The pack team fetched a pair of shovels, chose a site on the downhill side of the road, and commenced to digging. The ground here was at least softer than farther back in the mountains, but it was still slow going. Thomas helped gather up what was left of the ruined goods and set them in a pile off to the side, then once the graves were ready, returned to wrapping the bodies more carefully and helping carry them to their final resting place. By this time, some of the women had edged closer, and when the burial was finished, and they’d gathered rocks enough to cover the loose dirt to keep wolves out, they stood back, wiping their brows, while Jenkins gathered his thoughts.
“‘The Lord is my shepherd,’” the pack master began, and many joined in. “‘I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures….’”
Thomas glanced off through the woods, where meadows broke the thick timber here and there, and thought of the land many had worked to clear while settling here. Twenty years and more, and the flow of travelers was thicker than ever. Twenty years, and there was yet the threat of Indians.
“‘Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies….’”
Was it not true, that in the midst of danger, there was still provision?
“‘And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’” Jenkins cleared his throat, as the others fell silent. “May they all find their place in the Lord’s house, to sup at His table forever. Amen.”
As they turned away, heading back to horses and baggage and their places in line, Thomas looked across and caught the dark gaze of Miss Gruener. Beneath the shadow of her straw hat, her face was etched in pale, sorrowful lines.
It could have been her, bloody and lifeless, those glorious golden locks a trophy on some warrior’s belt. His heart twisted at the thought he’d kept turning aside for the past hour and now could not avoid facing. And just as quickly, a deep burn followed. She was too delicate for the frontier—hadn’t she already proved that? This journey was by no means over. They’d still so many miles to travel before she was safely to their new home—and even then, unless General Wayne managed to put down the Shawnee once and for all, the threat of Indian attack remained. He should harden himself right now to the probability of her not surviving.
It was no business of his, regardless.
The safety of the entire party was, however, and he’d best keep that in mind. Thomas poked around the edges of the slain folk’s campsite. Those who’d taken their lives had vanished into the forest with very little sign—just enough that Thomas knew they’d been there, could guess well enough which direction they’d be headed, and that they did indeed carry away one or more members of the traveling party they’d attacked.
It made his gut burn to know he dared not leave his own to track them down. These were the people he was obligated to. And he knew well enough that most who survived being carried away likely would be treated well enough after.
They were now less than a day from Danville. A few miles down the road from where they’d found the hapless travelers, they made camp. Everyone was tired and a little disheartened.
The men sat around the fire, pipes dangling from between their teeth, discussing the change of the terrain since leaving Hazel Patch and what they hoped to do once they reached Danville. At last, as the fire burned down and the sun sank lower with a matching red-and-orange glow through the trees, talk turned to the folk they’d found slain. Who they were, whether there were more who had been taken captive—and whether the Indians who had done this were still anywhere nearby. Mr. Bledsoe had thoroughly scouted the area, both back at the site of the attack and where they camped, and said he didn’t think there was any immediate threat, but they were all nevertheless subdued and watchful.
Kate sat, a shift to be mended in her hands, the stitching half done, but she could only stare off into the distance as the words swirled about her. The prospect of seeing their first large settlement—properly a town, this one—had seemed exciting enough days ago, but now dulled at the thought of those still, wrapped forms so freshly laid in the earth. Feet that would never walk again. Voices that would never again speak. Plans that would never come to fruition. Travel that ended far short of where they intended, if the few papers scattered about were any indication. Papa had gathered and rolled them, then tucked it all into his shirt for later. She’d seen him afterward, at the fire, pulling them out and slowly perusing them, offering bits of what he’d gleaned to the others before putting them away again.
Papa loomed over her suddenly, startling her. “Daughter,” he said softly, then hesitated. He reached inside his waistcoat and drew out the very roll she’d been thinking of. “I want you to take these. And—your journal. Begin writing again. Record what you can of these people and their travels, and of our own.”
She nearly dropped her sewing, so complete was her surprise. Had she heard him aright? “I—what? Are you sure, Papa?”
He crouched next to her, swallowing heavily, and held the tied roll out to her. “I am. Life is too short, too—fragile—and we leave so little behind. If it is in your heart to say something of our own story, for others to perhaps better understand our lives, then I shall not say you nay.”
She tucked her needle into the mending and folded the garment neatly aside, then accepted the bundle from him. “Thank you.” Truly, he was giving her free rein to continue her journal? She slid her hands around the roll of papers as if they were a treasure. The thought of pulling out ink and quill and all, however, right there in full view of everyone, felt so odd. “I should…finish mending this shift.”
Papa chuckled. “Of course.”
“And”—she angled a quick look at Mama—“will she approve?”
“I’ll speak to your mama.” He rose. “Anything you should need, beyond what you brought with us, perhaps we can purchase in Danville.”
She hardly knew how to respond. “Thank you—again.”
With a nod, he smiled and moved away. She tucked the papers into her haversack, lying on the ground next to her, then sat staring at it for a moment before gathering up the mending and applying herself with a fresh will.
She’d so much to catch up on.
They’d agreed in advance to stay three days in Danville, partly to rest and give folk a chance to attend a real church, and partly to provision up again. Thomas spent most of it in disappointing conversations with officials who were still undecided on whether or not to start up the post again, despite complaints from settlers. He had equally unproductive conversations in the taverns—partly because of the slain Grant party they’d come across that day before their arrival and partly because no one could tell him anything besides the fact that the Shawnee were determined to take up the hatchet up north. He was more than half tempted, once they reached Springfield or Baird’s Town, to go find a side to join.
Sometime in the afternoon on that third day, he could no longer avoid his own party and made his way to the ordinary, through a steady and soaking rain, to make sure all was still as planned.
Inside, most of the women sat near the fire, occupied with mending and other tasks, as he expected on the eve of setting out again.The younger girls had the young’uns off in a corner, playing some game, but—he saw none of the men, which was who he was looking for. Thomas hesitated, about to duck out the door again, as the women lifted their heads and greeted him, smiling. On the other side of their group, the face of Miss Gruener appeared, and he saw now she sat at a small table, papers and ink bottle spread before her, a quill in hand. Her cheeks colored, and with the barest smile, she returned her attention to the papers.
Jacob Hughes and Johann Gruener came in from the back, their arms full of sacks, which they left on the floor near the women. Jacob crossed the room toward Thomas. “Mr. Bledsoe! We was taking bets on whether or not you’d show today.”
The familiar burn, which he’d been fighting back for days, rose in his chest again. “Why wouldn’t I?”
But Jacob only smiled ruefully and shook his head. The other men were filing in, bellying up to the counter, so Thomas left the youth and sidled up as well. He nodded to the offer of a watered ale, although it was his third that afternoon.
“So,” Gruener asked softly, “what news?”
Thomas shrugged, sipping. The ale here was no worse than at the other establishments—in fact, it might be a mite better. “The Grant party, as we knew, were headed for north of Harrodsburg. No one knew aught of them, more than what you read in their papers, of course. And”—Thomas shook his head—“no one knew aught of who might have killed them.”
“That renegade bunch?” John Hughes piped, leaning from Gruener’s other side.
“I think not,” Thomas said slowly. “Been thinking on it, and we all agreed it looked like some were taken. Renegades ain’t likely to take captives. Unless”—and he sipped again—“unless they intend to sell them somewhere. But that’s a lot of trouble to go to if they’re just looking to harass settlers.”
Gruener stared into his mug.Thomas wondered if he was seeing again those bloodied bodies. It was a hard enough thing for someone used to battle or the frontier—harder still for those who were not.
“Is there anything we can do, beyond what we already are?”
“Nay. Simply keep watching.”
“And pray.”
Thomas held his tongue at that. He felt the weight of Gruener’s gaze.
“Are you not a man of faith then? I reckoned you as such.”
He rubbed his thumb around the rim of his mug. “Might have been at one point.”
Gruener leaned back a bit to consider him. “What changed?”
What didn’t change, more like. “God will do as He wills,” he said finally.
“I wondered why we did not see you at church yesterday,” the older man said softly.
Another sip. “There are other churches.”
Gruener snickered. “I did not figure you for a Baptist either.”
Thomas had to laugh at that. The sect had gained quite the reputation for feeling and sentiment, with extravagant displays of affection toward their Creator. Like as not, that had settled little now that many boasted an actual meeting house.
“In all seriousness,” the other man went on, “I greatly doubt your journey is yet over or that the Almighty’s grace to you has been thwarted as much as you seem to think it has. I will pray that you’re able to see it more clearly in days to come.”
Thomas gave him a long look. The man’s blue gaze held only kindness, and none of the reproach others’ eyes often contained. “Your daughter did tell me you had once aspirations to ministry,” Thomas said.
Gruener was the one to laugh this time, but ruefully. “’Tis true. But truth is truth, no matter who speaks it. And God’s mercies are new every morning.”
“Well,” Thomas answered at last. “May His mercy on you and your family continue, at least.”
He made to push away from the counter, but Gruener caught him by the shoulder, firmly but kindly. “His mercy is toward you as well,” he said, his gaze gone suddenly sober. “Regardless of what has happened.”
And how should he answer—
“Hey, Bledsoe,” Jenkins said. “Have you heard whether they’ve found Harrod yet?”
Grateful for the distraction, he took a better grip on his mug and stepped away from Gruener. “Nay. And it’s going on two years now.”
“What is this?” Gruener asked.
“James Harrod—who founded Harrodsburg. He left on a hunt or some such year before last, never returned. Nobody knows whether Indians got ’im or—” Jenkins shrugged and tossed back a drink.
All the men winced, or shook their heads. Gruener looked grave. “But that was—you say two years past?”
“Aye,” Jenkins went on. “But there’ve been other incidents up and down the road. Like the post rider, murdered and cut to pieces just a year ago.” His gaze flicked to Thomas.
“More like a year and a half now,” Thomas said. “He was the first post rider, Thomas Ross.” He cleared his throat. “I replaced him.”
“Aye,” Jenkins said. “No part of the road has been exempt from ambush at some time or another. We’ve been fortunate, at the least.”
“God’s own mercy,” Gruener murmured, flicking Thomas a glance.
He’d not admit that the thought had occurred to him as well.
Supper was served, and Thomas made the decision to stay and eat. While they were all finding tables, Jacob edged up to him and nodded toward the women. “Has she asked you yet about your story?”
The familiarity of the words tugged at him, and without thought, his attention was pulled straight across the room to Kate Gruener. “What?” he asked. “And—who?”
Although he knew…
“Kate, of course. Her dad’s set her to writing what she can of our journey so far. Haven’t you been here at all the last few days? She’s hardly left her quill and ink, even to eat. And has taken to asking each of us to sit and tell her about ourselves—our ‘story,’ as she puts it, so she can write it down.” Jacob huffed. “Right queer, ’tis.”
Thomas watched her, just now capping her ink and wiping the quill, offering what looked a strained and weary smile in response to a comment from her father. The ink stains on her hands were visible even from this distance as she spread out the pages and blew gently on them.
What was that she’d said to him? “Each person has their own story….” He’d been too irked with her in the moment to recall the rest.
“What makes folk who they are.” Aye, that was it.
And why had Gruener suddenly given his daughter such a task?
She looked—different, somehow. In the next moment he realized—it was her hair being pinned up, covered with a clean cap. Looking all proper and composed and—sweet and fresh, despite the shadows beneath her eyes and the tightness between her brows.
The last of the bruises from her tumble seemed to have faded. But after spending all day and more writing, she must have a powerful headache.
“Mr. Bledsoe?”
An accompanying nudge at his elbow made him startle, just as Miss Gruener rose and discreetly stretched. Beside him, Jacob sported a sly grin. “She’s right purdy, ain’t she, when she’s all cleaned up?”
Thomas chewed back a snarl. Truth was, she was right pretty even soaked to the skin, with her hair in sodden strings around her face. And somehow, even as he forced himself to turn away completely, he couldn’t quite keep his gaze from sliding back toward her, or his thoughts from the memory of her slender weight in his arms.
She’d nearly died, and he was in the right place at the right time to prevent that. Nothing more.
The ache under his breastbone sharpened.
He plunked himself in a chair at a table, not paying too close attention to where or with whom. Jacob somehow landed next to him, and the pack team in the other chairs surrounding, with the Grueners and other families safely at separate tables.
Supper passed uneventfully, and afterward he went back to look in on the horses and make his own last-minute preparations, including a quick jaunt to the mercantile.
This time, at least he’d no need of stray items for vexing females. Or as the case might be, one in particular who now managed to tie his thoughts in knots just by her presence across a room. There could be no other explanation to his lingering urge, through supper, to ask her about her work—which she’d applied herself to, again, the moment she was finished eating. The girl had focus, he’d give her that.
At the mercantile, he stopped to examine a display of rifles. One in particular caught his eye, a double-triggered. Though he’d no need of a new rifle, it was a tempting piece—two shots either at once or in quick succession. Would reloading be faster since he could do both at once as well? And the stock held a beautiful burl, polished to a deep sheen.
He gave the piece a last, longing touch, then swung away. A group of Indians was just leaving, and th
e dress and manner of two in particular—
He followed them out quietly, and once they were a short distance away from the building, he called, “Brothers!”
They halted and turned, the two he’d marked as Shawnee looking most interested at his greeting in their tongue.
“Greetings, brothers. Long I have been away from the kindness of your people. How fare the towns of Shannoah?”
They went so still, he was afraid for a long, agonizing moment, that somehow he didn’t remember the words aright, or that he’d otherwise spoken amiss, but one of the two with the distinctively cut, drooping earlobes stepped forward and peered closely at him. Thomas took off his hat, and recognition flared in the other man’s gaze. “It is you, Eyes-of-Sky! Long have been the years, and your father has given up ever seeing you again.”
Memory kindled, as he hoped it would, and they grasped each other’s forearms. “Crying Bird. The years have been long indeed.”
Quick introductions were made all around, between Thomas and the four companions of the man who had been Thomas’s closest friend over that year and more. Then dark eyes searched his face, intent. “What became of you after the white soldiers took you away? We thought you might have found a way to return to us.”
For a moment, Thomas’s throat closed, and he could not speak. His Shawnee family had missed him so greatly? “I have thought much upon it. My white sisters, however—it was a sore sorrow to them when I was first taken and became Shawnee. They wept many tears because of the death of our parents, and I could not again break their hearts.”
Something in Crying Bird’s face closed and hardened. “You were given to us. The white soldiers should not have taken all our new family away. Your white family had grieved already. There was no need to open the wound again by your return.”
“Nay, but their wounds were healed by my return.” Thomas flailed for words. He’d not expected this. “Would my Shawnee father welcome a visit?” he asked softly.
Crying Bird’s nostrils flared, and his mouth pressed thin for a moment. “He would welcome it indeed.”
The Cumberland Bride Page 14