Freedom in the Mountain Wind

by Misty M. Beller

  His language came out in a series of guttural sounds, occasionally pitching high before dropping low again—nothing she could understand. She glanced at Beaver, whose gaze was honed on the man with a fierce intensity, as though he was trying to understand the language. Could he?

  Beaver couldn’t ride forward without her also moving up, but Caleb had shifted sideways so Beaver could see and be seen by the strangers.

  When the leader stopped speaking, Caleb glanced over at Beaver. “You know what he said?”

  Beaver nodded, but never took his eyes from the Indians ahead. “They’re a Shoshone hunting party looking for buffalo. He asked who we are.”

  Then he spoke to the strangers in a high-low cadence that was almost musical in its rhythm. Like the other man, he used his hands in sweeping gestures. In all the many hours they’d spent together, especially this past week, she’d never heard him speak in his Indian tongue. Why had she never asked to hear his language? Why had she never asked him to teach her?

  As he spoke, she couldn’t help but watch him. He was so handsome, this man. And with the unfamiliar language rolling from his tongue, part of him seemed almost exotic, yet also intensely personal. As if she were part of him. As if she’d always known him, somewhere deep inside.

  When he stopped speaking, she shifted her focus to the Indians. The one who’d spoken turned to look at those behind him, and the rumble of voices sounded as they talked amongst themselves. They seemed to reach a consensus, and the leader turned back to Beaver.

  When he spoke, the sounds were different than those Beaver Tail had used. The cadence unlike the rolling rhythm she could have listened to for hours. Maybe they were speaking in different languages? Perhaps the hand gestures were the main way they made themselves understood.

  After the stranger finished, Beaver Tail responded, and she focused hard on both his words and his hand movements. She couldn’t make sense of either, at least not from this side view.

  The two went back and forth a couple more times, then Beaver gave a decisive nod. “Stay still as they pass.” He spoke low, just loud enough for their group to hear.

  She gripped her horse’s reins and had to force herself not to pull back on them. The group of braves moved forward again, riding past them on Beaver’s side. Several of the men stared at her as they rode by, two even turning to leer at her after they passed.

  Beaver Tail sat straight as a lodgepole pine, twisting to watch them with his chin raised. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel an animosity in the air that hadn’t been there moments before. Because of the stares she’d garnered? Probably not.

  When the Indians had moved out of sight behind a cluster of trees and a low hill, Beaver turned back to them, his focus honing on her. His gaze roamed her face, perhaps ensuring she was unharmed.

  “He sounded like he had a lot to say.” Caleb broke the heavy silence. “Anything useful?”

  Beaver flicked a glance at him. “Said they met a few braves from the eastern tribes, a white man with them. They were pushing west in search of spotted horses.”

  “When?” Eagerness filled Caleb’s voice as he turned his horse to better see Beaver. “Were Joel and French with ’em?”

  Beaver shook his head. “They saw them in early spring when they came down from the mountains for the first hunt. They haven’t seen two white men riding alone.”

  Another layer of worry pressed Susanna’s chest. “What does that mean? Are we not on the same trail Joel and French took?” Hadn’t Beaver been following the marks they’d left? He’d shown her two of them earlier in the day—trees with a large J cut into the trunks.

  He turned his focus to her, and his gaze softened on her like a warm blanket, easing her fears. “We are following the path our two have taken. These Shoshone have come a different route.”

  His words held no hint of doubt, and she nodded, easing out a breath. “Did they say anything else?”

  He shook his head again. Then he looked down at her father. “Should we keep riding or stop for the night?”

  She followed his gaze. Pa’s eyes were still closed, as they’d been every time she looked at him since their midday stop. His brow was drawn low, forming deep creases of pain, and his mouth parted just enough to let his gurgling breaths through. Should they stop?

  His lips closed, then opened again. “Keep going.” The words came out barely louder than a whisper, but he’d spoken his mind.

  As she swallowed down the lump clogging her throat, she looked up at Beaver. The pain in his gaze mirrored her own heart, but she nodded. They would keep going.

  Beaver Tail stood at the edge of the rock, staring out over the valley below as the murky light of dawn brightened the distant sky. This would be their second day on the trail, and they would most likely reach the true mountains today.

  As long as there were no delays. From the sound of the labored breathing drifting from the man sleeping not far behind him, a delay was certainly possible.

  Maybe Wilkins would be too exhausted from the day before to travel today. Riding up and down through the rocky foothills the day before hadn’t been easy on him. Even if he was, the man wouldn’t let anything hold him back. He’d soaked in every view, his joy in even the lower heights they’d climbed evident, despite the effort each word required.

  I can’t give her to a man who doesn’t know our God. She’d never be happy.

  Wilkins’s honesty had taunted him all through the night, which was the reason he now stood staring out into the faint dawn. More than anything, he wanted Susanna to be happy. Even more than he wanted her to be with him. Why couldn’t he have both?

  He was willing to hear more about this God. If Wilkins and Susanna and Caleb—people he respected—believed so fully in Him, maybe He was, indeed, real. Beaver lifted his gaze to the darkness of the overhead sky. Scattered clouds concealed the stars that might have glittered their final moments. Was a God looking down on him, even now? What did He think of Beaver?

  A pang tightened his chest. Was he judging him for all the ways he’d fallen short through the years? Especially with Ayadna. That atrocity had been his biggest blunder. A new wave of pain soaked through him. If he were to have a future with Susanna, he’d need to tell of her Ayadna. He’d need to tell her why he left his family.

  A murmuring sounded from the camp behind him. Caleb’s heavy steps marched out toward the horses. He could hear the raspy whisper of Susanna’s father, and her sweet lilt as she answered, but he didn’t strain to make out their words. They had a right to a private moment together.

  Then her soft tread sounded behind him, and he braced himself for the impact she always affected inside him. He turned to her, took in the way the dim light softened the weary features of her face. For a long moment, she just looked at him, and he drank her in.

  Everything in him wanted to pull her close, to ease away at least a little of her strain. Whether that took a kiss or just holding her, maybe rubbing circles over her back. Maybe even letting her cry as long as she needed.

  But something held him back. Perhaps it was her manner. A brittleness about her, as if she were afraid to give way to any emotion, for then she’d succumb to it all—and might not recover. He knew that fear of breaking down. And he could respect it. There would be time for tears and holding later. For now, his presence was the best gift he could offer.

  “Pa wants to speak with you.” Her delicate throat worked as she swallowed. Then she turned away, stepping gingerly down the hillside where they’d camped. Probably headed down to the creek below, although she hadn’t taken anything to carry water in. Time alone would help her most. Hopefully.

  Beaver turned and moved to Wilkins’s side, trying to hone his thoughts for the coming conversation. The man surely wanted to continue their talk from the day before. Beaver dropped to his knees beside him.

  Wilkins barely raised the furs covering him, and only his head and one hand peeked out at the top. His body must be struggling to keep him warm.
He opened his eyes a little, and the pain on his face eased as he took in Beaver. The softness in his gaze formed a knot of emotion in Beaver’s throat.

  “Son.” His voice came out in a thick rasp, but the sound didn’t change the impact the word had in Beaver’s chest.

  Wilkins had called him this before, and each time, it swept through him like a torrent of water. Had he ever been called son by a man? Especially a man he respected as much as this one. In truth, he wished he was this man’s son. Whether by birth or by marriage. If only they had more time.

  Wilkins shifted the fur covering, working his arm out from underneath. The movement took effort, based on the look on his face, and Beaver reached to help him. Wilkins caught Beaver’s hand in his own and squeezed it. Seemed that had been his intent all along.

  The contact—the fatherly touch from this man he respected—thickened the lump in his throat. He couldn’t speak if he wanted to.

  “I hope you’ve been…thinking about…what I said.” He paused to take in a gurgling breath between every few words.

  Beaver nodded. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Wilkins pushed on, even though talking seemed to take all he had left. “I’ll be going on…to heaven…soon. To meet…our God. I hope I’ll…see you there…one day.”

  See him again? He’d heard of heaven. The place it was said people went who followed this God. A yearning started inside him. Maybe it had already been there, but the intensity of Beaver’s desire seemed to expand with every breath.

  What would it be like to know what would happen after he died? To have the hope of another world—a good world. A world where he would be reunited with others who’d gone before him. Like this man.

  Wilkins had closed his eyes again. He raised the lids partway. Waiting for Beaver’s response.

  He couldn’t promise to be in this heaven. He wasn’t even certain the place existed. And he respected Wilkins too much to lie to him, even to ease his worries as he lay dying. So he offered as much hope as he could. “Perhaps.”

  Wilkins’s eyes drifted shut again, but his hand squeezed Beaver’s. “You’ve been…a blessing…son.”

  Beaver didn’t move as Wilkins struggled through each breath. Beaver’s body was almost numb, yet his mind churned. The words had felt like good-bye. Don’t let him leave yet.

  Just one more day. If Beaver could have just one more day with this man, maybe that would be enough.

  Chapter 23

  They were climbing a mountain now, a true cliff with precipices jutting out in several places as they wound upward. With every step of the horse’s hooves, Susanna’s heart weighed heavier.

  Pa was holding on until they reached the top, she was almost certain. Then he would stop fighting for every breath. If there was any way she could fight for him, she would do it. She’d gladly give her breath to him if it would keep him with her longer.

  But that wasn’t fair to Pa, not when pain tormented him. He’d been hurting longer than he’d let on, if the deep lines etching his face were to be believed. She had to let him go to the better place the Lord had prepared for him.

  Midway through the afternoon, Caleb raised his hand to signal a halt. “It doesn’t look like we can go any farther on horseback.” He looked back at Beaver Tail. “Think we can carry him?”

  Beaver nodded, and she didn’t have to see his eyes to know the grief she’d find there. They were all grieving, yet this wasn’t the time for sadness. These were the last precious hours they’d have with her father, and she meant to make the most of them.

  While the men untied the litter, she took Pa’s hand in hers, cradling the gaunt fingers. “We’re almost there.” He didn’t open his eyes, but his hand squeezed hers. She could almost feel his arms wrapped around her in the hug he would give her if he could.

  She fought the burn of tears. Not yet. She couldn’t cry yet.

  When they had the ties unfastened, Beaver turned a gentle gaze on her. She released her father’s hand and sniffed back her emotion. “Go on. I’ll settle the horses and catch up.” She needed a job to do. Something to occupy her thoughts.

  He nodded, then the two men started forward on the game trail they’d been following.

  She made quick work of unsaddling the horses. Only a few sprigs of grass grew on this part of the mountain, but some shrubby trees poked out of the rocky ground. She tied the animals so they would stay close, then left everything there except a canteen and one of the packs she’d wrapped food in. Pa might not need this, but she’d have it handy just in case.

  She jogged up the trail as long as she could, then walked to catch her breath, then jogged again. The stitch in her side brought a welcome distraction. Ahead, she saw the men, walking in tandem with her father’s sling carried between them. Beaver wasn’t as tall as Caleb—few men were—but his broad shoulders tapered to a lean waist, catching her notice as he always did. Yet even that distraction didn’t last long as her focus honed on the furs draped between the men.

  As she ran the last bit of distance between them, panic clawed in her throat. What if Pa had passed already while she’d been tending the horses? What had she been thinking to leave him, even for a few minutes?

  Beaver glanced back as she neared, and he must have seen the fear on her face, for he and Caleb both stopped.

  “Pa.” She grabbed Beaver Tail’s arm when she reached him, panting to catch her breath from her sprint.

  Pa’s hand lifted from the furs, and the movement sent such a wash of relief through her, if she hadn’t been clutching Beaver, she would have gone to her knees.

  She took her father’s hand, then inhaled a steadying breath. Beaver raised his brows in question and she nodded. “Go ahead.”

  The last of the climb passed far too quickly, and as much as she tried to prepare herself, when they reached the precipice, she wanted to turn and run back the way they’d come. She wasn’t ready to reach the end.

  The sight before them stretched in endless majesty. Mountains rose up on either side of them, and below flowed the Missouri River, smaller here than the mighty waters they’d followed for months.

  “Pa.” She rubbed her thumb over the leathery lines covering the back of his hand. “You should see this.”

  His eyes opened wider than they had in days. He stared up at the sky above, then around, like a new baby discovering the world. Then his gaze found hers. “Sit me up.” Although his voice still rasped, the sound came stronger than the rough whisper he’d been using. As though these mountains infused strength into his failing body.

  The men lowered him onto a smooth boulder, and Beaver helped her sit him upright. He couldn’t sit upright on his own, so Beaver positioned himself behind Pa to support him. That allowed her to sit beside her father, gripping his hand in hers.

  Pa laid his head on her shoulder—it was probably too difficult for him to hold it up on his own—and she savored the extra touch. She rested her cheek on the top of his hair. He bore the scent of his disease, a smell that would always turn her stomach, yet there was also the unmistakable fragrance that was her father. That aroma she’d known since her earliest memories, the one so precious it now made her eyes burn.

  “It’s beautiful, Susy.” Even though his voice had weakened again, the awe in her father’s tone returned her focus to the view before them.

  “It is. As magnificent as I thought it would be.”

  “Even better.” He took in two gurgling breaths. “I only wish your mama could be here with us.”

  Now she had to fight harder to keep her tears at bay.

  Pa seemed to realize it, for he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I can’t wait to see her again.”

  She had to sniff before she could speak. “I know, Pa.”

  “We won’t be far, honey.” He moved his other hand atop hers. “Don’t ever forget…how much we love you. And how proud…we both are. You and your mama…are the best gifts…I could ever…imagine.” He was wearing down, his words fading with each labo
red breath.

  She stroked his hand with her thumb again. “I love you, Pa.”

  They sat that way for a long time, her mind wandering through all the memories she loved. Working alongside him in his gunsmithing shop. Handing him tools and listening to him talk about gun locks and cock screws and rifled bores. The passion that would fill his voice as he spoke of the work he loved had drawn her more than anything.

  In the summer evenings they would sometimes go exploring around their little farm, spotting wild animals and seeking out unusual burrows or oddly shaped trees. The land always offered up something, and Pa would often thumb through his books once they’d returned to the cabin, finding answers to satisfy his curious mind.

  She gave his hand another gentle squeeze. He didn’t squeeze back. In fact, his hand was limp.

  Panic surged through her and she jerked her head up to see his face. “Pa?” His breathing no longer gurgled, and realization sank over her with a smothering hold. “No.”

  A warm hand settled on her shoulder. Beaver Tail.

  As tears spilled down her cheeks, she sank back against him. Laying her head on her father’s again, she let herself be cradled with the two men she loved.

  For once, she didn’t try to be strong.

  Beaver Tail couldn’t remember ever crying, but tears fell now.

  Tears for the loss of this good man. A man he’d come to respect, to love. For the second time in his life, he’d lost a father.

  Yet, his pain was nothing to Susanna’s. The weight of her grief clawed at him. She’d become his heart, and this rending in her spirit made his own chest squeeze so tight, the pain felt as though he were tearing in two.

  For a long time, he held them both. Letting her grieve. Grieving with her.