27

I thought it was hard times—no bred, no salt, no vegetables, no fruit of any kind, no Ardent Sperrets, indeed nothing but meet.

—JOSIAH COLLINS

Tempe . . . Tempe Tucker?”

The feminine voice swung Tempe around. She faced the young woman whose curves and comely features were but an echo of another time and place. “Jemima Boone?”

“Aye, all growed up, and now a Callaway.” Teary-eyed, Jemima rushed forward and enveloped her in a humid, sweat-scented embrace. “Let me look at you.” She stepped back, hands firm on Tempe’s shoulders. “If you aren’t a sight to behold. Prettier than a summer’s morn too, even more than when—”

A flash of pain darkened her eyes, and her voice faded. Tempe well knew what James’s sister was thinking. There was no need to finish. Tempe forced a smile, determined to move past any awkwardness. “So you’re a married woman, Susannah too, Esther tells me.”

“Aye, we get on with the business of living out here. One never knows what a day will bring.” Jemima smoothed her bodice where it joined her skirt. “No least’uns yet, though Susannah has a baby girl, little Betsy.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Needs be more womenfolk around.”

Jemima locked eyes with her. “And you? You married to one of those men I hear brought you in?”

Obviously talk spread like fever in the confines of the fort. “Not married, nay.” The words all but caught in her throat. She tried to keep the lingering sadness from her tone. “One day, maybe.”

“Well, beware a stampede of lonesome men.” Jemima gestured toward a chair. “Let’s sit a spell. I’ve heard tell of your folks’ inn along the Shawnee River. People say the fare’s better than any ordinary in Virginia.”

“People are kind. We do what we can.” She bit her lip as pain seared her leg when she took a seat. In light of the wretched conditions at Boonesborough, life along the Shawnee seemed almost idyllic. “There’s little Indian trouble that way so far out, but I don’t expect the peace to last.” The handbill flashed to mind—and Russell’s involvement with the British, whatever that entailed. “I’d rather hear about you.”

Jemima was smiling now, clearly bemused. “You likely know about our canoeing the river last summer and being took by Indians.”

“Bits and pieces, mostly how your would-be husband rescued you.”

“It makes a fine tale in hindsight, but I’d rather not repeat it. Pa cautioned me against going and I should have heeded him. It’s a wonder you made it here safely. How long you aim to stay?”

Tempe raised her shoulders in a shrug, gaze falling to her leg. Leaning forward, she raised her petticoat. “My hope is to get home soon but for this.”

Kneeling, Jemima unwrapped the linen bandage about her calf, her features stoic despite the sour odor and sight. “It needs some tending, for true. I know just the trick.” She rose and headed toward the door. “I’ll be back quick as I can.”

Her disappearance allowed Tempe a moment to collect herself. Turning her face away from her leg, she fastened her gaze on a far wall made bright with a tangle of bittersweet vine.

Being here was bittersweet.

She saw James in Jemima’s face. Heard him in the cadence of her voice, that distinct lilt true to all the Boones. Though James was long gone and Sion was larger than life, her heart still ran after James. What man would want her, given that? What truehearted woman pined for a lost love while a whole, warm-blooded man was hers for the taking? Dismayed, she swiped a tear away with a callused hand.

“Tempe Tucker?” The gentle question brought Tempe’s head around. James’s mother spoke from the open doorway. “What’s truly ailing you? Your leg . . . or your heart?”

Tempe blinked. Another tear fell. Rebecca came forward, a little more lined, streaks of gray silvering her dark hair, and lay a soothing hand on Tempe’s shoulder.

How was it that Rebecca knew, after so long, what Tempe’s heart held? Was it so plain she missed James? Dare she confess the half-crazed thought that she’d come here hoping to find him? That in her heart of hearts, her dreams, she’d not buried him in Powell Valley, that some stubborn part of her refused to let go, preferring he live on, solid and beloved and enduring as the ground beneath her feet?

The truth was Boonesborough was full of Boones. But not James.

In Rebecca’s left hand was a small basin of elm bark ooze. Tempe had a notion to tell her not to bother, that Esther had tried the same. But maybe Rebecca needed to do this. Maybe Tempe needed her nursing as well.

Looking considerably leaner than she’d been in Powell Valley, Rebecca knelt on the hard floor. The black-haired woman who’d birthed James, nursed and rocked him, and watched him grow then given him over to death, tended to her in silence.

In a kinder, sweeter time and place, Rebecca would have called her daughter, celebrated grandchildren and freedom and life beyond fort walls. But here and now, in the sore silence, she could only try to mend her leg and touch her heart. One of life’s most painful mysteries was that time moved on, with or without you. Those left behind loved and laughed and resumed living as if you’d never been at all.

“It’s good you came to be here.” Rebecca spoke softly as she worked, her liver-spotted hands gentle. “Many a time I’ve wondered how you fared. I hoped you’d marry, start a family someday.”

Tempe bit her lip, unable to answer.

“That’s a good man who brung you in. Well, one of them.” Rebecca’s half smile turned her almost girlish. “That Sion Morgan reminds me of Daniel. You could do no better.”

Studying the petticoat of Esther’s borrowed dress, Tempe fingered a finely sewn seam.

“It’s no accident he brought you here. It’s time. The Lord made a way and you came.” Rebecca’s voice held acceptance, both a grieving and a letting go. The ache would never fade, this Tempe knew. But somehow Rebecca had come to terms with it.

“I thought by now I’d join James.” Swallowing, Tempe forged ahead. “I’ve been reckless in those woods, hungering to see him again.”

Rebecca looked up, understanding in her gaze. “You’ve got too much life in you yet. It’s not your time.”

Tempe took the words in, forgetting her leg, thoughts swinging from James to Sion. Maybe she’d stay on right here, spare herself parting with Sion at the inn . . .

Jemima returned just then, Susannah in her wake bearing little Betsy on one hip. Tempe opened her arms to James’s eldest sister, the one who’d cried the longest and loudest at his passing. Little Lavina came in next, now almost as tall as Tempe herself. Did she even remember her beloved older brother?

Soon they all were crying quietly, undone by the moment. And then Jemima, ever good-natured, brought their weepiness to a halt. “Best shush lest the men bust in here thinking we’re under siege. Besides, it’s a glad day when Tempe returns to us. Reckon we can convince her to stay on at this stubborn fort—or will she slip away with her black-headed borderman?”

They laughed as Rebecca finished with Tempe’s leg. Little Betsy began making a fuss, arms open to her granny, wanting some attention.

Tempe looked toward the open window, wondering where Sion was, what he was doing. And what if she did slip away with her black-headed borderman?

Betimes Sion was as hard to read as one of his surveys. For a few halfhearted seconds Tempe pondered what was to come. But the future was hazy at best, and she’d take what came moment by moment, savoring the humble hospitality of this beleaguered outpost that was, at the moment, standing strong.

Esther Hart was something of a miracle worker. Sion had heard what a fine shot she was. Fresh from the summer siege on their station, the men were generous with their praise, recounting every detail of Boone’s onerous run to Virginia for powder. But it was Esther’s marksmanship he remembered now—and her miraculous transformation of Tempe.

The late-summer dusk lent a dreamlike quality to the fort enclosure, softening the choking dust and harsh edges of the white oak pickets. When Tempe emerged from a far cabin, Sion realized how much he’d missed her in the few hours they’d been apart. Whether by her continual quiet companionship or his own growing need of her, she’d become as near and dear as the seams of his linen shirt.

Unprepared for the sudden charge in his middle at the sight of her, he lowered his gaze to the ground. But the impression she made remained. Hair caught up atop her head. A delicate dress. The grit of dirt replaced by a rosy glow. And he wasn’t the only one who noticed. More than a few men looked her way. Lingered. Tempe stayed beneath the eave of the Hart cabin.

He was barely aware of Esther coming up alongside him where he was minding Beck near the smithy, till the babe she held gave a little cry of discontent. Esther offered him a small smile, bouncing the child on her hip. “I wanted to talk to you about Miss Tucker.”

His chest tightened. He lowered his head with the intent of listening.

“It’s her leg. The gash is deep. I’m no doctor, but it’s causing me to fret.”

His high spirits sagged. He looked up again, finding Tempe hemmed in by two men in the span of his and Esther’s short conversation. In so small a fort, it didn’t take long to sort out who belonged to whom. Or not.

“Is it true there’s no doctor at Harrod’s—or Logan’s?” he asked.

“None to speak of. Just an old granny woman due back any day. I put Miss Tucker in her very cabin.”

“Any preacher hereabouts?”

Her brow creased. “Do you aim to bury her—or marry her?”

He nearly chuckled at Esther’s honest jest. When he said nothing, she continued on. “There’s Squire Boone near at hand. But we don’t stand on ceremony in the wilds. Any God-fearing soul can say the words over you till you come by a true preacher.”

Though he was open to the notion, a wilderness wedding seemed to slight Tempe somehow. His marrying Harper had been hasty, if legal. He didn’t want Tempe to get any inkling he’d leave her, no proper tie to hold him. The Lord’s blessing was something he craved. Mayhap Nate’s Scripture spouting and Tempe’s gentle devotion were wearing him down.

The babe reached out a dimpled hand and grabbed the leather strap of his powder horn. He took the horn off and gave it over, wishing he had a little barley sugar instead. She held it wonderingly, gnawing on the wooden spout plug with tiny teeth. He knew it was snug and no powder would spill, though Esther looked a tad wary.

The thought of his own babe cut in, sudden and sharp. His child had never drawn breath. Sion had fought the strange mourning that followed, wondering how a heart could grieve for a child never held. But maybe it was as Nate said. For thou hast possessed my reins: thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.

“She’s far too comely for her own good,” Esther told him, eyes on Tempe across the way. “Bad leg or no, you’d best stake your claim.”

“I will.” He pried his powder horn away from the tiny girl gently, only to set her a-howling again.

At his approach, the men on either side of Tempe melted away. She finally noticed him, the pleasure in her eyes giving way to uncertainty and a guarded hope.

Mindful of her leg, he motioned to a bench near the west blockhouse wall. He wanted to take her hand, stake his claim as Esther said, but the fingers nearest him were splinted and the others were buried in the folds of her skirt.

“I hardly recognized you,” he said in a stab at conversation. “I mean . . .”

Her answering smile assured him he’d not misspoken. “Well, there’s no mistaking you.”

He rubbed his jaw. Though he’d tried to clean up, he’d gotten no further than shaving. “I’ll be out on a scout come morning. Be gone two, three days. Whilst I’m away”—he forced lightness into his tone—“try to fend off these fellows. They’re nothing but a wake of buzzards.”

She chuckled, fingers plucking at a rosebud on her sleeve. “Should I tell them the mighty Morgan said so?”

“Aye, if you like.” He rested Annie against the log wall. “It’s your wound I’m thinking of.”

She sobered, all levity gone, staring at her skirt as if she could see to the injury beneath. “Ma would know what to do.”

Her heartfelt words couched a dozen different things. Homesickness. Weariness. Resignation. Regret. She knew her wound might be mortal. She might not ever reach her family.

I am not the least afraid to die.

She was on the verge of saying it again. He could sense it. If she did, he would reach out and still the words before they left her lips.

He swallowed past the tightness in his throat. Twice now he felt he stood in the gap between her and James. She was leaning toward dying. He could feel it. And not only leaning, she welcomed it. The contrary notion sat sourly inside him, so at odds with his newfound hopes.

The twang of a fiddle sounded. The posted lookouts glanced down from their picket perches at the noise. Heartfelt seconds ticked by. Sion was in no mood to dance. But Jemima was partnering with her new husband, Flanders Callaway. Susannah and her groom, Will Hayes, joined in while Rebecca and Daniel watched from the shadows.

Sion had seen Daniel talking with Tempe earlier outside the Hart cabin and wondered what they’d said. It had to do with James, no doubt. Always James . . .

Tempe’s expression turned poignant. “Betimes I wish life wasn’t so chancy. Seems like we try to squeeze in little bits of living between trying to stay alive.”

It’s only hardest right now, he nearly said. But it wasn’t. All of life was a frightful risk. If they weren’t bedeviled by Indians, it was illness. Accident. Heartbreak. Separation. What did they have but this present moment?

No doubt the other unfettered men thought the same, for one young, scar-faced fellow came near and called Tempe out as the fiddler struck a reel. Sion watched as she lowered her lashes, declining with a demure smile. His resistance roared.

Did she have to be so downright fetching in her refusal?

Taking Annie back, he struck a sterner pose in order to keep all comers at bay.

“If I could I’d dance with you.” Shoulder to shoulder with him, she leaned nearer to be heard over the raucous music. “Only I don’t know if you dance.”

“It’s been a long while.” He’d not attended a proper frolic in years. But he enjoyed a good bow hand, and while this fiddler was not the musician Russell was, he still managed a lively tune.

As it was, he felt a sweet contentment just sitting beside her, knowing she was safe from ambush and not out on the trail. Nate approached with two trenchers in hand, one piled high with fried venison collops, the rest buffalo so well roasted it fell off the bone. Tempe exclaimed in delight at the buttered corn, green beans, and cornbread. Sion felt a bit giddy himself at the abundance. Cucumbers and onions and slices of watermelon waited on another table. They didn’t have much, but Boonesborough had combined all they had. A welcoming feast, truly.

“You two all right?” Though Nate included them both, it was Tempe he looked to for answer.

Tempe smiled up at him, inviting him to sit. Disappointment shadowed Sion like a cloud when Nate obliged and took a near bench. Nate cared for Tempe like a daughter. Who was Sion to wish him gone? Still, the need to be alone with her was strong, if being alone in a fort full of people was possible.

What he really wanted . . . He gave in to the nagging temptation. What he really wanted was to take her by the hand, away from prying eyes and the noise, and lead her to her cabin, where he’d shut the door and slip all the pins from her hair . . .

Freshly washed, a few strands had defied Esther’s careful coil and fell in wayward wisps about Tempe’s flushed face. That flush—could it be fever? Blood poison was never far from his thoughts. He shoved the worry away, but it took root, further shrinking his hopes.

She bowed her head as Nate said a prayer, but she ate little, further alarming him. Soon she was clapping in time to the music whilst he finished her supper and his, watching as Cornelius squired every woman present, proving himself an able dancer.

Someone had rolled out a keg. The chain carriers were partaking of some spirits between sets, and Sion hoped Cornelius would continue to act the gentleman. Lucian sat with a burly black man, two women with them. Lucian belonged here on the frontier, a free man, not enslaved by the hard-to-please Cornelius. This injustice bedeviled Sion too.

His mind drifted to matters within his ken. He needed to ride to Harrod’s Fort and enter his land claims as required by law. Till the claims were entered, they were invalid and up for dispute.

Paramount was taking Tempe home again. But first she needed to heal. Daniel had asked him about scouting in the meantime since two of the fort’s best guns had been killed the month before.

Lord willing, in the midst of all that, he’d woo her.

If he could stay alive.

If she was willing.