A Bride for Noah

by Lori Copeland

  More natives entered the clearing, carrying wood that they piled on the circle of soil. Ah, now she understood. They’d created a fire pit. As the assembled watched, another man appeared on the path, this one with a burning torch held straight out in front of him. He moved with slow, measured steps, his face solemn, obviously following some sort of prearranged ceremony. All the while, the drummer pounded a steady beat that filled the air and rang in Evie’s ears. In moments, the wood blazed high. The torchbearer tossed his torch on the top of the bonfire and stepped back to sink to the ground between two lumberjacks.

  Chief Seattle lifted his arms and spread them wide in a request for silence. The drum ceased and though no one had been speaking before, an attentive hush came over everyone around the fire. The chief said something in his language to David.

  David nodded and spoke in a voice pitched to reach everyone present. “Chief Si’ahl asks me to speak his words in our white man’s tongue so all can understand.”

  The chief lowered his arms and lifted his head. His deep voice projected past those circled around the crackling fire, far into the forest. The words he spoke had the now-familiar sound of their language, but took on a grace Evie had never noticed when spoken in Seattle’s fluid baritone. After a few sentences he paused and waited for David to translate.

  “My people have lived on this land for many years. Every part is familiar to us. We know the sap that courses through the trees as we know the blood that courses through our veins. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The bear and the great eagle are our brothers. The rocky crests, the dew in the meadow, and man, all belong to the same family.”

  Seattle spoke again, his words falling with an exotic but oddly calming resonance on Evie’s ears.

  “Then white men came. Your ways are a mystery to us. You take more trees than you need, and send them away in big canoes. You offer payment for what is as freely yours as it is ours.”

  The chief fixed a look on Miles, who seemed oblivious that the comment might have been directed at him and his recent salmon purchases.

  “You crash through the forest shouting like wounded elk instead of listening to the earth’s voice.”

  Evie searched the faces around the circle and exchanged a grin with Ethel, who was trying not to laugh. Flickering firelight illuminated the faces of the Denny girls, one seated on each side of the stocky woman, their eyes round and mouths dangling open.

  “But some of your ways are common to ours. I have seen awe in your faces as you gaze over our land, our waters. I have seen the respect you accord one another. I have seen you labor together to meet the needs of another.”

  Now Evie found those eyes, darker than the night, fixed on her.

  “These are also the ways of my people. When I consider them, I am comforted. Though our ways differ, perhaps we are not so different. As we are part of the land, you are part of the land. This earth is precious to us. It is also precious to you. I have hope that we can learn to live side by side, to share with one another. And so I, Chief Si’ahl, and my people, welcome you.”

  The chief folded his arms over his chest and lowered his head when the echo of David’s final words faded. For the space of a breath, silence reigned. Then someone—she thought it might be Big Dog—let out a cheer and began to clap. Every white settler joined in. Tears filled Evie’s eyes for the second time this evening as she clapped until her palms ached.

  The chief once more lifted his arms and the drum started again. This time the rhythm was fast and lively, and Evie’s heartbeat skipped along with the cadence. More Duwamish tribesmen stepped into the clearing, eight men carrying a huge log. Instead of approaching the circle, they marched past on silent feet, heading toward a place in the center of the glade. Evie and Noah both turned to watch their progress, and she was surprised to see that a deep, narrow hole had been dug in the ground while their attention was focused elsewhere, apparently by those who had cleared the ground for the fire. The newcomers placed the end of the log in the hole and then, working together, slowly raised it up. It settled with a thud, and two men knelt to pack soil around the edges while the others held it in place.

  As she looked, Evie realized she had been wrong. This was not merely a log. The surface had been carved and painted with the same vivid colors she’d admired on the courtship poles—only these designs were much larger.

  She leaned toward Noah to whisper in his ear. “It’s not another marriage proposal, is it?”

  His eyes were wide as Cookee’s flapjacks. “If it is, you might want to consider accepting this one. It’s huge.”

  Suppressing a laugh, she answered by jabbing an elbow in his ribs.

  He grinned, rubbing his side. “I’m joking. I’ve heard of these. They’re called totem poles. This must be the gift they told David about.”

  When the Indians stepped back, the totem pole stood tall and straight. Evie realized its top was on level with the window in her bedroom. If she positioned her cot just right, she would be able to see it in the morning when she woke.

  The chief said something and stood, and David leaped to his feet. “He says we can look at it if we want.”

  The drum kept up its rapid tempo while they gathered in front of the pole to admire it. Evie saw that instead of one design, the pole actually consisted of many individual carvings, one on top of another, all intricate and colorfully detailed. Some she recognized right away, like the bear head and, at the top, an eagle with its wings spread wide. The words of the chief’s speech came back to her. These symbols held special significance for the Duwamish people.

  “Look.” David pointed halfway up. “That’s a lumberjack.”

  Sure enough, the carved scene depicted a beefy man wielding an ax and standing before a tall tree.

  “And there we are again,” said Arthur.

  Below the picture of the lumberjack another carving showed two men shaking hands. One was obviously Indian, wearing a headdress very similar to the one Chief Seattle wore tonight. The other had a bare head and wore white man’s clothing. “That must be when we first met.”

  Chief Seattle had joined them, and he dipped his head at Arthur’s comment. Evie studied the scene, a sense of awe rising in her. This totem pole was meant not to commemorate her restaurant only, but the entire settlement. It was a symbol of the Duwamish people’s acceptance of the white men and women who had settled here.

  “Evie, look.” Noah’s face held a grin so wide she saw his back molars. “That’s you.”

  “What?” She followed his gaze to a carving near the top. Night had fallen in the clearing and darkness obscured the details, but she could see the shoulders, neck, and head of a woman. “No, it can’t be me.”

  The chief said something, and Noah laughed. “He says the carving is you, though not nearly as pretty as it should be. You’re meant to represent this place, where his people and ours worked together toward a common goal for the first time.”

  Overcome, Evie covered her mouth with a hand. A lump of emotion had gathered in her throat. If she wasn’t careful she would cry. When she was certain she could speak, she faced the chief. “Thank you.”

  Her reward was another of his rare smiles, and then he turned away, leaving her and Noah standing side by side.

  His head tilted as he gazed up at the top of the pole, where the eagle’s bright eye looked out toward Elliott Bay, wings spread wide as if to embrace all the land it saw.

  “Will you be all right with this here, in front of your restaurant?” He spoke in a low voice that couldn’t be overheard. “I mean, it’s rather primitive.”

  Definitely primitive. What would Ethel think of that snarling bear’s head? And the carved woman who was supposed to be Evie…How strange would it feel to see that every time she walked in or out of her restaurant?

  But she didn’t care. This totem pole was a gift that she would treasure not only for the beauty of its design, but for the significance it symbolized.


  “I love it,” she told him. “It’s perfect.”

  Fourteen

  Cookee stabbed at Evie and Ethel with a crooked finger. “I told ye time and again, it don’t matter if they’s a feather or two left. Jest get the big ’uns off and start them birds to roastin’.”

  While Evie examined the bird carcass in her lap for big feathers, Ethel drew herself up and snapped, “Don’t tell me how to pluck a chicken. I’ve been doing it since before I could talk.” The effect of her severe retort was somewhat spoiled by the fact that an assortment of soft, downy feathers had collected in her hair.

  “That ain’t no chicken, missy. It’s a wild turkey.”

  She met his glare. “No difference, only bigger.”

  Cookee planted his bowed legs in front of them and glared down the not-inconsiderable length of his nose, taking advantage of the fact that they were seated. “Ain’t neither, and that there jest shows how ignor’nt you Tennessee girlies are.”

  Ethel sucked in a breath, ready to deliver a scathing reply, but Evie gave her a warning look. She let it out slowly, and, with obvious restraint, kept her silence.

  “We’re almost finished,” Evie told the man. “Only two more and then you can show us how to roast them.”

  Her conciliatory tone seemed to calm him. “Well, see that you hurry. In a few hours this place’ll be swarming hungry men expecting to be fed, and I ain’t gonna be the one to tell them they gotta eat raw turkeys.” He gave Ethel one more glare before stomping off to the kitchen.

  The woman followed his exit with a black look. “I know the difference between a turkey and a chicken, but the plucking is the same. That’s all I meant.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Evie reached up and picked the feathers from her hair. “Only one more week and then you can tell Cookee anything you like. In the meantime, we promised to keep the peace.”

  “Hmph.” With a vicious jerk she ripped a handful of feathers from the huge bird in her lap. “Right after the boat sets sail with that load of wood, I’m going to march right into that cookhouse and give him what for.”

  Evie chuckled. Truth be told, the ill-tempered cook had grown on her in the week since they’d begun helping him cook and serve the lumberjacks. At first he felt threatened by having women assistants in his cookhouse, and she’d had to steel herself against surly comments about females who wanted to do jobs that ought to be left to men. Her timid suggestions about new seasonings for beans or sweeter pie crusts were not only soundly rebuffed, but treated as personal attacks on his abilities. Finally, Evie adopted an attitude of restraint. When given a task, she did it cheerfully and without comment, even though at times she had to clamp her teeth together to keep from snapping a reply.

  Besides, she’d learned a few things in the past week. Cookee had worked as a trail cook on cattle drives before coming here, and he knew a thing or two about feeding a group of tired, hungry men. He could turn a sack of flour into a mountain of flapjacks that stretched out over a whole week, cheaper and better than anything Evie had ever made. The men devoured them every morning. And his venison stew was hands-down better than any stew she’d ever produced. She’d taught him a better way to make shoepack pie and he’d had to admit it was downright finger-lickin’ good. After carefully observing Cookee this past week, she had dozens of new ideas for her restaurant.

  “There.” Ethel tossed the last de-feathered turkey on top of the other five. “Now I suppose he’ll want to hover over us and make sure we know what we’re doing when we gut and spit them.” She glared toward the cookhouse door, and then stood with a resolute sigh. “I’ll go tell him we’re finished.”

  “Be nice,” Evie warned.

  The grim smile Ethel pasted on would have scared away a starving grizzly.

  Despite Cookee’s dire predictions, the turkeys were roasted in plenty of time for the men’s return to camp. Evie and the other ladies delivered platters piled high with the succulent meat to the tables, along with roasted potatoes, onions, early carrots harvested from Cookee’s garden, loaves of bread, and dozens of pies. The men devoured every bite of the feast. Evie was thankful she’d set some aside for Noah, who rarely joined the others for supper.

  One other benefit from the past week was that she’d had the opportunity to observe her restaurant employees in action. She had come to expect that Ethel would be a hard worker, and was not disappointed. The woman’s strength and stamina outlasted the other girls time and again. Lucy surprised her by working almost as hard as Ethel and maintaining a cheerful attitude besides. Sarah, on the other hand, tended toward laziness except when the men were present. No surprise there. When the company returned from the cutting site for supper she became the model of helpfulness, though she frequently flitted from one table to the other, leaving tasks unfinished as she went in search of someone else’s attention.

  While the men flirted tirelessly with Lucy and Sarah, they at first ignored Ethel. But after a week they seemed to accept and even appreciate her brusque manner.

  Evie herself they treated with respect and admiration, though also a touch of reserve. Their attitudes amused her. Was it because she held the role of employer over the others? Regardless, she was secretly relieved that she was not called to constantly fend off unwanted attention.

  When the last of the food platters had been set on the makeshift tables in the cookhouse and her employees were occupied with keeping the lumberjacks’ cups full while they ate, Evie picked up the plate she’d fixed for Noah, covered it with a napkin, and slipped through the doorway. As she expected, the glow of candlelight shined from inside the command tent. For the past week Noah had worked at the cutting site all day and spent his evenings hunched over his ledgers. Oftentimes the candle still burned after the supper dishes had been washed up and Evie and the ladies were ready to be escorted down the trail to the restaurant for the night.

  Dark had fallen over the camp when she carried Noah’s supper plate to him. Night in this vast forest always filled her with a sense of smallness. She tiptoed as she walked, unwilling to intrude on the natural sounds that surrounded the camp.

  The low thrum of a male voice reached her ears. Evie decided the voice was coming from ahead, from around the corner of the cookhouse. A few of the men must not have gone in to supper yet. She walked on, intending to inform them that they would miss out on a treat of roasted turkey if they didn’t hurry. But the moment before she rounded the corner, she heard something that brought her to a quick halt.

  “This one is for Miss Ethel.”

  She recognized the voice as belonging to Randall Miller, one of the lumberjacks who had helped to build her restaurant. Was he spearheading a tribute for Ethel, then? How sweet.

  Moving with stealth, she crept toward the end of the building and peered around the corner. Four men crouched in a circle, each one staring at the ground between them. She knew them all. Besides Randall there was Big Dog, Squinty, and George. What were they doing?

  Randall’s arm shook back and forth and then he released something from his hand. Four heads crowded together to peer at the ground.

  “Aw, no!” George reared up, throwing his hands toward heaven. “I don’t want the ugly one. I want Miss Evie, or maybe Miss Lucy. Put my name back in for the next roll.”

  In a rush, Evie realized what was happening. These four men—she took note again of which ones were present—were tossing dice to determine who would court which of her ladies. As if they were cattle, to be won in a game of chance! Why, this was absolutely barbaric.

  A series of possible actions flashed into her mind. Option one, she could storm into the midst of them now, confiscate their dice, and give them a piece of her mind. Possible, though she wasn’t sure that would bring about a change of attitude, except maybe they would think twice about pursuing her. Option two, she could whirl around and march back into the cookhouse to inform Ethel, Lucy, and Sarah of the insulting drama upon which she had just stumbled. Again possible. Lucy and Ethel were sure to be
as outraged as she, but Sarah would probably be upset that she hadn’t waited to see who won the right to court her.

  Option three seemed the only logical solution. Setting her spine as stiff as a cedar log, Evie marched toward the command tent. She burst through the tent’s opening with no ceremony and did not bother to filter the outrage from her voice.

  “What kind of camp are you running here?”

  Noah looked up from the ledger over which he had been bent, his expression blank. “Huh?”

  “Do you know what I saw just now?” She allowed anger to blaze in her eyes. “Your men rolling dice for my women!”

  He looked at her a moment, then set his pen down and straightened slowly. “Last time I checked, I don’t own any men. And you don’t own any women.”

  His response only fed the fire of her irritation. “You know what I mean,” she snapped. “They’re my friends and my employees. I won’t stand by while they’re auctioned off like heads of cattle.” She drew herself up with renewed outrage. “And me along with them.”

  A grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “Really? Which of the men won you?”

  For a moment, Evie battled between further outrage and humor. She held herself stiffly upright, but then the twitch in his lips won her over. This could not possibly be his fault. To hold him accountable for the men’s actions would be the same as holding her accountable for Sarah’s. Though she intended to allow only a brief smile, she ended up chuckling.

  “Truthfully, I was afraid to stay and find out.” She leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “It might have been Pig Face.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Heaven forbid!”