The Frontiersman's Daughter: A Novel

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1

Kentucke, Indian Territory, 1777

In the fading lavender twilight, at the edge of a clearing, stood half a dozen Shawnee warriors. They looked to the small log cabin nestled in the bosom of the greening ridge, as earthy and unassuming as the ground it sat upon. If not for the cabin’s breathtaking view of the river and rolling hills, arguably the finest in the territory, most passersby would easily dismiss such a place, provided they found it at all. The Indians regarded it with studied intent, taking in the sagging front porch, the willow baskets and butter churn to one side, and the vacant rocking chair still astir from the hurry of a moment before. Six brown bodies gleamed with bear grease, each perfectly still, their only movement that of sharp, dark eyes.

Inside the cabin, Ezekial Click handed a rifle to his son, Ransom, before opening the door and stepping onto the porch. His wife, Sara, took up a second gun just inside. A sudden breath of wind sent the spent blossoms of a lone dogwood tree scurrying across the clearing. From the porch, Click began speaking in the Shawnee tongue. Slowly. Respectfully. A smattering of Shawnee followed—forceful yet oddly, even hauntingly, melodic.

Sara and Ransom darted a glance out the door, troubled by every word, yet the unintelligible banter continued. At last, silence came. And then, in plain English, one brave shouted, Click, show us your pretty daughter!

Within the cabin, all eyes fastened on the girl hovering on the loft steps. At thirteen, Lael Click was just a slip of a thing, but her oval face showed a woman’s composure. Her pale green eyes fastened on her father’s back just beyond the yawning door frame.

She put one cautious foot to the floor, then tread the worn pine boards until she stood in her father’s shadow. She dared not look at her mother. Without further prompting she stepped forward into a dying shaft of sunlight. A sudden breeze caught the hem of her thin indigo shift and it ballooned, exposing two bare brown feet.

The same brave shouted, Let down your hair!

She hesitated, hearing her mother’s sharp intake of breath. With trembling hands she reached for the horn combs that held back the weight of fair hair. Her mane tumbled nearly to her feet, as tangled and luxuriant as wild honeysuckle vine.

Woven in with the evening shadows was a chorus of tree frogs and katydids and the scent of soil and spring, but Lael noticed none of these things. Beside her, her father stood stoically and she fought to do the same, remembering his oft-repeated words of warning: Never give way to fear in an Indian’s sight.

Softly she expelled a ragged breath, watching as each warrior turned away. Only the tallest tarried, his eyes lingering on her as she swept up her hair with unsteady hands and subdued it with the combs.

At last they were gone, slipping away into the wall of woods. Invisible but ever present. Silent. Perhaps deadly.

Evening was a somber affair, as if the Shawnee themselves had stayed for supper. To Lael, the cold cornbread and buttermilk that filled their wooden bowls seemed as tasteless as the cabin’s chinking. Somehow she managed a sip of cider and a half-hearted bite now and then. Across from her, her mother managed neither. Only her younger brother Ransom ate, taking his portion and her own, as if oblivious to all the trouble.

Looking up, she saw a hint of a smile on her father’s face. Was he trying to put her at ease? Not possible. He sat facing the cabin door, his loaded rifle lounging against the table like an uninvited guest. Despite his defensive stance, he seemed not at all anxious like her ma but so calm she could almost believe the Indians had simply paid them a social call and they could go on about their business as if nothing had happened.

He took out his hunting knife, sliced a second sliver of cornbread, then stood. Lael watched his long shadow fall across the table and caught his quick wink as he turned away. Swallowing a smile, she concentrated on the cabin’s rafters and the ropes strung like spider webs above their heads. The sight of her favorite coverlet brought some comfort, its pattern made bright with dogwood blossoms and running vines. Here and there hung linsey dresses, a pair of winter boots, some woolen leggins, strings of dried apples and leather-britches beans, bunches of tobacco, and other sundry articles. Opposite was the loft where she and Ransom slept.

The cabin door creaked then closed as Pa disappeared onto the porch, leaving her to gather up the dirty dishes while her mother made mountain tea. Lael watched her add sassafras roots to the kettle, her bony hands shaking.

Ma, I don’t care for any tea tonight, she said.

Very well. Cover the coals, then.

Lael took a small shovel and buried the red embers with a small mountain of ash to better start a fire come morning. When she turned around, her ma had disappeared behind the tattered quilt that divided the main cabin from their corner bedroom. Ransom soon followed suit, climbing the loft ladder to play quietly with a small army of wooden soldiers garrisoned under the trundle bed.

Left alone, she couldn’t stay still, so taut in mind and body she felt she might snap. Soon every last dish and remaining crumb were cleaned up and put away. With Ma looking as though she might fall to pieces, Lael’s resolve to stay grounded only strengthened. Yet she found herself doing foolish things like snuffing out the candles before their time and pouring the dirty dishwater through a crack in the floor rather than risk setting foot outside.

The clock on the mantle sounded overloud in the strained silence, reminding her the day was done. Soon she’d have to settle in for the night. But where was Pa? She took in the open door, dangerously ajar, and the fireflies dancing in the mounting gloom. She sighed, pushed back a wisp of hair, and took a timid step toward the porch.

How far could an Indian arrow fly?

Peering around the door frame she found Pa sitting in the same place she’d found him years ago that raw November morning after his escape from the Shawnee. They had long thought him dead, and indeed all remnants of his life as a white man seemed to have been stamped out of him. His caped hunting shirt was smeared with bear grease, his deerskin leggins soiled beyond redemption. Except for an eagle-feathered scalp lock, his head was plucked completely clean of the hair that had been as fair as her own. Savage as he was, she’d hardly recognized him. Only his eyes reminded her of the man she once knew, their depths a wild, unsurrendered blue.

Tonight he was watching the woods, his gun across his knees, and his demeanor told her he shouldn’t be disturbed. Without a word she turned and climbed to the loft where she found Ransom asleep. There, in the lonesome light of a tallow candle, she shook her hair free of the horn combs a second time.

The shears she’d kept hidden since the Shawnee departed seemed cold and heavy in her hand, but her unbound hair was warm and soft as melted butter. She brought the two together, then hesitated. Looking down, she imagined the strands lying like discarded ribbon at her feet.

A sudden noise below made her jerk the scissors out of sight. Pa had come in to collect his pipe. Her sudden movement seemed to catch his eye.

You’d best be abed, Daughter, he called over his shoulder, his tone a trifle scolding.

She sank down on the corn-husk tick, losing the last of her resolve, and tucked the scissors away. If she changed her mind come morning, they’d be near. Catlike, she climbed over the slumbering body in the trundle bed beneath her, surprised that a seven-year-old boy could snore so loud.

The night was black as the inside of an iron skillet and nearly as hot. She lay atop the rustling tick, eyes open, craving sleep. The night sounds outside the loft window were reassuringly familiar, as was her brother’s rhythmic breathing. All was the same as it had ever been but different. The coming of the Indians had changed everything.

In just a few moments’ time the Shawnee had thrown open the door to Pa’s past, and now there would be no shutting it.

She, for one, didn’t like looking back.

2

Lael leaned over her mother’s shoulder, thinking how small and dark she was, her hair black as a crow’s wing yet tipped white at the temples. Standing behind her so fair and tall, they hardly seemed related. Lael supposed she was her father’s daughter from head to foot. Sometimes it seemed she’d received nothing from her ma except the privilege of being born.

Lately Lael wondered if she might better understand her ma if she tried to be more like her. As it was, she couldn’t quite grasp her mother’s longing for a civilized life and her hatred of all things savage, nor her stubborn refusal to stoop to settlement speech, never uttering so much as an aye or a nay. Around her Lael took care to never utter so much as an ain’t.

She watched as Ma fumbled with a bolt of cloth, nearly sending it off the table. Lael caught the fabric with a steady hand, struck by sudden sympathy. Her ma hadn’t stopped shaking since the Shawnee appeared. Had it been only yesterday? Since then she’d waited for Pa to announce he was moving them to the fort like he’d done in the past when Indian sign was prevalent. Keeping them at home, especially in light of her mother’s nerves, seemed tantamount to sitting on a keg of gunpowder. But Pa was not given to flinching at shadows, even if his wife was.

I never thought to see such fine fabric on the frontier, Lael finally said, helping to smooth out the soft folds.

Just last winter they’d paid for the costly silk with three bundles of feathers and a bearskin. A pack wagon had come to the fort just before Christmas with a wealth of eastern cloth, and they’d liked this best. In the candlelight the green fabric looked like a polished apple. An extravagance of milk white ribbon lay alongside it, garnered with a bushel of salt.

Time you had a new dress, and some petticoats beside, Ma said. Susanna weds the first of June. We’ve nary a week to finish this gown if you’re to stand up with her.

So soon, Lael thought, but given the trouble, would they go to the wedding? She felt like holding her breath in anticipation. Settlement frolics were few and far between, and she so loved to dance. She’d been pleased but not surprised when Susanna had picked her as a bridesmaid. Ever since settlement school they’d been fast friends, unsullied by the trouble swirling around them. Although Pa disliked the quarrelsome Hayes clan, he had a soft spot for Susanna. He wouldn’t attend the wedding himself but said she could. Now she prayed he’d not change his mind.

I’ll help sew, Lael offered, though she hated to. Handwork had always eluded her. She was ashamed to admit her uneven stitches were pronounced crooked as a dog’s hind leg by every seamstress in the settlement.

I’ll manage, Ma said with a sigh, straightening to look her over. But I do wish you’d stop growing. You’re a whole head taller than me already. And look at those feet! Why, they’re as big as your pa’s!

Lael said nothing to this. There was simply no pleasing her mother. She nearly winced as Ma passed to the back of her and clucked her tongue ominously. With a start, Lael touched her heavy braid and remembered the scissors.

You’ll not take a hand to her hair, Sara Jane. From the shadows her father forbade any further talk. He sat by the rock hearth in a ladder-back chair, his rifle against one knee, a small worn copy of Gulliver’s Travels in his hands. He’d read it countless times, both aloud and silently, and could quote long passages by heart. Somehow it had survived his Indian captivity, returning as intact as he himself.

As Lael studied him he looked up at her, the light of affection in his eyes. Once again she found herself wishing she could sift his secret thoughts. It was too quiet in the cabin. Every ear seemed tuned to trouble. She glanced toward a half-shuttered window, her thoughts in a worried tangle. Surely the Shawnee wouldn’t come a second twilight eve.

Ma rose from the table in search of something, while Ransom lounged near the barred door with Nip and Tuck. The old hounds weren’t often allowed inside. Their presence was another reminder of how everything had changed. Nip was asleep, but Tuck’s heavy head was raised as if listening. Lael felt unease steal over her at his intensity. Animals always sensed trouble first, whether it was hens refusing to lay or cows balking at being led to pasture.

I never misplace my scissors, Ma was saying, rummaging through her sewing chest in a corner of the cabin. Her strident tone cut through Lael’s reverie and sent her scurrying up the loft ladder where she groped about in the darkness beneath the trundle bed. The cool metal was a potent reminder of what she’d almost done, and she breathed a silent prayer to the Almighty who’d spared her so foolish an act.

How could she possibly have lopped off her hair then stood before the whole settlement, shorn like a sheep? But it wasn’t the settlement she cared about, truly. Only one man mattered, and merely thinking about him sent her down the ladder with a pink sheen to her cheeks.

Furtively she placed the scissors next to the fine fabric, saying nothing but feeling her father’s eyes still on her. Tonight his close attention was especially unnerving. Since yesterday he seemed to regard her in a new way—fiercely, even a bit desperately—as if she might disappear and he wanted to be sure he remembered every nuance of her form and face.

Despite the heat of the closed cabin, she shivered. Her father was a man of deep feeling and few words, and tonight his eyes told her a host of things she’d rather not know. She sat down on the bench beside the trestle table, hardly hearing her ma’s exclamations of pleasure at the reappearance of the shears.

A hard knot of alarm formed in Lael’s throat as she toyed with the frayed hem of her cambric apron. If only Pa would explain some things, help her make sense of the Shawnee’s sudden appearance. Her nerves were rubbed raw when it came to the tallest warrior, the one who’d called her out of the cabin. He had so startled her by speaking English that her eyes had lingered on him a bit too long, and now her memory refused to give him up.

But it was more than this, truly. The bewildering way Pa had spoken to him—to them all—only added to her confusion. As the strange Shawnee words spilled from his lips like music, every syllable undergirded with familiarity and affection, she’d known without the slightest doubt that these six warriors were no strangers.

Lael, are you listening? We’ll have to make half a dozen jam cakes for the wedding supper, Ma was saying, her hand slicing through the green fabric with the newly sharpened shears. That calls for thirty-six eggs, so be sure you don’t drop a one. Her warning gaze touched Ransom then took in Lael. You’ll need a new pair of shoes if you’re to stand up before the whole settlement. I’ll not have you barefoot, or worse, in moccasins.

Lael shifted uneasily in her seat, amazed at her mother’s sudden shift in mood. How could she possibly talk trivialities at such a tense time?

I suppose my old slippers might fit you, though they’re liable to rub you raw with all the dancing. I’ll never forget when Will Blanton wore those too-tight boots to his own wedding years ago. One made a sore on his heel and he lost a leg. Laying the scissors aside, Ma crossed to a large trunk and opened the heavy lid, sorting through a host of nearly forgotten things, finally holding the shoes aloft. Long and elegant with small, square heels, they were the color of butter and spoke of a different life—a civilized life—lived long ago. Their appearance seemed to unlock a storehouse of memories, and Lael saw a sudden wistfulness touch her mother’s face.

The shoes fit, but barely. Lael stood unsteadily, accustomed to being flat-footed. It was sheer work to keep from wincing. A few sets of Roger de Coverley in these and she might lose a leg too. Still, she’d manage if it would please her ma.

From the door, Ransom looked hard at her, then ran a grubby hand through hair as black as Ma’s own. Do we have to stay for all the dancin’?

Ma gave a slight shrug and resumed her cutting. You’d best speak to your sister about that. I believe she’s as intent on the dancing as you are on the wedding supper.

His eyes sparked and he looked at Lael. Reckon you’ll get married next?

She nearly smiled, but the sweet thought was snatched away when she looked at her mother.

Ma’s eyebrows arched. Married? Well, I can’t imagine whom to.

I can, he replied with a wide grin. Everybody in the whole settlement knows she’s sweet on—

You’d best keep your tongue between your teeth, Son. Pa’s chair, tipped back till now, came down with a decisive thud.

The rebuke settled harshly in the still cabin, and Lael watched as Ransom scampered up the loft ladder out of sight.

Looking after him, Ma’s voice wilted to a whisper. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Simon, Lael.

Simon. They could never speak of Simon civilly, if at all. He was a Hayes and belonged to that segment of the settlement Pa had blacklisted long ago. She was glad the dim light hid her face. Glancing toward the hearth, she found Pa had resumed his reading. Privacy in a cramped cabin was hard to come by.

The snip of the scissors seemed to underscore Ma’s words. Her bent head nearly touched Lael’s own. I don’t mind if you dance with him a time or two, but any more than that gives rise to gossip. The way he . . . The cutting ceased as she groped for the right words. The way he corners you for every single set is unseemly.

Lael took a deep breath. It means little, Ma, truly. Simon taught me the steps when I lived with them years ago. We’ve been dancin’ together since I was Ransom’s age.

Ma’s mouth set in a firm line. There’s no need to remind me of all that. Best leave the past alone.

At once Lael realized her error. But I didn’t mean—

Ma began folding up the cut-up cloth, signaling an end to the conversation. Just as suddenly, Pa got up and unbarred the door, Nip and Tuck in tow. Lael fought the urge to follow him, to find some solace lest she spend another sleepless night. But he seemed in no more mood for conversation than her ma.

Reluctantly, Lael climbed the loft ladder to where the shadows hid her as she shed her dress. Too weary to free her hair from its tight braid, she lay down atop the worn coverlet and let her gaze linger on the fitful form of her brother. He rolled this way and that in the trundle bed, as if trying to escape a bad dream.

Bending low, she touched his dark hair, the ends curled with sweat. Tomorrow she’d teach him to make a fan from the old newspaper she’d seen spill out of the trunk when Ma was searching for the slippers. Perhaps they could sit on the porch come morning and fan themselves for a spell since Pa was allowing them to do little else. Being confined to the stifling cabin a second day couldn’t be borne.

She’d sooner face the Shawnee.

3

The next morning Lael sat imprisoned on the porch behind the screen of roses. Done with churning, she collected the ball of butter and salted it, setting it in a covered crock to carry to the springhouse. Pale yellow light framed the eastern forest, and the woods were a symphony of sound. She looked up as a joree bird called from a laurel bush. The sound was so pure it seemed to pierce her with its sweetness. She waited a few seconds before she gave the answering call, smiling as it echoed back to her. She liked daybreak best, unsullied as it was.

Every morning of her life she’d come out onto this porch to find things the way they’d been the day before. She loved the solid beauty of the barn and the skeleton of a fence that ran to the river and hemmed in the horses. The woods surrounding the cabin were ever changing with the seasons yet somehow stayed the same. Even the old door stone beneath her feet was as much a part of her as the roses that hid the lazy slant of the porch while attempting to climb into the cabin.

She could hear Ma moving about with a kind of restless energy, not yet at work with her spinning wheel. Ransom was still abed and out of mischief, but Pa had been gone long before daylight. She caught sight of him now emerging from the trees, his rifle nestled in the crook of one hard arm. He wore the garb of the woods, buckskin breeches and long linen hunting shirt, heavily fringed to wick away water. She could see him scan the clearing, weighing every nuance and shifting shadow.

He moved the quietest of any man she knew. Even his dogs had been trained to walk softly behind him, noses to the ground, nearly tripping over their cumbersome ears. Nip and Tuck had been yearlings when Pa led his first party of settlers over the Gap the Indians called Ouisita. No man had lived in Kentucke then, either Indian or white, though the Shawnee and Cherokee claimed it as a sacred hunting ground. She reckoned they still did, leaving plenty of sign in the settlement and taking what they pleased.

Pa paused briefly to look east, and she did the same, her gaze lingering on the far mountains framed with yellow light. Was he remembering his roots or missing the land from which he came? She doubted it. He rarely spoke of his Quaker heritage, though Ma talked freely of her own family, English weavers who’d come to the colonies fifty years before.

She always listened quietly as Ma shared memories of her loved ones, but to Lael they were simply names without faces, all of them. She’d never known anything but Kentucke, never been beyond the wilderness, nor wanted to. Ma’s talk of cobbled roads and church steeples and hordes of people pressed together in one place left her cold.

Pa paused at the far end of the porch to drink deeply from a gourd dipper hanging above a piggin of water, his eyes on the woods all the while. For a man not yet fifty he looked older. Hardened, careworn. His tobacco-brown face was as lined as the marks on a surveyor’s map, but his frame was as lean and well muscled as that of a far younger man.

Lael stood up slowly, the crock of butter at her feet. The half hour she’d spent churning had given her sufficient time to gather the courage to confront him. She simply had to know about the Shawnee—what they wanted and why he hadn’t moved them to the fort.

Any fresh sign, Pa? Her voice shook a bit and belied her skittishness.

He turned earnest eyes on her and took his time answering. Aye. One Shawnee in particular.

One. The tall one? Somehow she sensed it was, and looked down at her apron, a flush creeping into her face. He was studying her again in that absorbing way that made her feel he knew her every thought—or worse, that she was somehow the cause of all the worry.

Any trouble elsewhere? she asked.

None that I know of, he replied, a wry twist to his mouth. Just hereabouts with a gabby yellow-haired gal in an indigo dress.

Giving him a halfhearted smile, she fingered her heavy braid. Ma keeps threatenin’ to shear me.

He shifted his gun to his other arm and returned his attention to the woods. Reckon she thinks she’ll save the Shawnee the trouble.

At this she sobered, searching for a speck of teasing in his sober features. Suddenly the almost romantic notion of letting down her hair for all those dark warriors turned terrifying. Pa, you don’t think . . .

He lifted linen-clad shoulders in a shrug. With the British paying bounties for settlement scalps, it might prove a formidable temptation.

But I thought— She paused, pushing into uncharted territory with her next words. I thought since you . . . knew them, lived with them . . .

A flash of something inexplicable crossed his face, and she sensed she’d gone too far. Never had they spoken of the past or the Shawnee, and doing so now seemed to bring about a wall that shut her out. Stung, she sought for words to soothe the strained silence, but her mind emptied of anything but a simple sorry.

Her lips parted, but before she could utter another sound, he said, Stay close to the cabin.

With a warning look he was gone, leaving her alone with all her anxiety. She sat down hard in her churning chair, near tears, forgetting the crock of butter. Oh Pa, I’m sorry, truly sorry. But there are so many things I long to know. She watched him disappear into the woods leading to the river, fighting the urge to run after him. Reaching into her pocket, she removed the aged newspaper she’d meant to make into a fan for Ransom. Just this morning she’d remembered it, wedged as it was between the trunk and a wall, forgotten. Before she’d pocketed it she caught sight of three arresting words: The White Indian. Beneath this, in bold print, was her father’s name.

Now, unfolding the paper, her own hands seemed to tremble. The Virginia Gazette was widely circulated in the settlement, Kentucke being thought of as an extension of that state. Sometimes Pa left copies of it about the cabin. But never before had she seen this. Dropping her head, she read quickly, hungrily, not wanting to be discovered, vowing to return it to the trunk when she was through. The entire front page was devoted to her father with a detailed sketch that was remarkably his likeness. Was this why Ma had kept it?

The headlines presented the story of his captivity with startling simplicity. Though it had been well over six years since he’d disappeared, she knew the facts by heart. The day their world was upended, her father had been on a salt-making expedition for the settlement. This was tiresome, sweaty work, the steam of the huge kettles competing with the suffocating heat. But salt was survival, necessary for preserving meat and curing hides, and the salt-rich Licking River provided plenty.

It had been summer and twilight, her father’s favorite time of day. She knew just how the river had looked then—a beguiling blue before giving way to silvery white to match the moon. Without so much as the rustle of a bush for warning, the Indians had surrounded them. Her father had been the first to lay down his rifle. Rather than fight, he’d surrendered.

The very word seemed at odds with everything Pa was, yet that’s what he’d done. She fought the urge to ball the paper into her fist. What choice did he have when faced with ninety-three Shawnee? He’d been but one of twenty men from the settlement. Her father was no fool. She read further without wanting to, a hard knot forming in her throat.

He soon learned the Indians were planning to attack Fort Click. With most of the settlement men away making salt, the stockade was easy prey. Certain all within would be killed or captured, her father had struck a bargain. He assured the Shawnee the fort was at its strongest and the planned siege would be a costly mistake. If the Indians would take him and his men prisoner instead, and assure them fair treatment, they could be ransomed to the British in the north for bounty.

She stopped suddenly, the words a blur of black ink. All she remembered of her father’s absence was the hollowness of hunger and a loneliness she couldn’t name. The fort’s corn crop soon ran out and there were too few men to supply meat for all the women and children within. Babies died. An old man shot himself in the blockhouse. With the first snow came much sickness. And while they suffered, her father turned Shawnee.

Unable to read further, she folded the paper and tucked it away, but the memory seemed to dog her as she did her chores. On her hands and knees, scrubbing the puncheon floor with sand and a bristle bush, she tried to forget about the past. At the same time, she made sure the paper was safe in her pocket. When she was alone again she’d read the rest.

Toward noon, Nip and Tuck’s barking brought her back onto the porch. Tied up in the side yard, they were a welcome alarm and she relaxed at their halfhearted warning. In moments a familiar figure crossed the clearing on a big bay horse, copper hair bright as a candle flame. Lael flew off the steps, skirted the dogwood tree, and felt the cool breath of the stone springhouse as she passed.

She could hear her mother’s frantic calling, but she kept on, scattering chickens and kicking up dust devils as she ran. Seeing Susanna turned Lael’s thoughts at once to Simon. Same astonishing hair. Eyes like chicory coffee. The familiar mouth and noble nose. But whereas Susanna was small, her brother was easily the tallest man in the settlement.

As Susanna slipped to the ground, Lael hugged her wordlessly. Susanna studied her with a half smile, smoothing her wrinkled linsey skirts. It’s been too long, Lael Click. How you keepin’?

Right smart, she said, her smile snatched away by the sight of Susanna’s father emerging from the woods behind them on a matching bay.

Lael studied him, a bit breathless. Since when did Harrison Hayes set foot on Click land? The hard lines of his face were like limestone, and not a nod of acknowledgment did he give her, though she stood directly in his path. Spotting her pa along a rail fence in the pasture, he made straight for him, leaving the two girls alone.

Susanna took the opportunity to pass Lael a piece of paper, folded tight. From Simon, she whispered.

Startled, Lael slipped it in her pocket, tamping down the urge to open it in plain sight.

Pa’s here to settle a land dispute, if you’re wonderin’, Susanna told her. I asked to come along—begged, nearly. I’ve been afraid you’ll not come to the weddin’.

Ma’s already at work on my dress, Lael reassured her, turning to watch the two men.

I’m glad to hear it, Susanna said, standing beside her. Isn’t it a wonder? I don’t think they’ve spoken since the courtmartial. But Pa’s desperate to settle this tetchy business with the Canes.

Lael nearly smiled at the irony. The Canes and Hayes, clearly the most contentious clans in the settlement, had brought about the court-martial against her father years before. Now Harrison Hayes had come begging. With Pa appointed as magistrate, what choice did he have? His only recourse was to ride clear to Virginia and seek counsel. Watching, she felt a tad uneasy . . . yet jubilant.

Lael turned back to Susanna. Only a few more days and you’ll be wed. You look wonderful—like a bride should.

I’ll be glad to get the deed done and move on over to Cozy Creek. Will’s finally finished the cabin. He’s not built the barn yet, but your pa said he’d help.

We’ll be glad to get you as neighbors, Lael told her. Pa’s always had a fondness for Will.

Will, but not Simon. If only he thought so well of Susanna’s brother. The court-martial had taken care of that, though it had been father, not son, who’d started it. A tiny flicker of hope rose in her heart. Perhaps now, with Hayes here, matters would mend.

Susanna untied her bonnet and began to fan herself. I’ll be glad to get shed of the fort, though Ma’s sad to be losin’ both of us at once. I guess you heard Simon left home in the spring. He has four hundred acres of his own now, surveyed by your pa and registered with the Transylvania Land Company.

Lael looked at her and the quiet fell between them like a curtain.

You didn’t hear, did you? Susanna surmised. Well, it’s true. Simon’s got a fine piece of property near your Uncle Neddy.

Lael’s surprise deepened. She’d not seen Simon for months, or Neddy for years.

I know there’s still bad blood between your pa and his brother, Susanna said softly. But Simon’s got a good neighbor in Neddy. She paused as if weighing each word, her eyes on Lael’s. Neddy asked Simon about you—said he’d like to see you.

Lael felt her color rise. Seems like he’d rather see Ransom than me.

A man ought to be able to see his own son. Susanna’s voice was soft but filled with conviction, mirroring Lael’s own deep feelings, though she didn’t say so.

Ransom doesn’t know about Neddy, Lael told her. Not yet. But everyone else in the settlement knew who sired Sara Click’s son.

Susanna touched her arm. I know you don’t like to talk about the past, so we’ll just talk about the future. Her tone turned a trifle teasing, the light in her eyes inviting. I’ve been thinkin’—since Simon’s standin’ up with Will at the weddin’, and you with me, why not make it a double match? You’re nearly fourteen.

Fourteen to Simon’s twenty. Lael put her hand in her pocket absently, feeling for the note. Ma had been fifteen when she married Pa. And thirty-two when she ran off with Neddy. That memory wouldn’t budge, no matter what. She could still recall the precise shade of her mother’s dress the night she disappeared. An unforgiveable forget-me-not blue. Only six, Lael had been left at the fort and the Hayes clan had taken her in. Like a stray cat, some said.

I’d rather have you for a sister-in-law than anyone in the settlement, Susanna went on with a winsome smile, filling the silence.

Seems like Simon should be the one askin’ me, not you, Lael chided softly.

Maybe he is, she replied, pointing to Lael’s pocket. With a smug smile she turned and climbed back up on her horse, the copper coil of her braid touching the bay’s broad back.

Lael looked over her shoulder and found the two men still deep in conversation. Standing so far from the cabin left her feeling slightly skittish, though she knew Pa’s surveillance never ceased. She dried her damp face with the hem of her apron, looking askance at the noon sun.

As if sensing her mood, Susanna glanced toward the woods. What’s this I hear about the Shawnee comin’ to your cabin?

Lael turned back to her, wondering just how much she knew. "I don’t