9

How love came in, I do not know, whether by the eye, or ear, or no: Or whether with the soul it came.

—ROBERT HERRICK

The rolling water was up to the horse’s hocks now. In two steps it licked the stallion’s belly, darkening the underside of the saddlebags. Sion pressed on, the reins in his left hand, his rifle held high in his right, out of harm’s way.

The fording place spanning the Shawnee was still a challenge even in June, the rock marker barely visible above the river’s relentless rush. First to cross, Beck climbed the gravelly bank with unsteady legs as if the current had stripped all the strength out of him.

Levi Todd came next, bobbing along in the current woodenly, used to the rigors of the frontier. The others followed without mishap, Nate giving a resounding amen when all reached the south shore.

They soon parted ways, Todd bent on the Virginia settlements and what help he could garner there for the struggling Kentucke stations. No sooner had his buckskin-clad back disappeared than Cornelius started in.

“We’ve yet to see an Indian, Morgan, and still this everlasting caution. ‘No talk. Walk in water. Shun soft ground. Backtrack now and again to throw any trackers off the trail.’ Ad nauseam.”

Sion looked up the rocky trace the frontiersman had taken. “You aren’t shackled, Cornelius. Follow Todd if you must.”

For a tense second, indecision warred on the Englishman’s flushed face. He slapped at a mosquito but said nothing more, and Sion faced forward again, leading.

’Twas the hottest day yet. Nary a breath of wind stirred. It took concentrated effort to breathe. The sultry air hung thick and sticky, ripe for a storm. Cicadas unreeled their raggety tunes, but the birdsong was muted as it tended to be in the heat of summer, the forest a crush of vivid greens. Sion felt more aggravation than admiration, ignoring the asters with their bewitching butterflies and the clumps of blood-colored phlox that begged a second look.

They were heading west along the Shawnee, away from danger, back toward the Moonbow Inn. Toward Tempe and her lame brother and widowed mother and serving girl, an odd assortment in the wilderness.

His mission was twofold. Reclaim his dog and learn the whereabouts of the guide Todd had told him about. Then their surveying could begin in earnest. What they’d accomplished thus far was barely passable, hindered by a bout of foggy weather and Cornelius’s temper.

He felt fresh disgust they couldn’t survey the Great Meadow where the Kentucke settlements stood. Mayhap the unclaimed land along the Green River would bear fruit. Once they secured a guide, they could construct a base camp, giving Cornelius a place to make his maps. Sion’s own field notes and diagrams were becoming quite complex and needed organizing.

They journeyed on, past dense canebrakes and breathless bottoms, massive sandstone cliffs on every side. His eye lingered on the caves—rockhouses—etched into the cliff’s face, a perfect cover in time of danger or storm. They overnighted in one, leaving the horses to graze in a secluded cove. The next morning they continued into denser wilderness, most of it uphill. Nary a blaze mark on a tree, no sign of a claim anywhere. The country was theirs for the taking.

“Just think, Morgan. Virginia law says four hundred acres can be yours if you build an improvement and raise a crop of corn.”

There was mocking in Cornelius’s voice. For a poor settler, this might seem a dream, but to surveyors paid in vast tracts of land, it was a pittance.

Ignoring Cornelius’s arrogance, Sion looked over his shoulder down the line. The horses were merely plodding now. Beck’s saddle sore had returned, and another packhorse had thrown a shoe. They were all struggling, every man, fighting brush and fallen timber and swarms of insects, sick to death of meat and in need of bread. Hascal’s feet were scalded on account of walking with wet moccasins, the bane of the frontier. They all were in want of another soaking, a clean shirt.

All held fast to the promise of the Moonbow Inn, a phantasm or fancy. Sion felt an odd anticipation. A small hope. Trouble was, he’d begun to question his own motives. Why was he not more aggravated by all their backtracking to the inn? The pleasure he felt had more to do with burgeoning pewter plates. Yet he’d deny it to his dying day.

When at last they saw and smelled the inn’s wood smoke, Sion’s breathing eased. Lifting a sleeve, he slicked the sweat from his brow, nearly toppling his hat. Next he gave the signal to stop. The halted packhorses waited wearily beneath their loads, snorting and huffing, tails swishing at flies. Taking Annie from the saddle holster, Sion walked to the rear of the line where Cornelius stood, their last ugly encounter firmly in mind.

“If you make any trouble for these people”—Sion canted his head toward the inn—“I’ll exact a stiff penalty.”

“Stiff, aye?” Cornelius’s smirk was wide. “I merely misfired—”

“You’ll act the gentleman you pretend to be.” With one hand, Sion maneuvered his rifle so that the barrel’s tip rested against Cornelius’s chest. “You’ll mind your thirst—”

“The metheglin, you mean.”

“You’ll take care with the ladies.”

Cornelius snorted. “Ladies is generous. They’re naught but a bunch of ill-bred, backwoods hussies—”

The barrel pressed harder, level with his heart. Sion continued evenly, “And you’ll mind your tongue lest you lose it alongside your scalp.”

Lucian spoke up, clearly spent. “Should I see about supper, Mister Morgan?”

“Aye, if they’ll have us.” Sion looked toward the inn, seeing little through the trees but detecting something savory. The feast they’d had at first, nearly wiped away by their fracas in the keeping room, was joyfully resurrected in his memory. Butter molded with a dogwood flower. Steaming catfish. Potatoes and hominy. Rich cream gravy.

When they finally cleared the trees, anticipation faded to dismay. In back of the inn was a great many people. Two dingy tents had been pitched in the yard. Horses were hobbled to the side, ripping at the grass and undergrowth. It had been a while since he’d seen so many folks in one place. There was safety in numbers. Likely they had gathered here because they’d heard of the trouble in the settlements and were going to wait it out before braving riskier ground.

He made his way to the dogtrot whilst Nate and the others managed the horses. He wagered they’d get no supper, his party at least. The best he could do was find out about the guide.

The dogs had been expelled from the dogtrot. There was simply no room. Several men sprawled about, no doubt waiting to be fed. Seasoned woodsmen, from the look of them, who might have what he was in need of. They regarded him in broody silence.

Sion cleared his throat and came straight to the point. “I’m looking for a man by the name of Tucker. Tim Tucker.”

A stream of tobacco juice flew past as a low ripple of laughter washed across the porch.

“What you askin’ for?” This from a one-eyed monstrosity of a man who’d clearly tangled with a bear and lost.

Sion eased his rifle to the ground. “I’m in need of a guide.”

“You ain’t from around here, are ye?”

“Nay,” Sion answered. “Fort Patrick Henry.”

The man spat again, his face scrunched in thought. “You come to the right place. Who sent ye?”

“Levi Todd from Logan’s.”

“Standing Fort? St. Asaph’s they once called it.” The mauled man got up from his stump of a chair, outright amusement on his face. Cracking open the door to the keeping room, he bellowed, “Tem Tucker in there?”

Sion sensed something amiss, some private jest, long before the door opened wider and Tempe stepped onto the dogtrot.

“Here’s yer guide,” another man drawled. “And ain’t she a pretty one?”

Laughter split the air, great, gaping guffaws that made a fool of Sion if not Tempe.

Sion took a step back, heat filling every pore, every crevice. “My mistake,” he said, taking his rifle in hand again.

Tempe looked hard at him, a flash of something he couldn’t name in her eyes. He turned to go, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him.

“Now just you wait,” the man called. “Todd told no lie. Tem Tucker’s the best shot along the Shawnee, mebbe even farther. We’ll have us a little target practice and show ye—”

“A shooting match, McRae?” came her soft voice. “Or your supper?”

Sion turned back around to see Tempe wipe doughy hands on her grease-speckled apron. “I don’t hardly have time for the both of them.”

“Sup first. Shoot later,” McRae returned gruffly.

Without another look at Sion, Tempe slipped inside, shutting the door forcefully behind her.

A crowd had gathered, the sun casting russet fingers of light through the trees as it slid slowly from sight. Sion stood along a rail fence, watching Russell limp toward a gate at a distance of one hundred yards. In his hands was a tanned deerskin that he affixed to the wood, carefully marking a circle at the center with a piece of charcoal.

A number of men had gathered, but Tempe kept back, sweeping the empty dogtrot with a brisk broom as if she wasn’t part and parcel of the drama unfolding around her. Her temper had cooled from being called onto the porch, which cost her a burnt skillet of potatoes. Thankfully, the men had eaten them with nary a complaint as if aware their tomfoolery was the cause.

She was dog-tired, her plan for a bath below the falls tucked away. A mosquito had bitten her, raising an itchy lesion on her neck, and she felt sore and unattractive in the midst of so many men. Her nettled thoughts spun back to that twilight in Powell Valley along the creek with James. Despite the grime of the trace, he’d made her feel giddy, pretty, exquisitely alive. Now she just felt worn and soiled as an old moccasin.

The men kept looking to the porch, all but Sion. She still didn’t understand their amused talk, why she’d been mixed up with a guide and Levi Todd. Todd and McRae were among the few who knew their name. The ensuing laughter hadn’t bothered her, as it was directed at Sion. Though he’d stayed stoic, she sensed his deep discomfiture. And hers. He now knew they were Tuckers. What would he make of that?

She took her time sweeping the dogtrot, swinging the broom this way and that, till there was no more dust left to settle. In the field bordering the corn, the men had formed a line as if weary of waiting for her. One by one they began proving their marksmanship, filling the far field with noise and smoke.

Reluctantly, she put the broom aside and went to get her gun. Pa had taught her to shoot after Powell Valley when they’d lived at Blackmore’s Fort, before the terrible trouble with the Loyal. Back then hunger had honed whatever innate ability she had. She took a quiet pride in it but shunned any matches or contests.

“A right terrible waste of powder,” she said without rancor as she took her place at the end of the line. No one could dispute the words. Powder was a precious commodity. There never seemed enough.

Sion was two men ahead of her. The broad set of his shoulders was a fine distraction, so wide it would take two skins to make him a shirt. He wore one of linsey once dyed a rich indigo but now faded to pale blue with so much use. She knew he was a good marksman just as she knew the sun would set and the moonbow would appear. Cornelius and the rest of their party she was less sure of. The older, silver-haired man with them simply leaned against the fence, smoking a pipe and talking with Russell between bouts of gunfire.

There were grunts and grimaces as men shot wide of the mark. Tempe’s breath grew shallow as the intense heat of dusk pressed down, casting long shadows that made shooting more chancy.

She watched as Sion stepped into place and took aim. No matter how she felt about the man and this silly match, his rifle was a work of art. Of beautifully grained maple, the stock was decorated in brass, as was the butt plate and patch box and trigger guard. A stallion among geldings. He raised it to his shoulder and sighted. The crowd quieted when he paused ever so briefly before squeezing the trigger. The rifle roared.

Dead center.

There were whistles of admiration and a few glances tossed her way. She couldn’t best him. She could only match him. How would he feel about that? Not all men took kindly to soldierly women.

The man ahead of her shot second best. He swaggered away in marked contrast to Sion’s handsome reserve. A tendril of admiration grew for this borderman, but she brushed it away before it took root.

“Best shot takes all the lead dug out of the target,” Russell called.

Tempe tamped down a queer excitement. There were worse tasks than splitting lead with this stranger, but given the strain of the moment, could she match him?

Her rifle felt heavy, and she took her time getting her bearings whilst the men around her reloaded. Bracing herself for the kick since she was not a stout woman, she squinted and sighted. A trickle of sweat made an itchy trail down her back. Taking a steadying breath, she sighted a second time. The shot rang out, choking and blinding her with burnt powder, but it was true.

“Nary a hair’s width off!” a man shouted.

To the left of the target, Russell gave her a long look. Even at a distance she read his admiration. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Sion. Rather than a bonnet full of bullets, she’d rather have the why of his coming and this strange talk of a guide.

To his credit, he approached her, offering her his share of bullet lead. “Nay,” she told him a trifle pridefully. “You’ll be needing it more than I.”

He said nothing to this, just gave a nod.

She turned aside, declining a second round. All the men but Sion continued until dark. Last she looked he was leaning against the fence with the silver-haired smoker, deep in conversation. She slipped away without another glance.

Maybe she’d get that bath after all.

Clutching a moss sponge and a dab of hair wash made from chestnut leaves and skins, she took her bath. Under cover of darkness, in a placid pool far below the falls, she felt the heat of the day and the grease of the kitchen melt away. The moon was full but fickle, only hinting of a moonbow. She was cast back to her time with Raven a fortnight past, when the moonbow had appeared and bewitched them both.

Pulling free of the refreshing water, she sat on a rock and untangled her hair with a comb of Russell’s making, the teeth wide and smooth. The clean shift she’d brought settled over her like a caress.

Here in the quiet she was better able to sort through the demands of the day. The tumult of the falls was more a whisper this far downriver, allowing for unhindered thought. Deep in her spirit she sensed Pa was on his way back to them. Two months he’d been gone. Tomorrow she would go to the rockhouse, tidy things there, and see if any critters had made mischief, though Ma couldn’t spare her long with so many clamoring to be fed. Provisions were running thin. Pa was never so needed as now. Russell was busy night and day shoeing horses and making repairs, running low on iron. A smithy so far from civilization was a difficult endeavor. Her brother was a master at making do.

Hair almost dry, she gathered up her soiled clothes and started toward home reluctantly, the ground warm beneath her bare feet. Heading uphill, she followed a willow-skirted creek. A few steps more and she heard whistling. Low and musical, it gave her pause. Few chanced the woods at night, yet there in the path not a rod away stood a man. But not just any man.

Sion.

He sought her out for a purpose, she knew. And kindly gave her notice by making noise. A sliver of moonlight pierced the gloom, laying a skim of silver light upon his features and blue-black hair.

Save an owl’s hooting, silence fell between them. She hugged her comb and clothes closer, wondering if her state of undress bothered him. But why would it? The worn linen was like a tent, disguising every hill and valley of her. She minded her hair the most, hanging free with a will of its own, buckling and curling in the damp heat of a summer’s night.

“Seems like we should make proper introductions.” His eyes seemed to dance. “Your brother calls you Temperance. Your ma calls you Tempe Grace. Levi Todd referred to you as Tem Tucker. I’m not sure what a borderman like myself would say.”

“Just Tempe.”

His chuckle returned her to their first meeting when she’d told him the same. It dawned on her with another fearsome pang that he knew her last name. But it was common enough in the colonies. There were as many Tuckers as Boones and Callaways. Pa was . . . safe.

“And you?” She well knew his name but wanted to hear it outright as if it would take away the remaining awkwardness between them. She would have her clamoring questions answered, Lord willing.

“Sion Silvanus Morgan.”

Her nose nearly wrinkled. An odd name, Sion.

As if reading her thoughts he said quietly, “It’s Welsh.” He rested his gun on the ground. “Means ‘God is gracious.’”

Oh? Not just a comely name but a godly one. She’d not belabor the meaning of hers. She’d always thought Temperance plain, as parsimonious as its origin. Her middle name, Grace, suited her fancy far better.

“Well, Temperance Grace Tucker . . . I had no inkling you were so fine a shot.”

The compliment begged explanation. She couldn’t tell him about their sojourn at Blackmore’s Fort. It would lead like a trail of bread crumbs to Pa’s misdeed. A chill spilled over her, raising gooseflesh. Maybe Sion already knew and was drawing closer, using her to reach her father. The bounty was ample, his for the taking. Far easier gotten than surveyor’s pay.

The comb’s teeth bit into her palm. Other settlement women sprang to mind. “There’s more than Jane Menifee and Esther Whitley who are good with a gun. Some can stand up to a loophole as well as any man. Better betimes.”

“Can you reload on the run?”

“No call to.”

“Pray you never will.” He looked away. “What do you know of the Green River country?”

The Green. The name brought a strange wistfulness. She thought of all her tramping to the west with Pa, their favorite haunts, the forbidden places. “There’s a nest of rivers that way. Caves and canebrakes. A few rogue Cherokee roam—”

“Chickamaugas, you mean?”

She gave a nod. “But no settlers to speak of.”

“I’m in need of a guide.” He was looking at her again, weighing, studying, sifting. Awaiting her reaction. “That would be you.”

“I’m a good many things on any given day, but I’m no guide.” She nearly squirmed beneath his scrutiny . . . and her in her shift. What would it be like on the trail with him and a passel of men, day in and day out? What respectable woman would bend to such a task?

His gaze never wavered. “If a woman can stand up to a loophole as good as a man, what would hinder her from being a guide?”

“I’ve never heard of such.”

“Be the first.”

She nearly rolled her eyes. Yet he made it sound so doable . . . almost tempting. Stubbornness took hold. She’d heard of camp followers and cooks with the army in the East, most of them slatternly, it was said. She raised her chin. “And besmirch my reputation . . .”

“I can promise your reputation would never be besmirched. No man would lay a hand on you—or an errant look. You’d be addressed however you wish. Draw fair wages.”

“What need have I of wages?”

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “You might go over mountain and want a pretty dress. A bit of lace.” He looked to her feet. “Some shoes.”

She laughed at this flight of fancy. “I have all three right here. And a moonbow besides.” Stepping around him, she started up the trail only to stop again at the sound of his voice.

“A moonbow?”

She faced him again, drawn by his earnest query. “It’s a wonderment, I’ll give you that, if the signs are right.”

“The signs?”

“A full moon . . . ample mist . . . patience.”

He studied the sky. “Patience I have. The moon looks fair enough. I don’t know about the mist.”

She smiled without wanting to. He’d removed his hat and angled it over his heart. Whether deliberately or without guile she didn’t know. The effect was the same. For a few light-headed seconds she forgot her shift. Her tumbled hair. Her resistance.

“You could tarry awhile,” he said.

Was he asking her to walk out with him? Or sway her into accepting his offer to be a guide?

“I misdoubt you need a guide, be it for the moonbow or the wilderness.” She meant it as a compliment, but he might not take it as such.

His face, so plain before, was cast in darkness as the clouds shifted. She took a last hard look at him before continuing up the trail to home. When she reached the top of the rise she turned round again. But he was gone, the slip of trail bereft.

And she felt oddly bereft herself.