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things no one had dared ask him, not even Ma. Quietly she rehearsed them in her heart. Pa, did you like living with the Shawnee? Do you ever miss those days? Did they come by the cabin just to see you? What exactly did they say?
    Taking a deep breath, she gathered her courage about her, then felt it dwindle. Last time she’d probed, he’d called her a gabby, yellow-haired gal and shut her out. Maybe she had no right to ask about his past. But it seemed that his past was now intruding on her present in a bewildering way.
    As they brushed by a sorrel tree she stripped off one narrow leaf, chewing it to quiet her thirst. If only she had something to still her heart . She fished in her pocket, empty of the beads now, and found Simon’s note alongside the old newspaper. This would have to do.
    When the darkness hemmed them in and they could go no farther, they made a cold camp in a small clearing. Crickets hollered all around them and sang them to sleep as they lay on hard ground with nary a blanket. Before dawn they rose, dew covered and slightly stiff, and journeyed on.
    After being tethered to the cabin for days on end, Lael felt a queer elation with every step, her spirits rising like the swell of mountains they traversed. At noon they crested a steep divide and looked down upon the river bottoms from which they’d come. Far below, the Kentucke River lay at low ebb, a startling sapphire blue.
    Lael took off her bonnet, the fabric limp and lifeless in her hand, the dye long since washed out. Though the sun couldn’t touch them through the thick stands of timber, the woods were nearly suffocating. Even the mare turned mulish. Stopping at every creek and branch, they chewed on ginseng root to revive themselves.
    Toward nightfall they found themselves high atop a rocky ridge where the air was thin and pure and the sound of pigeons punctuated the growing gloom. Weary, Lael studied the one-room cabin in their path, mountain laurel hugging its walls as if hiding it from passersby. She doubted there were many. A rail fence zigzagged across the yard, penning in poppies and hollyhocks, bellflowers and foxglove, reminding her of her mother’s own.
    “I misdoubt even the Indians could find us way up here even if they wanted to,” she said as they drew nearer.
    A woman, lean and brown as a strip of jerky, stood in the doorway as if expecting them. There was no porch, but a fine rock chimney climbed one wall, puffing smoke. As she dismounted Lael lost her bearings and swayed, then felt her father’s hard hand steady her. She’d not make a fool of herself and faint, she determined. She reckoned she’d caused enough trouble for one day.
    After a long night on hard ground and nothing to eat, they were welcomed with a water bucket and gourd dipper. Lael drank thirstily, standing apart from her father and the only granny she’d ever known. They spoke in low tones and she could only guess what it was they said, struck by her pa’s sudden talkativeness. The woman who listened was no stranger, and Lael felt relieved at the very sight of her.
    A great aunt in the Click clan, Ma Horn was a spinster whom some said had a horde of shillings stashed away beneath the thatch of pea vine and clover around her cabin. But no one truly knew, for Ma Horn was more interested in the ailments of others than telling secrets about herself. She’d come to Kentucke on Pa’s second foray years before, the only woman among eighteen men. Together they’d built the cabin in the tiny clearing, a place few had seldom seen. Ma Horn was often on the move, dispensing tonics and herb bundles, and usually came to them.
    “Come in the cabin, Lael, and rest a spell,” she finally said, wiping gnarled hands on a worn apron.
    Lael. Lay-elle. The genteel pronunciation of her name was not lost on Lael. Of all the Click clan, Ma Horn was the only one who could pronounce her name properly. Not hard and fast like Ma spoke it, often in a fit of temper, nor the neglectful