Clover grimaced as she leaned on a rope-encircled post on the barge and stared into the muddy waters of the Ohio River. The water smelled as murky as it looked.

Ballard had hired one of the better barges, with cramped but clean quarters for them and their families. The wooden cabin set in the middle of the barge made it look a little more like a proper ship. Nevertheless, this was not the romantic river trip she had envisioned.

Clover watched the crew of a keelboat skillfully navigate the shallow draft freight boat past theirs. She inwardly acknowledged that the rivermen were not, as a whole, the dashing romantic rogues that were often described in local stories. Most of the ones she had seen were weather-hardened and none too clean, men who were struggling to make a living—either honestly or dishonestly. The boats were often precariously crammed with solemn-faced people headed west, many of them desperately poor. What she glimpsed of the houses and towns along the river did not look much better. New clearly did not mean better. They had been on the river for two days and she had yet to see any real sign of prosperity.

“Dinnae look so sad, lass,” Ballard murmured as he stepped up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. “Kentucky is much prettier.”

She leaned back against him. “I am sure it is. I was just thinking of all the grand promises made to people who move west, promises of wealth and the easy life. There are few signs of that here.”

“‘Twill come. A lot of this land is still rough and new. And many of these folk have come from nothing. To have their own piece of land, to break their backs just for themselves and not for some other men, is prosperity to them. I ken that there are exceptions, but, truth to tell, most folk who have an easy life get their money from the sweat of others. Aye, some of them worked bloody hard to get to where they could work less yet still make an enviable amount of money. But ‘tis still the work of others that fills their fancy homes and puts rich food on their tables.”

He looked out at the collection of rough cabins they were passing. “This is just the beginning, lass. Just the beginning.”

“I know. I am sure that parts of Pennsylvania once looked as rough as this. It just takes some getting used to.”

“Where I live it is half settled and half rough. We have passed the raw beginning and started to reach for prosperity. Ye willnae find it as hard a life as some of these folk are living.”

“Oh, I am not worried about the life being hard, Ballard. If I had stayed in Langleyville, my life would have been very hard indeed. But I do worry whether I will be able to handle the difficult labor. Molly will not be with us forever. I have lived a rather spoiled life.”

“Aye, but ye are nae spoiled. Ye will do just fine, lass.”

Clover did not share his confidence, but she did not argue. “Do you live near Daniel Boone?”

“Daniel Boone? Nay, lass. He doesnae live in Kentucky any longer.”

“Has he set out to explore someplace else?”

“Nay. I heard that he and his wife are running an inn somewhere—in Virginia, I think.”

“You jest. Why would he leave Kentucky? He opened the land to settlers. Surely he would have settled there himself.”

“He did. Our government decided Boone’s claim to his land wasnae a proper one and they wouldnae let him keep it.”

“That is appalling. He is fighting them in court, is he not? He deserves what he claims. After all, he opened up the route to that land.”

“‘Tis exactly how a lot of folk feel. I suspect old Boone will be back in Kentucky someday.”

Clover turned and caught sight of Damien playing tag with Clayton. Both boys were too close to the edge of the barge and their mother was occupied helping Molly mend some clothes. Damien stumbled and Clover caught her breath, but then he regained his balance and resumed his reckless course around the deck.

Clover slipped free of Ballard’s light hold. “I had better go and speak to the boys,” she said. “They are not taking care.”

“Do ye want me to speak to them?”

“No, but thank you for offering. You kept them occupied most of the morning.”

“They are good lads and no bother, lass.”

“Humph. At times. This is not one of them.”

She heard him laugh as he left her side and headed toward the captain.

Clover turned her attention back to her brothers, who were still racing heedlessly in all directions. She cursed when she saw Damien running straight for the side of the boat. The boy was so busy looking to see if Clayton was about to tag him, he did not see how near to the edge he was.

“Damien,” she yelled, but he just laughed and kept running.

In mere moments he would fly right off the boat. She ran to cut him off, to catch him before he tumbled into the water.

Just as she stepped between him and the edge, he looked around and realized his danger. He yelled and tried to stop, but it was too late. The deck was still slick from an early morning rain and he skidded toward her. Clover grunted as he slammed into her, knocking her backward and sending her out over the side, then down, down. Damien echoed her screech as they hit the water and were swept along by the frigid, swirling current.

Clover tried to grab hold of Damien, but the current quickly dragged him out of her reach. She was being pulled down by the weight of her clothes and could not immediately go after him. Fighting panic, she pulled off her petticoats and skirt. The release of her legs from the tangled wet cloth enabled her to speed back to the surface. She looked for Damien and saw the boy being swept away by the same current that was buffeting her body.

The river was cold and dangerously swift. Clover knew she would never be able to fight against the current and take Damien back to the barge. Her only hope was to get him to shore or to grab hold of some of the rocks or low-hanging branches along the banks.

She spotted a dying tree tipped toward the river on an eroding bank, its branches lapped by the water but apparently sturdy. Clover started to swim with the current, gaining speed as she swiftly approached Damien. She heard Ballard’s deep voice as he cursed her and ordered the crew to launch the small rowboat into the water, promising gruesome punishments if the men failed to reach them in time. Confident that Ballard would be setting out after her, she concentrated on getting to Damien.

As she closed in on the boy, she tried to slow down. When he saw her, his movements grew more frantic. She knew he thought she would save him and prayed she proved worthy of his faith in her.

Once she was near enough to be heard, she yelled, “Head toward that tree branch near the bank.”

“I cannot.”

“Yes, you can, Damien. I will be there to grab you.”

“The water’s taking me!”

“You do not have to fight it much, just enough to get nearer the shore. Keep your head above the water and try to swim toward the bank.”

He began to struggle in the direction she indicated. He would never reach it on his own, she knew, but she hoped he could gain a few feet. Again using the current to give her speed, she swam toward the drooping branch. As she neared it, she began to fear that she would not get close enough to grab it. The fight against the current was swiftly sapping her strength. But suddenly the branch loomed up in front of her, and she grasped it with a sigh of relief.

The branch gave an ominous crack under her weight, but she had no time to worry about that. She edged along the branch until she could go no farther, looped her arm around the rough bark, and watched for Damien. He was weakening fast and it did not look as if he was close enough for her to reach him.

“Just a little more, Damien,” she called to him. “Just a little more.”

“I am too tired.”

“I know, darling, but just a little closer and you will be safe.”

She could still hear Ballard shouting, but could not understand what he was saying. All she could do was pray that she could get hold of Damien and keep hold of him until someone could pull them both from the water. As her young brother thrashed past her, she grabbed his outstretched hand. He had the wit to grab her arm immediately with his other hand as well. The force of his current-pulled weight on her arm nearly made her lose her grip on the branch.

“Pull yourself up my arm, Damien,” she said as she tried to get a firmer grip on the branch.

Her brother did as he was told and soon had a hold on the branch as well. She steadied her own grasp and wrapped her arm around his waist. Her legs ached from the cold and the strain of keeping them both above water.

“What do we do now, Clover?” Damien asked, his teeth chattering, his body trembling.

“We have two choices. We can try to make our way back along this branch until we can climb onto the bank, or we can wait right here until the barge comes by and rescues us.”

“Maybe we should try to get on land.”

“It would certainly be easier than hanging here, but I see no place for the barge to dock.”

“They can send the little boat for us.”

Clover nodded and edged her arm along the branch, tugging Damien with her. The branch gave another ominous crack, and she moved more cautiously. Then her feet touched bottom. To her horror, her feet sank into the mud. It was as if the mud were alive and sucking her down into it. She yanked her foot free and edged back toward the river, nudging a reluctant Damien to do the same.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“Between us and the bank is mud that seems inclined to have me for dinner. I think it would be as dangerous for us to try and get around it as to just hang here until we are rescued.”

“Look, Clover! Here comes the rowboat!”

“And none too soon,” she muttered as the branch cracked again, dipping a little lower into the water.

“Clover,” Ballard yelled as he caught sight of her from the narrow bow of the small boat and directed the barge captain to row toward her. “Are ye all right?”

“Yes, but this branch is beginning to give way.”

“We will be there in just a minute, love.”

Ballard cursed the caution needed to maneuver the small boat close to her. He had been in a state of panic since Clover had plunged into the river after her brother. Although Agnes and Clayton had assured him that Clover and Damien could swim like fish, it had not eased his fear for them. All he could see was their diminutive forms being swept along by the swift, murky waters of the Ohio.

Ballard steadied himself in the narrow bow as the captain inched the boat closer. “Now, laddie,” he said to Damien, extending his hand, “grab hold and I will pull ye in.”

“What if you drop me? Clover says the mud here will eat you.”

“Quicksand,” muttered the burly, gray-haired captain.

“I willnae drop ye, laddie,” Ballard assured the boy. “Just reach out and take my hand.”

“Go on, Damien,” Clover said. “Ballard can hang on to you easily. I will still have hold of you as well.”

Damien tentatively reached out toward Ballard. He grabbed the boy by the wrist, but Damien was hesitant to release his grip on the branch. Clover gave Damien a gentle push toward the boat. When Damien finally let go, Ballard quickly yanked the child into the boat. He heard an ominous crack and watched Clover sink a little deeper into the water.

“Hang on, Clover,” he yelled as the captain readjusted the position of the boat.

“I am hanging on. ‘Tis the branch that is letting go.”

“All right, lass, reach your hand out to me.”

Clover briefly debated letting go and paddling over to the boat, but knew she did not have enough strength. Her legs were numb and her shoulders ached. The instant Ballard grabbed her wrist, she released the branch. She sank under the water, but felt Ballard yanking her toward the surface. A grunt of pain escaped her when she was roughly dragged into the boat. She tried to pull away as Ballard tugged her into his arms.

“You will get all wet.” She wondered if he could understand her, for her chattering teeth were distorting her words.

“I am pretty wet already, lass. Just rest easy. We will talk when ye are dry and tucked into bed.”

Since she did not feel much like talking anyway, Clover did not argue. She huddled closer to Ballard and gave Damien a weak smile. The captain had thrown his heavy woolen coat around the boy, but Damien still looked cold. She was glad to see how quickly they were closing in on the barge.

The minute the rowboat was secured to the side of the barge, Agnes was reaching for Damien. “Clover, dear, are you all right?”

“I will live,” she replied as Ballard set her on the deck.

“If ye are lucky,” muttered Ballard as he scrambled onto the deck and scooped her into his arms. He marched through their surrounding family and headed for their tiny cabin. He was acting angry, yet why should he be angry with her? It was not her fault that Damien had fallen into the river.

She voiced a complaint when he set her on the bed and started to take off her clothes, but he ignored her. Her temper rose as he rubbed her dry, muttering to himself. It only added to her annoyance that she could not understand a word he was saying. He shoved her into her nightdress and gently but forcefully tucked her into bed.

“Are you quite finished?” she snapped after he secured the blanket around her neck.

“Nay. Ye need a hot drink to take the chill from your bones.”

He gave her no chance to say yea or nay, shutting the rough plank door behind him. Clover cursed and loosened the covers he had so snugly wrapped around her. That Ballard should want to care for her after her ordeal was very nice, but his methods were highly exasperating. He was treating her like a child. His sullen attitude puzzled her. She was determined to find out what was ailing the man.

As she waited for Ballard to return and gathered her courage to confront him, she thought about what she had done and shivered. Now that she had the luxury to consider her actions, she realized she could have died alongside Damien instead of rescuing him. Her aching body told her very clearly how great a demand she had placed on her strength. Although she was no longer shivering so badly that her teeth clicked together, she still felt a chill that went clear to the bone. Although she had had no choice but to act as she had, she was glad she had not had time to examine the consequences. Self-preservation might have held her back.

Ballard returned, scowling at the sight of the loosened bedcovers. He sat beside her, a cup of hot tea in his hands. She sat up to drink it and earned another scowl from him. When he just sat there staring at her, Clover decided she had had enough.

“Is something wrong?” she demanded.

“Aside from ye trying to kill yourself—nay,” he replied as he leaped to his feet and started to pace about their tiny room. “Ye should have gotten back onto the boat. Ye could have been swept away.”

“As Damien could have been.”

He stopped by the side of the bed and sighed. “I ken it.” He grimaced and ran his fingers through his still damp hair. “What troubles me is that ye risked your life by staying in that cold water for so long. I wasted time getting the boat because I cannae swim.”

“A lot of people cannot swim, Ballard.”

“I ken it, but to tell the truth, I would have wagered that ye would have been one of them.”

“Papa taught me. You see, I fell into a creek when I was little and nearly drowned. He knew how to swim and decided that I should know as well. I, in turn, taught the boys.” She took another sip of tea.

“It was bloody unsettling to watch ye being swept away. I thought those laggards would ne’er get the boat into the river in time.”

“Then I shall teach you how to swim too so that the next time someone falls into a river, I can hold your coat while you hie to the rescue.” She smiled faintly.

Ballard grinned back as he sat down on the edge of the bed again. “Ye shouldnae make light of a mon’s vanity, lass.” More seriously he added, “Aye, I will admit ‘twas a wound to my vanity to be so slow to set after ye. Mostly, though, ‘twas bloody frustrating to watch first Damien then ye go hurtling down the river and ken that I couldnae help ye.”

“You came and got us in the rowboat.”

“Aye, but if ye hadnae grabbed on to that tree branch, the rowboat would have been useless. Ye both could have drowned ere I could reach ye.” He smiled as he took her empty cup and set it aside. “Dinnae frown, lass. I but grumble o’er my uselessness. No mon likes to accept that he cannae fully protect his family under any and all circumstances. I will eventually recover from this blow to my pride. Ye did fine today and I am fair proud of ye for it. Just allow me to sulk a wee bit.”

“Perhaps you can take comfort in the fact that none of the other men were there to stop our fall either.”

“Oh, I do, lass. I do. ‘Tis bad enough not being able to protect ye meself, but ‘twould be far worse to have to listen to some other mon boasting of how he rescued my wife.” He winked at her when she giggled. “Now ye must rest. I ken weel that ye took a chill. Aye, and I could tell when I pulled ye out that ye had sapped all your strength. We will be landing at Tullyville by close of day tomorrow and I want ye to rest until then, to be sure that ye have nae caught the ague and have regained your strength for the rest of the journey.”

Clover briefly considered arguing, then decided she would be wise to do as he told her. She would take time to pamper herself and prepare for the more arduous part of their journey. As she smiled at Ballard, she prayed that her final destination did not look as destitute as some of the places she had seen so far along the river.

“This is Tullyville?” Clover asked Ballard as they stood on the muddy bank and watched the barge being unloaded. “I had rather thought that the ville on the end of Tully meant a settlement.”

“It is a settlement. ‘Twas settled by Mike Tully and his friends.” Ballard laughed at her wry look. “‘Tis a new town, lass. ‘Twill grow.”

If it did, Clover hoped it would also improve. Five rough cabins and an assortment of ramshackle sheds lined a muddy, narrow, and badly rutted road. A light breeze wended down the street, carrying the acrid scent of farm animals. She saw only two women, slovenly dressed and leaning on a rail before one of the larger log buildings. Nudging Ballard, she pointed toward it.

“Is that the inn?” she asked uncertainly.

“Aye, but we willnae be staying there. ‘Tis little more than a tavern and brothel. We will take the wagons outside of town a ways and make camp. I dinnae want ye ladies anywhere near these men when they start to tippling.”

Long before the wagons were loaded and the oxen hitched up, Clover was eager to get out of town. The noise from the inn indicated that the men were already getting rowdy. It sounded jovial at the moment, but she knew that that could change quickly. She helped Molly, Agnes, and the boys into the back of a heavy wagon, then joined Ballard on the driver’s seat. Lambert and Shelton each drove another wagon and followed Ballard as he led them out of town.

After only an hour’s journey, they reached the place where Ballard wanted to camp. Despite the short ride, Clover’s backside ached something fierce. Checking to be sure Ballard could not see, she rubbed her sore bottom as she moved to help Molly unpack what they would need to make a meal. She was going to have to put some padding between herself and the hard seat if she wanted to be able to stand when she got to Ballard’s home.

“Now, miss, I want you to make the biscuits tonight,” Molly said as they sat near the fire Shelton had made.

Clover grimaced as she started to mix the biscuit batter. “Are you sure this is wise?”

“You have to start sometime.” Molly hung a heavy kettle over the fire and began to make a venison stew.

“I know. I am just not sure the men will appreciate being tested after such a hard day.”

Molly laughed. “True. We have enough flour, so I will make a small batch too. If yours be cooking up fine, as I am sure they will, ‘twill make no matter. You can never have too many biscuits.”

Cooking over an open fire instead of in an oven made Clover nervous. By the time everyone sat down to eat, she was reluctant to offer her biscuits. They looked fine, but that did not mean they would taste good. She stifled an urge to hide as Ballard tasted one.

“There, lass, I told ye ye would learn how to cook,” Ballard said as he chewed.

Clover sighed with relief and smiled at him, but as the meal continued she began to doubt his word. He drank a lot of water from his canteen and even let a biscuit soak in his stew until it was dripping with gravy. Shelton and Lambert watched him for a moment before each choosing Molly’s biscuits instead. Clover tasted one of her own. It was edible but just barely—dry and far too salty.

She felt a sharp pang of disappointment and embarrassment. Before they had married, she had told Ballard that she was no cook. Mistakes were common when learning a new skill. As Ballard doggedly took another of her biscuits, she almost smiled. He was being such a gentleman, trying to salve her pride and her feelings, but she could not let him suffer any longer.

“Ballard,” she said, and almost laughed when he coughed a little and took a few hearty swigs of water to wash the dry biscuit from his mouth. “Are my biscuits really all right?”

“Oh, aye, lassie. Just fine.”

“You do know that, if I believe you, I will stop practicing.” She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the arrested look on his face. “I will think that I now know how to make good biscuits, and I will go on to master something else. So you should be very careful about giving such a good opinion so quickly. It could mean that you eat biscuits that taste like that for the rest of your life.”

“The rest of my life?” he murmured as he stared at the half-eaten biscuit in his hand.

“Yes. After all, why should I try to improve upon perfection?”

Ballard finally caught the light of laughter in her eyes. “Wretch,” he said, and grinned when everyone laughed. “Weel, they are a wee bit dry and I think ye used a touch too much salt.”

She tossed the rest of her biscuit into the fire, and laughed when he did the same. “I thought so too.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for being so kind, but I think it would be best for all of us if you were truthful. Now Molly and I can see where I erred and, I pray, fix the problem.”

Molly took a small bite of Clover’s biscuit, nodded, and tossed it into the fire. “You were that close, miss.”

“Good,” Clover said. “We cannot have Ballard drinking the well dry every time I cook something.” She laughed again.

Once the meal was over, Clover helped Molly clean up. Shelton was to take first watch, so Ballard led her to where they would sleep. He had arranged their bed under one of the wagons. Clover smiled faintly when she saw how he had tacked up blankets to give them some privacy. After indulging in a small toilette with a pan of cold water, she stripped to her chemise and slid beneath the blankets Ballard had spread on the ground. Even as Ballard tugged her into his arms, she yawned.

“Tired, lass?” He smoothed his hand over her hair.

“Yes, although I have not done all that much today.”

“Just being out of doors for a long time can make ye sleepy if ye are nae used to it. Ye are probably still suffering a wee bit from your adventure in the river.”

“Probably. At least, I hope that is it. I have never considered myself a weak or delicate person.” She moved her hand over his broad, warm chest.

“Nay, ye are nae weak or delicate. This is all new to ye, loving. Ye just need time to get accustomed, ‘tis all.” He grinned and kissed the top of her head. “Dinnae fret. I dinnae expect ye to become a tobacco-spitting pioneer woman who can chop wood with one hand and skin a bear with the other. Leastwise, not right away.” He laughed when she gave him a light tap on the arm.

“I should hope not.” She peeked up at him and was only able to discern the outline of his face in the shadows. “Do you know many women who spit tobacco?”

Ballard laughed. “Only old Mabel Clemmons. She sets in a rocker in front of the general store her son owns. She cusses like a sailor and can beat most men in a spitting contest, but once ye get past the shock of it, ye realize she is a clever old woman and worth listening to.”

“I had an aunt much like that. She dressed just as she pleased, which was usually quite oddly, said anything that popped into her head, and smoked cigars. I once asked her why she liked to upset and shock people, and she told me she had done everything she was told to do for fifty-odd years and now she insisted on being herself. And she believed that people need to be shocked once in awhile.” Clover smiled when Ballard chuckled softly.

“Old Mabel started to be herself as soon as she reached Kentucky,” he said.

He recalled the look on Clover’s face as they had passed some of the rougher places along the river. Clearly she had been alarmed by a lot of what she saw. He had never looked closely at places like Tullyville, just accepted them, but he could understand how she might feel.

“Clover, ye willnae be living in some rough hut. Ye ken that, dinnae ye?”

“Of course, Ballard.” She suddenly realized that she had revealed her occasional dismay a little too clearly. “I am sorry if I have led you to believe that I was, well, regretting this move. To be honest, it was not so much the newness or roughness of the places that distressed me, but the filth. I think even Tullyville will improve when a few families settle there. Women do not long tolerate the sort of things that make Tullyville so unsavory.”

“Nay, they dinnae, and Pottersville has families. It even has a church.”

“Pottersville?”

“That is what they are calling our town now. Truth is, that must be the fifth or sixth name it has had. They cannae seem to settle on what to call it, so most times I dinnae give it a name. They are hankering to be incorporated as a town though, so I suspicion they will make up their minds soon. How did Langleyville get its name?”

“A Langley family owns most of the riverfront.”

Ballard nodded. “We are called Pottersville now because Jedediah Potter got the church built. I swear to ye, lass, ye willnae find a squalid mudhole like Tully’s place. I live in the sort of town that draws families. It has good farming land, good stockbreeding land.”

She gently caressed his cheek, smiling faintly when he kissed her palm. “I will be fine, Ballard. I promise you, I am not one to pout because I do not have some fine brick mansion to live in. I entered this marriage with my eyes open, and I will accept whatever you have to offer.”

He held her a little closer, wanting to believe her, but finding his doubts hard to conquer. She would never complain or disparage his efforts, but he still feared disappointing her. Once they were out of Langleyville, away from all she had known, he had thought that his self-doubts would begin to ease. He had naively thought that he only needed to get to Kentucky, to return to the places he knew, to regain his confidence. Instead he was growing more and more aware of the disparities between what he could offer her and what she had known. He dreaded seeing disappointment in her fine blue eyes and knowing that he had failed her.

“Weel now, my wee wife, there is something I would like to offer ye now, but we will have to wait until we get home,” he murmured as he slid his hand down her side to her hip. “There isnae much privacy here.”

“None at all,” she whispered as she heard Shelton walk past the wagon.

Needing to reassure himself that they still had something in common, he kissed her, slowly and deeply. He felt her breathing quicken and the tips of her breasts harden against his chest. Their passion was still well-matched, he thought, and breathed a silent sigh of relief as he settled them more comfortably on their hard bed. All he had to do was keep that passion alive until it matured into a deeper, richer emotion which would bind her to him for the rest of their lives.