No doubt Clay had seen a man-made church, even worshiped in one. Was he a God-fearing soul? He’d once commenced eating breakfast at the fort without saying grace, then bowed his head at their supper table. Troublesome to her at the time, it raised other questions that would possibly never have answers in light of his callous treatment of her.
She sighed, spying an error in her second row of beads. Despite her keen concentration, her thoughts could not be corralled. How long had Clay lived among the Lenni Lenape, the True People, as Keturah called them? Forced west by the tide of settlers, scattered bands were now in the Ohio country, a place few whites had ever seen. Keturah had come from there, somewhere along the Muskingum River. Deep in the heart of Indian territory.
Betimes Keturah still seemed to be there. Even now, though an arm’s length away, Tessa sensed she was still on the Muskingum in spirit, her beadwork returning her to places and people she could not talk about. Maybe she was even pondering Clay, the one person in the white world who understood her red ways. Despite his sudden coldness to Tessa, at least he was kind to Keturah. Had they crossed paths at some point prior to this?
Tessa pondered their predicament, Jasper’s scowl ever before her. Just yesterday he’d come from the fort having served as spy, churlish and ravenous. “The militia’s set to muster again at week’s end. I plan on asking about the Braams, see if there’s any word from Keturah’s kin. The colonel’s posting in the eastern newspapers should relieve us of the burden of her care.”
Keturah had continued setting the table while Tessa stabbed a skillet of venison collops at the hearth with a long-handled fork, wishing it was her brother instead. Jasper set her blood to boiling like never before.
Ma regarded him with fevered eyes from her rocking chair in that way that bespoke she was still the head of the household no matter what her eldest son had to say. “And what makes you think she’s a burden?”
“Feeding and lodging her. Letting Zadock get witless over her. She’s better off under Colonel Tygart’s charge at the fort.”
“It’s not all give, understand,” Ma countered firmly if quietly. “She does her share of the work without complaint, and her wildcrafting serves us well. But all that aside, ’tis simple Christian charity to do as we’ve done, and I’ll abide no Indian haters in this house.”
Tessa froze, fork suspended over the sputtering skillet. A quick glance over her shoulder told her Keturah had finished setting the table and seemed unaware of the testy exchange. Jasper strode out the door, heading to the woods, anger stiffening his stride.
Later that day Zadock came in as she was drawing water at the well. He’d gone with Jasper to the fort hours earlier, whistling as he went. Now he faced her darkly, one eye blackened, a gash on his jaw, nose and cheek swelling. She went hot, then cold. Clearly, Zadock had gotten the brunt of the beating. Over Keturah, no doubt.
“Jasper’s orneriness just backfired,” Tessa said, linking arms with him as they turned toward the cabin. “Keturah will see to what ails you.”
Keturah waited on the cabin stoop, eyes on Zadock, a certain softness in her face Tessa hadn’t seen before. And so Keturah tended him, applying from her medicine pouch whatever remedies would mend his battered face.
Jasper had not returned for supper, his empty place at table glaring but making Tessa glad. Nor had he returned this morn for the Sabbath. How could he stand before them and read from the Bible with hatred in his heart?
Tessa pondered it now, praying for some spark, some sweet feeling to kindle on Keturah’s part. Zadock would make a good husband, his indifference to Keturah’s Indianness remarkable.
Her pleasure in any pairings, her prayerful petition that they might soon celebrate a wedding, was blunted when Keturah said, “Soon go to fort.”
“Soon, aye, when the militia musters.” Tessa slid another bead onto the string. Her girlish delight over muster days had turned to gall.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ma approaching. Her mother surveyed the woods surrounding the clearing as she walked, ever more wary since Pa’s passing. Never did they dodge the shadow that this day might also be their last.
Ma settled on the old quilt beside them, admiring their beadwork, her lined face finally free of the flush of fever. A breeze stirred the loose strands of her silvered hair, once the inky gloss of Tessa’s own. “Come Friday we’ll be at the fort. Zadock says Hester’s after us to stay the night.”
Tessa strung another bead. She couldn’t confess she feared folk’s reactions to Keturah. Ruth had already shown her disdain, as had other fort dwellers, Ross had whispered in warning. This she would spare Keturah if she could. “I say let’s keep to home and let the men muster.”
Ma’s surprise was palpable in the beat of silence that followed. “You’ve not said such before, Daughter. Ruth and Hester will be sorely disappointed.”
“We’ve a busy week ahead with salting that buffalo and making ticks for beds.”
“Which is why a little merriment is in order. Besides, there’s to be a contest amongst the women this time, not just the usual wrestling and shooting matches of the men.”
At this, both Tessa and Keturah looked up from their handwork.
“A baking contest, of muster-day cakes,” Ma said.
Partial to cake, Tessa felt a bit of her dander melt. “I’ve never heard of such.”
“They muster so overmountain, Maddie told me. Muster cake sounds to me like gingerbread. Each woman bakes one and a judge decides which is best.”
“Who’s to judge?” Tessa suspicioned it was none other than Clay Tygart himself. That prospect alone made her want to forsake her apron.
“Maddie didn’t say, except that she’s craving cake. You even have nutmegs, a boon for baking. I misdoubt another settlement woman can say the same.”
“What’s mine is yours. You use the nutmegs.” Extending an open hand, Tessa accepted more wampum from Keturah. “I’d rather bead than bake.”
Ma chuckled. “But baking, not beadwork, is what’s called for.”
