The Pursuit of Tamsen Littlejohn by Lori Benton

Morganton to divest himself of the hides his mules conveyed. There’d been room for horse and pack train to pass on the trace, which Jesse had hoped to do with no more than a how-do. But the trapper, who’d camped the night past in the meadow beyond, proved inclined to conversate.
    “Charlie Spencer,” he said by way of introduction. “Where ye folks headed?”
    “Homebound.” Jesse berated himself for not abandoning the trace sooner as Spencer took in the drooping horse and Tamsen—more drooping still—with her ripped skirt, tumbled hair, and haunted eyes. Below a stocking cap worn low on his brow, Spencer’s gaze was friendly enough. It was also keen.
    “Where might home be?”
    “West by a bit, then south.” It was as far from the truth as Jesse could deliver on short notice.
    “Over on the French Broad? Ain’t ye taking the roundabout way?”
    Jesse forced a smile. “I’m showing my bride a bit of the country.” He put a hand to Tamsen’s knee. It jerked under his touch.
    “Anything you folks needing? I got coffee, food—nothing fancy, mind, just trail vittles,” Spencer offered, while his eyes pursued anotherline of questioning with Tamsen, who looked less like a bride than a woman abducted and ravished.
    A sudden baying of hounds made Jesse’s guts seize. Parrish couldn’t be tracking them so soon, unless … Were they seen leaving Morganton despite his care?
    Spencer emitted a piercing whistle. The barking escalated in pitch. The trapper grinned. “Them’s my dogs. Hope they ain’t treed another bear. I got all the skins my mules can tote. If’n I add one more, I’ll be hauling on the ropes to stop ’em sliding down the mountain like tin on grease. You folks out from Morganton?”
    Jesse cleared his throat. “Speaking of skins, I could use me a sturdy hide—for footwear,” he added, then wished he hadn’t when Spencer’s gaze went to the ripped, dirty silk shoe on Tamsen’s foot. “I can pay you for it.”
    Amenable to the notion whatever his suspicions, Spencer moved to the first mule and worked loose a hide from its burden. Six shillings was the going rate for a good deerskin. This one was well cured. Jesse dug inside his knapsack, searching for his coin pouch, praying he’d enough. He and Cade didn’t do much trade with hard money.
    Spencer held out the skin, neatly rolled. “Take it, with my compliments on your nuptials.” Though he spoke to Jesse, he’d been looking at Tamsen.
    “You sure?” Jesse asked.
    Spencer hesitated a beat. “Certain sure, on both counts.”
    Disinclined to argue, Jesse took the skin. “My wife and I thank you kindly.”
    A crashing of brush heralded the arrival of Spencer’s hounds, a lanky trio of spotted hides and lolling tongues. Jesse’s horse shied at their milling. The mules barely twitched an ear.
    “Best be pushing on,” Spencer said, giving up trying to catch Tamsen’s gaze. “Good luck to ye, folks.”
    At the stream that wound through the sloping meadow, Jesse halted. The rising sun spangled the dew clinging to grass and brush, save in the flattened place of Spencer’s camp, set back off the trace. The fire ring emitted faint warmth beneath Jesse’s outstretched hand. Crouching over the blackened remains, he looked back to where the trace crested, but he saw no sign of the man. He stood. “Sorry ’bout the wife talk. I had to think quick.”
    Tamsen’s haggard eyes beseeched him. For rest.
    Concern tightened in his chest. “Reckon you can make it another half mile?”
    She bowed forward in the saddle, a study in misery, but clung on as he turned the horse along the stream, following it into cover.

Lulled by the monotonous sway, Tamsen fought to stay in the saddle. She didn’t want to fall again into the arms of the man to whom she’d recklessly entrusted her life. She didn’t want him getting ideas, alone as they were in that wilderness …
    “Tamsen?”
    Would the rocking never cease? And the weight on her chest,