“A garden as big as your heart is set on, aye. As near paradise as I’ve ever seen in my rambles. Unless you’d rather live overmountain.”
Her expression clouded. “I don’t know that in town is where you belong.”
He didn’t know either. Emptying his mind of the notion, he breathed in the scent of a coming rain and called for Bolt. “We’d best hasten back. Mayhap one day soon we won’t have to.”
Helping her into the saddle, he kissed her again. Already he was dreading her leaving and returning home. She was becoming as necessary to him as his daily bread.
They returned to a fort no different than when they’d left, with just as many eyes on them. But his mind remained on the expansive Monongahela and what needed to be done to begin a life there. Or mayhap, in a wild flight of fancy, he would trade it all for town.
Tessa showed her brimming berry bucket to a heavily bewhiskered Cyrus, who was awake now and being fed bone broth by Ruth. Hester was busy gossiping beneath her neighbor’s eave, the women’s spare frames clothed in dark homespun, their cackling reminiscent of crows. Setting out the ingredients she would need, Tessa began making the requested pie, her mind not at all on her task.
All she recalled was Clay’s talk of the Monongahela. Were his thoughts sprinting hard ahead just as hers were, no longer content with a happenstance courtship, a chance meeting, but something more enduring? His wistful words cracked open the door to an altogether different life. A life lived without looking over one’s shoulder, Lord willing.
“What are you smiling about, Sister?” Cyrus had finished eating, and Ruth took the empty bowl away. “More the colonel than your peck of berries, I’m thinking.”
At Ruth’s chuckle, Tessa glanced up from the cookbook Clay had given her, a copy of The Complete Housewife Suitable for the Virginia Kitchen, printed in Williamsburg. She devoured it as much for the reading as the receipts.
“And I’m thinking that pie’s more the colonel’s too,” Cyrus said with a wink at her continued silence.
“Big enough for the both of you,” Tessa returned with a smile, pouring the berry filling into the rolled crust.
Cyrus lay back and plowed a hand through lank hair, his boredom at being in bed apparent. Ruth went to fetch cards, giving Tessa an opportunity to whisper, “Seems like Ruth is sweet on you.”
“She’s set her sights on me today.” His features grew ruddy. “I can’t speak for the morrow.”
“I’d be pleased to have a brother married and gain a sister.”
“So you’d feel better about running off with the colonel, I suppose.”
“Amen,” she said, not caring who heard. But Clay was again in the blockhouse, hearing someone’s complaint over a stolen pig. The man’s voice rose in agitation as he recited a list of grievances against another settler.
On the Monongahela their future shone brighter yet still held the mists of a winter’s morn. All she knew was that she’d gladly trade town for Clayton Tygart.
27
Cyrus found his feet within a fortnight, the sutures were removed, and then in a blink both he and Tessa returned to the Buckhannon, her fort tryst with Clay seeming a hazy dream. Ma was at the cabin to meet them, making Tessa believe for just a moment nothing had changed. But after a brief visit, Ma headed to Westfall’s again with a favorite kettle and other necessities, leaving Tessa the sole woman in charge of Swan Station.
Her August days were unendingly busy now as she did the work of two women. At week’s end Ma helped share the burden of soap and candle making, half going to her new larder. A calm Sabbath unspooled, and they went to Westfall’s. Mention was made of Clay’s coming, but as the day wore on, no horse and rider materialized.
Her spirits sank to her Sabbath-shined shoes with their tarnished brass buckles. Might he have had a change of heart about her? Though he’d left little doubt of late about his feelings, his cool regard of her in the past still made her skittish.
By and by a low growl from Westfall’s hounds foretold someone’s coming. Tessa all but jumped up, having lost count of how many days it had been since she’d seen Clay. And now here he was, standing tall in Westfall’s doorway, welcomed by all. He smiled and said little, but the haggard lines of his face bespoke much. The latest dispatches from Fort Pitt foretold trouble, of raids on farms and on smaller stations to the north and south of them. The men discussed matters in low, solemn tones while she and Ma prepared supper.
“Seems like the raiders give Fort Tygart wide berth,” Ma said as she turned corncakes onto a platter. “Except for that one night you and your brothers were ambushed, or nearly so, coming into the fort following the Clendennins’ burial.”
A shiver rode Tessa’s spine, more from the fate of the Clendennins than their own narrow escape. “Cyrus took the brunt of it but seems to be mending.”
“What’s this I hear about him and Ruth?”
Tessa set a bowl of applesauce on the linen-clad table. “He’s said nary a word to me about Ruth since we left the fort.”
“Some grandchildren would be a fine thing.” Ma expelled a rare sigh. “This cabin’s a mite big for just us two.”
Was Ma missing them? Tessa couldn’t imagine so light a load with just she and Westfall to do for. But despite Ma’s wish for grandchildren, she seemed content. The place held a dozen womanly touches, including the coverlets and trunk she’d brought from home.
“And you and the colonel?” Ma’s green gaze speared Tessa. “You’re nigh as bad as Cyrus for keeping secrets.”
“There’s little to tell, Ma.” She glanced toward the porch at the men. “But Clay’s right here. Surely that bodes well.”
