The Frontiersman’s Daughter (8 page)

11

With autumn waning, Ma Horn moved to the fort for the winter and Pa brought Lael home. She stood in the cabin door, a linsey shawl about her shoulders but still barefoot as if to protest the coming cold. Wordlessly, she watched her father prepare to leave on a long hunt, stung by his calm deliberation. Somehow she’d thought he wouldn’t go with the threat of the Shawnee still about them, yet she reckoned even she couldn’t come between him and his love of the woods.

Since she was small and he’d taken to the woods for months on end, it was she who helped him pack what he needed for the long weeks away. She’d always hated leave-takings, and this day was proving especially difficult. Hanging her shawl on a peg by the door, she bit her lip to keep her composure and reached for his weapons.

Her fingers traced the familiar initials scrawled across his powder horn before she hung it from the strip just above his shot pouch. Fashioned by her own hands when she was ten, the leather was worn but sturdy enough to hold a chunk of lead for bullets, a brass mold for casting them, and flint and steel to start a fire.

Before her on the table, laid out like a surgeon’s tools, were the items she now took stock of. A bit of jerky. A twist of tobacco and ginseng root. Mittens. Patch leather and an awl for mending moccasins. A tomahawk, his father’s before him, shone sharp and smooth beside a sheathed hunting knife.

Quickly she caught up the new linsey-woolsey shirt, which Ma had woven and she herself had washed, and pressed it to her nose. The smell of linen, earthy yet so clean it smelled sweet, made her eyes water. Rolling it up, she reached for a wad of unspun tow with which to clean his rifle.

Done
, she decided, wiping a hand across her eyes. Partings were painful as lancing a boil, and she was simply no good at them. Was it any wonder Ma and Ransom were nowhere to be seen? If she’d been a boy, she’d be packing up a tote of her own things beside his.

Passing onto the porch, she studied him as he readied his packhorses by the barn. When he returned come spring, the two animals would be heavily laden with furs and he himself nearly unrecognizable with a full beard, his long hair crying for a comb and a cutting. Once, when she was but five, he’d returned after half a year away and she’d hid in Ma’s skirts to escape his strangeness. But the familiar smell of him, and his voice, deep as a well, eventually brought her around.

Always he brought her something back. A lace handkerchief. A biscuit mold. Flower seeds. A two-tined fork and jelly spoon. A painted paper fan. A metal tea caddie with a tiny lock. This time what would it be?

What if he never came back?

He stepped up onto the porch. What did one say upon parting, she wondered, perhaps once and for all?

Pa, watch your back.

Stay warm and dry.

Don’t dally.

Already he looked strange to her, dressed as he was for the woods. Turning, she led him to the table and watched as he examined his weapons. The danger of his task, not understood by her before, now seemed fathomless. Yet his demeanor befuddled her; he might have been going on a simple Sunday stroll. She swallowed down her fears and went back out onto the porch.

In time he followed. Though he said not a word, he took her hand and pressed something into her palm, then folded her fingers tight around it. When he’d gone she opened her hand and saw a blur of blue beads.

With Pa away, they moved to the fort. In years past they’d simply stayed put at their own cabin and awaited his return, wrapped in a cocoon of snow. But this time, with no explanation given and none needed, he’d ordered them within Fort Click’s picketed walls. There, Lael felt safe but strangled by the smallness of life.

Here, their cabin door did not need stout bars, and the leather latchstring could be left out in welcome. There was little to do but stand by the shuttered window and peer out on the wide common that separated the rows of cabins, always a hive of activity even in the cold. Grizzled trappers came and left, as did new settlers seeking shelter. Ma’s dark mood eased noticeably as she sat and spun the hours away while Ransom wrestled with the boys and dogs outside. Copies of the
Virginia Gazette
were passed around as freely as gossip, reminding Lael of the paper no longer in her pocket. Its absence chafed at her a bit. She’d either misplaced it or lost it, perhaps in the mountains on the way to Ma Horn’s.

The southeast blockhouse, home to the Hayes clan, was missing the two family members most important to her. With Susanna married and living over at Cozy Creek, and Simon up on his four hundred, Lael’s memories of times shared were all she had. Curiously, there were no other girls near her age save Piper Cane. Now ensconced as the new teacher, Piper was often seen about the busy common. Each morning after breakfast, she strolled to the schoolhouse and rang the morning bell. Ransom went unwillingly, returning home to regale them with the day’s events.

“Today Noah got switched twice and Louise cried in the corner again,” he said between mouthfuls of biscuit. “Three more kids come in from Virginia, and Teacher said the fort’s gettin’ so crowded you can’t cuss a cat without gettin’ fur in your mouth.”

Ma snorted, but Lael was not interested in schoolhouse antics. Though she escaped to Ma Horn’s cabin at the fort as often as she dared, time hung heavy on her hands. She sought solace in the fort’s store, which smelled of coffee beans and leather and snuff. She’d roam the dimly lit interior, her fingers never far from Simon’s note, always alert for the sight or sound of him.

Soon the weather turned as nettlesome as her mood. Heavy sheets of rain kept her confined to the cabin, where she stitched on a sampler beneath Ma’s watchful eye. Always she wondered how her father fared and when he’d return to take them home.

If he returned.

In the cramped loft by the light of a grease lamp, Lael penned a letter to Miss Mayella. The day before she’d mashed and boiled the hulls of walnuts, adding vinegar and salt until the mixture set and became brown ink. Now, taking up a crow quill, she dipped the tip into a small stone well and wrote in a clear hand:

Dear Miss Mayella,

   It pleasured me greatly to receive your letter, though teaching did not turn out as I had hoped. I am well. There has been no Indian trouble for some time now . . .

She paused, blowing lightly at the ink. What reason could she give for quitting her post as teacher? She lay the quill aside and hugged her knees to her chest, shivering. Next to her Ransom lay lost in sleep, his breathing quiet and deep.

She took up the quill again, but the lamp smoked and went out. Leaving the unfinished letter on the floor, she climbed atop the corn-husk tick, wrinkling her nose at its rustling and hissing. She wondered if Simon had a fine feather one up on his four hundred, then quickly shut the thought away.

What had Widow Watson told her just yesterday? That Simon Hayes was sparking Piper Cane? He’d begun courting her at Susanna’s wedding, the very one she’d missed. She felt bruised by this new knowledge—and betrayed. Though she’d kept her face carefully composed at the revelation, her heart had twisted with hurt. If true, she was doubly stung by his choice. Why Piper? Overripe as an Indian peach, she’d be more than willing to let him woo her.

When no one was looking, Lael had taken Simon’s note and pitched it into the fire. The orange flames quickly reduced it to ashes, somehow solacing her. But her pocket, and her heart, felt strangely empty . . . but for the blue beads.

12

Restlessness clawed at Lael like a cat. With her chores done she was free to roam, though her allowable range was woefully short. The fort’s front gates were ajar and the sentries a bit lackadaisical at their posts. The Shawnee weren’t known to be winter raiders, and with Pa away, discipline among the militia was a bit lax. Still, they straightened when they saw her, as if something of his indomitable spirit shone through her and stood them at attention.

She and Ransom ventured out along the river, snug in heavy socks and scarves. It had rained the day before then turned bitter, and the world had frozen to crystal. Surely there was no sweeter sight than the river and grass and trees looking as hard and shiny as candy. They’d come out to cut branches of mountain laurel whose waxy leaves stayed green in winter. Though Ma had shaken her head at such high-minded notions, Lael was intent on trimming their tiny cabin from mantle to windowsill with greenery for the holiday.

They’d not wandered far from the fort, but they had tarried and their faces and hands grew pinched by the cold. The leaden sky seemed close enough to touch as they crested Hackberry Ridge. At their backs, the militia was drilling again, a jarring sound that spoke of coming conflict, at odds with Christmas peace.

When they returned half frozen to the cabin, Lael draped the laurel around the mantle’s wide wooden shoulders then set about making tea. Still shivering, she ladled water into an iron kettle and hooked the handle onto the iron crane before swinging it back over the flame. The hearth was soon redolent with sassafras, the roots brewing up strong and pink. She set out three wooden mugs, then remembered Ma was next door at Ma Horn’s winter cabin and Ransom had ventured outside once more to scrape with some boys. She hardly heard the knock on the door but felt it open, letting in a
whoosh
of bitter wind.

The bulky figure that filled the entryway made her turn her back at once. Unbidden, Widow Watson’s words stiffened her spine and made the heat creep into her cheeks. Where was Ma when she needed her?

“I ain’t seen you for two months and your backside is all the greetin’ I get?”

The harsh words made her spin around, and her own pointed reply shot like small arrows through the cold cabin. “Truth be told, I’d as soon fill your hide with lead as look at you, Simon Hayes.”

His mouth twisted wryly. “’Tis too cold for fightin’ words, Lael. I’m comin’ in, like it or not.”

She could hardly stop him, nor could she keep herself from looking at him. His hair was freshly washed—she could tell by the way it curled and shone—and his buffalo coat was clean and new. He was staring at her, reminding her that she looked less than comely in her simple linsey shift and loose braid.

He shut the door with a decisive thud, watching as she took the kettle of tea off the fire and set it on the table. Good manners waged a silent war within her, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask if he wanted a cup. Not with the new knowledge that festered in her heart.

Her voice, when it came again, was calm but pointed. “Been courtin’?”

He studied her for a long moment and said tersely, “She was handy, is all.”

“Handy,” she echoed. For a fleeting moment Lael felt sorry for Piper Cane. How was it to be handy to a man, like a second-best set of moccasins or an old mule?

“There ain’t been nobody but you, if that’s what you’re wonderin’, ” he told her unflinchingly, eyes on her all the while.

“I was wonderin’. ”

“I merely danced with her a time or two. I never kissed her.”

“That ain’t sayin’ much. You never kissed me . . .” Her voice trailed off in shame, and she couldn’t look at him. Only a hussy would say such a thing. It seemed Ma crouched in a corner, watching her misspeak. He tossed his heavy robe onto a rocking chair and took a quick look about the cabin. When he strode up to her, she felt herself go limp.

She shivered again as he brushed back the wisps of hair around her face before placing his cold mouth on her warm one. But it was hardly the kiss she’d been hankering for.

“I ain’t your sister, Simon,” she chided, stepping back. Turning, she poured herself a cup of tea, surprised at her steady hand.

His silence delighted her. Speechless, he was. The remembrance of their meeting in the woods when
she’d
been the one at loose ends and he’d taunted her unmercifully was somehow set right.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night, Lael Click, and you’d best be ready,” he said, voice stern. “If you’re not, I know somebody who is.”

Turning her head slowly, she gave him a half smile. Her anger was thawing now, fast as a frozen puddle in spring.

At twilight the next day Simon came. Her back to the door, Ma sat spinning, seemingly unaware of his intentions. Lael hadn’t told her he’d been by or that he had promised to come again. He didn’t enter, just motioned for her to follow. She slipped out quietly into the deepening dusk, oblivious to the cold. She’d not taken pains with her appearance lest she alert both Ma and Ransom, but her hair was freshly brushed and plaited and she’d sprinkled a bit of rosewater on her dress and wool cloak.

There were chaperones everywhere within the fort’s walls—a melee of dogs and children, three women grinding corn, a group of militia men smoking and arguing politics near the smithy. All this was precisely what Simon meant to avoid, she guessed. Holding firmly to her hand, he hurried along the south wall until they’d slipped beyond to the back gate. She nearly balked at his boldness. What would Pa say?

Determination dogged his every stride. If his courting of her was to begin in earnest, his gait seemed to say, it would be well away from the eyes and ears of the fort.

At the river they slowed, not yet speaking, and when she saw the waiting canoe, a clump of bittersweet at its bow, she felt torn in two.

“Simon, I—” Her eyes fell on the bittersweet’s burnt-orange beauty and then darted to the far shore. “What if there’s trouble—”

He shook his head. “There’ll be no trouble with the militia about, Lael.”

Indeed, it seemed so. But more than Indians, it was her father that fretted her. Wouldn’t it be just like him to watch her from the woods? And wouldn’t the Indians warm to a challenge, making mischief in clear sight of the fort?

She watched as he untied the hemp rope that secured the boat to shore. Seated, the bittersweet in her lap, she studied him in the deepening darkness. A half moon peered over his left shoulder, turning the river silver white. Lael felt caught up in a dream of danger and delight.

She could not—would not—speak. The gentle slap and slice of the paddles through the water propelled them quickly upriver, the moon following them all the while.

“Cat got your tongue?” he chided.

She bit her lip. “My pa will tan your hide—and mine—if there’s trouble.”

He grinned. “Assumin’ there’s any hide left to tan.”

She shivered and turned her attention to the far bank, noting he wisely kept to the safe shore. Soon the river’s shoals and bends grew unfamiliar to her, though apparently not to him. He rowed with a purpose, his eyes never leaving her face.

Have minutes passed—or hours?

All at once he stilled his paddling. “Look up yonder, Lael.”

He gestured to something behind her, and she turned slightly so as not to rock the canoe. “Yonder where?”

“High on that ridge, above the mist.”

She looked and understanding dawned. This was his ridge, his four hundred. Beyond the mist and moonlight she nearly expected to see a castle crowning the bluff, so great was her excitement. She sighed and her breath made a cloud in the cold air.

“I’ve got a cabin site staked out, but I aim to know how you want it set up.”

“Set up?” she echoed.

“One room or two. A dogtrot or no.”

A little thrill shot through her. She could feel his eyes on her though hers remained on the ridge. “Two big rooms,” she said in a near whisper. “With a dogtrot betwixt them.”

“Two hearths, then?”

“Aye, and a puncheon floor.”

“Pine or white oak?”

“Pine,” she said, a smile in her voice.

“How many windows?”

“Three each.”

“A south porch?”

She turned back to him. “Aye, and a climbing rose all across it.”

“Done.”

Laying aside the paddles, he caught her hands in his and pulled her to him. Her knees came down on the bottom of the boat and she was wedged against him, bittersweet and all. Through the layers of her clothing and cloak—even through his own buffalo robe—she fancied she felt his heartbeat. Her own seemed stilled, as if what was about to happen was too much for her fledgling senses. A flurry of fancy words followed by fancy kisses.

And kiss her he did. She marveled at the smoky, musky scent of him and how his whiskers chafed her cheeks. These were no sisterly kisses, truly. She felt she would drown in their sweetness and lifted her face for more. When at last he drew away, she felt bereft.

“Run away with me—tonight.”

Above them the brilliant moon beckoned, promising to light their way.

Her voice sounded queer and far off, weak with longing and despair. “No runnin’ off like Ma done, Simon.”

He looked at her for a long moment and she at him.
So be it
, his expression seemed to say. The pull of the paddles drew them back toward the fort against their will. A bevy of stars had come out, some as big as the beads in her pocket.

Did she look like she’d been kissed? Would Ma know just from the sight of her? The fort common was nearly empty now. Simon walked her to the cabin door but didn’t touch her again. She slipped inside and found Ransom peering down at her from the loft, his eyes bright as a coon’s. Ma was sound asleep in her chair.

Simon would be back for Christmas, he’d said, to court her and to kiss her yet again. Then, come spring, with the cabin nearly done, he would face her father.