“I’m at the wall with the men most of the time. You won’t oft find me in the cabin.”
Raised at the wall, no doubt. Buckhannon born and bred. Somehow it pained him that she had to make do with such. “Have you never left this valley?”
“Nay.”
“Ever want to?”
“Aye.” No hesitation slowed her answer. “In the worst way.”
Her delight over a small, saddle-bruised volume of poetry bespoke much. She hungered for things she hadn’t had, not all of them material. Namely the freedom to move about, to not dodge shadows. Though she was fresh as spring, she owned that same steadfast wariness that wore down both body and soul before its time. He knew because it owned him too.
He rested his rifle on the ground. “If you could leave here, where would you go?”
“Williamsburg or Philadelphia. I’ve a hankering to visit the ocean too, which I’ve only heard tell of. Something tells me you’d make a fine guide.”
“If I was to squire you, I’d take you to Philadelphia. Bradford’s booksellers and the thriving Blue Anchor tavern might suit. Or the more refined London coffeehouse.” He paused, struck by the pleasure it brought him. “You could lodge at the Indian King, the finest ordinary I know, though I prefer the Conestoga or Black Bear Inn with their wagon yards. If it was fair we’d walk along the waterfront . . .”
“You paint a pretty picture but for one thing.” She looked down at her lap. “Overmountain I’d be naught but a fish out of water, as Chaucer says.”
He grimaced and recalled his schooling, his disdain of Chaucer enduring. “If you can manage the frontier, you’d find town quite tame. Especially in a new bonnet to match that pretty petticoat.” His wink was likely lost on her in the darkness.
“Who told you about my petticoat?” Rather than acting affronted, she gave him a delighted smile. “That rascal Jasper, likely.”
Tipping his hat to her he excused himself with the deference he used in parlors. She bade him good night with a little laugh that lit up the darkness. What was it about her that made him want to tarry and tease her?
’Twas his turn at watch. If not, he might still be here come morning.
Tessa’s lingering memories of the fort and frolic, particularly Clay’s banter about her petticoat and all the talk about town, were soon swallowed up by the return home and something else far more unsettling. Their first night back, she was kept awake by more than the itch of poison ivy she’d gotten while tending the flax.
She tried to stay still, mindful of Keturah’s soft snoring on the floor beside her. Toward dawn, she woke, the pink haze of morning on the horizon, the trundle bed empty. She blinked, adjusting to the cabin’s dim lines. Had Jasper’s prediction come true? Had Keturah run off?
By the time she reached the door, her dismay was bone deep. With Indian sign along the Buckhannon of late, why had Keturah risked the door being open? Because she was now more red than white and even her thinking had altered?
As Tessa pondered it, her brothers began to stir on the other side of the log wall. If Jasper had been the one to find the door ajar, Keturah would no longer be welcome.
Raising her rifle, she pushed open the door farther with her foot, body tucked to one side of the door frame. The cabin clearing was still heavily shadowed, but nothing seemed out of place. No queer bird call or movement marred the sultry morning.
Already her shift stuck to her in places, though it fell just below her knee and would allow her to run if needs be. She waited. Watched. Stepped outside. Snuff came out from behind the woodpile, tail wagging.
Safe, then.
She lowered her gun and went in search of Keturah. A footprint in the moist dirt by the smokehouse pointed north. Through the brush she trod, unsurprised when she came into the tangled overgrowth of the abandoned Braam homestead.
Keturah was near the well, head bent like a broken flower stem. Crying—more a keening—turned the dawn eerie, the sound unlike any Tessa had ever heard as it bespoke anguish.
Setting her rifle aside, Tessa walked toward her, wishing Ma was near. Tears were so contrary to her nature she felt bewildered in the face of them. Her brothers’ unwavering stoicism was far easier to take.
Kneeling on the ground beside Keturah, she felt the heavy dew wet her shift. Might it be time to use the one word she knew in Lenape, thanks to Clay? She’d practiced saying it in private till the word became natural on her tongue.
“Winkalit.” Unsure of what it meant, she awaited some response.
Keturah raised her head and studied her, her welling eyes a spectacle of pain.
Tessa repeated the word, praying it held some meaning, some solace.
“Winkalit.” Keturah nodded, chin quivering. “Friend . . . you are my friend.”
Bereft of other Lenape words, Tessa pulled the discarded doll from her pocket. A flicker of recognition? Keturah’s fingers wrapped round the offering in unmistakable wonder. She brought the doll to her chest, her watery gaze returning to the empty cabin. Unable to look at her friend for the ache in her chest, Tessa stared unseeing at the ground. In the forlorn light of early morn came a shared, crushing sorrow. For girlhood. For what was gone, never to be regained. Tessa bit her lip till it nearly bled.
