Though she’d rather be with Ross at the ferry, the flax wouldn’t wait. Tessa sipped her sassafras tea as remarks flew between her brothers, some barbed, some in jest.
“I hope you put all that foolishness about Tessa forting up to rest.” Zadock aimed his low words their mother’s way.
Betimes Zadock grew too big for his britches in Jasper’s absence. Tessa gave him a wry smile as Ma pondered her reply.
“Before your father was cut down, one of the last things he said to me was that he wished to see his only daughter marry well. I’ve not forgotten, and neither has your great-aunt Hester.”
Her thoughtful words led to a chastised silence. Tessa stared at her mother. ’Twas news to her, Pa’s wish.
“’Tis hard enough having no daughters-in-law or grandchildren,” Ma finished, eyes a-glitter, as her sons shifted uneasily in their seats.
This Tessa understood. Other than their shared faith, what joys did they have beyond family? Though the natural world was a wonder, betimes it seemed more foe than friend. Truth be told, Tessa longed for female company near at hand, a bosom friend like Keturah had been. Surely Ma’s need for other daughters, especially grandchildren, went bone deep.
“There’s not a man hereabouts worthy of Sister’s hand.” ’Twas a rare burst of words from the reserved Lemuel. “If you want better for her, best look elsewhere. Or send her east to our city kin.”
“Seems like I should have some say in the matter,” Tessa stated, every eye on her.
“Well, have at it then,” Zadock told her.
She winked. “What need have I of a husband when I can’t keep track of five brothers?”
They laughed, easing the tense moment. She stood and began clearing plates, refilling their applejack as needed, occasionally going to a loophole to peer out. In time her brothers finished their evening chores and betook themselves to their blockhouse bunks. Their combined snores were her usual signal to seek her cozy corner behind a quilt strung from a beam near the glow of the hearth.
Ma slept on the far side of the cabin, her bed open to the room. It had been that way for as long as Tessa could remember. The trundle bed beneath it had been hers in childhood before Ma moved her here.
Pulling at her petticoat strings, she untied the knot at her waist and shed her garments to her stays, then her shift. Neatly hung on pegs about her bed, the clothing helped block wintry drafts. Since no one came behind the quilt, she had adorned the small corner with the shelf Lemuel had made her, home to a river stone polished smooth, a dried flower and wad of soft moss, and a fetching feather.
Pressing her knees to the hard floor, she folded her hands and bent her head. So many needs, including Jasper’s safe return any day now. But first, thanks.
Clay led out, the former captive just behind, followed by Maddie then Jude. The journey from Philadelphia to the Forks of the Ohio had been mostly carefree. Now it turned treacherous. Never again could he let his guard down with Fort Pitt at his back.
He reckoned on seeing Fort Tygart by week’s end, barring foul weather, illness, or ambush. If they kept to the creeks and streams that first day, they’d avoid leaving too noticeable a trail.
Miss Braam sat in the saddle like an Indian princess. If it was indeed Miss Braam. What was her Lenape name? Aside from her Dutch paleness, there was little that was white about her. Maddie asked him if she shouldn’t shed her Lenape garments, but Clay urged otherwise. He had an inkling Miss Braam wouldn’t be so obliging about changing clothes.
“It’ll confuse a war party,” he said, to Maddie’s amusement.
Glad he was that the Lenape’s former captive was behind him. If she was in his line of sight, he’d be plenty distracted. As they’d readied to head out, he’d discreetly searched for some flaw in her comeliness, aside from the faint pox scars barely visible. Hair too white-gold. Complexion a tad freckled. Eyes too blindingly blue. Waist too willowy. Nay. He’d schooled his surprise at how tall she was. Taller than many men, yet it somehow only lent to her loveliness and set her further apart. An uncommon woman, aye.
But nary a word did she speak. Not even to refute him when he continued calling her Miss Braam. The Indian agent had shown him an old, weathered notice in the Virginia Gazette that wrenched him in its anguish and seemed to confirm her identity. McKee had thrust it at him at the last as if Clay might balk and leave her at Pitt.
Taken by the Indians from Augusta County, Keturah Braam, then in her twelfth year, fair-haired, and much freckled. Her father and mother beg that she may, by all good people, be helped on her way to them as they are very desirous of seeing her.
He blew out an aggravated breath. The Braam woman’s sudden appearance, the plaintive plea of her parents, began chipping away at his shuttered memories with deft, axe-like strokes. The call for his own return years before had seen print in the eastern papers, but he’d had to relearn his letters before he could read the words.
That night they made a cold camp, Maddie and Miss Braam on their bedding beneath a rock overhang while he and Jude minded the provisions and horses.
“You’re awful quiet,” Jude said in low tones.
Clay looked up from his task. Was he? If anyone noticed, Jude would. Sliding his hand down the mare’s fetlock, Clay paused while she picked up her foot. He worked the hoof pick by rote, Jude’s words lodging like a stone in his own moccasin.
“Many an idle word’s gotten a man ambushed,” Clay answered.
“A man can ambush his own self.” Jude ran the curry comb over Maddie’s mount in rhythmic strokes. “You seem plumb eat up pondering. Reckon it has to do with Miss Braam unearthing some things best forgot.”
“Mayhap.”
“Still sore over that Bouquet business back in ’64, I reckon, when you called the colonel out on account o’ those smallpox blankets.”
Six years had done little to blunt the worst of the memories. Serving under Bouquet’s command in the Ohio country and at Fort Pitt, Clay had witnessed the forced return of two hundred white captives, the Indians given infected goods from Fort Pitt’s hospital in exchange.
“Heard tell thousands of Indians perished, more from the pox than all the powder and lead in the colonies. That true?”
Clay gave an aggrieved nod. Had Miss Braam sickened as a result?
He doubted she was a miss at all. Likely she’d married within the tribe, had children. For all he knew they could have succumbed to the pox or flux or some other pestilence. Like his own Indian kin had.
Jude straightened. “Then the colonel got cut down himself.”
A small flicker of triumph overrode Clay’s angst. Shortly after Bouquet’s promotion to commander of British forces in the southern colonies, he’d been struck down by yellow fever.
Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
How he wanted to believe that wholeheartedly. But his beliefs were dusty. Rusty as an old iron nail. Doubt called Bouquet’s demise pure happenstance. His own tired faith made a poor defense.
Finished with hobbling the horses and securing the provisions, they sought the rock overhang. Jude’s snoring soon commenced, then Maddie’s soft, even breathing told him she too slept. But he was unsure of Keturah Braam.
He finally dozed lightly like he usually did on the trail, not too soundly, one ear cocked, rifle at hand. A wolf’s howling roused him once, then the comely captive herself. Fully awake now, he lay perfectly still. She was an arm’s length from him, her head pillowed on her outflung arm.