Seven Aprils

Seven Aprils

by

Eileen Charbonneau

CHAPTER 1

April, 1860

Ashoken-on-Hudson Township, New York

White clouds rose off the water as Tess set her rifle down. She swayed, enjoying the feel of spring air among her kilted up skirts. She knelt, using her neckerchief to splash a quick shower over her face and shoulders.

An unearthly scream, like a tortured woman’s, came in on the wind, from beyond the stone wall, the private lands of the Ashoken widow. An attack, Tess felt its vibrations beneath her feet. It scattered the birds from the trees all around.

She thought of going back for her brothers, but her heart’s pounding said: no time. Tess took up her weapon and threaded her way through the brush. She scaled the gray stone wall of the forbidden land.

There, under the limb of an old oak, was a fallen man, under a saddled horse.

The horse still protected the rider, wedged under the curve of the animal’s withers. Both panted, wild-eyed. Prowling in a tightening circle before them was the biggest panther Tess had ever seen.

So much glistening black in the dawn light---the animal’s pelt, the man’s hair and boots. It would be too late, Tess thought, once the panther sprang, for her to get a clear shot.

And the cat was about to spring.

She stood, raised her Springfield to her shoulder, exhaled. Fired.

Through the smoke the panther looked startled, as if Tess had appeared out of nowhere. She had. The wind was right, blowing her scent toward the creek. The panther went down, clawing, screaming. The horse could only protect his master from this final attack by pounding the cat with his head. Because of the arched curve of his neck, he seemed able to do so from all directions. The panther’s death throes were brief.

Wary of the horse’s powerful head, Tess approached, grabbed hold of the skin behind the cat's neck with both hands, and dragged the heavy, still body to the oak.

She returned sweating, scented with her kill. Still, the horse allowed her to kneel close. Past the man’s high black boots, fresh red stains seeped through light colored breeches, joining those at his shoulder and across his forehead.

Eyes as green as the budding oak leaves above them watched her. Maude the tinker woman would have called them a changeling’s eyes, they were that strange. He looked younger than her brothers, but maybe only seemed so because his face was clean-shaven.

"Take my hand," he said, uncurling clenched fingers.

She did. Strong, but without calluses.

“Now. Your foot, please. In the pit of my arm."

When she placed herself as he instructed, pain grayed his eyes' brightness. "Now, pull. Hard."

"But--"

"I must see to my horse. Please."

Tess did as he asked. His yell was almost as short as the pop at his arm.

"Perfect,” he said evenly, though he was blinking sweat from his eyes. “Thank you."

He rose to his knees, hovering over his animal.

"Easy, Moutamin.”

The horse nuzzled at his coat. "Here then, you great baby," he said, searching until Tess smelled what he found-- cubes of maple sugar candy. The horse’s tongue received them like the tamest dog.

Reaching into his saddlebag, Moutamin’s master pulled out a pistol. Of course. It was the only way. There was no hope for the animal, who began to thrash.

"Best keep talking. I'll do it," she offered.

She thought he was going to refuse. But he released the firearm. "Most kind of you," he whispered.

"Well. He's a right fine horse."

"Yes."

As she warmed the pistol's muzzle in her skirts, the horse rooted at the man’s coat. "None remains," he said, patting that fine curved neck. "But the sap's running again, late this year. Soon you'll have new grass and maple sugar to your heart's content. Soon."

He looked up at her, nodded. Tess jammed the barrel in the horse’s ear, and fired.

Loud. It was a powerful firearm, and kicked back. The horse jumped, shuddered, then stilled.

She frowned. Blamed ignorant, not to sense the panther and ride into an ambush. Now two splendid animals were dead and this no-sense man was bleeding like-- She heard a strangled sound.

Tess had seen tears locked in her brothers' eyes when they’d buried Mama, but she had never before seen a man's face wet with them.

"Thank you," he whispered gruffly.

He rose to his feet, blinking, touching his hand to his brow. Then his knees buckled and he slid to the ground, as motionless as the panther.

Fear gripped her insides. Tess knelt, loosened his scarf, the rich color of currents. Her fingers combed the hair back off his forehead. Wet hair. Cold, damp forehead. Like her mother's, when Tess couldn’t think of anything else to do for her. She didn't know how to help him, either, not like he seemed to know himself. She rocked on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, fighting her instinct to flee back over the wall.

He stirred, then covered her work-roughened hand with his fine-boned one. "I am deeply in your debt, Diana," he whispered.

“My name ain’t Diana.”

“Of course it is. Wild Diana of the woods.” He smiled now, lopsided, like he was drunk.

In the distance, men's voices called out.

"Ryder!” and “Where the devil are you?"

Tess slipped her hand out from under his. "Your friends. They're coming. You be all right, hear?”

She left him, dragging the panther's weight behind the chokecherry bush, and watched.

Two men found Ryder.

“Where did she go?” he asked them.

“Who?”

One helped him to stand, while the other laughed, though he looked around nervously.

“What, another mistress? One with claws? Sacre bleu, will you never learn how deadly the women are?”

Ryder tried to shove them away but the bigger one lifted him over his shoulder.

How far did they have to go, Tess wondered as they disappeared beyond the hemlocks. Did the men know what to do for him?

She heard footfalls in the other direction and spied her kinsmen. Andrew shoved her shoulder. "Didn't we tell you stay out of the widow's game land?”

“What did you do?" Laban demanded.

Tess steadied her stance. Felt her anger flare again. "This here’s my kill. No gentleman without the sense to track it proper is going to take it from me!"

"Damnation," her brothers both said at once.

“Come away,” Laban urged.

“I need to skin the cat.”

Andrew looked to the wall, back to her bloody skirts. “Not here,” he said.

Back at their campsite, Tess worked her Bowie knife quickly as Laban and Andrew threw their belongings together. Her brothers were afraid, she realized. Because of the blood on her clothes, her powder-burned hand. How much had they seen? Did they think she had shot the man, not the horse? Her own brothers, thinking she could shoot a man. Well, she probably could, if one provoked her bad enough.

But not that man.

Thank you for visiting SEVEN APRILS opening chapter. I welcome your comments and suggestions...eileencharbonneau@gmail.com