The Frontiersman’s Daughter (21 page)

34

Each time she saw her, Lael felt Ma Horn slipping away. Her eyesight was now so poor she had trouble telling some herbs from others and knew this might someday cause a fatal mistake. Where she’d once been so tidy in person and surroundings, she was now unkempt and the tiny cabin cluttered. Some days it took all her strength to leave her chair. And she was more and more in need of her own remedies.

Yet she was gracious in relinquishing the wisdom of the years to Lael, committing others into her care. “Remember, boneset will nearly always break a fever,” she would say. Or, “Mae Burl’s youngest is hivey and in need of a tonic.” And Lael would go, venturing out again and again, prodded by the weight of her growing responsibilities.

One day, fatigued after a feverish round of calls, she was in no mood to hear of fresh Indian trouble. “Seems like they always strike after fooling us with a false peace,” Lael lamented.

“Your pa said there’d be no more trouble betwixt us or them one day,” Ma Horn replied. “But now I wonder if he didn’t mean one or the other of us would have to go.”

Lael sighed and went to the door, fixing her eyes on the far panoply of purple hills above the fort’s pickets. “Seems like we could all just abide together in peace.”

She debated whether to ride home in the twilight or stay the night, picturing Tuck running to meet her as she rode in, hungry for some supper scraps. The cow needed to be milked and she’d left some wash out—

“. . . come to the fort,” Ma Horn’s voice had risen as it always did with fresh news.

Lael turned, her color high. “What did you say?”

“I said a doctor has come to the fort.”

“A doctor? But why?”

“I never asked him. Seems obvious to me. There’s more people comin’ into this country ever’ day. Enough for the both of you.”

“But we need a preacher—and a teacher—more than a doctor.” Even as she said it, she recalled her frantic wish for a medical man as she’d dug the lead ball from Simon’s shoulder during the siege. With a shrug she added, “Seems like you and I tend the settlement well enough.”

“Well, the good Lord knows otherwise, for it’s a doctor He’s sent. He just moved into the old Hayes place. It’s big as cabins go—says he plans to use it to keep real sick folks or ones who need surgery.”

“Surgery!” Lael exclaimed, rankled that this man—a stranger— would occupy the blockhouse that held some of her dearest childhood memories. It had sat empty ever since her return, and its emptiness seemed fitting somehow, reflecting the emptiness in her heart.

“So you’ve met him.”

“Aye, I’ve met him. And he wants to meet you. His name is Ian Justus.”

She frowned. She hadn’t wanted to know his name—or anything else. “So he’s here—now?”

“Nay, gone to Lexington to pick up a fancy medicine chest. But he’ll likely be back by dark, should ye stay.”

That decided it. “I must go.” Furiously, she began packing up her saddlebags and moving toward the door.

“Mind them fresh Shawnee tracks,” Ma Horn warned. “And ride hard all the way home.”

She rode hard, her thoughts centered on this man, Ian Justus. Truly, it was a strong-sounding name. But what manner of man would journey into the wilderness to an obscure fort still in danger of Indian attack?

With all her heart she hoped he was old and infirm. But reason told her it was only a young man’s fortitude and courage that would bring him to such a place. She considered that he was no doctor at all but a ne’er-do-well masquerading as such. The frontier was rife with these frauds, leaving their patients in worse shape than before. Her blood boiled just thinking of them.

At their first meeting,
if
there was a meeting, she’d ask to see his medical license. Whoever he was, he’d likely soon grow weary of the hardships and deprivations of fort life and return to wherever it was he’d come from. Though what person, when confronted with Kentucke and its blazing woods in autumn, or the redbud and dogwood’s beauty in spring, could ever leave?

Nevertheless, he was an outlander. And he wanted to meet her. Well, she would simply not be met.

Lael was in a shady cove digging ginseng when she heard a horse approach. Hands stained with loamy soil, her dress now wrinkled and dirty, she stayed low. All around her grew maples and basswood and butternut and coffee, their leafy richness further shielding her from view. But she soon saw the horse and rider plain.

The mount was a chestnut bay and the rival of any owned by Asa Forbes. As for the man, she saw only his backside. His hair was dark and short by settlement standards. Only a small curl at the nape of his neck was tied back with a whang. Broad of shoulder but not overly tall, she judged, by the way he sat in the saddle. But it was his clothes that alerted her to his strangeness. He wore a linen shirt so white as to be a perfect target for an Indian arrow and—

The Scot!

She shot straight up, her sang hoe forgotten. She’d last seen him at the corn husking but had been too busy to give him a second thought since. Besides, she’d not thought to see him again. The path he took led straight to her cabin.

She wondered his reaction had she whooped and sprung out of the sang patch. She sank back down to the ground, out of sight. And then she knew—an inexplicable feeling told her the Scot and the doctor were the same. She let the reality of it trickle over her. Could it be? If so, she couldn’t dodge him forever. Her refusal to go to the fort suddenly seemed childish. Perhaps . . . She wrinkled her nose at the peculiar thought before giving in. Perhaps all her questions could be put to rest by a single visit.

A windstorm had blown up the night before and the forest floor was deep in chestnuts and acorns and hickory nuts. Ma Horn had a hankering for butternuts, and in two days’ time Lael had gathered several sackfuls for the both of them. Back at the cabin she began the tedious process of taking the hulls off before storing them for winter. She parched some of the acorns for coffee and ground the rest into flour. Every autumn Ma had done the same in case times were rough, which they invariably were. But she ate up her share of butternuts as soon as she dried them for they were sweet and uncommon and too few to store.

As she worked she waited, alert to Tuck’s bark. No one called for her services, and the sudden lull made her wonder. Had word of the doctor’s arrival spread so that folks were now taking their ailments to him? With a sinking sensation she pondered the possibility. He was easily accessible, being at the fort, the very heart of the settlement. Folks had reason to go there regularly for supplies. Why not see the doctor at the same time?

By the time all the nuts were in, her curiosity was at fever pitch. She could not sleep for thinking about him. When she sat down to her simple meals, they seemed tasteless. All the little tasks that had brought her pleasure and fulfillment lost their meaning. Why, she was acting lovestruck instead of vexed! Even sitting on the porch, bathed in the sun of Indian summer and the sweet breath of the fading roses, failed to move her.

As she loaded the nuts onto the mare she felt queer clear to the pit of her being, as if one of the butterflies Tuck loved to chase had somehow made it down her throat into her stomach. Taking up a small hand mirror, she took a good look at herself then rankled at the action. What did she care if her hair was disheveled or the hem of her dress soiled from work? But she remedied both, splashing cool water on her face for freshening and donning her favorite straw hat.

Not once did she think of Indian trouble as she rode. The sunlit woods seemed peaceable, and Hackberry Ridge was sunburned and empty as it sloped toward the fort. Once inside, she found the common abuzz with activity. An unusual number of horses and pack animals were outside the sutler’s. With a sinking feeling she turned her head away at the familiar sight of Simon’s mare.

She’d not seen him since the day of his indecent proposal when she sent him packing. Pine for him she still did, but it was for the Simon of her youth—the boy with hair like fire and an unsullied spirit, not the uncouth man.

She rode on, the bags of nuts brushing against her legs. A young boy came from nowhere, his face earnest and eager. “I’ll see to your horse for some of them nuts,” he said, eyeing the bags.

Smiling, she turned over the mare and he was off, eager to earn his reward. The door to Ma Horn’s cabin was ajar. As was her custom, she didn’t knock. Clutching the bags of nuts, she pushed open the door. It swung forward with a familiar creak, and the sudden sunlight smote the cabin’s dimness.

“Halloo,” she called as she stood in the door frame.

“Halloo tae you,” came a man’s reply.

Pausing in the doorway, Lael was legitimately speechless. She stood as still and stoic as her father when facing a Shawnee war party. For a fleeting moment she thought she’d mistakenly entered the old Hayes place. She didn’t mean to stare. After so long a ride in the sunlight, her eyes needed adjusting to the sudden gloom.

It seemed he knew who she was instantly. Had someone painted her likeness to him in words . . . said something particular to describe her?

“Miss Click,” he said simply.

“Mr. Justus,” she replied. She would not call him doctor, not yet.

He seemed to smile at the sound of her voice. It was a woman’s voice with a girl’s softness. A cultured voice, with all the underlying rawness of the Kentucke frontier.

“I’m here, child, if you’re wonderin’, ” said Ma Horn.

“I’ve brought you some nuts,” Lael told her, depositing the sacks at one end of the hearth.

“Much obliged.” She came forward out of the shadows, leaning on a cane. “And nary the twain shall meet, someone said. But here ye both are.”

“We’ve seen each other before,” the Scot said.

“Aye, so we have,” Lael said.

“At the corn husking,” they both said at once.

Ma Horn laughed then, easy as a girl, and moved toward the door. “Well then, no need for me to stay and make howdy-dos twice. Since the doctor got me this here cane, I ain’t so shut in. Reckon I’ll go see to Airy Phelps.”

And so she passed out the door, albeit slowly, leaving it open for decency’s sake. Color high, Lael felt like running after her. How could Ma Horn leave them together—alone—at first meeting? To hide her befuddlement, she reached up and removed her straw hat, then chastised herself
. He will think I mean to stay.

“So you’re the settlement midwife.”

Startled, she looked at him. His words, spoken with a strong Scottish brogue, put her on edge. To make sure she clearly understood him, she had to listen hard and weigh and measure his every word. Aye, his voice was rich and thick as molasses. A honeyed tongue, if ever there was one.

“Midwife? Nay,” she replied. Truly, she had yet to birth a baby.

“Perhaps a modest one?” His slow smile was disarming.

“Not a midwife,” she said at last, thinking it too smart a title. “Just a body with a knowledge of healing herbs, is all.”

He studied her as she spoke, his eyes on her face. Furtively, she studied him. There was none of the fumbling of Asa Forbes or the brazen boldness of Simon Hayes about him. She was taken aback at his easy manner. He was taller than she, and his rugged features were handsome and tan as new leather.