Winded, Tessa came to a stop as the dance ended. She curtsied as prettily as she could, color still high, and was drawn to the punch bowl, a rude piggin of mostly rum. Hester oversaw the beloved concoction, pouring the brew repeatedly between pitchers till well blended. Tessa tasted molasses, cream, egg. She only allowed herself half a cup. No sense entertaining the likes of Colonel Tygart by weaving about the common like a drunkard.
Ruth pushed toward her, barely heard over the squeal of the fiddle. “How’d you get the colonel to dance with you?”
“I all but asked him,” Tessa confessed. No need to reveal her deeper motives to Ruth.
“You always was one for getting things done.” Ruth made a face. “If only your brothers were as bold as you.”
Before the words left Ruth’s mouth, they were both spirited away by men who’d tired of squiring each other. Tessa tried to shut the thought of the colonel away, to not compare, as one gollumpus yanked her about the common now dampened by a warm drizzle. But there was simply no dodging Colonel Tygart in her mind.
Clay, Maddie called him, while she herself hadn’t moved beyond the ramrod-stiff sir or Colonel Tygart. Maddie’s term bespoke a familiarity Tessa craved.
Free of the clutches of yet another fawning man, she fled again to the punch bowl, taking a rare second helping before standing in Jasper’s shadow by the gunpowder magazine. Rain made a frizz of her hair, the damp wisps pushed back by a hasty hand.
“Enjoying the frolic, Sister?” Jasper asked.
She followed his gaze to Keturah beneath a far cabin eave, Maddie keeping her company. She nodded. Once Jasper had been sweet on Keturah. Since then the long, hard years had lined him, even scarred him with the pox. He’d assumed his place as head of the family at Pa’s passing without complaint, tamping down his grief. Betimes he seemed a powder keg ready to explode. And since he’d returned from overmountain there’d been a new edge to him that unnerved her. Had something happened in the East? Or was it Keturah’s coming?
“You might ask her to dance,” she dared him.
Jasper shot her a dark look. “Ask an Indian?”
“She’s no more Indian than Pa was at their hands.”
Her simple logic brought a smirk. “Keturah talks like an Indian. Moves like an Indian. There’s little white left about her.”
“But she’s come back. And it’s up to us to help her find her way.”
“Nay.” He spat into the dirt. “Keturah’s not our concern. I expect she’ll run. That’s the only reason I didn’t naysay it when Ma wanted her to stay.”
“She’s not gone yet.”
“Give her time.”
She’d struck a nerve without wanting to, the jut of his jaw fueling her own ire. Still sore over Pa, would he somehow besmirch Keturah simply because she’d associated with the murderous savages, as he called them, through no fault of her own?
Her voice held the iron of Hester’s. “A warm heart is a fine thing to have in a cold world, Jasper Swan.”
He shrugged, clearly unmoved. Turning his back on her, he helped himself to the punch Hester was replenishing.
Stung, Tessa started toward the southwest corner of the fort, where a limestone spring cascaded over mossy rocks. A few children, bored with the dancing, played in the water that ran cold and pure. After a heavy rain, the spring rushed up from the underground with such force it seemed to seethe. Fort folk called it The Boils. But now, in the gray shades of twilight, the water flowed serenely, its surface dimpled by the rain.
“Miss Tessa.” A bare-chested boy smiled up at her, holding out a small, speckled stone. “For you.”
She knelt, unmindful of the mud and her new petticoat, and took the offering. “Mighty handsome, Matthias. My thanks. See any frogs or lizards?”
“Nary a one,” he said in a grown-up voice so like his pa’s.
She pocketed the stone, fingertips brushing the rag doll taken from the Braams’ abandoned cabin. Kept away from Jasper’s disapproving gaze, maybe meant for Keturah in time. How her brother’s words wounded. Any rosy notions she’d had about him and Keturah as sweethearts took wing.
Tessa moved on, making her way along the south wall past cabins and knots of folks savoring the evening. A silvered spear of lightning lit the horizon far beyond the fort’s pickets, yet the dancing showed no signs of ending despite the chancy weather.
Smiling at Keturah and Maddie, Tessa passed to Hester’s cabin, suddenly aware she would lodge by Clayton Tygart himself, the sturdy blockhouse casting a large shadow. Thankfully, Hester’s dwelling was empty. They’d stay the night here, her brothers bedding down on the fort common.
Alone in the cabin, she took a turn. On the hearth’s mantel was a small collection of books. Gulliver’s Travels had been Pa’s favorite. Beside it was Hester’s worn Bible. A collection of Matthew Henry’s sermons. Old copies of the Virginia Gazette papered the log wall in a corner, the ink so faded it escaped perusing. No new reading material beckoned.
Still tetchy over Jasper, she stood in the cabin doorway, knowing she’d catch what for if she holed up alone for long. Dutifully she took herself outside again, occupying Maddie’s place by Keturah when Maddie danced with Jude. And then the lively fiddling ground to a halt mid-reel at the upward thrust of Colonel Tygart’s staying hand. All high spirits halted with it.
She stood abruptly as the gates were closed and barred, any dawdlers outside coming in. Beside her, Keturah stayed seated and eyed everything with solemn stoicism, hands in her lap. Something was amiss, enough to stop the merriment of the fort’s first occasion. Next came not the thought of firsts but of lasts.
Last dance with the colonel. Last taste of Hester’s punch. Last argument with Jasper. Last jaunt to the spring . . .
The colonel was deep in conversation with the newly appointed militia officers nearby, their grave expressions telling. Tessa knew that look. One of the fort’s spies had just ridden in from a scout, based on the disheveled, rain-smeared look of him, his gestures and winded answers to the colonel’s questions gnawing at her.
Orders were given, and men who’d been at the punch bowl or dancing assumed their places along the rifle platform. The mood grew more and more grim. But at least the colonel was here. Somehow that fact comforted Tessa in her oft-comfortless world. Here on the savage border, things changed in a heartbeat, a breath.
Life was lived in the shadow of lasts.
11
Hester’s waspish gaze settled on Tessa as she descended the loft ladder at first light. Not one gunshot nor war whoop had troubled her sleep. With Ma gone to milk and Keturah still abed, Tessa braced herself for whatever Great-Aunt Hester would say.
“My rheumatism’s raging this morn.”
“You look hale and hearty to me,” Tessa returned.
“Nonsense. You know nothing about my old bones. Now tie on your apron and finish what I started.”
Tessa looked to the hearth’s fire, where a lone kettle simmered. Nary a whiff of breakfast to be had. Resigned, she did as her bossy aunt bade and reached for her apron, eyes going wide at Hester’s next brow-raising order.
“Colonel Tygart likes his coffee hot and his hoecakes brown.” At that, she pulled a rocking chair nearer the window and sat down hard, adding an exclamation point to her words.