by Laura Frantz
“It’s her leg. The gash is deep. I’m no doctor, but it’s causing me to fret.”
His high spirits sagged. He looked up again, finding Tempe hemmed in by two men in the span of his and Esther’s short conversation. In so small a fort, it didn’t take long to sort out who belonged to whom. Or not.
“Is it true there’s no doctor at Harrod’s—or Logan’s?” he asked.
“None to speak of. Just an old granny woman due back any day. I put Miss Tucker in her very cabin.”
“Any preacher hereabouts?”
Her brow creased. “Do you aim to bury her—or marry her?”
He nearly chuckled at Esther’s honest jest. When he said nothing, she continued on. “There’s Squire Boone near at hand. But we don’t stand on ceremony in the wilds. Any God-fearing soul can say the words over you till you come by a true preacher.”
Though he was open to the notion, a wilderness wedding seemed to slight Tempe somehow. His marrying Harper had been hasty, if legal. He didn’t want Tempe to get any inkling he’d leave her, no proper tie to hold him. The Lord’s blessing was something he craved. Mayhap Nate’s Scripture spouting and Tempe’s gentle devotion were wearing him down.
The babe reached out a dimpled hand and grabbed the leather strap of his powder horn. He took the horn off and gave it over, wishing he had a little barley sugar instead. She held it wonderingly, gnawing on the wooden spout plug with tiny teeth. He knew it was snug and no powder would spill, though Esther looked a tad wary.
The thought of his own babe cut in, sudden and sharp. His child had never drawn breath. Sion had fought the strange mourning that followed, wondering how a heart could grieve for a child never held. But maybe it was as Nate said. For thou hast possessed my reins: thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.
“She’s far too comely for her own good,” Esther told him, eyes on Tempe across the way. “Bad leg or no, you’d best stake your claim.”
“I will.” He pried his powder horn away from the tiny girl gently, only to set her a-howling again.
At his approach, the men on either side of Tempe melted away. She finally noticed him, the pleasure in her eyes giving way to uncertainty and a guarded hope.
Mindful of her leg, he motioned to a bench near the west blockhouse wall. He wanted to take her hand, stake his claim as Esther said, but the fingers nearest him were splinted and the others were buried in the folds of her skirt.
“I hardly recognized you,” he said in a stab at conversation. “I mean . . .”
Her answering smile assured him he’d not misspoken. “Well, there’s no mistaking you.”
He rubbed his jaw. Though he’d tried to clean up, he’d gotten no further than shaving. “I’ll be out on a scout come morning. Be gone two, three days. Whilst I’m away”—he forced lightness into his tone—“try to fend off these fellows. They’re nothing but a wake of buzzards.”
She chuckled, fingers plucking at a rosebud on her sleeve. “Should I tell them the mighty Morgan said so?”
“Aye, if you like.” He rested Annie against the log wall. “It’s your wound I’m thinking of.”
She sobered, all levity gone, staring at her skirt as if she could see to the injury beneath. “Ma would know what to do.”
Her heartfelt words couched a dozen different things. Homesickness. Weariness. Resignation. Regret. She knew her wound might be mortal. She might not ever reach her family.
I am not the least afraid to die.
She was on the verge of saying it again. He could sense it. If she did, he would reach out and still the words before they left her lips.
He swallowed past the tightness in his throat. Twice now he felt he stood in the gap between her and James. She was leaning toward dying. He could feel it. And not only leaning, she welcomed it. The contrary notion sat sourly inside him, so at odds with his newfound hopes.
The twang of a fiddle sounded. The posted lookouts glanced down from their picket perches at the noise. Heartfelt seconds ticked by. Sion was in no mood to dance. But Jemima was partnering with her new husband, Flanders Callaway. Susannah and her groom, Will Hayes, joined in while Rebecca and Daniel watched from the shadows.
Sion had seen Daniel talking with Tempe earlier outside the Hart cabin and wondered what they’d said. It had to do with James, no doubt. Always James . . .
Tempe’s expression turned poignant. “Betimes I wish life wasn’t so chancy. Seems like we try to squeeze in little bits of living between trying to stay alive.”
It’s only hardest right now, he nearly said. But it wasn’t. All of life was a frightful risk. If they weren’t bedeviled by Indians, it was illness. Accident. Heartbreak. Separation. What did they have but this present moment?
No doubt the other unfettered men thought the same, for one young, scar-faced fellow came near and called Tempe out as the fiddler struck a reel. Sion watched as she lowered her lashes, declining with a demure smile. His resistance roared.
Did she have to be so downright fetching in her refusal?
Taking Annie back, he struck a sterner pose in order to keep all comers at bay.
“If I could I’d dance with you.” Shoulder to shoulder with him, she leaned nearer to be heard over the raucous music. “Only I don’t know if you dance.”
“It’s been a long while.” He’d not attended a proper frolic in years. But he enjoyed a good bow hand, and while this fiddler was not the musician Russell was, he still managed a lively tune.
As it was, he felt a sweet contentment just sitting beside her, knowing she was safe from ambush and not out on the trail. Nate approached with two trenchers in hand, one piled high with fried venison collops, the rest buffalo so well roasted it fell off the bone. Tempe exclaimed in delight at the buttered corn, green beans, and cornbread. Sion felt a bit giddy himself at the abundance. Cucumbers and onions and slices of watermelon waited on another table. They didn’t have much, but Boonesborough had combined all they had. A welcoming feast, truly.
“You two all right?” Though Nate included them both, it was Tempe he looked to for answer.
Tempe smiled up at him, inviting him to sit. Disappointment shadowed Sion like a cloud when Nate obliged and took a near bench. Nate cared for Tempe like a daughter. Who was Sion to wish him gone? Still, the need to be alone with her was strong, if being alone in a fort full of people was possible.
What he really wanted . . . He gave in to the nagging temptation. What he really wanted was to take her by the hand, away from prying eyes and the noise, and lead her to her cabin, where he’d shut the door and slip all the pins from her hair . . .
Freshly washed, a few strands had defied Esther’s careful coil and fell in wayward wisps about Tempe’s flushed face. That flush—could it be fever? Blood poison was never far from his thoughts. He shoved the worry away, but it took root, further shrinking his hopes.
She bowed her head as Nate said a prayer, but she ate little, further alarming him. Soon she was clapping in time to the music whilst he finished her supper and his, watching as Cornelius squired every woman present, proving himself an able dancer.
Someone had rolled out a keg. The chain carriers were partaking of some spirits between sets, and Sion hoped Cornelius would continue to act the gentleman. Lucian sat with a burly black man, two women with them. Lucian belonged here on the frontier, a free man, not enslaved by the hard-to-please Cornelius. This injustice bedeviled Sion too.
His mind drifted to matters within his ken. He needed to ride to Harrod’s Fort and enter his land claims as required by law. Till the claims were entered, they were invalid and up for dispute.
Paramount was taking Tempe home again. But first she needed to heal. Daniel had asked him about scouting in the meantime since two of the fort’s best guns had been killed the month before.
Lord willing, in the midst of all that, he’d woo her.
If h
e could stay alive.
If she was willing.
28
The Indians shot arrows on the cabin roofs, and set them on fire . . . then fortunately it commenced raining.
—STEPHEN COOPER
Two days later Tempe stood outside the open doorway of the east blockhouse, listening to Sion’s scouting report. Small roving bands of Shawnee had burned several outlying cabins and fields west of Boonesborough, pulling up fruit trees and destroying a great quantity of cribbed corn.
“I’ve not come upon any loss of life, but there’s sign the enemy’s headed north,” Sion finished.
“It’ll be a lean winter, what with the loss,” Boone replied matter-of-factly. “The trouble’s far from over. My guess is the Shawnee are making for their camps on the Scioto, gathering fresh supplies and preparing their warriors for another strike. It’s not called Indian summer for naught. There are only three forts left standing in the whole of Kentucke. Logan’s, Harrod’s, and here.”
“Do you have enough provisions to hold?” Sion asked him.
Tempe moved away into the blinding sunlight of late afternoon, wanting to spare herself the answer. Precious little salt, scant powder and lead, and few men . . .
Stopping near Beck, his neck lathered and sides blackened with sweat, she spoke warm words to Sion’s faithful mount, wishing she had a carrot or apple. He nuzzled her hand as if searching before she moved on around the fort’s perimeter toward the Hart cabin.
Door open, Esther sat sewing, one foot extended to rock the cradle the baby slept in. Her girls played with their cornhusk dolls nearby, their round faces shiny from the heat.
Tempe longed for a shade tree. A cool creek. A breeze that wasn’t blocked by pickets. She’d seen a graveyard outside fort walls, but Nate had cautioned her to stay inside the fort. She didn’t tell him it was Sion she looked for on the horizon and that she longed to be free, not pent-up like livestock.
Stooping, she took a long, lukewarm drink from a gourd dipper hanging above a water pail before stepping over the threshold of the Hart cabin.
Esther greeted her, her cradle pushing ceasing. “I saw Mister Morgan ride in. Any news?”
“Plenty of sign.” Tempe didn’t want to alarm her. What if Esther’s homestead was one of those burnt? “I’m just glad he’s back safe and sound.”
She took a seat in the rocker, ready to take the baby in her arms, be of use. Her leg was throbbing, and the pain seemed to go bone deep. Sometimes in the night she cried herself to sleep. But she wouldn’t speak of it, not in light of pegged heads and a fresh graveyard.
Tempe admired Esther’s work. “You piecing a quilt?”
Squares of various fabrics, some fancy, some plain, caught her eye, a pleasing blend of Tidewater finery and frontier homespun. Tempe stroked a square of deep-purple velvet.
Esther smiled her serene smile. “It’s your marrying quilt.”
Tempe looked up. “My what?”
“The women in the fort—the Boones mostly—gave over a bit of fabric so you’d have a lovely keepsake. But you can’t leave till it’s finished.”
Touched, Tempe tried to summon words enough to honor the gift. She looked toward the common to see Sion leave the blockhouse. Her heart turned over in such a rush it stole her breath. “There’s been no talk of a wedding.”
“Talk’s hardly needed.” Esther plied tiny, even stitches with linen thread. “I’ve seen the way Mister Morgan looks at you. It’s just a matter of time.”
Time. A knot formed in her throat. Her leg told her time was against her. She sensed Esther was holding this quilt out like a promise, to offer hope. Hope of healing. Love. A more settled life.
She still wasn’t sure of Sion. He felt obligated to her, determined to bring her home, deeply concerned about her leg. Those heated kisses shared along the Green seemed so long ago they had the feel of a dream, yet they’d kindled a fire she feared couldn’t be put out, at least on her part.
She wouldn’t argue Sion’s intentions with Esther. Best leave him to the Lord.
The steaming kettle on the hearth seemed to sing in the emptiness of the blockhouse. Sion poured hot water into a basin and cooled it down with spring water from a bucket before pulling his shirt over his head. The supper smells still lingered, but Lucian had long since washed the crusty skillets and dirty plates.
Night set in, bringing with it a blessed sense of privacy. By day, everyone knew everybody’s comings and goings within fort walls, but beneath the stars they all turned to shadows, gaining a measure of solitude.
He was used to life behind pickets. Fort Henry, being so large, hadn’t the cramped feel of Boonesborough. But all that had filled his head during his days along the Ohio were powder and lead and scouting. Not Tempe. Not courting. He’d tried to block the memory of their feverish kisses along the Green River till he was worn out with the effort. She was obviously still in love with James Boone. He couldn’t compete with a hallowed memory. Not till she’d buried her past and moved on.
But had he moved on from Harper? Hadn’t he once silently sworn he’d take no other wife? Risk a woman in the wilderness? Risk his heart of so much hurt? Why this maddening double-mindedness regarding Tempe? Even now he felt torn with need, burning with the desire to map out a life with her.
He soaped his chest, his mind churning with plans. He’d prayed more than one honest prayer of late, asking for the Lord’s hedging and blessing. He had no idea what Tempe’s reaction would be when he laid his proposal out before her.
Finished with bathing, he pulled on a clean shirt, wishing for decent breeches and silver knee buckles and shiny shoes. But buckskin and linsey would have to do.
“Well, what have we here?” Cornelius entered, silent as a cat. Sion could smell elderberry wine in the humid air. A dark stain soiled Cornelius’s fine linen shirt. “No more rank buckskins?”
Sion didn’t reply, reining in his irritation.
“My guess is you’re going courting. If so, I have it on good authority that two of the fort’s backwoods blossoms would welcome your suit.”
Sion rued the condescension in his voice. Cornelius dallied with these hardy women, mayhap raising their hopes, but thought himself above them all.
“Nellie Saunders and Charity Wade are ready to light on you like a duck on a June bug.” He rambled on, words slurring. “Though they may be fond of you, they are not fond of Miss Tucker, who they feel is little more than a common camp follower—”
“She’s no camp follower.”
At the ire in Sion’s tone, Cornelius made a wide circle around him as he started for the steps leading to the blockhouse’s second story. “Touchy, are we?”
“Where Miss Tucker’s concerned, aye.”
Sion already knew at least one of the fort’s women shunned Tempe on account of her keeping company with so many men. He owned it looked questionable, but never had she behaved in an unseemly manner. As for the other females, Esther and the Boone women were kindness itself. They shared Tempe’s spirit, that natural competence and stoutheartedness that had first drawn Sion’s notice.
He heard Cornelius shuffling around upstairs, soon to be abed and snoring, or so he hoped. Nate was outside smoking with some of the fort’s men. He wasn’t sure about Lucian and the chain carriers.
Leaving the blockhouse, he heard Nate’s unmistakable laugh. The flicker of grease lamps and tallow dips shone through the cracks of the cabins. He aimed for one, glad to see a light on, the door partially open. Was Esther visiting? Nay. She was singing a lullaby next door. The low tone tugged at him, revived some long-lost memory of his own buried boyhood along the Watauga.
With every step nearer Tempe’s stout wooden door, he felt addled as a boy. Mayhap it was the moon’s alluring rise or the anticipation of seeing her again after two days out, but he wanted to cover her with kisses, unleashing that eager response he’d first set loose in the secrecy of the sycamore tree.
He stood on the stoop, breath coming a bit thick, an
d peered into the cabin. Tempe sat on the puncheon floor, skirts in a swirl about her, playing with Esther’s two little girls. Unaware of him, they walked and danced their battered dolls about, having a make-believe party with acorn cap cups and parched corn.
It wasn’t till Esther came out of her own cabin that the spell was broken. “A pretty picture they make,” she remarked before calling her girls and shooing them to bed.
“’Night, Mister Morgan,” Ellender said with a lisp, glancing up at him shyly.
“Good night, Miss Hart,” he answered, smiling down at Esther’s eldest.
The door remained open. Left alone with Tempe, Sion all but forgot what he wanted to say.
“Sion . . .” She looked up at him, mayhap a bit flustered at being on the floor. When she made no move to get up, he realized she couldn’t, not without help.
He reached down and lifted her gently to her feet, that nagging worry overtaking him. He had half a mind to tell her to pull up her skirts so he could examine her leg himself, but that would kill any decency between them and give the fort’s wags plenty to chew on if found out.
The scent of herbs was strong. Esther continued to treat her, both of them weary of awaiting the old woman’s return from Harrod’s. The pale, strained look on Tempe’s face as she favored her leg fanned his fears.
Motioning for her to sit in the rocking chair, he straddled a stool. “We need to leave for Harrod’s as soon as you’re fit to ride.”
Relief softened her features. Did she think he meant to leave her? “I’m fit. It’s not far.”
“A hard day’s ride or so. We’ll break it up if we have to.” First he’d see how she took to her own mare, or they’d double up as they’d come to Boone’s.
“Why Harrod’s?”
“You need to see that granny woman. I need to see about registering my surveys here rather than return to eastern Virginia. Harrod’s has more provisions for our trip back to the Moonbow, besides.” His plans came out rapid-fire, overwhelming her. He read confusion in her face. Swallowing, he said what was foremost. “We need to find a preacher.”