The Cumberland Bride

by Shannon McNear

  Heart pounding, head and neck aching, ears burning, how she managed to not slide and stumble and roll right back down into camp, she was not sure. But somehow she made it back down the hill, without falling, without causing more hurt to her toes—although she might not have felt any pain, regardless.

  The entire family was gathered to sup when she got there, including Papa and Johann. Most kept talking and eating, but something of her expression must have betrayed her because Mama stopped to give her a searching look. “Kate? Are you well?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  She deposited the plate and spoon into the dishpan already sitting near the fire, and took up one of the small wooden bowls. Was there any supper left after the rest of the family had descended? She peered into the pot. Not much. She scraped the ladle through it, considered her brother’s appetite, then dropped the handle back against the side. Set down the bowl. Strode away toward the creek.

  Quiet, was it? She could be quiet. And other folk in the camp had stories to tell. It was high time she gave them attention.

  The last of the burn trickled away, leaving only a sense of shame—and sadness. She glanced back over her shoulder. Her entire family was comprised of chattering squirrels. A wonder that he tolerated any of them.

  During the night, the clouds gathered and the heavens opened. By the time they’d broken camp and were ready to set out, everyone was half sodden.

  The weather matched the state of Kate’s mood. Of course, the entire camp was much subdued, but her heart and mind held an ache beyond the day’s gloominess. As Johann gave her a leg up onto Clover, she dared not look around for—for the lean scout who had so claimed her fascination these past days. She’d not even let herself think his name.

  There was nowhere to stow her straw hat out of the wet, so Kate hung it from one of the packs once she was settled on Clover, and pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head. The wool, though damp, would keep most of the rain off of her head and upper body at least.

  She was about to gather the reins when Papa approached, Stefan swaddled in a blanket. “Can you manage him and the horse as well?”

  At her nod, he set Stefan in front of her, and Kate tucked her cloak about them both. “There, all snug,” she whispered. The child’s warmth lent a comfort she’d not expected this grey morn.

  Mr. Jenkins offered a prayer then gave the call to move out.

  The going was hard and much slower than it had been, with the packed dirt of the trail—because at this point it was little more than that, since so much brush had grown back up in the year and more since they’d cleared the way for a real road to be built—turned to mud, making ordinary twists and turns up the creek bank and back down, and around the rocks and across hillsides a thing of true peril. Clover slipped a time or two, bringing Kate’s heart to her throat, but for the most part, the packhorse pressed valiantly on and carried them without incident.

  The rain continued, and the path worsened. Yellow Creek swelled to a foaming, ugly stream, coming to the horse’s breast at the deepest crossings. At midday, they stopped under the shelter of spreading oaks and chestnuts for a cold repast of jerked meat and dried biscuit. Kate heard discussion of an ordinary a few miles farther on, where they might take shelter for the night and dry their shoes and stockings at least. She wiggled her toes inside the moccasins. Dulsey’s new way of wrapping seemed to have helped, but again, Kate would not complain of riding, along with the mothers with babies. Everyone on foot bore mud spatters clear to the knee, or well up the hems of their skirts. Several slipped and went down in the rushing creek waters, but to no lasting ill effect besides the wetting of their clothing. The men on foot helped where they could, and they all trudged on.

  Kate’s gut gnawed, and her head ached. Even after missing supper completely last night, she’d not been able to eat much at breakfast. It was silly of her, she knew—she needed her strength on this journey the same as anyone. And in the hours of mulling the events of the past evening, she could do naught but admit that Mr. Bledsoe was right—to divert the attention of a man on watch was surely endangering the camp, regardless of her intent. And she was a very silly female indeed for not recognizing that on her own.

  She closed her eyes, and a sigh escaped her. If only she had time for at least a little journaling. Scratching out her thoughts with ink and paper always helped her sort them out and move on. It had been days and days since the last time she was able to do so. She’d known already that likely there’d be no opportunity, let alone privacy, for such a thing on the journey, but—she’d not expected to miss it so much.

  Perhaps if she approached Papa with proper humility this evening, he’d let her steal a half hour—

  Clover jolted beneath her, and her arms tightened around Stefan. Then, too quickly for response, the horse lurched again, hooves scrambling for footing on the bit of steep bank they traversed, and they were tumbling, down the slope and into the water.

  Thomas had crossed the creek and was scouting high on the other side, a little ahead of the party, when the cries of dismay and the squeal of a horse came to his ears. Without a thought, he reined Ladyslipper about and hurried her back.

  One of the packhorses had slipped and fallen into the creek, dumping its burden amid rocks and foaming water, scrambling to right itself. Its squeals attested to more than simple distress, but Thomas gave his attention to the cargo being swept downriver. Every one of those horses carried women and young’uns—

  There, amongst the bundles swinging and bobbing downstream, a larger figure clutching a smaller one, flailing against the rocks.

  Was that—

  It didn’t matter. They needed help, and quickly. He’d sort out his conflicted feelings on their possible identity later.

  He swung off of Ladyslipper, tossed aside his rifle, shed powder horn and haversack, and threw himself down the bank, sliding, the point of his descent calculated to intersect with their tumble downstream. They’d not much time—the creek here had widened enough to be deep and treacherous. He hopped from rock to rock, then ran down the trunk of an overhanging sycamore to crouch in the branches that trailed in the water. He gripped one branch and leaned down, reaching—

  Two pale faces, eyes and mouths wide in shock, bobbed in the current. Definitely Miss Gruener and her youngest brother, almost unrecognizable for their panic. Miss Gruener scrabbled at a boulder but slid past it.

  “Miss Gruener!” he shouted above the noise of the waters. No response. “Kate!”

  That brought her head around.

  He stretched as far as he could. “Grab hold!”

  More shock, dismay—a dozen emotions flashed in her eyes, but she gulped a breath and, grimacing, did her best to angle toward him, the now-wailing child still clasped in one arm. She flailed at the same time he got a handful of her sodden cloak.

  “Grab hold of the tree,” he told her. Her free arm came out, wrapped around one of the limbs as he hauled her upward. Her body remained submerged from the waist down, but she seemed secure for the moment. “Now hand me the baby.”

  She gave the boy into his care without hesitation. Hooking his leg amongst the branches, he tucked the child against his side, then reached to help her crawl up into the branches until she lay across the larger part of the tree, panting.

  Across the creek, the other men were busy retrieving the packhorse and its bundles. As the horse gained a section of low bank, between rocks, and scrambled for ground, Thomas could see one foreleg dangling uselessly.

  Blast. The creature would have to be shot and put out of its misery.

  He gave his attention back to the girl and the baby in his arms. The young’un burrowed against his shoulder, its cries already subsiding to hiccups. Thomas shifted him to a better position, still cradling him close. “Are you well, Miss Gruener? Is aught broken?”

  Still gulping air, she shook her head. “I…think…” She turned her head and peered at him through a curtain of loose, wet hair, then turned away again. “I
am well.”

  He winced. It was likely useless to ask and expect a clear answer this instant.

  Everything hurt. She was vaguely sensible of having hit something very hard in their initial tumble, before the cold water had closed over her and stolen all breath. They’d rolled over and over, and the only thought she had was to keep hold of Stefan….

  She peeked again at the lean man holding her brother with such obvious ease and tenderness, cupping Stefan’s head against his shoulder before running a hand across the baby’s extremities, even going so far as to lift Stefan’s skirts to examine the boy’s legs. “Is he—”

  “He appears to be well enough, just shaken.” His voice rumbled in a pitch just above the water’s rush. “I ask again, what of yourself?”

  Kate seized a branch to aid in shifting herself to a sitting position, and a groan escaped through clenched teeth. Mr. Bledsoe’s gaze was upon her at that. “Simply…tumbled about…”

  “Bend each of your limbs, carefully,” he said, and watched as she did.

  “Bruised, perhaps, but unbroken,” she said. Her head set to throbbing so sharply she felt the urge to vomit. She reached up to push her sodden hair aside and winced at the sting her fingers drew as she dragged them across her forehead.

  “Let me see that,” Mr. Bledsoe said, quick and stern. He brushed her hand out of the way and gripping her chin, angled her face so he could look. She could discern no clue as to the severity of her injuries from his expression, but then he looked stern at nearly everything.

  Especially in regards to her.

  She closed her eyes against his examination and did not open them again until he blew out a breath and let go. “Right knocked about, you were. It’ll have to be looked at later. You’ll likely have a headache for a while.”

  He rose then and stepped lightly along the tree trunk, toward the bank. She made to follow him but found she still had no strength. “Stay there till I can fetch you,” he said without looking back.

  She’d no strength for arguing either, it seemed.

  Leaning back against a stout limb, she focused on drawing breaths into lungs that still burned and watching the men as they climbed up and down the opposite bank, fishing bundles out of the water. Clover was nowhere in sight—oh there, just upstream, between a clump of laurel and a rocky outcropping. Head up, then down, breathing heavily but otherwise unmoving. One of the pack masters stood at his head but there was no effort to get the horse to higher ground.

  She turned back to watching the recovery of the baggage. All but one bundle had been retrieved, and someone had run downstream after that one.

  Far upstream, Mr. Bledsoe was crossing, Stefan in his arms, where the water came to his thighs but no higher. Papa waited on the opposite side, Mama on the ridge of the bank, hands covering her face. Once Mr. Bledsoe gained the other side, Papa reaching to steady him, Kate let her head fall back and her eyelids droop again.

  All sound hollowed, and her limbs grew heavy. She was so very weary….

  “Miss Gruener. Wake up.”

  A deep, rich voice, but insistent. She tried to move, but could not, even though something shook her.

  So…weary…

  “Kate, wake up. Please. You only need get so far as my mare. I’ll help you.” The voice pitched lower, almost—intimate. “Come on, Kate. Don’t do this.”

  With a deep, painful intake of breath, she dragged her eyelids open. Mr. Bledsoe knelt beside her on the fallen tree, hands on her shoulders. His already serious face seemed troubled, but when she made herself focus on him, his gaze cleared somewhat. The ghost of a smile curved his mouth.

  “That’s it,” he said, this time with definite tenderness. “Don’t give up. I know you’ve more strength in you than that.”

  He slid one arm behind her back and half hoisted her to her feet. Her moan became a muffled cry.

  “I’m sorry, Kate. Nothing for it but to keep moving. I promise you’ll have rest soon.”

  Somehow, allowing her to lean on him, he guided her along the tree trunk and to solid creek bank, where he seated her on a rock. “Stay here while I get Ladyslipper.”

  She shivered as the warm press of his hands left hers.

  He brought the mare and drew her up next to the rock. With care, he helped her stand and climb over to the saddle, then without hesitation, swung up behind her. “Easy now,” he soothed, whether to her or the horse, she did not know.

  “Ladyslipper,” she murmured as he set the horse in motion. “’Tis your mare’s name?”

  “Aye.” She felt rather than heard the rumble of his voice at her back.

  “Like—the flower?”

  “Aye,” he said again with a small laugh.

  “Quite the fanciful name,” she said. “But she’s lovely.”

  Another short laugh as he angled the mare down the bank. His arms braced her on either side as the horse made her descent into the water, and when an unsteady step drew a gasp from her lips—it was too much like the first step of Clover’s final stumble—those arms pressed closer. “Easy,” he murmured, this time nearly in her ear.

  At least she wasn’t completely insensible. And she didn’t panic or lose her balance or otherwise make things more difficult as they crossed back over the creek.

  The baby was already in his mama’s arms, and Gruener was ready, arms outstretched, the moment all four of Ladyslipper’s hooves cleared the creek, to receive his daughter. She swayed but remained mounted while Thomas swung off, then Gruener practically brushed him aside to get to her, crooning much as Thomas had just minutes ago.

  Despite being half soaked himself, Thomas flushed hot at the thought. But in the moment, she’d seemed to need it. And no one had heard but her.

  He stood back, let Gruener guide her to a rock to sit and begin assessing her. The older man threw Thomas a questioning look. “She looks to have hit her head, but more than that remains to be seen.”

  Gruener grimaced and glanced about. “Can we make camp anywhere near?”

  “We’re close enough to Cumberland Ford,” Jenkins spoke up. “We should press on and then lodge at the ordinary there. Take a day or so to dry out and rest up, if she needs it.”

  Gruener’s brow lowered even more. “I dislike forcing travel upon her before we know how badly she is hurt. And we are down a horse—” He glanced at the injured packhorse, still panting, then looked away.

  “You’re welcome to mine, sir,” Thomas said quietly.

  When the older man hesitated, Jenkins said, “Take it, man. We’ve no better option. It’s cold, the rain shows no sign of letting up, and the ordinary will be snug even if a bit crowded.”

  With a sigh, Gruener’s shoulders slumped. “Very well.” He swiped a hand over the unbruised side of his daughter’s face. “Katarina. Do you think you can face riding a little farther?”

  Her unfocused eyes searched her father’s face. “I—am well enough, Papa.”

  The man dropped a kiss on the girl’s forehead, more roughly than he intended, Thomas was sure, seeing her wince. “My brave girl. Of course you are.”

  With Thomas’s help, they packed her back up onto Ladyslipper, and after some hesitation, her father looked Thomas in the eye. “’Tis your mare, and a fine one she is. I trust you both to carry my daughter a little farther.”

  Thomas nodded and made to mount, but Gruener clasped his forearm. “I thank you for the lives of both my children this day. It was God’s own mercy that you reached them in time.”

  An unaccustomed thickness rose in Thomas’s throat as he swung up behind the girl.

  T was all Kate could do to grip the saddlebow and the mare’s mane, and stay upright until Mr. Bledsoe had mounted and braced her again. Papa’s face remained upturned, his face pale, his blue eyes full of worry. He said something, patting her knee, but sounds were fading again and the world around her blurring—or was that Mr. Bledsoe urging the horse on?

  She was vaguely aware of someone taking her wet cloak and wrapping her
in a dry blanket, of a child crying and being hushed.

  “Stefan,” she said, and the low, soothing murmur of before reassured her he was safe.

  Then men’s voices—and Mama’s—in lively debate. A gunshot, and Jemmy crying, with Johann telling her to stop blubbering. “’Tis just a horse,” he said. “No, but it was Clover,” Jemmy retorted.

  The sensation of riding uphill, then down. A pillow against her head, firm but warm, that smelled of tobacco, wood smoke, gunpowder, and a teasingly spicy scent she could not identify.

  “Stay with us, Kate,” the pillow rumbled. “Your family needs you.”

  She sighed. Where was she to stay? She was simply—so weary.

  She opened her eyes, and the forest floor drew into sharp focus, with moss and ferns and curious fan-shaped fungi growing on fallen trees. The pillow resolved itself into a hunting-frock-clad shoulder and arm. Something told her she should find this situation disconcerting, but she did not. She did, however, make the attempt to sit up, only to be rewarded with another wave of that sickening pain through her head and neck.

  “Shh, all’s well, don’t startle now,” the rumble said.

  Mr. Bledsoe. She was riding with Mr. Bledsoe. After—after Clover had fallen down a creek bank and—

  “Stefan?”

  “He’s well. Strapped to your papa’s back, sleeping.”

  “And—why are you saddled with me?”

  He huffed a quick laugh. “Because you thumped your head right good, and we’re down a horse.”

  “Ah.” For some reason his explanation did not satisfy, but she could find no words to express what was swirling through her mind. Except—

  “We’re—down a horse?”

  He cleared his throat. “The packhorse’s leg broke.”

  “So—” The gunshot. Jemmy’s crying. “Ohh…poor Clover.”

  “Aye.” The single word, though spoken firmly with the terrible necessity of the horse having to be put down, held a note of regret.