“Nay.” Clay ended any speculation. “The white woman is a returned captive. The black woman is free and wife of the free man who rode in with me.”
“Captive?” Cutright ran a hand over his bearded jaw.
“Aye. From along the Buckhannon River south of here. What little we know, that is. Goes by the name of Keturah Braam, mayhap.”
No recognition kindled. “I’ve been here but six years. Truth is, there’s so much raiding and killing and stealing up and down the border that all the victims ball into a nameless jumble.”
“Anybody hereabouts with a history?”
A decisive nod. “That would be the old crone, Hester Swan, who’ll keep you fed. Say the word and I’ll summon her.”
“Once I’m settled, aye.” Clay hung his shot pouch and powder horn from a wall peg. Releasing his rifle felt strange after a sennight’s grip. His stomach rumbled so loudly that Cutright laughed.
“Once you’ve eaten, you mean.” He moved to the open door. “I’ll try to stem any business with you till tomorrow. Today’s spent.”
With an appreciative nod, Clay examined a map of sorts laid out on the desktop.
“I took the liberty of drawing the fort for you and naming all the occupants cabin by cabin down to the privy pit and such,” Cutright said. “If the cabins aren’t marked they’re empty, though they fill quick enough when folks fort up.”
“Well done.” The inked map was precise and detailed. “Surveyor as well as storekeeper?”
Cutright chuckled. “Years ago, I ran the line with Colonel Washington.”
“Your skills are appreciated.” Clay aimed to memorize the map by morning.
“I’ll fetch the cook.” Cutright shut the door, ushering in a blessed, spacious calm.
Slivers of light shone through half a dozen loopholes. Clay climbed the steps to the loft slowly as if testing their strength. Upstairs was a window open to the fort’s common. A dragonfly winged in iridescent flight around the wide, curtainless frame. Taking a stool, he sat down and surveyed his new realm like a lord might his kingdom. The lofty, albeit foolish, thought made him smile.
Frontier forts were, by necessity, meant for little but survival. But as the sun pulled west and dappled the dusty common with flattering gold light, the blockhouse door below opened and closed repeatedly and soon sent him downstairs again.
At the hearth a tiny, tidy woman poked at a sizzling skillet. On the table was a pewter plate piled high with corncakes. He cleared his throat to announce his presence and she straightened, turning around to face him. He worked to hide a smile as she cocked her head this way and that, sparrow-like, piercing gaze boring into him.
“So, you’re Tygart, I suppose.” Around her wrinkled neck was a monocle strung on a badly frayed ribbon. She placed it over one faded blue eye, squinting to hold it in place, and peered up at him in obvious disapproval. “Well . . . not handsome exactly. More striking looking.” An onerous sigh. “The unmarried women are bound to be sorely disappointed. But there’s no denying you’re an excellent woodsman from the look of you, built like a young bull. No savage’ll lay a hand to your scalp.”
The honest appraisal both amused and stung. Ever since he was knee high, he’d been a tad thin-skinned about his appearance. Salt Boy, the Lenape had oft taunted him on account of his white skin. A deep-seated Scripture jumped to mind as it always did, sown by his ma long ago.
For the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.
“I hope I’m as kind about your cooking,” he said with a wink. “Mistress . . .”
“Swan.” She cackled, and the monocle fell to dangle upon her bodice as she turned back to the fire. “Hester Swan.”
He pulled out a chair and sat down, the lure of a meal too much. Silently he watched as she produced a pewter plate and piled on thick slabs of ham, with crisply fried potatoes and onions atop it. The butter in the small crock made his mouth water even before she’d smeared it generously on the corncakes.
He took out his knife, for he saw no other utensil, but she withdrew a two-tined fork from her pocket and passed it to him. Fully armed, he commenced eating the most mouth-watering meal he’d had since leaving Fort Pitt.
“You’re not a praying man then,” she queried, her wrinkled face pensive.
Did she mind? He deflected the stab of guilt her words wrought. At his continued silence, she took the Windsor chair across from him, the curved back arching above her head, she was so tiny. A Swan trait?
To his surprise, she uncorked a jug and poured them both a drink. “You’re liable to need this if you’re to last.”
Liquid fire. Once down, the whiskey spread in a languorous stream to all the saddle-sore parts of him. But it did not quell his noisy stomach. He forked a bite of ham, swallowed, and said, “How long you been here?”
“In this very valley since ’55.” Her pointed chin rose proudly. “Carolina before that. Came overmountain with my nephew, who was killed by savages a while back at the Buckhannon ferry.”
One good man gone then. “My condolences. Mention was made of the Swans at Fort Pitt, along with the Schoolcrafts and Clendennins.”
“None finer.” She downed the corn whiskey in two swallows without a sputter.
“What do you know of the Braams?” he queried between bites.
She studied the wall behind him without focus. “Good Dutch stock. Comeliest daughters I ever saw. The oldest was took by Indians long ago. I recollect the Braams mostly because the daughter they lost was with my niece that sorry day.”
“Your niece wasn’t taken?”
A slow shake of her head and again that faraway look. “Out picking strawberries, the both of them. Bosom friends. Seems to me there was a third girl. I forget her name. The Braams’ daughter got ahead of them, and then like lightning she was gone.”
“And her kin?”
“Took it awful hard. Some folks would rather their kin be killed than took. Soon after, the Braams abandoned their homeplace. Don’t know what became of them.”
The food now seemed a tad tasteless. He’d wanted more for Keturah Braam than an abandoned homestead. This new hitch brought disappointing complications.
“I suppose the missing Braam girl is now the flax-haired woman you rode in with.” It was a statement, not a question. “My eyes may be dim but my ears aren’t. Word got round right quick that she looked familiar.”
Before he could reply, Jude darkened the doorway, Maddie in his wake. “Just got your supper summons from Cutright. Got enough to share?”
Clay looked to the frying pan, still half full, and motioned them in. Jude gave a low whistle of appreciation while Maddie perused the unfamiliar blockhouse. Clay made introductions, the name Swan easily remembered.
“Miss Braam’s sleepin’,” Maddie told him quietly.
He took an extra plate and saved a portion for Keturah along with two corncakes. The tall stack hardly dwindled. Hester Swan left with a brisk farewell. Was she being compensated for her cooking? Another question to settle. But Keturah Braam was foremost on his mind.
“Appears Miss Braam’s kin left these parts after she was taken,” he said, “and I’ve yet to discover where to.”