The Pursuit of Tamsen Littlejohn (42 page)

Jesse, who could have overpowered Blackbird with both arms tied behind his back, felt a quelling. At first Blackbird had bound his ribs and fed him foul teas and clucked over him like a fretful hen, but never had a colonel of militia possessed so reproachful a glare as that bent and wrinkled
Ghighau
turned on him days later, catching him too soon on his feet.

“That ought to put paid to the notion, Jesse.” Cade unearthed his pipe and joined Thunder-Going at the fire. The pair fell back into
Tsalagi
, discussing the doings in Franklin … North Carolina.
Wherever
.

Stifling an urge to grind his teeth, Jesse eased himself down on the sleeping bench, half-listening to his elders talk.

The muster against the Creeks that the Trimbles had tried to entice him into had come to nothing. Franklin’s governor, John Sevier, had expected to be out on campaign before Christmas, but so far no firm orders to march had come.

Jesse was glad. Always with these campaigns it was the women and children—on both sides—who suffered, which made him realize Cade was right. He needed to stick close by. Not on account of his ribs, or not the broken ones. His heart’s rib, Tamsen. He wished she’d come back from White Shell’s lodge. He wished they had their own small hut …

“Having no orders to march has not kept Sevier to home,” Cade was saying. “He has kept busy with his militia, raiding Dragging Canoe’s towns.”

“What is it your Book says?” Thunder-Going asked. “ ‘A wise man sees trouble coming and gets out of the way.’ Sevier is not such a man, but one who goes running to make trouble. If he is not careful, he will stir up the rest of the
Ani-yun-wiya
to war.” Watching his pipe smoke tendril upward, joining the fire’s thicker column rising to the roof hole, Thunder-Going said, “I am for peace if it can be found, but I am like this trickle of smoke from my pipe, one voice among many, easily swallowed and lost. Most of the people may be for war. If that is so, it will be a fire not easily put out.”

He met Cade’s gaze. “And what of the new
unega
state? Have our troublesome neighbors been given leave by the Thirteen Fires to call themselves Franklin?”

Cade shook his head. “Sevier lost a supporter over to the Carolina faction, a judge called Campbell. Jonesborough was overrun by Tipton’s men
again, and the Franklinites driven out. Most have rallied down on the Nolichucky, in Greenville.”

Jesse perked up at that news.
Down on the Nolichucky
. Had Dominic and Seth made for thence? Greenville was far enough removed from Sycamore Shoals to keep them out of Tate Allard’s sights. And what of Kincaid? Might the unrest have persuaded him to forget Tamsen, go back to Virginia?

Could
he
have forgotten Tamsen, having met her but the once, if he’d thought her carried off against her will? He’d have done what Kincaid was doing, soliciting the strength of any and all who would aid him—even a couple of ne’er-do-wells like the Trimbles—to get her back.

As for Parrish, the man had much to lose while Tamsen had a voice to raise against him. He’d proven his ruthlessness already. Jesse knew in his gut the man hadn’t left off the hunt.

He waited for Thunder-Going to speak, but the man sat contemplating the fire, apparently having nothing more to say on Sevier’s travails or the infant State of Franklin. Jesse let a few seconds pass to be sure, then cleared his throat.

“Pa? Don’t reckon you’ve heard aught of Kincaid or Parrish?”

Cade seemed to have some trouble with his pipe, for he fixed his attention on it as he spoke. “Tate says they’ve cleared out of Sycamore Shoals. He hasn’t seen them, or the Trimbles, since the night you got Tamsen away.”

Had the light streaming through the smoke hole been brighter, Jesse would’ve known for certain, but it almost seemed Cade wore an evasive look.

“There something about Parrish you ain’t telling, Pa? If he’s gotten wind of where we …” Jesse let the question trail off, as the door-hide swept aside and Tamsen came in.

Talk of her pursuers was dropped by silent consent. Not that Jesse could’ve minded what they’d been talking about with his wife standing
there ravishing his eyes. When he finally looked away, dazzled, he noticed Cade and Thunder-Going exchanging long-suffering looks. Wordless, they rose and took their pipes out-of-doors. Tamsen stepped aside to let them pass but lingered in the doorway, looking at Jesse almost shyly.

“Come here,” he said, reclining to an elbow, barely wincing at the pain it caused. She came, kneeling beside the bench so their faces were on the level.

“How is it today? May I check the bruising?”

Jesse grinned. “Blackbird sent you in her stead, eh? I like this arrangement.” In the warm lodge, he wore only a breechclout and long linen shirt, easily rucked up to bare his ribs.

He sucked in a breath at her touch. While she kept her gaze fixed on the remnants of his bruises, he devoured her with his eyes. Her glossy hair was pulled back and braided, but a few curls had worked loose to frame her face, still faintly golden from the autumn. Her lips were red and soft, and close …

He croaked a mite when he asked, “Have a good visit with the women, did you?”

“It was nice.” The tip of her tongue passed over her lips. He stared at it, wanting to lie back and pull her atop him, though it’d set his ribs back a week.

“You give the weaving a try?”

“Not yet.” She moved her hand beneath his shirt—not a mere touch this time, a caress—and a jolt of pleasure shot through him. He held his breath. “Jesse?”

“Aye?”

At last she let their eyes meet. Hers were hungry, exposed. “I missed you.”

Next he knew he had her across his lap, so lost in the touch and taste of her he barely felt the ache it caused his ribs. She returned his kiss with the hunger her eyes had promised, fingers stroking through his hair, down
his neck, his shoulders. He pulled back long enough to say, “I missed you too,” then kissed her again, heart leaping like every one of his ribs might crack wide to let it out to dance with hers.

“Tamsen—” Their lips met between words he’d barely breath to speak. “D’you want to … now?” His mind spun with notions on how they could proceed, grasping one idea and flinging it aside for another while his hands moved down her back, unraveling her braid.

She pulled back, and her gaze swept the lodge, settling on the doorway, where nothing but a hide prevented anyone walking in. “I don’t want to wait another second.”

There was hesitation in her voice, but she hadn’t said no, and he couldn’t stop grinning like a fool. Still there was that swaying hide, and no way to bar it. “We could hang the buffalo robe. Like when you bathe. If Thunder-Going or someone else comes in and sees it hanging, they’ll likely go back out.”

She frowned, considering this, but even as she did so, he knew it wasn’t right. As much as he longed for her, had waited for her … this wasn’t how he wanted it to be. Not hurried and furtive, half their senses trained on that swaying hide.

“No,” he said. Confusion bloomed in her eyes. “Not
no
.” He brushed her face with his fingertips, thinking he was like to drown in those dark-blossom eyes. “I want to make love to you—every day for the rest of my life starting now. But not like this.”

She bit her lip at his declaration, lashes sweeping down as color suffused her cheeks. “I’ve wanted it too, Jesse. But … I don’t know. Even if Thunder-Going and Cade stayed away, something about it feels wrong. Why should it feel wrong?”

He thought maybe he knew. “More’n once I’ve started to ask you … Do you even remember that night at the Teagues’? You’d been through so much.”

She bit her lip, frowning. “Some of it, but it’s foggy.” Her eyes glistened.
“I want to remember. A bride ought to remember her wedding day. Are you disappointed I can’t?”

“No.” He touched her face, knowing she was disappointed. “I wish I could change that for you, but I don’t know …” He paused, as the solution dropped into his mind, perfect as a sunset. “Wait. I do know. Let’s get married.”

She responded to his lightened tone, the anticipation he knew must be in his eyes, with a ravishing smile. “Jesse, we are married. You remember it, surely?”

“I do, for a fact.” He let her see in his eyes what wanting her every moment since had cost him. Her eyes went all melting … yielding. It took all the self-control left him to refrain from kissing her again. “But hear what I’m thinking now. We could be married in the way of the people here, then we’d both have that to remember.”

She leaned back against his arm, blinking. “A Cherokee wedding?”

“Why not? It’s a fine ceremony. Simple, respectable. There’s a feast goes with it. I’ll just have to bring in a deer before it can happen.”

“A deer?”

“I’ll explain the details, if you say yes. It won’t make us any more married than we are, but maybe a ceremony’s what we need to mark it—since one of us slept through the last one.”

Seeing he teased her, she made a fist and gave his shoulder a thump. He pretended she’d hurt him, but his grin spoiled it. “What do you think?” he asked, though he could tell she was liking the notion.

“When?”

“Once I ask Thunder-Going, if he agrees … seven days.”

“Seven?”

“They’ll want to bless the council house, prepare the feast.”

She sighed. He sighed.

“On the bright side, it gives these ribs more time to heal.” He didn’t say why that was important but knew she read it in his eyes.

That a man’s own wife he’d slept beside, worked beside, argued with, swum nearly naked in front of, and just thoroughly kissed could sit on his lap blushing for shyness was a wonderment.

But then, he reckoned, not many men went about pursuing a woman as backward as he had Tamsen Littlejohn.

February 1788

Jesse reckoned himself in danger. From the looks of it, so was his horse.

“Growin’ fat and soft, the pair of us.”

He leaned on the top rail of the paddock where Thunder-Going’s folk kept their small herd. At his whistle, the horse tore itself from the cornhusks strewn on the snow-dusted ground and ambled to him, breath ghosting in the air. Jesse took the white-splashed head between his hands while the animal chewed its mouthful. The wound where the ball had clipped its neck had healed, though the scar would never grow mane again.

The horse’s ears perked. Jesse turned as Tamsen, wrapped in her cloak, cheeks pink with cold, joined them. She slipped out a hand and presented a winter apple to the horse’s reaching lips.

“I see who’s to blame for his going round as a barrel. The one doing the same to me.”

Tamsen batted her lashes, a picture of innocence. “Does that mean you’ve grown partial to my cooking?”

He blinked back at her. “You’ve always cooked just fine.”

“Liar,” Tamsen said, taking his hand in hers. “I didn’t come here just to feed the horse.” With her other hand she held her cloak open, revealing what she wore beneath. A pale deerskin tunic bedecked with shell beads fell to a matching knee-length skirt, fringed leggings, and high winter moccasins patterned with dyed quills.

“You finished,” he said.

“White Shell did the quillwork, but the rest is all mine.” She nibbled her lip, awaiting his verdict.

“They’re beautiful.” Wearing such clothes, with her dark hair and eyes, she could pass for having Cherokee blood herself.

Spanish
, he thought, pierced unexpectedly with a stab of envy. His wife didn’t know all she wished to about her past, or her parents … but what he wouldn’t give to know as much about himself. Maybe when they finally put down roots of their own, questions about his white parents would stop haunting him.

Tamsen was fingering the beads she’d stitched across the tunic’s front. “I’d need to work at this for years to come close to what White Shell can do. But I couldn’t resist the challenge.”

“It makes you happy, sewing clothes?” He hardly needed to ask. She glowed with the accomplishment.

“I never thought I’d sew, much less wear, clothes like this, but yes, it makes me happy. And reminds me of Mama.” Sorrow brushed her face, a passing shadow. “I wonder what she’d think if she could see me.”