them. “And those redcoats have their hands full in the East, trying to maintain order with rebel colonists.”
“King’s men don’t know how to fight.” Ross shook his head in disgust. “Standing all in a line waiting to get mowed down by Indians smart enough to take cover behind brush.”
Jasper stared at him. “Like they did us in last night’s ambush.”
“The colonel thinks that was a different party than raided the Clendennins.”
“All the worse then,” Jasper returned, reaching for another biscuit. “Too many redmen overrunning the country.”
“It was theirs to begin with, remember.” Zadock echoed Keturah’s line of thinking. “If Pa had property where he’d staked his claim and put in crops, how would you feel if somebody rode in and pushed him over and proclaimed it his own?”
Jasper flung down his fork. “You’ll do well to keep your red-tongued—”
Ma stood, chair scraping hard across the floor, bringing an end to the matter. “There’ll be no arguing amongst ourselves with the enemy at our gates. You’re worn to nubs, all of you, which is why I’ll excuse your fits of temper. Now go on and be about the business of this fort.”
“I’m needed at the wall,” Jasper said with another ugly glance at Zadock.
Hester began spooning the last of the fried potatoes onto Jasper’s plate. “If you’re going to die, at least go to glory with your belly full.”
“I’m not sure glory’s where he’s headed,” Zadock said, to muted laughter.
A shiver convulsed Tessa, her mind circling to yesterday afternoon. Had the war party passed close by Swan Station, then decided with the presence of so many men at their harvest to keep heading north toward the Clendennins’? Might their misfortune have been her own?
A narrow escape, truly. ’Twas just after she’d fallen into a restless sleep last night, the wolves a-howl, that the warning had come to hurry to the fort. Bleary-eyed, stumbling on the hem of her nightgown as she pitched forward from her bed in haste, she gathered up her garments to dress in the darkness, leaving her hair unbraided and completely forgetting her cap.
The ride through the woods had been a living nightmare, the fracas that caused Cyrus harm so near the fort’s gates a frantic blur. And Clay risked his own life most of all to bury the dead, scouting territory no man wanted, staying up all night, or nearly so, to spell those who couldn’t manage another minute.
Once again the everlasting pull to go east rose like the sun deep within. To be in a place where the man you cared for was busy working a trade and not burying the dead. To say farewell of a morning with no worry he might be scalped by sunset. When the only things that stalked cobbled streets were disease and pickpockets. Not savages, be them red or white, who marauded and burned and betook folks to lonesome, forsaken places.
“You all right?” Ross whispered next to her.
She looked up from staring at her untouched plate. “Nay.”
Her brother’s kindly eyes, so like Pa’s, tore at her too. He was as big-hearted as Jasper was harsh. Seemed like the Almighty might have given them both a more balanced temper.
Westfall appeared in the open doorway, attention on Ma while giving the rest of them a hearty greeting. Had he heard her brothers arguing? They welcomed him in, though the mood stayed somber.
“Best take stock of the good,” Ross told her quietly as more peaceable conversation resumed around them. “I’m all bent up about the Clendennins same as you, but at least they’ve all gone to glory together. Cyrus is still breathing. And not one shot has been fired at the fort.”
She nodded, glad to the heart not to be running hot bullet lead in her apron or spelling a man at the wall. She eyed Jasper as he quit the table. All the ill will in the cabin seemed to vanish with him. “I’m just sore over it all.”
“So am I,” he murmured, before leaving to see how he could lend a hand.
She helped Hester tidy up, her great-aunt all too interested in Ma’s fondness for Westfall as she peppered Tessa with questions. Their sudden courtship seemed to be progressing smoothly despite the dangers. As for Clay, Tessa set thoughts of him aside to tend Cyrus. He was feverish, the poultice they’d applied at daybreak making a mess of the bed linens as he thrashed about.
Lord, heal him
, please. No more losses. No more empty places.
She bathed her brother’s damp face with cool spring water, wishing he’d come to himself and take a drink of Hester’s tea. She hadn’t seen his attacker or seen him fall. She’d only been aware of Jasper’s shout to flee and someone slapping the rump of her mare with his reins to send her bolting forward ahead of the fracas.
’Twas a miracle they’d not fared worse, in light of the Clendennins. What horrors Clay had seen. The gray cast to his face last night had to do with all those buryings, surely, though he’d looked unabashedly glad to see her when she rode in.
“How’s Mister Cyrus this morn?” Maddie leaned over Tessa’s shoulder, smiling. Her new bloom couldn’t be denied. For a moment Tessa was more taken by Maddie’s glow than her brother’s plight.
“He’s feverish.” The lament in Tessa’s voice caused a crease in Maddie’s brow. “In need of Keturah’s medicine.”
With a nod, Maddie held up boneset to break a fever, raising Tessa’s hopes. She canted her gaze toward the sunrise beyond the open door. “What’s happening out there?”
“Calm as the Sabbath,” Maddie returned. “Spies that came in at dawn brought no ill news, no more sightings. Tracks lead north toward the Ohio country, is all.”
“How long are we to fort up then?”
“Best ask Clay.” Maddie gave her a knowing smile. “But he’s in no mood to say goodbye to you just yet.”
Ever mindful of Hester, Tessa lowered her voice. “What do you mean?”
“Your brothers—Lemuel, mainly—is already wanting to return home. He’s not alone. But Clay’s urging caution. He’s yet to recover from seeing you fly to the fort with Indians at your back.”
“We’ve got to leave sooner than later. It goes hard on the men to be away at summer’s peak.”
With Tessa’s help, Maddie tied a strip of cloth around Cyrus’s middle, binding the wound with boneset as tight as she could.
The hum of background voices ceased, and Tessa looked up to find Hester, Ma, and Westfall gone. “I have a feeling the Swan household is about to go arsy-varsy.”
Maddie’s chuckle was low in her throat. “I heard some tittle-tattle about your ma and a certain widower, aye.”
“I have this feeling Ma is going to be wed before long.” Letting loose a sigh, Tessa spoke what weighted her. “And since Westfall isn’t about to leave his land, that means I’m the only woman to look after five men.”
“Let your brothers look after themselves. Might inspire them to find wives to do for them.”
“You know we’re far and few, Maddie. ”
“There does seem to be a drought of women and a flood of men. But that’s neither here nor there. I’d rather talk about Clay.”
“Is something the matter with Clay?”
“Aye, he’s lovestruck.” Maddie’s low voice spared Tessa another worried glance at the open door. “And you are the cause of such.”
“Lovestruck? That hardly describes Colonel Tygart.”
“It does indeed. If you were to somehow fort up longer than a few minutes, it might amount to something.”
“You’re woolgathering, Maddie.”
A rustle came from the bed. “You two done discussing Tygart? I’m parched and in need of water for my thirst and some whiskey for my misery.”
Both women looked to Cyrus, then burst out laughing. “Well, I’ll be switched,” Maddie exclaimed, going to fetch both. “Our patient has risen from the dead!”
Looking at her brother, seeing the pain etched in his sunburnt face, turned Tessa somber again. “How’re you feeling?”
“Never mind me.” Gently, Cyrus reached out and encircled her wrist with a work-worn hand. “Listen, Sister. Don’t forsake a chance to be with the colonel. He’s a good man. You won’t find better. I don’t want you to end up like Hester.”
“You know Ma looks to be leaving.”
“All the better. Pa’s passing has gone hard on her for too long. Westfall is a decent man, besides.”
“What about you?”
“We’re young yet. More women are coming into the country every day. In time, mayhap.”
His words bolstered and unsettled her all at once. Couldn’t she summon a thimbleful of gladness for her mother, who’d found love again? And take to heart Cyrus’s earnest words? Even Maddie encouraged her to be at the fort more often. Could it be done?
Her mouth twisted wryly. Rather, could she survive Hester?
25
The day unwound slowly, the watch changed, and fresh spies were sent out while saddle-sore ones came in on lathered horses. The country looked calm, all said. No other fort they knew of had taken so much as one musket ball, one arrow. All indications pointed north to the Warrior’s Path. The marauding Indians seemed to be moving toward the Ohio and beyond. Had they truly forsaken the settlements?
At nightfall, they all gathered in the west blockhouse for a wedding. Truly, Westfall was wasting no time. He wanted to return to farming and take Ma with him. Considering their fragile, ever-shifting circumstances, no one raised an eyebrow.
“We covet your blessing as the matron of the Swan clan,” Rosemary told Hester, who stood with arms akimbo, gaze trailing to Tessa. “Colonel Tygart has the authority to join people in holy matrimony.”
“Everybody but himself,” Hester muttered moodily.
While it was all moving along at a faster clip than Tessa found comfortable, she donned her best smile and stood up with Ma as the vows were said. Truly, few observed mourning on the frontier and often remarried at a pace deemed scandalous overmountain.
Touched by Ma’s look of girlish delight, amused by Westfall’s trimmed hair and new if wrinkled weskit hastily sewn of printed fabric from Cutright’s store, Tessa was hard-pressed to keep her eyes off Clay. He stole her attention as he read from a Bible in hand. His own? She liked him in the role of preacher, if that was what it was. His voice, thoughtful and resonant, carried to the far corners of the blockhouse as he pronounced the new couple man and wife.
Tessa looked to her feet as they kissed, the resounding cheers and huzzahs nearly as enthusiastic as those for her and Clay’s muster-day kiss. Her brothers were smiling, back slapping and hand shaking all around, before making their way outside. Hester had slipped out before the ceremony ended to mix her celebrated flip for the toasts to follow.
“Tessa.”
She turned, a step away from the door. Clay stood behind her, Bible closed but still in hand.
“Aye, Clay?”
“You at peace with all this?” The question surprised and touched her. Lately she was a bundle of emotions, her own feelings for him foremost, growing stronger the nearer she was to him. Did he sense that?
“I’m glad for Ma. Just trying to prepare myself for her being gone.”
He nodded and set the Bible on his desk. Her eye was drawn to his Indian pipe, the beaded pouch of tobacco beside it. How she craved to know its story.
“Your brothers plan to leave out in the morning, but Cyrus is in no condition to move. Are you willing to stay on and tend him till he’s on his feet?”
“Gladly.” She nearly smiled. Maddie’s doing? “But there’s always Hester, remember.”
“You’re better medicine.” He winked at her, his slow smile making her wish she could sit her woozy self down.
Wanting to prolong his company, she pointed to the map on his desk, laid open from corner to corner, the ends anchored by sadirons. The black markings denoting mountain ranges and rivers, the finely wrought script and compass points, drew her. The map was their world in miniature, the Ohio country plainly laid out beyond a long stretch of rivers that seemed to have no end.
Coming to stand beside her, he moved his pipe and tobacco pouch out of the way. “We’re here. This small scrolling line is the Buckhannon. Your homeplace is marked by an X.”
She leaned nearer, following his pointed finger. “And this path lined in red?”
“That’s the main Indi
an trail, the Warrior’s Path, connecting north and south and cutting through the hardest terrain east to west—the endless mountains, to borrow an Indian phrase. Passage is easiest in the valley here.”
“And the Tuscarawas River?”
“Marked in blue. Keturah and the Moravians are near the forks, establishing their mission.”
She dared a more personal question. “Where did you camp with the Lenape?”
“Along the Cuyahoga here, near the falls.” His finger moved northwest. “We made other camps in different seasons but always returned there.”
She couldn’t imagine it, having been born and raised on the Buckhannon and nowhere else. Indians were rovers, yet how could they be otherwise, forever pushed west, as Keturah said? She’d spoken of terrible cold, near starvation, though there were times of plenty too. Surely the Moravians would keep her friend warm and well fed.
“When the smallpox struck, I was one of the few who survived. Our band was reduced by half. Not long after, a treaty was made and I returned to my Quaker kin. I might have starved otherwise.”
Her eyes roamed the map west to east. The distance from the Ohio country to Philadelphia seemed impossibly vast. “So far you must have traveled.”
“Hundreds of miles, aye.”
“I’ve always been taught to fear Indians, but in truth I know little about them. Mostly hearsay.”
“Mayhap one day I’ll tell you more.”
She pointed to the painted bark near a pegged buffalo skin. “For now, you can help me understand this.”
“You don’t miss much.” His expression held respect—and something else that looked like reluctance. “Wikhegan.”
“Indian picture writing?” She looked away. “Whatever ’tis called it gives me chills.”
“Supposed to. ’Tis a warning.”
He said no more. Well and good, then, as she’d lost the heart to hear it.