36

Clay settled accounts with their hostess and bade the officials farewell, and then they started east. Soon Fort Pitt was a speck of brick on the far horizon. Three hundred miles spread out before them, the distance daunting. Though Tessa set her sights forward, she couldn’t quiet the notion that by leaving Pitt she was somehow leaving Ross. Turning her back on the border, the far-flung west, was somehow akin to turning her back on her brother, or so the knife’s edge of pain said. But waiting along the Buckhannon seemed unendurable too.

When they came upon a boundary marker along a particularly alluring stretch of the Monongahela River, Clay said, “Here marks Tygart land.”

“Whatever would we call it?” she wondered, spying a treed rise that begged for a fine house. “Surely not Tygart Station. These woods seem peaceable in a way the Buckhannon’s never been.”

“Plenty of oaks. Oak Run. Oak Grove. Oak Hill.” With a shrug, he turned in the direction of Fort Pitt. “A home of solid stone, not logs. Furnishings from overmountain. Enough fancies to make you feel you’ve one foot in town.”

She smiled, envisioning it. “But first, Philadelphia.”

They set a brisk pace, their hard riding through the foothills of the mountains eclipsing conversation, though in time a companionable silence ensued. Since leaving town, Clay had become quieter, as if his conversations with McKee and Girty weighted him in ways he couldn’t share. To counter it, she forced a gladness she didn’t own, if only to lighten his load. No need to burden him with cares he couldn’t control. As for herself, she tried to outrun her sorrow with every league they traveled. Yet no matter where she went, flashes of Ross followed. And Jasper.

Daylight trickled to dark, turning their thoughts to bedding down. They slowed, searching for a suitable spot to overnight, their horses spent. Together they removed saddles and bedrolls and what was needed to keep them till first light. The weariness of the trail had taken hold again, that sun-lined, sunburnt look born of the heat and dust and miles.

“You look deep in thought,” he said, settling beside her on a saddle blanket.

She smiled, fingers seeking her locket again, afraid she might lose it in the rigors of travel. “I’m remembering that blessed bath and bed. What followed . . .”

“We’re making good time,” he told her with a wink. “Should see the spires of Philadelphia by week’s end.”

Lately at close of day they’d been joining hands and murmuring cumbersome if heartfelt prayers. For those at home on the Buckhannon and at Fort Tygart. For those far away like Keturah and Ross. For themselves as they pushed into the unknown. They partook of Semple’s beaten biscuits and some jerked meat as the wind awoke, a touch of autumn in its grip.

Clay draped an arm about her, pulling her closer, the both of them a knot of warmth in the chill, blackening woods. He kissed her softly, an invitation. She returned the kiss, burrowing nearer, forgetting the insects and sideways slash of the wind. But ’twas impossible to ignore the howling wolves or the distant thunder of approaching hooves. At once, Clay pulled away from her and got to his feet, rifle in hand.

A man’s voice grated in the near dark. “Tygart, that you?”

A split second’s surprise.

“Aye, Girty,” Clay answered as the buckskin-clad man appeared in their makeshift camp. “What brings you?”

Long minutes passed. The men were speaking Indian again. Did it give them greater expression than the white tongue? She sat completely still and waited for the intrusion to come to an end. The moon rose, white and full as a melon from the field.

In time Clay turned toward her, his expression unreadable, the shadow of Girty in back of him. “Prepare to return to Fort Pitt at first light.”

She got little sleep. How could she rest with the snoring, volatile Girty but a few feet away? There was little time for questions. She would trust Clay that returning west was what was called for. Secretly, she rejoiced. Maybe the Lord was answering their persistent prayers. She just hadn’t expected help to come in the form of the renegade Girty. Or a return to Fort Pitt.

At first light she rode in back of them, glad the miles they’d traveled from Pitt hadn’t been many. The weather, so sunny at the outset, was now clad in mists and spiderwebs. Maples brightened the landscape, the first trees to color their leaves, and she dwelt on the beauty around her instead of the unpredictable present.

When at last they headed downhill toward town and the fort, Girty bade them farewell. Breathing easier, she looked at Clay, withholding the dozen or so questions begging to be asked.

“I don’t want to raise your hopes, but I told Girty and McKee I’d give half my land along the Monongahela to return Ross.” He lowered the brim of his hat against the setting sun. “Seems there’s been a move made by the Lenape in that direction, though I don’t yet know the gist of it.”

She stared at him, reins slack in her hands. Blossom moseyed along toward Semple’s as if she was as anxious to return there. “You’d give up half your land? Clay . . .” She swallowed, so moved she couldn’t finish.

“Like I said, I don’t know details, but I need to talk to McKee and Girty again once we’re settled at Semple’s.”

“Can I go with you? See what this is about?”

“I’d rather you wait till I find out more.” He swiped a hand across his unshaven jaw, eyes narrowing to take in the busy waterfront. “All I know at present is that it involves Netawatwees, a sachem—chief—of the Lenape.”

Tessa said no more as the tavern came into view. Did the news have to do with Ross? Keturah? The warriors Clay had taken down in the woods that eventful day? Pondering it, she dismounted at Semple’s, giving Clay a last look as he reined Bolt toward Fort Pitt.