Freedom in the Mountain Wind

by Misty M. Beller

  Her heart ached with the awfulness of it all.

  “Have you tried the root of a marshmallow plant?” Beaver’s words broke through her painful thoughts.

  She worked to shift her focus to his question. “I…I’m not certain. He’s been to several doctors and tried all sorts of remedies. None seemed to help more than a few days before their effect faded.” She glanced toward their pack. “The ground licorice root I put in his tea is the best I have for now. The other tonic that seemed to help was used up a few days ago.”

  Those frown lines wrinkled his brow again. She wanted to ask what was churning in his mind, but something held her back. Perhaps she didn’t want to know.

  Perhaps he was thinking how he’d better steer clear of her father, lest he catch whatever ailed him. He would be one of many who’d voiced or acted out that concern.

  But for some reason, the thought of Beaver Tail holding such an opinion pressed an ache in her chest. One more knife wound piercing through the armor she tried so hard to maintain.

  If her father didn’t get better soon, her armor would be so chipped away she’d have nothing left to protect herself with.

  Chapter 14

  “I’m sure he’s just out setting traps.”

  Susanna looked up into Caleb’s earnest expression the next day and tried to let his kindness warm her. In truth, she was too exhausted to be warmed. Weary from worrying over Joel and Pa. And now, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from worrying over Beaver Tail. He’d seemed so reserved after their conversation the day before. Either she’d offended him with all her prying questions, or hearing how bad her father’s condition was had sent him retreating for protection.

  Either way, he’d been gone since before they’d all awakened that morning, and he hadn’t returned at all through the day. Now they were about to eat the evening meal, and he still hadn’t shown himself.

  She scooped a plate of beans and handed it to Caleb. “You’re probably right.” But they both knew Beaver Tail wouldn’t be setting traps all day long. He hadn’t taken his horse, so maybe he’d started with the snares and been hurt somewhere along the way.

  Memories of the otter attack rushed through her, gripping her by the throat and squeezing until she could barely breathe.

  “I’ll eat a bite,” Caleb said, “then go look for him.”

  She forced the panic aside, forced herself to focus on loading the spoon with beans, then pour them into another bowl. She nodded to Caleb but didn’t dare take her focus off her work. “Thank you.”

  Part of her wanted to go too. Wanted to strike out and find him, to let him know she’d not meant to pry so deeply. If he didn’t want to tell details of his life, she would ask nothing more. And if Pa’s illness was the problem, she could assure him there was nothing contagious in the disease. After all, she’d been around him since the beginning, and she’d not contracted more than an occasional cold.

  No matter what the problem was, Beaver could come back.

  And if he’d tried to come and been injured somehow, well… He needed help. And she wanted to be the one to help him. It shouldn’t matter to her, but it did.

  There wasn’t much talking in the group as they ate. Not the usual camaraderie between them that Pa had slipped into so easily, and not a companionable silence either. Tension hung thick around them, and when she’d finished her own small dish of food, she worked quickly to put away the supplies she’d used to prepare the meal. She would be ready as soon as Caleb was.

  A whippoorwill sounded in the dark, jerking her attention up. That was the call the men used to alert each other when one was entering camp at night. Joel had shared that detail the second evening they were on the trail. Of course, there were real whippoorwills in this area too, so they’d have to wait and see if this was Beaver Tail, but her heart raced with the possibility.

  She almost missed his entrance as the man materialized from the darkness, stepping into the firelight as though he floated.

  “Beaver Tail.” She had to keep herself from jumping to her feet and stepping toward him. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t bother him, after all.

  His gaze found hers and lingered there, his eyes saying so much. He’d thought of her that day. Maybe he’d even missed her. And he was sorry if he’d worried her.

  Or maybe she was reading too much into what she saw there. Probably far too much.

  His gaze shifted from hers, swinging around the camp, from one man to the next.

  “It’s about time you showed up, BT. You had the little lady worryin’.” Caleb stuffed his last bite of beans in his mouth.

  It took her a moment to process Caleb’s words, then a wave of mortification swept through her. Part of her wanted to protest that she hadn’t worried at all.

  But that would be an untruth, so she turned back to the fire and busied herself scraping charred beans from the bottom of the pan. Caleb and French prattled on about how they’d been preparing to go looking for Beaver, even though they were plenty tired from their various duties that day—including the extra part that might have been Beaver’s chores if he’d been around. The typical teasing the men often indulged in.

  Beaver Tail didn’t answer, although she could imagine the hint of a smile that sometimes played at his lips when he listened to their banter. She heard the crack of knees as he crouched next to Joel, then a low murmur that sounded like, “How are you, my friend?”

  “Better.” Joel’s croak made her own throat hurt every time he spoke. His fever still troubled him, but it had seemed to lessen a little through the day. She could only pray it didn’t spike again tonight, as fevers were wont to do.

  A faint shuffling sounded behind her, then Beaver Tail appeared at her side. He dropped to his knees and unfolded a leather pouch. Inside were a dozen or so plants, all the same species, with drooping leaves almost the size of her palm. The stems had been pulled from the ground with roots intact and covered with dirt.

  “I’ll clean them first, then you can cut the roots and stems and boil them in water to make a tea for your father. It will help clear his chest.”

  Her gaze darted up to his face. “You found these while you were out?”

  He nodded. “I’ve seen some by the river before, but I didn’t think I’d have to go so far to find more.”

  So he’d gone specifically to get these for Pa? And hadn’t turned back until he’d found them. A wash of emotion flooded through her, surging up to sting her eyes. “Thank you.”

  She didn’t look away this time. Wanted him to see the depth of her gratitude. Even if the plant didn’t bring relief to her father, the fact that Beaver Tail had gone to such lengths to help meant more than she could express in words. He’d not rejected her and Pa. Instead, he’d reached out to offer aid.

  She did finally drop her gaze when tears blurred her vision. No need to appear excessively weak.

  “I’ll wash them in the river. Do you need more water?”

  The question pulled her from her emotional quagmire. “Yes, in this pot.” She reached for the kettle she used for tea.

  When he took the metal handle from her, the brush of his large warm hand against hers sent a skitter up her arm. She did her best not to let the reaction show.

  Then he stood with the plants and the kettle, and, as silently as he’d appeared, faded into the dark of night.

  “I can’t tell you how much I ’preciate that new tea you brought, son. Think it might actually be helping.” As if to give the lie to his words, Wilkins turned away from Beaver Tail and loosed a cough into his sleeve.

  It didn’t turn into a full coughing fit, though. Not like usual. And maybe the sound wasn’t as thick and bubbly as it had been.

  Beaver Tail glanced up from the moccasin he was mending and over to Susanna to see if she noticed the same.

  She was studying her father like she often did when the man coughed. The worry marring her pretty face was clear. But a thoughtfulness narrowed her eyes, too.

  He turn
ed back to Wilkins with a nod. “I hope it helps, sir.”

  “Did I ever tell you about the doctor I once built a flintlock blunderbuss for?” Wilkins sank back against the tree behind him. “He specialized in surgeries, especially those of the throat. Real good with little details. I tried to tell him a ’buss wouldn’t give him the aim he’d want when he was out hunting. But he said his vision was failing, so he needed something that would scatter enough shot to hit what he wanted it to.” The man grinned and looked to be holding in a chuckle. Probably so the laugh didn’t start a coughing fit.

  Beaver Tail couldn’t help sharing the good humor. There was something about Wilkins that made it impossible not to like the man. Made him want to open up. Even though Susanna sat nearby. “I haven’t heard of a blunderbuss.”

  The twinkle in the older man’s eyes deepened. “It’s an old gun, not made new much anymore. Shoots like the muskets they used back in the war for independence.” Wilkins tipped his head. “But I guess that wouldn’t tell you much, would it? The barrel is flared at the end.” He leaned forward and used his fingers to illustrate his words. “And it’s used to fire lots of small shot instead of a single ball. It works for hunting small game in somewhat near range. Not so good for the big stuff.”

  He nodded toward his daughter. “Like Susanna’s bear the other night. Wouldn’t have done more than make it angry. Did I tell you it took three shots to bring that beast down? And that was with my strongest spiral-bore rifle. How are your scratches healing by the way, daughter?” This last bit was turned toward Susanna, and Beaver Tail couldn’t help looking her way, too.

  She ducked her chin, and her cheeks turned a pretty apple-red. “Much recovered.” The words were mumbled, probably because of his presence there.

  He couldn’t keep his gaze from dropping to her leg where most of the damage seemed to have been. She’d stitched the wide arc the bear had torn in her leggings, but he still caught a limp anytime she stood after kneeling for a while. She seemed to be healing, though.

  He pulled his focus from her, shifting toward the river where the other men had gone. “Joel seems much improved.”

  “He does.” Relief brightened her voice. “When he woke without a fever this morning, he was finally able to eat on his own. He’s getting his strength back quickly.”

  Once again, his gaze pulled to her like a mother bird to its nest of young. “You’re a good healer. You have the patience for it.”

  A sadness shadowed her eyes, but she bobbed her chin. “I find I don’t like nursing as well as I did when I was younger.” The quick flick of her gaze toward her father revealed everything she couldn’t say.

  He could only imagine the challenge of caring for her father with his lung troubles. Or rather, he’d like to imagine it.

  If only his own father had stuck around long enough, maybe Beaver would have had an opportunity to help him with something. Or at least get to know him.

  Part of Beaver Tail wanted to cheer Joel on as they rode the next morning. His friend was tough, no doubt. Even though sweat beaded his brow and his face hadn’t worn much color for several hours, Joel rode without complaining.

  But the part of him that watched Susanna’s nervous worry wanted to snatch Joel’s reins and tell him to get off his horse and lie down. Maybe another day to recover was what the man needed. Susanna certainly seemed to think so, if her expressions could be believed.

  They were moving into the rocky country of the lower mountains now, and the river flowed between steep cliffs on either side, making it impossible in some places for them to reach the water.

  A beautiful sight to behold, though, with the rock face descending almost the length an arrow could shoot, the water far below looking so much smaller than it really was.

  A gasp ahead grabbed his focus, tightening every part of him as he tensed for danger.

  “Look.” Susanna’s voice held more than a little awe at the brown mass rippling just over the hill they were cresting.

  Buffalo. Such a vast herd, they covered the land like a blanket with only a few holes worn through. This must be the same group he’d seen when he met Lucas.

  Now that he thought about it, what had happened to the buffalo the man had shot that day? Beaver Tail hadn’t actually seen an animal fall, but even a man who couldn’t hit the broad side of a cliff wouldn’t have missed his shot with the animals packed in so thick as they grazed. But Lucas hadn’t taken time to dress his kill.

  Anger churned in Beaver’s gut. Any man who’d experienced a hungry winter knew better than to waste food like that. Not to mention the hide thick enough to save fingers and toes in a snowstorm.

  French reined in their group at the top of the knoll as they all stared out over the sight before them.

  Beaver had been riding in the rear, as usual, which gave him an easy view of Susanna at any time, but especially now as she watched the herd. But it was Wilkins who caught his attention.

  The man’s face curved into ripples of pleasure as he took in the vision before them. “That sure is a pretty sight.” The words were just loud enough to hear, spoken in a whisper so full of awe, it birthed the same feeling in Beaver’s chest.

  But Wilkins’s whisper ended in a wheeze, which turned into a cough, deep and croupy, snatching the air from the man and doubling him over. Cough after cough tore from deep inside, shaking his thin frame with a ferocity that looked as if it might knock the man over.

  Susanna must have thought the same, for she nudged her horse alongside her father’s, her hand hovering in the air but not touching his back. Beaver Tail signaled his horse along the man’s other side.

  Wilkins’s bone-jarring coughs finally began to subside, turning into thick, chesty barks. At last, he heaved in a desperate gurgling breath, like a drowning man coming up for air.

  His shoulders rose and dipped with each labored inhale, and his face had paled as white as new snow. He swayed, and if he hadn’t been gripping the saddle, he may well have fallen off the side.

  Beaver raised his voice loud enough for the group to hear him. “Time to let the horses rest. We can eat a bite too.” Wilkins needed a break more than the animals, but he had a feeling the fellow wouldn’t appreciate being called out.

  The others could all read through his words, no doubt, and a tense quiet settled over the group as they dismounted. Joel, too, looked about to fall off his horse as he leaned forward to climb down. Maybe it would be best if they stayed in this spot longer than the length of a midday meal—a few hours at least.

  He could pretend a need to ride ahead to inspect the buffalo herd while the group waited for him to return. If they’d needed food, he would take the opportunity to bring down one of the animals. But they still had plenty from the bear and his trapping, and they didn’t have enough space to pack any more cured meat.

  His glance slid to Susanna, who was helping her father sit under the only tree in the area. Maybe she’d like to ride with him to see the herd. But she’d probably rather stay near her father and Joel—the nurse with her patients.

  And he shouldn’t be looking for ways to spend extra time with her anyway.

  Chapter 15

  Beaver Tail waited until Susanna had finished passing out helpings of bean cake and meat to each of them, then he rose to his knees and glanced at French and Caleb. “I’m going to ride forward and see the herd. I’ll make sure we have a safe route around them.” Those two would likely see through his bluff.

  Joel too, if he had his wits about him. But just then, the man was lying on his back with an arm over his eyes, chewing slowly as if the task took great effort. Wilkins was slumped against the tree, sipping water and nibbling on a bean cake. If the fatigue on his face were any indication, he’d be stretched out like Joel within a few minutes. Good.

  Beaver Tail stood and turned to catch his horse, which he’d turned loose to graze with its saddle on.

  “Can I ride with you?”

  Susanna’s voice froze him mid-step. He turned ba
ck to her, his heart beating faster than her simple words should have effected.

  Her eyes were always pretty—that was one of the first things he’d noticed about her that day on the river’s edge—but now they were rounded and pleading, and the hope in them pressed like a weight on his chest. He glanced at her father just to escape the longing her gaze drew from him.

  “I suppose I should stay here,” she said. “Forget I asked.”

  His focus shot back to her face, which she’d turned to her father. She must have interpreted Beaver’s look toward the man to mean he was asking if she worried about leaving her father in his ill state. Maybe he had meant that, but the thought of Susanna not going with him sent a surge of desperation through his chest.

  Before he could stop himself, he looked to Caleb. “You can see to anything that’s needed here, right?”

  Caleb nodded, then sent Susanna one of his charming grins. “You ride out an’ enjoy yourself, ma’am. A big herd of buffalo like this one is a sight to behold. We’ll all just sit here an’ enjoy the breeze.” He swiped his sleeve across his brow as though he’d worked up a sweat.

  Beaver had to bite back a snort. The man did know how to play things up for a woman.

  But Susanna didn’t seem affected by his charm. Instead, she turned to Beaver with uncertainty in her gaze.

  He reached out for her. It wasn’t until he already had his hand extended that he wondered why he’d done it. He wasn’t standing close enough that she could actually slip her fingers in his. But this woman seemed to make his body act before his mind had time to stop himself.

  The thought scared him more than he wanted to face right now.

  But he’d already put himself out there, so he kept his hand extended. After a long moment—maybe not as long as the silence felt—she nodded, then pushed to her feet.

  Something felt different.

  Susanna breathed in fresh air as a breeze brushed her face. The day wasn’t overwarm, but the wind held a freedom she hadn’t tasted in so long, she could barely remember the feeling.