Tessa set her disappointment over Tygart aside. In this circle of candlelight and kinship, Jasper’s return was gift enough.
The men continued talking in low tones as she took her new belongings to her corner. The flounced petticoat soon hung from a peg, the toilette water on the shelf. Already she wished for something more to dust with nutmeg. Gingerbread or warm milk or applesauce.
With all the fuss, sleep was long in coming. What had Jasper said about happening upon that party of four?
The white woman in particular drew my notice.
It wasn’t like him to say such a thing about a woman who might be another man’s wife. Yet no one questioned him about it. Something else begged considering. Jasper was unsettled by the woman, enough to mention her.
Why?
Leave it to Maddie to convince Keturah Braam to change garments before they entered Fort Tygart’s gates. Clay admired the way Maddie managed it. Slow and gentle-like, making much of the beadwork and fringe before wrapping the Lenape doeskin and trade cloth into a tidy little bundle hidden away in a saddlebag.
Thankfully, Maddie was skilled with a needle, fingers flying nimbly to remake her best dress into a garment the white woman would wear, without any sign of haste or secondhandedness.
Clay rued that the indigo cloth made Keturah’s eyes even bluer, the cut of the dress far more form-fitting than her looser Lenape garments. Biting his tongue till it nearly bled, he kept himself from reversing Maddie’s choice to cushion Keturah’s return to the white world.
No doubt shedding the Lenape clothing had cost Keturah something, yet she had consented. Still, her sunny braid hung unaltered to her hips, the center part of her hair painted Lenape red.
Once Fort Tygart’s gates swung open wide in welcome, a barrage of questions was sure to pepper them like buckshot. He, Maddie, and Jude would be all but invisible when the women-hungry men spied their comely captive.
His gaze swept across the heavily forested valley that led to the rocky bluff forming the foundation of the distant garrison. Compared to the sprawling Fort Pitt, Fort Tygart was in miniature. Yet four sturdy blockhouses stood at its far-flung corners, a few hats showing above the white oak pickets impaling the sky.
A welcoming volley of shots ushered them in. They’d been seen and now recognized by some who’d served under him prior. Those few men were firmly behind him. Others—strangers—would need proof of his authority. Mustering a militia and assigning spies to scout the woods would be the least of his challenges.
Though their horses went at a slow walk, they raised the dust. Aggravated by a south wind, it partially obscured the gates as they groaned open. Several men lifted two fingers to the battered brims of their hats as he rode past. Others gawked openly at Keturah Braam. She kept her eyes down, dismounting after he did but from the right side of her horse, Indian fashion. This surely did not go unnoticed either.
To Maddie he said quietly, “Take Miss Braam to the nearest empty cabin.”
Maddie nodded, gaze already roving the enclosure where twenty-odd cabins hugged the fort’s inner walls.
“Colonel Tygart, sir.” A burly, balding man extended a firm hand. “Glad you’ve arrived unimpeded.” His homespun clothes belied his cultured voice and vocabulary. “I’m Joseph Cutright, storekeeper.”
After shaking a good many hands, Clay made a short speech about the impressive appearance of the garrison and his priority of mustering the militia in hopes to spread the word that more hands were needed. Answering questions about the latest news from the east and Fort Pitt took time. Able to sum up a man quickly, Clay made quiet note of those who looked to be leaders before he took possession of the blockhouse.
After the sparseness of the trail, the edifice assumed a rosy glow. Smelling of green wood and chinking, its cavernous hearth bore a small cook fire, a kettle over the coals. An assortment of empty pots dressed the fieldstones. At the room’s center a trestle table and six rare Windsor chairs garnered his attention, but it was the hefty desk with its smooth walnut top and the nooks and crannies along the wide back wall that bespoke the commandant’s domain most of all. Upstairs were his sleeping quarters, gained by a wide set of roughly hewn steps.
“There’s a granny woman in the next cabin who’ll cook for you,” said Cutright. “Unless you brought your wife along . . .”
“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.”
