The Blue Cloak

by Shannon McNear

Rachel peered askance at Hugh and found him bending another smile upon her.

  “You have inquired after Miss Carrick,” he went on, “but I’ve not had the opportunity to ask whether you’ve had any callers these days.”

  Rachel laughed despite the seriousness of the previous moment, though her smile melted into what felt like gritted teeth. “I? Of course not. I’m far too busy helping my father with trade.”

  “Oh? With all of those men who come through the station, not a one has caught your eye? Or recognized your sterling qualities and become taken with you?”

  “Oh, plenty of them claim to be taken with me,” Rachel murmured, shifting to watch the game at play.

  “Rachel,” Hugh said, also softly, and she snapped back to look at him. He angled another smile at her. “I had a friend while studying law, a certain Benjamin Langford from Virginia, who is similarly unattached. He wrote to me some time ago, asking about opportunities here out west.” His smile turned to a teasing grin. “Should I write him back and tell him he most certainly should come to Knox County and survey its many pleasing attributes?”

  A wave of heat swept over her. “Hugh White! Don’t you dare.” A giggle forced its way up her throat. “Please.”

  Now his grin was downright wicked—although subdued, because after all, this was Hugh. “Now I shall definitely have to write him.”

  For some reason the thought made her heart beat a little faster. “Please do not mention me.” She cleared her throat. “Besides, Daddy has been talking about sending me up the Wilderness Road to help Daniel and Anne. So it won’t matter a whit if you ask him to come or not.”

  “Well.” The corner of Hugh’s mouth remained lifted. “I’ll simply have to tell him to go to Kentucky instead.”

  Rachel huffed and shook her head. “’Twouldn’t matter. If he’s studied law—studying?—then I’m sure he’d consider himself quite above me.” At Hugh’s sudden look and laughter, she found herself blushing anew. “Oh. Gracious. I just realized how that must sound.” Hugh laughed even more heartily, going so far as to bend with a hand on his knee. “Besides, you have your Miss Carrick, who is very much above either of us.”

  Hugh’s amusement muted to a twinkle. “Now, Rachel, I would put anyone of the fairer sex above myself.”

  She met his gaze directly for but a moment and found herself coloring again. “That you would. And thank you.”

  If only there truly were another man with similar sentiments, who was yet unattached and would actually, as Hugh said, recognize her sterling qualities—and was not just woman-starved from too much time in the wilderness.

  Not that she had an overabundance of sterling qualities. Mama doubtless despaired of making her less outspoken, less bookish, more willing in the kitchen, and less eager to be right at Daddy’s side, in the thick of trade.

  All good qualities for the wilderness, Daddy insisted, but she doubted it was so.

  Amid cheering, Sally and Wiley were cutting the cake Missus Rice and her girls had made. Hugh stood beside Rachel, watching, his smile gradually fading. “I hope he does well by her,” he muttered, as if to himself.

  At Rachel’s alarmed stare, he met her gaze with a tight smile. “If you will excuse me—?”

  “Of course,” she murmured, as he moved away to speak with Reverend Rice.

  The cake was cut and served, and the scraping of a fiddle announced there would be music and dancing, despite the frowns of Preacher and Missus Rice. But both Sally’s parents danced a jig when the tune was right for it.

  The hour grew late, and the time came for Sally to go home with her new husband. Rachel took the opportunity during the goodbyeing to draw her friend aside and hand her a parcel tied with twine. Sally pushed back a stray lock of gold, her eyes going wide. “And what is this?”

  Rachel laughed. “A wedding present, of course. What did you think?”

  Sally slid the twine off, careful to keep it whole, and unwrapped the brown paper to reveal folds of rich indigo-dyed wool. A sigh escaped her lips as she shook it out to find that it took the form of a woman’s cloak.

  Rachel held her breath, waiting her friend’s reaction.

  “Oh Rachel, it’s lovely!”

  “Do you like it? For true?”

  Sally threw her arms around Rachel then drew back to examine the garment more closely. A wide hood, a frog of silken cord connecting the edges at the throat, and its length billowing long enough to cover an entire skirt, and not just to the fingertips. “I ain’t never had anything so fine, and that’s a fact. I love it! Thank you ever so much.”

  Rachel let herself smile this time. “’Tisn’t scarlet, and seems like that’s the color everyone wants—”

  “Oh no,” Sally hastened to assure her. “I prefer the blue.”

  She swung it around her shoulders, and as Rachel suspected, the shade offset Sally’s eyes, making them even more vivid than usual. “It suits you, as I knew it would.”

  Wiley came up at that moment, and Sally turned to him. “Look at what Rachel’s given me!”

  Rachel thought his expression a little stiff, but he seemed pleased enough. “Aye, ‘tis right nice,” he said in his thick Scots brogue.

  Sally beamed and turned back to embrace Rachel yet again. “Thank you again, my sweet friend. And—for being here today.”

  “Why would I not?” Rachel demanded, but Sally only squeezed her harder then stepped back, wetness shimmering in her eyes.

  “I have never been so happy,” she said.

  “And well you should be,” Rachel murmured.

  With all her things packed into a small wagon that Wiley and Micajah had driven to the wedding, Sally was handed up onto the seat by her daddy, who kissed her on the cheek and bid them farewell, after a few words to Wiley that none else could hear. Micajah followed, mounted on his own horse, and they all set off, away over to the ridge to the cabin they rented on Beaver Creek.

  Rachel lingered to help Missus Rice tidy up, but before long she found Hugh at her elbow. “Might I see you back to the station before I return home myself?”

  She needed only a moment’s consideration before responding with a smile. “That would be most welcome.”

  He set her up on his horse and walked beside, in the opposite direction the Harpes had taken. “I find it passing odd that Big Harpe went along home with the newlyweds,” Rachel said, as conversation lagged between them.

  Hugh sucked his cheek a moment. “Perhaps he intends to guard them on the way and sleep in the barn once they get there.”

  She felt her cheeks flaming but pretended that neither of them spoke anything amiss. “The country is far less uncertain than it once was, although—I suppose that could be the case.”

  Hugh’s gaze came to hers. “Is it true they say that the Harpes lived with the Cherokee themselves for a time?”

  Rachel’s shoulder lifted. “Doesn’t necessarily mean anything, if so. Plenty of Cherokee were friendly.”

  “Plenty more weren’t.”

  “True enough.”

  She should have felt more eerie about the woods, which thickened as they ascended the foot of the ridge, but she didn’t, not with Hugh at her side. He might be bookish, but she’d seen him shoot. He was more than capable with rifle, knife, or tomahawk, and had ridden against the Indians more than once before going away to law school.

  “Much has changed in a few years,” Hugh mused. “Although this country is wild yet, and will be for a long while.”

  Patting the bay mare’s satiny shoulder, Rachel scanned the forest, broken here and there by the occasional clearing where newly hewn cabins stood, and fields of corn and tobacco, with smaller kitchen gardens closer to the houses. “A beautiful country it is,” she said.

  “Very much so,” Hugh murmured. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “I hardly blame the red man for fighting to defend it.”

  “Nor do I,” Rachel agreed. Although she had to admit things had been ever so much quieter the last couple of years sin
ce August of ‘94, when General Wayne defeated the Shawnee up at the Battle of Fallen Timbers in Ohio Territory. The men of the Tennessee settlements had led a raid on the Cherokee town of Nickajack later that year. The Cherokee, Creek, and others had been far less of a terror since.

  Over the next rise they climbed, and then down the sharp descent of the ridge, at an angle to the slope first one way and then the other. At last the untidy cluster of buildings that comprised Campbell’s Station came into view, and stopping outside the one bearing a placard proclaiming it TAYLOR‘S TRADING POST, Hugh helped Rachel down. “I must hurry on,” he said. “Though Eliza had other obligations that prevented her from attending the wedding, I promised to stop in and tell her every detail.” His smile flashed a little too sharply for a moment. “And then I may have a letter to write.”

  Without thinking, Rachel popped his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Oh, you.” This drew only another laugh from him, and she gathered her skirts and turned to go inside.

  “Rachel.”

  She hesitated, meeting Hugh’s earnest gaze.

  “It was good to see you today.”

  She smiled a little. “You as well.”

  They’d crossed the ridge north of her parents’ home, then cut northwest, where the deepening forest seemed to swallow them. Sally gripped the seat with one hand and clutched her shawl with the other so she was not pitched from her perch by the roughness of the path, barely wide enough for the passage of the wagon.

  She peeked at Wiley, sitting beside her, his tall, muscled frame slightly hunched, reins slack in his hands.

  Hands that had already touched and known her most secret places. And now, she was his wife not only in body but in word and law as well.

  He caught her looking at him and smiled back. “I cannae believe this is happening at last.”

  The rumble of his Scots brogue sent shivers across her skin. “Nor can I.” She scooted closer, and as she leaned into his side, he wrapped an arm around her. Finally they could kiss and cuddle, and no one could say it was unrighteous to do so. “And I cannot wait to see the cabin. Our new home. I get to be mistress of my own household!”

  Wiley’s smile dimmed then flashed. “Of course you do.”

  Something about the way he replied niggled at her, but she tucked her head and leaned her cheek against his chest. They were married in truth, and it was all that mattered.

  The road grew rough and narrow, and as Wiley straightened so he could take the reins with both hands again, Sally drew away a little, bracing herself once more. The sun had fallen below the tree line, and another shiver made her pull the shawl snug about her shoulders. “Almost there,” called Micajah, from behind.

  Sally glanced back at her new brother-in-law. People called him “Big” Harpe, and Wiley, “Little,” but there was nothing little about her new husband—except in comparison to Micajah. But she refused to call either by their nicknames.

  Micajah met her gaze and gave her what she could swear was the most un-brotherly smile she’d ever seen.

  Despite the unevenness of the road, she turned around and leaned into Wiley’s shoulder again. “So where’s Micajah going, now that we’re married?”

  “What d’ye mean?”

  “Well.” Sally swallowed. “He’s not going to live with us—is he?”

  “Aye, why would he not?”

  “But—we’re married now.”

  Wiley looked down at her, his expression blank and uncomprehending. Her breath lodged painfully in her throat. “I was looking forward to—well, to us being alone.” At least at first, because babies would undoubtedly follow. “And—” Her face burned now. “Some things do require us being alone.”

  Her husband of just a few hours shrugged. It was the opposite shoulder, but a shrug nevertheless. “It’s his home too. Where else would he go?”

  Sally stuttered to silence. Mama and Daddy shared a sleeping space with her younger siblings, but both had been insistent the older ones sleep in the loft. “For privacy,” Mama had always said, with a glance toward Daddy that was always met with a twinkle and a little smile.

  Micajah’s smile looked too much like that, come to think of it.

  The forest shadow held a sudden chill her shawl would not allay.

  They rounded a bend and turned off a rutted track onto a path that was not only barely traceable through the underbrush but just wide enough for the wagon. Wiley looked unperturbed as he guided the horse down a slope, the wagon’s side scraping bushes and weeds, until they emerged into a clearing where a cabin and a couple of rough outbuildings stood.

  Humble surroundings, and a yard more cluttered than not, but little else to be expected of a pair of bachelors, Sally supposed. The cabin looked solid enough. And she’d be glad of the opportunity to get down and stretch—

  A figure moved behind the cabin’s unshuttered window.

  Sally smothered a yelp as Wiley pulled the horse to a stop in the yard. The door opened and a woman, tall and rawboned, stepped out onto the porch. A second female figure, more slight, followed her, and they came to the edge of the steps and stared at Sally.

  Who were these wild-looking creatures, with hair braided untidily back and dresses that could only be described as slovenly, at best? Were they Indian, or white? Sally surmised white, by the shade of their skin and hair, as well as the cast of their features, but rarely had she witnessed such destitution.

  She couldn’t even find the words—or voice—to ask Wiley why these women were there, much less who they were.

  He set the brake on the wagon and came around to hand her down.

  “Look at that!” the taller of the women said. “Passin’ her down like she’s a fine lady.” And they both laughed.

  Wiley kept hold of Sally’s hand and turned toward the women. “This is my wife, Sally,” he said to them, an odd note in his voice. “And, Sally, this is Susan and Betsey.”

  “Or, as we call them,” came Micajah from behind them, “Honey and Tunney.” He too laughed. “We could call you Sunny, with the color of your hair.”

  Sally stared around at the four of them. Only Wiley’s expression remained stiff, though he too forced a laugh. “But—who are they? Your sisters?”

  At that, all four truly did laugh, long and heartily. Sally stared at them, face heating, the pressure in her breast building yet again.

  “Sisters,” the shorter of the two women said, wiping her eyes. “Oh, aye. Susan and I are sisters, sure enough.”

  Somehow, the sniggering tone to her voice belied the words. Sally held her tongue, and turned her gaze to Wiley.

  Her new husband. Who somehow had not thought it worth mentioning that two other women lived in the same cabin as him and his brother.

  His own laughter died to a mere chuckle, though his mouth still pulled wide in a grin. “Susan and Betsey are, ah, aye, they’re family.” He stepped to the side of the wagon and pulled out one bundle, handing it to Sally, while Micajah lifted another and a basket that Mama had carefully packed with supper items. Before Sally could respond, he handed it off to the women, who squealed and whisked inside.

  Sally did not move. “Who are they, Wiley, truly?”

  He drew his shoulders back and gazed at her with marked belligerence. “I told you. Family.” His eyes flicked to Micajah, who leaned against the post by the porch steps, arms folded.

  She looked from one to the other. “Is one of them—your wife?” she finally ventured, to Micajah.

  His lazy smile widened. “Aye. My wife.” The ugly features split in a full grin, aimed Wiley’s way, and her new husband shocked her with a chuckle before taking her elbow.

  “Come on, Sally.” Wiley directed her up the steps, as Micajah brushed past them on his way to lead the horse and wagon to one of the outbuildings.

  Sally was not sure at all that she wanted to go inside, but his hand on her elbow gave her no choice.

  The interior of the cabin lay in as much disarray as outside, if not more. Over at
the table, the two women chattered, but quietly, over the contents of her basket. “That is—”

  “For our supper?” Wiley finished, with a little smile.

  Sally stood in the middle of the room, gazing around. Besides the table, flanked by two benches, a pair of rope-strung bed frames stood against one wall. A thin, stained tick adorned each one, with a blanket or two. Assorted clothing hung on hooks or lay in piles. She swallowed, and could hardly catch her breath. Lord God in heaven, what have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter Two

  June 1798

  Campbell’s Station, Tennessee

  Five hundred pounds of sugar, two hundred coffee, six bolts of muslin, and twenty spools of thread. Three pairs of lady’s gloves. Two copies of Gulliver’s Travels.” Jed Wheeler, the wagon master who’d brought their latest delivery, scratched his jaw and, blue gaze glinting, fixed Rachel with a hard look. “You sure you can sell those all the way out here?”

  “People have need of education,” she said. “Did you bring any other books?”

  “Aye,” he said slowly, “but Reverend Carrick claimed them already.”

  “Ah.” Of course the Presbyterian minister, seeking to establish a university, would receive priority over a lowly frontier station.

  “I have my doubts about those gloves as well.”

  Rachel looked up from the list she was compiling for his next trip, and flashed a smile. “We pay you to bring the goods, Mr. Wheeler, but is selling them not our business?”

  Behind him, the eyes of the wagon master’s lanky son widened, despite the teasing note in her voice, but his father only laughed. “That it is, Miss Taylor.”

  She chuckled along with him and went back to her list. “Now then. Where are you headed from here? To Charlestown or Savannah?”

  The older man set his hip against the tailgate and folded his arms. “Actually thinking of making the trip to Philly this time. Anything in particular you want or need from there?”

  “Ooh.” The possibilities were endless. She glanced over at Daddy, just emerging from the back of the post building, with an unfolded letter in hand. “Mr. Wheeler says he may be going all the way to Philadelphia. What would we want most for him to bring back?”