two are running up quite an account. They're here
nearly every day. I wish one of them would ask for your hand
and be done with it. Then you'd have to stay on"
Morrow tried to soften her aunt's agitation with a smile. "Mr.
Marcum is more interested in shoe buckles and sleeve ruffs
than me. And Captain Keene is said to be betrothed to a lady
in England. Besides, I told them I was leaving."
"And?" Etta paused, green eyes sharp.
"Mr. Marcum bade me farewell. And Captain Keene.. " She
felt herself go pink at Etta's probing stare. "The captain said he'd
not frequent Elfreth's Alley quite so often once the sunlight of
my presence had left this place"
"Ah, I knew he was smitten!"
"For all his pretty poetry, Aunt, the man is twice my age"
"At four and thirty he's quite a catch. And a respected officer
in the king's army, to boot. What prospects have you once you
return to the wilderness?"
"Prospects?"
"Lice-ridden frontiersmen? Rum-soaked trappers and traders? Your father should be ashamed calling you home at such
a marriageable age"
As she remembered it afresh, Morrow's stomach clenched
tight. What if Aunt Etta was right? What if she was making a
terrible mistake returning to Kentucke? Sighing, she set down
her half-finished plate and let the steersman's dog finish her
supper, her thoughts turning toward home. She'd not seen her father in two years. Two years. Though her homesickness had
been acute, the British occupation had kept her rooted to the
little shop and house on Elfreth's Alley until today. But now she
was free. Free! The stench of the city was fading away, and she
could draw an easy breath. If notfor.. .
Shutting the thought away, she lay down on a pallet in a
corner of the keelboat's cabin behind a muslin curtain. Captain
Click was never far away, his gun trained on more than Indians.
He'd let no one take liberties with her, she knew. Perhaps he was
thinking of his own daughter tucked safely away in one of the
finest finishing schools in the colonies. Morrow wished he'd
talk about her and ease the boredom that hung between them.
But she'd heard that the frontiersman was a man of few words.
Besides, he had little time for idle chatter. Though he lounged
against the house of the keelboat like the most indolent loafer,
his beaver felt hat pulled low over his astonishing blue eyes, his
surveillance never ceased.
The next morning, beneath the brim of her own hat, she
stole a discreet look at him in the brilliant sunshine. Not a twig
snapped along the north shore or a leaf stirred in the gentle wind
that he wasn't unraveling its source. Sighing, she took out the
volume of poetry Aunt Etta had packed and turned her attention
to a bit of lighthearted verse. Only she wasn't lighthearted.
Moments before, Captain Click had escorted her to a crate,
its top softened by a beaver pelt. Here she sat and partook of
breakfast-some cold journey cake and lukewarm coffee. The
rising sun skimmed off the water with an emerald shimmer, and
she peered over the rim of her pewter cup, watching a heron
take flight. The land was beginning to assume a familiar shape,
like an old friend she'd been missing and was coming to know
once more. They were rounding a bend in the river, slipping
toward the southern shore, and it seemed she could reach out
and touch the brush-laden bank.
So lost was she in its wild beauty she started when Captain
Click sat down nearby, rifle at the ready. But what was one gun
against a canoe full of Indians? Though the polemen had pistols
in their belts, she felt taut with tension, eyes returning to the
north shore-the Shawnee shore-again and again.
"I don't recollect putting you on watch this morning."
The quiet comment took her by surprise. Did he miss nothing? "I'm just ... remembering, I guess" She read kindness and
concern in his face and blinked to keep the sudden welling in
her eyes from spilling over.
He settled his gun across his knees. "Best think of
nearly every day. I wish one of them would ask for your hand
and be done with it. Then you'd have to stay on"
Morrow tried to soften her aunt's agitation with a smile. "Mr.
Marcum is more interested in shoe buckles and sleeve ruffs
than me. And Captain Keene is said to be betrothed to a lady
in England. Besides, I told them I was leaving."
"And?" Etta paused, green eyes sharp.
"Mr. Marcum bade me farewell. And Captain Keene.. " She
felt herself go pink at Etta's probing stare. "The captain said he'd
not frequent Elfreth's Alley quite so often once the sunlight of
my presence had left this place"
"Ah, I knew he was smitten!"
"For all his pretty poetry, Aunt, the man is twice my age"
"At four and thirty he's quite a catch. And a respected officer
in the king's army, to boot. What prospects have you once you
return to the wilderness?"
"Prospects?"
"Lice-ridden frontiersmen? Rum-soaked trappers and traders? Your father should be ashamed calling you home at such
a marriageable age"
As she remembered it afresh, Morrow's stomach clenched
tight. What if Aunt Etta was right? What if she was making a
terrible mistake returning to Kentucke? Sighing, she set down
her half-finished plate and let the steersman's dog finish her
supper, her thoughts turning toward home. She'd not seen her father in two years. Two years. Though her homesickness had
been acute, the British occupation had kept her rooted to the
little shop and house on Elfreth's Alley until today. But now she
was free. Free! The stench of the city was fading away, and she
could draw an easy breath. If notfor.. .
Shutting the thought away, she lay down on a pallet in a
corner of the keelboat's cabin behind a muslin curtain. Captain
Click was never far away, his gun trained on more than Indians.
He'd let no one take liberties with her, she knew. Perhaps he was
thinking of his own daughter tucked safely away in one of the
finest finishing schools in the colonies. Morrow wished he'd
talk about her and ease the boredom that hung between them.
But she'd heard that the frontiersman was a man of few words.
Besides, he had little time for idle chatter. Though he lounged
against the house of the keelboat like the most indolent loafer,
his beaver felt hat pulled low over his astonishing blue eyes, his
surveillance never ceased.
The next morning, beneath the brim of her own hat, she
stole a discreet look at him in the brilliant sunshine. Not a twig
snapped along the north shore or a leaf stirred in the gentle wind
that he wasn't unraveling its source. Sighing, she took out the
volume of poetry Aunt Etta had packed and turned her attention
to a bit of lighthearted verse. Only she wasn't lighthearted.
Moments before, Captain Click had escorted her to a crate,
its top softened by a beaver pelt. Here she sat and partook of
breakfast-some cold journey cake and lukewarm coffee. The
rising sun skimmed off the water with an emerald shimmer, and
she peered over the rim of her pewter cup, watching a heron
take flight. The land was beginning to assume a familiar shape,
like an old friend she'd been missing and was coming to know
once more. They were rounding a bend in the river, slipping
toward the southern shore, and it seemed she could reach out
and touch the brush-laden bank.
So lost was she in its wild beauty she started when Captain
Click sat down nearby, rifle at the ready. But what was one gun
against a canoe full of Indians? Though the polemen had pistols
in their belts, she felt taut with tension, eyes returning to the
north shore-the Shawnee shore-again and again.
"I don't recollect putting you on watch this morning."
The quiet comment took her by surprise. Did he miss nothing? "I'm just ... remembering, I guess" She read kindness and
concern in his face and blinked to keep the sudden welling in
her eyes from spilling over.
He settled his gun across his knees. "Best think of