The Frontiersman’s Daughter (42 page)
Lael held the piece of paper in her hands, studying the deed to the knob, granted by the newly formed Kentucke Land Company. Ian had given it to her the day before, the promised wedding present, and it was then she’d seen his signature for the very first time, her eyes lingering on the heavy elegant hand.
Ian Alexander Justus, Fifth Earl Roslyn.
She’d never really thought of his title. What then would that make her?
Just yesterday he’d taken her by the shoulders, his eyes a dazzling azure blue. “Are you timorsome aboot anything, Lael? Anything at all?”
She was, but only in regards to his happiness, not her own. “I’m just plain and simple, Ian. But you . . . you’re fancy in a way I’ll never be. You’re a nobleman, Ian. A Scottish earl.”
“Nae, Lael. I’m just a mon, a simple Scot, graced with a title. It means but little, truly.”
Taking out Neddy’s Bible, she wrote inside its cover,
Today, 29 March 1784, is the day I am to wed.
At three o’clock she was to be a bride. She placed the deed to the knob within its pages and packed it in her trunk. Whatever she might forget to take to Scotland, it must not be her Bible.
Her eyes made a clean sweep of the tidy cabin, almost ready for her leaving. Ma’s Sunday-best quilt lay across the bed. On a whim she’d scattered dried rose petals upon the faded, clean coverlet. Their sweetness was faint but still telling. A bridal bed, truly, if only for one night. After that their courtship could continue on the trail to Virginia, beneath the same blanket and a million stars.
Oh Pa, I wish you were here today to see me wed. I think you’d be proud.
She’d wanted a quiet wedding with little fuss. The settlement was still too sore for any festivities, their grief compounded by two dozen lonesome graves. Before they departed, they would announce what they’d done in the stillness of this spring afternoon with no witnesses save Colonel Barr.
She hardly knew who stared back at her in the looking glass. Pink and white dogwood blossoms held in place a whisper-thin veil of lace. Around her neck was the strand of pink pearls. She felt weighted down in the heavy silk of her dress despite its beauty.
She passed onto the porch and stood, the lushness of spring snatching speech, and tried to impress all of the wilderness sights and sounds upon her heart. Everything was just as it had been all those years before when the Shawnee came. The dogwood was blooming in the side yard and the porch still sagged, weighted down by time and roses.
A sudden movement—a bird?—caught her eye. The wind shifted the shadows in the clearing, but she saw past them nevertheless. There, against the lush woods, stood a man. A flicker of familiarity coursed through her. For just a moment she fell back in time. It seemed she was a girl again, standing on the porch, her hair falling to her feet. Could it be?
Bewildered, she stepped into the sunlight, her silk skirts rustling. She was afraid . . . afraid if she didn’t run to him he’d disappear. Across the clearing she could hear a horse and rider coming—and Ian calling her name. Torn, she paused and looked over her shoulder, then back to the woods.
Behind her, Ian had dismounted in the clearing and stood watching
.
She made it to the dogwood tree, her breath coming in short bursts. Aye, she had seen more than a shadow . . . sensed she wasn’t alone
.
Her heart hurt. But there was nothing there, after all. The wind in the trees—the shifting shadows—were merely playing a wild game.
She turned around slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on the Scotsman before her. Arms open wide, she began to run toward him, away from the dark woods. There was no need to look back now . . . perhaps never again. For as long as she lived, Lord willing, she could look forward. The past no longer had a hold on her.
No more secrets.
No more shadows.
I am deeply grateful to the people God has placed in my path. To my very gracious editor, Andrea Doering, for opening the door. To the editorial staff and the entire team at Revell. What a joy!
I am blessed with a wonderful brother, Chris Irwin, who gave me all manner of support—technical and otherwise—and parents who prayed for me.
To my dear friends and mentors Grace Huckleberry, Cindy Reynolds, and Kathy Vogel. Only heaven knows what your prayers and godly examples have meant to me.
To Darlene Putnam, my first reader and fellow artist. Bless you.
To Nicia, my sister-in-love and second reader. Your encouragement kept me going.
To my husband, Randy, and my sons Wyatt and Paul, for riding the writing roller coaster with me. You give me daily inspiration.
To the Kentucky Historical Society and Fort Boonesborough, for untold treasures.
My story is about history, which I love, but more importantly, my story is “His story.” It began many years ago when God planted a dream to write books in the heart of a little Kentucky girl, and when she’d grown up and almost given up, He began fulfilling that dream. He really is the Father who never fails. “The Lord will accomplish what concerns me; Your lovingkindness, O Lord, is everlasting; do not forsake the works of Your hands” (Ps. 138:8).
Laura Frantz
credits her one-hundred-year-old grandmother, who passed away during the publication of this book, as being the catalyst for her fascination with Kentucky history. Frantz’s ancestors followed Daniel Boone into Kentucky in 1792 and settled in Madison County, where her family still resides. Frantz is a former schoolteacher and social worker who currently lives in the misty woods of Port Angeles, Washington, with her husband and two sons, whom she homeschools. Contact her at
www.laurafrantz.blogspot.com
or
LauraFrantz.net
.
When tragedy strikes, how will
Molly McGarvie survive?
Experience the wonder and hardship of life on the prairie with Molly McGarvie as she fights to survive loss and keep her young family together.
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