You don’t forget something like that.”
Weeks later the words still burned within her mind. That evening of enchantment where, for a few brief moments, the space of time had dissipated, leaving just the two of them. Silas and Rosina. Nothing changed.
Only everything had. She’d been ruined by another man, then forced to wed him. Now his babe grew within her womb. Dreaming that things were otherwise was nothing more than girlhood foolishness. And there was no time for that.
Bending over the fire in Jemima’s cabin, Rosina stirred a bubbling pot of stew. Days wore on, and still no word of the reinforcements Boone had sent for. Despite the way the settlers cast off their cares the evening of Peggy’s wedding, the tension behind fort walls grew palpable nonetheless. Mothers kept their children close. Trips to the spring for water were attempted with cautious backward glances, no easy breaths drawn until one was again safe behind fort pickets.
Silas had been absent for more than two weeks. Boone had selected thirty of the fort’s best men to join him on a scouting trip north to the Blue Licks to investigate the whereabouts of their would-be invaders. Before his departure, Silas told her Boone’s motive for setting out was both to demonstrate his leadership and also to make the Shawnees aware that he had no intention of surrendering the fort. Boone wanted the Shawnees to ponder that if they did attack, lives would be lost on both sides. And loss of both settler and Shawnee life concerned Boone, who valued the tribes as rightful inhabitants of the land. Richard Callaway, however, viewed the Shawnee as worthless savages. Rosina had glimpsed him about the fort, willing to spew his point of view to anyone who would listen. The man was trouble.
Boonesborough without Silas seemed desolate and empty. Ripe for danger. A few days after Boone and his party set out, twelve of the men returned to the fort, announcing it wasn’t worth the risk. Silas had not been among them.
On a quilt spread across the cabin floor sat Chloe, playing with her doll. Rosina smiled at her, replacing the lid atop the stew kettle. She kept the little girl close, sheltered her. She’d spoken with Mistress Nelson, and the woman had gratefully given over Chloe’s care. Now the child ate her meals at Jemima’s table and spent her nights curled up beside Rosina. Goodness knew, a child in the midst of a fort as boiling as the contents of her kettle needed a mother’s care.
“That’s a pretty dress your doll has on. Does she have a name?”
Chloe nodded, blond curls bobbing. “Rosina.” She lisped the word, chin dimpling as she smiled wide.
Rosina smiled. “After me?”
Another nod. “She’s pretty.” Chloe held up the worn cornhusk doll dressed in a frock Rosina had made from a scrap of calico. “Like you.”
“Like me?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Chloe held the doll aloft and twirled her in a spinning motion. “See. She’s dancing. Like you and Mr. Silas.”
Rosina swallowed. “How nice.” But the words sounded too bright. Being held by him, wrapped in the strength and safety of his closeness, inhaling his scent, her hands in his large, calloused ones, had awakened emotions she’d long tamped down. Safe and loved. Two things she’d always known with Silas. Would she ever know such again without the measure of guilt and confusion that came with it? Did she even deserve to?
She took a seat in the rocking chair next to the fire, picking up Jemima’s petticoat. A puckered tear marked the striped fabric. Since Rosina’s arrival at the fort, Jemima hadn’t touched a stitch of mending. The arrangement suited them both well. Jemima, ever her father’s daughter, preferred the dangerous tasks, striding off into the forests with her rifle to hunt fresh game.
Rosina wished she possessed the Boone courage. Wished she hadn’t clenched her hands in a white-knuckled grip as Silas strode out of the fort with Boone and the rest. Wished a day could go by that she did not fear for them. Particularly the man who’d led the procession from the fort, the same hands that had held hers as they’d danced, wrapped around a gleaming rifle.
Boone was a capable leader. He’d keep the men safe.
Like he kept the salt boilers? Captured by Indians and held for months?
Rosina bit down on her lip. Hard. She wouldn’t consider that option. Couldn’t. Silas had been a part of her since their long-ago meeting. He’d crept into the corners of her heart and settled himself there.
Putting aside her stitching, she stood and paced to the tiny window, staring out at the fort gates, one hand resting on her unborn child. Praying for a return she feared may never come to pass.
The wilderness was a tough master, sapping a person of all reserves.
Every muscle in Silas’s body screamed as they continued their trek along the Ohio River. Shawnee country. At every turn, Silas expected to see a group of them emerge from the dense forest, gleaming bodies painted the colors of war, a lust for blood in their dark eyes.
They moved in utter silence, some riding, like Boone, others walking, like Silas. The long unbroken hours did things to a man. There was little to divert one’s thoughts away from dwelling on all manner of fears and dangers, though it required constant vigilance to keep one’s ears attuned to the faintest sound—the rustle of a leaf, the breaking of a twig—and one’s gaze forever scanning the forests around and ahead for the slightest movement. Often it was only a doe or grouse that caused it. But one could never be certain.
They’d set out on this expedition at Boone’s command, though some, like Richard Callaway, vehemently opposed the plan, insisting their absence would weaken the defending forces at Boonesborough. Silas stood with Boone, though he did see Callaway’s point. The man had a mean way of promoting it though, forever trying to stir unrest and distrust of Boone among the others.
Sweat dripped down Silas’s forehead, smudging the paint Boone had instructed them all to apply to better conceal themselves. They’d constructed rafts and crossed the Ohio River a ways back. Now they were smack in the middle of Shawnee territory.
Silas stole a glance behind him, checking the line of men that followed, horses and humans burdened with supplies. He bore his loaded rifle and a light pack on his back, a broad-brimmed hat both sweltering his scalp and shielding his face from the sun. Behind him, Zeke’s breath came in labored pants. Though Zeke was one of the best shots in the fort, Silas wished they’d left the man behind. He hadn’t learned to heed Boone’s art of conducting himself without a trace or sound through the forest.
Silas reached a free hand and swiped at the perspiration trailing across his cheek. His shirt stuck to his chest and his throat ached for a drink. Sweet cider or cool spring water.
For now, he’d have to make do with the lead balls tucked inside his cheek, a method that kept a man from being parched entirely.
Overhead, a redbird trilled from a nearby tree. Silas heeded the sound, listening carefully. Was the sweet music from the throat of a bird? Or that of a Shawnee brave?
Sunlight cut a path through the dense forest, illuminating the cloudless, robin’s-egg blue sky, the deep greens and browns of poplar and hickory trees, and the bright red beads of a nearby berry bush. Red. Like Rosina’s lips.
He hadn’t expected the ache that filled him upon leaving the fort. He’d left her standing with a group of women, her gaze soft and fixed on him, one hand resting on the swell of her babe.
If only he’d been free to part from her with more than a polite farewell. If only her lips had been his for the claiming, the child within her theirs. Would that have made the danger surrounding both of them easier or more difficult to bear?
His gaze snagged on a flicker in the woods. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He held up a hand, stilling the group. For seconds, total silence fell, save for the rustle of the wind in the trees.
Then he spied them. Two warriors, slipping through the forest, carrying British rifles. Both garbed in naught but loincloth and leggings, forearms and biceps adorned with glinting silver bangles, faces painted in black and red. The colors of war.
There was no concealing their party of eighteen men, plus half a dozen horses. Zeke, moving quietly for the first time in his life, stood at Silas’s shoulder. Silas caught Boone’s gaze. Atop his horse, Boone jerked a nod. A silent command.
Fire at will.
The Shawnees spotted them. In a lightning instant, Zeke raised his gun. Gunfire rent the stillness. Silas aimed, bracing himself for the kick of his rifle. Both Shawnee fell.
Suddenly the woods swarmed with warriors. Tufts of jet hair ablaze with feathers, clutching bows and arrows, a few rifles, descended upon them. Fiendish yells—the war cry—filled the air and chilled the bone.
Astride his horse, Boone galloped up, firing like a general. The acrid stench of powder mingled with the smoke of each shot. Silas reloaded, racing through the motions, as Zeke took an arrow in the shoulder. He aimed at the warrior who’d released it.
Brutality. That was the frontier. Fight or die.
Silas hated it. Always had. The taking of another life should be left to God, not man. But to survive meant to fight. Boone counted on them to stand strong.
He didn’t think, blocked out everything beyond shooting and reloading. Over and over and over. For minutes his world was the high whinnies of the animals, war whoops, and angry blasts of gunshot on both sides. A brave raised his rifle, aiming toward Boone, defiance in his gaze. Before Silas could react, young Simon Kenton fired. Two Indians fell almost simultaneously.
Finally, finally, it ended. The Indians slung their wounded over their backs and fled into the depths of the forest. The smoke settled. Alexander Montgomery bent to tend Zeke, who lay on the forest floor moaning.
Silas caught Boone’s gaze. Sweat tracked across the ocher paint, giving his features a strange cast. Boone dismounted in a single sweep, as steady as if he’d just spent the past minutes ensconced in a Virginia drawing room instead of battling for life and limb. Silas envied the man his calm.
“We return to Boonesborough.” Boone’s voice, though low, held command. “As we’ve seen”—he gave a wry smile—“the Shawnee are already south of the Ohio River. We acquitted ourselves well. But now comes the real challenge. We must return to the fort with all haste. They’re on their way, men.” In a fluid movement, Boone remounted, sitting tall in the saddle. “And we must beat them there.”