Netawatwees.
Taking cover behind a sprawling laurel bush to better assess the clearing, Tessa stood in back of the men as they peered through the waxy leaves. The awning shaded an Indian who was seated and appeared to be waiting. Keturah’s Lenape father? Winded and sore over defying Clay, she vowed to cause him no more trouble. She simply stood, absently fingering the locket, and prayed for peace as McKee stepped into the open, then Clay.
Girty hung back with her, saying, “Any sign of your brother?”
Her gaze sharpened and probed the shadows behind the chief. A flicker of movement was their answer. Her brother was on his feet now, though he made no move toward her. She closed her eyes to dispel any woolgathering. Ross was alive. Well.
Not a ruse then. Not a ploy to draw them here and harm them. Or was it too soon to be sure?
As Clay and McKee seated themselves facing the chief, Girty led her into the clearing. Netawatwees studied her as a heavily beaded, buckskin-skirted woman drew her beneath the awning toward the waiting Ross.
There, in the shade, his beloved grin erased every fear she’d ever had about recovering him. He embraced her tightly, looking as if his entire ordeal was more adventure. Save for a welt on his cheek, he seemed robust as ever, his good humor intact. “Welcome, Sister. I never thought to see you so far west.”
“I never thought to see you again,” she whispered through her tears as all the events of summer’s end caught up with her. “What a time we’ve had since the raid on the cabin that day.”
They sat down atop reed mats, facing forward to better see the smoking ceremony now taking place between the chief, Clay, Girty, and McKee. Unspeakably weary, arms still aching from her furious paddle downriver, Tessa fell quiet, savoring the sweet fellowship of her brother’s presence. And then . . .
“Don’t be fooled.” Eyes on the woods, Ross lost his joyous spark. “There’s an army of Lenape surrounding us.”
The unwelcome words tore Tessa’s attention from him to the dense foliage ringing the meadow. “They mean us harm?”
“I pray not. Plenty of bad blood between Clay and Tamanen, Keturah’s husband, though.”
“Is Tamanen here?”
“He’s recovering with the Moravians along the Tuscarawas. His fellow warriors brought him to Keturah after the fight with Clay.”
Relief flooded her. Since Keturah was a noted healer, this made sense. Though there was ill feeling between Clay and his Indian brother, Tessa knew Clay had not wanted to harm him.
“How did they know Keturah was there?”
“Indian spies. Messengers. Not much that goes on in Indian territory is missed.”
“No doubt.”
“Tamanen told Keturah that I’d been taken north,” Ross continued quietly, eyes on the smoking men. “Keturah knew your heart would be on the ground, so she sent word to her Indian father, Netawatwees, to help bring me back. It took time, but here I am.” Ross looked at her, eyes soft. “What’s more, Keturah traded herself for me, told Tamanen she’d return to the Lenape if they would give me up. Seems like a healer is worth more to the Indians than somebody who tinkers with guns.”
Throat tight, Tessa looked toward Clay, stone pipe in hand, features stoic. But did Keturah want to return to her Indian life?
Reaching into his shoulder pouch, Ross withdrew something familiar. Beloved. The worn doll she’d found in the Braam cabin prior to Keturah’s return. Tessa’s fingers closed around the small cloth figure. ’Twas no worse for wear, unaltered but for one thing. On its bodice something had been stitched in vermilion thread.
A red heart.
Tenderness smote her, the warmth in her chest and haze in her eyes intensifying as she studied the new adornment and what it meant.
A true friend, Keturah was. One who “loveth at all times,” one born for adversity. She was no swallow friend who flew to you in summer but was gone in winter, as the preacher Matthew Henry said. Her affections did not turn with the wind or change with the weather. No matter where life took the two of them, the bond between them would be unbroken.
“You all right, Sister?”
“In time, maybe.” Swiping at her eyes with a quick hand, she tucked the doll inside her bodice, where it nested with Clay’s locket.
The smoking had come to an end, and the talking commenced. Nothing was done hurriedly but in a manner of quiet courtesy. Since their conversation was in Lenape, the words were lost to Tessa. But watching Clay in this unusual setting, she saw him in a new light. His direct, measured speech. His gracious, controlled mannerisms. All bespoke the Indian influence.
Though her nerves had settled, she was still anxious to see Ross and Clay on the banks of Fort Pitt, if not the Buckhannon. Ma needed telling, Ross returned. Keturah must know her noble mission was complete.
Sitting was nearly unendurable when she felt like flying. Her heart, so full where it had been fractured, resumed an easier rhythm.
At last Clay came to her without a trace of anger. Extending his hand, he clasped hers and led her to Netawatwees. She bowed her head respectfully, unsure of what was required of her. The chief’s lined face registered pleasure as she spoke a final word Keturah had taught her.
