The Frontiersman’s Daughter

  “Lael Click! Piper Hayes is bad sick, and Simon wants you sent for!”

  She finished adding wood to the fire and poked at her cornmeal mush with a spoon, scarcely believing her ears. But when the call came again she opened the door a crack. “Come in and thaw out.”

  She poured mush into two bowls and passed him some sweetening. He said gleefully, “I reckon she ain’t so sick I can’t eat a bite.”

  Having lost her appetite, Lael began packing her bags, speculating on what might await her. Piper had recently given birth to a stillborn girl. Was this the trouble?

  All the way to the Hayes’ homestead she chafed at the wind and the slow plodding of the mule. Her stomach gnawed in empty complaint, and her feet began to ache in her worn stockings and boots. Mile after bitter mile fueled her fury that Simon Hayes had the gall to call upon her after all that had transpired between them, when the doctor could have been had for half the trouble at half the distance.

  As Simon’s land unfolded around her, signs of prosperity and abundance were everywhere—in the numerous fences and grazing livestock, in the fallow fields that lay like a drab quilt, in the solid cabin, twice as big as her own, with real glass windows that bubbled and streaked in the noon light. Like salt in a wound, it was, coming here like this for the very first time.

  A pack of dogs rushed to meet her, then Simon’s aging mother appeared on the porch to call them off. Lael had last seen Matilda Hayes at Pa’s court-martial years ago. Before that, through the years of forting up in her childhood, Mrs. Hayes had treated her like a daughter. Today though, with hardly a greeting, Lael was ushered into the spacious cabin.

  “She ain’t been well since the birth,” Mrs. Hayes said. “But here lately she seems different somehow. She’s got a misery in her stomach and is all a-tremble.”

  “How long?”

  “Oh, a good week or more. She’s weak as water and can’t do her chores, so I come over from McAfee’s to pitch in.”

  Shirking her chores? Complaining of weakness? Prejudice rose up in Lael hard and strong. Piper had ever been one to slack, to her memory, even in the schoolroom with Miss Mayella.

  At the back of the cabin, hidden away in the luxury of a second room, lay Piper, prostrate on the bed she shared with Simon. At the sight of her Lael felt a queer revulsion. She wanted nothing so much as to run out of the cabin and flee on her mule. But sheer stubbornness of spirit won out.

  “Hello, Piper.”

  The closed eyes fluttered open. Somehow, Piper Cane Hayes managed to look sullen even in sickness. She’d changed little over the years, and her hazel eyes narrowed at the sight and sound of Lael.

  “Lael . . . Lael Click? You get on away from here! I ain’t lettin’ no Indian lover lay a hand on me!”

  Lael looked down at her. I am just what you say I am, in more ways than you know. Still, the slur stung, though she’d been saying such things since settlement school.

  Strangely, Piper’s eyes closed again and her face resumed its gray pallor. Lael spent the rest of the afternoon blending tea and tincture and asking questions of Simon’s mother. Nay, she did not think it was a mortal illness, she told Matilda Hayes. A weakness of the blood, perhaps. Nothing that a little backbone and a day’s work wouldn’t cure, she wanted to add. Pausing, she took in Piper for the last time—in the bed that should have been hers.

  A stray thought, black as smoke, curled through her brain. What if . . .

  She swallowed, stunned at such evil. What if she were to leave not willow bark and feverfew but mayapple? Simon’s mother could give her the fatal dose and still her hateful words forever. None would be the wiser. None but God. She bit her lip and packed her bags, wondering if she could make it home before dark.

  There was no offer of payment, though Mrs. Hayes fixed her a cup of coffee with cream. The cream was payment enough, Lael decided, its sweet richness lingering on her tongue. She’d sorely missed her milk cow since the barn burning.

  Simon was curiously absent, but she’d given it little thought. As she crossed the hard ground in search of the mule, she saw a flicker of movement. The barn door that had been ajar moments before was now closed. She paused, awash with a queer sensation.

  Without reason or understanding she bypassed the smokehouse and walked uphill to the barn, dodging frozen puddles and muddy ruts, her saddlebag heavy in her arms. A bitter breath of wind pressed against her skirts.

  She pushed at the heavy door, and it opened noisily. Inside, Simon stood, his back to her, working on a harness. He did not turn. Did he not hear?

  “Piper’s weak but she’ll live,” she announced across the haystrewn expanse of barn.

  He did not turn around but said, “I reckon you’ll be wantin’ payment.”

  “Nay, seeing to Neddy like you did is payment enough. We’ll call it even.”

  He worked the harness in his hands as if she’d never come in at all and said nothing in response. No turning around. No mumbled good-bye. The shadows in the barn were lengthening and the winter darkness would soon overtake her. She should have been well on her way home by now. But something held her fast.

  Slowly—did he think she’d gone?—Simon turned.

  When she saw him face to face, a shocking fury filled her. Something new and queer twisted his features. Fear? Shame? His face was badly battered, even more so than the doctor’s own. If not for his shock of red hair and powerful height, she would have been hard pressed to recognize him.

  Her voice, when it finally came, was as harsh as the winter wind. “Is that why you didn’t send for the doctor, Simon? Were you afraid he’d refuse to come after you ambushed him in the woods?”

  Silence.

  In that moment something broke within her—some hard and binding chain—freeing her from him forever. She saw him as he truly was: hardly a man at all, but someone weak and enfeebled by his own passions.

  Without another word she turned and fled down the hill.

  53

  She arrived at the fort at dusk. Snow had begun to fall, and the bitter cold and darkness forbade her to go farther. Dispirited, she got off the mule just inside the gate. She had a passing fear that the doctor, given this recent trouble, might leave. Was this what Simon hoped? She had a terrible suspicion that Simon might have killed him had he not fought back . . . and fought back well.

  There again was a puzzle. Simon, a veritable bull of a man, had clearly taken the brunt of the beating. There was clearly more to Ian Justus than met the eye. Surgeon . . . fiddler . . . fighter?

  But would he stay on? The settlement could no longer do without him. She was hearing reports of his treating all kinds of ailments, most of them successfully. Numbly, her near-frozen legs walked the length of the common. If God had called him here, would God not also call him away at the appointed time? And when might that time be?

  There were no lights on in the doctor’s cabin. By the time she reached the sanctuary of Ma Horn’s, her soul felt as numb as her feet.

  Ma Horn sat alone at the table. No second place was set. No fiddle case or wool coat was in sight. A wild, irrational fear seized her. “Oh, please—tell me—where is he?”

  “He went away, child. To Lexington. He’ll likely not be back before mornin’.”

  But just as Lael had removed her wet coat and boots, there came a commotion outside. She reached the cabin door first and opened it wide. In the swirling snow, she saw him, boots frozen to the stirrups of his saddle, his blue coat layered with a mantle of white. He looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him. Inside, door shut to the wind, Ma Horn set about warming the doctor’s supper, while Lael moved their coats and boots nearer the fire. But she couldn’t eat. The knowledge of Simon lay too heavy on her heart. The green-eyed monster, Shakespeare had called it. Jealousy. Was this why Simon had attacked him in the woods?

  As was her custom, Ma Horn soon fell asleep in her chair. The doctor got up and moved closer to the fire, leaning against the hearth. His face was healing nicely, sh
e noted. He looked down at her, his eyes the same merry blue as always, despite everything.

  “I’ve been tae Lexington and back and brought you this.” He passed her a leather pouch. Curious, she untied the closure and carefully emptied the contents into her lap.

  A ring spilled out, glittering and golden, and she saw a flash of diamonds as well. Before she could right the bag a string of pearls followed, filling her open hand like so many drops of cream. But what came next truly astonished her. It was a miniature, its gold casing bearing the face of a lovely russet-haired woman with emerald eyes. Stunned, Lael could think of but one thing. Olivia.

  There was an awkward silence as he realized his mistake. She’d never before seen him flustered. A sudden flush turned his rugged features swarthy, and he looked confused and apologetic. She felt deeply wounded herself, and all thumbs, as she tried to return the lovely jewels to the bag. Mortified, she felt the ring slip from her fingers and fall to the floor, rolling beneath the trestle table.

  All at once they were kneeling, hands touching as they searched.

  “Lael, I—”

  “Please,” she whispered. “There’s no need to explain. Perhaps . . . is there another bag?”

  There was. An identical leather pouch was produced, but its contents weren’t nearly so magnificent or thought-provoking. They were her spectacles, wire-rimmed and small and round, the glass clear and thin as creek ice.

  “Thank you, truly,” she said though it fell a trifle flat after all the excitement. Though he still looked vexed, the bag of jewels was nowhere to be seen. Safe in his pocket once again, she guessed.

  “Try them on before you thank me. And read this, tae be sure.” He handed her Ma Horn’s Bible. She opened it at random to the Song of Solomon. Hardly the book to be reading aloud to the doctor. Deuteronomy, the book of laws, was far safer, she decided.

  She began a bit hesitantly, unsure of the strange device perched on the end of her nose. But the longer she read, the greater her confidence grew. The words no longer blurred but stayed in their proper place.

  She looked up, elated. “I must pay you.”

  He smiled. “’Tis payment enough tae hear your voice. Keep reading.”

  She finished one chapter, then two. It dawned on her that she was no longer reading to ascertain the veracity of her new spectacles. She was so often quiet in his presence . . . could it be he truly liked to hear the sound of her voice?

  She stopped abruptly and removed the spectacles. “I must look a sight—”

  “You look . . . lovely.”

  In the still room his words, though softly spoken, had tremendous force.

  Lovely.

  No one had ever called her that. He was looking at her again— she could feel it—though she dared not look at him. The flush that stained her neck and face made her feel feverish.

  He moved to put another log on the fire.

  She kept her eyes on the book in her lap. “I am truly grateful, Doctor.”

  “Doctor?” He turned back to her and leaned against the hearth. “I meant tae talk tae you aboot that some time ago.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “My Christian name. You canna say it?”

  She swallowed, nervous as a schoolgirl. “But of course . . .”

  “Then say it.”

  “Ian . . . Justus. But I should call you Doctor Justus.”

  “Why?”

  “’Tis only proper.”

  He grinned and rolled his eyes. “I dinna notice you Kentuckians observe such social niceties.”

  She fingered her spectacles. “What does everyone else here call you?”

  “Doc Justus.”

  “And you want me to call you . . . Ian.”

  “Only if you want tae.”

  He was teasing her again. She couldn’t help but wonder what Olivia called him. All at once she was overcome with a dreadful certainty that she shouldn’t be sitting here at all. This was Olivia’s place, not hers. And yet she was struck by the fact that, unlike Olivia, she would never have remained in Boston. She would have followed Ian Justus clear to Kentucke, come what may.

  Simply put, she, Lael Catherine Click, knew a good catch when she saw one.

  But he was as forbidden as Captain Jack.

  She stood up. “You must be tired from your long ride. I don’t mean to keep you.”

  He studied her for a long moment, and then he put on his boots and coat. When he was almost to the door, she said very quietly, “Ian . . . I know . . . about Simon.”

  He turned and his blue eyes seemed to bore a hole in her. She rushed on, “He fetched me to see Piper, who’s been ill. He never meant for me to see him, but I did.” She continued, fresh anguish filling her at the possibilities. “He might have killed you. It’s a wonder he did not.”

  His face was grave. “Perhaps he would have, but for one thing. I was a boxer in college—in Scotlain. Like my faither before me.”

  In college, in Scotland, years before. Before he’d dreamed of or possibly even heard of Kentucke. Before God called him here. Even then he was being prepared . . . for this.

  Whom God calls, He equips. Where had she heard that?

  They stood an arm’s length apart, and the silence was expectant, filled with heartfelt things they could not say. Feeling near tears again, Lael stuttered out the question that seemed ready to rend her in two. “Are you going b-back to Boston?”

  His expression softened, so poignant she felt breathless. What could he possibly be thinking? Feeling?

  His voice was low, measured. “Nae . . . no’ now. No’ yet.”

  Without another word, he let himself out. She sagged against the door frame, suddenly weary. The blast of icy air that struck her in his wake was nothing like the blow to her heart. Truly, Ian Justus was forbidden, and not because of Olivia or Captain Jack. Ian Justus belonged to God.

  And Lael Click did not.

  54

  Christmas was approaching, and the land lay frozen in the grip of winter. How long had it been since she’d last been at the fort? Fourteen . . . fifteen days?

  And how long had it been since she’d last seen Captain Jack? The memory of their encounter at the river had faded somewhat. How tall had he stood? How green were his eyes? Just what had he said before leaving her at the last? Her forbidden feelings for him lay tucked within her heart, but they no longer warmed her as they once had.

  Her days were relentlessly the same. She woke up, trading her warm bed for a frigid cabin. From the ashes she made a fire, boiled tea and mush for breakfast, and watched her store of honey dwindle even though she meted it out in miserly fashion. She washed dishes and swept out the cabin, needed or not, then set out dried beans or apples to soak, ground meal for bread, and cut a small hank of meat for seasoning from the ham hanging in the springhouse. There were Tuck and the mule to tend to and, on kinder days, a walk to the river.

  To her dismay, some days she did not so much as wash her face or comb her hair. Besides, who was there to see—or care? Soon she lost all track of time. She was too much alone, she reasoned, forever fighting the urge to ride to the fort. The solitude was making her strange. Was this how it had been for Lovey Runion? Fine at first . . . and then fey?

  At least she had her spectacles and her books. But the medical volumes rested at one end of the table, coated white with a sprinkling of dust. Shakespeare and The Pilgrim’s Progress were no different, sitting idly on the mantle where she had left them a month before. Only the Bible was in use, lying open and waiting for first one reading then another. How was it that she could read the same passage twice and come away with a different understanding each time?

  “’Tis a rude book,” she pronounced one day in irritation. The words demanded her full concentration, prodding and provoking her, assailing her with questions even when closed. Lately, in the stillness, it seemed to speak to her, calling her back after she had shut it.

  Like Ian’s prayers, the Bible would not let her be. It demanded
something of her, though she knew not what. The more she read, the deeper she looked into its truths, the more she felt herself being looked into, laid bare and open.

  Not one soul had sent for her in weeks, not one request made. Visiting Lovey and Mourning and Titus up the branch had been her only call, and even there she had felt like an intruder. Though they were glad to see her, they needed nothing from her except a little tobacco. Why, Lovey had even given up her tonic.

  She returned home, dreading the cold cabin, then remembered the firewood that had been mysteriously split and stacked. This time, however, the change was more subtle: Just beyond the rick of firewood the fence in the pasture had been mended. And there were new shingles on the shed.

  Tuck barked furiously in welcome and circled the mule in a frenzy. Laughing, she got down, wondering who’d done these needed repairs. Will Bliss? Simon? It was Will’s way to do good deeds in secret, but not Simon’s. Her rush of gratitude was soon overshadowed by a nagging sense of failure. Who’d been here? And why? She was a woman alone, hard pressed to do the repairs herself, and that was her answer.

  Hadn’t Will had to plow for her in spring? Hadn’t he brought her feed corn when the barn burned and taken care of her mare? Wasn’t she a thorn in Colonel Barr’s side? As it was, she’d already spent too much time at the fort, living off Ma Horn’s meager supplies and replenishing little.

  And then there was the matter of Doc Justus, who cared as much about doctoring people’s souls as their bodies. Nay, he didn’t know much about walnut poultices or the properties of ginseng, but with his medical training and prayer, what need did she herself serve? The time was ripe for running away.

  The folly of living alone and courting danger went against her own good judgment. What had Ma Horn once told her? There’s only one thing worse than a broken heart. It comes of getting what you want and finding out it ain’t what you thought it would be. Lael had come home and found that to be true.