Mr. Bledsoe took a long sip of his coffee before replying. “There’s need of able men all up and down the frontier, I expect.”
Papa smiled. “Very true.”
The arrival of Jacob Hughes forestalled further conversation. Kate’s heart sank. The boy’s glance swung between her and the coffee pot on the fire while Papa greeted him, but he turned and gave a proper reply. “Begging your pardon, sir. Mr. Jenkins wishes me to tell everyone that if it please you to come, we’ll be having prayer and scripture reading directly.”
“Thank you. Jacob, is it?” Papa said.
The boy’s head bobbed. “Aye, sir.”
Another longing glance toward Kate and then toward the coffee. She kept her head down and pretended to ignore him.
It mattered little though, when she shot her own glance toward Mr. Bledsoe’s place and saw him gone.
Blast the security of being near a tavern and trading post, that there was no need of extended scouting this night. Thomas had no excuse to escape the pack master’s attempt at holding church, but surely he’d be able to find something to busy himself with.
Giving Ladyslipper a good brushing would do for starters. If he were quiet, perhaps he could get by with grooming the whole herd.
He retrieved a brush and started in on the mare about the time they began singing a hymn. It was an endless thing, with verse after verse about Jesus reigning here and there all over the earth. Thomas gritted his teeth and brushed harder. If God was so great and so merciful, why had He taken Mama? And later Pa? Especially in the way he’d died, with a bullet in his side that didn’t actually kill him until days after the battle.
Of course, that had worked out just fine for Truth and Micah. Although he’d caught all his sisters crying without account, more than a time or two. A terrible burn rose from deep in his gut. It was as he’d said to Miss Gruener. The frontier exacted a bitter price. It was best to brace oneself for it and simply move on.
The tune of another hymn flowed over him. This one—he tried so hard not to listen to the words but could hardly help it—spoke of God laying down His glory to take up a crown, for the sake of His great love for humanity.
The burning inside spread until it like to have consumed him. And again—where had that love been for them?
He’d started on a second horse, the one called Clover, when the singing mercifully ended and Mr. Jenkins took up a Bible.
Hearing his attempt at preaching wasn’t much better. Thomas tried to let his thoughts wander, but his attention kept being yanked back.
“‘I go to prepare a place for you,’” Jenkins read, in a voice that surely carried all the way to the gap. “‘And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know.
“‘Thomas saith unto him, Lord, we know not whither thou goest; and how can we know the way?
“‘Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me. If ye had known me, ye should have known my Father also: and from henceforth ye know him, and have seen him.’”
“…and Thomas said unto him, Lord, we know not…how can we know the way?”
The words echoed and re-echoed through his heart. That was it, exactly. How did he know—really know—the truth?
“I am the way, the truth, and the life.”
He’d grown up hearing the stories, God sending Jesus to die for the sins of mankind. But how did a man really know?
“From henceforth ye know him.”
Well, that was no answer, that from here on he’d know.
Thomas bent to work the brush around Clover’s hocks, smoothing one hand across the horse’s rump to steady him. The horse shifted but didn’t otherwise protest.
What about it, God? Are You there? Do You see? And how do we know?
The horse was brushed to a fine sheen—or as close as he could after a hard day’s ride and a coat still shaggy from winter—and suddenly Thomas could not face staying any longer within the sound of the pack master’s voice. Tossing the brush back amongst other gear, he grabbed his rifle and set off, straight away from the inn and into the woods.
Not until he’d made it halfway up a hill, deep into the laurel and wrapped in the hush of oak and chestnut, did he pause for breath and bearings.
Leaning on an oak, he forced his breathing to slow and, after a moment or two, felt his heart’s pounding ease as well. The tightness of his throat did not lessen though. God in heaven…how can You let a man rattle on like that and yet not answer me all these years? Does it even matter to You?
Back against the tree, he slid down to a sitting position, knees up, rifle across his lap. He dropped his hat to the ground next to him and tipped his head back.
Oh God.
That moment when Pa had pulled the blanket up over Mama’s face and turned away, while Thomas continued to cling to her hand and sob. The desolation of her mountainside grave, where he’d sneak away and whisper to her.
Forward a few years to when Truth broke the news that Pa would not be returning from King’s Mountain, along with the terrible revelation that their new friend was a Tory.
He’d run wild a few years after that, ostensibly to learn to hunt and carry his weight, as Truth was encumbered with babies not long after she and Micah married. In truth though, it was to escape the reminder that Micah was there and Pa wasn’t, that his sister had found a way not only to forgive and be at peace, but seemed to have genuine happiness.
And then—the day the Cherokee had caught him unawares. Truth told him later how they’d found Grandfather’s rifle hidden among the leaves. Thomas hadn’t even remembered dropping it, so terrified was he to look up and find them looming over him.
When the terror wore off, days later, it was a shock to realize that they’d actually, all things considered, treated him with kindness. Which was completely at odds with half the stories he’d been told.
When he’d finally come home again, after nearly two years—most of that spent among the Shawnee to the north—his sisters’ tears had been only part of his resolve to never leave another woman grieving for him. It was just too hard to face.
The other part—nay, he’d not let himself think of it. Thomas scrubbed his hands across his face and reached for his hat—then stopped.
On the boulder opposite him, about eye level and a little on the other side, were a series of scratchings. He rose, glancing about, then knelt to examine the boulder. Not as fresh as they could be, he’d guess, but fairly recent. Figures of men, and a brace of lines with curlicues in the middle. Braves, and guns. Attack. A chill slid across him. It was only last year that a party had been ambushed making their way through the narrows they’d be navigating on the morrow.
Perhaps this meant nothing but…perhaps not. There was no way to tell.
He passed a hand across his face again, replaced his hat, reached for his rifle. He stood and this time made a long, slow survey of his surroundings.
Birds twittering, a pair of squirrels chasing around a tree a short distance away. Not a thing out of the ordinary, for the moment anyway. His racing heart slowed to a more normal rhythm, and he considered the Indian sign again. It still bore watchfulness—and at least a brief scout around the area.
His scouting turned up nothing else, and because they’d all agreed not to set watch this evening, so close to the tavern, Thomas returned to the camp as the sun dipped below the hills. He’d take his blanket and bed down near Ladyslipper and watch over the horses at least.
The camp had mostly quieted by now. In the hills above, the whip-poor-wills were matched by the mournful dip of a fiddle from somewhere near the buildings—probably the tavern. Thomas found himself glad that Jenkins had agreed they’d camp outdoors when the weather remained fair, whether near an ordinary or not.
He stretched out, arms bent and hands cradling his head, and peered up at the stars. Tomorrow they’d face t
he last stretch before the gap, and then—then came the gap itself. Thomas felt a sudden, unaccountable longing for that majestic, white-rock wall, to reach the summit of the gap and then make his way across the path to the overlook.
His eyes slid shut. Thoughts of the overlook brought one of sharing that amazing vista with a certain young woman with golden hair… and the memory of all that hair cascading over her back and shoulders, across the packhorse’s rump, bright as sunlight even under a grey sky.
Waking thought slipped away into dreams where Kate Gruener rode without packs or saddle or bridle, hair loose, blinding under the sun, her dark eyes laughing. And then her dark eyes became those of another girl, long ago, with dusky skin, laughing and flirting with him, accepting shy kisses, wrapping slender but strong arms around his neck—
Thomas bolted awake with a gasp. The camp lay completely dark and still except for the whuffle of the horses. His cheeks were wet.
Red Flower. That had been her name. He’d not allowed himself to even think of her for many a year, and here he’d gone and dreamed of her.
’Twas the Gruener girl’s fault for tearing down that particular barricade. Or maybe more his own for letting his attention be snared by a veritable waterfall of sunlight.
He swiped the wetness off his face and settled back, this time on his side. Closed his eyes. A ripple of laughter came again—the Shawnee girl who was the first to snare his attention. Then later, the mirth replaced by a wounding of the sorest kind, given by the news that he was to be traded back to the whites in exchange for Indian prisoners.
He’d very nearly refused. Nearly. But the memory of his sisters and the sure knowledge that they’d grieved for him…
He dragged in a long, ragged breath. God…oh God, please…
What was he praying for? Was God even there? So many sleepless nights he’d begged for mercy, for more sleep, to just be able to forget….
So it’s mercy I ask for again. It’s one thing to be up, keeping watch—another thing entirely to waste sleep on useless dreams and musings. I can’t keep doing this, Lord. I…cannot.
Calm settled over him, almost a resignation, bordering on exhaustion.
So…weary…
With a sigh, he fell back into a soundless slumber.
The morning dawned clear and beautiful, and this time Kate made no arguments to riding, even though it meant others were responsible to watch the little ones. Her feet, the toes especially, hurt more today than the day before, and the throbbing had awakened her more than once during the night. It was a relief to have Papa give her a leg up onto Clover and settle herself amongst the packs.
She gathered the reins and looked around. The folded hills surrounding their campsite were breathtaking.
They set out without incident, and the first mile or so was easy. She knew from talk around the fires last night that the pack masters were a bit anxious about the hills they’d be passing through today. But for now, all Kate could think of was the excitement of glimpsing the Cumberland Gap for the first time once they were on the other side and the beauty of the country around her.
Johann carried Stefan on his shoulders up ahead, and Jemmy trotted along beside Dulsey and Betsy and Mama. Papa was—far ahead, talking with Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Bledsoe, and one of the other pack leaders whose name she didn’t yet know.
She scanned the rest of the party. Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Murphy chatted, each mounted on packhorses as well, babes in arms, almost side by side since the road was more than wide enough on this stretch. Neither woman looked much older than Kate herself, but their status as wives and mothers set them apart from her, and neither had spoken even a pair of words to her so far. And the others—
Some sense tugged her attention aside, and she found Jacob Hughes staring at her as he stepped off the road and waited for others to pass. Kate’s heart sank. Despite the cheer of the day, she was of no mind to suffer Jacob’s puppyish manner.
“Good morning, Miss Gruener,” he greeted her as she drew even with him. “I heard tell you hurt your feet yesterday.”
“I—a little, yes. I can’t yet fit my shoes so—they thought it best that I ride. Otherwise I’d be perfectly capable of walking, I’m sure.”
He glanced at the bandaged member peeking out from under her petticoat, his expression still sober. “I might have a pair of old moccasins you could use. With your bandages they might fit fine. Be easier on the hurts.”
She swallowed back any tartness she might have spoken. “If it’s no trouble. It’s very kind of you to offer.” She’d not thought him capable of concern, much less generosity—even of a pair of worn footgear.
A smile lit his otherwise plain face. She felt a pang—perhaps she’d judged him too harshly. Boys tended to a little foolishness in the presence of girls they thought well-favored. At least—that’s what she’d often read, and her experience certainly bore it out.
Of course by that reasoning, Mr. Bledsoe didn’t find her well-favored at all, since he was anything but foolish in his manner with her.
And why shouldn’t he be everything that was sensible, as their party’s scout? Papa hired him to keep them safe, and that meant having a cool head about him at all times. She’d not want him to be distracted by her, simply to satisfy some vain, girlish longing. As Papa said, she should let the man do his job, unencumbered by her concerns.
But she still craved to hear his story, to know what thoughts flittered behind those pale eyes.
She realized Jacob Hughes had asked her a question and was waiting on a reply. “I beg your pardon.”
He laughed shortly, head dropping. “I know I’m poor company, Miss Gruener, especially compared to Mr. Bledsoe….”
Heat washed across her, and she drew a sharp breath. “I—I beg your pardon,” she stuttered again. “I meant no discourtesy.”
Another wave of laughter gusted from him. She gritted her teeth against a terrible urge to kick him in the chest. “What does Mr. Bledsoe have to do with anything?” she said, trying to keep her voice low.
She knew already, of course, but—
Jacob pulled off his hat and wiped a hand across his face. “Oh, come now, Miss Gruener. Can’t hardly miss the special attention he’s given you. And then he was at supper with your family last night….”
Her cheeks were on fire. “My papa invited him.”
“Ah.” That sobered Jacob a bit. “I see.”
“No, you don’t see. Not at all. Papa hired him as scout for our party, so he feels an obligation to make sure the man is properly fed. Nothing more.”
Jacob slanted her a glance, then put his hat back on. “So you’re saying Mr. Bledsoe ain’t sparkin’ you at all?”
Kate’s mouth dropped open. Sparking her? Mr. Bledsoe? “Ah…no. Most definitely not.”
The boy’s gaze remained steady for a moment. “Would you want him to?”
Why did it feel as though her tongue was suddenly made of lead? Or that she couldn’t seem to lift her jaw from Clover’s withers? “I…why does it matter?”
Jacob’s head dipped again, but not before she saw the deep blush on his cheek.
“If you can’t figure that one, Miss Gruener, then I ain’t going to explain it to you.”
Kate tipped her head to scan the hillsides. The breeze brought a welcome cooling to her own face and neck. “I suppose you needn’t explain, at that.”
When she turned back, she found Jacob watching her again, shyly, from the corner of his eye. “Would you…would you object if anyone else were seekin’ your attentions?”
Her heart thudded heavy and painful in her chest. “We’ve a long journey ahead of us, Mr. Hughes,” she got out, finally.
“Jacob,” he said, his voice husky.
“Mr. Hughes,” she returned, more firmly. “I—I cannot say, this moment. But—but surely the journey affords both of us an opportunity to know each other better—”
He squinted up at her. “You surely do like to talk fancy, don’t you?”
; She narrowed her own gaze upon him. A smile hung at the corner of his mouth. Was he mocking her or—?
“Yes. I do,” she snapped. “And I make no apology for it.”
A finer spring day one could not ask for. Clear sky, birds a’twittering in the trees, the hills coming to life in the way Thomas loved at winter’s end. A breeze gentle enough to warm rather than chill—although he stayed plenty warm much of the time with just his hunting shirt. But all he felt the farther they journeyed this day was darkness, and cold.
These hills weren’t high, not compared to Clinch Mountain and the Cumberland ridge, but they were tangled and twisted. The perfect place for an ambush—and the Cherokee had taken full advantage of the fact, more than once.
’Twas a year ago though. A whole year. And no hint of attack in the area since.
So why couldn’t he shake this deep unease? Nay, dread?
After talking with Jenkins and the others, he rode ahead to scout for a bit, then circled around the party as they were coming up into the skirts of those hills. He found nothing to be alarmed at, but the dread would not go away.
He nudged Ladyslipper back through the rhody thicket and onto the road behind the party. Miss Gruener again rode at the rear, but this time young Jacob Hughes walked next to the packhorse, looking up at the girl with a laugh.
Well that was hardly a surprising development. Although, judging by the set of her shoulders, she was not amused by whatever Jacob had said. He couldn’t blame her for that—two days on the road and he could already tell that the Hughes boy was a bit of a fool.
Or maybe Thomas was the fool. He should be glad of Miss Gruener having an admirer. And what business was it of his who that might be?
As if she’d heard his thoughts, she turned and looked behind, straight at him. Her eyes widened a little, and even from the short distance, he could see her immediate blush. Something in his chest kindled in response.
Blast it all, anyway. Aye, she was pretty enough. Any man with eyes could hardly fail to see otherwise. But again, why should it make any difference to him?
The Cumberland Bride Page 7