“Ma is now Mistress Westfall, sounds like.” Cyrus looked to Tessa for confirmation, or maybe to gauge her feelings about the matter.
Tessa sat down on the side of the bed with a smile while Clay stood in the open doorway with his back to them. “I’m glad Westfall’s isn’t far.”
Cyrus motioned her closer. “Wish it was your wedding instead.”
Putting a finger to her lips, Tessa shushed him unnecessarily, the building laughter masking her brother’s whispered words.
In time Ruth appeared, slipping past Clay to stand at the end of the bed. Cyrus flushed to the roots of his tawny hair.
“Need some company?” she asked, sporting a basket. “Checkers? Or cards?”
He nodded, still looking a bit sheepish, while Tessa fetched a small table to set between the bed and Ruth’s chair. She then left them to their game, drawn outside again, but Clay was back in the blockhouse meeting with two spies who’d just ridden in.
Ma and Westfall were clearly enjoying their new circumstances, the details falling into place. They hoped to leave come morning, after spending their first night in the cabin Westfall always occupied when forting up.
With a glance at the rifle platform, Tessa moved away from the merriment into the summer twilight. The flip she’d drunk made her a bit loose limbed, lessening the tension she’d felt since coming in at a gallop the night before. She gave thanks as she walked along the fort’s perimeter. The horses jostled and nickered softly as she passed, no longer milling about moodily or restlessly like they did in times of danger.
No one was near the spring. Bending low, she ran her fingers through an eddy of cold water and cupped her hand for a drink. Unlike those fearful moments at the well, her being here was free of that shadowy feeling, the silhouette now walking toward her reassuring.
Clay.
“You’re a worthy watchdog,” she teased. “Just needed to take a turn.”
“Already feeling the pinch of these walls, no doubt.”
“Betimes, aye, but ’tis safer here than home,” she admitted, drying her hand on her apron. “I can’t imagine how it must be for you.”
“Like caging a panther,” he confessed. “Come morning, when most of the settlement gets beyond these gates, I’ll want to go with them.”
“You have your scouting.”
“That keeps me sane, aye.”
They fell into step together. “I never figured you for a farmer, Clay. Staying put in one place.”
“’Tis tempting. I’ve been awarded a tract along the western Monongahela for my stint in the Seven Years’ War. Prime bottom land for farming.”
“Have you walked it?”
“Twice, aye.” He paused at the rear gate and looked out a loophole. “A square-mile piece, well timbered along the river with two springs. Worthy of a stone house like my kin’s in outer Philadelphia.”
“A solid stone house then, like our springhouse,” she said as he pulled back from the wall. “More to my liking than logs.”
“More enduring.” They walked on, bypassing the black hulk of the smithy with its taint of iron and ash. “This garrison was built with green wood that won’t last more than a few years at most.”
“My hope is we have an even bigger frolic taking these pickets down than we did putting them up.”
“Wish I’d witnessed it. You helped feed the builders, no doubt. You’re a fine hand at the hearth.”
“You’re remembering that muster-day cake.”
“Nay. I’m remembering that muster-day kiss.”
She couldn’t resist a little ribbing. “That called-for kiss?”
“Your first, I’d be willing to wager.” He turned toward her, bringing a sudden standstill to their walking.
“My very first,” she said, looking up at him. “But not yours, I’d wager.”
