The Frontiersman’s Daughter

  Several men hooted when old Amos, the fort fiddler, rolled out a charred keg of whiskey. So this was the coveted prize, she surmised. Colonel Corey set up a target just outside the fort’s gates, facing the river. Here the riflemen could be heard and seen by any enemy. Yet at the first sign of trouble, the men could easily slip back into the fort.

  “Now, watch this, little miss,” said the grizzled woodsman ahead of Lael. “Colonel Corey can put nineteen bullets out of twenty within an inch of a nail. Not a man can best ’im but your pa.”

  Indeed, in addition to Colonel Corey’s fine manners, he was good with a gun. He hit the nail on the head nearly every time, finishing and taking his place behind her in line. When he saw her, his eyes registered surprised pleasure, and he swept off his hat, taking her cold, callused hand and bringing it lightly to his lips. She smiled a rare smile, revealing even white teeth, then placed her hand back into her pocket beside the blue beads.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Click?”

  “To your fine marksmanship, Colonel,” she said simply, untried at the art of flirtation.

  “The noise of the guns does not annoy you?”

  “Nay, I’m afraid I’ve been hearing them my whole life.”

  His eyes fell on her rifle. “Would you care to try your weapon? I can assist you.”

  “Aye, thank you kindly.”

  His eyes lingered on her face—a tad overlong, she thought. Behind them now, Simon stewed, his face a study of anger and disbelief. Anger at the colonel’s attentions? Surprise at her presence?

  The men no longer kept to single file. When it was her turn, they fanned out about her, clearly intrigued by her presence. Standing beside her, Colonel Corey made several suggestions. Listening carefully, her range about sixty yards, she cocked the lock, then fired. Her aim was a bit high.

  “Try again,” said the colonel kindly. “My own men get three attempts.”

  And so, feet splayed to steady herself, she reloaded and fired again. A hush fell over the men upon the discharge. The post shook as she hit the target dead center. Even Colonel Corey, schooled in deadpan, looked astonished. A cheer went up from the men, all save Simon. She flushed, aware of the recoil’s hearty kick and the ensuing smoke.

  “Excellent. Now again,” the colonel encouraged.

  She obliged, reloading in less than a minute. Drawing a steadying breath, she fired a final time. Again, she hit the target’s center. When the applause had died down, Colonel Corey said, “You seem to have your father’s unerring eye and arm. Please, join us for a drink.”

  And so she did, but only a sip. The potent brew, relished by the men, burned her throat and befuddled her senses. Thanking the colonel, she soon departed to her own cabin, aware that many of the fort’s women were watching her. Even Piper Cane—could it be?—stood looking at her from an open blockhouse window.

  “Ma says you’re gettin’ too big for your britches,” Ransom told her in the empty cabin.

  “They may be big, but they ain’t bored.”

  “Is it true you hit them targets dead on two out of three times? I reckon even Pa would be proud of that.”

  “Eat your mush and hush.”

  Already she was planning her next foray, this time with her rifle. The security of it would let her roam a bit farther, perhaps overnight somewhere. She had a notion to head toward Bullitt’s Lick but dared not give voice to this piece of rashness. Farther west, this isolated post led to the Falls of the Ohio and rarely passed a peaceful day. But with Pride and her rifle she would attempt it.

  Still, Ma’s words rang a warning in her ears: I wonder what I’ll tell your pa when you don’t come back.

  A knock, hard and loud, sounded at the door. Ransom opened it to reveal Simon, his head bent to get in the door frame. As if sensing a coming conflict, Ransom scampered squirrel-like past Simon’s legs out the door. Lael stood, her supper unfinished. In the stuffy air of the cabin she smelled liquor, so strong it seemed Simon had been pickled in it.

  “I’ve come courtin’,” he announced, kicking the door shut with his boot.

  She eyed him warily, thinking how Colonel Corey’s fine manners jarred sourly with this show of brutishness. “Well, you can leave your whiskey behind next time,” she chided.

  Stepping deeper into the dimly lit room, he tripped over the leg of a rocking chair then clumsily righted himself.

  Stifling a laugh, Lael put one hand over her mouth. “You shouldn’t be here, Simon. At least leave the door open. Folks’ll talk.”

  His head came up. “Tongues are already waggin’ about your wild ways. Openin’ the door won’t stop ’em.” He sat down abruptly and ran a hand over the stubble of a two-day beard. “I ride in yesterday and all I hear is ‘Lael Click done this’ and ‘Lael Click done that.’ Your pa better come back soon and rein you in since your ma can’t. My pa says Colonel Corey is so besotted with you he commands his men to open the gates for you day and night.”

  Lael moved to put more wood on the fire and opened the door nonetheless. Arms crossed, she said a trifle testily, “You’re just sore because I’m the better shot.”

  His scowl intensified. “Beginner’s luck, is all.”

  She poked at the fire with an iron rod. “How’s the cabin comin’?”

  “Slow, what with the snow and all, but it’ll be done come spring. I ain’t changed my mind where you’re concerned, Lael Click. You’re raisin’ such a ruckus, I figure your pa’ll just plain give you to me to get shed of you himself.”

  She laughed outright at this then sobered. “See any fresh Indian sign up your way?”

  “Some horses were stole from Pogue’s place.”

  “How’s Piper?”

  “Poorly.”

  Clearly, he was in no mood for sober conversation. Lael turned and there in the open doorway stood Ma Horn. From the look on her face as she surveyed Simon, Lael gathered she felt the same about him as did Pa. Without acknowledging him, she came into the room. Simon stood unsteadily and left with nary a word. Perhaps their dislike was mutual then.

  “This here herb bundle’s for Neddy. I have a feelin’ he’s poorly,” she said, shutting the door. “Will you take it to him on your next ramble?”

  “Aye, in the morning.” Gladness washed over her. Obviously, Ma Horn didn’t mind her going.

  Her aged face creased with a knowing smile and she said, “Whenever I see you set out, I just say a little prayer. Just remember, won’t nothin’ ever befall you that the good Lord don’t allow.”

  High up on Neddy’s homestead, Lael didn’t return to the fort until suppertime the second day. When she entered the cabin, both Ransom and Ma nearly fell on her, their relief was so great.

  “I was about to call out the militia,” said Ma in scolding fashion.

  “No need,” Lael said, depositing her saddlebags and rifle by the door. “I’ve just been to see Uncle Neddy.”

  Her mother’s mouth dropped open.

  She sashayed past, removing her heavy cloak and hat. “He’s just fine, in case you’re wonderin’. ”

  Truly, Uncle Neddy had seemed pleased as punch to see her, weak as he was. They’d broken bread together and then, as evening set in, the fever took him, and Lael stayed to nurse him through the night. The boneset tea she’d brought seemed to help, and by noon the next day he was up and around again. When she left, he insisted she take a crock of long-sweetening for her trouble, which, she replied, had been no trouble at all.

  She deposited the crock on the table in front of a stunned Ma. Neddy’s name had not been mentioned between them for years, and Lael, for one, was glad to break the silence. Without another word, she washed up and wearily climbed the loft ladder to bed.

  17

  Surely Pa would be home soon.

  Lael pushed farther into forbidden territory. Drowning Creek. Log Lick Trace. The Little Muddy River. On a day edged with frost, she came upon a hackberry tree that bore his initials deep within its bark. EEC. F
ebruary 22, 1778. Just two days past. At the sight, she knew her wandering days were almost over.

  Homesick for him, her cold fingers traced the familiar lettering in the rough trunk. For just a moment she forgot where she was, deep in the heart of the dangerous Warrior’s Trace.

  The movement that stirred the stand of mountain laurel at her back failed to warn, and the Shawnee surrounded her in a sudden ghostly circle. Pa’s words of warning echoed thunderously in her ears. Never give way to fear in an Indian’s sight. Her head came up, but her rifle was leaden in her arms, primed and cocked but useless. All six Shawnee had tomahawks in hand. By the time she could draw a bead, her head would be split open wider than a watermelon.

  The warriors circled her, their expressions sober, head feathers a-dance in the winter wind. Six sets of eyes held unmistakable warning. Already she felt shackled, though they hadn’t laid a hand on her. The fear that they might made her bold.

  She made straight for the smallest brave, the butt end of her rifle pointed like a battering ram at his belly. The impact nearly toppled her, but she got past him. Dropping her gun, a wildness seemed to possess her and she ran like fire across the forest floor, leaping over bushes and around trees, her dress hardly slowing her.

  At her heels came a tall warrior, playing a fast and furious game. He’d dropped his buffalo robe the same instant she’d dropped her rifle, the thrill of pursuit in his every step. His terrifying footfall seemed to shake the very treetops. He was only toying with her, she knew, and would soon overtake her. Her lungs were near bursting—she vowed she would die before she let him touch her—but if she kept on going she’d run right into the ground.

  Stay standing.

  Another leap over a half-frozen creek and she swung around, chest heaving. Graceful as a bull elk, he slowed, his moccasins digging deep into the wintry ground. When he faced her, she saw that he was hardly winded. Now close enough to touch her, he did just that. His rough fingers skimmed her trembling jaw. No malice marred his striking features. His startling eyes, green as her own, told her it was him.

  Captain Jack.

  She felt woozy with fear and fascination.

  “Click’s daughter,” he said easily, then pointed to her pocket.

  What? How did he know she kept the beads near at hand? Startled, she reached down, her eyes never leaving his face, and pulled out her treasure. They nested like a bounty of robin’s eggs in her open, trembling hand. At the sight of them a satisfied smile softened his intensity.

  Taking the beads, he returned them to her pocket. Hungrily, his eyes roamed her vulnerable face, lingering on her unkempt hair and parted mouth as if measuring every ragged breath she took. He reached for her hand ever so slowly, as if she might take wing and fly away from him.

  She would not, could not, look away from him. The pressure of his palm against hers . . . the raw strength of him . . . the unclouded invitation in his eyes . . .

  A guffaw, rude and loud, broke the spell. As the other warriors reached them, Lael moved to stand in Captain Jack’s shadow. Still, he didn’t release her hand. Warily, her eyes swept the circle of Shawnee, then stopped cold at a familiar figure.

  Pa!

  Her shock was so apparent, the Indians erupted in laughter. Suddenly it all came clear. He’d been with them from the first. And he meant to teach her a lesson. Was this his punishment for her wandering ways?

  Yelping, Nip and Tuck came forward to sniff her skirts. Sheepish, she eyed the Indian she’d nearly gutted and saw he held her rifle.

  “Howdy-do, Daughter,” Pa called.

  At this, the Indians laughed harder, all but Captain Jack. Letting go of her, he took her father aside. His impassioned words were in Shawnee, but his intent was clear. The tall warrior was arguing to have her. The strangeness of this struck her. She and her pa were outnumbered six to two and could easily be overtaken if the Indians so desired.

  She stood staring at her pa, so bearded he was almost unrecognizable. Captain Jack gestured to her, his movements graceful and pleasing. She longed with a deep gnawing to know what it was they said, but she made herself look away and down at her moccasins, one of which had torn and was unraveling.

  Standing in the midst of these hardy, tawny men, she felt a smidgen of what her father seemed to feel for them. Admiration. Envy. Awe. Her own reserve began thawing as Captain Jack took her to a little clearing, well away from the others, and they worked together to make a fire. Still, she felt a tremor of unease. This was a white man, she reminded herself, despite his buckskin and feathers and thorough Shawnee manner.

  “You were not much afraid when I went after you,” he said with a little smile.

  “Oh, I was afraid,” she confessed, picking up some pine knots. “But then I saw that it was you . . .”

  “I see your father in your face, and that is good,” he told her. “You have his courage. We were glad to find him hunting today.”

  A flicker of alarm lit her eyes. “You mean him no harm?”

  He straightened to his full height and looked down at her. “He means us no harm, so we are at peace. Among our people he is nenothtu oukimah, a great chief.”

  “But I’ve heard—”

  “You have heard that the Shawnee kill escaped captives once they are found?” His eyes held hers steadfastly. “Lesser men, yes. But not your father.”

  Considering his words, she held her cold hands toward the curling orange flames, finding it hard to look away from him. Here was one of the men who had taken Pa from her years ago, yet her heart twisted with empathy when she thought of how he too had been torn from another life.

  “I have so many questions,” she said quietly, eyes on the fire. “About you.” About the past, she thought, looking over her shoulder to where her father stood speaking with the other Shawnee.

  Captain Jack nodded as if he understood, and patiently coaxed the fire into a golden glow of warmth and light. His response shot such hope into her heart that she had to turn away lest he see the tears shining in her eyes. A bit of her nervousness eased, and she began to enjoy this strange and wondrous twilight, thrilled with Pa’s sudden return.

  The cold deepened and a light snow began to fall. The Shawnee began studying the sky, talking among themselves. While they made camp, Pa left to hunt. She watched him go, her high spirits suddenly sinking like stone. What if he returned and they’d taken her away? But he soon came back with a deer, which she helped skin and dress then roast over a generous fire.

  ’Twas a strange supper, sitting like the guests of honor, while the Shawnee passed the choicest pieces of meat to her father and herself. Her cold fingers took the venison hungrily, and she was careful not to let the juices run down her chin. Not a scrap of meat remained after their feast and then the dogs gnawed on the bones.

  Afterward, in the firelight, she mended her moccasin with an awl and sinew, aware of Captain Jack’s eyes on her. He was, she decided, as smitten with her as Simon was. She found the attention more pleasing than provoking and was drawn to his quiet confidence and easy manner.

  “Not this . . . this.” Captain Jack took the shoe from her, his voice low and gentle.

  How old could he be, truly? Thirty or better, she guessed. As he worked, she let her eyes linger on the fine lines of his face. Not a trace of the white man remained. With patient hands, he showed her how to double loop and tie the string to better bind the worn leather. As she watched, one brave called out something in jest and Captain Jack hurled her moccasin at him across the fire.

  They were teasing him for all his attention to her, she knew. Smiling, she glanced at Pa, but he was relating some story in Shawnee to the man beside him. Her ears warmed to the talk and laughter all around. The camaraderie thickened as the night deepened. ’Twas harder and harder to hold her eyes open. Twice her head tilted and hit Captain Jack’s hard shoulder, but he didn’t seem to mind, nor did she.

  Bedtime found her rolled in a blanket, feet to the fire. A hundred unasked and unanswered questions
lodged in her breast, seeming to multiply by the minute. Never in her life had she felt so queer, wedged between Captain Jack and her father in a tight circle of Shawnee. Her last thought before she surrendered to sleep pinked her cheeks.

  What would her mother say to see her so? Or Simon?

  When she awoke, the Indians were gone. Had she only dreamt it? Nay, the ground where they had bedded down told her it was true. Only she and Pa remained. A fierce longing to have them back swept through her, at odds with her relief at finding them gone.

  She said aloud, “That was the queerest night I ever spent, wonderin’ if I’d wake up captive or free.”

  Pa looked up from reloading his rifle. “Best be gone before they change their minds about you—or the both of us.”

  She looked around in surprise. “Where are your packhorses?”

  “At Logan’s Station. When I got wind of Captain Jack’s huntin’ party, I cached them there. No sense in spoilin’ their hunt by handin’ them all my furs. I done that a time or two before.”

  Lael remembered all too well—mostly Ma’s temper at losing half a year’s wages. Unsteadily, she stood. Her very bones seemed as frozen as the hard ground, and her skirts were speckled with blood from butchering the deer. But her stomach was still full, content with the choice venison. She figured the Shawnee could be gentlemanly when they pleased. Even her mended moccasin felt like new.

  “Come along, Daughter,” Pa said, whistling for Nip and Tuck. He passed a hand over his scraggly beard and studied her, his blue eyes warm. “You’ve grown prettier since I last saw you. Only your hair’s a mite shorter.”

  Her cold fingers flew to her braid. Land sakes, but he gave her such a fright! “I’m surprised it ain’t plumb gray after yesterday!” she shot back at him, examining the heavy plait. He hesitated, then laughed outright as she gasped and held the missing end aloft. Although still bound with her favorite ribbon, it had been cut square across and now resembled a straw broom.

  “Captain Jack said he’d take some of you if he couldn’t have all of you,” he said, the mirth in his eyes making light of her ire.