The Cumberland Bride

by Shannon McNear

  They’d not gone far before Jacob Hughes fell into step on Kate’s other side. Before she even had time for a proper greeting, he said, “You probably don’t wish to speak with me, but…I had to come tell you how sorry I am. I never meant you or your dad any trouble. Didn’t even know it was your haversack until—”

  “Jacob,” she murmured. “’Tis all right. Truly.”

  “Nay. ’Tisn’t.” He kept his head down and kicked at a stone in the path. “If my dad had made good on his threat to leave—I’d not have had a chance to tell you.”

  It might have made things less complicated had the Hughes family gone on without them, but there was yet safety in numbers. At least that was what Papa said.

  She gritted her teeth for a moment. How had her haversack gotten misplaced to start with? Perhaps someone had taken it off of her when they removed her cloak—it seemed the most likely explanation. And the family’s name was stitched into the underside of the flap, if one knew where to look…perhaps Jacob had missed that.

  Regardless…at least the haversack was found…and her journal not a complete loss. If she ever brought herself to return to writing in it and did not instead simply burn it, as she was strongly tempted to do….

  “Kate? Do you forgive me?”

  “Of course.”

  Betsy gave her a sharp look, but made no comment.

  There was no other answer. She couldn’t even find it in her to be piqued that they were using each other’s names so familiarly.

  They were at the river now, picking their way down the bank, but away from the road, so to avoid what traffic there was. Kate sighed a little, looking out over the water, her gaze tracing the ripples and shoals. “We crossed here yesterday?”

  “Yes,” Betsy said.

  Kate nodded, trying to remember—but she could not recall that part of the journey. Only that it had been Mr. Bledsoe riding with her on that lovely chestnut mare.

  And was it her imagination that he’d called her by her given name, and not—

  “Kate?” Jacob’s hesitant voice again. “Are you—are you well?”

  She opened her mouth, started to reassure him, but what came out was, “I do not know.”

  Jacob shifted but said nothing this time. With Betsy a few paces off, picking flowers, Kate drew a deep breath of the river air, thick with the smell of mud and downed trees, and tipped her head to scan the hills surrounding them. Above the mountain, the sky flushed a vivid orange-pink and purple, reflected in the surface of the river, broken into ever-moving fragments. Away over on the far side, a pair of whip-poor-wills called.

  Another breath, which she let out slowly, and some of the dull pounding in her head began to subside. “I could almost stay here forever,” she murmured.

  “Pa says the land ain’t very good here,” Jacob said, but his voice held little of its usual authoritative tone.

  “Likely not.” Her gaze traced the steep slopes of the pass through Pine Mountain, just across the river. Judging by the direction of the sunset, she was looking south. “Did we come through that already?”

  Jacob nodded. “You don’t remember much since taking that tumble, do you?”

  “Some. Although I couldn’t seem to keep from sleeping after it happened. I missed our arrival completely.”

  He eyed her face, especially the forehead. “You still look a sight.”

  A laugh forced itself from her. “Thank you for that.”

  His ears reddened, but she only laughed again. Lifting her skirts, she turned to climb the bank and follow Betsy on her quest for more flowers.

  “Where’d you get those moccasins?” Jacob asked, sharply enough to draw her gaze.

  He looked—startled. Dismayed, even.

  “Papa brought them to me before supper. Why?”

  His mouth opened then closed. He shook his head, glanced up, and met her eyes.

  What was the matter with folk tonight? First Papa, then Jacob. Kate turned and picked her way over mossy boulders, through a thicket of glossy-leafed rhododendron. Betsy was still within sight, but far enough ahead to send a feather of alarm skimming across her shoulders. “Don’t go too far,” she called.

  Betsy waved a hand and bent to pick what looked like trillium, a splash of deep red against the leaf mold.

  “I saw Bledsoe with a pair of those a little while ago,” Jacob said, so quietly she almost missed the words.

  That did bring her completely around. Under the trees, the growing shadow cast Jacob’s face in harder lines than she was used to seeing there.

  “Can you think of anywhere else they might have wound up, besides on your feet?” he went on, with not a little belligerence.

  “He has sisters,” Kate said, her thoughts floundering.

  Had Mr. Bledsoe been the one to procure these for her? Is that why Papa seemed so odd as well?

  Jacob gave a short laugh and shook his head, then trudged past her. “You hit your noggin harder than I thought.”

  She peered at her feet. Wiggled her toes inside the butter-soft buckskin. The thought still gripped her throat and made it hard to breathe.

  Pale blue eyes looking into hers, as if he were reading all her secrets…

  It was a foolish thought, that he meant anything but to guide her family to better decisions while navigating the wilderness. Best not to think of his winter-sky gaze—or his chest, pillowing her head while they rode.

  She sucked in a hard breath to dispel the sudden warmth infusing her, and hurried on up the riverbank after Jacob and Betsy.

  Thomas sat on a ridge overlooking the settlement, falling into shadow under the slow sunset. Ladyslipper stood tethered in the thicket behind him, nibbling at the tender young grass and leaves. The greening forest was almost too densely leafed out for scouting like this, but he’d combed Pine Mountain today and many of the hills surrounding the settlement, and right now he was just plain tired.

  And still that gnawing restlessness inside him would not be silent.

  This time, it drove him back to the trading post for those moccasins he’d seen the night before, not just to look at them but—actually lay down coin for them. And then carry them to Karl Gruener, so he could be the one to present them to his daughter and not—not himself. It didn’t count as a gift if he handed it off to her father, did it?

  He leaned back, and for the umpteenth time, scanned the line of the river, curling away to the northwest, and the folded edges of the hills surrounding the hollows where the Wilderness Road unfurled into the heart of Kentucky. Where, Lord willing, they’d be heading again tomorrow.

  Just a few more weeks. Then he’d deliver these folk to their intended home—and be on his way. Maybe never agree to ride scout again, for all the trouble this party had been. He’d gladly go back to carrying the post—well, once they decided to start that up again. People would be fussing too much for them not to, had already been fussing, even before that final run.

  His gaze strayed back to the settlement.The tiny figures of people and horses moved to and fro, cast in shadow by the setting sun. He should be getting back before darkness caught him out here alone. A chill touched him. All these years and having lived with the Shawnee—of becoming one of them—and the eeriness of the hills never failed to catch him a bit by surprise. For that matter, the Shawnee felt it as well—perhaps even more deeply than he did.

  He rose and looking about, brushed off his clothing, and returned to Ladyslipper. ’Twas a sore temptation to simply stay out here this night, wrap himself in a blanket, and fall asleep under the stars. ’Twould be his last night of peace for a while.

  Kate was surprised the next morning to find they’d purchased not just another packhorse, but an extra saddle horse as well—for her. A dark bay, which Papa said she or her sisters could name.

  “Jack,” Johann said.

  “Clover,” Jemmy chimed in.

  Betsy looked thoughtful but just shook her head.

  Kate thought of splashes of red on a wooded hillside. “Tr
illium,” she said. She decided against mentioning the similarly fanciful name of their scout’s horse and resisted the impulse to look for him.

  She’d definitely not show any sign of suspicion that he’d had anything to do with her beautiful new moccasins either.

  They traveled the next several days without incident, or at least that Kate could remember. The first few were exhausting, difficult, and she could only be grateful for being on horseback as they traversed the hills, rocks, and creeks, sometimes having to find a way around mud holes or sand pits. At times she could hardly hold herself upright, despite her fascination with the changing landscape.

  ’Twas three days, through mud flats and canebrakes, and over steep, rocky hillsides, to the settlement of Barboursville, and then another four to Hazel Patch, where there was a great fork in the road. North continued through rough country, up Boone’s Trace to Boonesborough. At this point their party would head northwest on what had been known as Logan’s Trace, toward Crab Orchard and Danville. Folk they met along the way talked like these were grand places. Anywhere there were four walls and a room with a straw tick seemed grand, she was sure, after the privations of the road.

  Somewhere along the way, however, Kate ceased thinking of them as hardships and was simply grateful for each night’s stop. The aches of the fall with Clover and Stefan faded a little more each day, but the headaches lingered, with the dizziness sometimes forcing her to lie down along Trillium’s neck, tangling her hands in his mane so she’d not fall. She shut her eyes to the concern in Papa’s, Mama’s, and Dulsey’s gazes, murmured the appropriate thanks to Mrs. Murphy’s and Mrs. Hughes’s trying-to-be-helpful suggestions and sympathies, and prayed for strength.

  Please, merciful God, let us reach our new home safely.

  Jacob likewise tried to be helpful, but for the most part held his silence or kept his distance.

  The gaiety of the early days was definitely gone, and the air of the group more subdued. How much of that was because of what happened to Kate and Stefan? She could not say. She wasn’t sure she even properly cared.

  Small settlements and way stations came and went, tucked into the rugged countryside like the wildflowers growing from niches in the rocks. Even more curious was the occasional settler—she counted not more than a dozen—who somehow had chosen to not go any farther up the road and stayed to build cabins, carve a living out of the wilderness, rather than go on to better land where they could clear and farm. Mr. Jenkins and sometimes Papa stopped to greet folk if they came out to watch their passing, but most often they’d simply wave to those standing in yards or doorways. ’Twas impossible to linger everywhere they might want to, and some of these folk appeared so rough they seemed as wild creatures of the forest themselves.

  Somewhere about the third day, Mr. Bledsoe edged closer and inquired on how the new horse was doing. Half a dozen replies were on the tip of her tongue. “Not as smooth a stepper as your Ladyslipper,” she said at last. “But I’m grateful to be riding.”

  He offered a nod, and the ghost of a smile, and withdrew without another word.

  ’Twas a trial to watch the girl try to stay in the saddle as the day wore on, most days, but to give her credit, he never heard a word of complaint cross her lips. And the one time Thomas let himself get close enough to ask after her welfare, he couldn’t bear staying long enough for a whole conversation.

  It was either put distance between them, or haul her over onto Ladyslipper, where he could ensure she’d stay put and get the rest she still so obviously needed after her injury. He didn’t think he could find enough words to justify such a thing to her father. Not without finding himself far more obligated than he wished at this point.

  Why did he feel such a fool thing anyway? She’d survive this journey, or not. He’d been hired to guide and scout, nothing more. If she survived, then good—spare her family the grief, and some man down the road would be thrilled to have her as wife. And if she didn’t—well, the world would lose some of its brightness. Not to mention it would reflect badly on him.

  What he couldn’t figure was this gnawing ache that surfaced at the thought of her coming to harm again. Or even at the thought of getting to the end of this journey. The growing fact that he couldn’t see anything of his own future beyond delivering them to their intended new home. He wasn’t superstitious, not the way some were, but—it was right unsettling.

  Add to that—and here was where he truly needed to put his thinking—he’d seen some fresher Indian sign, and heard more rumblings at the taverns they passed about the doings of that renegade Chickamauga band to the west of them. Mostly they’d harassed settlers along the Cumberland, but there was word they might be setting their sights to the north as well.

  Right where Thomas and his party were headed.

  Kate lost track of the days, but by her best reckoning it had been a bit over a week since the accident at Yellow Creek. It seemed one morning, after they’d been through the settlement called Crab Orchard and were well down the road, that she sat up from leaning over Trillium’s withers and came awake for the first time in days.

  Around her, the forest had turned a deep, lush green. Wildflowers still peeped here and there from the forest floor, but the dogwood were past their peak, with leaf replacing the delicate white petals. The trees around them were full of birdsong. A more exquisite day, Kate could not imagine.

  She breathed in deeply. The loamy woods smell was a sharper, richer one than on the other side of the mountains in Virginia. But then there was a whiff of—

  Someone shouted from the front, and Kate drew Trillium to a halt, holding the reins tight as the horse snorted and tossed. She couldn’t blame the animal. A terrible stench filled her nostrils.

  Another shout, then cursing, breathless and furious. One of the women ahead cried out, then started sobbing.Word swept down the line, “Travelers—dead!” And everywhere, adults turned children away, covering their faces, bending over the small ones as if to shield them from the same fate.

  The beauty of the day turned into a mockery. Trillium continued to fidget until a strong, capable hand took the horse by the bridle, and Mr. Bledsoe’s face, upturned, appeared beside her. “Get down. Lead the horse away a bit, and sit.”

  He offered his other hand to assist in her dismounting, then nudged her toward a moss-covered boulder, off the path several paces. “Sit,” he said again, “and don’t move. Put your head to your knees if you feel faint.”

  She could think of no reason to do anything else, and leading Trillium by the reins, plunked herself down on the rock. Breathe in, breathe out—the wind was at such an angle as to make the air here a bit sweeter. A wave of dizziness swept over her, and she bent, cradling her head in her hands. Trillium nudged her shoulder with his muzzle and blew noisily against her hair.

  The tales were common enough of travelers massacred on the road and the ones who came behind left to find them. But all that kept pounding through her with every beat of her heart was the thought that it could have been them. Or the Hughes family, had they gone on ahead that day Papa insisted they wait and let Kate recover a little. Jacob’s father and brother were not the best of men, but she wished them no ill—not such as this.

  Thank You, merciful God.

  Yet why? What profit was it that they had been spared? What good had she accomplished? To what purpose did the Almighty place her and her family on this journey, only to allow her to be struck down by this blasted injury? She was but a hindrance, someone to slow them down. Perhaps better that she had perished….

  But no, that was foolish thinking. She pushed upright again and rubbed Trillium’s head under the bridle. The horse nodded its head as if in vigorous agreement, eyelids lowering and lips going slack. A chuckle rose in her chest. She should go help Mama with Stefan and Jemmy, but she could find no strength in her limbs to rise.

  Mama shortly came to her, however, face still pale under the flush of the walk’s exertion, leading the two youngest by the hand.
Dulsey and Betsy trailed after, looking similarly shaken. “Those poor people,” Mama said, then shook her head, apparently unable to say more.

  Stefan climbed up into Kate’s lap, and she hugged him close. Circumstances could so easily be different, and every breath was precious.

  Thomas tethered Ladyslipper and got to work helping the other men.

  It wasn’t his first time witnessing the aftermath of such an attack, but no less easy to face it. Three men, one with grey hair, two women who were likewise older, and three small children, a boy and one that might be a girl. The women and young’uns were always the hardest. Even after living with the Shawnee—granted, it had been a relatively short time—Thomas could never quite reconcile the kindness he’d been shown with the brutality of such slaughter.

  But he knew in the eyes of the Shawnee and others, these people were little more than invaders, no matter what their intent.

  It had been at least a day or two, and the stench was terrific, but he shed hat, hunting shirt, and gear—leaving all lying within handy reach—and joined the other men still lingering at the edges of the scene. The slain party’s belongings were still strewn about, ruined rather than taken, although Thomas doubted not that the Indians had plundered first. A pair of hounds also lay dead, but any horses had gone with the attackers.

  Gruener looked stricken and pale, but he was the first to move, taking a torn and mostly empty feather tick, and draping it over one of the women lying sprawled, facedown, at the side of the road. Hughes the elder and Murphy stood at the edge of the scene, cursing softly, and Jacob Hughes stared, unmoving, but Jenkins and his team were in motion after Gruener, fetching petticoats or other garments to likewise cover the dead. Thomas found a flowered gown, half scorched in the fire, and wrapped it tenderly around the smallest form, still in skirts and unrecognizable after the scalping as either boy or girl.

  The youngest Gruener child…this could have been him. Or either of the littlest Hughes young’uns.