She flushed, the heat of it tying her tongue. “Maybe when the danger passes.”
As if sensing her befuddlement, Ma motioned toward the table. “Might as well eat.” She began ladling stew into a bowl while Tessa brought butter and filled a mug with buttermilk. “When you’re done I’ll take the kettle to my sons.”
To Tessa’s surprise, Clay bowed his head briefly before eating. At table’s end, Keturah sat and sorted through her medicine pouch while they adjusted to the novelty of having the commander of Fort Tygart at their table again. Other than an occasional noise from the blockhouse, all was still but far from peaceful. Any minute the firing might begin in earnest. Her ongoing fear was that Indians would fire the cabin, burning them all to ashes. ’Twas a dread she’d carried since childhood.
As if privy to her thoughts, Clay began speaking in low tones. “Once it’s full dark I’ll return to the fort.”
Another twinge of regret. “We sighted the Indians at the falls—rather, Ross did—near the top of that silver maple.”
“So, you took my counsel to heart after all.” He glanced at her as he ate. “I tracked four Shawnee on my return to the ferry. God be thanked you weren’t there.”
Another tremor shot through her. So close. If they’d dallied . . . If they’d not heeded his words to make use of that high perch . . . Woe to anyone in the Indians’ path.
“I owe you,” she said quietly.
Their eyes met, held. Even in the darkness she felt a sudden charge as if he’d reached out and brushed her flushed cheek with callused fingers. She wanted him to with a deep-seated need stronger than her hunger or her fear. With effort she looked away.
“You’re exposed on the river,” he continued softly. “I’d rather you keep to home.”
Like any sensible woman would.
His warning was one she’d best heed. She ran a frightful risk, as did Ross. After Pa’s passing Ma had talked of forsaking their ferry license, but Jasper had stood his ground. “One day, when that ferry’s lined our pockets with velvet and that ferry house becomes a tavern with nary a bed to spare, you’ll thank me.”
If he’d voiced such to Clay, there’d have been a verbal tussle, she knew. Though the ferry was a chancy endeavor, some adventurous soul had to do it.
“Hester tells me you make a fine pair of stockings.” He pushed his empty bowl aside. “I’ve need of some.”
What all was Hester telling him? “Stockings seem meager thanks for saving our hides.”
He got up and returned to the loophole, favoring his hurt leg only slightly, his rifle waiting. She picked up his empty bowl and spoon and cup, struck by the odd delight it gave her while Ma took the kettle and remaining corncakes to her brothers.
In time, a shame-faced Zadock appeared, having mastered his humiliation and dredged up an apology. “Might have been worse had Jasper not grabbed hold of the barrel once he saw it was you.”
“No harm done,” Clay returned easily with a shake of his hand. “Nothing that won’t mend.”
Visibly relieved, Zadock returned to his loophole. Dusk came calmly, the time Clay would depart. Till then, Tessa and Ma began knitting in the dark while Keturah curled up like a cat on the trundle bed behind the quilt wall. Here lately she’d forsaken sleeping on the floor.
“Where’s your horse?” Tessa asked Clay, sensing his restlessness.
“Likely returned to the fort by now,” he answered with a glance at his bandaged leg as if pondering his next move.
She abandoned her knitting, both of them moving to the barred door. He was so near she breathed in the earthy scent of his river-soaked shirt. “Take one of ours. They’re fleet and know the way same as your stallion.”
“Obliged,” he said in that low, easy manner that flipped her stomach. “I’ll be back for my stockings.”
She knelt to make certain the bandage would hold. “Don’t tarry long or you’re liable to have more stockings than savages to fret about.”
Reaching up, he brushed back the wisp of hair that strayed free of her cap. Again, that woozy spark charged through her. Did she imagine it or was he a bit beguiled, same as she? Glad for the darkness, glad he couldn’t see how hard his leaving was for her, she unbarred the door and he passed outside. Overcome, almost light-headed, she let the bar drop back into place with a thud.
She took his place at the loophole, her prayers making a way for him in the darkness. The heartache was not knowing if he would reach the fort. If she would ever see him again. But at least her worries about Cyrus faded when he returned, humming, with a brace of turkeys. He was surprised to find them cooped up inside, his day unspoiled by trouble.
With plans to feast on turkey and dumplings on the morrow, the women went to bed, or tried to, while the men continued an all-night vigil in the blockhouse.
By week’s end, Tessa had made Clay enough stockings for every day of the week. Four of blue and gray worsted wool, three of white linen, even embroidering clocked patterns at the ankles on the Sabbath pair. No word came that he’d failed to reach Fort Tygart, though she doubted he’d ever die at the hands of Indians. He’d been one of them, spoke their language, knew their ways. If anything, the recapture of Colonel Tygart would be a coup of the highest honor. Keeping him captive was another matter.
Her skin had nearly healed, the jewelweed Keturah applied surprisingly effective. Ever since Clay had told them Keturah was a healer, she spent as much time in the woods as she could, adding to her medicine pouch.
Sometimes Zadock would follow her. ’Twas he who took pains to teach her—reacquaint her with—the white talk. Through his gentle, persistent efforts, Keturah began stringing words into simple sentences, her halting speech becoming surer. As days passed, she seemed more at ease around them, if not the simple, open-hearted girl of before.
