The Cumberland Bride

by Shannon McNear

  “Then I will come when my present task is finished.”

  Interest sharpened their gazes again. “What is your present task?” another of the braves asked.

  “I will tell you, if you will tell me yours and answer my other question.”

  They exchanged glances, and the taller Shawnee, Grey Hawk, folded his arms over his chest. “The towns on the Spelewathiipi and Scioto are in great distress. The white father Wayne tells us we must bend to the white man’s way and find new homes. You know, since you lived among us, that we do not wish for war, but if the white father brings war to us—”

  He stopped, as if he’d spoken too much.

  “It is said that the Shawnee and others are ready to take the hatchet to Wayne,” Thomas went on, still quietly, “because of all the promises the white fathers have broken.”

  Nods all around.

  “That is very true, my brothers,” Thomas said, “and a grave wrong. But as I have said to others, understand that many of the white men, perhaps those whose word has no weight with the white fathers, wish only for what my Shawnee brothers seek, a place to dwell and feed their children. They too wish for peace. Many do not understand the way of the Shawnee, the Cherokee, and others. But there are also many in the Shawnee who have no wish to understand.”

  The tall Shawnee rolled a shoulder. “Why should we seek to understand when our ways are the ancient ones? Our people have prospered under them for longer than the land has memory.”

  One of the other men spoke, his voice slow and deep, but thick with scorn. “Perhaps Eyes-of-Sky follows the white Christ, and thinks his way is more ancient and that he has no need of understanding.”

  Thomas fought to contain his rising anger. “All peoples need understanding of one another,” he said at last.

  Grey Hawk leaned in. “Then understand this, little brother. The people are weary of being taken from and taken from, without end. It is time we put a stop to it.”

  Thomas forced himself to not move, not blink. “I hear your words, brother. But answer me this. Are you the ones who left a party of travelers slain, two days ago?”

  He watched for small signs that might betray the truth, whatever their words might be, but all five held his gaze steadily for a long, tightly wound minute.

  “What matter are a few dead white settlers?” Grey Hawk said at last.

  The next day brought a mist-wreathed dawn, much like the morning they’d left Bean’s Station, with hints of gold glimmering on the eastern horizon through the trees. Here, strangely enough, Kate loved the fog in all its mysteriousness, and today was warm enough for her to dispense with the cloak and simply keep her shawl to hand.

  She’d suggested to Papa that she walk and let someone else have Trillium, but he was firm about her continuing to ride. Though she felt guilty doing so, she enjoyed it.

  Danville, she supposed, had been neither more nor less grand than other settlements they’d passed through, except that more of the houses were built or faced in stone. The settlement boasted a courthouse, three taverns, and two mercantiles, and Betsy had been anxious to visit both. Kate let her sister lead her out the first morning, but afterward preferred to settle in, interviewing various members of their party to share specifics about where they’d been and where they were going. And now she simply longed for more of the countryside.

  Mr. Jenkins had explained that they’d be following a trace westward from Danville, leaving the Wilderness Road which continued north to Harrodsburg. This one was nearly as good as a wagon road, through gently rolling hills rather than harsh mountains and rocks. They still encountered the occasional canebrake, but instead of laurel and rhododendron, she observed a curious thorny, scrubby tree with knobby green balls called Osage orange. Grasslands broke up the lush, green forest. If their chosen homestead was half as beautiful as this, it would be a wonder indeed. Just as Papa had promised.

  Mr. Bledsoe and Ladyslipper trotted past, through the woods a short distance away. The usual flutter went through her middle. She’d not been able to quite shake from her thoughts the way he’d stopped to stare at her the night before, from the other side of the common room. What in heaven’s name had Jacob said to him?

  He’d been all business this morning, however, and even more abrupt than when the journey had first started if that were possible.Which helped but didn’t entirely squelch the lingering wish, after three days of being not only allowed to ask others about their stories, but actually encouraged to record those events as well, to finally hear Thomas Bledsoe’s story in full.

  And their journey would be done in another week or so, with the hard work of building their homestead taking its place. Little enough time then for her journal, even if Mr. Bledsoe were to stay around. ’Twould be a wonder if he stayed with them past Baird’s Town.

  Which meant if she wanted the opportunity to speak with him… she’d have to make it for herself. And she’d already failed at that once.

  Just to contemplate doing so again soured her stomach and slicked the palms of her hands. She dried one, then the other on her skirts. Could she even bring herself to do this, with how unhappy he’d been the last time?

  But if she didn’t and lost her chance to even try—could she live with that?

  There was staying alert, and then there was feeling every nerve stretched to its limit. To his very bones, Thomas could feel something brewing, like the heaviness of the air with thunder rumbling in the distance before a particularly fierce storm.

  He was fairly certain that Crying Bird and the others weren’t responsible for the slain settlers they’d found a few days ago, despite their dismissive answer to his question. But the exchange with Crying Bird left him with no peace at all, and worse, there was nothing of the conversation he could relate with any helpfulness to Carrington, even if the man weren’t busy somewhere up the north fork of the Wilderness Road. At this point, he also didn’t know who he could trust of the patrols back at Danville and farther south. He knew their impatience with the situation—that the militia did little more than bury the dead after the fact, rather than fulfill their intended purpose of keeping travelers safer—but whether that impatience would wind up adding to the tensions and only provide the spark in a too-dry heap of tinder, Thomas could not say.

  And he was no longer sure whether it was his to even try to say.

  His desperation to get these people to their homestead site and hopefully settled rose to the point of pain.

  With the weather fairing up, they pushed as hard as they could and made it nearly to Springfield and to a station willing enough to let their party camp close by, even if they’d not enough supper to share for the night. It should have been a comfort, but Thomas’s restlessness would not ease.

  After supper, he crept away into the woods, found a likely spot from which to watch the camp, and hunkered down to listen. The usual calling of the whip-poor-will and bobwhite faded after full dark into owls’ hoots, and even then he kept as still as he could. His patience was rewarded when, an hour and more after sundown, footsteps and murmurs warned him of their approach. And just as he suspected, the figures of five Indians came slipping through the woods.

  Keeping his distance, he crept along behind them. A short distance away from the camp, they crouched, just as he had, and waited.

  And watched.

  Should he go closer and make his presence known? Likely that was a quick way to get tomahawked. Fire a warning shot then hurry away?

  He reached down, searched the forest floor with one hand while bracing himself with his rifle stock. There—what folk hereabouts called a hedge apple, those knobby green balls that fell from the Osage orange trees. He hefted it, gave an experimental swing, then tossed it as far as he could to the left.

  As he hoped, all five figures startled, whipping about to scan the forest. Thomas held still until all backs were once again turned, then he was ready with another throw. This time, the Indians filed away, toward the right.

  Dared he rea
pproach the camp himself? Thomas waited, slowed his breathing, until the forest had grown quiet again. Though he had to get back and let the others know to keep extra watch, he stayed hidden until reasonably sure the Indians were well and truly gone. With a grip on his rifle, he eased up and crept toward the camp.

  A lone figure detached itself from the rear of a tent and headed out into the dark—a figure with skirts. Thomas bit back a growl. Headed for the necessary, or—? He halted, easing back against a tree, and waited once again. But the skirted figure kept up her stealthy trek into the woods, stopping and listening every few steps.

  And somehow he could not mistake that particular silhouette, or the way she moved.

  He huffed, as silently as he could, and angled toward her, moving only when she moved. Ten paces away, while she tried unsuccessfully to hold her breath and listen, he spoke. “What do you think you’re doing, Miss Gruener?”

  She yelped and jumped, slapping a hand over her mouth to hold back a scream, he was sure. He could not keep the ferocious grin from his own—but it was no matter for laughter.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he added.

  She lowered the hand, focusing on him in the darkness. “Mr. Bledsoe. What—”

  He closed the space between them and put his own hand over her mouth. “Shhh. Not a word. Take yourself back to camp, right this minute. If it’s the necessary you need, use the station’s. But I mean it when I say you should not be out here.”

  Dark gaze riveted to his, she drew a long, slow breath, but did not move away. And in that moment, something inside him sparked and kindled—

  Aware suddenly of her warmth, of the softness of her cheek and lips under his palm, he snatched his hand back.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  He let himself lean a little closer, but she did not flinch. “Because your life may depend upon it.”

  Those lips parted, her eyes widening. Gathering starlight, it seemed. A fraction closer, and the tips of their noses would brush, or—

  “And what about your life?” she asked.

  Her breath fanned his cheek. The words, his soul.

  Her nearness, scrambling his thoughts in ways he’d been sure he was long past susceptible to.

  He yanked his attention back to the matter at hand. “Your life, and that of others,” he said. “Is that so—”

  The blow fell from behind. Rough hands seized him, rendering him half insensible before he could react.

  One moment there was only Mr. Bledsoe, looming over her in the dark, his presence so strangely irresistible that even after the horrible fright he’d given her and those dire words, she could not find it in her to flee back to camp. Not until she’d spoken as well. And then the way he’d hovered, as if—as if—

  And then the snatching grasp, a hard embrace, and the suffocating warmth of wool wrapping her about before she was tossed over a shoulder and carried, jostling. No time for outcry or to fight off her assailant.

  And Mr. Bledsoe! Was he taken as well? Or worse?

  Oh Thomas…

  Beyond his name, Kate could not think, could hardly breathe. She tried struggling, stiffening her body, and kicking against her captor, but when she’d nearly slid free, a rough voice growled something and tossed her back into place, held more firmly than before. She tried not to cry but could hardly help it for pain seizing her middle or the way her stays dug into her skin.

  Gracious God, help!

  She was going to perish from lack of air before her captor even got her very far….

  A jolt brought her back to herself, and the parting of the blanket around her head. Cool night air rushed over her, filling her lungs with a desperate gasp.

  “God—oh God—”

  A heavy hand covered her mouth for the second time that night, silencing the equally desperate prayer. A hissed word followed, the tongue unintelligible but its tone commanding. The hand started to move, but a whimper escaped her, and it pressed harder. The word was repeated, also with more force.

  Oh—God—please help.

  She blinked furiously, trying to resolve the dark shape hovering over her into something she recognized. The smell—it reminded her of men coming in from a long hunt, tangy with the woods and smoke and acrid bear grease.

  Indians?

  When she did not move, the hand eased away, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. It was indeed an Indian outlined against a rising moon. And he was not alone. Behind and beside, at least three other figures, or—two, and two others carrying another between them.

  Could that be—Mr. Bledsoe? Was he still alive and captive as well?

  Her mind almost refused to accept that word—captive. All the fears of the frontier wrapped there. The horrors told over a hundred campfires. There’d been rumors too of some being treated well, but one never knew which it would be—and those not cared for didn’t return to tell of it. Some of those who did return, changed beyond recognition, in soul and spirit more than body.

  Oh God!

  They dumped the form they’d been half carrying in an unceremonious heap beside her. A faint groan was the only response. “Mr. Bledsoe?” she whispered, but he did not move. She reached over to touch his shoulder—the hunting frock seemed right—and then the head, now bare of its hat. Her fingers encountered stickiness.

  A blow to the head then? Her own throbbed as if in sympathy. “Mr. Bledsoe? Thomas?”

  Another groan and she crawled closer to peer at him. “Thomas—are you well?”

  She touched his head again, trying to gauge the size of the wound, and he flinched and sucked in a breath. She sat back, still frantic for his well-being but suddenly conscious of their closeness. “Oh thank the Lord they did not kill you.”

  “Yet,” he moaned and tried to sit up, but one of the Indian braves put a foot in the middle of his chest to push him back down. The action was followed by a long string of words she could not understand.

  Mr. Bledsoe must have, however, because he lay still, staring at the man—then answered him in what sounded like the Indian’s native tongue.

  Kate’s surprise could not have been more complete.

  Another exchange, which turned obviously angry, and the two Indians hauled Thomas to his feet and, despite a struggle, bound his hands behind him. She was also yanked upward, and a cord of some sort tied tight around one wrist, then tugged forward. She stumbled, choking back her own cry as they hurried on through the forest. Gathering her skirts in her free hand, she did her best to run along behind her captor, while glancing occasionally to catch a glimpse of Mr. Bledsoe.

  Please, merciful God…

  The next hours were a nightmarish blur of fleeing through the forest, the burn of the cord around her wrist, the ache of her feet and legs, the chafe of stays that had been hopelessly rearranged when she was tossed over the Indian’s shoulder…the litany of prayer that seemed to go no further than the canopy of leaves above…and a searing fear mingled with stabs of hope that somehow this would all prove to be simply a dream. The moon was much higher in the sky before the Indians halted, and she was shoved toward a thicket, yet not untethered—presumably so she could relieve herself. A growled command accompanied the motion. She shifted from one foot to the other, then, in too much discomfort to hesitate any longer, she turned her back, found a likely spot, and squatted, skirts hiked to shield herself from the men.

  She was too weary as well, and too numb to feel proper shame.

  Afterward, her captor pointed to another patch of ground and grunted yet another command. Heat flashed through her. Surely he did not intend—but he gave her no choice, pushing her down, and repeating the word. She drew her knees up, hugging them, tucking her skirts tightly around her feet. Her captor glared at her, then turned away, still holding her tether, and took up a conversation with the other men.

  Mr. Bledsoe was once again pushed down next to her. “He says to sleep,” came his voice, thick with pain and fatigue.

  “Sleep? Here?”

&nb
sp; “Aye. And you best take advantage of it.”

  The conversation rose suddenly into what sounded like an argument, then settled after a few sharp exchanges. The men surrounded her and Mr. Bledsoe, each finding his own place on the ground. Kate’s captor threw the woolen blanket roughly over her. She seized the edges, watching as they all stretched and made themselves comfortable—except for one, standing guard.

  With a ragged breath, Kate straightened the blanket and stretched herself next to the unmoving Mr. Bledsoe. She hesitated, then reached out to brush his sleeve. “Are you,” she whispered, haltingly, “are you—well?”

  It took him a minute to answer. “Not dead yet, as you already said.” Another moment, then, “And you?”

  “I’m—unhurt.”

  A soft snort was his only reply, and in the gathering moonlight, she could see his eyelids close.

  Sleep. How was she expected to do that, under such conditions? And not even an arm’s length from any of these men.

  Morning came with brutal suddenness. Thomas felt rather than heard when, seconds after he came to full, head-throbbing wakefulness, Kate woke beside him with a start and a gasp.

  Three of the Indians were on their feet, two just stirring. Kate’s skirts rustled as she sat up, but he stayed where he was, arm across his face, for a few more precious moments.

  He’d never before experienced the like—at least two or three of the Indians getting the drop on him. The girl had distracted him, plain and simple, and it had nearly cost both of them their scalps. Still might.

  And those of the others.

  Crying Bird and the others didn’t seem much of a mind to negotiate either. Thomas was baffled at how he and Kate—Miss Gruener, for heaven’s sake, and why could he not keep his thoughts straight?—had been taken, with naught said about why. Their argument last night betrayed a division of purpose, to be sure. And how might Thomas use that to best advantage?

  Muffling a groan, he gave up and pushed himself to a sitting position, or as close as he could manage without stopping to breathe hard. Seemed they’d stopped just short of actually tomahawking him.