The Cumberland Bride

by Shannon McNear

Mr. Bledsoe gave a short nod then stepped away.

  “Really, Papa, I’m sure I can walk,” Kate murmured.

  “Perhaps.” He pushed to his feet. “Johann, see if your mother has aught for clean wraps.”

  Kate bent and pushed at one of the torn toenails. That would bear snipping with her sewing scissors, at least, before it snagged on the wrapping, and before her toes warmed enough to truly hurt.

  Thought of her sewing kit, bundled across her back, gave way to thought of—

  “Oh no!” She pulled the strap of the sodden haversack from over her shoulder and head, and scrambled to open it.

  The contents were damp but not completely soaked, but even so—she drew out the carefully wrapped roll containing her journal pages. The buckskin pocket she’d sewn for it had, for the most part, preserved them, and only the edges were damp—

  “Katarina,” Papa said, disapprovingly. “Is that what it appears to be?”

  Kate froze and stared up at him. “It’s—my journal, Papa.”

  The crinkles around his eyes deepened. “Your journal.”

  Half a dozen explanations came to her lips then died. She closed her mouth, tucked the pages back inside their pouch, and the pouch back inside the haversack before picking up the completely sodden packet of sewing things she’d laid on the rock beside her.

  “Katarina. The expense of parchment and ink—”

  “I take in extra mending along with Mama to make up for it,” she said quickly.

  He blew out a hard breath. “You are not a child, Kate. We have talked of this. You told me you understood.”

  She blinked away the burn of her eyes so she could better see where to apply the scissors. Her feet were beginning to hurt, but she could still hardly feel it under the weight of Papa’s censure.

  Then Mama arrived. “We will speak of this later,” Papa said quietly but firmly, as Kate snipped the first bit of torn toenail away.

  Thomas forced his attention to the rest of the party, leaning to look where others were just putting stockings and shoes back on, conferring with the pack master, Jenkins, on proper foot care. While they might have a bruise or two, none of the others seemed as needful of attention as Miss Gruener—but none of the others had been trying to lead a packhorse while making the crossing with bare feet either. He’d been on his way to relieve her of the horse’s lead when she’d fallen, and while the young’uns were in no real danger, he was glad to be as close as he was when the horse got loose.

  The young woman was beginning to concern him though. She’d need to look sharp if she was to survive settling the frontier, and this was the second mishap in as many days.

  They weren’t even to the most difficult part of the trail yet. What would happen once they were?

  All he could do was watch, and no more. There was one in every traveling party, he supposed, and it’d been long enough since he’d scouted that he’d forgotten how vexing it could be.

  He walked back through the crowd, rested enough and shoes back on, to retrieve Ladyslipper. The Gruener family still clustered, but the oldest daughter was now astride the packhorse, lead rope looped about in place of a rein, both small children dispersed to others.

  Thomas untied Ladyslipper and swung into the saddle, then held her back as the others moved out. Miss Gruener did the same, and he edged Ladyslipper closer to her mount. “Might be best if you had a bit and bridle now, instead of halter and lead.”

  Her head dipped, cheeks coloring. “How likely is he to wander from the back of the line?”

  Thomas shook his head a little. “Wandering isn’t the concern. Being able to hold him if he startles, is.” In fact, he wasn’t sure why Jenkins hadn’t used a bit and bridle for when the young’uns rode, but maybe he’d counted on the horse being led by someone else. He watched the line moving out, set Ladyslipper into motion beside the packhorse. “You should be fine for now. I’ll ask Jenkins at the next stop.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  He peered down at her feet, swathed in wrappings. Before he could comment, she said, “Mama was too zealous with the bandages. My shoes won’t fit.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” he muttered. “Keep you from wandering off.”

  Her head snapped around, her dark eyes wide—then she completely shocked him by bursting into laughter. Honest, genuine laughter, musical and rich, not the annoying titter of so many girls.

  A reluctant grin tugged at his own mouth in response.

  “It might, at that,” she said finally.

  The change in perspective was not unwelcome by any means. She’d felt far less anxious about their river crossing the day before, accomplishing it on horseback rather than trying to wade the current—even with having Jemmy and Stefan to contend with as well as guiding the horse through the water. Having a real bridle would make things simpler, but she’d not cause even more trouble by owning it before the next stop. Hopefully the silly horse would not cause any trouble on his own.

  Though the guilt still lingered over making Papa carry Stefan, and Jemmy having to walk, her feet were throbbing in earnest now inside Mama’s bandages. It was a relief to not be forced to endure putting her shoes on over that.

  And the whole landscape seemed different from atop a horse. It reminded her of when she was yet small enough to ride in the wagon during their travels, but without the bone-jarring rattle, and of the times she’d ridden behind Papa. Only this—this was better because, being at the rear, she had a view of the entire traveling party, interesting in its own right.

  She peeked over her shoulder at Mr. Bledsoe, who’d finally dropped behind enough to allow her a full breath. Fortunately he was well occupied with scanning the woods around them, trotting that lovely mare up the rise parallel to the road and not peering back at her. She’d need to get over being all a-jitter in his presence, or it would be a very long and tedious journey indeed.

  Not to mention she’d never pluck up the courage to ask him about himself. And how difficult could that be, anyway? When the young Hughes boy nearly wouldn’t leave the night before, so eager was he to share. It always seemed the more willing a body was to share their story, the more likely that story wasn’t worth hearing.

  Although, everyone’s story was worth hearing. She couldn’t let herself be so unkind. But some were more worth hearing a second time than others, for certain. And Jacob Hughes did not fit that category, at least not thus far, not when half of his chatter was merely bragging about what he and his father and brothers planned to accomplish once they reached Kentucky.

  A gust of wind drew a shiver from her. ’Twould be nice if the sun would come out. She’d given her shawl to Jemmy that morning, so at least she had that back, dry and warm, but sitting on horseback and not walking on her own meant her wet clothing was especially chilly. She bent and wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck, and that helped. And with them merely plodding along this part of the road, she didn’t need to pay particularly close attention.

  The next thing she knew, someone was shaking her shoulder. “Miss Gruener…wake up, Miss Gruener.”

  A persistent rocking motion lulled her nearly into not responding, but the shaking of her shoulder was so at odds with comfort that she dragged her eyelids open just to see who dared disturbed her.

  The tight-lipped face of Mr. Bledsoe hovered near. She started and sat up, rubbing her eyes, and he moved away. “Are you well? You shouldn’t be falling asleep on horseback.”

  “I—so tired.” She covered a yawn and drew the shawl more tightly about her shoulders. Another shiver overtook her. “And cold.”

  The movement made her cap and pins slip, and she reached up to catch the mass before it tumbled completely down. Gracious, she was a mess.

  She’d truly fallen asleep on horseback?

  Mr. Bledsoe’s expression went a little less severe. Edging his mount closer to hers again, he reached over and rummaged in one of the packs, then pulled out a woven wool blanket. “Here. Wrap this around you. No
sense in coming down sick from the wetting you got.”

  An unaccountable thickness swelled her throat as she pulled the edges up over her shoulders, the back of her head, and under her chin. She’d deal with her cap and hair later. “Thank you.”

  He bobbed a nod, tucked the pack edges back under, and flipped a corner of the blanket higher so it wouldn’t drag the ground.

  “How many sisters do you have?” she blurted.

  He stilled, eyes widening a little. “Four,” he answered slowly, then finished arranging everything and made to move his horse away again.

  “How many older, how many younger?” The words tumbled out of her before she could think.

  “Two each.” His hands twitched on the reins then relaxed.

  “Any brothers?”

  He shook his head, gaze scanning the woods around them.She smoothed a hand across her face again and also looked around. More lovely spring woods, and a few laurel among the rocks but—otherwise unremarkable. An abandoned-looking cabin stood along the road behind them.

  “Do your sisters have names?” she asked.

  He snorted, a corner of his mouth lifting. “They do.” He hesitated so long that she thought he wouldn’t reply, but then, “My parents were partial to good, solid Puritan names. My older sister is Truth, then came Patience, and the younger are Thankful and Mercy.” With a sudden, full grin that did something strange to her insides, he added, “And me they named Thomas, after my grandfather.”

  “Oh!” She winced a little at the tone of her exclamation, and tried to modulate her voice. “Those are lovely. And—there’s no shame in sharing the name of one of Christ’s disciples.”

  “The doubting disciple,” he said too quickly, some of the humor fading from his expression.

  “Still.” She found herself determined to tease the smile back to his face. “It could be worse—much worse. You could have been named Steadfast, or Comfort, or—like my own grandfather, Goodwill.”

  She was rewarded with a quick glance and a silent laugh, then a shake of the head. “Or Troublesome.”

  “Persistence,” she said, also laughing now. “Worthwhile.”

  The smile fled again, as if that suggestion sent him into deep thought. “Tribulation. ’Tis close enough that they named me Doubtful.”

  She shifted on the horse’s back so she could better watch his face. The blanket and her hair were slipping, but she ignored it. “No. Thomas became most worthy, later.”

  His gaze came to hers and held. “Did he?”

  “Yes. He traveled into Asia, all the way to India, where he preached the Lord and later died an honorable martyr’s death.”

  The pale eyes rounded. “You know this, how?”

  She smiled a little. “My papa entertained notions of entering the church in his younger years. He’ll tell you he studied overmuch.”

  His expression was a study, to be sure, but she wished he would say more. Instead he tore his gaze from hers, shook his head again, and fell silent for another short space. “I have an uncle who was given the name Loving,” he said, slowly as before, as if he had to chew the words before releasing them. “Most times it gets shortened to Lovin’.”

  “And—is he? Loving, that is.”

  He glanced back to her, as if startled she was still there. “He’s a good man.”

  “And where is he now? If I may ask, that is.”

  His eyes narrowed as he tilted his head to look across a far tree line. “You do ask a lot of questions.”

  “I like…hearing people’s stories,” she murmured, ducking her head again. “Hearing where they’ve been, what they’ve seen. What makes them who they are.”

  “Mmm.”

  She peeked at him, and he seemed to be chewing on that as well.

  So, she was bookish. In his experience, the bookish ones were often the clumsiest, but that wasn’t anything she could help, and he didn’t have anything against a good story himself. No harm in telling her a bit about the uncle he loved as well as his own pa.

  “Lovin’ was at Kings Mountain, where my pa was killed. He and his family, along with one of my older uncles, live up in western Virginia, but they’ve been talking of going west as far as St. Louis. Two of my older uncles, though, were killed over at Bledsoe’s Lick, north of Nashborough—one about six years back and the other just last year.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Miss Gruener murmured.

  He sneaked her a glance. Those dark eyes just watched him. Her cap and hair were askew, but she appeared not to notice, and he sure wasn’t going to point it out.

  “I should be scouting the sides of the road and not jawing,” he muttered.

  “I thought there was less danger this side of the gap.”

  True enough, but—he leveled her the sternest look he could summon. “Mostly.”

  “Well.” A flush overtook her cheeks again. “Please do not let me detain you.”

  A chuckle rose in his chest at her sudden stiffness. Miss Gruener turned away and fumbled with the falling cap and coils of hair. Bright, rich gold it was, all unfurled down her back.

  He was like to get himself slapped for staring. Yet somehow he couldn’t move.

  She swiveled toward him, eyes wide, fists full of blanket and cap and pins. “Here, since you have sisters—hold these.” She shoved a hand at him, and without thinking, he opened his. Hairpins tumbled into his palm, followed by the wad of linen that was her cap.

  Before he could comment, she wrapped the blanket more securely around her waist, and went to work on gathering up the glorious tangle of her hair.

  He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen that particular color. Not loose and tumbling everywhere. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even move except to hold his hand out closer where she could reach for the pins once the tangle was tamed enough for them.

  Her own small hands, now that was a safe focus. They moved, nimble and quick, twisting strands into place. Swept a pair of pins from his palm, tucked those in, returned for more.

  He caught her glance as she put the last ones in place and took the cap back. “Thank you,” she murmured. Again.

  His breath returned in a rush. With a quick nod, he yanked his attention away—back to the line of travelers stretching ahead, to the folded hills on either side, the short meadow spreading off to the left. He could almost wish for some sign of trouble to give him a reason to gallop away.

  “So”—her soft voice rose above the horses’ plodding hooves—“Loving Bledsoe is the youngest of your uncles?”

  Another nod. When he looked back at her, the trailworn cap once more draped her head, all proper-like, and she was tucking the blanket back up over it and around her shoulders.

  Much less distracting now. “He was the youngest child of my grandfather, and his mother was our grandfather’s second wife. My pa’s three older brothers were already grown by the time Loving came along. And then he wasn’t much more than a baby when my grandpa disappeared on a long hunt into Kentucky.”

  Miss Gruener turned to look at him. And once again, he couldn’t seem to remember where he was going with that thought.

  Only—oh, that was it. The question that had always lingered in his mind of whether Grandpa hadn’t perished after all in those deep, forested hills, as they’d surmised, but simply never returned. And all the years that Thomas half expected to run across the old man, near ninety years of age by now, holed up in a cave somewhere, lean but hale, having chosen to never return to civilized society.

  The howling deep in his own being yearned to do the same.

  Return to the Shawnee.

  He dismissed the thought and found himself blinking at Miss Gruener.

  “How difficult that must have been for all of them,” she said.

  He shrugged. “’Twas no more than what anyone coming into this country should be prepared to face.” Both the gesture and the words were more diffident than he felt, of course, but she needed to understand.

  “Yes. I’ve heard the storie
s.” She clutched the blanket closer. “I suppose anytime there is a push into a new land, some lives will be lost. At least, that’s what Papa says.” She angled him another glance. “Are you one of them? The long hunters, I mean?”

  He stared back, and a rusty laugh burst from him. “The time of the long hunter is past, Miss Gruener.”

  Oddly, she did not laugh or smile in response, but gazed at him thoughtfully. “Do you wish you’d been then?”

  Her question caught him by the throat. “Aye.”

  That was the crux of the matter, precisely.

  And just how did this doe-eyed girl manage to wrest that admission from him?

  “I must return to my duty,” he muttered, and heeled Ladyslipper away into a stand of laurel.

  Mr. Bledsoe’s abrupt departure left Kate feeling oddly bereft. She watched him lope off into the brush, then straightened to see Papa watching her. She gave him a small wave.

  It was a thoughtful thing Mr. Bledsoe had done, pulling out that blanket for her—indeed, of noticing her hurt feet to start with and insisting she ride. And then the way he’d let her prevail upon him to hold her hairpins and cap, for pity’s sake. Perhaps he was just being kind and protective because of his own sisters. He certainly seemed reluctant enough to speak of himself. Modesty—or did he simply not enjoy talk? Many folk she’d known did not.

  Unfortunately many of those had the most interesting tales to tell, when one could get them talking.

  She’d not give up on Mr. Bledsoe yet. Perhaps Papa could persuade him to sup with them this evening before he went off to scout or at least before he went to stand watch, and being with her family would encourage him to unbend a little.

  Her gaze went back to him, threading his way up along one of the hillsides parallel to the road. The thought that he’d offered to let her ride that beautiful mare…

  Papa’s almost disapproving refusal echoed through her memory. Was that because he didn’t feel she could handle the horse? She should ask.

  Having handed Stefan off to Johann, Papa stepped to the side of the road and waited until Kate reached him, then fell into step beside the packhorse. “Is all well, Daughter?”