And then there was Raven. They’d seen no sign of him, leaving Tempe to wonder if his foot had festered and crippled him sorely—or worse.
“Where’d you get such a fancy?” Paige was at her elbow, returning her to the present.
“It’s my marrying dress.”
A surprised pause.
Tempe filled the silence. “I expect I’ll have no need of it. I thought you might wear it.”
“Me?” Wide-eyed, Paige regarded the dress as if it might bite her. “I—well, I misdoubt—it wouldn’t look well on me.” Ever chary, a tad superstitious, Paige trod as cautiously as she could. She’d take no hand-me-down with heartache attached.
“Never you mind, then,” Tempe whispered.
Appearing mollified, Paige pulled up a stool and wrapped her arms around her knees, the freckles riding her cheekbones reminding Tempe of a fawn’s spots. “If you don that pretty dress, some woodsman might walk out with you.”
Tempe grasped at a bit of whimsy. “And who would you choose for me?”
“Well, there’s Captain Holder from Boonesborough or Ezra Mason from Logan’s or Joshua Bryant from Harrod’s. Any one of them would be glad of your hand, though you pay them no mind when they pass by here.”
Tempe lowered her head to better see her stiches, such talk usually setting her cheekbones afire. “If they pay me any mind, it’s because there be so few of us and so many of them.”
“All the better.” Smiling, Paige reached for her knitting basket, a soft pile of yarn within. “I’m still ponderin’ womenfolk doin’ the choosin’ . . .”
A burst of masculine laughter snuffed their words, as if the longhunters on the dogtrot were privy to their talk.
“They mean to overnight with us and leave at first light,” Paige murmured. “The trace is chancy, I heard them say, with the settlements bein’ under siege. Captain Boone took a ball to the ankle and is laid up hisself.”
Tempe cast a look toward the open cabin door. Betimes the inn seemed the safest place with so many guns present. Still, they always barred the cabin doors at sundown, a customary caution.
“I’m not fretful for your pa.” Paige worked her needles expertly, a stocking taking shape. “Not with the Indians afeared of him like they are, callin’ him an Azgen ghost. But I do wonder about those surveyors headin’ into the very heart of the trouble.”
Tempe straightened, placing a hand to the small of her back to ease the ache of weeding all the forenoon. Had the surveyors reached the fording place? Would they? Her stitch slipped and she reworked it, glad her wondering kept her thoughts off the bittersweet task at hand. The wedding gown had long haunted. Now it would serve a purpose.
Paige’s whisper stopped her cold. “Your ma spent a heap of time tonight after supper writing in the book of the dead.”
“The Reckoning?”
Paige’s needles lagged. “Aye, seems every man here has a sad story to tell.”
Tempe checked a sigh. The book was near to bursting lately. She could see Ma in her mind’s eye, sharpening her quill and snuffing out lives with the scratch of her pen.
Would she next scrawl the name of Sion Morgan?
Try as she might, she couldn’t rid her mind of him. Rarely did a man garner her attention as he did. Though she didn’t know him, she already rued his loss if the wilderness claimed him. Men of his ilk were needed on the frontier. To fight for the land. Farm it. Raise a family.
She felt a tad flushed. She even liked his name, the way it felt on her lips. Melodious. Strong. His voice matched the height and breadth of him. She remembered that too.
And rued it as well.
Aylee entered the cabin right then, leaving Russell to oversee the lodgers, their weary packhorses corralled in a brush fence of Russell’s making. Her mother’s spare form moved to each window, fastening the shutters.
Abandoning her work, Tempe tucked the half-finished dress away. “There’s a full moon tonight.”
Paige smiled. “A moonbow, reckon?”
“Likely. Care to come? The moonflower’s fixing to bloom.”
“I’m too tuckered out from servin’.” Her eyes turned beseeching. “Mighten you want to stay here with us? Given all the trouble?”
“Nay.” Glad to go alone, Tempe moved to the door before Aylee dropped the bar in place. A wordless look passed between them. Aylee had long stopped asking her, “Be you back by morning?”
Yet Tempe felt she owed her some explanation. “It’s a fine night for a moonbow with the river running so high and an abundance of mist.”
At Aylee’s reluctant nod, Tempe went out into velvety darkness, the night air like a breath from the bake-oven door. With so generous a moon, her steps were sure even in the dark. Lush light silvered the woods and river, rivaling any silversmith’s finest work.
Downriver a quarter of a mile or so was a ledge of rock aglow with fireflies, the sandstone surface adorned with lichen puddles, a delicate tracery of fern rimming each. The nearer she came to the watching place, the more her wonder bloomed.
There was magic here. A hallowed, heavenly magic. Aside from a star shower, those white bursts that streaked across a moonless midnight, the delight of the moonbow went deep.
The great slab of rock was cool, as cool as Fairy Rock had been warm. She sat down at the edge, her skirts a tangle of worn linen around her, feet dangling. Far below, the river settled into a stretch of pools. Mist cooled her face and bare arms, rising like a white veil about the falls.
She watched, breath held, snagged by a sudden movement to the left where the brush hugged the riverbank. A figure emerged, straight and narrow, the glass beads amid dark hair glistening. Shirtless and in leggings and loincloth, Raven moved with an easy grace.
A chill took hold of her. Had Raven been with Russell tonight? All her questions were snatched away when he stepped onto the ledge. She wished Russell—or anyone—would come. But Russell’s leg rarely let him wander.
Raven lowered himself to sit a stone’s throw from her. His expression was unreadable, inclined to severity. The tomahawk in his belt glinted sharp and hard in the moonlight. Unsure of his intent, Tempe studied him longer than she wanted, aware of a great many fearsome things. He had only to extend a hard hand and send her over the rock ledge. Her cry would be lost in the thunder of the falls.
And yet . . .
Why did she always think ill of him? Had her time in the valley—Powell Valley—so scarred her?
Raven was, she reminded herself, half white. It was the other half that fretted her. Word was he was the son of Oconostota, a Cherokee chief, and a white captive taken along the Watauga. Save the lightening of his skin, he looked full Cherokee. His English was nigh flawless, better than many a white man. She recalled his pain-laced plea.
Free . . . me.
Tonight he did not speak. She couldn’t have heard him over the fall’s torrent if he had. He simply extended an arm made bright with silver bangles. In his fingers was her forgotten book of Psalms. She’d dropped it that day at Fairy Rock and forgotten about it in the busyness since.
She took the little book, glad to the heart. Could he read? The assumption seemed silly. Tucking the Psalms away in her pocket, she nodded her thanks.
He lifted a hand, his forked fingers eye level and pointing toward the falls. Look.
She looked, awe unseating all distrust.
The moonbow spanned the river in a gentle arc, its ends resting on far limestone banks, the sight most vivid against the froth of the falls. As if it were a seam of brightly colored clay the Indians used for war paint, Tempe could make out rich red hues that melded to a fetching bluish purple and then pale green, the very green of the river itself.
The moon floated free of gauzy clouds, as bright as she’d ever seen it.
Betimes when the river ran fullest and seemed about to burst its banks, she feared all that water would tear down the cliffs and boulders and sweep them all away. But the falls seemed as enduring as the hills, the heavens.
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Raven’s hands were moving fluidly, even eloquently, making the gesture for good, expressing his pleasure in the night. She knew some Indian sign. When the danger peaked and they couldn’t risk the silence of the woods, she and Pa talked with their hands. In answer, she passed her right palm downward over her face to denote beautiful. He nodded, a half smile softening his stern features.
Easing, she looked again at the moonbow, a sudden catch in her spirit as it began to break apart. Like a mist clearing, the colors were no longer gathered in wide bands but scattered bits, and soon the moon was swallowed by the clouds altogether, leaving her and Raven smothered in darkness.
Her body tensed as he made a move. But it was away from her, not toward her, and then he too vanished from sight, the glint of his weapons a grim goodbye.
8
Reached the Crab Orchard, and lodged under a tree . . . very feverish and unwell; a poor beginning this.
—FRANCIS ASBURY
Sion sat with Annie, his back against a black walnut, Smokey’s absence a widening ache inside him. One by one the party’s other dogs had begun dying on the trace, poisoned by some plant or victim of some mishap or malady. The two curs left were an aggravation, always underfoot and distracted by so much game. But they were good at sensing trouble, and that was why he put up with them. Thankfully he’d seen no sign. His relief at reaching the rendezvous point after another grueling week and a chafing wait at the fording place Tempe had told him about made him a mite reckless.
Aye, Tempe seemed to have followed him here, at least in spirit. Somehow she’d snuck into his head if not his heart. All too easily he recalled something she’d said or done. Her terse way with words. The far-off look in her eyes. The maddening swish of her indigo skirt. She was an uncommon woman, graced with a man’s habits. The why of it teased at him, embedding her further in his overfull thoughts. If Cornelius had half her gumption and woods sense, they’d be farther along on this foray than they were.
Pluming steam from the mineral springs wafted over him in unsavory waves, carrying the taint of rotten eggs, at odds with the sighs and groans of delight around him. He stood guard while the others bathed, pondering what a fine ambush was to be had with five unclothed men.
Though he sat stone still, his eyes made a tireless sweep of their surroundings. Crab Orchard was a comely place, long favored by whites and Indians alike. Thick clusters of wild crab apple trees were no longer in bloom but full-leafed now in early June. Farther back in dense brush were the springs, the green ground steaming like a kettle. He could hear the hobbled horses chewing on peavine and clover near a pretty little lick where buffalo had made deep grooves in the salty clay.
Nate was the first to emerge from the stinking water, dripping wet and red as a piece of flannel. Sion handed him a tin cup, gesturing to a smaller, shallower spring seeping from a ledge. “Best cleanse your innards as well.”
With a chuckle, Nate did as Sion bid, filling the cup and swigging a mouthful. One swallow was followed by a spasm of coughing, and then Nate slapped his knee as if to quell the outburst. “Anything that tastes that vile must be good for you. Here, you drink it down. Maybe it’ll cure body and spirit.”
Sion took the cup and finished it off, determined not to cough. Failing. A far cry from Ratafia or Perry, Nate’s preferred pear cider. Whistling softly, the old man sat down in a clump of sun-warmed grass to dry himself.
The springs made a fine laundry. They hardly needed soft soap, the heat working with the minerals to strip the grime from their garments.
“Your turn.” With a playful punch, Nate unseated Sion’s battered hat, exposing a mass of lank, black hair in dire need of washing.
Sion got to his feet, leaving his hat where it lay, though it was in need of a soaking too. Having no desire to bathe with Cornelius or the other men, he sought a secluded sinkhole, a deep blue-green pool rimmed with sedges and cattails.
Pulling his shirt over his head, he shed his moccasins, Annie within reach. His thoughts tumbled forward, toward settlement. Civilization. So much water would make a fine source for a gunpowder mill—even a distillery once the country was finally settled.
Taking a breath, he went under, the tepid pool more agreeable on so warm a day than the hotter holes. When his head cleared water, a song sparrow piped three short notes. He held his breath and listened past an army of shrill cicadas, detecting a new sound. A new voice.
By the time he emerged from his bath, fully dressed and clutching his soiled clothes and rifle, a stranger stood in their midst. Nate was nearly dressed, and the other men save Lucian ringed the newcomer.
“Yonder comes Morgan,” Hascal said.
The stranger looking at Sion was so shriveled and bent it seemed the wilderness had whipped all vitality out of him. But the clasp of his hand was strong, his gaze a direct if beleaguered blue.
“I’m Levi Todd from Logan’s Fort.”
“Sion Morgan of the Loyal Land Company.”
“So your men tell me. What I mean to tell you is this—best clear out of Kentucke whilst you can. All the forts north of here are under siege, and I was barely able to get out last night to go for gunpowder. I’m headed over the Gap, and pray I get there.”
“You expect no reinforcements from Virginia?”
Todd shook his head in disgust and disappointment. “We sent word awhile back, begging for militia, powder, and bullet lead. But nothing’s forthcoming, not that we know of. It’s a poor time to be wandering about this country.”
Dropping his dirty clothes, Sion retrieved his hat. “I’m supposed to meet up with a guide from Harrod’s here, but from the lay of things that looks to be wishful thinking.”
“Aye.” Todd accepted a cup of water from Nate’s hand. “There’s but one hundred twenty guns in the whole of Kentucke, and you ain’t likely to get any one of them.”
Ignoring Cornelius’s growl of protest, Sion weighed his options. “With the Indians fixated on the forts, our party could push west instead, survey the Barrens. Green River country.”
“I don’t know if that’s any safer, but you daren’t come near the settlements. If you’re dead set on pushin’ west, you’ll need an able guide.”
“Are guides any easier to get than guns?”
Todd shouldered his rifle, looking thoughtful. “Down along the Shawnee River I’ve heard tell of a fine woodsman and marksman. The folks at the Moonbow Inn mighten direct you.”
Sion’s interest piqued. “His name?”
All the men were quiet as if their fate hinged on his answer. “I recollect he goes by Tucker . . . Tim Tucker.”
Sion rolled the name over in his mind before storing it for safekeeping. “Obliged.”
Cornelius spoke, looking to Sion as he did so. “We could accompany Todd to the fording place, then part ways at the Shawnee. There’s safety in numbers, as they say.”
“Aye, if he’s willing.”
Todd smiled, his lined face easing. “I’d welcome the company, boys. What say you we take to the trace before the red men are any the wiser?”
Alone in the kitchen, Tempe pulled on a wide floorboard in front of the fireplace, revealing narrow steps leading down to the cellar. Pa had created the dim, dank space as a caution in times of Indian unrest. She felt her way through the darkness, fingering papery-skinned onions and shriveled potatoes and pitted turnips. With the garden not yet in, they made do with last year’s bounty.
Apron full, she climbed the steps and deposited the wizened vegetables on the trestle table, eyes on the back window and ears attuned to the venison haunch sizzling on a spit, its juices trapped in the dripping tray beneath. To this she’d add the cut-up vegetables to create a savory stew. Though there’d been few at their table of late, they were always prepared.
Beyond the open window came Paige’s high, lilting laugh. It reminded Tempe of a song sparrow. Paige and Russell were at the hominy block, pounding away, cracking the corn to fill the open meal barrel. Paige had no need of help, but
Russell had burned out a new bowl and crafted a new pestle for grinding and was overseeing its first use.
Tempe saw Paige move nearer Russell, her bare brown arm brushing his loose linsey sleeve. There was the slightest pulling away as Russell maintained the distance between them. Paige looked up at him, gaze fixed on his sun-browned face, the dark hair along his temples sweat-damp and curling. He paid her little mind, intent on determining if the wood was too soft for repeated pounding.
Tempe’s frustration flared. Why wouldn’t Russell just let Paige love him?
Never had she seen a woman so besotted with a man. To her credit, Paige cared not a whit about Russell’s limp. It had been that way since they’d taken her in when her owners succumbed to fever along the trace. Paige’s older brother, Elisha, also indentured, had gone on to Boonesborough whilst Paige, fevered herself and too sick to go another step, stayed behind with them.
Back then, Russell had regarded her as little more than another sister, whittling puzzles and games for her out of wood, even crafting a cage for a wounded robin to keep her company as she healed. Did he still regard her as a child? Bosomy and tall as she was three years since, how could he? Might Russell’s reserve make him more appealing in turn?
Thinking it, Tempe whacked at a potato with such force, half flew across the tidy kitchen.
Aylee entered, fanning her heated face with her apron. She stooped to pick up the wayward tuber. “Mercy! Be you splitting wood or cutting vegetables?”
“Mama, maybe it’s time to give Russell a talking to.”
Aylee’s dark brows arched. “What for?”
“Don’t you want some grandchildren?”
“I’d like a wedding first.” Aylee uncovered a piggin of cream, careful of insects. “But there’s no preacher to be had.”
“There’s no couple to be had either.” Tempe resumed her frenzied chopping. “I’ve never seen such a predicament. Paige is a peach ripe for picking, and Russell treats her like a green persimmon.”