The Frontiersman’s Daughter

  She waded in to her waist, her shift floating like a lily pad atop the water. Here and there the fading sun turned the waters green, then golden. She held her breath and went under, then broke the still surface and heard doves cooing on both sides of the river. This was utter bliss, utter peace.

  To anchor herself, she glanced back at her favorite perch, a slab of limestone that jutted out over the water. It looked different in the shadows—perhaps a play of light upon the shore? She swam nearer and her breath caught. Lying atop the rock was a bow and quiver full of arrows beside a pair of beaded moccasins.

  She spun around in the water, joy bubbling up inside her. But before she could take a breath, firm hands caught her ankles and tugged her under. She came up sputtering and laughing, but he’d still not surfaced. So he swims like a fish. She remembered he could also run like a deer, overtaking her in the woods all those years before.

  “Yellow Bird.” The voice behind her seemed almost to drown her with its depth. She turned to Captain Jack, hard pressed to keep her pleasure down. How many days since they had walked in the meadow? Too many, from the feeling inside her.

  In one glance she took in the doused eagle feathers of his headdress and the fine silver bands encircling his solid upper arms. Shimmering with water, Captain Jack’s hair was blue black. The beads about his neck were the same startling jade as his eyes and made him even more appealing. Suddenly shy, she ducked beneath the water, then swam away. Would he follow?

  They did a dance of sorts in the warm current, circling, gliding, swaying. Each time he caught her she pulled free and swam farther downriver than she’d ever been before. But he continued to woo her, pursuing her until she was so breathless she could only lie upon her back and float, the river like a watery bed. He swam beside her, his eyes roaming both banks.

  He turned his head to watch her. “Did your father teach you to swim?”

  She nodded, gladness filling her each time he mentioned Pa. “Aye, and you?”

  A furrow creased his brow as if the memory was denied him. “I must have learned as a boy from my white father. I came to the Shawnee knowing how to swim.”

  She heard the waterfalls before she felt their mist. Catching hands, they tumbled together over a gentle falls, coming to rest beneath a rock overhang out of the way of the rushing water. She looked around in wonderment, the thunderous spray hemming them in on all sides, making speech impossible. But truly, words were unnecessary.

  Gently, he framed her face with his hands. Her lips parted as she looked up at him, expectant, drinking in every line and shadow of his striking face. She was trembling now, not from the chill of the water but from his nearness. The sweet ache he created inside her drew her against him, and she flung her arms around his neck.

  He began covering her with kisses, on her open mouth, her neck, her hair. She kissed him back, stunned by her need of him, her hands tangled in his wet hair. Gone were the careful kisses of her girlhood, given her by Simon. This was a wild, possessive declaration of a passion too long denied, sparked years before when he called her out of her cabin, then lay banked and smoldering while at Briar Hill, only to blaze up here and now.

  His raw strength took her breath away as he held her, but it was his restraint that won her heart. He drew back slowly and removed a silver bracelet from his arm and put it around her own, then took her hand and led her over rocks and rushing water to the bank.

  Silently, they walked hand in hand back to the great slab of rock that held his weapons and moccasins, and he helped her with her discarded dress. She was shivering now in her sodden shift, and the dry dress had to be tugged into place over it. But before she could tie her bodice strings, she was in his arms again, touching him and trading his kisses and being touched and tasted in return.

  It was only when they drew apart that she saw that he was wounded. His left side had been grazed—by a bullet?—and he was bleeding afresh. Blood streaked his thigh and dripped onto his moccasin.

  “You’re hurt.” Concern darkened her features, and she reached down and tore a length of cloth from the hem of her dress.

  He raised his arms slightly as she bound his waist and tried to stop the bleeding.

  “I have some herbs in my cabin . . . I’ll make a poultice.”

  “I am not much hurt,” he protested, turning with her up the trail. “Just lucky some settler cannot shoot straight.”

  Her sudden smile turned pensive. “What is happening beyond the Falls of the Ohio?”

  He hesitated, as if weighing how much to tell her. “The white officers have built two forts along the river—to turn settlers away from Shawnee lands, they say.”

  “Did your chiefs sign a treaty guaranteeing this?”

  He nodded. “The treaty was signed at Fort Pitt with many paleface chiefs, but while our braves were there, several of our villages were burned and many of our crops destroyed. Some of our people were killed or taken prisoner.”

  She felt ashamed and looked away from him. Hadn’t Pa said such treaties were carefully couched lies written in English by greedy men? In this case, it had become a cover for murder and mayhem as well. “I’ve not heard of such trouble, just reports of white men’s boats being raided as they come downriver, or so the militia tells us.”

  “We take back from the whites what they took from us when our towns were burned—salt, gunpowder, lead, furs. And we work to rebuild before the coming winter.”

  Her steps slowed. “Is that how you were wounded?”

  He nodded but said no more. The throaty lilt of a whippoorwill sounded as they came into the clearing. Immediately her eyes went to the remains of the barn. She said nothing, not wanting to spoil their time together talking of such things. Did he know of her trouble with the McClarys? No surprise lit his features as they walked past the still-smoking rubble.

  He merely turned to her and said with a slight smile, “You are in need of a husband.”

  Hiding her surprise, she ducked into the cabin. “And you are in need of a gunpowder poultice.”

  As she moved among her baskets, mixing what she needed, he stood by the hearth, touching and dismissing each item inside the cabin with his eyes. She took care to pour him some cold cider from the springhouse and set out what was meant to be her supper. While he sat and ate, she cleaned his wound and applied the poultice.

  Soon he pushed his empty plate aside. “So you are a medicine woman.” When she did not reply, he added, “You do many things well.”

  She flushed and began wrapping him with clean linen, but he caught her hands and she went still. Oh, best not kiss me again . . .

  But he did, straddling the bench and bringing her against him, making her forget where she was. ’Twas almost dark out, the cabin even darker.

  “I must go—” he finally said.

  “Nay,” she protested, shaking her head. “I have so many questions . . . about you—my father.”

  His mouth was warm against her ear. “I still have not answered your first one.”

  She remembered all too well what she’d asked him in the meadow. Have you no wife? Dare she ask again? Swallowing hard, she said softly, “You are not married?”

  He held her tighter. “I have been waiting for you.”

  Gently, he brushed back a strand of her hair. “Soon, I will come again and we will talk of such things.”

  “Promise me . . .” she whispered, “promise me one thing.”

  He bent nearer and she worked to keep her voice from fraying.

  “Don’t stay away too long. Sometimes it seems you’re not real . . . that I only dream of you.”

  He took her hands and gestured to the bracelet he’d given her, his voice like a caress, and his heartfelt words only deepened her feelings for him. “This is real. When you doubt, you have only to look and remember.”

  “But I have nothing to give you.”

  He smiled slowly. “I have your heart. A long time I have waited.” He took her face between his hands in the tender, almos
t awed way that she loved and kissed her again.

  To think that she had once feared this very thing. Was it just six years ago she’d been terrified of her own capture by the very man who now held her? She’d simply been too young. Pa had known this and wisely sent her away. Now she’d returned, with a woman’s heart and mind and needs. She was attracted to him in ways she couldn’t fathom, and her heart was already twisting at his leaving.

  “Soon,” he told her.

  He left her then, but she could not even pass onto the porch to say good-bye. A trace of foreboding seemed to shadow him, and she felt it—and feared it. Remaining at the table, she lay her head down on Neddy’s Bible, beside the empty plate and cup, and wept.

  44

  Truly, she had never felt so tired. From where she sat she could smell the sour ashes of the barn. Trouble made one tired, she reckoned. That was why she sat on the porch with Tuck and her gun when she should have been inside fixing supper. She was too tired to eat. Or perhaps it was her bewildering longing for Captain Jack that made her so, acute as any illness.

  From the porch the river looked like yellow satin in the sunset, and upon its brightness was a canoe, small as one of Ransom’s toys carved by Pa long ago. She’d last ridden the river with Simon when she was a girl and he’d asked her to run off with him. They’d rowed upriver back then, against the current under a full moon. Downriver was best, she decided. Full of winsome twists and turns, its banks thick with wild grapes and juicy pawpaws in season, and crowned with the beautiful falls that had wooed her just yesterday.

  The canoe was turning now, heading toward shore. Her shore. Forgetting her gun, she took the river path, her steps light on the leafy trail. She’d heard Ian Justus sometimes rowed the river, but she’d not thought to see him this far. When she reached the bank, he was waiting in the shallows, paddles stuck in the soft river mud.

  His grin was a trifle roguish. “Get in and I’ll promise no’ tae drown you.” He sobered suddenly and said, “I have some settlement news.”

  News? As she waded the few steps to the boat, holding up her skirts modestly so as not to get them wet, he stood up and helped her in. The canoe rocked then settled as she sat.

  The Scot turned slightly to maneuver the canoe back into the current. Sweat glazed the back of his neck and turned his dark hair riotous along the collar of his linen shirt. She stifled the urge to reach out and brush the waves with her fingertips.

  I’d do well to mind my own hair.

  The thick braid dangled to her knees and had dragged in the water as she’d gotten into the boat. It hung over one shoulder, its wet end curled in her lap, white as straw. She wished now she had put it up in a more genteel way. What must he think of her flyaway braid and callused hands and sunburned skin?

  What did she care?

  When they were drifting in the middle of the river, he turned back to her. “There’s been some trouble with the McClarys.”

  “Trouble?” A deep dread knotted her stomach. Had Hero found Mourning and Titus at Lovey’s?

  His eyes studied her, slipping from her tense face to the silver bracelet circling her wrist. “The McClarys—both brothers—are dead.”

  Her lips parted, but she made no sound.

  “They were found lying among their traps at Drowning Creek yesterday, shot through with Shawnee arrows.”

  The image of Captain Jack’s full quiver flashed to mind. She felt breathless and a bit ill. Had he avenged not only his ambushed warriors but she and Pa as well? Truly, not a soul in the settlement would be sorry to see the McClarys go, least of all herself.

  Ian Justus’s eyes returned to her bracelet. “’Tis a dangerous game you play, Lael Click.”

  Alarm filled her. “I—I did not kill them.”

  His face was grave. “I ken you know who did.”

  “What if I do?” The sharpness in her voice forbade him to press further. “The McClarys deserved what they got, and I dare anyone to argue otherwise.” That said, a sweeping relief settled over her. Mourning and Titus would no longer live in fear, and neither would she. The evil the brothers had wrought had come to a just, if not merciful, end.

  The paddle continued to part the dark water, neither of them speaking. After a time, he said, “Have you considered coming tae the fort?”

  But her mind and her heart were wandering and she hardly heard him. Would Captain Jack be hunted down by the militia if they learned he’d killed the McClarys? Her dread deepened and she had a hard time drawing an easy breath.

  “Do I have tae beg you?”

  “What?” She turned back to him then, forbidding any dark thoughts.

  “Do I have tae beg you tae come fort up with the rest of us miserable wretches?”

  She almost smiled at the absurdity of his begging for anything.

  His brows knit together in contemplation. “I guarantee you would no’ be bored. I am in need of a good nurse.”

  “I’ve had my fill of forting up,” she said. “Seems like I spent half my childhood behind those walls.”

  “You dinna ken, do you?”

  “Dinna . . . ken?” She stumbled over the strange words.

  “You’re a stubborn lass. I do think you want tae be begged.”

  “Begged to do what?”

  “Tae work alongside me. Tae teach me what you know.”

  “Me teach you?”

  “Aye. And I teach you as well.”

  “Teach what?”

  In mild exasperation he waved the paddle, blue eyes flashing. “I’m no’ askin’ you tae marry me, Lael Click, but I do need your help.”

  She managed a half smile, suddenly understanding. A strange warmth filled her with the knowledge that he needed her. He, who seemed to need nothing at all. Yet here he was in need of her knowledge of pokeweed and sassafras and shepherd’s purse and dozens of other things. The harsh words they’d last spoken at Ma Horn’s seemed like they never were. He was quick to forget, she thought with a twinge of conscience, and, unlike herself, forgive. She said innocently, “Why don’t you ask Ma Horn?”

  He began paddling again, suddenly sober. “Because she canna always remember.”

  They fell silent for a time, the only sound the splash of the water. Without meaning to, she sighed.

  “Is my offer so painful tae you, then?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Yet you hold back. Why?”

  She gave a small shrug and said impishly, “I dinna ken why.”

  He smiled and began rowing her back to shore. Her spirits sagged at the thought of returning to her empty cabin, and she stood on the bank watching him slip away from her. But Tuck was there to meet her, nuzzling her hand, reminding her it was time for supper.

  September 23, 1783. Lael dipped her quill in ink and wrote slowly and deliberately in her journal. A man has won my heart and now he has gone away again. Unable to continue, she set the quill down, eyes on Neddy’s open Bible next to her.

  Since the barn burning, she had begun to study the Scriptures. When she was sad or lonesome or perplexed, she felt drawn to its worn pages, often reading till one tallow candle had to be replaced with another. Before bed each evening she would drop to her knees and try to pray. For Captain Jack and herself. For Lovey and her guests. For her mother and Ransom. Even Ian Justus. Often she would cry herself to sleep.

  Once the Click cabin had been full of secrets; now it seemed full of ghosts. Outside, the nip and tang of autumn filled the air.

  Soon, she thought, just as he had promised.

  Soon, but not soon enough.

  45

  Susanna Bliss filled the leach barrel with several buckets of wood ashes and water, while Lael tended a large kettle of lard over an open fire. From the barn Will rolled out a fresh wood barrel that would, at day’s end, be filled with the soft soap the two women were making. It was a monotonous chore made lighter by shared talk and laughter. There was no hurry to be home before the evening shadows as Lael had agreed to spend the ni
ght at Cozy Creek.

  As the children and dogs played outside around them, filling the air with happy chatter, Lael felt glad she’d come. Soap-making was a handy excuse to spend time with Susanna and bury the matters hanging heavily on her heart. She wiped her hands on her apron and went in search of small sticks and dry leaves for the fire. The children followed after her, intent on finding the prettiest autumn leaf to show their mother. The maples and oaks were ablaze now, full of showy splendor.

  Could it truly be nigh on October? She had left Virginia in April to come home again. Just six months had passed, and yet it seemed she’d lived a lifetime within their days. She tossed an armful of sticks onto the fire as Susanna called for more water. The boys ran to do her bidding, taking little Lael with them.

  “I have a hankerin’ for some of them fancy hard cakes of soap from back east.” Susanna looked askance at the lye seeping out of the leach tub.

  “Bayberry soap,” Lael said wistfully, recalling the pleasant-smelling fragrance. “I picked a bushel of bayberries at Briar Hill. They grow right along the sea and are the queerest silver gray.”

  Susanna studied her a moment. “Do you miss it, Lael? Virginia, I mean?”

  “It was tolerable enough, but I never liked it. Sometimes though I miss the sight of the sea on a summer’s day. But there’s a heap of things I don’t miss.”

  Susanna took the bucket of water from the children and poured it into the ash tub. “I was a-feared you’d go back.”

  “To Virginia? Not hardly. Right here is where I’ll always be.” But even as she said it, she felt a twinge of conscience. If Captain Jack were to ask, would she not go with him?

  They worked till dusk, finally filling the barrel to the top with the jelly-like soap. To Lael’s delight, Will brought in an oak tub and set it in front of the hearth after supper so she and Susanna could take a true soaking. Gleeful, the boys took turns pouring buckets of heated water into it and then disappeared with Will to wait their turn while Lael and Susanna and little Lael bathed first.