Fairer than Morning (33 page)

Mr. Shupp gave Will an appraising look, then walked over and shook John's newly freed hand. He steadied Clara as she climbed shakily out of the wagon. “You are unwell, sister?”

“Yes, sir, but I'm getting better.”

“Come in and have a cup of tea with my wife.” He waved in the direction of the inn.

John and Clara walked toward the house hand in hand. Mr. Shupp clapped Mr. Miller on the shoulder.

“Let's go in and talk,” he said in a low voice. “Are you headed for Blendon Township?”

How did the man know? Had Mr. Miller made this journey before?

“We are,” Mr. Miller said.

“Then I must tell you some news.” The man raised his voice again. “But I am the rudest of hosts! Come along, Wilhelm!” He chuckled as he turned to Will. “A good German name. Now come inside and let's get some food into you before any nosy strangers arrive.”

“I must put away the mules,” Mr. Miller said.

“I'll do it, sir,” Will said.

Mr. Shupp spoke up. “No, let my boy do it. He needs the practice. Fritz!”

A rawboned youth shambled out of the dim stable entrance. “
Ja
, Father?” He was tall like Mr. Shupp, but gangly as if he had not yet learned to direct his long limbs properly. “Shall I unhitch them?”

“Yes, son. But keep their straps on, in case our guests should need to leave in a hurry.”

Will imagined why that might happen and fervently hoped it would not. The young man led the mules away, bringing the wagon out of sight behind the barn.

When Will followed the older men in through the back door of the inn, he found John and Clara already seated at a long table. A middle-aged woman as dark-haired and fat-cheeked as Mr. Shupp smiled as she bustled over to Mr. Miller. “So good to see you, Brother Samuel!” Her speech was more heavily accented than her husband's. She took Mr. Miller's hat and coat.

“And you, Greta. This is my apprentice, Will. Will, Mrs. Shupp.”

“Good afternoon, Will.” She helped him out of his coat. He did not think anyone had done that for him since he last saw his mother. He saw her face in his mind, as she had knelt before him helping him pull his arms from his small sleeves. He ducked his head, hoping Mrs. Shupp would not notice his sudden emotion.

But she was too busy to see, and she whirled away to hang their coats on the end of a long row of hooks on the wall. Then she whisked her portly apron-covered form over to the roughhewn table, where a breadbox sat along with some cutlery and a salt shaker. Will and Mr. Miller sat down with the Simons. In a trice, she had served them all thick slices of bread, plunking down a small crock of sweet butter between them. John ate with relish, Clara with the impaired appetite of the convalescent. Soon the kettle steamed on the hearth, and Mrs. Shupp brought over a mug for each of them. “Spicewood tea.” She said it with pleasure as she set them on the long, beveled planks of the tabletop.

Aptly named, Will discovered, as an herbal smell rose warm in his face. The tea was sweet, with a bracing tart aftertaste like rhubarb.

As they ate, Mrs. Shupp kept the conversation light, about the weather and their journey.

“And where are Frieda and Maria? And Paul?” Mr. Miller asked.

“They are all at their uncle's house for the afternoon. They have instructions to be back by dusk for their chores,” Mrs. Shupp said.

“And Mr. and Mrs. Kruse?”

“She is still a little under the weather, but I know she would love to see you if you can spare the time.”

“Perhaps on the return trip.”

While they exchanged more news about folk whom Will assumed must be members of the church, Mr. Shupp turned away and squeezed his big shoulders through the door that led to the public parlor. After he disappeared around the corner, Will could see a fire banked low on the hearth and a number of large chairs pulled round. The furniture was as immaculate and new as the inn. The Shupps must host a large number of travelers from Zane's Trace, with all the westward travel these days.

Mr. Shupp came back into the kitchen, a roll of ivory paper in one hand. He seated himself heavily in the chair at the head of the table next to Will.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” he said. “But you may have more difficulty passing through to Blendon than you might have expected.”

“Oh?” Mr. Miller's head lifted and he set down the tea he had been nursing.

“Yes.” Mr. Shupp's wide mouth went flat. “You see, I recognized you, Mr. John and Ms. Clara.”

He separated one of the pieces of paper from his roll and unfurled it flat upon the table, turning it toward them. Unease stirred in Will as he scanned the crude drawing and read the text:

The drawing was a ridiculous caricature with huge lips and white eyes, but the brand stood out on the cartoonish forehead.

“How did you get this?” Mr. Miller's voice had an edge, though Will knew it was not directed at Mr. Shupp.

“You know the bounty hunters are always after me to look at these fugitive notices and tell them if I have spotted any of them. I take them on the excuse that I will watch for runaways, but I keep the notices hidden in my desk.” Mr. Shupp set his elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers in concentration. “A man came by with this one about a week ago.”

“Did he wear a beaver hat?” Mr. Miller asked.

John, Clara, and Will were all quiet. No one moved.

“I do not recall,” Mr. Shupp said. “Greta had taken his hat by the time I met him, and he was gone early in the morning.”

Mrs. Shupp paused by the stove. “I cannot remember either. I'm sorry.”

Mr. Miller addressed John. “Let us hope it was Rumkin, as we can be fairly sure he will be incapacitated for a few days.”

“I think so, Mr. Samuel.” John's eyes were worried. “But it still means someone might recognize our brands.”

“Then we will cover them. Your hat will be pulled so low as to invite suspicion, perhaps, but better that than instant discovery by someone who has seen the drawing.”

“And I'll wear my bonnet.” Clara appeared unperturbed, as if her illness had wrapped her in a protective haze.

“It is an additional concern, Friedrich, but not insurmountable.” Mr. Miller rubbed his own upper arm. He was probably aching from the hours of driving, though he had said nothing to Will.

Will was relieved to hear a proposed solution. “We only have two more days on the road, isn't that right, Mr. Miller?”

“Yes, son.”

“And the Lancaster Road—is it as busy as the Trace?”

“Not quite. But our greatest risk will be when we turn onto the National Road toward Columbus.” Mr. Miller's gaze was far away, as if he sorted solutions in his head.

“And there's no other route?”

“Not by wagon. And Clara cannot travel by foot, or even by horseback for any distance.” Mr. Miller picked up his tea again. “We will simply have to cover the brand and hope for the best.”

Will nodded.

But Mr. Shupp removed his arms from the table and sat up straighter, a half head taller than any of them. “There is one more concern.” He unrolled the second piece of paper.

Will took in a sharp breath. There was his own face, staring back at him, a fair likeness instead of the other foolish sketch of John.

Will's throat constricted.

“And this came from the same bounty hunter?” Mr. Miller's tone was hopeful.

“No, this was another one. It came while I was out. Greta took it, knowing my wishes.”

“I do not remember what he looked like,” Greta said from the hearth, where she was stirring a pot of broth that sent a rich chicken smell through the kitchen. “I'm sorry, Brother Samuel.”

Mr. Miller sighed. “It's not your fault, Sister.”

Will cleared his throat to get his words past the tightness. “Perhaps it would be better if you went on without me. I will endanger you further.”

“Nonsense.” Mr. Miller was brusque, and his face creased in tense lines. “We need as many armed men as we can muster, and that includes you.”

When the papers were rolled back up, Mr. Miller and Mr. Shupp tried to continue as if nothing were amiss, but Mr. Miller crossed his arms too frequently and more than once paused too long before responding as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

Eventually Mrs. Shupp showed them to a room way up in the garret, where Will and the Simons could sleep on straw ticks on the floor. Mr. Miller would sleep in a more public place, where he could watch the travelers who arrived.

“Until then,” he told Will, “I will spend some time visiting my brethren here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And we will leave well before dawn, under cover of darkness. So if you and John and Clara can sleep this evening, that would be wise.”

“I'll try, sir.” But Will knew that would be impossible. The sight of Master Good's name, ugly and stark, had shaken him beyond any chance of rest. Will's time in the air and light could not last. A shadow pursued him and would not relent until it took him back.

Thirty

E
LI'S MOTHER REGARDED
A
NN WITH WINTRY EYES.
“ We have appreciated the opportunity to converse with you today, Miss Miller.” Mrs. Bowen's white-blond hair coiled around her head like a crown. Her husband stood beside her in the foyer, as dour as he had remained through the parlor formalities with the tiny cakes and silver tea set.

Eli opened the door and invited Ann to precede him out.

“Good afternoon,” his father said, bringing his total number of words for the teatime to at least ten.

“Good afternoon,” Ann replied. The door closed, and Ann let out a pent-up breath into the fading light of the early evening.

It had not been the most comfortable tea she had ever attended.

When she and Eli had progressed a little way down the road, he offered his arm. She took it without comment.

“My parents are not easy to come to know. But they are good people.”

“Yes, I'm sure they are.” She pitied his subdued manner. He was not to blame for their stiff manners, nor for his mother's pointed questions about Ann's fitness to be a doctor's wife.

“You know I don't plan to settle in Rushville. I will not be tied to my mother's apron strings.”

She smiled, but said nothing. The trees stood thick along this part of Main Street, their budding branches intertwined like the arms of dancers. The Bowens' farm lay a mile to the east of the town center, and so it was only a short walk back to the Sumners' home and store.

“I do have to leave for medical school soon,” Eli said. “My parents are beginning to think me a malingerer.” He grinned and pressed her hand where it lay on his arm.

“If you would not lie on their fainting couch and quote poetry all day long, they might not be so eager for you to leave.”

He laughed, sounding relaxed and merry for the first time that evening. “Yes, that is just how I spend my days there. And then I tell them that all my poems are for Miss Miller. They find that especially endearing.”

She giggled, glancing sidelong at his profile when she thought he was not looking at her. But he was, and his gaze intensified.

“Do let's be serious for a moment.” He gently stopped her in the road. “I have dared to hope that perhaps things have changed between us since I last asked you to marry me. I want to ask you once more.”

He pulled her closer to him and tilted his face down toward her, so she looked up at him. Her heart thudded; she wanted those perfectly curved lips to touch hers, but she stood on the balls of her feet as if she could still run away.

“Won't you marry me, Ann? And come with me to Cincinnati? We won't have a great deal for a few years, but we could live with my brother on his farm there until I am a doctor. I have already written to him.”