Freedom in the Mountain Wind

by Misty M. Beller

  Turning to him, she summoned a smile. “Looks like it’s just us again.” They’d been here before. Would he insist they turn back now or could she talk him into riding on a little farther?

  His gaze cloaked her with warmth, and he settled a hand on her shoulder. “My girl.”

  That look, that touch, the love in his words—they made every unknown trial worth the struggle.

  Pa squeezed her shoulder, then turned toward the horses. “Looks like—” His breath caught on a wheeze, which melded into a cough, and the wracking hacks took over his body, bending him over as he struggled to control them.

  “Pa.” Desperation rose inside her as she stepped nearer, her hand hovering above his back. If only her touch could bring relief, but the weight of her hand would only make his struggle harder. Everything made his struggle harder.

  So she turned to their food pack and extracted the pouches containing ground licorice root and garlic. A tea would help more than anything else she could do.

  Pa’s coughing fit finally faded to a few lingering wheezes, and like a glutton for punishment, she turned to him in time to see him wipe the blood dribbling down his chin. Her gut clenched at the sight, then she forced her gaze back to the pot simmering among the coals.

  She worked for a casual tone in her voice. “We can stay in this camp today and repack our supplies for the horses.” That would give Pa some time to rest.

  She would be everlastingly thankful for the horses instead of the boat. Even though she’d probably need to walk so her horse could carry their supplies, she’d rather hike for months than have to row that dinghy upriver, especially through all the rapids that were supposed to lay ahead.

  A shrill whinny sounded from the paint gelding Beaver Tail had left for them. The bay mare beside it raised her own call as both animals stared off into the distance.

  Susanna sat back on her heels and studied the horizon where the horses were looking. The same direction the men had ridden only a short while before. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the morning sun, and she could just see a figure bobbing in the place where earth met sky.

  More than one figure.

  Her heart picked up speed as she made out four separate shapes, with the outline of one bearing a striking resemblance to Beaver Tail’s broad shoulders and regal bearing atop his horse.

  Why were they coming back? Had they forgotten something? Decided to take the two horses after all? Surely all four of them wouldn’t need to return for a simple errand like that. They must know she and Pa would give the animals back if asked.

  It was too much to hope they might be returning to invite her and Pa to travel with them. Did she even want that? She’d appreciated the men’s help more than she should’ve allowed herself over these last two days. Especially carrying the boat and supplies, but also with the bear. She’d allowed herself to relish the assistance more than was good for her.

  Now she was letting herself hope for something that would never happen. And even if it did, riding with these men may not be a good plan for them anyway. Pa would need extra time to rest, maybe even more so when they switched to horseback instead of the boat.

  She rose and faced the approaching riders. “What do you suppose they want?”

  Pa stood beside her, his hand also raised to shield the glare of the morning sun. “I guess we’ll see.” Something in his voice made her glance over at him. A secret smile turned up the corners of his mouth. He didn’t look at her, just kept staring out at the men until they reined in before her and Pa.

  Beaver Tail was in the lead and met her father’s gaze. “We would like you to come with us. The winter will arrive soon, and there is strength and protection in numbers. We can help each other.”

  Her stomach did a nervous flip even as her pulse quickened. They were asking. She glanced sideways at Pa. Would he speak to her before making a decision? He knew she would support whichever choice he made. This journey was his dream, after all. She’d only come along to help him see it through.

  And because she couldn’t imagine life without her father nearby. Since Mama’s passing, he’d become her world. Even when they sold their little farm and packed for this journey, the loss of her childhood home had been manageable because she still had her father, and all the memories they’d made through the years.

  She forced the thoughts away. Forced herself to focus on the conversation around her.

  “Please, Monsieur Wilkins.” French leaned forward, earnestness emanating from every word. “We cannot let you go on your own, especially since we’re all going the same direction. The dangers of this country are too great.”

  For a long moment, Pa was silent. Then he nodded—a single, deliberate bob of his head. “We’d be glad to join up with you. We’ll do our best to be useful partners.”

  His gaze slid sideways to her, and the corner of his mouth tipped up. “Susanna’s a sight more useful than I am, but we’ll both help.”

  Beaver Tail dismounted and strode toward them. “You could be ready to leave today?” His gaze slid from Pa to her, as though he knew she would be the one doing most of the packing. Pa needed to save his strength for the journey.

  She nodded and set to work. As she sorted the food and wrapped it into bundles, the other three men dismounted from their horses and began readying the two animals they’d given her and Pa. Beaver Tail moved to her blankets and started rolling, and Pa did the same with his own bedding.

  Within minutes, the camp had been cleared, and all eight horses stood waiting patiently, fully loaded with all except their riders.

  Joel swung up on his mount. “Let’s get moving.”

  After she made sure Pa was settled on the bay, she climbed aboard the paint gelding. The animal felt strange beneath her after so many months without riding.

  “Good boy.” She patted his neck as he shifted underneath her. Then she looked up at Beaver Tail. He was watching her, and she met his gaze. “What’s his name?”

  He raised his brows. “Horse?” He said the word like a question, although she was pretty sure he’d meant it as a statement.

  This man needed to lighten his intensity a little. She raised her own brows. “His name is Horse?”

  One side of his mouth tipped, and he nodded.

  She turned her attention back to the gelding and gave his neck another pat. “A pleasure to meet you, Horse. I think we’ll get along famously.”

  Today just might have been the longest day of his life. At least, the longest day in his recent memory. And that was why he found himself now hiding out with the horses under the pretense of checking on them as darkness settled over the land.

  Somehow Beaver Tail had ended up bringing up the rear most of the day, making sure no one lagged behind. Which put him staring at Susanna’s willowy figure. He suspected she rode behind her father on purpose, to be there for anything he might need.

  But that left Beaver studying the confident line of her shoulders, the way her long braid swished with each step the horse took. He’d do best to keep his mind from lingering on that image now that he was finally on his own for the night.

  Horse. He stroked the gelding’s black neck, running his hand down the splash of white over the animal’s shoulder. He’d never thought to name his horses, but apparently this one had now been christened.

  “Food’s hot.” Caleb’s call drifted through the night air from the direction of the campfire, rising above the chirp of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl.

  With a woman in camp, surely they weren’t going to have to suffer Caleb’s cooking any longer. The man tolerated the work better than the rest of them, so they’d all agreed to endure his fare, not that Beaver could cook much better.

  But both the coffee and cornbread Susanna had made in their portage camps had been much better than anything he’d eaten in more than one moon. Even her roasted meat seemed to have more flavor and tenderness than what he was accustomed to. That must be his imagination though, or simply his growling bell
y.

  Beaver Tail gave the horse a final pat, then headed toward the campfire and the figures that milled around it. The night had cooled, and a brisk wind whipped his hair. He’d pulled it loose from the leather binding, giving himself that one bit of freedom.

  He raised his face to the breeze, letting the air wipe away the frustrations from the day. Out here in the dark, he could be free of the control others expected from him. Released from all restrictions.

  As he stepped into the ring of firelight, his gaze found Susanna, who was kneeling beside the fire. She had several small cakes sizzling in a pan. At first glance, they looked like pemmican, but that wasn’t a likely food for a white woman to be cooking.

  “Sit yourself, BT. Mr. Wilkins was just tellin’ us about their trip up the river.” Caleb perched on a log, his elbows resting on his long legs and one of Susanna’s cakes in his hand. They almost never used plates unless they had to—less to wash that way.

  The man motioned toward another log that had been gathered for firewood, and Susanna turned with a plate of steaming food for him. She raised her eyes to meet his as he took the offering. Something in her gaze snagged his and held it. A kindness. An earnestness that drew him.

  But he forced himself to turn away. Susanna and her father traveled with them for their safety. But if he wasn’t careful, it’d be his own protection he’d need to worry about.

  Chapter 8

  Beaver Tail sat on the log Caleb had offered and tuned an ear to the conversation. But he was careful to keep part of his mind focused on the night sounds around them. Only a foolish man ignored his surroundings, especially when camping on these plains.

  “So you see, that first time God sent us through at just the right time to miss those sand bars,” Wilkins said. “But when we came through the second time, the river had completely moved, shifting over so the trees that had been on the bank were now an island out there in the middle. We could see the rocks stickin’ up on the sandbars high enough to pierce the boat if we’d struck one. Especially movin’ as fast as we were.”

  “We saw the river move many times.” French gave a knowing nod. The man’s words weren’t surprising for how many times he’d sailed up and down that water. “It’s a wonder how the Missouri comes alive like a giant sea creature, winding and slithering wherever it has a mind to go.”

  “Ain’t that the honest truth.” Caleb piped up. “Lost my best gun when a squall set loose on that sea creature. The waves were tossin’ just like we were on a high sea. Knocked me sideways an’ I had to grab on with both hands to keep from goin’ over the side. Couldn’t save my Kentucky though.”

  He could just picture this giant man gripping a post on the boat, rain and wind lashing all around him. Why anyone chose river travel instead of on a sturdy horse, Beaver Tail would never understand.

  “Never have found a rifle I like as good as that one, ’specially not this thing.” Caleb nodded toward the rifle perched against the log where he sat. His mouth drooped in a pitiful expression, like a dog with its tail dragging.

  “Who made the gun you carry now?” Wilkins’ gaze sharpened.

  “A Frenchman probably.” Caleb cut a sideways grin at French.

  The man raised his half-eaten corn cake and chuckled around his mouthful of food. French was always good for a joke, even if he or his countrymen were the source of the humor.

  “It’s a rifle, I assume? Kentucky model? With a 36- or 42-inch barrel?” Wilkins seemed to scoot to the edge of his seat.

  Caleb nodded. “Forty-two. It’s a decent gun, just tends to shoot low. I suppose I should tinker with it and see if I can straighten the barrel out.”

  “I could take a look.” Wilkins’ eagerness was hard to miss.

  “My father is a gunsmith.” Susanna spoke up from her place by the fire.

  “Was a gunsmith.” Wilkins sank back on his seat. “Back in Illinois. But I brought a few tools with me. I’d be glad to see what I can do.”

  Beaver Tail leaned forward before he realized what he was doing. “You built guns too? Or did repairs only?” He’d always been fascinated with the weapons. And they were so hard to come by in this land. If he could learn the skills, he could make guns for his people. Or at least he could learn to repair the parts that always seemed to break.

  Wilkins tipped his head as he studied Beaver. “I made a few from scratch, but that’s a long, tedious business. Repairs kept me busy enough most days.” He raised his brows. “You have somethin’ in mind you want made?”

  He worked to school his expression. “I would simply like to learn the craft. Perhaps I can watch any repairs you make.” Every bit he could learn would be helpful. He’d studied his own rifle at great length but hadn’t disassembled it to learn more. He couldn’t risk damaging any parts. The gun was too important for both hunting and safety.

  Wilkins coughed—a deep, thick sound. Then he wiped his mouth and looked to Caleb. “Where’s your rifle, son? Let’s take a look.”

  Caleb reached beside him, then scooted over to crouch beside the older man. “I don’t know if the problem’s in the barrel or down in the pan. I’ve tried adding extra powder, but that only makes it kick harder.”

  The old man turned his head and coughed again, then reached for the rifle and scooted so the firelight shone on the metal of the gun. Susanna appeared at his side and handed him a leather kit. With the gun resting on Wilkins’s legs, he loosed the strings of the case and unrolled the leather with steady movements. The pouch contained several pockets, and metal tools poked out from most of them.

  With the instruments handy, he turned his attention to the gun, opening the cock and the frizzen, peering inside from all angles. “First off, it needs a good cleaning.” He glanced up at Caleb with fatherly admonition in his gaze. “This is a delicate tool. It’ll take care of you far better if you take care of it.”

  The big man ducked his chin with a sheepish grin. “Yessir.” Good thing Wilkins was looking at Caleb’s rifle first. Beaver wasn’t sure his own gun was much cleaner. He did wipe it down after every few uses but probably wasn’t as thorough as he should be.

  After doing a quick clean, Wilkins used several of the tiny tools from his kit, making little adjustments to the metal of the gun. The first few tweaks, he explained what he was doing, but as his attention delved deeper into the dark cavity of the rifle, his words became rare.

  There was no need for them though. Beaver had moved close, squatting beside the man as he bent low to allow the fire’s light to shine into the gun. Each of the adjustments he made were logical, but the man’s insight into how each angle affected the rifle’s abilities could only come from years of experience.

  At last, Wilkins straightened, lifting his head from the gun and shifting his shoulders, easing out the kinks from such focused effort. “Alrighty. I think—” A cough broke through his words, but this time it turned into hacking that doubled him over.

  Susanna stepped between Beaver and her father, taking the tiny blade from her pa’s hand and the leather pouch from his lap. “I think that’s all for tonight.”

  The man was still bent over, coughing up his insides with deep, wracking convulsions that made Beaver’s own chest ache. He took the rifle from Wilkins’ lap and handed it to Caleb. Finally, the coughs subsided to a raspy wheezing as the man struggled to draw breath. This had to be more than a summer cold.

  Wilkins wiped at his mouth as he straightened, and Beaver caught a flash of blood before the man curled his hand to hide the evidence. His face had paled, and his hands trembled, even as he offered a shaky grin.

  Beaver hadn’t moved from his position in front of the man, squatting on his haunches so he had to look up into Wilkins’ face. He tried to return the kindness in the man’s eyes, but the worry that had begun to churn in his thoughts made it hard to focus. Something was very wrong with him. An illness greatly advanced, if he was coughing up blood.

  Beaver had only seen two others afflicted with such—both old men whose
bodies had wasted away within only a few moons of the blood coming with their coughs.

  Wilkins clamped his hands on his knees. “Well, I reckon I’d best turn in so I’ll be fresh when we start off come mornin’. Been a long while since I spent all day in the saddle like today.”

  After rising, Beaver Tail almost reached out to offer the man help up. But he caught himself just in time. Wilkins probably didn’t want to feel weak and dependent, and as he pushed to his feet, he seemed to manage it decently. Only a low grunt leaked out.

  Susanna had quietly spread her father’s blankets out behind his log seat, and now she stepped back to the side. As the older man shuffled toward his bed, Beaver did a quick check on his surroundings. Caleb was showing his rifle off to French and Joel. The latter raised his gaze to meet Beaver’s, but Beaver Tail shifted his focus to the darkness around them. He and Joel were the protectors in the group. Caleb and French were simply too easy-going to be always on their guard.

  Just now, the darkness around their camp echoed with normal night sounds. In the distance, a coyote howled, and some of its companions joined in. Too far away for concern. And coyotes weren’t much to worry about anyway, except as nuisances when they broke into foodstores.

  He turned back to Joel and gave a slight nod. All seemed well.

  “I’m going to the river for water.” Susanna’s words pulled his focus to her. She held the pan she’d used for cooking, filled with their plates and a spoon.

  He shook his head. “French will wash those.” Even with a calm night, any number of dangers could attack her. He turned to the dark-haired man.

  French was already on his feet. “Oui, mademoiselle. I will gladly do that for you.”

  She hugged the pan to herself. “Actually, I’d like to stretch my legs some. I’m not accustomed to riding all day either.” She gave French such a sweet smile, Beaver almost wanted to step in front of the man to absorb that look for himself. He’d been the one to suggest the help, after all.