Out onto the common they went, Tessa’s eye drawn to Ma sitting with Keturah on a bench beneath a cabin eave.
“Think she does those wild Indian dances we hear about with drums and rattles and such?” Ruth whispered.
Tessa simply shrugged. Who knew what Keturah had learned or unlearned in those lost years? With only a few nights together under the Swan roof, their days filled with unending tasks, Tessa was left wishing Keturah had returned in winter when the pace slowed to a trot and more talk could be had as they huddled near the hearth.
A great many couples were swirling over the trammeled ground to a sprightly reel. Ruth’s focus shifted. “How does Colonel Tygart strike you?”
Like lightning, Tessa didn’t say, her gaze traveling through the crowd in search of him. “Seems respectable enough.”
Across from them, silhouetted by the bonfire’s orange glow, the colonel seemed to have fixed his attention more on the gates than the rumpus around him, the light calling out his irregular features and the furrow between his eyes, the way his hair was tied with leather string so that it tailed down his back. He did not dress for the occasion or set himself apart, his fringed shirt with its belted waist, worn leggings, and moccasins no different than any other borderman they knew.
Ruth’s disappointment was plain. “Seems he could have at least donned a fine frock.”
She understood Ruth’s complaint. Surely in that newly hewn blockhouse of his was a handsome linen shirt and breeches, stock and waistcoat, maybe even buckled shoes.
“Reckon he’ll dance?” Ruth nearly shouted above the music.
“I doubt it.”
But something told her he could not only dance but dance well. ’Twas in the way he moved and held himself, that odd glimmer of refinement despite the roughness. It was even in the way he spoke, never stumbling in speech like some folks, but able to set forth a matter simply without a blizzard of words. He had a knack for listening intently to any who spoke to him, his manner one of quiet courtesy and control. She couldn’t abide rudeness or arrogance or cowardice. There was none of that about Clay Tygart. Though she’d only just met him, he seemed to embody the verse “Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath.”
She fingered Hester’s cameo absently till whisked away for a jig. Whom she danced with hardly mattered. Her attention was fixed on Clay Tygart. Not one dance did he step as the night wore on, instead keeping to the shadows even beyond the firelight’s reach. She couldn’t dismiss a niggling worry that his holding back might lead some to label him contrary, even big-headed. She could see it already clouding some countenances, those settlers who took offense easily. Having grown up with them, she knew. And it was in her nature to counter it if she could.
She worked her way through the boisterous crowd till she stood behind him. Keen observer as he was, he’d likely been aware of her movements from the first.
“Miss Swan,” he said over his shoulder, confirming it.
She would not play coy. “Why are you not dancing, sir?”
The firelight revealed his amusement. “And who would you have me partner with?”
“Granted, there are few petticoats here, but surely you can delight one of them.”
Her ready answer turned him round. For a second he seemed to consider it. “Name her.”
Her own rueful smile surfaced. “If you dance with me we’ll set every tongue wagging. Best partner with Great-Aunt Hester or some widow woman. There are those who’ll hold it against you if you don’t.”
“Such folks are seldom appeased either way.”
“True.” She pondered this as the fiddler finished a frenzied jig and struck a spritely reel.
At the first beat, Colonel Tygart reached for her with a swift decisiveness that left no room for a nay. A self-conscious warmth drenched her that had nothing to do with the humid summer’s heat. The dusty dance floor seemed to clear. They were the head couple for the set, without a doubt. She was partial to the English country dances, especially Sir Roger de Coverley, which she’d learned when she was small. She’d partnered with all manner of boys and men since then, but none like the odd-eyed giant before her.
What drawing rooms had he seen overmountain? He swung her around with a gentle power, unlike most clumsy men who all but sent her flying. With him she was at her nimble best. Not once did he misstep, while she felt stretched to the seams keeping up. Swirling past Maddie and Jude, she realized Maddie’s look of pleasure.
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.
