The men came in and sat about the unfamiliar table. Talk turned to mundane matters like the new irons Jasper was considering for a future gristmill and Westfall’s need for oxen. Beside her, Clay set his fork down again and again to answer questions of the latest news from Boston, of British troops firing into a crowd of people calling themselves Patriots who were protesting at the customs house.
At meal’s end, Clay’s hand felt for hers beneath the table. ’Twas bliss to have the warm pressure of his fingers on hers, the reassuring heft of him on the bench beside her. Even the guns lined up along the log wall failed to hold the foreboding they usually did.
Sabbath’s end brought a walk in the twilight through Westfall’s orchard, the fledgling apple trees reminding her of children in varying stages of growth, some thriving, some struggling. Though young, a few of the trees bore fruit. The bee skeps near the orchard hummed, promising honey in time. One bee danced around her, alighting on her shoulder.
“English flies are what the Indians call them.” Clay flicked it away lest it sting. “You can tell white people are coming by the advance of the bees.”
She pondered it, squeezing his hand. “I do prefer molasses over honey, and maple sugar over both.”
“Sugar, aye.” Something came over his face she could only describe as wistful. He’d removed his hat as he always did in her company, a courtesy she found endearing, allowing her a better look at his tanned features. Though the Indians had left their mark, so had his genteel Quaker kin. “Used to be the spring hunt began after the sugar making. My last season with the Lenape was my most memorable. Many horse loads of skins.”
“Were you more hunter or warrior?” She’d always wondered.
“I preferred the hunt. Four bears in one day on that last hunt, three the next. That final stretch I brought in fifty-six deer.”
“The Lenape relied on you for meat, then.”
“We were always one step away from starvation.”
“Your leaving would have gone hard on them.”
“I recollect the lean winters all too well. How glad we were at the return of spring.”
They were in the middle of the orchard now, hidden from view. Sunlight speared the turning leaves, yellow arrows all around them.
She touched an apple, a Virginia crab, its pale, pebbly skin stained red. “These blossoms are showy in spring. Might make a good cider apple to have in your orchard someday.”
“Our orchard, Tessa? Apples, peaches, cherries, pears. Mayhap a quince or two.”
“You’ve given it some thought.”
“And you?” He looked down at her, rifle in hand, and she tried to imagine him in their orchard with gun stored, buckskins traded for a simple linen shirt and stock and breeches, even buckled shoes. But he was so handsome as he was, she shuttered the thought.
“’Tis time, at least in my heart,” she answered. “Time to do different. Time to look forward instead of over my shoulder. But I’ll leave the rest to you.”
He nodded. “The more I think on it, the more I sense you need to bid the wilderness farewell. Live somewhere civilized.”
“In town?” Her smile faded. “I’d likely shame you.”
His face flashed surprise and an almost palpable hurt. “You think you’re something to hide, to keep in the back settlements?”
“Town-bred women are different, Clay. Your Quaker kin might expect something more than what I am.”
“You’re not marrying my Quaker kin. I’ll have you be no different than you are.”
They’d not spoken the word marrying till now, though they’d danced around it. His reassurance she need not be some fan-waving, silken-clad belle sent a little tremor of relief through her. But she did aim to be better than she was, to master the finer graces, to make him proud. She swallowed the question begging to be said as he kissed her, scattering every other thought like garden seed.
When?
She sensed it wasn’t time yet for him, not the way it was for her. If he asked her to marry him tonight, she would. She’d give up the Swan homestead for good, let her brothers fend for themselves. Even as her heart raced on, her head reminded her there was no preacher or magistrate to be had.
“Sister?” Jasper’s voice carried through the dense foliage of the orchard. “Needs be we head home.”
Clay released her, and a decidedly bereft feeling overtook her. Forcing a smile, wishing for more tender words, more time, she moved toward the waiting horses. No telling when she’d see him again. There’d been talk of his returning to Fort Pitt for some sort of military gathering. But he vowed he’d not leave till reinforcements arrived first.
Once mounted on Blossom, she turned back and saw Clay atop Bolt, eyes on her as she turned south, her brothers ringing her, rifles in arm. With a wrench of her head and her heart, she met his gaze a final time in silent farewell.
For where thou art, there is the world itself . . . and where thou art not, desolation.
