Tessa wiped her hands on her apron and welcomed him in. Would Clay follow? Hope barely crested before disappointment swept in. Ma appeared, toting a piggin of milk, Ross following. He winked at her, clearly enjoying the turn of events. She’d paid it little mind when Ma had paired with the widower for a reel or two at the frolic, but truly, the matter begged pondering.
Westfall quietly took Pa’s place. Tessa felt a twinge. The head of the table usually sat empty, though after Pa passed she’d had a hard time breaking her habit of setting his place, then whisking away the fork and spoon and tankard amid her tears.
Six men now ringed the long table once again, she and Ma serving. Talk centered upon the harvest, the usual tittle-tattle of the settlement when folks got together. This was no doubt a novel supper for the childless Westfall, surrounded by the Swan brood. Tessa said little, content to listen and try to make sense of the events of her own unforeseen afternoon as well as Ma’s newfound courtship.
With a telling glance at his sister, Zadock picked up his fork and commenced eating. “I thought Colonel Tygart would join us.”
Jasper shook his head, sparing Tessa an explanation. “Tygart had matters to see to upriver.”
Wed to the fort, he was, and rightfully so for the betterment of the settlement. She tucked her disappointment away and smiled as Ma served bowls of apple tansy brimming with cream. To their amusement, at Westfall’s leave-taking Ma disappeared with him into the moonlit night.
Once the door shut, Ross’s whisper rocked them all. “Reckon he’ll try to kiss her?”
Lemuel shook with silent laughter. “He’d be a fool not to.”
“Likely Pa’s turning in his grave,” Zadock sputtered around his pipe.
“Pa, my eye.” Cyrus snorted. “What about Mistress Westfall? In her eternity box but six months!”
With a wink, Jasper brought an end to their merriment as Ma came back into the cabin, cheeks rosy as pippin apples. If ever a woman looked like she’d been kissed . . .
Tessa began clearing the table amid the aroma of pipe smoke as plans were made for the morrow’s work. At last the cabin settled and she climbed atop her thin mattress, lying on her back and staring at the high rafters. Try as she might, she couldn’t nod off, couldn’t even keep her mind on Clay. Summer thunder growled, threatening the ongoing harvest. She preferred the gentle spring peepers and warm rain. The brittle rustle of wind in the autumn leaves. Even the perfect stillness of a winter snowfall.
Tonight all creation seemed to groan, as Scripture said. The wolves especially made a terrible night music. She listened to their howls, haunting and otherworldly. That shadowy feeling that had overtaken her earlier at the well returned. Something felt different, some strange, cold force pressing in on all sides of them.
God, help us. Spare us. Please.
23
Clay struck the soil with a shovel, driving the pointed end hard past rock and weeds to overturn one too many graves. Eight—nay, nine. He miscounted then recounted, gorge rising in his throat. Seven children, one of them but a fortnight old. Smoke from the ashes of the cabin and outbuildings writhed and purled in the night, turning everything a dull charcoal gray. That overwhelming burnt smell was one he’d never gotten used to since the firing of the Tygart homestead when he was a boy. It smelled of heartache and despair then and now.
He tried not to look at the still, lifeless faces or the stricken men who’d helped with the Swans’ harvest and come here. Other neighbors gathered, Jasper and Cyrus included, each overcome with varying emotions, namely outrage. It hung as thick as the smoke in the air. Silent to a man, they wrapped the bodies in quilts and sheets, burying the baby with his mother.
By the fifth grave, someone brought Clay a drink from a flask. He tasted blackberry juice. Vinegar. Sugar. It steadied him, eased his protesting arms and shoulders. At last he threw down the shovel and removed his hat, angling it over his sore heart, his mind empty. Around him stood a knot of somber men, rightly fretful about their own unguarded homeplaces, their heads bowed while others stood open-eyed, rifles ready.
He had no idea what he prayed, only that he said the words with urgency, aware these men needed to be on their way to bring their own families to the fort. He’d sent fort spies on a dangerous chase to relay the woeful news to other outlying settlers and stations.
Leaving Swan Station near dusk, he had ridden here with Jude. Tomorrow was the day assigned the guard to help the Clendennins harvest their corn. Clay had wanted to make sure they were ready, to plan for the morrow. They’d arrived to this.
Never had Clay been so glad for Jude’s presence. They went from charred cabin to smokehouse to springhouse, making sure the flames did not leap to the woods and set them afire. The Indians had done a thorough work. Nothing remained alive or of use. Even the dog had been dispatched. Jude gathered the cur in his arms, buried it beneath an apple sapling, and rolled logs meant for firewood atop the grave to keep out the wolves.
“God rest their souls,” Jude said with a swipe of a grimy sleeve across his brow. “Best hie on back. That runner you sent to the fort should have them on full alert.”
Weary beyond words, Clay took a step toward Bolt, the agreeable afternoon he’d spent at Swan Station besmeared by fire and blood.
“You think we’d get used to such,” Jude told him.
Was he thinking of Braddock’s defeat? The field strewn with the bodies of red-coated soldiers and frontiersmen, female camp followers and children? Even now, years later, heaps of bleached bones were still scattered about, lying as they’d fallen, too many to bury.
One recent fact loomed large. “I received an unconfirmed report a fortnight ago that Chief Bull and five Shawnee families, all friendly to the whites, were cut down near Wheeling by settlers. This may well be retaliation, if true.”
Jude gave a low whistle as they traded the smoky clearing for the night woods. Moving cautiously, saying no more, they both gave a sigh of relief when the lights of Fort Tygart came into view. A volley of shots welcomed them in, carrying a ring of defiance to any enemy who might be watching from the woods.
In no mood to eat, Clay let Jude see to the horses while he crossed the common to the blockhouse. After being halted numerous times en route to answer questions and concerns, he finally pulled free. Hester stood at her cabin door, arms akimbo. For once she was silent.
He went into the blockhouse and closed the door, stripping off his bloodied shirt that was stained beyond repair and throwing it into a corner. His leggings were no better, but his boots would scrub clean. If he could only launder his ravaged thoughts.
Once he was dressed, a knock at his door led to more questions and then a hasty meeting on the common by the flagpole. This was followed by a breathless post rider who’d nearly been waylaid by what was thought to be the same war party.
