by Laura Frantz
Tempe reached for his weapon.
“No need.” His low words, even softened with a smile, failed to bring reassurance. “There’s a guard, remember. Peace.”
Peace? If peace could be had by treaty with the tribes—the ever-warring Shawnee and roaming Cherokee. The settlers never relaxed their stance, all but James. He was more at home with a plow than a gun.
A burst of homesickness smothered her. She longed for wide-open spaces and acres of corn and the deep stillness of the Yadkin far from any Indian trails. Not the driving dream of a dangerous land, this everlasting pull toward the wilderness. Kentucke fever had infected her pa too. She stole a look at him as he hunkered down with a knot of men, drawing a map in the dirt.
Above the tree line the sunset had deepened, a smudge of crimson riding the horizon. She pushed aside her fretfulness, glad her tiredness didn’t dim her pleasure. It was beautiful. Life was beautiful. Even weary beyond words and worried about Indians and Livvy, as James called his littlest sister, Tempe still felt full. Thankful.
Once they stepped free of the trees near the creek’s sandy mouth, James set Livvy down and the children joined hands, thrusting bare, brown feet into the racing current, faces alive with delight.
Tempe watched them, all too aware of the man beside her. “Betimes I wish I was knee-high again.”
“I thank the good Lord you’re not.” James passed a broad, work-hardened hand across his mouth as if to hide a smile.
Color high, she bent and picked up a large maple leaf to fan herself. “Do you recollect where we were September last?”
His pensive look told her he’d not forgotten. “On the upper Yadkin in Carolina, you mean. When my cousin wed yours.”
She smiled, warmed by the memory. A sweet ceremony it had been, with his uncle Squire saying the words over the nervous couple, followed by a lively frolic. The encounter shone like a star in Tempe’s memory. It was the night she’d become smitten with James. But most remembered the occasion as the day James’s father was resurrected from the dead. Gone two years in the Kentucke territory, bearded and ragged beyond knowing, he’d returned and asked his estranged wife for a dance. She’d balked.
“You need not refuse me, for you have danced many a time with me,” he’d told her.
She recalled Rebecca’s joy. The tears and fears of the least ones who didn’t know this bewhiskered, bearish stranger. Then and there Tempe had shut her heart to the notion of a wandering man, thankful James was as different from Daniel as daylight and dark.
“I’d rather think on where we’ll be September next.” The words came low and thoughtful. “Ever ponder marrying here and now?”
Eyes wide, she shed her shyness. “Right here on the trace?”
“It’ll make the steeps and sinkholes a mite more bearable.” When she stayed quiet, he added, “Uncle Squire is a preacher, remember.”
Her heart hitched. Temperance Tucker Boone. It sounded big. Proud.
James looked down, the broken thong of his moccasin holding his attention.
Was he only fooling? He’d not once kissed her. He’d only lately touched her back or arm in spare seconds wrested from endless motion, in that sweet, possessive way a man touched a woman that made Tempe feel half his already.
Had he, like she, fashioned their cabin log by log in his mind’s eye? Stout oak walls and walnut shutters and a river rock chimney with a carved sunburst on the mantel. She’d sprinkle flower seed, now stored in a dried gourd, about the door stone. Flaming bee balm and violet-blue spiderwort. Trumpet flowers and silver bells. In time they’d have need of a cradle. She hoped for as many children as the Lord allowed. A quiver full, as Scripture said . . .
“I know how you want a place to call your own.” He sat down and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “As for me, you know all about that too.”
A whole year they’d danced around the prospect of settling down. “Too young,” her ma said. “In time,” said his father.
She held back a sigh and darted a look at the least ones wading now. “You oughten not speak of such, James Boone. I’m liable to say yes.”
He made a motion to stand. “Then I’ll talk to your folks—”
Her hand shot out and clasped his tanned wrist. It had the feel of knotted rope beneath her callused fingers. “Ma’s still feeling dauncy. She says the trace is no place for a—” The word honeymoon hung in her throat. “For a man and woman to—to come together.”
He laced his fingers through hers, whirling any concerns to the wind. “I ain’t marrying your ma, Tempe.”
She gave him a half smile. “I reckon not.”
“On the Yadkin, farming and living apart, I could bide my time.” He swallowed, the faint sun lines about his eyes creasing in concentration. “But here, within reach of you and your sweet talking, it’s nearly beyond bearing—”
“Hush.” She went pink at the confession. A sudden breeze lifted the damp hair along the nape of her neck. “You could talk a jaybird off a tree limb.”
“I ain’t full of flatter, Tempe.” He turned solemn as the Sabbath. “Look at me.”
She met his eyes. Trouble was, it went hard on her to look away from him. The wide set of his shoulders, the unflinching, sometimes fierce line of his jaw, his mane of flaxen hair, wove quite a spell. But he owned some of his ma’s spirit too. He was a hand with children and animals. The land. Few could plow as straight a furrow as James. In their earthy, uncertain world, these were the things that mattered.
“You’d better ask your folks, same as mine.” Tempe picked her way carefully, unused to tender talk. “With your pa wedded to the wilderness . . .”
“There’s Israel, remember.”
She bit her tongue. Two years younger, James’s brother was often poorly and even now was healing from the slow fever. Middle-heighted and spare, Israel lacked James’s heft and strength. He seemed more his brother’s shadow. It was James who mattered most to the big Boone brood. Israel was hard-pressed to take up the slack of James leaving.
“Lookee here, Jamie!” Becky’s lisp carried on the breeze, high as a bird’s chirping. She held up a shiny stone treasure.
He smiled at her, thoughts clearly elsewhere. “I reckon our cabin will sit betwixt your people and mine.”
“Best begin with that, then.” She wiped the damp from her hairline with the heel of her hand. “When you’re asking for my hand, I mean.”
He stood, and this time she made no move to stay him.
The next morning Tempe watched both the sodden sky and James as he slid the bridle onto her mare. The scent of horseflesh, coupled with the musky smell of wet leather, stirred her senses like the man standing beside her. Next she knew, his warm hands had spanned her waist and he lifted her into the saddle.
“I should be walking,” she said, touching her sore cheek. “Nothing wrong with me but being stung.”
James leaned in to adjust the stirrups. “Seems like my bride should ride.”
Bride? Joy took hold of her. “You mean . . .”
“We’re to wed in Powell Valley.”
She looked ahead at the long, sleepy procession, the blue haze of mountains beyond. Wedded. At last. She felt a wild, giddy rush. “How far?”
“We’re fixing to climb the Clinch and pass through Moccasin Gap. Next comes Powell Mountain and a sightly river bottom some sixty miles.”
She bit her lip and studied him. Would they say their vows at the beginning or end of it? She opened her mouth to ask.
The wind was blowing out of the southwest, slashing the wet sideways, stealing her words away. Rain was beginning to bead on James’s low-crowned felt hat. Her bonnet began to sag. Her books—would they get wet? She’d seen the men packing their precious gunpowder in leather pokes coated with beeswax, safe from the damp. She wished she’d done the same with her beloved things.
She shifted self-consciously in the saddle. She could feel James’s father’s eyes on her when he passed, likely taking her measure as
his firstborn’s future wife. Daniel doffed his hat, a courtesy he had little time for, and she eased. When he took his position at the front of the line, she turned her attention back to James.
“Up you go.” James lifted little Livvy, whose eyes were barely open, her cheeks still stained with fever. Tempe leaned into the girl as if to shelter her as James turned away.
Thunder shook the sky. It would be a long, rough climb in the rain. Far behind her, driving the stock and guarding the rear, were a dozen or so men and boys, her brother Russell among them. Mud sucked at their moccasins, turning the trail into a streambed. She had grown used to the tinkling of the belled horses and the muted lowing of the cows, the clang of a dangling kettle, and a babe’s muffled cry.
By the time they set foot in Kentucke, would marriage feel as familiar too?
They came over Powell Mountain into the valley like beleaguered Israelites desperate for the Promised Land. But Kentucke still lay a world away. Rising up to the west were immense steep-walled cliffs, gleaming silvery white in the harsh afternoon light.
The White Rocks.
Somewhere in that forbidding, stone-studded wall of rock and pine lay a gate, a gap, a nest of rivers. Tempe braced herself for another hard climb . . . but first the wedding.
“When the time comes,” her mother was saying, unpacking a saddlebag, “this’ll do for your marrying dress.”
Aylee’s liver-spotted hands shook out a linen garment dyed a winsome indigo. A quilted cream petticoat and filmy lace kerchief broke up all that blue like clouds in a summer sky. Wrinkled as it was, it was clean, befitting a wedding. All but the kerchief had been worked by her ma’s hands.
“Best hold off a mite.” Behind them, Russell stood casting a long, damp shadow. She’d hardly seen her brother since they’d first set out. “We’re running low on supplies. The men agree we’ll lay by here and send a small party back to Castle’s Woods for provisions.”
Tempe pushed aside her dismay. “A small party?”
Russell tugged on his hat brim and looked apologetic. “Me, the Mendenhalls . . . James.”
“Mister Boone will go with you, aye?” she asked, hopeful.
“Nay,” he said, no hint of disquiet in his features. “Just us younger men.”
“Well, I’ll welcome a rest.” Their mother began folding the wedding garb up again. “Lord knows the children need it.”
This Tempe couldn’t deny, but inwardly she wilted. Only Russell—her blood brother—could have seen past her stoicism. He answered her unspoken questions, as always.
“Castle’s Woods is off the trail some twenty miles north of here. We’ll be bringing back flour and farm tools and the like before leaving the settlements completely.” He gave her a reassuring wink. “You’ll be wanting provisions enough for an infare, likely.”
The infare. Would there be a wedding feast, even in the wilderness? She doubted Russell would brandish his fiddle on account of attracting Indians. A silent frolic it would be. “You’ll not be gone long . . .”
“A few days is all. Should be back by Saturday next. Daniel says a wedding would be a fine thing to bolster spirits before we head over White Rocks. Looks like you’ll have your Sabbath ceremony after all, Sister.”
Her heart lifted. Only a few days’ time. Till then she’d be of help to James’s mother and the children. She’d pray a speedy journey for the departing men. Looking across the busy encampment, she spied several of them outlined around a campfire, deep in conversation—James, his father, and his uncle Squire among them.
Russell took a step back as if already anxious to be on their way. “We leave at daybreak.”
She shook off her chary feelings. Maybe by week’s end the weather would dry out. Time enough to make James a new shirt. She could sew and ruffle one with the linen they’d brought. Her gaze fell to the chinkapins strewn across the forest floor, ready for gathering. She’d take the children nutting.
“Take care, Temperance. Stay close to camp.” With another wink, Russell shifted his flintlock to his other roughened hand. “Come Saturday we’ll be back. Mayhap I’ll bring the bride a little trinket to sweeten her wedding day.”
But it was not to be.
14
There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm.
—WILLA CATHER
The next morning, Tempe was alone in the kitchen when dawn lit the July sky. The morning stillness was broken by the sweet song of birds, piercing her hurt. Coffee needed making, but for the moment she was lost in the past, ushered down that lonesome road by Russell’s unburdening the night before. And then her own heartrending recollections.
She shut her eyes like she’d wanted to shut her ears to his shattering words. But they were now a part of her, never to be undone. She tried to focus, staring at the scene before her. Tried to dispel her own lost hopes and heart dreams. Finally the kitchen resettled into familiar lines, no threatening shadows within.
Before her were a variety of tin jelly molds. Stars. Flowers. Half-moons. Sold by a Virginia tinker in a variety of shapes, they were relics from another life, another season. James had given her one shaped like a shell. She’d tucked it in her marrying chest, but today, like the dress she wore, she’d brought it out. No sense keeping beloved things that begged use shut away. Maybe airing them would help take away the sting. Or, like her busted lip, might the wound heal but the pain remain?
Leaving the jelly tins, she swung a small copper kettle over the fire before making batter, listening for movement upstairs. Sion was an early riser. He took his breakfast on the dogtrot, preferred coffee to tea, and was partial to waffles. To sweeten them, she drizzled maple syrup and added a splash of cream atop the butter. It was her way of thanking him for the briar leaves. Thanking him, too, that he’d asked her no questions about how she’d come to need them.
The aroma of parched coffee beans threaded through the air when the doorway between kitchen and keeping room darkened. Her eyes went wide. Nate Stoner stood there. Dressed. Beard trimmed. Eyes a livelier green than she’d ever seen. Hardly the man they’d pulled back from the brink.
“Mornin’, Miss Tempe. Where’s Mistress Tucker? I want to thank her for her doctorin’.”
“Morning, Mister Stoner.” She swallowed. “Ma is . . .” Aylee had likely left the rockhouse by now and was on her way back to them. ’Twas Russell she was most sure of. The ring of the axe was sweet music indeed. “She’ll be here shortly. Care for some coffee?”
“Obliged,” Nate said in his easy way, eyeing the waffle iron. As if breakfast was the sole reason he’d risen from the dead.
Her disquiet deepened when Aylee appeared just then, flushed and winded as if she’d run all the way from the rockhouse. Unaware of Nate, she began, “Your pa—”
Tempe cringed. Noticing Nate, Aylee tied on an apron, recovering her composure. “I never thought to see you standing there hale and hearty this soon, Mister Stoner.”
“It’s on account of your fine care,” he replied, taking a steaming cup from Tempe’s hands. “That and the Lord’s resurrection power.”
“Amen.” Aylee took up the waffle iron whilst Tempe finished whisking the batter. “I’ll serve you and Mister Morgan breakfast soon as I can.”
With a nod Nate retreated to the dogtrot, and Aylee shut the kitchen door, her features a stew of concern as she faced Tempe. “You wouldn’t lay the blame to your pa for your lip, so he told me himself. He’s sorry as can be.”
Tempe said nothing to this. What was done was done. She’d heal and hope it didn’t leave a scar.
Aylee poured the batter into the greased iron with an expert hand. “I suppose you’ll pay heed to his words.”
Setting her jaw, Tempe shut the iron and thrust it into the fire by its long handles. She’d expected Pa to reconsider his rashness. She’d hoped to gain an ally in Ma, at least. “So you reckon I should go with these men, who are little more than strangers, into hostile territory at Pa’s whim?”
Ay
lee looked hard at her. “Since when did you worry about what became of you?”
Unable to deny it, Tempe lapsed into silence.
Aylee continued in low tones. “You might be safer leaving out with these surveyors. There’s an abundance of Indian sign here lately. Russell is acting queer, as if he knows something he’s not telling, and your pa won’t leave the rockhouse till these men with the Loyal are long gone.”
Distracted, Tempe flipped the iron over, fearing she’d scorched the bottom half. “So my going will snuff the Indian sign and restore Russell and let Pa roam at will.”
Hands on hips, Aylee regarded her with none of the sympathy of before. “Are you afeared of these surveyors?”
Tempe opened the iron and dumped the waffle on a waiting wooden platter, hardly noting the crisp edges and savory aroma. “Ma, it’s you who raised me to act like a lady even if I’m not. And ladies don’t go traipsing with men like common camp followers.”
Hand unsteady, Aylee overfilled the iron, spilling batter onto the floor. “I trust this man Morgan. Mister Stoner too. Neither of them would make free with your virtue.”
“There are four more men to consider.” Cornelius Lyon flashed to mind, always with suspicion. She wouldn’t broach the delicacy involved. What of her monthly? Endless trips to relieve herself? The need to bathe? Prudery had no place in their harsh lives, but modesty was another matter.
“I can talk to Mister Morgan.”
“Talk, Mama? About what?” She was near tears, only her ire keeping them in check. “How are you to manage with me gone? Who will keep you in meat?”
“Your pa will see to that.”
So all was settled, then. Cornered, flustered, lip throbbing, Tempe lashed out a final time. “You can tell Pa this, that he may as well mark a target on my back sending me into the wilds with a party of hapless surveyors.”
Aylee refused to be daunted. “Hapless is a poor word for Sion Morgan. As for Mister Stoner . . .” She broke off, her rosy hue returning. “He’s asked to stay on once the surveying’s done, be an extra gun.”