Jasper regarded this in sullen silence, taking the edge off Tessa’s pleasure. He was often away at the fort in his new duties as captain of the militia, his absences relieving the festering tension she now felt in his presence.
“What’s the matter with my oldest son?” Ma wondered aloud as she and Tessa watched him ride off once more.
Tessa looked away from the field of blooming flax flowers, so rich a blue it seemed the sky had turned upside down. “Once Jasper was sweet on Keturah, so long ago you might not remember. Now Zadock is sweet on her and Jasper is aggravated by them both.”
“Jasper’s discontent with her being here is plain enough.” Ma’s eyes narrowed. “He’s keen for word from her overmountain kin. To muddle matters, I sense Keturah is fond of Colonel Tygart.”
Overly fond? Tessa toyed with the strings of her cap and tried to view things dispassionately, yet something green and irritating uncoiled in her belly. Or did Keturah simply look to Clay as a kindred Lenape spirit and former captive?
“Reckon Colonel Tygart’s wound’s still ailing him?” Ma asked her. “A man might lose a leg if poisoning set in.”
“I pray not.” Still sore with disgust over the incident, Tessa pointed out the obvious. “Jasper sees the colonel right regular and hasn’t made mention of such.”
On this hung her hopes. A lesser man would begrudge her brother, stay clear of them all. She’d seen feuds erupt over pigs and property lines. Taking a bullet was ample grounds for some too.
“And you, Daughter? What of your heart?” Ma took a step forward, plucking a frail flax flower whose lifespan was but a day. “Dare I hope Hester’s matchmaking is bearing fruit?”
“Fruit, nay,” Tessa replied wryly. “Stockings, aye.”
But he’d not returned to claim his stockings despite her admonition not to tarry. Had he forgotten? Granted, he had far weightier matters to ponder than leg coverings, but it was the one fragile tie between them, however foolish. She’d knitted the stockings with greater care than she’d knit anything before, fashioning spatterdashes from stout woolen cloth to better protect his legs on forays, at least from brush if not bullet lead.
“I saw the colonel take leave of you that night”—a knowing smile softened Ma’s deeply lined features—“with a reluctance that had little to do with Indians and a lame leg.”
Though the bottom dropped out of her stomach at the mere mention, Tessa said nothing, unwilling to read more into their parting banter at the cabin door than she should. Reaching out, she plucked her own flax flower, the blue not unlike the hue of Clay’s contrary eye.
“A man like that could take you away from here,” Ma mused. “To civilized parts.”
“Nay. Clayton Tygart’s a borderman to the marrow, come to the fort that bears his name. I’ve heard no talk of his returning east.”
“Well, word is the Tygarts are of sound Quaker stock, some of his kin wealthy Philadelphians.”
“Which means he wouldn’t settle for a rough-shod woman who goes about barefoot with her bonnet strings untied.”
“You can mend your loose ways,” Ma said.
“Make a silk purse from a sow’s ear?” Tessa opened her hand and let the wind whip the flax blossom away. “Not likely.”
“My worry is that the colonel will dally with you here in the wilds yet disown you in town.”
“As common soldiers do?” They’d seen it often when eastern regiments came through long enough for some flip and a romp. More than one settlement baby lacked a father when all was said and done. “I’m not the dallying kind, Ma. And Colonel Tygart is no common soldier.”
“Love makes fools of us all,” Ma said.
“Aye, at any age, ’twould seem.” Tessa couldn’t resist a jibe of her own. “What’s this I hear about you and the widower Westfall?”
“Fort gossip, is all.” Still, Ma flushed so deeply she had the look of a girl. “I’m speaking of Colonel Tygart, not Eb Westfall. I’d not want to see you ill used.”
Their talk dwindled when Keturah rejoined them, the sun making a dreamy halo of her hair. A white honeysuckle basket of her own making hung from her slender shoulder, the straps fashioned of sturdy bittersweet. The basket overflowed with dwarf ginseng, starflower, and the tender leaves of the stinging nettle.
Tessa greeted her, dispelling the tetchiness of a moment before. “I’m partial to nettles with ramps and bacon.”
“He-he,” Keturah replied with a smile of her own, falling into step beside them. “Tea?”
Zadock had taught her this. Each night after supper he lingered at table while they had tea fashioned from some wild root or berry of Keturah’s making. Jasper, refusing to partake, swore Keturah would poison them all, but Ma hushed such talk.
Tea, indeed. A dusty memory resurfaced, of Dutch cups from a tidy corner cupboard and Mistress Braam’s blue-veined, work-worn hands. For Candlemas and May Day she would serve her girls, Tessa included, a fine brew that tasted of flowers. What had become of that finery? Had it somehow given Tessa a taste of life beyond these mountains, as Ma claimed?
She opened her mouth to mention it, but the memory of Keturah weeping by the well reined her in. Best leave the past in the past. Some memories needed to lie undisturbed.
