“I might be ambushed, aye.” Her blatant alarm fed his own. He was taking a frightful risk. “Taken captive again. Made to pay for what I did in the woods that day. Girty obviously wants my land along the Monongahela. McKee has some stake in this I’m not sure about.”
“Will you let Captain Edmonstone know?”
“I will if only to make him aware something is afoot. If I don’t return in a timely manner, then Edmonstone will investigate.”
“I’m going with you.” She stared at him as if wanting to commit every last detail of him to heart. “I can’t lose you. You—”
“Tessa . . .” He took her hands in his, enfolding them and holding them firmly. “Tomorrow you’ll stay safely at Semple’s and pray against any trickery, any deceit. For now, it’s nearing supper.” He silenced the voice that taunted it would be their last. “We’d best turn in early if I’m to be up before first light.”
She dressed for travel. Did Clay notice? She was clad in her sturdiest shoes, her most enduring dress and stockings, even her plainest fichu, but her hopes were dashed when he said, “Pitt is no place for a lady even at dawn.”
“I’m no lady, remember,” she replied, but he was so preoccupied getting ready to depart he seemed to pay no notice.
At the bedchamber door, he drew her into his arms but kissed her with only a spark of the passion of before, as if his mind was already on the river and what awaited. She listened to his footfall on the stair and then the closing of a door.
Careful to stay well behind him and out of sight, she left Semple’s and walked the back alleys till she came to the waterfront just as the sun touched the rooftops. This early, the town was like a sleeping, cantankerous giant struggling to awaken. Few were out at such an hour, especially the revelers who stayed up all night, as the taverns never seemed to shut their doors.
McKee and Girty were waiting. How it grieved her to stand at a distance while they climbed into the waiting canoe, the stoutest she’d ever seen. Clay took the middle position while Girty sat in the bow and McKee the stern. Their rifles, shot pouches, and other accoutrements were near at hand. Little time was wasted. The sun was indeed two fingers high when they launched, their oars slicing through the water with a quiet trill.
At the last, Clay gave a look over his shoulder. Did he know she’d followed? If ever a heart was in a look, it was in his. Her stomach somersaulted and she felt breathless, even light-headed. Memories rushed forward, her last of Pa, Jasper, Ross. Only then, she hadn’t realized how final those moments were. If she had she would have looked harder. Longer. As it was, she watched till Clay turned into a speck on that vast river now swathed pure gold as the sun rose.
The Ohio was the mightiest river she’d ever seen, so large and so long it seemed to have no end. Indian territory. Few ventured there. Many never returned. She’d heard the stories. They were even more frightful than those along the border.
Steeling her resolve, she ran toward the waterfront as if her life—and his—depended on it. Her heels sank into the sandy bank as her hands fumbled with the rope tying a canoe to shore. She’d not been raised on the river for naught. In seconds the boat floated atop the water, and she settled in the stern on her knees, the oar in her hands smooth if unfamiliar. No one watched or ran after her or called her thief.
The shore became smaller and smaller as she paddled in Clay’s wake. Though she could no longer see him, as he’d gone around a bend, she was thankful this river road went west and there was no tangle of waterways to choose from, no rocks or rapids as it curved lazily. Here the water wasn’t deep. She could see the pebbly bottom. Thankful, too, the rising sun was at her back and not in her eyes, her straw hat forgotten at Semple’s.
The day was warm. Clear. The river was mercifully calm, no wind to ruffle its smooth surface. Soon she settled into a steady rhythm, the dull ache in her arms measuring the distance. A lone flatboat or keelboat was all she saw, though great herons and a black bear dotted the waterfront as she glided past.
No longer did she see Clay’s canoe. With three men paddling, they easily outdistanced her. Undaunted, she kept on, unable to shake off the foreboding that losing sight of him meant losing him forever. Unsure of their meeting place, she kept a close watch on the banks, which were nearly a half mile apart in places, looking for any movement, any landed canoe.
As the sun climbed, Indians appeared along the waterfront. Women and near-naked children. A few men. Their lingering stares raised the hair on the back of her neck, and she paddled harder, gaining momentum, heart thrumming in her ears more from disquiet than exertion.
Lord, please, peace. And some sign.
Another sharp river bend that blocked her view of the watery road ahead, and then . . .
There sat Clay, his canoe turned like a wall to block her way. Girty and McKee were regarding her with amused scorn, their oars idle. But Clay—fury roared through his features at the sight of her. ’Twas in the tightening of his tanned features, the lightning-quick sternness of his eyes. His mouth was not merely a grim line but so pronounced it slanted downward into a fierce frown.
To Girty he said tersely, “Fashion a tow rope and tie her on.”
Doused with cold humiliation, Tessa rued ever setting foot on the riverbank. Only a fool would follow a man into the wilderness when he’d told her to stay behind. Not only had she defied Clay, now she would slow them unnecessarily. Eyes down, she lay aside her oar, the wind hardly cooling her fiery face while Girty tethered her canoe.
Lord, forgive me.
It took all the self-control Clay had to keep from overturning Tessa’s canoe in anger. Her flushed, repentant features didn’t assuage him one whit. He’d married a strong-willed woman and here was proof. He paddled harder, ire stiffening his strokes. The semblance of peace he’d had thinking her safely at Semple’s took wing. Now their present predicament called out every protective instinct he had. Not only was he in grave danger, but so was she. And if this all went wrong and propelled them headlong into an ambush . . .
In another mile or more they left the middle of the river where they’d been out of firing range. A hard sweep on the right with their oars turned them toward the bank. They beached the canoe, making little noise.
Clay lifted Tessa out like a wayward child and planted her firmly on the bank. Being experienced woodsmen, they left little trail once they cut into the woods. Soundlessly, Girty and McKee led the way, Clay behind Tessa at the rear. That bone-deep certainty of being watched overcame him, though he saw no one.
Tessa cast him an entreating look as they traversed what was little more than a game trail. He paid her no mind, still a-simmer at her rebelliousness. The forest was different here than along the Buckhannon, autumn’s entrance more telling, sassafras and sweet gum leading the colorful charge of leaves. Half a league in, the swift tumbling of a stream had them pause for a drink. When Clay stood, he smelled smoke. Indian tobacco. Girty and McKee wiped dripping water from their faces and communicated with hand gestures.
As Clay watched them, Tessa faced him. He put a finger to his lips. The apology he guessed she’d been about to make remained unspoken. Wretchedness marred her lovely face. Was she fretting over the ill feeling between them? Wanting to make amends if the worst happened?
They continued on. The longer they walked, the less wary Clay felt. Surely, if there was any trickery, they’d by now have been overtaken and dispatched. Though their combined rifles were formidable, they couldn’t withstand a surprise attack.
At last they came to the edge of a small meadow, an awning of skins at its heart providing shade from the sun. Beneath it sat an aged Indian in eagle headdress.
