26
The morn was blessedly cool. Clay rued being away from the fort, from Tessa, but he couldn’t rest till he saw for himself there was nothing of concern to prevent settlers from returning to the harvest. Yet no matter how vigilant the fort spies and settlers, the Indians might strike again anytime, anywhere.
“Never saw better country,” Jude said, removing his hat to fan his face. “Except your land along the Monongahela.”
“Pity it’s a hundred miles north or we could lay out a house site.”
Jude gave him a knowing grin. “I always wondered what woman would make you want to end your roving ways. The Spinster Swan it is.”
“If she’ll have me.”
“Have you? That wedding last night should have been a double. No sense waiting. But who’s going to marry you? You can’t marry yourself.”
“That’s the trouble. As it stands, there’s no one to officiate unless an itinerant preacher happens by. I’ll not do as some and pledge troth without benefit of clergy.”
“Take her to Pitt. I recall a sober preacher there.”
Clay said nothing, committing Jude’s words to heart. They reined in beneath an ancient chestnut tree near the idle Swan ferry, resting their horses after a ten-mile circuit. The day held a touch of fall, the leaves of late July showing a summer’s weariness, their vibrancy fading. In the distance came the reassuring ring of an axe. The Swan brothers, all but Cyrus, were home, the sound blessed confirmation. Ross, usually at the ferry, was likely in the fields. Folks would have to swim or float their belongings across, but lately there’d been few travelers, given word of the Clendennin massacre had spread.
“Why do you think that war party took no prisoners?” Jude asked, eyes on the river.
“They were traveling fast, not wanting captives but vengeance after what happened to Chief Bull and his party.”
“What do you make of them that nearly ambushed the Swans that night? Think it was the same who attacked the Clendennins?”
“Nay. The Clendennins seemed to be the work of Shawnee or mayhap Wyandot. That wikhegan on Zadock’s roan was pure Lenape.”
Jude gave a low whistle of consternation. “You ain’t said much, but I know you well enough to see the hackles it raised. Care to tell me more?”
“It’s personal.” Clay reached for his canteen and took a swig of water. “Hearkens back to my time as a captive.”
“Living with the Wolf clan along the Cuyahoga?”
Clay gave a nod. “You recall that Lenape brother whose brother I replaced when he died of disease?”
“Ghost eyes, they called you. Këshkinko. I recollect his was Tamanen. ’Twas him who marked Cyrus’s horse.”
“We were raised together, shared a father and mother. Sisters. Everything we did was to best the other. Close as blood brothers, we were.” Clay took another drink, still stung by the uncanny circumstance. “Keturah was his wife in the Lenape tradition. Nothing binding under white law, but still his wife as far as the tribe is concerned.”
Jude grimaced. “And you knew nothing of the bond between them?”
“None. Keturah was made captive of another band of Lenape before marrying Tamanen and becoming part of his clan. I’d since left them and had no knowledge of their tie till she spoke of it that day with Heckewelder.”
“And somehow, for some reason, Tamanen came here and spooked the Swans, then marked their horse to send a message to you.”
“That’s part of it, aye. Bad blood, mayhap.”
“Bad blood? Because of you living like brothers and then you forsaking your Lenape ways?”
“Stands to reason, aye? He’s a war chief. He’s lost not only his Indian kin to disease but also a white brother and a wife. I had something to do with Keturah. Who knows the depth of his reasoning or his wanting revenge, if that’s what it is.”
“I’d be mighty nervy then.” Jude looked over his shoulder with a grimace. “When a grudge becomes personal, it ain’t likely to end easy.”
“Tamanen’s clever—and ruthless.” Clay turned his horse east, recalling the many times Tamanen had bested and outwitted him. “It’s his nature to settle a score, no matter how small or how much time has passed.”
They rode back to the fort in silence, daylight giving way to the flash of fireflies and a pale sunset. ’Twas hard to keep his mind on the task at hand, as Tessa met him at the beginning and end of every thought. But he felt an odd peace undergirding it all, knowing she was behind those picketed walls, hopefully anticipating his return.
He half expected to see her serve him supper, but ’twas Hester who was at his hearth, concocting venison stew and wheaten bread.
“How’s Cyrus?” he asked.
She poked at the hearth, scattering the embers beneath a kettle to end its singing. “Taken a turn for the worse.”
Dismay overrode his weariness. He hung his shot pouch and powder horn from a peg and stored his rifle, then went straight to her cabin.
Tessa was by her brother’s side, head bent. Was she praying? Her small hand was clasped in Cyrus’s much larger one. His eyes were closed, his pallor disturbingly washed-out. His wound was grievous, but with time and attention Clay figured he’d get well.
He rested a hand on Tessa’s shoulder. She looked up at him, her gaze holding a well of hurt. Cyrus’s breathing was alarmingly shallow. It shook Clay that a man could go from playing checkers to lying motionless in a matter of hours.
“Your ma leave with Westfall?” he asked her softly.
“Aye.” She reached up and laid her hand on his. “When they went, Cyrus was on his feet, and then afterward he began to bleed again.”
He bit back a rebuke about Cyrus being up and around so soon. The Swan men were many things, including willful. Dropping to his haunches, he pondered what to do. Indecision often spelled disaster, a life lost. Keturah’s remedies were never so needed as now. Maddie did what she could but was no physic or Lenape healer.
His own mostly minor injuries, gotten in wartime or with the tribe, trickled through his memory before becoming a deluge. He rubbed his scarred jaw. “Slippery elm bark.”
Tessa searched his face as if seeking all he could possibly remember, as if knowing her brother’s life depended on it.
“Mayhap the wound needs suturing with linen thread. I’d hoped to avoid such, but if needs be we ready a needle.” Here there’d be no stitching skin with the inner bark of basswood or the fiber from the long tendon of a deer’s leg. Or the purifying properties of steam. But in truth he put more stock in them than white man’s medicine.
“I can ride out to fetch slippery elm,” Tessa said. “Shouldn’t have far to go. But first, mightn’t you pray with me?”
His mind became blank as inkless paper, but the plea in her lovely face couldn’t be denied. Removing his hat, he bent his head, feeling the warmth of her fingers lacing through his own. Her lips were moving but he couldn’t make out the words. Still, it was a rare, hallowed moment that seemed to fight back the darkness of the unknown future as they said amen.
He pulled himself to his feet. “As for that remedy, I’ll ask Jude. You try to get some water down Cyrus in the meantime.”
Ruth and Maddie helped Tessa and Hester keep watch of Cyrus, the slippery elm remedy and careful stitches soon in place. Meanwhile, Clay kept the door open to his blockhouse quarters, able to watch the comings and goings of all who entered and exited the fort.
It was almost a relief to return to the mundane the next morn. He sat at his desk and managed various interruptions by settlers wanting to address some matter, returning to his paperwork between times. His latest report was half written, penned with no small sorrow.
There has been no mischief done in this county since the 17th instance when a family of nine persons was killed and scalped about eight miles above this, on the North Branch opposite . . .
Having no heart to finish, he set down his quill and tried to read. He perused the latest laws from the colonial government tongue in cheek. Some he overlooked as petty, and others, if enforced, would fine half the settlement.
In the interest of good morals and the suppression of vice, a penalty of fifty cents was to be exacted for swearing. For drunkenness, ten lashes across a bare back. For laboring on the Sabbath, one dollar was owed. Stealing land warrants resulted in death.
His attention wandered to the open doorway. Toward Hester’s.
What about kissing a spinster in the nighttime shadows?
He leaned back, the creak of the wood slats against his weight a testament to their age. That somebody had hauled a Windsor chair clear to the back settlements was more than a tad befuddling. That it ended up in this blockhouse, more befuddling still. Most frontier furniture was a far cry from eastern colonial parlors. A stump for a seat and a couple of planks nailed down for a table sufficed.
If he returned to the Monongahela country and laid the foundation for a stone house, what would he furnish it with in time? What belongings would Tessa want? He could send east for what was needed. York and Lancaster had fine furniture makers. The orders could be delivered in wagons to Fort Pitt, not too far from his acreage, or floated downriver.
Tessa had a hankering for finer things. Things not even a stone house along the Monongahela might offer. She craved poetry. Hand fans. English tea. Yet she made do with what her rusticated life offered.
He stared without focus at the list of colonial laws, allowing himself a look into the future. Why did he see it so clearly? A house of solid stone. Fencing around a colorful garden with Tessa at its heart. Around her, running and playing, were sons and daughters that bore both their features. Held captive by the scene, he shut his eyes, trying to picture himself there, somewhere.
“Clay?”
Tessa’s voice snatched him back to the present. He opened his eyes. She walked toward him, her smile encouraging. Cyrus hadn’t worsened then.
“He’s awake and taking some of Hester’s tea. And he’s asking for blackberry pie.” She held up a basket. “Don’t want to take you away from your work, but if you could spare some time . . .”
He reached for his powder horn and shot pouch in answer, unable to keep a smile from his own face. With the country calm, there’d be no reason to deny her even a half hour. The morning’s fair scouting report that had let the settlers loose surely extended to them.
Bolt was glad to be free if only on a short jaunt, snorting softly and pawing the ground as they readied to ride out. Tessa sat behind Clay with her pail, their closeness an outright declaration. As they left, Maddie waved from her cabin doorway while a dozen other fort dwellers stared in brazen curiosity.
For once the heat wasn’t oppressive, the noonday sun tucked behind cloud cover that stretched for miles. He felt no sense of danger, not only because fort spies spread out like spokes on a wheel in every direction. His own soul bespoke peace. For the first time in a long time, all the tension drained from his frame, the enjoyment of the moment foremost.
The thicket they sought was still abundant, the berries spared the summer’s sun by a dense surround of white oak. Tessa stood within reach of a rich harvest, gleeful as a girl. He chuckled as she flew through her task, her lips soon stained a telling purple. Ever generous, she fed him the plumpest, juiciest berries. Bolt ignored them both, tearing rapturously at a patch of bluestem.
“I prefer whortleberries to blackberries,” he told her as her basket filled, overcome by a vivid memory. “Baked into cornbread, they were a prize.”
“Whortleberries, aye. I was fond of Keturah’s strawberry cakes.”
Keturah and Heckewelder were never far from his thoughts. Had they safely reached the Tuscarawas? Already laid out their newest mission in pursuit of peace? He leaned back against an oak’s rough bark, mindful of all that was at stake. He was here to help bring about safety and peace in his own small way. Yet he was growing increasingly disheartened defending a cause he didn’t wholeheartedly believe in, pushing back the Indians till they lost not only their lands but a way of life. Unrelentingly, his part in their demise cut across his conscience whenever he gave orders in the blockhouse or scouted land that surveyors and settlers had grabbed and gouged with their implements, refusing to stop till they’d claimed every acre. The Indian in him hated such. The settler and officer in him saw it as a grim necessity. The spoils of war.
But for now, a moment’s peace. Tessa. She glanced up as a sudden breeze teased the leaves overhead. Her throat was bare, and he kissed the hollow of her shoulder where her fichu had slipped slightly. She sighed, the sound content. His own heart was so overfull he couldn’t speak.
“I wish I owned time and could slow it down, especially when you’re near me,” she said.
“How about forsaking the Buckhannon for the Monongahela?”
“I hear the Mon is a mighty big river.” She studied him, their noses almost touching. “Makes the Buckhannon look like a creek. Most fertile land west of the Alleghenies, Pa always said.”
“A garden as big as your heart is set on, aye. As near paradise as I’ve ever seen in my rambles. Unless you’d rather live overmountain.”
Her expression clouded. “I don’t know that in town is where you belong.”
He didn’t know either. Emptying his mind of the notion, he breathed in the scent of a coming rain and called for Bolt. “We’d best hasten back. Mayhap one day soon we won’t have to.”
Helping her into the saddle, he kissed her again. Already he was dreading her leaving and returning home. She was becoming as necessary to him as his daily bread.
They returned to a fort no different than when they’d left, with just as many eyes on them. But his mind remained on the expansive Monongahela and what needed to be done to begin a life there. Or mayhap, in a wild flight of fancy, he would trade it all for town.
Tessa showed her brimming berry bucket to a heavily bewhiskered Cyrus, who was awake now and being fed bone broth by Ruth. Hester was busy gossiping beneath her neighbor’s eave, the women’s spare frames clothed in dark homespun, their cackling reminiscent of crows. Setting out the ingredients she would need, Tessa began making the requested pie, her mind not at all on her task.
All she recalled was Clay’s talk of the Monongahela. Were his thoughts sprinting hard ahead just as hers were, no longer content with a happenstance courtship, a chance meeting, but something more enduring? His wistful words cracked open the door to an altogether different life. A life lived without looking over one’s shoulder, Lord willing.
“What are you smiling about, Sister?” Cyrus had finished eating, and Ruth took the empty bowl away. “More the colonel than your peck of berries, I’m thinking.”
At Ruth’s chuckle, Tessa glanced up from the cookbook Clay had given her, a copy of The Complete Housewife Suitable for the Virginia Kitchen, printed in Williamsburg. She devoured it as much for the reading as the receipts.
“And I’m thinking that pie’s more the colonel’s too,” Cyrus said with a wink at her continued silence.
“Big enough for the both of you,” Tessa returned with a smile, pouring the berry filling into the rolled crust.
Cyrus lay back and plowed a hand through lank hair, his boredom at being in bed apparent. Ruth went to fetch cards, giving Tessa an opportunity to whisper, “Seems like Ruth is sweet on you.”
“She’s set her sights on me today.” His features grew ruddy. “I can’t speak for the morrow.”
“I’d be pleased to have a brother married and gain a sister.”
“So you’d feel better about running off with the colonel, I suppose.”
“Amen,” she said, not caring who heard. But Clay was again in the blockhouse, hearing someone’s complaint over a stolen pig. The man’s voice rose in agitation as he recited a list of grievances against another settler.
On the Monongahela their future shone brighter yet still held the mists of a winter’s morn. All she knew was that she’d gladly trade town for Clayton Tygart.