The Cumberland Bride

by Shannon McNear

  “And—what is he to Eyes-of-Sky?”

  “The one he called Father while among our people.”

  Her eyes burned. So her guess was correct. She drew a deep breath, turned to the older man, and gave him what she hoped was a respectful curtsy. “I am honored to meet you. Thomas—Eyes-of-Sky—is a fine man.”

  With the slightest hesitation, Crying Bird translated her words, and the smile became a grin, then an outright chuckle. The answer was surly, in Crying Bird’s translation, but Kate heard only the warmth in the older man’s tone. “I am honored as well. You are very welcome here.”

  And Kate would take being Thomas’s woman—whatever that meant—for the small miracle that it seemed to provide her here.

  The women came for her very shortly after, and while leading her off, they shooed Crying Bird away. If anyone spoke English, they weren’t owning up to it. Their chatter and laughter so reminded her of Mama and Dulsey and the girls, however, that she nearly dissolved into tears right there and then.

  But she also found it unexpectedly comforting. Despite the strangeness of language and dress. Despite the fearful stories and the difficulty she herself had suffered. And she wished above all that she could understand what the women were saying, that she could hear their stories.

  It was a strange thing to be thinking, she was sure. Ought she not be completely terrified?

  They led her down to the creek and made motions that she should go into the water. Did they want her to disrobe as well, or… A couple of them, laughing, began to remove their own clothing, without hesitation or apparent shame. Face burning, Kate looked around, but there were no men in sight, only the women and a few small children. The two who had undressed stepped down into the creek and beckoned to her.

  Kate stood, frozen, but painfully aware of the itchiness of her scalp and her overall grimy condition. Beside her, an older woman plucked at her sleeve, and another unfurled a bundle to show her a calico shirt of a cheerful red, and a length of rough cloth Kate supposed was a skirt.

  Disrobe then, yes, and after a bath, clean clothing. Kate caught her breath in a gulp, and fumbled for what pins were left of the front of her gown.

  Shed of the half-muddied weight of her gown, she untied her petticoat and likewise let it drop, then stepped out of the heap and undid the string holding her pocket in place. The pocket she set carefully aside, glancing up to see all the women watching her. Several gave encouraging nods and smiles. Then her stays—which were still rumpled and twisted from the past several days, and she could not be sorry for the opportunity to unlace those and toss them on the heap of her soiled clothing.

  But clad only in her shift, she stood again for a moment, shivering even in the early summer heat, then unwrapped the thong from her wrist and held up her hand, tugging at the loop still tied there. One woman produced a knife and helpfully cut it.

  Another chorus of encouragement, and she bent to untie her moccasins, then scoop her clothing into her arms and turn toward the water—all needed a washing—

  “No, no,” came the admonishment from one, who wrestled the bundle away from her, none too gently, then gave her a little push toward the water.

  “What—” Kate started to protest, but the woman hustled away, and threw everything—gown, petticoat, stays—into the water.

  And let the mass float away downstream.

  Kate gave a cry of protest. A long explanation—or what apparently passed for one—followed, then the woman came back, took her hand, and led her down to the water’s edge. When Kate would have stepped in, she tugged on Kate’s shift and made motions for her to remove it.

  Lord, what should I do?

  But there seemed to be nothing for it, and at least it was only the women. She took another breath, pulled the garment up over her head, and at the woman’s insistence, handed it over. It was likewise thrown into the river, along with her other clothes.

  Kate could only stand there, arms folded over her naked bosom, hair tumbling down her back, hunching as if she could hide herself from sight. Did they truly just throw her clothing away?

  And—was there significance in such a thing?

  Forgive me, Father, if I sin in any of this. Perhaps it would be more noble to take the harder path and not accept whatever hospitality they seem to be offering, but—

  One of the women in the water took her elbow and tugged her forward. Mud and rocks squished under her feet, and the water closed about her, cool and soothing, as she went deeper. Finally, she sank, letting the water cover her to her chin.

  A third woman waded in, stripped to the waist, brandishing a bar of soap. She tipped Kate’s head back to wet all her hair, then speaking in a singsong voice, began scrubbing the length of it.

  She did not stop with the hair. At that point, Kate shut her thoughts to the humiliation of it all and submitted to being washed by another grown woman.

  At twilight, Thomas camped, unwilling to stop but knowing once again that he was no good to her if he arrived without sleep or strength.

  Whenever that was. And wherever. He still had no guarantee that he’d find her in that old town, whether anyone who still knew him was there.

  Bedding down that night, however, near the bank of a creek whose name he’d forgotten, he lay awake, thinking through a dozen or more possible ways this might happen. Whether those who had taken him in and considered him their own would forgive his not returning before—whether they might not just scalp him on the spot. Whether or not they’d shown Kate kindness, or even kept her alive. Whether Grey Hawk and Crying Bird might have sold her off elsewhere and he just couldn’t track down where, yet.

  Whether or not, if he found Kate alive and well, they’d even be willing to accept his gifts in exchange for her. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if they seemed determined to keep her. Stay and become one of them again, likely.

  He’d sure as anything not return to the Grueners without their daughter.

  God…oh God.

  He’d exhausted every angle of prayer. Nothing left but to go forward and simply…walk back into that town. See his Shawnee father again and try to explain why he’d never returned. At least speak with them about the state of affairs with General Wayne and his army, so he had something to offer Carrington.

  But to think of doing all that and not also having found Kate—

  Please, God. Have mercy on us both.

  He slept at last, and woke to the sun already above the horizon. Panic seized him, but he forced himself to calm and prepared himself for the day.

  Whether or not Kate was there, he reckoned that the Shawnee folk would be more amenable to his appearance if he made the effort to look less white. He rolled and tied the hunting shirt behind his saddle, along with his blanket—which he’d already done the last few days, with summer’s rising heat—and after shaving and bathing, combed out the length of his hair and then tied a piece of it back with the feather he took from the brim of his hat. Then, after much thought, he took out the silver ornaments folded carefully together in the bottom of his haversack. One pair he worked through the slits cut some ten years before in the upper part of his earlobes, still amazingly open after all this time, and the bracelets he put on both arms, above the elbows. If he’d stayed with the Shawnee, there would have been more, and had been at one time, but these were the only ones he’d kept.

  He’d washed his blue shirt the night before, and while plainer than many he’d seen, it would also have to do. The embroidered edge of his breechclout hung below the shirt hem, as was the native custom, and he hung tomahawk and knives back on his belt.

  Then, one more moment to peer up through the sycamore leaves before remounting and riding on.

  The morning’s tasks had included fetching water from the creek, grinding meal, then shaping corn cakes to be baked in hot ashes. As the day before, several women took it upon themselves to guide her through the tasks, with varying degrees of patience. And just as the day before, Kate took a strange comfort in the fami
liarity of the domestic work.

  Strange did not begin to describe how she felt, though, at odd moments. Like she’d found herself in another’s skin.The clothing she’d been given was on one hand wonderfully loose and comfortable, but she could not regard the simple shirt and wrapped skirt as anything but immodest. Never in her adult life had she appeared in the presence of men in less than proper stays and gown. But in this place, no one seemed to regard it as out of the ordinary.

  When the women had led her back to camp three days ago, freshly scrubbed and dressed and her hair combed out and braided in two tails across her shoulders, Crying Bird had inspected her with a critical eye, asked the women a few short questions, then informed her she should now consider herself Shawnee. And that she should take it as an honor, since the arrangements for such a thing usually took many more days, but they had made an exception for her—many exceptions, in fact—on behalf of Eyes-of-Sky.

  “And who was Eyes-of-Sky to you?” Kate had asked.

  The Indian warrior glowered for a moment before replying. “He was my friend. And he should have been the husband of my sister.”

  Kate’s heart sank. Well, that would explain the ire of the woman who had stormed out of the assembly…and her continued glares whenever Kate happened to be within sight. But if these people believed for the most part that she was something to Thomas—

  What would happen to her if he actually did come? Or, if he never did? Crying Bird’s brooding presence was a near-constant.

  And the more days that passed…

  Kate knew how fleet Ladyslipper was. Surely if Thomas were riding her, he’d have caught their trail by now. Unless…

  Unless he had fallen ill, or worse.

  She could not think of that. She could not.

  Flying Clouds or Payakutha, as she’d learned to call him, remained very kind. Sometimes he made Crying Bird sit and translate for them, and he’d ask about her family, or Thomas’s family, of which she knew painfully little, and it was nowhere near enough to satisfy him.

  It also fed Crying Bird’s suspicions. “You are his woman,” he said, “and yet you know nothing of his white family?”

  Kate would not let herself squirm, even as the heat climbed into her cheeks. Oh. Of course. She’d been quite the innocent, hadn’t she? These people took the word woman to mean that she was his wife. But she lifted her chin and met his mocking gaze as steadily as she could. “And if you know him, you’d know how little he likes to speak of himself.”

  Crying Bird made a scoffing sound.

  “Unless,” Kate said, “unless he is changed that greatly.”

  “That may be,” the younger warrior said. “But I believe less and less that you are his woman.”

  She did not blame him, but she’d certainly not say so.

  There was only a single kiss, under the queerest of circumstances, to lead her to believe she was aught but a thorn in Thomas Bledsoe’s flesh.

  On that third day, she’d just laid the corn cakes to bake in the clean ashes of Payakutha’s morning fire and was about to sweep the wegiwa when a great stir arose somewhere outside. Crying Bird came striding toward her, and with a hissed word to Payakutha, seized Kate by the arm and jerked her along.

  “Unhand me!”

  He growled and gave her arm an extra shake. “Be quiet, if you wish to live.”

  She bit back a yelp and tried to keep up. The older Indian trotted along beside her, a fierce look on his face.

  Was that anger, or—excitement? It could be either.

  And suddenly her own rising suspicion kindled and flared into a wild hope. Could it be—

  Oh please, gracious Father in heaven, let it be Thomas!

  They rounded the longhouse, and there, across the open field, leading a horse that gleamed chestnut in the sun despite being loaded down with provisions was a single figure whose stride she recognized.

  All the breath went out of her lungs, and she thought her heart would burst. He came! He came! And all the oddity she’d ever noted about his appearance made sense now—the leggings, breechclout, and simple shirt—all of which he wore with as much pride and ease as any of the men here—and the length of his hair, which fluttered loose except for a portion along the top and sides.

  He scanned the gathering as he walked, quietly alert in that way she knew and loved, and she saw the change in him the moment his eyes found her. His head came up and his gaze widened, an instant before his entire expression shifted to a smile.

  A smile. For her.

  Her knees buckled—or Crying Bird pushed her down, she could not tell which. Thomas’s face and bearing went instantly rigid, and as he approached, he called out in that slow, musical tongue she’d been hearing continually the last several days.

  Crying Bird answered, and then Flying Clouds, the former with scorn and the latter with a definite note of joy.

  She was both here—and alive. Oh thank You, God! Thank You, thank You.

  And then Crying Bird forced her to kneel, holding her there with a hand to her shoulder, his face full of thunder.

  The man couldn’t have claimed her already. That went contrary to all Thomas had known of their customs for such things.

  “Greetings, my friend and brother! It is good to see you again.”

  Crying Bird’s mouth curled. “What, after you left us so suddenly? I think you are no friend, much less a brother.”

  “He is both friend and brother,” came a deep, strong voice from beside Crying Bird, a little rustier than Thomas remembered, but full of gladness. “You are welcome, my white son! Welcome indeed, Shkipaki-Nishkiishako.”

  The burn that had kindled in his gut both at seeing Kate and at Crying Bird’s use of her swept upward to settle in his throat. How many years since a man had called him son? He swallowed heavily and forced the words out. “My father. Too long it has been. I am honored by you, and wish to speak further. But I must settle a matter with Crying Bird.”

  “If it is the matter of this woman, he has told me that she is yours.”

  Thomas’s heart skipped, and just in time he kept from betraying himself with the flicker of his eyelids. They’d surmised this, on their own? He supposed it could have been gathered from how closely he and Kate had stood that night, in the forest outside camp…

  “She is my woman, aye.”

  “You hesitate, brother,” Crying Bird snarled. “And she also does not answer when asked if she is yours. I think she is not. And because our people have already accepted her, as you can see—”

  “Either way, she shall be mine,” Thomas said. He must not let his desperation show. “I have brought gifts to offer in exchange for her. And you will see already how she favors me.”

  He nodded toward her, still kneeling, but her joy undimmed.

  Oh Kate. I am hardly worthy of that…. But oh, she was lovely dressed as a Shawnee woman. All she lacked were the silver brooches and other ornaments that most others sported.

  “I have said she shall be my woman,” Crying Bird said, head tilted.

  “Release her, and see who she chooses,” Thomas said. “Or would you take a woman unwilling?”

  “You belong to Red Flower. Or did, once.”

  And as if summoned, a woman stepped out of the onlookers. Thomas’s heart dropped again. Sure enough, it was her. And her appearance was enough to cause Kate to stiffen and look wary.

  “Enough.” An older warrior, one with hair gone to silver and his face bearing all the gravity of advanced years. “We will speak of this later. The elders will decide the matter.”

  Thomas considered the man, and what he remembered of his character. “Will the elders allow the girl to show her preference, at least, before we speak?”

  The older man looked first at Kate, who swayed now with open longing on her face, then at Thomas. “We will.”

  With a nod at the elder, Thomas turned back to Kate. Without a word, he held out a hand to her.

  A strangled sob broke from her, and throwing hers
elf out of Crying Bird’s grasp, she scrambled to her feet, then ran toward him.

  So—beautiful—

  Then she was in his arms, trembling, shuddering, both hands clutching the back of his shirt.

  Shh, shh, I’m here,” he murmured into Kate’s ear, where only she could catch the words. The silk of her skin, the soft, familiar weight of her against him—he fought to keep from being overcome himself.

  A ripple of laughter and talk surrounded him from the townsfolk. They were doubtless enjoying this display.

  “You came—truly,” she mewled, face pressed to his shoulder.

  “Aye. Though I was delayed—aye.” Keeping his mouth near her ear, he cradled her closer. So soft, so sweet—“Do you trust me, Kate?”

  She went still for a moment, then sagged against him again. “Yes.”

  “Then I promise I’ll tell you everything you want to know. But later.” She turned her head to peer up at him as if unsure what he meant, and those deep brown eyes, swimming in tears, nearly undid him. “Everything,” he said. “Whatever you wish.”

  A fierce determination shone despite her weeping. “I know already,” she murmured. “That you lived here. And that—you were engaged to another.”

  Was that what Crying Bird had told her? “Not quite engaged,” he said. “But close enough.”

  Close enough that he should have felt a good measure of guilt standing here, holding her in Red Flower’s presence. But somehow all he could do was tuck her in more tightly as she fell to weeping against his shoulder again, and lay his own cheek against her head.

  After a few moments, she began to calm, and stirred from his embrace, looking abashed. He swept a thumb across her cheek. “I need to greet Flying Clouds. Will you hold Ladyslipper?”

  She nodded mutely and took the reins.Thomas looked up.The townspeople had dispersed for the most part, but Flying Clouds still waited, with Crying Bird beside him, glaring. Thomas made his approach but had not far to go—the older warrior crossed half the ground between them. “My son, I have missed you. Why did you not return before now?”