After a bridge had been broken, ’twas foolishness to try crossing it again.
“You still fancy Mistress Whiting then?”
The question, issued from Boone’s lips in a calm, matter-of-fact manner, threw Silas off-kilter. They sat in Boone’s cabin—the one he’d occupied with Rebecca before Mistress Boone returned to North Carolina—cleaning their rifles. Boone took great pride in his, naming it as one would a faithful hound. Tick-Licker, named thus because Boone said it could shoot a tick off a bear’s snout at one hundred yards.
Silas focused on the methodical movements of cleaning and polishing, avoiding Boone’s sharp gaze in the meager light. Did he fancy her? He could scarce sift through the soil of his heart without producing some remembrance of her. Some sweet moment the two of them had shared before …
Before he’d returned on her marrying day, the very hour she spoke vows to another.
“You need a wife,” Boone continued. “When Miss Rosina, as she was then, came across the trace with her pa in ’76, I didn’t think much of her. She seemed too genteel to survive in a life such as we live here. But seeing her again, I believe she’d do well for you, Silas. A fitting helpmeet. And with a child on the way, she’ll need a man’s protection. In the months ahead, particularly.”
“I’ll ponder the matter,” Silas said quietly. Aye, he’d ponder it all right. More than he’d a right to. Boone wasn’t mistaken. Rosina had changed since her marriage. Her face was still that of a girl, but her eyes bespoke a soberness that went beyond her nineteen years.
But the question remained, burrowing under his skin like an unwelcome tick.
Why had she wed Jeremiah Whiting when Silas had been a hairsbreadth away from asking for her hand?
’Twould take time to retrieve that answer. Rosina was the only one who could truthfully give it.
Yet with the threat of attack looming large each day, another query begged response.
How much time did they have?
He forced the thought away and turned to Boone with a question of his own. “What of Mistress Boone? Do you not wonder what’s become of her?”
A shadow passed over the frontiersman’s face. He set aside his tools and folded his hands atop the plank table. Rebecca had done her best to make their cabin behind fort walls a family home, but it had suffered in her absence. Jemima had a husband and home of her own to tend, leaving her father’s residence dusty and unkempt, the bed made haplessly, the dried herbs hanging from the rafters whittled down to a few scant bunches.
“She’s with her father’s family. I sent a letter thataway a few days after my return. This isn’t the first time she’s thought me dead. She’s a fine woman, Rebecca. I trust—”
“Captain Boone!” Zeke Wainwright burst into the cabin, gulping like a fish. “You’d best come outside.”
Instantly, Boone and Silas were on their feet, following Zeke outside. Evening shadows snaked across the sky. Silas’s heart drummed in his chest. What was the matter? No shouts pierced the air, no warriors emerged decked in paint bearing tomahawks and British rifles.
A throng clustered around something in the center of the fort. As Boone and Silas approached, the crowd stepped aside to let them through. The few women in attendance wore aghast expressions. Silas spotted Rosina standing beside Jemima.
Not something. Someone. Someone Silas never expected to see again.
William Hancock, a member of the salt-boiling party captured along with Boone February last. Wearing only his small clothes, gaunt and filthy, Hancock gulped greedily from a water gourd, liquid trickling down his scruffy face. His dark hair was still plucked like a Shawnee, as Boone’s had been upon his return. His wife, Molly, knelt at his side, sobbing quietly.
Boone crouched beside Hancock. Silas turned to the gaping onlookers.
“All who aren’t outside for guard duty, return to your cabins.” Silas took in the assemblage with a single look. “Give the man some room. Captain Boone and I will speak to him.”
A ripple of protest swirled through the group, but they nonetheless dispersed, drifting toward their homes in small clusters. Silas watched Rosina walking beside Jemima as the two women turned in the direction of Jemima’s cabin. She glanced over her shoulder, meeting his gaze, her eyes wide, a strand of dark hair brushing her cheek. He nodded, then joined Boone beside Hancock.
“I took the chance, and escaped,” Hancock mumbled around greedy bites of corn cake, heedless of his state of undress. “By heaven, what a journey! I thought my sense of direction would prove me right, but the deeper I wandered, the more lost I became.”
Face glistening, Molly Hancock listened to her husband’s tale, passing him pieces of dried buffalo meat and corn cake at intervals.
“Finally, after I don’t know how many days, I gave up. Figured myself beyond all hope, my escape for nothing.”
At this, Molly emitted a little sob.
“I lay down to die, praying my Maker would see to it that my end came swift. Then I looked up and saw a tree nearby, carved with my own initials. I recalled I’d been in that very spot hunting only last autumn, so I gathered what remained of my strength and found my way here. Back to you and the least’uns.” He turned toward his wife with a faint smile.
“What of the Shawnee? Blackfish?” Boone asked, referring to the Shawnee chief who’d adopted him during his time in their village.
Hancock guzzled more water, wiping his mouth with a filthy hand. “He’s postponed the raid on the fort till he can gather a larger force of British and French soldiers. And at least four hundred Shawnee.”
Four hundred? The number sliced the air like a tomahawk’s blade. Fort Boonesborough, as it stood now, was comprised of roughly fifty able-bodied men, along with about forty women and children.
Fifty—and that was being generous—against four hundred? Silas and Boone exchanged glances. They’d known the scales wouldn’t be tipped in their favor but never imagined coming against so large a force.
The war between King George of England and the American colonists had exacted a heavy price from the settlers in Kentucke. From the sound of things, it was only going to get worse.
“Anything else?” Silas asked. The furrow marking Boone’s forehead had deepened as Hancock unspooled his tale. Even for him, fearless as he was, this news came as a shock. They’d expected a march on Boonesborough since June. Today marked July 17, and the absence of any activity held an eerie silence. Worse than aught else was the waiting. Give him a fight any day of the week.
“Nay. Save that I’m weary to the bone and thankful to be home. Not all of us adapt to the Shawnee ways like Daniel Boone.” A note of bitterness edged Hancock’s tone. Boone had spoken of Hancock’s sulking during his months with the Shawnee. Boone, who always made the best of things, wasn’t one to let depression beat him.
“You’d best see to your husband, Mistress Hancock.” Silas stood, dusting off his knees. “We’ll speak again in the morning.”
Molly nodded, helped her husband to his feet, and led him toward his cabin and, hopefully, a bath.
Boone stood with a grunt. At over two score, he nonetheless bore the appearance of a hale and hearty man ten years younger. Tonight though, Silas noted the haggard hollows in his cheeks, the gray threading his russet hair.
“We’ll send word to Colonel Campbell, asking for reinforcements. With any luck, they’ll arrive before the siege. I’ll compose a letter tomorrow, first thing.” The men exchanged a long look in the fading daylight.
And if the militia reinforcements didn’t arrive? Silas didn’t voice the question. After all, he already knew the answer.
They’d pray to Heaven the fort held and, if it did not, sell their lives as dearly as they could.
Chapter 4
The news of Hancock’s return and the grim report he brought spread through the fort like smallpox—rampant and deadly. Rosina loosed a sigh.
There was little sense pondering what would become of them all. Only their Maker knew.
Days passed. Life went on in unbroken monotony. Animals were tended, meals prepared, crops cared for. A semblance of normalcy, a bid for the future, shone through in the announcement that young Peggy Nelson was to wed her sweetheart, Aaron Winter, on the coming Saturday. There’d be a frolic following the service. Though some protested against the noise dancing and fiddling would make, Boone had agreed to the festivities, promising to station extra guards where needed.
Sitting in the semidarkness of Jemima’s cabin, mending one of Flanders Callaway’s hunting shirts—Jemima had always hated stitching, even her own husband’s garments—Rosina pondered the coming frolic. She’d not attended one since her own wedding, and she remembered little of that, the hours lost in a haze of misery. Of fear at what would follow later, after she and Jeremiah retired to their private quarters.
Her fears had not been unwarranted.
Of course, she’d not dance at this frolic, heavy with child as she was. She’d nothing fine to wear, no dress at all, save the one she’d fled to the fort in. Of course, few boasted finery, with provisions scarce as they were. Peggy was wearing Jemima’s best gown to be wed in, and Rosina’s next task, after finishing Flanders’s shirt, was altering it to fit the girl’s slighter frame.
A small figure appeared in the cabin doorway. Rosina smiled and beckoned Chloe Stuart to where she sat by the hearth. Wee Shadow, Rosina sometimes called her. Three years old, the only one to survive an attack of fever that swept her family last winter, the child had latched onto Rosina for some inexplicable reason. Chloe now lived with the Nelsons, but though Mistress Nelson doubtless tried to look after the girl, her own passel of seven least’uns left her little time to tend another’s child.
“Come, Chloe.”
Little Chloe stepped inside, clutching a small cornhusk doll in her chubby fists. Her curly blond hair hung in a mass of unkempt tangles down her back. Her bare feet made dusty prints on the puncheon floor.
She held up her arms in a silent plea.
“In a moment.” Rosina smiled, laying aside the mended shirt and crossing to the chest at the foot of Jemima’s bed. She lifted the lid and pulled out a comb. Chloe followed her movements with wide eyes as Rosina dipped a rag into the bucket near the fireplace.
“First, let’s tidy you up a bit.” Chloe submitted as Rosina wiped dirt and who knew what else from her cheeks, then proceeded to comb the snarls from her hair. “We must have you looking pretty for the party tomorrow night.” Perhaps she might dance after all. Rosina smiled at the thought of twirling little Chloe as the fiddlers played. Goodness knew, the girl needed some joy in her young life after the loss of her father and mother, stricken along with Chloe’s older brother.
The sun shone plentifully enough outside the cabin. What they needed was a bit more of it inside all their hearts. Her own, weary and bruised after the long months of marriage to Jeremiah, and then his sudden demise. Chloe’s, orphaned inside a fort that, at times, seemed like a powder keg ready to explode with the smallest spark.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Rosina called, focusing on brushing out a particularly nasty tangle as gently as she could.
She didn’t expect Silas Longridge’s tall frame to fill the doorway. And fill it he did. The man’s presence always made postures straighten, gazes turn. He owned command like a mantle, covering his broad shoulders with as much ease as the buckskin shirt he wore.
“Good day to you, Mistress Whiting.” He punctuated the sentence with a nod. Unlike Boone, Silas frequently left his broad-brimmed hat behind. Sunlight wove itself through the jet of his hair.
“Good day, Captain Longridge.” Rosina’s hands stilled from their ministrations to Chloe’s hair, and the little sprite took the opportunity to squirm free. She raced toward Silas with a squeal and launched herself at his leg, wrapping her arms around it. Rosina stood with an amused smile.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Miss Chloe Stuart.” He bent and swung the little girl high. Her high-pitched giggles filled the tiny cabin. Rosina watched, a sudden wrench in her heart. Who would play with her child as only a father could? Who would provide a man’s strength and presence in her child’s young life?
Jeremiah would’ve done the job poorly. But at least it would have been something. Now her babe would have only her.
Could she be enough?
Still holding Chloe, Silas turned to Rosina. The little girl busied herself with the fringe on his buckskin hunting shirt, bare feet dangling.
“How have you been keeping?” The cabin was too small for the both of them. He stood close enough for her to catch the intermingled scents of sunlight and soap and an indefinable fragrance that could only be called … Silas.
Rosina’s cheeks flushed at her mental cataloging of his scent. She hoped the semidarkness of the cabin prevented him from taking notice.
“Fair enough.” She rubbed her lower back, easing out a kink. The more her child grew, the easier she wearied. “I’ve been busy. Helping Jemima. Cleaning, sewing, and suchlike. You?”
“Doing what I can to prepare the fort. Mending rifles. Making gunpowder. Out of all of it, the simple act of waiting is the most wearisome. ’Twould be easier if something, anything, would happen. That I could contend with. But the job of waiting, wondering … I must confess, is not my favorite task.”
“Nor mine.” She smiled, thoughts turning toward the travail of birthing her child. “But God provides ample strength for whatever we must face. Be it the waiting or the acting. Both require a different kind of strength, I think. But ’tis the same God who gives both.”
“Aye.” Silas nodded. “ ’Tis true.” He held her gaze in that solemn, tender way of his. “Are you going to the frolic?”
Did he ask out of simple curiosity? Or was there more behind his words?
How muddled he always made her feel. As if she could scarce form a reasonable thought, let alone a sufficient answer.
“I’ll be there, I suppose. For Chloe’s sake,” she hastened to add, reaching out and running a hand over the little girl’s rumpled skirt.
“Ah.” He nodded. “I see.” He turned his face toward Chloe, as if in an effort to hide whatever emotion lingered in his eyes. “There’ll be ginger cake. Do you like ginger cake, Chloe?”
“Cake! Aye, Mr. Silas.”
“Then I’ll see to it you get a great big piece.” He set her down, turned toward Rosina. “I bid you good day.” ’Twas a polite choice of words. Almost too polite. As if she had disappointed him with her answer about the frolic. But what did he expect her to do? Dine and dance like a carefree girl, when she was a widow newly made and an expectant mother to boot?
Before she could return his farewell, he disappeared, the cabin suddenly yawning wide with his absence.
She pulled Chloe close, resting her hand atop the little girl’s curly head with a sigh.
She’d do well to put her emotions and Silas Longridge at opposite ends in her mind. ’Twas best they had no cause to meet.
Threat of an impending siege did not lessen the settlers’ fondness for a frolic. Perhaps it was partly because there was to be a siege that they behaved so. Laughing and living as if this day might be their last. Fiddling and frolicking as if there might never come another summer’s eve, another reel.
Silas had stayed out of most of the proceedings. He’d taken a long stretch of guard duty while the young couple said vows. He’d not needed to hear those sacred words again. They’d only dredge up unwanted remnants of the past—of the last wedding he’d unwillingly witnessed.
The early August air held the texture of summer sweetness. A light breeze stirred the trees, a welcome change from the recent heat. Dusk turned the sky shades of peach and dusty blue. The scent of woodsmoke lent its tang to the air, mingling with that of roasted buffalo meat.
Finished with guard duty, Silas made his way to the center of the fort. The fiddler belted out another reel, brawny arm sawing away, forehead glistening with the effort. The newly wedded cou
ple sat on a plank bench, arms twined around each other. The bridegroom leaned toward his new wife to whisper something in her ear. She smiled and blushed.
Silas looked away. After all, he’d not come to the frolic to witness matrimonial happiness.
What, or perhaps more aptly, whom, had he come for?
Childish giggles drew his gaze to the stretch of grass reserved for dancing. Chloe’s blond curls bounced in the breeze as she twirled with Rosina.
The mere sight of Rosina made his heart do a thousand foolish things. She wore her dark hair free around her shoulders, save for a few strands at the top pulled back and secured with an indigo ribbon. It suited her, the girlish style, and though she wore the same dress, the bit of ribbon at her throat and the laughter in her eyes made her prettier than he’d ever seen her.
So beautiful it made him want to encircle her in his arms, press his lips against the silk of her hair, and never let go.
Quiet footsteps came up behind him. He turned. Boone stood at his shoulder. He’d donned a fresh hunting shirt and his square jaw bore remnants of a recent shave.
“All work and no play makes dullards of us all,” Boone remarked, gaze on the dancers spread across the grass like a colorful, moving patchwork.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.” Silas looked away from the dancers, focusing instead on the tables of food and drink—not much by most standards, but a bounty of frontier fare.
“If my Rebecca were here, we’d not sit out a single one.” His eyes took on a rare softness. “What a dancer that woman is.”
“I’ve had the privilege of partnering Mistress Boone a time or two, and I agree.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Boone’s tone held a trace of command. “Stop looking at the woman and go ask her for the next set.”
Silas swallowed. “That wouldn’t be fitting. Her husband’s been gone only weeks.”
Boone turned, facing Silas directly, blue eyes flashing in his leathery face. “If we wait for the right time and place, it may never come. We’re promised no tomorrows, Longridge. Live today while you still can.” He moved away toward his own cabin. Silas watched him go, the tall frontiersman who carried such a weight yet nonetheless managed to make it seem light.
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