The Trapper

by Jenna Kernan

  He fisted the coins as if he meant to squeeze them to death, before he regained control of her elbow.

  “My father says they are digging it up by the fistful in Georgia. Isn’t that wonderful? Gold—just popping from the ground like dahlias.”

  He scowled. “Is that all you care about—gold?”

  “Well, it does make life easier.”

  “Not for those who owned the land. Besides, life ain’t supposed to be easy. You want easy? You should have stayed home.”

  She nodded. “I see your point. All the comforts make life less immediate, is that it?”

  “You and I have different ideas about life.”

  He steered her toward her room. As they crossed the courtyard she noticed men lingering in the shadows.

  Troy continued on and she glanced up to be sure he saw them. The grim set of his jaw told her he did.

  Four Indians sat before her door.

  “What do they want?” she whispered, unable to keep from huddling against his arm and clamping her hands upon the fringed leather of his shirt.

  “Let’s find out.”

  Troy paused before the group and secured the release of his arm from her, then began signing to the men.

  “They all want you to draw their picture.”

  He turned back to the men gesturing again. After a long exchange the men departed.

  “See the can of worms you opened?”

  She pressed a hand to her heart and felt the desperate flutter of a trapped bird.

  He drew a long sigh. “I knew you were trouble the first time I set eyes on you, but I misjudged how much.”

  “Will they come back?”

  “Oh yeah, first thing tomorrow. So for good or ill you got your models, more than you’ll ever need. I reckon there’ll be a whole passel of them waiting on you come morning.” He dragged his hat from his head. “I got things to do tomorrow, mules and packs. Damn it. I’ll have to hire a man to sit here with you.”

  She did not argue, suddenly feeling frightened at the prospect of facing so many savages. What if they didn’t like her work? Somehow she thought a bad review from these men would be much more disastrous than one in the Post.

  He thrust her into her room. Before she had time to object to his rough treatment he spoke.

  “Stay inside and don’t answer the door or say a word unless you hear it’s me, understand? I’ll be back after daybreak.”

  She nodded and he closed the door in her face.

  “Good night to you, too, Mr. Price.”

  His voice came from beyond the heavy door. “Bolt it.”

  She did.

  All night she tossed, imagining one of her models clutching a hatchet and thrusting his fingers into her hair. A man in war paint beat a drum decorated with human scalps. The pounding rhythm went on and on until she thought she’d go mad.

  Eleanor sat up in bed. Sunlight flooded the room and the drumbeat changed to an insistent knock at her door.

  “Hart! Open this door or I’ll bust it down.”

  She blinked. Where was she? A sweeping glance about the rough-hewn beams on the ceiling and she remembered. Fort Union, the trading post.

  “I’m coming.”

  The pounding ceased. She slid from the bed and grasped her wrap, drawing it closed before she released the bolt on the door.

  “What took you so long?” Her scout’s scowl dissolved into a dumbfounded stare. His gaze raked her hair, which lay in a loose braid upon her white morning robe. She knew he could see nothing but her toes, but still her cheeks flamed under his scrutiny and her skin tingled from scalp to heel. No one ever looked at her like that. The raw power of his gaze curled her toes.

  “You look like a bride,” he said, sounding astonished at her everyday attire.

  She gripped the closed front of her wrap. “This is an ordinary nightdress and cover, Mr. Price.”

  “Awful fancy duds just for sleeping. You just rising? Lord, the sun’s been up a full hour.”

  “I didn’t sleep well. Nightmares.” She was about to say of Indians, when a russet-colored face popped up behind Troy’s back. Streaks of sienna lined one cheek and a white dot marked the center of his chin. She screamed.

  Troy grabbed her arm and pushed her back into the room.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  She pointed. “An Indian.”

  “Course. I told you they’d be waiting. They been there hours already.”

  “They?”

  “Fifteen so far, all dressed for war like you asked. You got Crow, Pawnee, one Oto, two Chippewa and a group of Cree. Draw them together and you can get rid of them faster. Scared the sentries near to death ’til I explained it.”

  She quaked in his arms from fear and then from the nearness of him. Every time he touched her she trembled. Her reaction was unfathomable. Never in her life had she experienced anything like it.

  “They just want you to draw them. Word’s out. Your pictures have power.”

  Her breast swelled with pride as she absorbed his compliment. Others had called her paintings precise and detailed, but no one ever called her work powerful.

  In slow degrees his arms collected her and her stomach gave a frantic flutter of excitement. She needed to get away from him before she made an absolute idiot of herself. Instead, she stepped forward and clung to his middle like a child.

  He stiffened and her grip tightened.

  “I’m afraid of them.”

  One big hand came down on the center of her back, radiating confidence. “They ain’t wild animals. They’re men, like all men, no better or worse. Besides, I got a friend to protect you. Name’s Black Feather, he’s Sioux. Only asks that you paint him first and then he will watch over you.” He stepped back and she was forced to release him or be dragged.

  “You want to be a painter or not?”

  Reluctantly, she let him go. Her breasts and belly tingled in a most surprising way. When she glanced up, she saw his face looked flushed. What was happening here?

  “I’ll get him.”

  “Wait.” She grasped his arm to stop him from departing. “Are you sure it will be all right?”

  “I wouldn’t leave you if I thought they’d be trouble.”

  She gazed up into the certainty of his confident gray eyes and released his sleeve.

  “Mr. Price, do you really think my paintings are powerful?”

  “You misunderstand me. Wind Dancer told the others how the wind carried your picture to him. He calls you medicine woman and thinks your work has magic.”

  “Oh, but that’s not true. You have to tell them this isn’t magic. It could injure them in some way. Please tell them.”

  “I tried. There’s no reasoning with them. Best just to paint as many as you can.”

  “I need coffee and a moment to dress.”

  “I’ll have the cook send over a tray.” He motioned to someone she could not see. “Let me introduce you to Black Feather.”

  “I’m in my nightdress.”

  “He won’t mind.”

  Troy stepped outside and reappeared a moment later with a man who looked dangerous and fierce. This is how an Indian should look, dark and savage.

  “You can’t leave me with him,” she whispered from the side of her mouth as she tried to smile at the villain.

  “Why not?”

  “He looks…” She paused, considering what to say that would not insult Troy, who was Indian as well. “Does he speak English?”

  “He understands it.”

  “Well, why doesn’t he speak?”

  “Just his way, is all.”

  “Why should I trust him?”

  “I saved his life.”

  She gave him a doubtful look, wondering what that had to do with the matters at hand. She drew a deep breath and felt no better until she gazed at him. His eyes asked for her trust.

  “All right.”

  “Get dressed. He’ll be waiting.” Troy led Black Feather from the room.

&nbs
p; She bolted the door, leaning heavily against the planking. What had she gotten herself into?

  Chapter 4

  Troy left Eleanor’s door and walked past the line of men all dressed in ceremonial regalia. The scent of bear grease, tanned leather and tobacco filled the air. Halfway across the yard he paused to lift his buckskin shirt to his nose and sniffed. The scent of roses clung to him, as she had clung, invading his senses and intoxicating his mind.

  She was frightened. That was all. The woman only needed his protection. The task of keeping her safe filled his belly with chips of ice. He had failed with Rachel. His heart beat fast.

  She is not Rachel. You won’t fail again.

  He continued on his way, his feet carrying him forward as his mind cast back for images of hope to keep him from his black despair. His mind clasped onto visions of Eleanor dressed in angel white. A nightgown? He’d been to several weddings where the bride had nothing so fine as this woman’s sleeping robes. With her hair barely contained in a loose braid and that puffy white fabric floating about her like a cloud, it was all he could do not to scoop her into his arms and toss her onto her unmade bed. But she didn’t want him that way. To her, he was not a man, he was an Indian.

  Even if she did want him, he knew from experience what her world thought of such a coupling and what could happen as a result. His lips formed a grim line as he continued along, praying that she would not be long in his keeping. His reaction to Eleanor frightened him nearly as much as the possibility of repeating his past mistakes.

  His stomach tightened as he considered his dilemma. Even from three paces he had felt her heat. Toes pale and narrow had peeked from beneath her hem. Then she had thrown herself into his arms. Through that thin fabric, he had felt each soft curve and warm hollow. Not like last night when she had huddled against his arm like a timid fawn. Then the stiff cage of bones she wore about her ribs had shielded her lush curves. He’d like to free her from that cage.

  This woman hit him with such raw need he could barely think. He swallowed back his desire, now burning hot like the coal in a forge.

  She said she wanted to stand on her own two feet and be judged on her own merit. He understood that desire. He’d come west to do much the same, thinking to find a place where men were judged on their deeds. He’d succeeded in that he hadn’t died or been maimed by a grizzly and he’d built himself a reputation as a good trapper. But he had failed, too, he thought, jangling his nearly empty purse and thinking of his family. The beaver was gone and he needed to find a new path to survive. His fingers searched the inside of the soft hide pouch until he clutched the gold pieces she’d given him.

  Did these shiny new coins come from beneath the feet of his people? The urge to throw the money away raged against practicality. He dropped the coins back into his pouch and continued along. He would take Miss Hart on her little adventure and then return her where she belonged. Where did he belong?

  In his wanderings, Rachel’s ghost seemed to haunt him. He braced against the waterfall of grief that still washed through him when he remembered the tragedy his love for her had caused.

  In his sorrow, he’d run until the land ceased and he had stood on the pacific shores. From a ship’s captain there, he’d learned of his people’s eviction from their homes. The only home he’d ever had was gone with those he loved.

  Troy crossed the yard. As he passed the office, the owner of the post leaped from his doorway like a badger from his burrow.

  “Mr. Price. These Indians, I must insist they be dispersed.”

  Troy shot him a look that sent the man back several paces. “Who’s stopping ya?”

  “Miss Hart is your responsibility.”

  “She didn’t call ’em.” The two faced off a moment before the trader dropped his gaze and Troy continued. “If you’re asking my opinion, I’d say it’s more dangerous to move them.”

  He turned the conversation to the matter of storing the woman’s gear until his return and changing the gold pieces into silver, glad to be rid of the evil metal. He hated gold. It turned men into savages. He prayed that gold would never again be found under the feet of another tribe. Such a discovery was nothing but a death warrant, signed and sealed.

  He headed to the livery to purchase mules and check on his big buckskin gelding named for his home, Dahlonega, Georgia.

  Home no longer. His jaw clenched as he pulled his rage deep inside himself. Jackson hated the Cherokee, but he loved their land. Three hundred years his people had lived beside the whites. They understood their ways, but not well enough to save them when gold was found in the ground beneath their corn.

  Did the white families who now owned his farm ever think of their neighbors driven out in the dead of winter? He remembered Rachel’s family, back before the accident. He pictured Rachel by the stream between their homes running into the forest to meet him, begging him to keep their secret just a little longer until one day she could no longer hide the truth.

  He had offered to make her his wife, but she had said there was no place in this world for such a pair. He had pointed to his parents’ example and told her they were happy. It was different for Indian women, she’d said. Marrying a white man was not such a shame to her tribe. He had clenched his fists as the deadening sorrow washed through him. His love had shamed her. He had shamed her.

  Now he faced the same trap, another white woman who called to his spirit and roused his body. But he was wiser now.

  He understood the rules and would not stumble into the same trap. Indians, even half-breeds, could not take white wives.

  At the livery, he picked out hearty animals with sound legs and bright eyes, and then restocked his gear including the essentials Eleanor had neglected, like rope, traps, powder, shot and trade goods. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he did not trade for these goods with the efforts from his own hands, but from her vile yellow metal.

  He stroked the silky red ribbon he kept to trade with tribes along the way, letting it glide between callused fingers as he recalled the white ribbon of Eleanor’s gown fluttering open at her bare neck. Annoyed at her intrusion into his thoughts, he thrust the trade goods in his pack with the remaining coins.

  He tried to imagine Eleanor on the trail, draped in her finery as briars tore at her velvet skirts, and shook his head. She was too delicate for such hard riding, just like her mare. The sooner she recognized this, the better for them both. For much as he would deny it, he felt a powerful attraction to this unattainable creature and that made her dangerous beyond measure.

  He hoped he could turn her east.

  Still, he’d ready for the expedition as if they were headed out for several weeks. A man never knew what he’d run into. Taking precautions went a long way toward coming home again.

  His stomach growled, reminding him his breakfast was now a distant memory. He wondered how Eleanor was doing as he headed first for the kitchen and then toward her room carrying a bucket of biscuits and a roast hen. Yesterday’s dinner had shocked her. He’d been sure she’d reject his offering, but she surprised him again by cleaning her plate. He’d wager his horse that she’d never eaten such a meal before.

  When he arrived in the yard he saw the line down to six men gambling in the dust. Eleanor sat on a chair in the yard studying her subject with complete attention.

  Motionless as granite, the man stood. Rows of eagle feathers cascaded down his back, stirring regally in the gentle breeze. Troy glanced at the doorway and found Black Feather sitting in the shadows, watchful as a falcon. Troy nodded a greeting at the old warrior whose chin dipped in return.

  Eleanor sat stiffly erect, moving only a paintbrush. Before her lay a perfect copy of Little Buffalo, chief of the wolf band of the Pawnee. He glanced at her work and blinked down in astonishment. How had this prim little miss captured not only the man’s features, but also his spirit?

  He stared in wonder at the miracle of her creation. With only colored water, she somehow managed this feat. She had talent all
right. Had her father never seen her work? For no one who looked at the power of her paintings could deny her skill. In that instant, he understood why these men thought her work such strong medicine.

  Troy stood silently studying her, surprised and annoyed that she did not immediately notice him. She seemed transported by her work. A chill rolled up his back. If he didn’t know better, he’d be sitting in the dust with the others.

  He focused on the straight line of her chin, the slope of her nose and the full mouth in profile. He could not see the mole, but knew it was there, just on the other side of her lovely mouth. His heartbeat grew steadily faster as he stood motionless. The woman was worse than strong medicine; she was poison. Even without so much as a glance, she made him want to tear the brush from her fingers and draw her into his arms.

  He stared at Eleanor Hart. Why did he desire what he could not keep? The sooner he took her out on the trail, the sooner he’d be rid of her.

  Dissuading her shouldn’t take long, with luck, only a few days. Then he’d be out of work again, but at least he’d have his freedom and his sanity.

  He thought of the picture he made, gawking, and cleared his throat. She turned her head and smiled. His gut tightened as if she’d kicked him and an answering smile jerked at one corner of his mouth.

  “I brought lunch.” He lifted the bucket.

  “Wonderful. I am quite famished. Just a moment, please.” She dipped the brush in a jar and then in green paint. With confidence, she dabbed the brown and then mixed the two. The result looked muddy as Missouri River water until she added it to the page, where it became the ground beneath Little Buffalo’s feet. He shook his head in admiration.

  She signaled to Black Feather she was done by brushing her hands together and spoke as if he could understand her words. “I am quite finished with this man. Please thank him. I have never had a subject stand so still. Simply marvelous.”

  Black Feather signed to Little Buffalo, who moved stiffly to see his portrait. He did not smile, exactly, but his eyes reflected his pleasure. He reached in his pouch and drew out a braid of sage grass and laid it before her.

  “Oh, thank you very much.”