“Yes, Papa. Why would it not be?”
His blue eyes strayed to the distant figure of Mr. Bledsoe and his excellent mare. “Does he behave with honor toward you?”
A slight chill swept her. “He does, Papa, thank you.”
Though his brow remained knitted beneath the plain, black felt hat, he nodded. “You will say so if he does not, is that understood?”
“Yes, Papa.” She hesitated. “Do you—not trust him, Papa? Is that why you refused to let me ride his horse?”
Papa did not answer immediately. He swallowed once or twice, gazed a long time at the rovings of their scout, then said, “We simply do not need to be any more indebted to him than necessary.”
She nodded as if she understood—which she did, in part, but not entirely. “He speaks to me but with reluctance. Even inquiring about his family, which he seems to hold in affection, I had to pull every little shred out of him piece by piece. Then when he’d share larger bits, he seemed almost dismayed by the fact that I’d gotten him to speak. So—I’d not worry overmuch. I think he does not like me.”
Papa peered at her for a long, hard moment. “I would debate that, leibchen.”
Something fluttered in Kate’s middle. “What—why would you say that, Papa?”
He shook his head. “Just—let the man have his secrets, Katarina. Stop pestering him.”
“Pestering? I am not!”
Papa just smiled and kept walking.
“Papa!”
He reached over and patted her ankle. “Trust me, leibchen, I know you mean well. Perhaps he simply does not enjoy—talk.”
Kate thought of his unaccountable nervousness, how one moment he did seem to enjoy conversing with her, and then in the next, making excuses and leaving abruptly. “Unlike Jacob Hughes,” she muttered.
Papa’s attention snapped back to her. “Pardon?”
She blew out a breath. “It’s nothing, Papa.” But his sharp gaze would not be refused, so she went on, “Jacob Hughes came by last night, asked for a cup of coffee. And was all too happy to talk, though I was tired and simply in want of a quiet moment by the fire.”
The corner of his mouth tweaked upward briefly. “Well. You will say so if he continues to be a bother, yes? Or anyone else, for that matter.”
“Of course.” A giggle rose in her chest at the disparity between his severity and apparent amusement. “I simply wish that Mr. Bledsoe would speak even half as much as Jacob Hughes. He is far more interesting.”
Papa’s smile grew. “And that Jacob Hughes would speak only half as much as he does?”
“Precisely.”
At midday with a sky beginning to clear, Mr. Jenkins, the pack master, called for a halt. Already aching in places she’d not previously been aware of, Kate was glad to dismount and stretch. Stepping down from the horse, however, brought a sharp reminder of why she’d been instructed to ride. Her feet were not so tender as she supposed they’d be if she had to wear her shoes, but neither dared she wander far in mere bandages.
She handed the packhorse off to Johann and padded away into the laurel. There was talk of stopping that night at an ordinary, more for safety and convenience than need of shelter. They’d all have to accustom themselves to the illusion of privacy in the woods along the way, regardless of where they camped, but being able to use an actual necessary, with walls, would be a welcome change—especially when the rawness of her toes made picking her way among the boulders such a trial.
If not for her sore feet, she could wander all day, the hillside was so beautiful.
On the way back, she looked up long enough to glimpse a view across the hills—not quite as breathtaking as the one from Clinch Mountain, but enchanting nevertheless, with ribbons of mist clinging across the far mountaintops, but lit by the sun peeking through above. She lingered, drinking in the sight. A pity, almost, that they couldn’t settle right here. If not for Papa’s promise of Kentucky’s richness, she’d be tempted to ask that very thing.
She wasn’t sure if where they were headed in Kentucky had hills. She would miss the mountains though.
“Come, Daughter!” Papa’s voice floated down the hillside. “We’ve plenty more views to take in farther up the road.”
She plodded back up the way she’d come and emerged from the laurel to find Mr. Bledsoe standing at her packhorse’s head, fitting the beast with a real bridle. Her cheeks burned. Of course he’d have heard Papa’s call. Everyone would have—and why the thought of his opinion on it mattered was beyond her—but that didn’t stop the blush.
He adjusted the headstall and looped the rein over the horse’s neck, then turned to her as if he’d known the entire time that she was there. Without a word, he bent and offered a hand for her to step into, elbow braced against his knee.
The heat in her cheeks swept the rest of her and burrowed deep in her chest. Even so, she accepted the offer and placed one foot in his broad palm, then pushed off with the other, ignoring the throb from bruised toes.
He lifted her with what seemed no effort, giving her such extra momentum she nearly pitched over the other side, all the packs notwithstanding. Muffling the squeak threatening to escape her throat, she settled herself then peeked at him. Beneath the brim of his hat, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his bearded mouth.
“Mind you don’t saw on the bit,” he said, without looking up. “Makes a horse’s mouth tough.”
He gave the beast’s shoulder a pat and walked away to collect his own mount.
And of course Papa was standing a few paces away, watching with an inscrutable look on his face. Kate swallowed and collected the reins. Papa just nodded and started back down the road.
The afternoon waned by the time they made the tavern and trading post at Tazewell. Camping at inns or taverns along the way, though it meant having to deal with more folk, would lend itself to Thomas’s need to hear the latest from up and down the road. And hearing outside news was a welcome distraction. Especially after the events of this day.
How one slip of a girl could upend his attention was beyond him, but Katarina Gruener managed it. Or Kate—likely she preferred that to the longer name, not that it signified anything. He’d best keep it to Miss Gruener, even in his own thoughts.
As on the night before, he helped unload and tend the horses, toting packs to this part of camp or another as requested. At one point he found himself face-to-face with the formidable Mrs. Gruener, who fastened him with a searching look before breaking out in an unexpectedly warm smile. “Would you mind terribly, bringing this bundle for me?”
He bobbed a nod and shouldered the pack, then trailed her across the camp to a snug little corner of the tavern yard where Miss Gruener sat upon a section of log, unwrapping her feet. Their black servant knelt beside her with a basin of water.
She was being seen to. ’Twas not his concern. Thomas set down the bundle, accepted Mrs. Gruener’s thanks, then made his retreat.
He made sure Ladyslipper was picketed, unsaddled, and had fodder for the evening, then headed for the tavern.
Inside, he elbowed up to the counter, setting the butt of his long rifle on the floor, with the barrel supported in the crook of his arm. The tavernkeep greeted him with a grin. “Bledsoe! Good to see you. What’ll it be, man?”
“Ale, please.” While the stocky older man drew him a mug, Thomas pulled off his hat and hung it over the rifle barrel. “What news of the road to the north?”
Cole slid the mug into his waiting hand. “Surely you ain’t still riding post? I heard tell they stopped that.”
Thomas shook his head then sipped at the ale. The bitter, nutty brew rolled across his tongue and went down smoothly. A very decent one, as Cole’s always were. “Scouting for a party of settlers headed to Severn’s Valley. And aye, Kentucky might be a state now, but Governor Shelby is still sorting things out.”
Cole squinted at him. “You going to pick up doing that again when you can? Even after what happened with Ross last year?”
> He drew another long swallow. “Thinking to. Have to see.”
“Well.” The older man swiped a rag over the counter. “Road’s pretty quiet from here to just over the gap. Much nonsense happening up around Boone’s fort with the whiskey tax. Talk is of getting Daniel Morgan and his boys to crack down on the whiskey makers.”
A third draught, and Thomas could feel himself beginning to relax. “I’m interested more in what you hear of the Shawnee and Chickamauga.”
“Hmm, well, you know how it is. Always someone finding settlers with their skulls split along the way.”
“Cole,” Thomas said, warningly.
A dimple flashed, incongruous against the man’s jowls, and for some reason Thomas thought of Kate. Miss Gruener.
Cole shook his head and leaned both meaty hands on the counter. “Quiet there too, but…not. Rumblings from the Cherokee, as always, especially to the west. No one’s really sure what the Shawnee are up to. There’s talk of a council at Fort Detroit. But I hear tell the woods in Kentucky are still, like before a storm, waiting for trouble to break.”
Thomas nodded slowly and sipped. Not truly helpful, but nothing in particular to flag his caution either. Only the gnawing restlessness he knew better than to ignore.
A group of men burst into the tavern—some of his own traveling party, mingled with some he’d never seen before. Thomas took his mug and tucked himself against a wall, as much in shadow as he could get by with. Nursing his ale, he could sift through the various conversations without anyone taking particular notice of him.
Hughes and Gruener and their oldest sons respectively filed up to the counter, Hughes greeting Cole and one of the other men, Gruener looking around the place and giving Thomas a slow nod.
The others were asking after news of the road as well, and of the Cherokees and Chickamaugas. Cole related essentially what he’d told Thomas, to which mostly unhelpful bits and pieces were added by the traders come down from Virginia. The whiskey tax was uppermost on people’s minds to the north—not that it was irrelevant here as well, but none of that mattered to the settlers Thomas was hired to scout for, at least not at the moment. Still, ’twas best to listen to the rumors and speculation about it all.
Gruener approached Thomas after a brief conversation with Cole about provisions. “If it please you, we’d be honored to have you sup with our family this evening.”
He wasn’t sure it pleased him at all, but Mrs. Gruener’s cooking had been tasty enough the night before. “Mighty kind of you.”
“I appreciate your care of Kate’s feet,” Gruener went on, dropping his voice for Thomas’s ears alone, his accent thickening. “She is stubborn enough to refuse it if someone does not insist.”
Thomas peered into his near-empty mug, then tossed back the rest of the ale. He had no reply for that except, “My sisters have their own share of stubborn.”
Gruener smiled a little. “I expect they’d need such out here.”
“Aye. And so will your daughter.” Thomas moved to slide his mug onto the counter. “Is there aught I can lend a hand with, to earn my dinner?”
The older man shook his head. “As if you have not already. You may help carry provisions from the trading post next door.”
Kate crumbled pieces of dry bread starter into the bowl of sweetened water and stirred gently until they dissolved. “If I had a pair of Papa’s or Johann’s shoes, I could at least walk around camp,” she muttered.
Dulsey shot her a tight-lipped frown. “You be staying put, now. If Mr. Bledsoe say your feet need rest, then rest you shall have.”
“Pushed about by you as well, am I?”
“Surely so. Do you need more flour there?”
“I believe I have a sufficient amount, thank you.” The starter was already beginning to bubble, so she scooped in some flour, stirring as she went.
Mama rounded the heap of bundled bedding, a pail of water in each hand. “Katarina Grace, are you arguing with Dulsey?”
“Never, Mama.”
“Of course not.”
Mama and Dulsey exchanged a quick smile. Kate shook her head. “’Tisn’t fair, Mama. My feet are fine for here in camp—”
“You let me be the judge of that,” Mama snapped back.
Kate subsided to a mutter again. “Dulsey did the bandaging.”
Mama’s fists popped to her hips. “Katarina!”
“You forgot to add ‘Grace.’”
Mama’s mouth hung open. Kate smiled and scooped more flour into the bowl. An inarticulate sound of exasperation came from Mama, and she threw her hands into the air and turned away. “See to that bread, and do not move unless your petticoats are on fire.”
“Yes, Mama.”
She held her grin until Mama was well occupied with another task, and even then kept her head down, stirring the dough with a vengeance. It was wrong of her to tease—so wrong, she knew this. At such times the words just popped off her tongue.
Why was it she could speak the wrong words so easily, but not find the right ones when the occasion warranted it?
The dough smooth and ready for rising, she handed the bowl off to Dulsey for covering and setting aside. Too early for brewing the coffee, but Dulsey was quick to pass her the grinder and coffee beans.
’Twas good to keep busy. Better yet, however, if she were allowed to move about.
She sighed and gave attention to measuring the beans. A little extra tonight—especially if Jacob Hughes made an appearance again, or should she be unmannerly and tell him they’d none to spare?
Tonight—and only for tonight—she’d make extra. Then ask Mama about it.
There was the added complication of not wishing to encourage the Hughes boy in…whatever he thought he wanted from her, besides coffee. Just the thought of how best to handle that made her pulse race and her palms damp.
She ground the coffee and carefully poured it into the kettle. Dulsey followed that with a small basket of half-dried potatoes and a knife. At least this took less thought—Kate was expert at paring them as thin as Mama liked.
Supper preparation turned to mending—though they’d caught up on that well enough in the days leading up to the journey—and Kate glanced up with surprise to find the meal nearly ready, and Papa walking into their corner of the camp trailed by not only Johann but Mr. Bledsoe, all bearing sacks of provisions. Papa let his slide to the ground and indicated to the others to do the same, then crossed to Kate. “An extra for supper. I thought it easier to feed him here than elsewhere.”
Kate bit back a smile. “Very well, Papa.”
From the corner of her eye she saw Dulsey’s glare, and tucked her head lower over the gown she was sewing for Jemmy. Papa gave only a noncommittal grunt and walked away.
Dulsey put the coffee on the fire and pulled off the pot of stew. The bread came next, already making the air fragrant. Kate’s mouth watered.
The family gathered in, seemingly from all corners, and Papa said a short blessing before Mama and Dulsey portioned out the stew and bread.
While others received their plates and settled nearby, Kate folded and laid aside the gown, then tucked the threaded needle, scissors, and thimble back into her still-damp housewife and set it behind her to continue drying next to the other contents of her haversack. Jemmy settled next to her as Mama handed Kate a plate. “And how did you like riding Clover?” Jemmy asked.
“Clover?”
“The packhorse. I asked Mr. Jenkins his name, and he told me.”
“Well then. I enjoyed riding him very much. But I’m sorry that meant you had to walk.”
“Oh, I enjoyed walking. ’Twas a lovely change.”
Kate choked down a laugh. Spoken as if she were a lady full grown, rather than a mere six years. “I’m glad,” Kate said, in all seriousness. “Thank you for so graciously letting me ride Clover.”
“You’re welcome.” Jemmy smiled and applied herself to her stew again.
She glanced up and looked right into the pale eyes
of Mr. Bledsoe, sitting half across the circle from her, hat on the ground next to him as he downed his supper. His dark hair, still pulled back into a long braid, lay in smooth waves, a high, square forehead framed by a widow’s peak and a few loose tendrils. Several days’ stubble shadowed his jaw in a way that looked not as unkempt as it should have.
In fact, she’d have said the effect was little short of charming.
The chattering of the rest of her family drew his attention, and cheeks blazing, Kate looked away as well.
As they ate, Dulsey passed out cups of coffee, bringing Kate one as well. She sipped, then set the mug at her feet to finish what was on her plate. Mr. Bledsoe had put his empty plate aside and was leaning back, one hand curled around his cup, watching and listening to the conversation around him. Even at rest he remained alert, his expression intent.
Stew finished, bread crust in one hand and coffee in the other, Kate sneaked glances when she thought he wasn’t looking. She’d not be caught staring yet again.
She was saved that fate when Papa turned to Mr. Bledsoe and inquired of news of the road past the gap. Mr. Bledsoe straightened, shaking his head a little, and cradled his cup in both hands. “Nothing yet. Cole said all seems to be quiet, but that could change.”
Papa nodded. “And tomorrow we reach the gap?”
“Aye.”
“Didn’t you say you have family in Kentucky?”
“A cousin, up near Boonesborough. Maybe more by now.”
“All others are still here in Tennessee then?”
Was Papa asking these questions for Kate’s benefit? If so, he showed no sign of it.
Mr. Bledsoe shifted. “Aye. Well, except for my uncles in Washington County, Virginia. My sisters are all still here.”
“And you plan to settle here, or in Kentucky?”
“I’ve no plans either way, at this juncture.”
Another thoughtful nod from Papa, whose gaze wandered about the circle, lingering for just a moment longer on Kate before moving on. “There’s need of able men in the Kentucky settlements, as I’m sure you know well.”
The Cumberland Bride Page 6