The Frontiersman’s Daughter

by Laura Frantz

  The

  Frontiersman’s

  Daughter

  The

  Frontiersman’s

  Daughter

  A NOVEL

  LAURA FRANTZ

  © 2009 by Laura Frantz

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Frantz, Laura.

  The frontiersman’s daughter : a novel / Laura Frantz.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-8007-3339-1 (pbk.)

  1. Frontier and pioneer life—Kentucky—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3606.R4226F76 2009

  813’6—dc22 2009007483

  Scripture is taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  For my granny Lena Blanton.

  I miss you more than words can say.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Kentucke, Indian Territory, 1777

  In the fading lavender twilight, at the edge of a clearing, stood half a dozen Shawnee warriors. They looked to the small log cabin nestled in the bosom of the greening ridge, as earthy and unassuming as the ground it sat upon. If not for the cabin’s breathtaking view of the river and rolling hills, arguably the finest in the territory, most passersby would easily dismiss such a place, provided they found it at all. The Indians regarded it with studied intent, taking in the sagging front porch, the willow baskets and butter churn to one side, and the vacant rocking chair still astir from the hurry of a moment before. Six brown bodies gleamed with bear grease, each perfectly still, their only movement that of sharp, dark eyes.

  Inside the cabin, Ezekial Click handed a rifle to his son, Ransom, before opening the door and stepping onto the porch. His wife, Sara, took up a second gun just inside. A sudden breath of wind sent the spent blossoms of a lone dogwood tree scurrying across the clearing. From the porch, Click began speaking in the Shawnee tongue. Slowly. Respectfully. A smattering of Shawnee followed—forceful yet oddly, even hauntingly, melodic.

  Sara and Ransom darted a glance out the door, troubled by every word, yet the unintelligible banter continued. At last, silence came. And then, in plain English, one brave shouted, “Click, show us your pretty daughter!”

  Within the cabin, all eyes fastened on the girl hovering on the loft steps. At thirteen, Lael Click was just a slip of a thing, but her oval face showed a woman’s composure. Her pale green eyes fastened on her father’s back just beyond the yawning door frame.

  She put one cautious foot to the floor, then tread the worn pine boards until she stood in her father’s shadow. She dared not look at her mother. Without further prompting she stepped forward into a dying shaft of sunlight. A sudden breeze caught the hem of her thin indigo shift and it ballooned, exposing two bare brown feet.

  The same brave shouted, “Let down your hair!”

  She hesitated, hearing her mother’s sharp intake of breath. With trembling hands she reached for the horn combs that held back the weight of fair hair. Her mane tumbled nearly to her feet, as tangled and luxuriant as wild honeysuckle vine.

  Woven in with the evening shadows was a chorus of tree frogs and katydids and the scent of soil and spring, but Lael noticed none of these things. Beside her, her father stood stoically and she fought to do the same, remembering his oft-repeated words of warning: Never give way to fear in an Indian’s sight.

  Softly she expelled a ragged breath, watching as each warrior turned away. Only the tallest tarried, his eyes lingering on her as she swept up her hair with unsteady hands and subdued it with the combs.

  At last they were gone, slipping away into the wall of woods. Invisible but ever present. Silent. Perhaps deadly.

  Evening was a somber affair, as if the Shawnee themselves had stayed for supper. To Lael, the cold cornbread and buttermilk that filled their wooden bowls seemed as tasteless as the cabin’s chinking. Somehow she managed a sip of cider and a half-hearted bite now and then. Across from her, her mother managed neither. Only her younger brother Ransom ate, taking his portion and her own, as if oblivious to all the trouble.

  Looking up, she saw a hint of a smile on her father’s face. Was he trying to put her at ease? Not possible. He sat facing the cabin door, his loaded rifle lounging against the table like an uninvited guest. Despite his defensive stance, he seemed not at all anxious like her ma but so calm she could almost believe the Indians had simply paid them a social call and they could go on about their business as if nothing had happened.

  He took out his hunting knife, sliced a second sliver of cornbread, then stood. Lael watched his long shadow fall across the table and caught his quick wink as he turned away. Swallowing a smile, she concentrated on the cabin’s rafters and the ropes strung like spider webs above their heads. The sight of her favorite coverlet brought some comfort, its pattern made bright with dogwood blossoms and running vines. Here and there hung linsey dresses, a pair of winter boots, some woolen leggins, strings of dried apples and leather-britches beans, bunches of tobacco, and other sundry articles. Opposite was the loft where she and Ransom slept.

  The cabin door creaked then closed as Pa disappeared onto the porch, leaving her to gather up the dirty dishes while her mother made mountain tea. Lael watched her add sassafras roots to the kettle, her bony hands shaking.

  “Ma, I don’t care for any tea tonight,” she said.

  “Very well. Cover the coals, then.”

  Lael took a small shovel and buried the red embers with a small mountain of ash to better start a fire come mornin
g. When she turned around, her ma had disappeared behind the tattered quilt that divided the main cabin from their corner bedroom. Ransom soon followed suit, climbing the loft ladder to play quietly with a small army of wooden soldiers garrisoned under the trundle bed.

  Left alone, she couldn’t stay still, so taut in mind and body she felt she might snap. Soon every last dish and remaining crumb were cleaned up and put away. With Ma looking as though she might fall to pieces, Lael’s resolve to stay grounded only strengthened. Yet she found herself doing foolish things like snuffing out the candles before their time and pouring the dirty dishwater through a crack in the floor rather than risk setting foot outside.

  The clock on the mantle sounded overloud in the strained silence, reminding her the day was done. Soon she’d have to settle in for the night. But where was Pa? She took in the open door, dangerously ajar, and the fireflies dancing in the mounting gloom. She sighed, pushed back a wisp of hair, and took a timid step toward the porch.

  How far could an Indian arrow fly?

  Peering around the door frame she found Pa sitting in the same place she’d found him years ago that raw November morning after his escape from the Shawnee. They had long thought him dead, and indeed all remnants of his life as a white man seemed to have been stamped out of him. His caped hunting shirt was smeared with bear grease, his deerskin leggins soiled beyond redemption. Except for an eagle-feathered scalp lock, his head was plucked completely clean of the hair that had been as fair as her own. Savage as he was, she’d hardly recognized him. Only his eyes reminded her of the man she once knew, their depths a wild, unsurrendered blue.

  Tonight he was watching the woods, his gun across his knees, and his demeanor told her he shouldn’t be disturbed. Without a word she turned and climbed to the loft where she found Ransom asleep. There, in the lonesome light of a tallow candle, she shook her hair free of the horn combs a second time.

  The shears she’d kept hidden since the Shawnee departed seemed cold and heavy in her hand, but her unbound hair was warm and soft as melted butter. She brought the two together, then hesitated. Looking down, she imagined the strands lying like discarded ribbon at her feet.

  A sudden noise below made her jerk the scissors out of sight. Pa had come in to collect his pipe. Her sudden movement seemed to catch his eye.

  “You’d best be abed, Daughter,” he called over his shoulder, his tone a trifle scolding.

  She sank down on the corn-husk tick, losing the last of her resolve, and tucked the scissors away. If she changed her mind come morning, they’d be near. Catlike, she climbed over the slumbering body in the trundle bed beneath her, surprised that a seven-year-old boy could snore so loud.

  The night was black as the inside of an iron skillet and nearly as hot. She lay atop the rustling tick, eyes open, craving sleep. The night sounds outside the loft window were reassuringly familiar, as was her brother’s rhythmic breathing. All was the same as it had ever been but different. The coming of the Indians had changed everything.

  In just a few moments’ time the Shawnee had thrown open the door to Pa’s past, and now there would be no shutting it.

  She, for one, didn’t like looking back.

  2

  Lael leaned over her mother’s shoulder, thinking how small and dark she was, her hair black as a crow’s wing yet tipped white at the temples. Standing behind her so fair and tall, they hardly seemed related. Lael supposed she was her father’s daughter from head to foot. Sometimes it seemed she’d received nothing from her ma except the privilege of being born.

  Lately Lael wondered if she might better understand her ma if she tried to be more like her. As it was, she couldn’t quite grasp her mother’s longing for a civilized life and her hatred of all things savage, nor her stubborn refusal to stoop to settlement speech, never uttering so much as an aye or a nay. Around her Lael took care to never utter so much as an ain’t.

  She watched as Ma fumbled with a bolt of cloth, nearly sending it off the table. Lael caught the fabric with a steady hand, struck by sudden sympathy. Her ma hadn’t stopped shaking since the Shawnee appeared. Had it been only yesterday? Since then she’d waited for Pa to announce he was moving them to the fort like he’d done in the past when Indian sign was prevalent. Keeping them at home, especially in light of her mother’s nerves, seemed tantamount to sitting on a keg of gunpowder. But Pa was not given to flinching at shadows, even if his wife was.

  “I never thought to see such fine fabric on the frontier,” Lael finally said, helping to smooth out the soft folds.

  Just last winter they’d paid for the costly silk with three bundles of feathers and a bearskin. A pack wagon had come to the fort just before Christmas with a wealth of eastern cloth, and they’d liked this best. In the candlelight the green fabric looked like a polished apple. An extravagance of milk white ribbon lay alongside it, garnered with a bushel of salt.

  “Time you had a new dress, and some petticoats beside,” Ma said. “Susanna weds the first of June. We’ve nary a week to finish this gown if you’re to stand up with her.”

  So soon, Lael thought, but given the trouble, would they go to the wedding? She felt like holding her breath in anticipation. Settlement frolics were few and far between, and she so loved to dance. She’d been pleased but not surprised when Susanna had picked her as a bridesmaid. Ever since settlement school they’d been fast friends, unsullied by the trouble swirling around them. Although Pa disliked the quarrelsome Hayes clan, he had a soft spot for Susanna. He wouldn’t attend the wedding himself but said she could. Now she prayed he’d not change his mind.

  “I’ll help sew,” Lael offered, though she hated to. Handwork had always eluded her. She was ashamed to admit her uneven stitches were pronounced “crooked as a dog’s hind leg” by every seamstress in the settlement.

  “I’ll manage,” Ma said with a sigh, straightening to look her over. “But I do wish you’d stop growing. You’re a whole head taller than me already. And look at those feet! Why, they’re as big as your pa’s!”

  Lael said nothing to this. There was simply no pleasing her mother. She nearly winced as Ma passed to the back of her and clucked her tongue ominously. With a start, Lael touched her heavy braid and remembered the scissors.

  “You’ll not take a hand to her hair, Sara Jane.” From the shadows her father forbade any further talk. He sat by the rock hearth in a ladder-back chair, his rifle against one knee, a small worn copy of Gulliver’s Travels in his hands. He’d read it countless times, both aloud and silently, and could quote long passages by heart. Somehow it had survived his Indian captivity, returning as intact as he himself.

  As Lael studied him he looked up at her, the light of affection in his eyes. Once again she found herself wishing she could sift his secret thoughts. It was too quiet in the cabin. Every ear seemed tuned to trouble. She glanced toward a half-shuttered window, her thoughts in a worried tangle. Surely the Shawnee wouldn’t come a second twilight eve.

  Ma rose from the table in search of something, while Ransom lounged near the barred door with Nip and Tuck. The old hounds weren’t often allowed inside. Their presence was another reminder of how everything had changed. Nip was asleep, but Tuck’s heavy head was raised as if listening. Lael felt unease steal over her at his intensity. Animals always sensed trouble first, whether it was hens refusing to lay or cows balking at being led to pasture.

  “I never misplace my scissors,” Ma was saying, rummaging through her sewing chest in a corner of the cabin. Her strident tone cut through Lael’s reverie and sent her scurrying up the loft ladder where she groped about in the darkness beneath the trundle bed. The cool metal was a potent reminder of what she’d almost done, and she breathed a silent prayer to the Almighty who’d spared her so foolish an act.

  How could she possibly have lopped off her hair then stood before the whole settlement, shorn like a sheep? But it wasn’t the settlement she cared about, truly. Only one man mattered, and merely thinking about him sent her down the
ladder with a pink sheen to her cheeks.

  Furtively she placed the scissors next to the fine fabric, saying nothing but feeling her father’s eyes still on her. Tonight his close attention was especially unnerving. Since yesterday he seemed to regard her in a new way—fiercely, even a bit desperately—as if she might disappear and he wanted to be sure he remembered every nuance of her form and face.

  Despite the heat of the closed cabin, she shivered. Her father was a man of deep feeling and few words, and tonight his eyes told her a host of things she’d rather not know. She sat down on the bench beside the trestle table, hardly hearing her ma’s exclamations of pleasure at the reappearance of the shears.

  A hard knot of alarm formed in Lael’s throat as she toyed with the frayed hem of her cambric apron. If only Pa would explain some things, help her make sense of the Shawnee’s sudden appearance. Her nerves were rubbed raw when it came to the tallest warrior, the one who’d called her out of the cabin. He had so startled her by speaking English that her eyes had lingered on him a bit too long, and now her memory refused to give him up.

  But it was more than this, truly. The bewildering way Pa had spoken to him—to them all—only added to her confusion. As the strange Shawnee words spilled from his lips like music, every syllable undergirded with familiarity and affection, she’d known without the slightest doubt that these six warriors were no strangers.

  “Lael, are you listening? We’ll have to make half a dozen jam cakes for the wedding supper,” Ma was saying, her hand slicing through the green fabric with the newly sharpened shears. “That calls for thirty-six eggs, so be sure you don’t drop a one.” Her warning gaze touched Ransom then took in Lael. “You’ll need a new pair of shoes if you’re to stand up before the whole settlement. I’ll not have you barefoot, or worse, in moccasins.”

  Lael shifted uneasily in her seat, amazed at her mother’s sudden shift in mood. How could she possibly talk trivialities at such a tense time?

  “I suppose my old slippers might fit you, though they’re liable to rub you raw with all the dancing. I’ll never forget when Will Blanton wore those too-tight boots to his own wedding years ago. One made a sore on his heel and he lost a leg.” Laying the scissors aside, Ma crossed to a large trunk and opened the heavy lid, sorting through a host of nearly forgotten things, finally holding the shoes aloft. Long and elegant with small, square heels, they were the color of butter and spoke of a different life—a civilized life—lived long ago. Their appearance seemed to unlock a storehouse of memories, and Lael saw a sudden wistfulness touch her mother’s face.