Pressing the ink to paper, Clay wrote today’s date—6th June, 1770. More men were needed. Cannons, not just bullet lead and gunpowder. Wilderness warfare was fought by a different, ever-changing, endlessly taxing absence of rules. Such demanded all his focus, all his faculties. And yet an uncommon woman with a promise of new stockings danced at the corners of his conscience.
If Maddie weren’t so miserable, if Jude didn’t have a glint of desperation in his eye, if the woods weren’t so mysteriously still . . . Combined, they forced his hand to revisit the Swans on a mission for Maddie. Hard on the heels of his desire swelled stiff resistance. He had no time to indulge any heart-related whims. With any luck, Miss Swan would be at the ferry and he’d miss her altogether.
“Ready, Clay?” Maddie stood in the blockhouse doorway, her dress hanging with alarming slackness around her already spare frame.
“Aye.” He took up his rifle, shot pouch, tomahawk, and other accoutrements.
“Mighty big of you to act as escort, busy as you be.” Maddie looked askance at his injured leg, unbandaged now and hidden beneath buckskin breeches. “Reckon you’ll get shot at again?”
His grin was half grimace. She hadn’t lost her humor at least.
They walked toward the front gate, where Jude had readied their horses. Clay tried to quell his rising anticipation. Though few knew, he’d patrolled the perimeter of Swan land so often he could find his way blindfolded.
The first mile passed in silence, his senses tuned to the slightest infringement on the peaceful summer’s day. How he longed to enable the back settlements to farm and hunt and live in freedom, as unconcerned about danger as any city dweller.
A noisy splash through a creek and a slight climb over a rise brought them to the border of Swan land. Their cur, Snuff, began to bark the closer they came. Smoke hung in the humid air about the cabin, as did the reek of boiled turnips. The slant of the sun bespoke two o’clock. Clay pushed back his hat to cool his brow as Rosemary Swan stood up amid the kitchen garden. Keturah was nearby at the creek, rinsing out piggins.
Nary a trace of Miss Swan.
Disappointment pummeled him, and then relief reined him in. He dismounted as Jude helped Maddie down then led the horses to a water trough.
“Well, Colonel Tygart, honored by your coming,” Rosemary said, walking over to meet them and glancing quickly at his wounded leg.
“A fine day, aye?” Clay removed his hat. “We need to speak to Keturah in private. Maddie’s ailing.”
Concern crumpled the older woman’s features. “Of course.” She gestured to a wide stump beneath the shade of a rustling elm. “It’s a mite close in the cabin, but out here’s a breeze. Care for something cold to drink from the springhouse?”
At their combined ayes, Maddie sat down with relief. Jude left the horses to forage while he talked to Zadock and Cyrus near the barn. ’Twas just Clay, Keturah, and Maddie now.
Keturah took a seat by Maddie, her long, pale braid coiling in her aproned lap. “Keko windji?”
Both of them looked to Clay, who was determined to master his unease if the conversation turned delicate.
“Maddie’s in need of your medicine,” he began, interpreting as carefully as he could in both Lenape and English.
At last Keturah’s thorough questions and Maddie’s honest answers came to an end. Mysteriously, the women disappeared inside the cabin. He sipped the cider Rosemary brought before she returned to the garden, keeping his eyes on the dense woods that blocked his view of the Buckhannon. If they were cut down, the river would be in plain sight. For now, the willow-skirted trail to the ferry was bereft of a rifle-toting slip of a woman, heaven be thanked.
In time Maddie emerged, her face slack with surprise, while Keturah’s features bore a telling amusement. She studied him beneath finely arched brows before her gaze shot to Jude across the way. “Summon the father to hear the good news.”
Hear—what? Clay stared hard at her, unsure if he’d heard correctly.
Keturah nodded. “Mimëntëta.” Baby.
Maddie regarded them both in bewilderment. Had she not added up this puzzling equation? Suddenly her expression cleared as joy took hold.
“You’ll be free of your misery in a few months,” Clay told her, thanking Keturah with a hasty, “Wanìshi.”
Jude nearly toppled as Maddie threw her arms around her stunned husband. “Did you hear that, Jude? I feel a bit like the women of old in the Bible, about to have a child despite my years.”
Jude stood stupefied. “You sure?”
Keturah smiled. Clay laughed. And Tessa stepped into the middle of the merriment with a look of wonder on her face, two dots of color pinking her cheeks. Darting a look at him, she rested her rifle on the ground, her smile for Maddie. The two women embraced, the hullaballoo halting all work. Rosemary brought more to drink, Zadock and Cyrus joining them in a toast. Ross appeared next, toting a broken oar. Had they hit a snag crossing the river? Throwing it aside, the youngest Swan joined in, drinking thirstily from the jug Cyrus uncorked and drawing laughter.
Clay was far too aware of the woman nearest him. He held himself apart, a bit stilted despite the good news. Having steeled himself in the fortnight since he’d seen her, he’d not let slip a too friendly word or a long look. His new resolve was to treat her no different than he did Maddie or Keturah.
But Miss Swan was not bound by any rule of restraint, let alone overmountain etiquette. Nor did she play parlor games. It was part of her charm, that folksy groundedness. He recalled all too easily her playful curtsy at the ferry, as pretty as Miss Penrose’s might have been. He never doubted where he stood with this border belle, or where anyone else stood with her for that matter. Dragging a hand over his stubbled jaw, he braced himself.
“Colonel Tygart, sir.” That clear, lilting voice was like no other. “For a man about to glean a great many stockings, you’re scarecrow stiff. Are you well?”
He thawed a bit but avoided her eyes. Aye, those eyes made her the belle of the border. He wouldn’t think about the rest of her enticements.
“I see no stockings,” he said, draining his drink.
At that she took up her rifle and headed to the cabin, leaving him feeling a mite guilty. Maddie was looking at him as the conversation swirled around them, a rare reproof in her gaze. He winked to ease her, unwilling to dim her enjoyment of the moment as he tried to adjust to the news himself. No longer would she and Jude be his trail companions. A baby changed everything.
Ross had begun telling the story of how the oar broke mid-river on a snag when Tessa returned with a small bundle bound in linen and tied with twine.
“Obliged,” he said, taking the offering and tucking it beneath his arm.
“How is your wound?” she queried, obviously determined to draw him out.
“Nearly healed.”
A prickly silence fell between them till Jude motioned to him, wanting to return Maddie to the fort.
“Won’t you stay for supper?” Rosemary asked. “We’ve ham and hominy aplenty. And my daughter’s made a fine custard tart.”
“Nay,” Clay replied, despite every fiber of his being pulled toward the cabin table. “Best hasten back, as I’ve a scouting report to hear.” His stomach rumbled, mocking his refusal. Hester’s victuals would serve tonight, and he’d invite Maddie and Jude to join him. But even that was no match for the Swans’ culinary skills and robust company.