by Laura Frantz
But she was already inside despite the angry murmur of the soldiers looking on. Her breath caught as she took in the Indians, their familiar dress and bearing. Ian looked up, warning in his gaze. Whirling, she pinned the soldier to the wall with one look. “Cherokee? Don’t you even know the difference? These men are Shawnee.”
Overcome, she kicked the door shut with her boot, blocking out the sight of his loathsome face. Three Shawnee warriors were being held in the cold, smelly room. Not a blanket was in sight, nor a scrap of food or water. The smell of urine assaulted her. Legs weak, she dropped her load by the door. The Shawnee were staring at her. At least one of them looked familiar.
She uttered the only Shawnee words she knew, “Oui-shi-cat-tu-oui.” Be strong. Long ago when he’d returned from captivity, Pa had taught her this, and she’d never forgotten. It seemed to sum up his life among the Indians and admonish her as well.
One Indian, who looked to be a chief, echoed the words back to her. She took in the eagle feathers affixed to his hair with a silver disk, his buckskin leggins and frock shirt, the fine beadwork on his moccasins, so like Captain Jack’s. Looking at him brought back a swift, intense longing, further muddying her feelings. He sat proudly on the dirt floor beside another warrior, his face impassive.
At the back of the dim room lay a third man, mortally wounded. She smelled decay and saw clearly the devastating injury Ian worked to treat. Gut shot, she knew. When he drew back, she looked away from the bloody rags that bound him. She could do but one thing to help.
She pushed open the door. “I need hot broth and fresh water,” she ordered, but the men only stared, some glaring with contempt, others simply stoic.
One soldier said, “We’d sooner scalp ’em than feed ’em. And since we cain’t scalp ’em, we ain’t gonna feed ’em either.”
“They’re dead men tomorrow, anyhow,” said another. “Best not waste good grub.”
The hate in their voices nearly made her falter. Looking on, Ian rose from tending the men and went to speak to the nearest officer, and in time he returned with what she requested. She took it gratefully, though she felt it mattered little to men who had hours to live. Working together, they did what they could to make the men comfortable, easing the dying man with a blend of her strongest herbs and Ian’s most able medicines.
Finally she sat back, spent and unable to ignore the forlorn feeling that permeated the fetid room. If only she’d known what the day had in store, she wouldn’t have come. Ian might handle it dispassionately, outwardly stoic at least, but she could not. As long minutes ticked by, memories of Pa and Captain Jack and the past were being resurrected, and she felt herself unraveling.
“We canna do any more this day,” Ian finally said, and she breathed a silent prayer of thanks, scooping up her saddlebags and following him to the corral.
Her melancholy deepened as they rode out. At the gate, Ian was detained by Major Bristow, but Lael kept riding, pushing Pandora ahead, thinking they might not make it home before nightfall, if they ever did.
Were more Shawnee waiting outside the walls? She looked around at the naked winter woods and ridges with a growing unease. The cold bit into her, and she lowered her head in the rising wind, a light snow stinging her damp face.
She was crying now without really knowing why, and she couldn’t stop shaking. Within minutes she heard the drum of hoofbeats behind her, and the sound only made her ride faster. She wanted to be alone, to put distance between her and the past. But Pandora was no match for the big bay. All at once they were neck and neck and Ian was reaching for her reins, slowing her. He stopped her completely beneath an enormous elm, out of the way of the falling snow. She dismounted and turned her back on him, leaning against the rough trunk.
Without a word he draped his wool coat around her shaking shoulders, though it was his arms she wanted. She saw his hair had come loose of its tie and hung like a black curtain against the white muslin of his shirt. She’d not stood so near him before. Why, she barely grazed his chin. It had been the same with Captain Jack.
She shut her eyes tight, aching to shut out the angst in her heart as well. His voice was laced with misery, and that hurt her too. “Lael, I never meant for this tae happen. If I’d known aboot the Shawnee, I’d no’ have taken you there.”
She nodded, understanding.
“I’m glad it wasna him, ye ken.” His breath hung like a cloud in the bitter air. He looked every bit as grieved as she felt. If it had been Captain Jack, what would she have done? Something rash, surely. But the silver bracelet beneath her sleeve now seemed cold and tarnished and empty of meaning. She didn’t know how he was or where he was or even if he was. Would she ever?
Her voice was brittle. “Did you ask to see the Shawnee?”
His mouth tightened. “Ask is a wee bit weak for what I did. The major finally gave in, but I couldna save the worst of the three. And he wouldna listen when I argued tae let them go free.”
“Holding them—mistreating them—will only make matters worse. The Shawnee will retaliate one way or another.”
“And the conflict will continue,” he agreed. “But both sides will answer for their evil in the end, ye ken.”
She looked down. “I’m beginning to see the way of things, how there will be no peace, just like you said. Sometimes I think I can’t stay here another day to see Kentucke overrun with settlers and soldiers and the destruction it will bring.”
The snow was swirling now, the lovely flakes like lace upon his blue coat. Though her expression grew firm, almost resigned, tears continued to make their way to her chin. She kept her eyes on his muddy boots and wondered what he thought of her silence and tears and confusion. Practicality prodded her to pull herself together and consider matters at hand. Ian needed his coat back, and if they didn’t start soon, they’d both be benighted in the woods. But before she turned away to go, he stepped nearer.
Gently, ever so carefully, as if she was spun glass and he might break her, he framed her damp face with cold, callused hands and brought her head up. At his touch she trembled and saw a flash of concern darken his eyes. Was he thinking of Olivia?
His hands fell away and he stepped back. Looking at him, she felt bewildered. He was the doctor again, his expression carefully schooled, betraying nothing.
With great effort she emptied her voice of all emotion. “We’d best make haste or we’ll find ourselves frozen by dusk.” With a nod he helped her into the saddle, taking care, she thought, not to look at her again. They rode side by side for miles without speaking, but strangely, the silence was full of solace, and she felt that he understood her, even as she struggled to understand herself.
59
One dreary January eve there came a knock, and even before she answered, Lael knew who it was. Ransom stood behind her as Ian emerged from the rain into the cozy cabin.
“I’ve been tae the Blisses,” he said, eyeing Lael. “And I couldna pass by withoot stopping tae see my favorite patient.”
Since the fiasco at Cobb’s Station, Lael had been housebound with a severe cold, unable to make any calls. He’d stopped to see her more than once and dosed her with some of his own remedies, but none, she informed him, had been as effective as her herbs.
As he hung up his coat on the peg by the door, she felt a queer, near speechless joy. “Come in and thaw out, and I’ll fix you something warm.”
As he sat down by the fire, she set about grating her best brick of tea and adding a generous amount of ginseng. Soon the voices of the men were as steady as the rain on the roof. Ransom had taken up his pipe again, but just as abruptly put it out as she approached with the steaming cups.
To her surprise, he stood up. “Pardon me, Doc Justus. But I’m off to hunt.”
Lael stared at him. “Hunting? In this weather? You’ll soon be as sick as I was.”
Shamelessly he winked at her. “I hunt rain or shine, just like Pa.”
She felt her dander rise, but across from her Ian seemed n
onplussed. She passed him a cup and kept one for herself. He’d taken Ransom’s chair, and she sat down in her own across from him, facing the fire. An awkwardness crept in and she hated that it came between them. Did he feel it too? Yet she dared not look at him. “I—I’m sorry about Ransom leaving so all-fired fast.”
“I’m no’. How are you?”
She looked up then. How was it possible, she wondered, that his eyes, even in the shadows, were such a startling, soul-arresting blue? “Much better,” she answered, stifling a sneeze.
His eyes turned intense. “So how are you, truly?”
Truly? Still sore from Cobb’s Station. Still thinking of Captain Jack. And Olivia. Still wondering about the man who now sits staring at me. “I’m better now, in body and spirit,” she said simply but sensed her answer didn’t satisfy him.
He took a drink. “English tea, Miss Click?”
She smiled faintly at his formality. “Nay, Dr. Justus. Mostly ginseng.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Ginseng. ’Tis in my book, the one you made for me.”
“Aye.” She nodded and prattled on, color high, despising herself. “Ginseng is a medicinal herb that flowers in July. ‘It cheers the heart even of a man that has a bad wife, and makes him look down with great composure on the crosses of the world.’ And its leaves make a pleasant tea.”
He smiled and a bit of her nervousness passed. But with him so near, she could never be at her ease. Even if his company was the most pleasant thing she knew.
“So,” she said, “you’ve been to see Will and Susanna. Are they well?”
“Aye. They asked the same aboot you.”
“Oh? And what did you tell them?”
“I told them I would come tae see.”
They were making polite conversation, and she found it maddening. She was past all pretense now. Each time she saw him his nearness gnawed at her, and it seemed nothing between them would ever be right . . . until he’d taken her in his arms. She thought it now as she sat across from him and tried not to notice the way the wind and rain had whipped his hair into damp waves. Or that his linen shirt, no longer white but more a dingy gray, still fit his sturdy shoulders so snug despite the slight tear in the sleeve that she longed to mend.
She sensed he had something on his mind, and she feared it was Olivia. Not since Susanna had spoken her mind at the knob had Lael given serious thought to her belief that he loved her and not Olivia. He didn’t—couldn’t—love her. He was always so careful with her, rarely touched her, never let his eyes linger on her overlong. She was his friend and fellow helper. Nothing more. But oh, how she wanted more . . .
She never had to wait long before he spoke his mind. She almost smiled when he looked straight at her and said, “There’s tae be a revival in Lexington, and I came tae ask if you care tae go.”
“A revival? When?”
“In a fortnight. The tenth of February, tae be exact.”
She knew she must look surprised. A revival in Lexington, and they didn’t even have a preacher in the settlement. His question, spoken innocently enough, seemed to ask something more of her besides, and she sensed it was far more than a mere invitation, after all. It seemed strangely like . . . a test.
When she didn’t answer, he said, “A fellow Scot will be preaching there. His name is Duncan Leith. He was a friend of my faither’s.”
Her face brightened then faded. “Can’t both of us be gone at once. I—”
“I’ve asked a fellow physician from Lexington tae come in our stead, tae stay on at the fort until we return.”
“I guess I’ll go, then.”
“I wanted tae ask Ransom besides. ’Tis a wee bit of a journey. We’d have tae stay the night in a tavern and take our meals there.”
She sat back in her chair and cupped the warm mug in her hands. “I’ve not been to Lexington in years.” Not since Pa’s courtmartial. She took a sip of tea, the excitement of something new and unexpected dawning on her face. “And it’s been a long while since I’ve heard a true preacher.”
“All right then. Ask Ransom tae come. If he canna, Colonel Barr may go in his stead.”
“Colonel Barr!”
He smiled. “God’s ways are a wee bit mysterious, tae be sure.”
Like yours, she felt like answering. He finished his tea and now stood looking down at her.
“Why, you’ve hardly dried out,” she protested.
“It doesna matter, truly. I’ll be wet all over again by the time I reach the fort.”
“Oh, please stay . . .” It was the closest she’d ever come to asking something of him, and she teetered on the brink of taking his arm.
He hesitated. “If I stay till Ransom returns, that might be a verra long time. Besides, we have nae proper chaperone . . . and no’ a single courting candle tae be had.” His eyes went to the mantle as if in search of a candlestick and then fell on her again, full of fun.
Her lips parted, then closed again. But I miss you, she could not say. Their time together over Christmas, bittersweet though it was, begged repeating. She followed him to the door and, on impulse, helped him on with his coat. If the gesture surprised him, he gave no sign of it. He stood a pace apart, hat in his hands.
“You havena changed your mind aboot Briar Hill?”
Oddly, the simple question hurt her. “Nay,” she said softly. “I’m still thinking on it.”
When he’d gone, she stood, hands on the latch, hating to shut the door on his presence. Soft as sap she was becoming! Ransom found her by the fire, sitting very still and staring into the flames.
“Why, you’re wet and then some,” she said.
He took a chair and made a move to dry off. “I just had to set my traps.”
She shook her head in wonderment. “Maybe you are like Pa.”
“Actually, I have to confess—it ain’t no traps I’ve set. Well, maybe a small one. For that purty little gal over on Drowning Crick.”
“What? You’ve not been here three weeks. You sure haven’t wasted any time finding her.”
He grinned. “A man’s not meant to be alone.”
“You’re hardly a man yet,” she chided.
“I’ll be old enough come spring.”
She sighed. “Well, I’ll be glad when you’re settled up at Neddy’s, like you plan. Living alone was hard on him. When I last saw Neddy, he had the look of a man in need of a good woman. Maybe it isn’t good for a man to be alone, like Scripture says.”
He crumbled some tobacco and lit his pipe. “You could take a lick of your own medicine.” She looked at him, and he continued matter-of-factly, “Ain’t you ever gonna get married?”
She stopped rocking suddenly but said nothing. Her eyes were on her hands now, and she pretended to make a fuss over the cut she had taken skinning a deer he’d shot that morning.
He went on, guileless. “I never cared for Simon much. But I like the doctor a heap.”
So do I, she mused.
He puffed on his pipe in silence for a time before saying, “I wish you wouldn’t try so dadgum hard not to like the doc, Sister. It’s plain to see you’re sweet as sorghum over him.”
Her chin came up. “Sweet as sorghum!”
He pulled his chair closer to her own, his expression conspiratorial. “How’d you figure it’d settle if you just told him?”
“Told him what?”
“That you’re plumb crazy about him.”
She gave an agitated push to her rocker, face hot, thinking she should just go on to bed. But she couldn’t resist setting him down a tad. “It’s the man who does the telling, you’d best remember, Ransom Click. I’m no Jezebel.”
“So you do love him.”
She sighed. “I’m fond of him, I reckon.”
He hooted and she jumped a bit, annoyed.
His grin growing wider, he asked, “And is he fond of you besides?”
“Nay,” she said flatly with a firm shake of her head. “His heart lies in Boston. With a lady named Olivi
a.”
He fell quiet, puffing on his pipe. “Olivia. That’s a mighty fancy name.”
“Word is, she’ll be here come spring.”
He quieted again, taking in all the facts.
She stirred from her rocker, her heart so overfull and sensitive she feared it might burst. “And since we’re setting things straight, you might as well know that Ian came over to ask if we’d go to Lexington with him—to a revival. And you also need to know I’m not a—a believer.”
He looked straight at her. “I bet Miss Olivia is.”
She looked hard at him, too tired for a drawn-out discussion but too curious to quit. “How so?”
He set his pipe on his knee. “Doc Justus ain’t one to tie to no unbeliever. Scripture is dead set against it.”
She stood stone still on the loft ladder, tempted to question him further, but she was too weary. Best to puzzle it out herself in the morning, she decided, with Neddy’s Bible.
His voice came again just as she collapsed on the bed, and it almost seemed he spoke to himself. “I know you ain’t a believer, Sister. But that don’t stop me from wishing it was so. Or praying that it comes to pass.”
60
Ransom’s voice, when it came, drowned out the pounding of the rain on the roof. “Where’s Doc Justus?”
Lael shrugged, then sneezed, further ruffled by the disappointment in his voice. “Gone home, I reckon.”
Rarely did Ian bid her good-bye at the door after they’d made a call together somewhere in the settlement. Lately his habit had been to stay on, taking supper with them or at least talking some with Ransom. But today he had departed immediately, seeming preoccupied and a bit distant. She felt a bit wounded, too quick to catch his every mood.
“That’s a cryin’ shame,” he said, going to the hearth and removing a skillet from the spider. “I made a heap of supper.”