The Trapper

by Jenna Kernan

  She was desperate to succeed and be judged by her work, rather than by her connections. Yet she judged the world by connections and appearances—the same measures she rejected for herself.

  You, Eleanor, are a hypocrite of the first order.

  Troy placed the skewers over the coals; she could not take her eyes off the sizzling meat. The aroma was heavenly.

  “Have you had antelope?”

  “No, but I’m looking forward to it.”

  He turned the meat twice. Had she ever been more ravenous in her life? If so, she could not remember.

  At last he handed her a skewer. She passed it back and forth between her hands until it cooled enough to hold. Gingerly, she bit into the hot meat, leaning forward as the juices ran down her chin. Wonderful—she closed her eyes to savor the taste.

  She devoured the offering to the stick. He handed her another portion and she finished this as well. Who could believe her appetite? Her corset did not pinch, giving her the rare luxury to eat until she felt full.

  “No fork tonight,” he said.

  She met his gaze, suddenly mortified. The corners of his eyes wrinkled. In that moment she realized the comment was not a rebuke but a jest. No one had ever teased her before. Her parents were always deadly serious especially on manners and her servants would never presume to address her in this way. She smiled, enjoying the gentle comradeship they now shared.

  “A rather serious breach. Are you offended?”

  “Relieved.” He grinned and she laughed.

  The day had been perfectly miserable. Why then was she grinning as if feebleminded? She sighed in the contentment brought by a full belly, dry clothing and a warm fire. In New York, she had all this and more, but never in her life had she appreciated the simple comforts so acutely as when she suffered their lack.

  The boredom was gone along with the creeping dread over her future. She felt alive and strong. Her life had purpose. Tomorrow she might see buffalo or bear. He might bring her an otter or beaver to paint.

  “What are you grinning at?” he asked.

  “I was thinking of the day. I want to thank you.”

  Confusion contorted his face and her smile broadened.

  “For what—nearly freezing you to death?”

  “For the antelope and the dry clothes. I can’t remember when I felt so happy.”

  His brow knit.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Just wondering what kind of a life you been leading when a buckskin shirt and a spear of antelope makes your day.”

  “Shouldn’t it?”

  “Always been enough for me. Just figured you’d be looking for something more elegant.”

  “I left elegance behind with my diamond ear bobs.” She folded her arms about her knees and took in the clean air. “I feel completely safe with you.”

  “That’s a mistake. There is danger here. I wanted to tell you last night. You need to sleep dressed. Sometime you’ll need to get up in a hurry.”

  “Why?”

  “Bear, Indians, storm. Who knows? Also sleep with a knife and a loaded gun within reach.” He stared at her feet and sighed.

  She glanced at the object of his newest aggravation peeking out from beneath the hem of her skirts. The overlarge moccasins tied about her ankles with garter ribbon looked enormous upon her feet. “I have boots.”

  “I’ve seen. You can’t run in them.”

  “Ladies don’t run.”

  “Then you best be a crack shot.”

  Uneasiness seeped in, spoiling her pleasant lethargy. She swallowed back her dread as she considered the wide-open prairie in the fading light. Above her, the stars already poked through the velvety blue. All at once she felt very small.

  It was then she realized Mr. Thornton’s ruined tent lay back in the grove of cottonwood miles behind them.

  “Where shall I sleep?”

  “I’ll make you up a bed of buffalo robes.”

  She drew the soft leather closed at her throat. “I’ve never slept out-of-doors.”

  “You did last night.”

  “The branches made a roof of sorts.”

  “You scared?”

  “Most certainly, I am.”

  “Good.”

  She frowned, suspicious of his motives again.

  He stood, folded the hide lengthwise and then placed another nearby. She crawled into the pocket of one, her head closest to the fire. When she glanced up she found him standing with fists pressed to his narrow hips. Did the man do naught but scowl?

  “What’s amiss?” she asked.

  “You sleep with your feet toward the fire to stay warm.”

  “I want my head warm.”

  “Do you also want a log to roll out and set your hair on fire?”

  She spun in the bed. “Shall I read to you?”

  He laid a knife and her pistol beside her wrapped between the fold of a piece of tanned buckskin. “Suit yourself.”

  She recovered her candle and the first book of his adventures and began to read. The story described him in romantic terms, but quite accurately, she believed, as a leader of men. She skipped over the sentence that described him as a credit to his race, feeling embarrassed but unsure as to why. On his first adventure he faced five grizzlies. By the time his men arrived, he fended off the last two with a knife killing the enormous beasts.

  “T’weren’t but three,” he said softly.

  The tale went on to tell of his recovery of goods stolen by hostile Indians and the rescue of a party of missionaries. Finally, her eyes grew heavy.

  “You got bears near your home?” he asked.

  “I’ve never seen one, but understand there are a few in Connecticut.”

  “Deer and rabbits?”

  “They frequent the lawn at our summer estate.”

  “So you could as easily have painted a deer, chipmunk and rabbit there as here. Then have your father send them off to the Audubon feller.”

  She sat up, suddenly furious. “Can you not understand that I want to succeed without his help? For once in my life I will do something of my own without the benefit of his influence.”

  “Well, maybe so but you sure as hell didn’t go through all this to paint animals found in your own backyard.”

  She reeled, disquieted now as she considered her future. She drew the fur blanket up to her nose and huddled against the wave of nausea cramping her innards.

  Until this moment she never recognized what was so obvious to him. Troy was right. She was running. She turned her gaze to his dark profile. The simple touch of this stranger’s hand did more to make her pulse race than all the kisses her suitors had stolen.

  Was it because he was forbidden that he raised such desires? She mulled that possibility and found credence in the notion. There was something dangerous in his eyes and she could not deny its appeal. Sometimes, when he looked at her, she knew exactly how it felt to be hunted—the thrill and fear mixing together.

  She huddled lower in her buffalo robe and wondered how he knew so much. He didn’t really; he only guessed. Intuitive—a necessary skill for a trapper and scout.

  Did he share this longing for something he could never have, but wanted in the secret places of his soul?

  Why had she come so far from her home?

  The answers frightened her. She gazed across the fire to note him watching her. Everything about him was so different from her.

  “Good night, Mr. Price.”

  He nodded and lowered himself to his bed as she did the same. She stared at the stars. They looked different than they did back home. Gazing at the heavens she found no peace, only the cold light of distant stars.

  It was her restless insomnia that caused her to note the sound. At first she thought the noise to be Troy snoring. She found the reverberations comforting until the snuffling changed direction and she sat up. A tearing noise came from somewhere beyond the fire.

  She was on her feet in an instant and shaking Troy the next.

 
; Troy rolled to his feet, lifting his rifle as he came upright.

  Beside him stood the woman, her eyes wide in the dim light of the dying fire.

  “What?” he whispered.

  She pointed across the clearing and he heard it. An animal—something big—was into their packs.

  “Pick up your gun and get to the river.”

  She did as she was told, without hesitation or questions. He turned his attention to the sound of bottles breaking and inched out of the firelight, approaching downwind.

  The black bear disemboweled her pack and rummaged through the remaining toiletries. Troy moved noiselessly in its direction. Even with his silent approach, the creature sensed him and reared for attack.

  The bear bellowed and charged.

  He fired. The beast never faltered as it leaped forward. Troy struck the creature’s jaw with the butt of his rifle as he danced backward and pulled his knife. A woman’s scream sent a shiver up his spine. The bear took two more steps before the effect of the bullet registered in its brain. Then it fell forward. He heard a pistol shot and something inside him snapped. He ran blindly toward the river, his long legs eating up the ground between them.

  Where was she? His heart hammered in dread as he scanned the black water, fearing the river had taken her. Not again.

  “Lena! Lena!”

  “Here,” came her call.

  He found her upon her knees beside the carcass of a yearling cub as big as an autumn hog. She’d shot it through the head with her pistol and by some miracle that small bit of lead had been enough to stop the creature.

  He sank to earth beside her and she threw herself into his arms.

  “It reared up. I tried to run as you told me, but it chased me to the water. I can’t swim.” Her head fell to his chest and she cried.

  “You’re safe now.”

  But she wasn’t.

  Her sobs wrenched at his gut. He held her tight and stroked her back. What was she doing out here? The woman had as much business coming into this wilderness as he had holding her in his arms. He pulled her close and the ache in his chest increased. Why did it have to be her? He knew plenty of fine women, beautiful ones and smart ones and ones with kind hearts—but they didn’t make him feel like this. Only she did.

  After Rachel, he vowed never again to love a white woman. And he didn’t. These feelings were not love. He only wanted to protect her and see her safe. But he couldn’t do that here.

  She lifted her face and clung to him as he pressed his lips to her forehead. He felt her heartbeat and the soft pressure of her full breasts. His body stirred, but he ignored the temptation as she rested her head in the hollow of his throat. Could she feel his pulse pounding there?

  Whether she recognized it or not, there was a pull between them, stronger than he’d ever known. Maybe that was why he’d pushed so hard to be rid of her. Damn the stubborn streak that kept her from giving up.

  “I’m such a goose.”

  He cradled her, pulling her up into his lap.

  “It ain’t safe out here for you. Tomorrow, I’m taking you back.”

  “No!”

  The vigor in her voice startled him.

  She drew back. “You’re just using this as an excuse to be rid of me. I have until August.”

  “Lena, that bear attacked you. It could just as easily have been a grizzly. You understand? I can’t protect you alone.”

  “I’ll not go back!” She shoved him away, but he hung on.

  She quaked against him, staring up, her eyes begging him to do something—but what?

  Her bottom lip trembled as she spoke. “You were right before. I am running.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks and he pulled her in. She came to him, resting against his heart.

  “I didn’t believe it at first. I thought I just wanted to paint. But then you mentioned all the animals in my own backyard. I started to wonder—why did I come so far? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It’s all right,” he whispered.

  “It is not all right. I thought I could do as they wished. Now I do not know if I am strong enough.”

  He lifted her chin so her words would not be lost in the folds of his shirt.

  “Strong enough for what?”

  “To forego my dreams for theirs.”

  “Lena, what are you talking about?”

  She pulled back, kneeling before him with her head down and her hands folded in a tight little knot upon her lap. He kept one hand upon his rifle and the other on Lena’s shoulder, suddenly disturbed over what she would tell him. He’d been trying for days to puzzle her out and now found that he feared the answers.

  “I wish I were a man.”

  “That’s crazy talk.”

  “It’s not. A man has choices. A woman does as she is told. If I were a man, I could paint a whole lifetime instead of one short summer.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  She cast him an intense stare and he drew back. “No one ever asked me what I wanted before. Instead they tell me what is best for me and what is expected. Up until now I have always strived to please them.” Her gaze shifted about and he saw the simmering rage of a caged animal. “But it is hard to give up one’s dreams.”

  “Of painting?”

  Her shoulders sagged. “What does it matter? No one really cares if I can paint, only that I am the daughter of John Hart.”

  “I care. You’re a damn fine painter. Could be great.”

  She stared at him, her blue eyes dark and huge in the moonlight. Then she set her jaw in a look of stubbornness he recognized. “I’ll not have the chance. You were right about me not doing a thing on my own. I haven’t, you know. I’ve never been allowed to try.”

  He motioned with the barrel of his gun. “You kilt that bear on your own.”

  Her fragile smile returned accompanied with a look of satisfaction. “Yes. I did.”

  He’d lost his entire family and thought that the worst sorrow in the world. Now he wondered if it was sadder still to have a family that didn’t care a hoot for your happiness. An idea struck and he spoke before he had time to think, trying to keep his tone casual, but thinking his voice carried a certain edge.

  “What happens if you don’t go back?”

  She gasped. “Why, I have to!”

  “Do you?”

  “They are my family. I can’t just abandon them. It would break their hearts. Besides, where would I go? As you’ve pointed out, I don’t belong out here.”

  But she was considering it now, he could tell.

  She heaved a great sigh. “There is nowhere he could not find me.”

  “Your father.”

  “Certainly. He is coming in September to gather me up, but if he hears of the epidemic, I should say he’d be here rather sooner.”

  She glanced into the darkness as if expecting to see him materialize from the shadows.

  Lena wasn’t afraid of bears. She had much bigger predators on her trail.

  Chapter 9

  New York City, July 3, 1840

  John Edward Hart opened the envelope just arrived by messenger and scanned the scrawling letters of Lord Matthew Thornton. His dear friend had helped convince him to send his daughter on the expedition up the Missouri, giving his personal assurance that he would see to her welfare. John had looked forward to news of their arrival in New Orleans, having had no communication since they left New York’s harbor. Instead of reassurances, the letter told of disaster.

  Hart straightened, forced upward by a rising tide of wrath and slammed his fist upon the desk with such force the footman standing beside the door left the ground for an instant.

  “Get my wife,” he shouted.

  A few moments later Charlotte breezed into the room, an expression of annoyance clinging to her full lips at being summoned like a servant.

  “Yes, John?” Her voice, as always, revealed none of her disquiet.

  “Eleanor’s ship was quarantined upon arrival. May 12. Cholera.”


  Charlotte sunk into the chair before his oak desk. Her pale hand pressed over her heart at the spot where white taffeta met the wide lace collar.

  “Is she alive?”

  He lifted the letter. “As of this writing.”

  Her hand covered her mouth for just an instant and then she straightened, again the lady of the house. “You must go after her, John.”

  Troy’s shoulders ached from the late-night work of skinning two bears and stowing the best of the meat in the hides high in the treetops. Before beginning the bloody work, he had moved their camp well away from the carcasses that were sure to bring more trouble.

  When he returned from stringing up the meat, he found Lena fast asleep in his sleeping robe. He tossed more wood on the fire and crawled beneath the second hide.

  He understood her better now, but knowing didn’t make things easier. For different reasons, they both needed to prove themselves and both had tried running away. There the similarities ended, for while she might not like it, she, at least, had a home to return to.

  He didn’t envy her the responsibilities and burdens she carried. He couldn’t rescue her from her fate, but he could give her the animals she needed for her work.

  Troy glanced down and stared at the face he thought to remember all his life. Lena, peaceful beside his fire. No fears or worries marred her perfect features and in the darkness, she was his alone.

  “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, Lena. I’ll show you a world you never dreamed of and stand guard while you capture it all in paint,” he whispered.

  She smiled in her slumber and he wondered if some part of her understood?

  The coyotes’ call came first and a short time later the high yip of wolves.

  He added fuel to the fire and checked the load in his rifle before closing his eyes.

  Sunlight danced over his closed lids making everything seem blood red. He startled and took in the clearing, now in filtered morning light, and Lena, again dressed like a lady in a lacy white shirt that tapered to a narrow waist before giving way to wide flaring skirts of crimson. She squatted stiffly before the fire. Damn that unnatural corset. He glimpsed her ankle and smiled to see his moccasins still upon her feet. She wouldn’t get far running in those skirts, but footwear was a start.