That one had been too cocky, by half. Maybe he’d step a little more careful next time.
Someone said there was an ordinary just a bit down the road where they could stay the night, but those in charge decided it best to find a likely spot to camp near the river rather than count on lodging for all at the inn. Kate waited until her father had helped Jemmy down from the horse before she climbed down as well and took Stefan. Rest would be welcome this night, although a roof might have been even more so.This wasn’t her first experience with camping, but they’d always had the wagon for shelter before.
She peered at the scudding mist still rimming the mountaintop across the river and the hills on their side and drew her shawl about her shoulders again before herding Jemmy and Stefan away to the bushes. They’d not be able to lay out bedding and such until the pack master and his crew unloaded the horses.
It had been a good day, all things considered. Even her two youngest siblings had managed the entire day without fussing, except when one needed the necessary, as she’d expected.
Talk of how to lay out camp and who could do what swirled around her. Some helped lead the horses away to be watered, while others began sifting through the unloaded bundles. At the prospect of rest and with their first river crossing behind them, spirits remained high despite the speculation of rain by morning.
Cook fires were started, and provisions brought out. Mama oversaw the boiling of salted beef for supper and water for coffee. With the children’s needs tended, Kate let Stefan totter about the camp, keeping a firm hold of his leading strings, while Dulsey and the other girls helped Mama with the cooking.
Papa was busy…somewhere. Kate glanced about to see where he might be, but at the moment, he was nowhere in sight. Stefan chose that instant to fling himself in the opposite direction, the sudden tug on his leading strings catching her off guard. Hand tightening on the strips of cloth, she stumbled, recovered, and gasped as Stefan lurched toward the heels of a passing horse.
A lean figure swooped in and caught Stefan out of harm’s way. Startled into dropping the leading strings, Kate found herself looking into pale blue eyes before their hired scout turned his attention to the small boy in his arms, now squawking in protest. “Hie now,” he said. “You can’t be throwing yourself at the back hooves of a horse you don’t know.”
Popping a finger into the corner of his drooly mouth, Stefan stopped and gazed into the young man’s face.
“At least not on the first day,” Kate said.
The post-rider-turned-scout glanced between her and Stefan, then smiled, eyes crinkling in genuine humor. “Preferably not any day.”
A giggle escaped her, a high-pitched, frivolous bit she was sure made her sound like a child. Cheeks heating, she held out her hands for Stefan. “Thank you for catching him up so quickly.”
He passed Stefan back over, his smile fading, but a certain softness remaining as he looked at the boy. “He yours?”
Kate settled him against her hip. “Ah—yes. I mean, no. He’s my brother, so he is mine, but—” Oh, confound her tangled tongue and the blush she could feel once more overcoming her face. How was she ever to speak to the man comfortably enough to inquire about his stories?
A chuckle gusted from him, surprising her. He reached to catch Stefan’s outstretched fingers and waggle the child’s arm. “I was near raised by my oldest sister, so…sometimes it’s hard to tell who the real mama is.”
She gave a rueful laugh as well. “That it is. Mama is often so busy… but I don’t mind.”
His chin tucked, and his mouth flattened a little. “My mama—she died when I was a boy.” His throat moved with a heavy swallow. “My papa too. You’re fortunate to still have yours.”
With that, he put Stefan’s hand from him and strode away.
Now, why in the world had he said that? He’d no reason to be spilling to this girl…no reason in the world. Nothing besides the open grin on that baby’s face and the reflected innocence in the face of his sister.
Sister. Why couldn’t she have been the babe’s own mama, in truth, already well claimed by some man? Then he could simply disregard her shy glances, the curiosity in those warm brown eyes instead of being drawn in like the fool he obviously was, blurting things he’d rather not speak of with anyone.
He threw himself back into the work of unloading the packhorses, toting bundles hither and yon as directed by their owners. Resisting the urge to cast a glance about for that fair girl with the dark eyes, and her darling infant brother, no matter how many times he crossed paths with those he knew already were her family members.
It was a relief when the unpacking was done and he could leave Ladyslipper on her tether and retreat to a hillside above camp, both to scout and soak up a bit of quiet.
He took silent, measured steps, slowly circling the camp, breathing in the smell of loam and dogwood. This might be the one thing to save his sanity on this journey. If so, he’d volunteer for watch every night.
Having made two circuits about the camp, he settled on a ridge overlooking it. The aroma of coffee and cooking salt beef drifted on the wind. His belly rumbled, but he refused to move.
He should go down and eat. He should.
“Here you are,” a male voice said from not too far away, a little winded. “A hard man to find, you make yourself.”
Thomas rose as Karl Gruener stepped into view in the twilight, bearing a pewter plate and a tin mug. His gut gave another growl.
Gruener nodded and smiled. “Hungry, I’m sure you are. I’ve brought you food and coffee.”
Thomas accepted both with a word of thanks. The coffee was decently strong, the beef and bread filling. While he ate, the other man watched him without comment for a few minutes.
“Is there need for watch tonight, truly?” he asked at last.
Thomas flicked him a glance. “P’raps not. But best to be ’ware, just in case.”
Gruener nodded. “I trust you in this. But should the others not help you keep watch?”
“I asked Jones to come relieve me after a couple of hours.” It was either that or sleep on his post. Not even he could stay awake all night and then again all day.
A brisk nod and the other man sat down beside him.
The quiet wrapped them about as Thomas set aside the empty plate and sipped the coffee. A whip-poor-will started its wistful song, and a second one joined in. Thomas released a long breath.
Peace, at last.
Crouched at the fire, Kate poured coffee, this time into her own cup. Papa had already taken a cup and plate and gone in search of their scout. She swiveled, preparing to rise, but found her way blocked by a pair of large feet and gaiter-covered legs, both shoes and garments a bit worse for the dip in the river. Above a coat that at one time had been blue, a youthful male face offered a grin. “Could I get some of that coffee?”
One of the Hughes boys. About her age, if she didn’t miss her guess by the attempt at whiskers on his chin.
“We’ve a bit left, I think.”
Kate picked up the cloth she’d used to lift the pot, then glanced up again in search of the young man’s cup. His hands were, predictably, empty. With a suppressed sigh, she considered her own cup, then held it out to him. His grin widened as he scooped the cup out of her grasp. “Many thanks.” He drank, humming in appreciation. “I’m Jacob Hughes.”
With a tight nod, she rose, stepping back to put space between them and brushing off her petticoat. She looked up to find him staring at her, eyebrows raised.
“And you are?” he prompted.
“You may address me as Miss Gruener,” she said crisply.
“Oh. Well. Of course.” The smile faltered, then found purchase once again. “The coffee is mighty fine. You make it?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Some of the best I ever had.”
His eyes were shining in the firelight, unrelenting in their admiration. Kate glanced away. She’d been looking forward to that coffee.
She could go borrow Mama’s cup, of course, or wait until Papa returned from feeding their scout…
Bledsoe, she corrected herself. His name was Mr. Bledsoe.
The Hughes boy was still sipping at his coffee—her coffee—and gazing at her, so she squared her shoulders and turned back to him. “So. Is it your elder brother who has a wife and babe, or your father?”
She thought she knew the answer to that, but it was best to get all the connections straight from the outset.
Jacob Hughes likewise straightened, looking inordinately proud that she’d chosen to speak to him. “My brother, James. That’s Sarah and aye, their babe, Johnny. My father is John Hughes and our mother died a few years back.”
Her thoughts flashed back to Mr. Bledsoe’s pronouncement. Loss of any sort was difficult, and he’d spoken correctly, she should be glad to still have both parents. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she murmured, with as much sincerity as she could muster. “Any other sisters or brothers?”
“Two sisters, Rebecca and Rachel. A brother, Joseph. He’s the one who fell in and ruined his powder.” He was nearly preening now. “We came down the Great Road from Philly, wintered at Blue Lick.”
Well, this one would have no problem spilling his story. Through a wave of weariness, she forced a smile and let him keep prattling.
She’d sorely miss that coffee.
It was a relief when Mama called her over to their part of the camp to help get the younger children settled. Her feet ached and her eyelids would barely stay up, but helping tuck Stefan and Jemmy in meant she could lie down for a few moments.
Gracious, but that must be how Mama felt.
With clouds still thick and grey and the hilltops heavy with mist, dark fell quickly. The little ones were plenty weary as well, and for once didn’t protest bedtime.
Papa came walking out of the gloom, carrying the plate and cup, both empty, and handed them off to Mama. “I’ve washed these.” When she continued to look anxiously into his face, he bobbed his head and continued, “All is well, ’Mima. Let us bed down and sleep.”
He’d made them a pair of tents from canvas which during the day wrapped their possessions and were loaded onto the horses. Tonight they’d provide a bit of dryness in case the promise of rain materialized.
Kate hesitated in the opening of the one where Jemmy and Stefan lay. “Do you need me to do aught else, Mama?”
“No. You’ve helped much tonight. Thank you.”
She wavered at the strangeness of Mama’s spoken gratitude and crawled back inside. Next to Stefan—for Jemmy lay on his other side—she burrowed under a woolen blanket and a coverlet, and scrunched to get comfortable. Stefan snuggled in against her back and sighed. Kate echoed it, silently.
The sounds of camp settling wrapped them about. Low voices in conversation. The horses stamping and snorting, not far off. A baby crying then hushing. Whip-poor-wills calling out on the ridge above, as they had been since just before dusk.
Somewhere out in the dark was their scout. Would he be able to sleep tonight at all? Kate couldn’t imagine anyone standing watch all night. She drew a long breath, held it, released it again with a half-articulated prayer for his well-being and that of the entire party.
“In vain the watchman stayeth awake.”
That wasn’t the entirety of the verse, nor could she be sure she quoted it correctly, yet the truth remained that it was ultimately the Lord’s care that preserved them from harm.
But the sharp ears and eyes of that young man couldn’t be amiss if the need arose.
Morning dawned with a bit more edge to the wind and the clouds more thick and grey, spitting definite rain. No choice but to move on, the pack masters said. They’d make the gap tomorrow, if all went well.
They bundled their belongings and loaded them as the day before, set the children and women with babies on horseback, then started out after prayer. Someone murmured there’d be scripture read that night.
Kate drew her shawl closer about her shoulders and tried not to think about the ache in her body from yesterday’s exertion. She’d be trail hardened soon enough.
Deeper than the ache was a renewed chill, like the one she’d felt up on the mountain yesterday. The section of road they’d be traveling today took them through a series of narrow passages through the hills below and Big Sycamore Creek—passages that made the perfect place for an ambush by the Cherokee just last year. The Watauga Association had dealt with the threat, but it was still on everyone’s minds. She’d heard the whispers while they broke camp that morning but tried not to pay attention because, truly, what could they do but press on? And their journey had barely begun.
God could protect them, as the pack master had reminded them all before prayer—as she had reflected while falling asleep last night. And if they could not put their hope in Him, then—what else was there?
Spring flowers bloomed along the way—nodding bluebells and delicate spring beauties. Tiny white, forked blooms hung in a line on their stalks like so many pairs of breeches hung to dry. The occasional bloodroot. They provided welcome spots of color in the morning gloom, though she could not linger to enjoy them.
The streams and hills were beautiful enough in their own right. Dogwoods with their white blooms, redbud in pink, the laurel with their starshaped clusters. The trees beginning to leaf out. The overall hint of green gracing the forest.
It could still snow, they were told. Not until late April or May would the weather warm enough beyond any danger of that.
Would they see snow, crossing the gap? Today it seemed likely. Kate knew from accounts of others’ journeys that such had happened before.
They made it to Big Sycamore Creek with no mishaps, and crossed at a ford that was so lovely, so ideal, it seemed they could almost avoid getting their feet wet. Kate contemplated mounting the packhorse as she had the day before, but led the beast rather than trouble anyone for help. She’d save that for when it was truly needed.
Some removed shoes and stockings before crossing, because of the danger of foot scald. Kate hesitated then did the same, tucking them into one of the packs before stepping down into the water. Its coldness took her breath away, but she kept going, focusing on keeping her footing while hanging on to the horse’s lead—yet staying far enough away that the animal wouldn’t inadvertently step on her while it too navigated the rocky creek bottom.
They were halfway across and the cold no longer a shock to her feet and legs when her foot failed to find purchase on a muddy, slick patch, and down she went. Scrambling to stay upright, the rocks hard against her toes and ankles though no pain registered, she came up again as quickly as she could, flailing for the horse’s lead rope. But her fall startled the animal as well, and it rushed past, yanking the lead from her grasp. The splash of another horse heaving across the knee-deep expanse threw water in her face, and by the time she got her legs under her and stood, dripping and gasping, midstream, their mounted scout had caught up with the packhorse and snagged the lead.
Again, he’d intervened at her failure.
She stood, trying to regain her breath at the shock of the cold, then grabbing sodden skirts in both hands, waded ungracefully after them.
Both horses gained the creek bank, and Mr. Bledsoe drew them up short and turned to look at her, his eyes a pale glint under the hat brim. Suddenly she did not feel so cold. It was a wonder, in fact, that her clothing did not at that moment put out steam.
“My—gratitude—once again, sir,” she gasped, hauling herself up from the water’s edge.
He made no reply, nor any move to hand her back the packhorse’s lead. “See to your feet,” he said finally, and moved his horse farther up the bank before dismounting. The rest of the party was doing the same alongside the road.
She swayed, about to protest—but the prospect of plunking her backside on the nearest boulder for even a short rest didn’t seem so undignified after all, under the circumstances. So she sat, her lungs still heaving, and dre
w back her skirts to peer at her feet.
Two or three toenails were ripped, one torn completely off, and all bleeding. And was that bruising or just mottling from the cold? Some of both, it would appear.
“Those’ll bear wrapping,” came Mr. Bledsoe’s voice, from right at her shoulder. She started upright. His pale eyes met hers for a moment, impassive, and he squinted at her feet again. “You ought to ride, at least for a day or two.”
“But—the packhorse is already carrying so much.”
“No helping it,” he said evenly. “Your feet’ll be useless if you keep walking, injured as they are. And you don’t weigh that much.”
“But—”
Papa came striding down the bank, Johann in tow. “Ach, Daughter, what have you done?”
“I only slipped and fell in the water, Papa—”
“Her feet are cut and bruised. She needs to ride, or later she’ll slow us down more,” Mr. Bledsoe supplied.
Papa glanced between them and bent to examine her feet more carefully. He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “No help for it then.”
“But the horses are already so loaded down,” Kate said.
“She can ride mine,” Mr. Bledsoe said, almost before she’d completed the sentence. “That is, if she can handle a horse.”
Kate could only blink at the beautiful mare tethered just up the bank, and then at Papa, who regarded Mr. Bledsoe with a narrowed gaze. “Thank you, but that is not necessary,” he said at last. “Johann and I will take Stefan on our shoulders and let Kate ride with Jemmy. If it comes to that, Jemmy herself can walk a while.”
The Cumberland Bride Page 4