Kate shifted in the saddle. Now she was beginning to feel disconcerted about the predicament of riding Mr. Bledsoe’s lovely mare with him just behind her. “I didn’t realize he would slip. Was there anything else I could have done? That stretch of path seemed most treacherous.”
“Nay. Jenkins and I looked at it, and likely there was nothing else to be done. Portions of the road are like that—folk can travel across it a hundred times, and then the next time someone walks across—” She felt rather than saw his shrug, and somehow the motion made her face burn. “And figure too how wet the ground is after a few hours’ steady rain.”
She blinked and looked around, slowly. The rain seemed to have stopped, but the hilltops were swathed in mist again. Drawing the blanket more tightly about herself, she shivered. “I am very much undone here.”
He said nothing for a moment, then made a sound that might also have been of amusement. “I’ve seen worse.”
A wave of sleepiness overcame her again, and she yawned. “Oh yes, your sisters.”
A definite chuckle this time. “Aye.”
She tried valiantly to stay awake, but by the time they emerged at Cumberland Ford, the girl was slumped insensible in his arms again. As relieved as he’d been to have her waken and speaking to him—coherently, for the most part—he was very glad to have her asleep again.
Far less complicated that way. Except for the obscure comfort of her slight form leaning against him.
’Twould be something he’d have to chase from his thoughts later, he was sure.
The party wound its way out of the forest, down a slight hill and into the inn’s yard. Jenkins and the others began dismounting while Gruener headed inside, probably to inquire about accommodations. Thomas held his seat until the man could return for his daughter. Best not to disturb her until he knew whether they’d be lodging indoors.
He felt the looks from the other travelers, most sympathetic and concerned, some less than charitable. They could think what they liked. He’d have done the same for any member of the party. The fact that it was Miss Gruener, who happened to be young and—aye, he’d admit it—comely, had naught to do with the matter.
Mrs. Gruener approached, her face drawn and pale, brow creased with worry. “How is she faring?”
“She woke for a bit, held conversation with me,” Thomas said.
“Any sign of injury besides the blow to her head?”
He shook his head, but reluctantly. “I think not, but ’tis too soon to tell.”
The older woman’s expression did not lighten as she considered her sleeping daughter. After a moment, she looked at Thomas and said more softly, “Thank you for all you’ve done today.”
“You’re welcome, of course.” Nothing more he could say.
She gave a tiny shake of her head. “You weren’t even with us when it happened. How did you manage to reach them in time?”
“Not sure, ma’am, but I’m glad I was.” Nothing else he could say there either.
“Well. I thank you again.” Her earnest brown eyes lifted—he could see where Miss Gruener inherited hers from. “Please know you are always welcome at our table. Or campfire.” She smiled. “Or wherever we happen to be.”
He nodded, his need for a reply forestalled by the return of Mr. Gruener. “’Tis all settled. They are able to accommodate our entire party and might be able to find a small room for tending Kate.” He glanced about, his gaze settling at last on Thomas and then his daughter. “I will take her now, thank you.”
Miss Gruener stirred but did not rouse completely, and Thomas helped ease her down off Ladyslipper and into her father’s embrace. “Easy now,” Thomas said as a whimper broke from the girl. “She’s had a powerful bad headache.”
Gruener nodded, and murmuring over her as before, he swooped her up, one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees, then strode away, Mrs. Gruener trailing after.
Thomas found himself reminded of Truth, and of the special bond she’d always enjoyed with their pa as eldest. At least to his memory she had. But Pa—he’d not ever seemed whole again after Mama’s death. How might their family have looked had both Mama and Pa lived?
He shook off the thought and nudged Ladyslipper toward the stable. Useless to be thinking of these things after so many years.
Kate came awake again to warmth and a room that was blessedly dark except for a small fire—somehow they’d made it indoors, and she could not remember arriving. Baggage was brought in, and Mama shooed everyone out but Dulsey, and they helped her out of all her wet things. “Where’s the worst of the hurt?” Mama asked, turning Kate’s arms this way and that to look for signs of injury.
Kate had to think about it. “My…head and neck. But everything aches.”
“Well.” Mama had her sit forward, half swathed in blanket, so she could examine her shoulders and back. “You’ll likely ache for a few days, but ’tis no small mercy if you’ve escaped worse harm.”
Dulsey set down a bowl and wrung out a cloth in the steaming water, then set to bathing Kate’s face. “Oh, miraculous hot water,” Kate murmured.
Mama chuckled, while Dulsey just snorted softly. “Child, you and your fanciful way of talking.”
“Fanciful, is it? I’m not the only one. Mr. Bledsoe’s horse is named Ladyslipper, like the flower.”
“Huh. Well, she’s a pretty enough mare for it.”
Mama turned away and came back with a clean, dry shift. “Slip this on, and we’ll wrap you back up in the blanket and find you something to eat.” Her dark eyes sparkled in the firelight. “You hardly needed a blow to the head to make you more fanciful.”
Kate saw the quirk of her mouth despite the sharpness of the words. “Likely not,” she answered with a sigh.
“She is as God made her to be,” Dulsey said. “You’d not want to change her even if you could.”
Dulsey, defending her whimsy?
“As long as she retains some good sense,” Mama said firmly. A knock came at the door, and she went to answer it, then returned with a bowl of broth. “Here, drink this. Then to bed with you.”
As the salty richness rolled across her tongue, a ragged breath shuddered through her. Just hours ago life’s uncertainty had seized her in its rough, relentless embrace, and now, here she sat, warm and dry and comforted with a bowl of broth.
She might have been knocked completely insensible and then drowned. She could be—
On the other side of eternity, in heaven, with the pair of children her parents had already relinquished into God’s hands.
Her head throbbed, and that sharp ache still stabbed every time she moved too quickly, but—for whatever reason, God had seen fit to leave her here.
Would she ever know why, during this life?
Thomas left Ladyslipper tethered and fed and headed for the trading post. He’d more likely hear news there as at the ordinary.
The post was busy as he’d ever seen it, with hunters both white and Indian coming in with their winter harvest of furs. Two men wearing fancy garb from back East elbowed up to the counter with a trio of frontiersmen and two Indians. Mingo, by the looks of them. One wore a blue regimental coat, threadbare but brass buttons still bright, and the other a hunting frock heavy with beading and quillwork. Both wore their hair gathered into a spike at the back, with the sides shaved. While the head trader, Aaron Clark, dickered with half the group, Thomas sidled around the room, pretending to examine the wares stacked high and tucked into every corner, but Clark spied him almost immediately. “Bledsoe! Good to see you. What can I do you for?”
He smirked at the man’s turn of phrase and stepped closer as the others made room for him, offering their own greetings. “Here mostly for news today. I’m leadin’ a party of settlers up the road, so whatever you all might be hearing about doings north and west of here…”
He let his gaze sweep the men’s faces, lingering on the features of the two Indians. They seemed familiar—likely he’d met them here a time or two,
at least—but neither acknowledged him. Thomas gave a mental nod and moved on.
“Well,” Clark said, slowly, “we’ve had more pass through on the way north than coming back for a long time. But there’s word of a passel of renegade Creek and Cherokee savaging the trails to the west, particularly around the Shawanoe River. Sounds like y’all might be safe enough from that though.”
“Might.” Thomas grunted. His gaze flicked to the Mingos again. “Nat Carrington been through recently?”
Clark leaned meaty fists on the counter. “Aye. He was headed north to Boonesborough. I told him they were more afeared of the whiskey tax there than anything else, but he was determined to go.”
Thomas nodded as if that were news.
Conversation between the other men picked up again, so Thomas moved away and kept listening. The Indians took their turns, dickering over price of goods compared to quality of furs. They spoke English at first but after a few minutes, Clark broke into their native tongue. “What do you think of the question from that one over there? Anything of use you might be able to offer?”
“What business is it of ours whether the white settlers live or die?” the older one spoke—definitely Mingo, which Thomas followed well enough, even now. “We do our best to share the hunting grounds, as the white fathers have persuaded us to do, but if they are foolish enough to go where they should not…” He gave an expressive shrug.
Clark seemed not to be disturbed by the man’s attitude, and Thomas held himself still as well, as if he could not understand.
“And you, Thunder Speaks?”
The other man hesitated. “The elders speak wisdom as they see best, but the young warriors will do what they will. Their blood runs hot, no matter what the white father Wayne might say, and they crave honor. Scalps taken is the old way.”
Thomas knew all this to be fact. Treaties without number had been negotiated, signed, then violated on one side or the other for decades—indeed since the time of William Penn, still renowned for his fairness toward the Indian peoples. There were things Thomas could not agree with in the teaching of Penn and his Society of Friends—down to this day—but his endeavors to not rob the peoples already living on these shores Thomas could not fault.
Still, none of their words held any comfort or safety for his traveling party, and since it was his job to save their scalps—
He made to turn and leave the trading post, but a shelf with beaded and quilled moccasins caught his eye. A lovely thing, with flower designs encrusting the top of the toe. Picking up one, he measured it with his eye against the length of his hand—might be just the size for Miss Gruener’s foot, and these would be better than her own shoes for a good long while—
Thomas blinked. What was he doing? He set the moccasin down, nudged it even with its mate, and left the building as quickly as he could.
He stepped out and glanced about the settlement that had grown up at the banks of the river crossing and shared its name. The ordinary was just a piece up the road, but frankly he dreaded having to enter what would undoubtedly be a smelly, crowded, noisy space.
Behind him, the door to the trading post swung open, and the two Mingos emerged. They eyed Thomas and would have moved on, but he decided to chance asking them directly. “Brothers. Long have I been away from the land of the Shawnee, yet I remember their kindness. I wish no trouble between them and the people I am leading into Kentucky.”
As he’d hoped, the attempt at their tongue brought them up short. “How long were you with them?”
“Nearly two years. I was known as Eyes-of-Sky.”
Amusement gleamed in both men’s gazes, but only the younger let his mouth curve. “Hardly a name of renown.”
Thomas smiled in response. “I was not allowed to stay long enough to gain any.”
The older one’s head angled a little. “So you wish to know what we hear on the path. Long it has been since the Warrior’s Trail knew more of our people’s feet than of the whites.”
“True, yet your people still know the ancient paths. The people I lead wish for peace, and I would help them not cause offense, if it were possible.”
The younger, the one Clark called Thunder Speaks, said, “Then they should return to their own lands.”
“Yet you are here trading,” Thomas said.
The older made an impatient gesture. “The time is past for such foolish talk. You, Eyes-of-Sky, tell me what sort of men these are you lead. The white man has already overrun our hunting grounds. Why should we allow yet more to come?”
“These men only wish to feed their families, the same as the Mingo and the Shawnee.”
Thunder Speaks merely grunted, but the other gave a bare nod. “Fair enough. Very well. I can tell you, the Mingo and the Shawnee are not happy to deal with the white father General Wayne. The elders are for peace, but the young warriors, as we already said, are for war. They speak of gathering to push the white father back. The Mingo and Shawnee have given too much already. They continue to seek opportunity everywhere. You and the people you lead should watch the path. More I cannot say, for I am not an eagle to see afar as it flies.”
“Your words are well spoken, and I will take them to the people I lead. My thanks for sharing them with me.”
He took his leave of the two and went on. Now he could not avoid the crowded ordinary. Or perhaps that was word he could pass privately to Jenkins, although he felt an obligation to inform Gruener as well. Still nothing specific, but the threat was enough to not take lightly.
As it turned out, several of the men he needed to talk with were standing outside the building, under the covered porch, each with a mug or pipe in hand. With the rain having let off, the yard was full of young’uns chasing each other or playing games. Thomas smiled a little. Sometimes he missed being so free from care.
“Bledsoe! There you are. We were just discussing whether or not we can make it to Elizabethtown by the end of May.”
“I don’t see any reason why not,” Thomas said.
“Well, here we are,” John Hughes said, “only at Cumberland Ford, and Gruener is insisting we stay an extra day or so to let his children recover. Are we going to stop and make camp every time someone falls in the water?”
Thomas found himself gritting his teeth, but Jenkins spoke up for him. “’Tis more than that, and you know it. The Gruener girl was hurt right bad—might not have survived that fall.”
“Is that so?” Hughes spoke it as a challenge, and looked right at Thomas.
“It is so,” he said. “And I say we see how she fares come morning. If naught else, she can ride again.”
An ugly smile curled the man’s mouth. “Well, I can see how you might not mind that.”
A terrible urge rose up in Thomas to thump that look right off the man’s face, but he forced himself to remain still.
“Enough, Hughes,” Jenkins said. “I’ll be finding another horse by then, maybe two. Have to talk to Gruener about it.”
Thomas did not move, and neither did John Hughes. “She’ll ride if she needs to,” Thomas said, quietly but firmly. “And we’ll take as long as necessary for the journey. Unless you’d prefer to risk losing one of your own family.”
Hughes relented at that. “Of course not,” he muttered and turned away.
The man’s manner soured Thomas’s gut. What was eating at him, anyway? If this was what they’d have to contend with the rest of the way…
“Did you have news, Bledsoe?” Jenkins said.
Thomas unclenched his jaw and refocused on the pack master. “Aye. Just that we need to stay alert for Indian trouble—which we already knew. Once we leave here, might be best to set double watches. Keep an eye out for trouble, and don’t go lookin’ for any. Things seem to be quiet enough where we’re going though, for now.”
Sobered, Jenkins nodded, the others with him. Hughes looked only slightly mollified.
“We’ll talk again come morning, decide what we’re doing.”
Thomas nodded a
nd walked away. It was not raining, the stable was as warm and dry as the ordinary, and he would not subject himself to the press of a crowd if he could help it.
My father used to tell the story…
Kate came awake from a swirl of dream, her fingers curled as if it were a quill she held and not a rough wool blanket. She’d fallen asleep rehearsing words, wishing she could write them in truth and not just whisper them in her own mind, and now—
Her journal. Where had her journal gone?
She made to sit up, but a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her. One breath, then two, and it passed enough for her to squint about the room. Mama was up, poking at the fire, but bundled forms here and there, foot to shoulder, attested that some of her family had bedded down in the meager space and slept on. Except for Dulsey, who stirred and rose even as Kate watched.
The woman padded over and peered into Kate’s face. “Law, child. I hope you feel better than you look.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but only a croak came out. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Likely not.”
“Let me get you some tea, and we’ll see if that helps mend you a bit.”
“I—need the necessary first.”
Dulsey helped her up and into a petticoat and bedgown, then rebraided her bedraggled hair. Kate regarded her feet for a moment before deciding to forego shoes a bit longer. Weaving her way between the sleepers, she made it to the door, then looked back to find Dulsey shadowing her.
The dizziness threatened only once more on their way down the stairs, then again as they threaded their way to the back door, through the common room, where the floor was littered with more snoring sleepers.
Outside, she stopped to breathe in the cool morning air, her gaze tracing the barely lightening sky over the hills to the east, then padded the rest of the way to the necessary.
It felt like an indulgence, a real necessary, after even a few days tramping out among the laurel.
Back inside, Dulsey stopped at the kitchen and procured a bit of breakfast. By the time she’d eaten, sipped a cup of tea, and the others had awakened, she was feeling much improved. Papa returned from downstairs and came to crouch beside where Kate was seated by the hearth. He stared into the fire for a moment, then turned to Mama. “They wish to know if Kate is recovered enough to travel today. What say you, ’Mima?”
The Cumberland Bride Page 11