Girty and McKee appeared along Fort Pitt’s westernmost wall, walking past Edmonstone’s dwelling. Clay prayed silently as the men walked toward him, trusting McKee but never sure of Girty. They greeted him in Lenape and told him what they knew and had learned since his leaving Fort Pitt with Tessa the day before.
He listened, saying little, as Girty did most of the talking, McKee adding what he knew. In a mere quarter of an hour the matter was laid out. Would he agree to it? If so, the plan would be enacted in the morning when the sun was two fingers high. No mention was made of his land along the Monongahela, but surely it had sweetened this chancy endeavor.
Out of the corner of his eye Clay caught sight of Tessa. She was walking toward them, her indigo skirts unsettled by the wind, one hand on her new straw hat to keep it in place. The locket about her throat glinted in the late afternoon sun, a reminder of their new, everlasting tie. His wish that she remain at Semple’s was short-lived.
Her face was pinched in concern. “I’m sorry, Clay. I couldn’t stay away. Your dealings with Girty don’t set well with me. I’m not even sure about McKee.”
He wouldn’t argue. Both men had critics aplenty. Warmed by her concern, he took her hand and led her to the shade of an ancient elm where one leafy arm extended over the water. They sat atop an overturned canoe, boats of every kind tied to moorings along the river’s edge.
“Please, Clay, tell me everything. Two heads are better than one, aye?”
He pondered his reply, carefully navigating the proposition before him. “The Lenape chief, Netawatwees, is said to have called for a meeting at Keturah’s request.”
“Keturah? Is she well?”
“It would seem so, considering her summons.”
Tessa’s expression eased. “Would the meeting be here?”
“Nay. Downriver a bit, well into Indian territory. The chief won’t come to Pitt—a den of poisonous snakes, he says.”
She nodded in understanding. “So he wants to meet with you? No one else?”
She had him there. He wouldn’t lie. “He asked that you come too. Keturah is his adopted daughter among the Lenape, remember. When she first came to be with the People years ago, Netawatwees took her into his family.”
“We must go, then.”
“I told McKee and Girty I would, aye. But not you.”
“Nay? Why not? Keturah—and the chief—asked for me.”
“I’m not yet sure of the truth of that. Such might be an outright lie, a ruse. I won’t know till I get there.” The words were tight, the tension ratcheting inside him word by word. “In the morning I’ll leave with McKee and Girty by canoe. Keturah might well be the key to Ross, but I could be mistaken.”
Tessa paused, obviously trying to make sense of matters. “I’ve never pressed you, but I sense the Indians you killed that day you came after me, including the one who fell then disappeared, were known to you.”
“The one marked like a wolf, he was my Lenape brother. He was also Keturah’s husband. And kin to Netawatwees. He was—” He had an inkling Tamanen still lived—“rather, is a chief in his own right.”
“Oh, Clay.” Tears stood in her eyes. “If you go downriver you might be—”
“I might be ambushed, aye.” Her blatant alarm fed his own. He was taking a frightful risk. “Taken captive again. Made to pay for what I did in the woods that day. Girty obviously wants my land along the Monongahela. McKee has some stake in this I’m not sure about.”
“Will you let Captain Edmonstone know?”
“I will if only to make him aware something is afoot. If I don’t return in a timely manner, then Edmonstone will investigate.”
“I’m going with you.” She stared at him as if wanting to commit every last detail of him to heart. “I can’t lose you. You—”
“Tessa . . .” He took her hands in his, enfolding them and holding them firmly. “Tomorrow you’ll stay safely at Semple’s and pray against any trickery, any deceit. For now, it’s nearing supper.” He silenced the voice that taunted it would be their last. “We’d best turn in early if I’m to be up before first light.”
She dressed for travel. Did Clay notice? She was clad in her sturdiest shoes, her most enduring dress and stockings, even her plainest fichu, but her hopes were dashed when he said, “Pitt is no place for a lady even at dawn.”
“I’m no lady, remember,” she replied, but he was so preoccupied getting ready to depart he seemed to pay no notice.
At the bedchamber door, he drew her into his arms but kissed her with only a spark of the passion of before, as if his mind was already on the river and what awaited. She listened to his footfall on the stair and then the closing of a door.
Careful to stay well behind him and out of sight, she left Semple’s and walked the back alleys till she came to the waterfront just as the sun touched the rooftops. This early, the town was like a sleeping, cantankerous giant struggling to awaken. Few were out at such an hour, especially the revelers who stayed up all night, as the taverns never seemed to shut their doors.
McKee and Girty were waiting. How it grieved her to stand at a distance while they climbed into the waiting canoe, the stoutest she’d ever seen. Clay took the middle position while Girty sat in the bow and McKee the stern. Their rifles, shot pouches, and other accoutrements were near at hand. Little time was wasted. The sun was indeed two fingers high when they launched, their oars slicing through the water with a quiet trill.
At the last, Clay gave a look over his shoulder. Did he know she’d followed? If ever a heart was in a look, it was in his. Her stomach somersaulted and she felt breathless, even light-headed. Memories rushed forward, her last of Pa, Jasper, Ross. Only then, she hadn’t realized how final those moments were. If she had she would have looked harder. Longer. As it was, she watched till Clay turned into a speck on that vast river now swathed pure gold as the sun rose.
The Ohio was the mightiest river she’d ever seen, so large and so long it seemed to have no end. Indian territory. Few ventured there. Many never returned. She’d heard the stories. They were even more frightful than those along the border.
Steeling her resolve, she ran toward the waterfront as if her life—and his—depended on it. Her heels sank into the sandy bank as her hands fumbled with the rope tying a canoe to shore. She’d not been raised on the river for naught. In seconds the boat floated atop the water, and she settled in the stern on her knees, the oar in her hands smooth if unfamiliar. No one watched or ran after her or called her thief.
The shore became smaller and smaller as she paddled in Clay’s wake. Though she could no longer see him, as he’d gone around a bend, she was thankful this river road went west and there was no tangle of waterways to choose from, no rocks or rapids as it curved lazily. Here the water wasn’t deep. She could see the pebbly bottom. Thankful, too, the rising sun was at her back and not in her eyes, her straw hat forgotten at Semple’s.
The day was warm. Clear. The river was mercifully calm, no wind to ruffle its smooth surface. Soon she settled into a steady rhythm, the dull ache in her arms measuring the distance. A lone flatboat or keelboat was all she saw, though great herons and a black bear dotted the waterfront as she glided past.
No longer did she see Clay’s canoe. With three men paddling, they easily outdistanced her. Undaunted, she kept on, unable to shake off the foreboding that losing sight of him meant losing him forever. Unsure of their meeting place, she kept a close watch on the banks, which were nearly a half mile apart in places, looking for any movement, any landed canoe.
As the sun climbed, Indians appeared along the waterfront. Women and near-naked children. A few men. Their lingering stares raised the hair on the back of her neck, and she paddled harder, gaining momentum, heart thrumming in her ears more from disquiet than exertion.
Lord, please, peace. And some sign.
Another sharp river bend that blocked her view of the watery road ahead, and then . . .
There sat Clay, his canoe turned like a wall to block her way. Girty and McKee were regarding her with amused scorn, their oars idle. But Clay—fury roared through his features at the sight of her. ’Twas in the tightening of his tanned features, the lightning-quick sternness of his eyes. His mouth was not merely a grim line but so pronounced it slanted downward into a fierce frown.
To Girty he said tersely, “Fashion a tow rope and tie her on.”
Doused with cold humiliation, Tessa rued ever setting foot on the riverbank. Only a fool would follow a man into the wilderness when he’d told her to stay behind. Not only had she defied Clay, now she would slow them unnecessarily. Eyes down, she lay aside her oar, the wind hardly cooling her fiery face while Girty tethered her canoe.
Lord, forgive me.
It took all the self-control Clay had to keep from overturning Tessa’s canoe in anger. Her flushed, repentant features didn’t assuage him one whit. He’d married a strong-willed woman and here was proof. He paddled harder, ire stiffening his strokes. The semblance of peace he’d had thinking her safely at Semple’s took wing. Now their present predicament called out every protective instinct he had. Not only was he in grave danger, but so was she. And if this all went wrong and propelled them headlong into an ambush . . .
In another mile or more they left the middle of the river where they’d been out of firing range. A hard sweep on the right with their oars turned them toward the bank. They beached the canoe, making little noise.
Clay lifted Tessa out like a wayward child and planted her firmly on the bank. Being experienced woodsmen, they left little trail once they cut into the woods. Soundlessly, Girty and McKee led the way, Clay behind Tessa at the rear. That bone-deep certainty of being watched overcame him, though he saw no one.
Tessa cast him an entreating look as they traversed what was little more than a game trail. He paid her no mind, still a-simmer at her rebelliousness. The forest was different here than along the Buckhannon, autumn’s entrance more telling, sassafras and sweet gum leading the colorful charge of leaves. Half a league in, the swift tumbling of a stream had them pause for a drink. When Clay stood, he smelled smoke. Indian tobacco. Girty and McKee wiped dripping water from their faces and communicated with hand gestures.
As Clay watched them, Tessa faced him. He put a finger to his lips. The apology he guessed she’d been about to make remained unspoken. Wretchedness marred her lovely face. Was she fretting over the ill feeling between them? Wanting to make amends if the worst happened?
They continued on. The longer they walked, the less wary Clay felt. Surely, if there was any trickery, they’d by now have been overtaken and dispatched. Though their combined rifles were formidable, they couldn’t withstand a surprise attack.
At last they came to the edge of a small meadow, an awning of skins at its heart providing shade from the sun. Beneath it sat an aged Indian in eagle headdress.
Netawatwees.
Taking cover behind a sprawling laurel bush to better assess the clearing, Tessa stood in back of the men as they peered through the waxy leaves. The awning shaded an Indian who was seated and appeared to be waiting. Keturah’s Lenape father? Winded and sore over defying Clay, she vowed to cause him no more trouble. She simply stood, absently fingering the locket, and prayed for peace as McKee stepped into the open, then Clay.
Girty hung back with her, saying, “Any sign of your brother?”
Her gaze sharpened and probed the shadows behind the chief. A flicker of movement was their answer. Her brother was on his feet now, though he made no move toward her. She closed her eyes to dispel any woolgathering. Ross was alive. Well.
Not a ruse then. Not a ploy to draw them here and harm them. Or was it too soon to be sure?
As Clay and McKee seated themselves facing the chief, Girty led her into the clearing. Netawatwees studied her as a heavily beaded, buckskin-skirted woman drew her beneath the awning toward the waiting Ross.
There, in the shade, his beloved grin erased every fear she’d ever had about recovering him. He embraced her tightly, looking as if his entire ordeal was more adventure. Save for a welt on his cheek, he seemed robust as ever, his good humor intact. “Welcome, Sister. I never thought to see you so far west.”
“I never thought to see you again,” she whispered through her tears as all the events of summer’s end caught up with her. “What a time we’ve had since the raid on the cabin that day.”
They sat down atop reed mats, facing forward to better see the smoking ceremony now taking place between the chief, Clay, Girty, and McKee. Unspeakably weary, arms still aching from her furious paddle downriver, Tessa fell quiet, savoring the sweet fellowship of her brother’s presence. And then . . .
“Don’t be fooled.” Eyes on the woods, Ross lost his joyous spark. “There’s an army of Lenape surrounding us.”
The unwelcome words tore Tessa’s attention from him to the dense foliage ringing the meadow. “They mean us harm?”
“I pray not. Plenty of bad blood between Clay and Tamanen, Keturah’s husband, though.”
“Is Tamanen here?”
“He’s recovering with the Moravians along the Tuscarawas. His fellow warriors brought him to Keturah after the fight with Clay.”
Relief flooded her. Since Keturah was a noted healer, this made sense. Though there was ill feeling between Clay and his Indian brother, Tessa knew Clay had not wanted to harm him.
“How did they know Keturah was there?”
“Indian spies. Messengers. Not much that goes on in Indian territory is missed.”
“No doubt.”
“Tamanen told Keturah that I’d been taken north,” Ross continued quietly, eyes on the smoking men. “Keturah knew your heart would be on the ground, so she sent word to her Indian father, Netawatwees, to help bring me back. It took time, but here I am.” Ross looked at her, eyes soft. “What’s more, Keturah traded herself for me, told Tamanen she’d return to the Lenape if they would give me up. Seems like a healer is worth more to the Indians than somebody who tinkers with guns.”
Throat tight, Tessa looked toward Clay, stone pipe in hand, features stoic. But did Keturah want to return to her Indian life?
Reaching into his shoulder pouch, Ross withdrew something familiar. Beloved. The worn doll she’d found in the Braam cabin prior to Keturah’s return. Tessa’s fingers closed around the small cloth figure. ’Twas no worse for wear, unaltered but for one thing. On its bodice something had been stitched in vermilion thread.
A red heart.
Tenderness smote her, the warmth in her chest and haze in her eyes intensifying as she studied the new adornment and what it meant.
A true friend, Keturah was. One who “loveth at all times,” one born for adversity. She was no swallow friend who flew to you in summer but was gone in winter, as the preacher Matthew Henry said. Her affections did not turn with the wind or change with the weather. No matter where life took the two of them, the bond between them would be unbroken.
“You all right, Sister?”
“In time, maybe.” Swiping at her eyes with a quick hand, she tucked the doll inside her bodice, where it nested with Clay’s locket.
The smoking had come to an end, and the talking commenced. Nothing was done hurriedly but in a manner of quiet courtesy. Since their conversation was in Lenape, the words were lost to Tessa. But watching Clay in this unusual setting, she saw him in a new light. His direct, measured speech. His gracious, controlled mannerisms. All bespoke the Indian influence.
Though her nerves had settled, she was still anxious to see Ross and Clay on the banks of Fort Pitt, if not the Buckhannon. Ma needed telling, Ross returned. Keturah must know her noble mission was complete.
Sitting was nearly unendurable when she felt like flying. Her heart, so full where it had been fractured, resumed an easier rhythm.
At last Clay came to her without a trace of anger. Extending his hand, he clasped hers and led her to Netawatwees. She bowed her head respectfully, unsure of what was required of her. The chief’s lined face registered pleasure as she spoke a final word Keturah had taught her.
Where the mood had been unhurried before, now a sense of urgency overcame them. With sure-footed haste they took their leave of camp—she, Clay, Ross, and McKee—while Girty remained behind with their second canoe.
With a last look at the woods, Tessa sat at the canoe’s middle, hands in her lap, as the men paddled. The swift ride upriver was taken with the noon sun high above them, the water a restive blue.
When the bastions of Fort Pitt came into view, Tessa wanted to weep as joy gained the upper hand. She had only to look at Ross and Clay to feel whole again. Thankful.
“Where to next, my wayward wife?” Clay winked at her, pausing in his paddling for just an instant. “East toward Philadelphia?”
“Nay,” she replied with a growing certainty. “South toward our land along the Monongahela. Maybe once we send word to Ma, Ross can help us get settled before he returns to the Buckhannon. Philadelphia can wait.”
Clay smiled as Ross hooted his glee. McKee laughed and paddled harder, finally returning them safely to shore in the shadow of Fort Pitt. Together they stood on solid ground and looked farther down the Monongahela as it stretched to distant foothills, blue and beckoning, theirs for the taking. Tessa felt a stirring of something she’d not felt in a long time. Renewed hope.
A fresh start awaited. A new land. A new life.