Keturah took a seat by Maddie, her long, pale braid coiling in her aproned lap. “Keko windji?”
Both of them looked to Clay, who was determined to master his unease if the conversation turned delicate.
“Maddie’s in need of your medicine,” he began, interpreting as carefully as he could in both Lenape and English.
At last Keturah’s thorough questions and Maddie’s honest answers came to an end. Mysteriously, the women disappeared inside the cabin. He sipped the cider Rosemary brought before she returned to the garden, keeping his eyes on the dense woods that blocked his view of the Buckhannon. If they were cut down, the river would be in plain sight. For now, the willow-skirted trail to the ferry was bereft of a rifle-toting slip of a woman, heaven be thanked.
In time Maddie emerged, her face slack with surprise, while Keturah’s features bore a telling amusement. She studied him beneath finely arched brows before her gaze shot to Jude across the way. “Summon the father to hear the good news.”
Hear—what? Clay stared hard at her, unsure if he’d heard correctly.
Keturah nodded. “Mimëntëta.” Baby.
Maddie regarded them both in bewilderment. Had she not added up this puzzling equation? Suddenly her expression cleared as joy took hold.
“You’ll be free of your misery in a few months,” Clay told her, thanking Keturah with a hasty, “Wanìshi.”
Jude nearly toppled as Maddie threw her arms around her stunned husband. “Did you hear that, Jude? I feel a bit like the women of old in the Bible, about to have a child despite my years.”
Jude stood stupefied. “You sure?”
Keturah smiled. Clay laughed. And Tessa stepped into the middle of the merriment with a look of wonder on her face, two dots of color pinking her cheeks. Darting a look at him, she rested her rifle on the ground, her smile for Maddie. The two women embraced, the hullaballoo halting all work. Rosemary brought more to drink, Zadock and Cyrus joining them in a toast. Ross appeared next, toting a broken oar. Had they hit a snag crossing the river? Throwing it aside, the youngest Swan joined in, drinking thirstily from the jug Cyrus uncorked and drawing laughter.
Clay was far too aware of the woman nearest him. He held himself apart, a bit stilted despite the good news. Having steeled himself in the fortnight since he’d seen her, he’d not let slip a too friendly word or a long look. His new resolve was to treat her no different than he did Maddie or Keturah.
But Miss Swan was not bound by any rule of restraint, let alone overmountain etiquette. Nor did she play parlor games. It was part of her charm, that folksy groundedness. He recalled all too easily her playful curtsy at the ferry, as pretty as Miss Penrose’s might have been. He never doubted where he stood with this border belle, or where anyone else stood with her for that matter. Dragging a hand over his stubbled jaw, he braced himself.
“Colonel Tygart, sir.” That clear, lilting voice was like no other. “For a man about to glean a great many stockings, you’re scarecrow stiff. Are you well?”
He thawed a bit but avoided her eyes. Aye, those eyes made her the belle of the border. He wouldn’t think about the rest of her enticements.
“I see no stockings,” he said, draining his drink.
At that she took up her rifle and headed to the cabin, leaving him feeling a mite guilty. Maddie was looking at him as the conversation swirled around them, a rare reproof in her gaze. He winked to ease her, unwilling to dim her enjoyment of the moment as he tried to adjust to the news himself. No longer would she and Jude be his trail companions. A baby changed everything.
Ross had begun telling the story of how the oar broke mid-river on a snag when Tessa returned with a small bundle bound in linen and tied with twine.
“Obliged,” he said, taking the offering and tucking it beneath his arm.
“How is your wound?” she queried, obviously determined to draw him out.
“Nearly healed.”
A prickly silence fell between them till Jude motioned to him, wanting to return Maddie to the fort.
“Won’t you stay for supper?” Rosemary asked. “We’ve ham and hominy aplenty. And my daughter’s made a fine custard tart.”
“Nay,” Clay replied, despite every fiber of his being pulled toward the cabin table. “Best hasten back, as I’ve a scouting report to hear.” His stomach rumbled, mocking his refusal. Hester’s victuals would serve tonight, and he’d invite Maddie and Jude to join him. But even that was no match for the Swans’ culinary skills and robust company.
While Maddie said her farewells, he and Jude rounded up the horses. Clay didn’t look back, squashing the ongoing urge to do so. The return trip was made in an altogether different mood, not the uncertain wretchedness of before but jubilant, slack-jawed wonder.
“If that don’t beat all,” Jude exclaimed, regarding Maddie with awe. “I never figured me for a father. Maybe we better get ourselves some corn-patch-and-cabin rights. Don’t want our child to grow up behind fort walls.”
Benumbed, Tessa gathered eggs, soaked a deer ham in buttermilk for supper, and swept the yard with a sturdy brush broom Cyrus had made to ward off weeds and snakes. Despite her many chores, the hurt of yesterday followed her about, nearly swallowing her whole each time Clay cut across her conscience. And he cut across without mercy.
Somehow, in the short span of time since she’d first seen him sitting at their humble table, having delivered a redeemed captive to their door, she’d become captivated by this unlikely hero. And her every waking thought had threads of him woven into them, not unlike the weave of the woolens with a bright blue stripe that Ma preferred.
The book of poetry. A dance. Their moonlit rendezvous by the garrison’s garden. The low talk at the cabin door that seemed about more than stockings. And then all shattered by his cool regard of her yesterday when Maddie had gotten her glad news. The book of poems now hung heavy in Tessa’s pocket. She had no heart to ponder any now, nor even knit.
