The Frontiersman’s Daughter

  “You must eat,” Colonel Barr reminded her, but she couldn’t, and she wouldn’t, till Ian and Jane were well.

  That night, Ma Horn cried out from the loft. She’d been tending the doctor, wiping him down and forcing water past his cracked lips, while Lael and Colonel Barr saw to Jane and the others. At the sound of her cry they rushed up the steps, and Lael felt she would never reach the top.

  Ma Horn was as shaken as Lael had ever seen her. “He stopped drawin’ breath not once but twice now. I had to work his chest hard—both times—to make it start up again.”

  Lael faltered, but the colonel’s hand gripped her arm, keeping her steady. “Twice, you say?”

  “Aye. And his color’s changed a mite.”

  Pulling free of the colonel’s hold, Lael went to the bed. Ian’s head lay heavy on the pillow, his disheveled hair a melee of damp black strands. Ma Horn turned the coverlet back to reveal a well-muscled chest covered with the telltale red spots. Reaching out, Lael placed one hand over his heart and waited. The beat that had been so strong and sure just yesterday was barely there. Dropping down on the bed, she pressed her ear close and listened. Weak, truly.

  Ma Horn was looking at her, but Lael was afraid of those old, knowledgeable eyes, afraid they would tell her what the old woman could not bring herself to say. Numb, Lael sat up but did not withdraw her hand from his chest, afraid to let go.

  “He’s awful weak,” Ma Horn said. “Goin’ out to the McClarys’ plumb sapped his strength, and then he come here to all this. He ain’t stopped yet, neither to sleep nor eat, to my way of thinkin’. ”

  “There’s nothing you can give him? No herb or remedy of your own making?” the colonel asked.

  “All I know of is foxglove, to shore up the heart. I could make a tea and we could try and ease it down.”

  “Then do it,” he advised.

  Lael was hardly aware of their leaving. How long was it before Ma Horn came back up and the two of them were trickling the tea, spoonful by spoonful, down his throat? This, Lael thought, was her own doing. He had given out because she’d refused him the day he’d come nearly begging her to help him. All of her pent-up hate and bitterness and stubbornness had not only killed the McClary widow but was killing Ian as well, right before her eyes. She’d felt the weight of her sin then, and she felt it now, along with a great and crushing grief.

  Oh God . . . help me!

  Dropping down beside the bed onto her knees, she put her face in her hands. But she couldn’t pray. Not one word passed from her heart to her lips. “Oh God . . .” she tried again, but the simple words seemed to choke her.

  Ian was mumbling now, and her head came up. She reached for his hand and squeezed it as if that alone could stop the torrent of jumbled words. He was hot—so hot—was there no help for it? Even his hand seemed to singe her own. She heard him mumble snatches of Scripture and then her own name.

  “Lael . . . Lael . . .” But it was not said in joy. She’d never heard him in such anguish, and it hurt her deep down, where she’d never hurt before.

  “Ian—Ian! I’m here, right here beside you. You mustn’t fret so.” She lay cool hands on his perspiring face and called for more rags and cold water. Crying now, her tears fell onto his face and chest as she tried to cool him. Oh Ian. I love you, love you, love you . . . Her heart kept repeating the words, though her lips stayed silent. She had no right to love him at all. Why then did she feel the need to tell him?

  She thought of Pa and the loving words she’d often thought but never voiced to him. Had he sensed her love? Could love be felt—or did it have to be spoken? Since Ian had returned to her cabin that one night, she’d dared to think he loved her. She’d felt it, hadn’t she? It was in his eyes when he looked at her . . . in his voice when he spoke to her . . .

  Olivia? Did he just call out her name? Nay, it was her own name she heard, uttered again and again with the same intensity and sadness.

  “I’m here, Ian. Right here.”

  She could not stop crying. Was this love? Wishing his pain was her own? Wanting to take his place? The love she felt for him was unlike any she’d ever known. Didn’t Scripture say that God is love? Had He given her this love? Would He now take it away?

  She lay her head on his bare chest, and the next thing she knew urgent hands were shaking her awake. Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes and saw that Colonel Barr and Ma Horn were cooling him down with snow. Like a sleepwalker, she got up and walked to the small loft window. Unlatching it, she propped it open with a stick. Great, white flakes swirled in a lovely winter’s dance. She left the window ajar and returned to the bed to help them.

  It was late when Ma Horn sat back, resigned. Lael knew the look, and it set her heart to pounding. “I’ll set up with him a spell,” she said dully, looking more worn than Lael had ever seen her.

  But Lael would not leave him.

  “All right, but if there’s any change, you fetch me quick, you hear?” Ma Horn cautioned.

  She was alone with him again, but there was nothing she could do for him. Nothing at all.

  The shadow of death had come into the room.

  67

  How had it come to this?

  They were all gathered by the bedside—Lael, Colonel Barr, Ma Horn, and Jane. Jane had risen from her sickbed and had to be helped up the stairs, but she insisted on seeing the doctor a final time.

  Ma Horn had fretted over him some. He now wore a fresh linen shirt, and she’d combed his tangled hair. Lying so quiet atop the coverlet, he looked like a sleeping giant. Lael had never thought to see him so still. Gone was the quicksilver grin that marked his teasing. His mouth was now drawn in a solemn line, and his eyes—had they really been so blue?—were shut, the circles beneath them sullen. She couldn’t bear to look, nor could she bear to turn away.

  At the top of the stairs stood a familiar figure. Will Bliss? His hat was in his hands, but he made no move toward them. He just stood and Lael stared at him, too sore and too worn to be amazed. But there he was, the flesh-and-blood Will, his eyes fixed on Ian. Did he love him too? Was that why he’d come? Didn’t he know he risked his very life by walking into the sickroom? The shadow of death was all around them. Did he not feel it?

  In time Will’s gaze turned to Lael. She stood at the foot of the bed. The others began to move away, and it was Will who came to stand beside her. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she crumbled. She had cried herself dry, she reckoned, so how could she possibly cry again?

  Behind her she heard a chair scrape against the floor as he sat. Dropping to her knees beside the bed, she took one of Ian’s hands and brought it close to rest beneath her cheek. There was no one else now, just she and Will. The others had gone below to wait. She wondered dully if Colonel Barr was preparing the travois for burial.

  His hand lay heavy in her own, still warm but growing colder as if the life was slowly ebbing out of him. He was no longer there, she knew. He was moving away from her to a place she could not follow. As she sat holding onto him as if to anchor him to her forever, she felt a strange release—a slight but unmistakable pulling away that both frightened and bewildered.

  She began praying and weeping again. Must she lose everyone she held dear? Pa, Neddy, Simon, Captain Jack, and now Ian? The weight of her sorrow was too much to hold.

  Will’s lips seemed to move without ceasing while she felt her own prayers went no higher than the blockhouse ceiling. What had come over Will? She’d grown up knowing Will and, truth be told, never liked him much back then. He was a bullying boy, hotheaded and unkind, striking out with words or fists. But Will the man had somehow become gentle and kind—and meek.

  His hand was on her shoulder again. She felt its weight and he said, “Let him go, Lael.”

  The shadows on the wall deepened, and only one candle was left burning. She brushed her lips against Ian’s, much as she had longed to do that night in her cabin after the barn raising.

  Oh God, please. Help my unbelief. Forgive me al
l the times I’ve hurt You . . . and others . . . and myself. I’m a sinner, for sure. I deserve to die but for Your mercy. I believe You are love, that You loved me enough to die for me. You gave me a love for this man . . . a gift . . . undeserved. I wish You’d take me instead . . . in Ian’s place . . . my life for his . . . like Your Son did for me.

  Thinking gave way to speaking, then praying to pleading. “Ian, do you hear? I want you to forgive me . . . to come back to me from wherever you are. It is I, Lael. Ian, I love you. I love you. Do you hear? I can’t hide it any longer. Deep down you must know God has given me a love for you too sweet to bear.”

  With a trembling hand, she reached toward the bedside table. The pink pearls were cold and almost heavy, but somehow— unsteadily, miraculously—she opened the tiny clasp and placed them about her neck. The simple act seemed to confirm her love and commitment but brought no comfort. She wished she’d done so sooner, when he could have seen her, when he might have done it for her. At Christmas.

  Before it was too late.

  68

  The throbbing in her head was steady, like the beat of a drum. Could they hear it too? There were people around her—moving, talking shadows. She could hear voices . . . she knew Ma Horn’s first; she’d been hearing it so long it was a part of her. She tried to sit up, but the shadows deepened and the pain in her head made her moan. Why did her hair feel so heavy? It hurt clear to her scalp.

  She felt cool hands on her. They were pressing her down and removing her clothes. Without them she felt light as thistledown. She was beside the river, but she’d forgotten her bonnet. The sun’s reflection off the water burned her, yet when she moved into the shade beneath the sycamores, she was covered in a tide of goose bumps. Light and dark. Hot and cold. Voices without name.

  She was beside the river and there, standing on the far shore, was Pa. A great joy swelled her soul. She called out to him. Did he hear? Her breath caught as he turned. He was looking at her now, and the love in his face hurt her. She’d forgotten how tall he stood. And his eyes! Nearly as blue as Ian’s own. He was smiling and motioning for her to come over. Between them, the water looked still and deep and inviting. But she held back, torn. How she wanted to cross . . . to hear his voice again!

  Lael . . . Lael!

  Somebody was calling her name, but who? Not her pa, though it was a man’s voice, sure and strong. She was being lifted and a warm liquid poured down her throat. She thought she might drown. She tried to fight it but couldn’t lift her hands. Why couldn’t she see? The taste in her mouth was bitter . . . the darkness complete . . . like someone had pulled a sheet over her head.

  She was on the river now, in a canoe. Ian was holding the paddles, and she sat across from him. He was smiling at her. Let’s stay here like this, she was telling him, just the two of us, forever.

  But there was Olivia . . . always Olivia . . .

  And then there was blackness.

  Like a sleepwalker, Lael got up from the bed. She was at Ma Horn’s, she knew. But where was Ma Horn? The shadows of the cabin shifted and grew longer, and she swayed with them. She smelled the peculiar odor of camphor, and it sharpened her senses somewhat. She’d never liked the smell, had always preferred her herbs by far. At the end of the bed she stumbled over her own two feet. She was half-floating, half-walking. She was alone . . . was she not?

  Her eyes struggled to focus on something—anything. The room tilted and spun. Nay, she was not alone. Yellow flames licked and hissed at hearth logs. A figure sat before the fire—bent and, she sensed, weary. Reaching out her hand, she tried to touch whoever it was, but they were too far off. She stumbled again, but, blessedly, there was a table, breaking her fall and lending her strength. Looking down, she saw she wore a nightgown, but whose? The pink pearls were about her neck. And her hair . . . the hair that felt so heavy of late, still hung to her knees, swaying like a windblown curtain as she walked.

  She put out her hand . . . the darkness was rushing in again threatening to take her with it. With a cry she grasped for some support but there was nothing—nothing—

  And then there was.

  Strong, hard arms encircled her. Simon? Sheer terror overtook her and she began to push them away, but they were like iron bands about her.

  “Lael . . . Lael.”

  At her name so tenderly spoken she melted soft as candle wax in those arms. And then she felt nearly smothered by a man’s closeness. He was kissing her, truly. Kissing her face . . . her neck . . . her hair . . . saying her name again and again. Despite her weak and ravaged state, those words and kisses filled her with the most wondrous, exquisite feeling.

  In time he carried her back to the bed. The darkness was again overtaking her, and she was sliding back into blackness and emptiness and confusion and crying, “Oh Ian—Ian, I’m so afraid!”

  Picking her up, he carried her nearer the fire, where he sat and rocked her in Ma Horn’s old chair for a very long time.

  When she awoke it was to Jane McFee spooning her some broth. Without a word, she weakly swallowed it. So she’d dreamt it, then. Those kisses and whispered endearments were naught but the queer imaginings of her strange illness. Ian wasn’t even here, she realized with a start. Just gentle Jane, determined that she finish the strengthening broth. Ma Horn would come in any minute and take up her pipe by the hearth, like always.

  When the bowl was empty, she whispered, “Where is . . . Ma Horn?”

  Jane’s face puckered slightly and she said nothing.

  Frantic, Lael clutched at her sleeve. “Jane, tell me, please. About Ma Horn. And the doctor.” Yet even as she spoke, she feared hearing. Her whole world was upended and queer. She would never be right again without them. They must be here— they must be near . . .

  “Ma Horn’s done crossed over, Lael.”

  Hearing it, she felt like she would break into a thousand pieces. Ma Horn gone, and not one good-bye. Just like it had been with Pa, then Neddy . . . “Oh Jane, nay!”

  Jane began crying herself, and Lael stuttered a desperate plea, “A-And Ian?”

  “Simon Hayes took sick, and he was sent for.”

  Simon? Jane continued, “Piper’s nearly dead with the pox. Now Simon’s sick as well.”

  It was too much to take in. “But Ian is . . . all right?”

  Jane passed her a handkerchief. “Weak yet, the doctor is, for he nearly died hisself. Don’t you remember, Lael? It was you who nursed him.”

  Did she remember? She remembered nothing, nothing at all but those fleeting kisses. Yet a river of relief flooded her soul, nigh to drowning her, at hearing he remained. Surely heaven had heard her pitiful prayers.

  Jane looked away, thoughtful. “You were right sick yourself. It was queer how when you went down the doctor rose up. We’d give him up for dead. But the very day you dropped he came round. And he wouldn’t let nobody tend you but hisself. Why, he just give you over to me today before he rode out.”

  “Thank you, Jane, for taking good care of me. I can see you were sick yourself.” At the sight of the pocks on Jane’s face, Lael’s hands went to her own, feeling the upraised sores.

  “You got just a few, like me. Them who died got ’em the worst.”

  Slowly, like awakening from a dream, their trial in the blockhouse came back to her. Sophie Lambert. The sutler. Flowner Beel. The children and the others. Even Ma Horn. She swallowed down the hurt of not saying good-bye to the woman who had taught her so much.

  “The fever took Ma Horn right off,” Jane reassured her, rising. “Fourteen dead and twenty living. I ain’t been to my cabin yet, and I aim to go if you can make out all right for a spell. The doctor’ll be back directly to see you. And he told me to give you this.”

  Jane handed her a piece of paper—a letter. She took it and turned it over. Olivia’s letter. But why? She remembered her surprise at finding it in the medicine chest. She stared at the seal on the back, dark blue and broken, and then Jane’s shutting of the door jarred her to action. She was
alone, free to read it and let the emotion pulsing through her show on her face. She opened it and breathed in the faint scent of lavender.

  October 12, 1783

  My dearest Ian,

  How peculiar it seems that on the very day I take pen in hand your own letter has come to me. I did not doubt that you would find the wilds of Kentucke to your liking and that it would someday woo you away from me. Always in my heartfelt prayers for you, I sensed God Himself was calling you apart for His own special purpose, though I had not imagined He was preparing a helpmate there to love you and help you as I cannot. That she is the famed frontiersman’s daughter surprises me not at all. I hope, one day, to meet her as your wife.

  Since your leaving I have come to understand that my mission remains here in Boston, making the rounds of calls with my dear father. There is so much suffering in the world! And such a need for our gentle Savior! My parents were rather dejected about our parting. But I trust that one day they will understand and accept what was more man-made than God-ordained. The truth remains that I could never be reconciled to the hardships of frontier life—or even Scotland—and thereby am unable to be by your side and love you wholeheartedly as you deserve. Therefore, I release you with open arms.

  Yours truly,

  Olivia Lowe

  Lael read the letter a second and a third time, hardly believing the words before her. She was still befuddled, is all, reading meaning and emotion into the message where there was none. Back before Christmas the letter had come. Before Cozy Creek and the pearls and the Christmas merriment in the Bliss cabin.

  Ian had not seemed a spurned man then or now . . . because he was not. There had been another letter, she surmised, before Olivia’s, written by Ian himself. And in that letter he had made mention of the famed frontiersman’s daughter. She . . . herself.