She stopped eating and refilled her tea. “Like Keturah.”
“Aye.” He steeled himself for more questions, but none came. Yet he sensed they simmered beneath the surface and would be asked and answered in time. He had a few for her, but they too would wait.
For now, it was enough to enjoy the novelty of her homespun company. In this room there were no airs, no pretense, no rules, no noose-tight stock pinching his sunburnt neck. Just a simple man and woman thrust together by a fearsome wrinkle of a woman who might well be hovering outside the blockhouse door.
He couldn’t resist a final, amused parry. “There are so many men here and so few women that your aunt has little reason to ply her matchmaking skills.”
“Aye, but Great-Aunt Hester is besotted with you.”
“And you’re not?”
“Nay.” A downward sweep of her lashes. “I’ve had my fill of five brothers. No need to add a husband.”
“A husband is an altogether different matter than a brother.”
“A man’s a man,” she said quietly. “You’re all a hand at snoring and scratching yourselves, belching, and making a mighty mess of laundry.”
This was uttered with such spirit that he nearly spat out his coffee as he laughed. “Mind if I start calling you the Spinster Swan?”
“Doesn’t pain me.”
“Neither does it cure Hester’s matchmaking.”
“I’d be pleased to tell her you’re promised to somebody overmountain,” she offered.
“That would be a lie.” The perfumed, pampered Miss Penrose flashed to mind and was quickly set aside. He refilled his coffee. “If it eases you any, I’m here to defend the settlement, not marry into it.”
“A shame, Colonel.” A finger of light from the open door turned her eyes purple as a blooming thistle. “If you change your mind, there’s a few unwed women and two young widows within Fort Tygart’s walls.”
He sat back, looking to his desk across the room and the stack of correspondence and ledgers that needed tending. “I’m more in need of spies.”
“Spies are hard to keep alive.” Her face clouded. “You might have better luck with a wife. Then you’d no longer have Hester to do for you and we’d both be free of her badgering.”
She spoke simply. Logically. Like one of her brothers might. Despite her noncommittal words, he was taking too much stock in her company. “How goes it with Keturah?”
Something flickered in her eyes. “She’s quiet. Keeps close to Ma.” A slight smile. “She recollects how to milk.”
A rooster crowed outside, nearly snuffing his words. “I’ve sent a post east to print in city papers about her return.”
“So her kin might happen upon it?” She looked downcast now, staring at her empty plate. “I’d hoped she’d settle here in time. Once I wished she’d make a match with Jasper. He’s nigh on thirty now.”
The eldest Swan. He tripped over her brothers’ names and faces at times, as they looked and spoke alike. “Before the Indians took her, was there some tie?”
“She was awful young back then, but aye, seems like. She always took to Jasper and he was always teasing her. But here lately . . .”
“But?”
“Jasper wants her gone.” Her voice dropped as if she was afraid of being overheard. She fixed her gaze over his shoulder, staring at the buffalo robe pegged to the wall behind him. “Says she’s now more red than white and will likely return to the Indians.”
He mulled this a moment. “What happened to your pa?” Whatever had become of Mister Swan bled through to Jasper’s regard of Keturah, likely.
Swallowing, firming her chin, she answered, “Tomahawked at the ferry three years back. Jasper found him first.”
“I’m sorry.” He meant it. He’d seen his own parents slain as a boy. The horrific memory was like a brand, embedded deep. Nobody could blame Jasper for shunning Keturah, yet Tessa and Mistress Swan made a bold bid to keep her at their cabin. To them she was clearly innocent, a helpless survivor of her circumstances.
Tessa met his eyes again. “Do you think she’ll return to the Indians?”
Would she? “Time will answer.”
