“I’m most worried about the winter wheat. Should have been sown between corn rows like Pa told of overmountain.” Jasper kicked at a field stone. “Mayhap we should consider the flour trade, grind our neighbors’ corn by gristmill. The river’s calling for it right where it forks into Cane Creek.”
“Become a millwright?” Cyrus’s brow lifted. “Seems sensible. Plenty of stones to be had for the foundation just upriver. Highly profitable enterprise, Tygart says.”
Hiding a smile, Tessa gathered up the empty baskets from the nooning. Tygart this, Tygart that. You’d think he was part of the Trinity the way her brothers revered him. Squinting, she raised a hand to the sun to shield her eyes as she turned toward its golden gaze.
She kept to the edge of the field, hemmed in by the armed guard and the reapers, her arms ringed with empty baskets so cleverly crafted by Keturah. How she missed her old friend, the work of her hands an ongoing reminder.
Nearer the cabin, a crow’s raucous squawk greeted her. With a practiced eye she probed the outbuildings and cabin for anything amiss. With so many working the corn, the place stood unguarded. Oddly empty. Even Snuff had gone to the fields.
She stopped at the well. The cold limestone water made a fine drink. Lowering the pail, she ignored the slight chill that skittered through her like a touch of winter on a summer’s day. Halfway to the bottom, the rope stilled in her hand. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. Fear was never far away. She’d felt its cold clutch since childhood. Till now that fear had to do with other people. Keturah. Pa. But this . . .
This felt near. Personal.
Lord, help Thou me.
Her hands shook. The breath she was holding burned her chest. All at once she let go of the rope, hearing the splash and plop of the pail as it smacked the water below. Whirling, she faced whatever was at her back. But no arrow whistled through the air, no upraised tomahawk. Just deep-green woods all a-rustle in the wind.
Relief jellied her legs, yet the chary feeling remained. How had it been for Pa that fatal day? Had he known the same terror, that deep-rooted sense something was amiss, before he was cut down?
“Miss Swan?”
She swirled round again, so fast her skirts ballooned. Still in the grip of something she couldn’t name, she faced the man she couldn’t quite push from her conscience.
Clay slid to the ground from Bolt’s back. His own expression, ever watchful, turned more so in response to hers. He wasn’t looking at her but in back of her now, at the westernmost woods. Slowly he walked to the well, rifle in hand. For the first time she saw a tomahawk dangling from his belt. And a long knife. Her own gun, carelessly left inside on so busy a day, was pointedly amiss.
“You all right?” he asked her.
“I am now.” Odd how a body found relief in company. The skittery feeling began to retreat, Clay’s presence solid and reassuring.
They stood without moving, the well between them. “Go ahead and draw your water.” His voice was so hushed she sensed he felt what she felt, that same nameless caution.
She returned to drawing her water. The bucket resurfaced, and at last she had her drink.
He winked, dispelling the remaining tension. “Adam’s ale.”
The old name for well water made her smile as she handed him the gourd dipper. Behind him, Bolt began to rip and tear at a particularly rich patch of weeds. Horses, of all creatures, were especially nervy when danger neared. This stallion seemed to have nary a care.
Clay hung the gourd dipper from a rusted nail. “How goes the harvest?”
“Well enough.” She began picking up the baskets she’d discarded in the grass. “I’m surprised to see you . . .” Her voice trailed away. Surely a man who paid her any mind wouldn’t let so much time pass.
“I regret that.” He removed his hat, the wind smoothing out the dark strands, like she longed to do with her fingers. “A harried season.”
He spoke the truth. She’d seen the ledgers and posts on his desk, the endless interruptions, his never-ending turn at watch, the steady stream of folks in and out of the fort. Far more.
“Ever think of making a better life beyond those pickets?” she asked, straightening.
“Aye, Tessa.”
Something melted inside her. She’d not had to say his name first. He’d said hers. And the way he said it . . . soft and gentle, almost like a caress. Like he’d reached out and placed his hand at the small of her back. But he hadn’t touched her, least not with his hands, just his eyes. They held hers with an intensity that forever banished any doubt as to his feelings.
Still, she was cautious. “I suppose you’re here for the harvest, Colonel.”
“In time. But first I—” He was still looking at her, the warmth in his voice another caress. “I want to hear you say my name.”
“Well, fancy that. I’ve always wanted to call you Clay, Clay.”
He smiled then, the broadest she’d yet seen, his teeth strikingly white in his deeply tanned face. He even looked a bit bashful, as if this was all new and untried, like a first dance or a new suit of clothes.
