Courting Morrow Little: A Novel

by Laura Frantz

"Personal matters. With Red Shirt, anyway. Like a father to a son. At the risk of betraying a confidence, I'll say no more:"

  She examined the tiny flowers she was making in the square of linen, a cluster of blue forget-me-nots amidst pale green leaves. "I heard you preaching to them on the porch'

  He gave her a wry smile. "I find Red Shirt more responsive to spiritual matters than most pew sitters"

  She looked up, alarm in her eyes. "I don't think your congregants would like to hear that"

  "It's the plain truth, Daughter. Or do you, like they, think the Shawnee beyond the reach of God's grace?"

  "I don't know," she said softly, putting her sewing away.

  But I wish they were. I can't conscience the thought of Ma's and Euphemia's murderers abiding in heaven alongside them. Not even alongside a half-blood British scout.

  Morrow continued to work on the velvet dress in the autumn evenings, her sewing suffused with the delight she always felt when creating something beautiful. Only the memory of Red Shirt's recent visit spoiled her satisfaction. Thoughts of the coming prisoner exchange and returning to Philadelphia seemed to line her soul with lead. She looked down at the half-finished dress and wondered what Red Shirt would think to see her plying this extravagance of fabric when she'd not even thanked him for the gift. Sighing, she cut more thread as Pa lowered his copy of the Virginia Gazette and looked at her.

  "You nearly done with your dress, Morrow?"

  She looked up and tried to smile, bringing the lamp nearer. "The bodice is giving me some trouble. I'm trying to edge it in lace but I'm nearly out of thread."

  "We'll soon start Sabbath services again, if you can wait on your thread till then. Major McKie has deemed it safe to come to the fort, so Joe says"

  Had he? Would McKie welcome them back? Or would he bear a grudge since Pa had refused to take up arms? She speculated silently, her hands smoothing the plush velvet, the firelight making it almost sparkle.

  Once again her thoughts turned to Lizzy and Jemima. For the hundredth time she wondered what they would say if they knew of her and Pa's unusual visitors ... this gift. She'd told no one their secret, and it seemed almost to fester inside her. Jemima was an inveterate Indian hater, given the loss of her brother. And Lizzy, so trustworthy, was now wed to a militiaman bent on defending the settlement. Morrow was glad she'd kept quiet. Here on the Red River, so far from kith or kin, it seemed they could do as they pleased ... see whom they pleased.

  Even the enemy.

  As Pa finished leading the first hymn without so much as a sputter, Morrow felt a deep thankfulness take hold. Perhaps her prayers for his healing were being answered. For a few minutes, anyway, hope seemed to take wing inside her and chase away every shadow. There were many things to be thankful for this particular Sabbath. The day itself was pure Indian summer gold. Not a whit of trouble with the British and Indians had been mentioned. And no officer in buff and blue sat beside her on the hard hickory bench. Just Jemima, who'd whispered that Major McKie was away on a foray.

  "Are you and your pa going to stay for the gathering?" Jemima asked Morrow at sermon's end.

  Morrow looked at her, wondering if Jemima would rather they leave. "I believe so. Pa seems better today"

  "With the harvest over, he's likely not so spent:" Jemima turned and perused the unmarried men on the back row. "Might be a fine day for courting:"

  Morrow suppressed a smile. "Who takes your fancy?"

  Her lips pursed in contemplation. "Lysander Clay, if he's not spoken for. And you?"

  "I'm not sure. . "

  "That's the trouble, Morrow Mary. You ponder it all overmuch. Now just follow my lead"

  Morrow watched Jemima sashay to the back of the blockhouse, eyes fixed on the waiting men. All had hats in hand and were standing at attention as if waiting to be examined like horses at auction. Amused at the thought, she smiled absently and realized several men were smiling back at her. Jemima took Lysander's arm and all but bolted out the blockhouse door, leaving Morrow to stand a bit helplessly before the remainder. A spasm of sympathy wrenched her as she looked at their hopeful faces. How could she choose but one and spurn the rest? Perhaps she should be a bit bolder for Pa's sake.

  As she debated, Robbie Clay saved her the trouble, taking her arm just as two others stepped forward to do the same. She gave them an apologetic smile as he maneuvered her out the door into the sunlight and dust of the common, where they were among the first in line at the heavily laden tables.

  "Seems like we've had an ample harvest, he said, eyeing the bounty. "What did you bring?"

  "Apple cake, she said, aware of Pa's eye on her as he stood talking with Lizzy and Abe across the way.

  "I had a mess of melons and would have brought some, but the deer ate them. I suppose your pa told you about my claim'

  "He said your land borders Abe and Lizzy's over on Tate's Creek"

  He nodded, pale eyes alight. "Once we drive the Indians out and I can live there instead of at the fort, it'll be as fine a place as any. Good bottomland for grazing. Plenty of cane. I intend to have lots of livestock"

  "I've heard about your fine horses, she said, eyes on her gloved hands.

  He grimaced. "The ones the Shawnee stole or the ones that were left?"

  "I didn't know about that, she murmured, thankful when the line began to inch forward.

  His fair face, a deep berry red, registered stark displeasure. "I aim to buy more once I work up the nerve to go all the way to Lexington."

  The mention of Kentucke's largest settlement filled her with wonder. Lexington was a far distance-and fraught with danger. Some said the road there was lined with blood. Not even Pa would go. She suppressed a shudder and set her mind on the gathering.

  As Robbie moved ahead of her, taking up a wooden trencher and filling it with fried chicken, her eyes roamed appreciatively over the abundance of wide platters and deep bowls. Roasted fowl and venison. Shucky beans and buttered roasting ears. Fried apples and thick wedges of watermelon. Assorted breads and jams and pies. Benches had been arranged in a circle of sorts with kegs of cider waiting beneath a blockhouse eave. She smiled her thanks when Robbie brought her a cup, and they took a seat near Jemima and Lysander. Taking a small bite of bread, she looked around her. With Major McKie away, she felt she had more breathing room and could enjoy the day.

  She noticed Pa eating and talking with the men and read approval in his gaze when he glanced her way. Was he glad to see her behaving like a young woman should, with an admirer at her elbow and a full plate on her lap? Jemima seemed to be pleased with her escort, though Morrow couldn't say the same about Lysander. Robbie's younger brother regarded them with characteristic sullenness, though Jemima seemed not to notice.

  Robbie downed the last of his cider, his voice falling to a whisper as if all too aware of his brother's scrutiny. "Looks like any courting will have to be done in full view of the fort. I'd come out your way if the Red River wasn't so far, but with all the trouble since Hinkley's Station, I'd best stay near at hand"

  She looked down at her meal, suddenly queasy. What could she say to this? She hadn't meant to encourage him, nor have him court her. She'd only thought to keep his company for a meal.

  He muttered around a bite of bread, "Of course I can't do any courting with McKie shadowing you like a hawk"

  Setting her plate down on the bench between them, she tried to think of a gentle way to discourage him and correct his wrong assumptions. "The major and I ... we have no understanding, she began awkwardly.

  "That's not what McKie says:" He ran a hand through hair so light and fine it looked like spiderwebbing. She waited for him to elaborate, but he fell silent, face tight.

  "I-I can't think of a suitor right now," she said, feeling pinched with embarrassment. "Not with Pa unwell ... not with the trouble at hand:"

  He finished his cider and said, "I hear the major finds the frontier a wearisome place. I keep hoping his fancy leanings will take him back to Virginia."
>
  She held back a sigh, letting the conversation dwindle. The sun shone in her eyes, foretelling two o'clock. Across from her, Pa was rising from the bench, alerting her it was time to go. She got to her feet, thanking Robbie for his company and hoping she sounded more sincere than she felt.

  Before she could step away, he took her hand with uncommon brashness, tethering her to the spot. "Some folks say you're too soft for settlement life and I should look elsewhere for a bride. But I believe there are more important things to consider than a workhorse of a woman"

  The slight stung. So I'm too soft? More important things? Though she was largely ignorant of such matters, his suggestive tone left little to the imagination. Overcome with embarrassment, she took back her hand and turned away, acutely aware of the eyes of Lysander and Jemima-and everyone else on the scattered benches-upon her.

  He stood, and she realized with a start how small he was, only a bit taller than she. Tipping his hat to her, he began heading toward the table where her apple cake waited. "See you when singing school commences, Miss Little, provided McKie doesn't appear."

  The afternoon following the Sabbath, Morrow finished churning and stood at the springhouse door. In the time it took her to heave a sigh, she spied Surrounded by the Enemy and Red Shirt emerge from the woods. The sight of them-of him-seemed to ignite every emotion inside her. Like a charge of powder, their coming kindled a host of bewildering things. Fear. Dismay. Curiosity. Shame.

  Her first fleeting hope was that they hadn't seen her, but the one lesson she'd learned was they didn't miss much. She slipped back inside the dank darkness that smelled of pickled beans and buttermilk and waited till they passed to the porch. Pa was inside the cabin, having just finished stacking a rick of wood under the outside eave. With the cabin door wide-open, their voices soon drifted to her across the leaf-strewn clearing.

  Catching up her heavy skirts with both hands, she fled into the far field, her carefully kept bun coming undone in her haste. Skirting the cornfield, she slowed to catch her breath, waist-high in the oatmeal-colored grasses. If she hoped to hide, she couldn't. She'd made a clear trail coming here so much of late, pulling weeds and cutting back blackberry vine so the stone markers could be seen. The plot was tidy now, looking nearly as new as when Pa had first fenced it.

  She sank down against the paling fence that framed the mounded earth and wondered how long they would stay. Would Pa be displeased at her hiding? She sighed, feeling eight instead of eighteen. A horsefly buzzed near her ear, and she swatted at it with a heavy hand. Her knotted emotions left her too tired to think clearly, and despite the brightness of the day, she was midnight weary.

  She sat completely still, perplexed by her tangled feelings of wanting to return to the cabin and stay away. Looking at the grave markers, worn by time and weather, she felt a startling absence of anger, just a deep sadness. Tears trailed down her face and wet her bodice, turning the rose embroidery bloodred. She sank down further in the dry grass, letting the sun and wind dry her damp face. She wasn't quite asleep, yet it seemed she was already dreaming.

  "Your father sent me to find you."

  She shut her eyes as the deep voice overwhelmed her. Red Shirt's shadow fell across the grass and mounded earth, though he stayed a respectful distance behind the fence. She stood up slowly and smoothed her wrinkled skirt, not wanting to look at him. Still, she found herself staring. He was so tall, so lithe, a striking blend of linen and buckskin. The sun nearly blinded her but called out the glint of his hazel eyes and every lean, unbending line of him.

  He was studying her as well, and his face had turned so pensive her throat tightened. Turning away, she sank down into the grass again, searching for her handkerchief. While she struggled to compose herself, she became aware of him sitting against the fence, nearly back-to-back with her, the wide sweep of his shoulder touching hers. When the rich timbre of his voice reached out to her again, she shut her eyes tight.

  "Do you forgive me, Morrow? For my father's people?"

  Never before had he said her name. It seemed to shorten the distance between them, bespeak some measure of peace. She clutched the hankie in her hands, aware of the sigh of the wind and her own thudding heart. Forgive him? Forgive them? For taking away all she held dear? The startling question bewildered her. Why would he ask? Or care about her answer?

  When she opened her eyes, he was gone. All around her the spent grass was sunlit and serene and empty. But his heartfelt question seemed to linger.

  She took her time returning to the cabin, pondering it all. Both front and back doors were open wide, and the familiar voices on the rear porch assured her they'd not left. She started up the steps, pulled toward the privacy of her bedroom, then backtracked to the washbasin. Her hair was as unkempt as her feelings, and she wound the loose strands into a coil, pinning them carefully at the nape of her neck. Next she splashed water on her face, removing every trace of tears. She returned to the hearth, but her movements seemed wooden as she began to work.

  "Morrow, you there?" Pa's slender frame filled the doorway.

  "Right here, Pa"

  "Surrounded and Red Shirt are staying for supper," he said.

  She nodded and he disappeared onto the porch, seemingly unaware of her struggle. She slowed down, took a deep breath, stoked the fire. By five o'clock the venison roast and new potatoes were fork-tender, and she'd even managed to make a pie with the last of the apples she'd picked that morning. As she set the table, she heard the growl of thunder in the distance and felt the heaviness of coming rain. The commotion seemed to drive the men indoors-she didn't even have to call them.

  As they took their places, she sat down briefly while Pa prayed, then got back up again to put the food on the table and fill their cups. The silence was oddly comfortable, broken by the clink of cutlery and passing of the dishes. She was torn between joining them at the table or shunning them as she'd done in the past. Finally she sat down, Red Shirt across from her. His plate was full, but he made no move to eat. Instead his tan fingers toyed with the knife and fork, turning them over as if contemplating what to do next. He shot a glance at her, lingering on her hands as she draped a napkin across her lap and took up her own utensils. Was he trying to copy her ... perhaps please her?

  His hesitancy was so touching she swallowed down the ache in her throat with a forkful of potato. He followed with a forkful of his own and eyed her as she picked up her knife. He did the same, but slowly, cutting his meat by pinning it properly with his fork first. She could feel Pa's eyes on them both-no doubt he was enjoying their peculiar interaction. At the end of the table sat Surrounded, missing nothing, but shunning utensils as was his custom.

  "A fine meal, Morrow," Pa said with a wink.

  She gave him a half smile, accepting Surrounded's and Red Shirt's thanks with downcast eyes as they retired to the back porch to smoke. Tossing the dishwater over the front porch rail, she paused to study the sky. An angry black, its expanse was threaded with thunderheads as the sun set before the coming storm. Where, she wondered, were McKie's men on such a night? Nowhere near the Red River, she hoped.

  Restless, she removed her apron, hanging it from the peg by the hearth. By the time she'd passed outside, the men were nowhere to be seen. Had they already gone?

  Across the clearing, the barn door was ajar. Inside, a lantern hung from a beam, casting light on two beautiful horses-both stallions, one gray, one white. Pa was fretting over the gray, examining its leg and feeding it an occasional sugar lump to keep it quiet. Red Shirt stood to one side, back to her and arms folded, while Surrounded spoke in low tones to Pa in a mixture of Shawnee and broken English. Surprised, she turned away and took the river path, unmindful of the heavy clouds that looked about to burst.

  Tonight the water was gunmetal gray, reflecting the surly sky. She stood on the bank she and Jess had played on years before. The trail here was becoming trammeled now, though the memory of that day was growing as cloudy as the sky. What she recalled most was
the feeling-the fear and finality of it all. But it no longer haunted. Somehow, sometime, that part of her past had lost its power to wound her. Pondering it, she stood in the solitude, watching the sky struggle to stay light before giving way to the blackness of the stormy night.

  "You shouldn't come here alone, nekanoh"

  Startled, she turned. Red Shirt stood behind her, his hazel eyes on her and everything else at once. Was he remembering how she'd nearly drowned?

  "Nekanoh?" She echoed the strange word back to him.

  "It means `friend' in Shawnee'

  Did he say that to soothe her, in case she felt frightened alone with him? Standing on the bank beside him, she was struck by how tall he was. Why, she didn't even reach his shoulder. Even outdoors he was physically imposing, dominating the woods as well as the cabin.

  "I didn't hear you, she said, then flushed at her foolishness. It was his habit not to be heard.

  A flicker of amusement seemed to lighten his intensity. "I know. I've followed you since you left the barn."

  She sat down on the nearest rock as thunder boomed a final warning. "I saw your horses-is one lame?"

  "Snakebite"

  She winced and turned her attention to the sky. The lack of lightning made her less skittish, and she felt the spatter of rain cool her flushed face. "I've rarely seen you here with horses. You must be going far"

  He moved to sit near her. "We're traveling south to Tennessee."

  Her gaze followed his across the river to the foothills now muted and misty with the coming rain, the mountains in back of them rife with black shadows. She said wistfully, "I've not even crossed this river, yet you're going beyond those mountains. I've been wondering what's on the other side"

  "More mountains. And rivers. Some so beautiful they take your breath:"

  Her lips parted in a sort of wonder. He was always roaming, and she was always staying in one place. Did he ever want to stay put, or was he content to always stray? "How long will you be gone?"