“Ten eventful years.”
“And your family? Captive or killed?”
“Killed,” Clay replied without the usual mental flinch.
To his credit, Heckewelder spoke of such things without emotion. The bane of the frontier was that death and captivity were commonplace.
“And what of Miss Braam?”
“Best let her tell you her story, in her own words,” Clay answered as they returned to the west blockhouse.
A week they’d been away from the fort, long enough for the muster-day cake to fade from memory, if not the unexpected kiss. That Tessa kept alive like the broken-winged sparrow she’d once saved in a rude cage of Cyrus’s making, feeding it seeds and refusing to let it perish.
’Twas the same with a pleasurable recollection, was it not, keeping it alive by continual rumination? Or maybe she was simply a weak-willed woman grown too fond of the fluttery feeling the fort’s hero wrought. No matter. ’Twas a marvel that no other man had made her feel so in all her years.
Her fan rested on the little shelf above her bed, another pleasant keepsake from a day gone by. She used it, as did Ma, who seemed right fond of such finery, though Keturah’s turkey feather fan was just as handy.
When a spy delivered the missive summoning Keturah to the fort, Tessa took it from his hand in wonder. She alone could read it, perusing it privately, then pocketing it to share at supper’s end in the soft glow of candlelight.
Dear Swans, read the flowingly bold, masculine hand. Brother John Heckewelder has arrived at the garrison and seeks a meeting with Miss Braam on Saturday morn. Would be wise to have a male escort, Miss Swan included. Yours entire, Colonel Clay Tygart.
’Twas an honor being singled out, yet maybe it was mere courtesy, an afterthought from a man she was unsure of. Still, the summons created a hullabaloo as her brothers debated who would set their work aside and accompany them.
“You’d think you were escorting royalty,” Tessa teased as their arguing grew more impassioned. “Not two homespun women on an old mare.”
“I’d like to meet this Heckewelder, friend to the Indians,” Zadock said, lighting his pipe.
“So would we all,” Lemuel said to their surprise. He was never one to want to trade a day in the fields for even a frolic. “Wish Heckewelder and Colonel Tygart would venture out here instead.”
“Seems like you older rascals always go and I’m the runt who gets left behind.” Ross glared at them good-naturedly, taking another slice of the dripping watermelon.
“I’ve not seen you smile so broadly since that muster-day kiss, Sister.” Cyrus gave a sly wink. “What might the colonel mean, asking for your company?”
“He means to make Keturah comfortable and not leave her at the mercy of you men,” she fired back. “Think no more of it.” She waved her fan about, further amusing them as talk turned to other matters.
On Saturday morn they rode to the fort in response to Clay’s summons. Surrounded, she was, riding between not one but two of her brothers, Zadock leading, Cyrus behind. Today Keturah had her own mount, preferring to ride bareback. A sense of expectancy spurred them through the woods. Everything held that peculiar overripe scent, that final, intense green before giving way to autumn’s rust.
Any comeliness she’d aimed for when pinning her hair beneath her cap or donning her flounced petticoat melted away by the time they spied the fort’s far pickets. Sweat trickled down her neck and bodice and turned her itchy. Dust left a browner cast to her skin. If not for her gladness to go, she’d have let the simmering day turn her sour.
Clay was at the gates when they rode up, as if wary they’d be fired upon or ambushed. The tension of being a moving target drained from her as she slid off Blossom. Theirs always seemed a small victory to be safely within.
“Morning, Colonel Tygart,” Zadock said as he dismounted.
Behind the colonel stood Hester, dwarf-like in his shadow. Would Tessa spend the morning with her great-aunt or be expected to accompany Keturah when she met with Heckewelder?
Hester embraced her like always as Clay tipped his hat to them both. She returned the nod with a small smile, mindful of Hester’s sharp eye.
“We’ll be making the noon meal for Brother Heckewelder and company,” her aunt told her. “From the best of the fort’s garden to boot.”
Was that the reason Clay had asked her here? To help cook? “What of meat?” Tessa asked as they all began walking toward the blockhouse.
“Colonel Tygart has brought down a buffalo. Don’t you smell the marrow bones roasting?”
“Aye, Auntie.” Tessa breathed in a dozen different scents that a blessed breeze mingled, not all of them savory. “Fine feasting, then.”
“You’ll grind the meal and make the bread. I’ve beans to snap and corn to shuck.”
Into Hester’s cabin they went, while her brothers were left to their own business and Keturah disappeared inside the blockhouse.
