Courting Morrow Little: A Novel

by Laura Frantz

  With her help, Pa hefted the canoe into the shallows, holding it steady till she took her seat, then jumped in and pushed off almost at once. Despite his illness, he was still agile and maneuvered the vessel as expertly as his horse.

  "How long will Joe be gone, Pa?" she asked, watching the river dimple in the rain.

  "Oh, you know Joe. He tends to lose track of time out in the woods. Might not be back till spring"

  "I'm surprised Good Robe didn't go with him."

  "She wanted to, but it's a dangerous time to be about, and the winter promises to be a hard one. I assured Joe we'd keep an eye on them, help with whatever they need"

  The little cabin soon came into view, its sturdy chimney puffing smoke. She'd meant to bring them a little something but had flown out of the house in such a hurry she'd forgotten all but her wits. Good Robe seemed as glad to see them as they were to see her, and Little Eli looked rounder and sturdier than before.

  They visited all the dreary afternoon, Pa and Good Robe speaking a strange mishmash of English and Shawnee, as the four of them ate together around the crackling fire. Morrow marveled at Good Robe's economy, watching as she combined dried beans and corn and squash into a tasty medley. Holding up her wooden bowl for seconds, Morrow smiled as Little Eli waved his spoon as if asking for the same. But without Joe's joviality, it seemed a bit too quiet.

  I have a feeling Joe is missing your cooking about now," Pa told her.

  Good Robe smiled at his praise, pointing to a beaver pelt drying in the corner. "Beaver tail his favorite, Pa Little. You too?"

  At this Morrow stopped chewing, eyes flying to the corner pelt.

  "I don't believe Morrow's ever made it;' he replied. "But I'd be pleased if she did"

  Good Robe nodded vigorously. "First you trap beaver and hang over fire. The heat makes skin split and peel back. Then you cut up and boil with vegetables. Oui-sah"

  "Oui-sah;' Pa said with relish. "Good, indeed"

  Morrow discreetly removed her handkerchief from her sleeve and made a quick deposit, wondering how this succotash would taste with bacon instead of beaver tail. Little Eli looked up at her with wide green eyes, so startling beneath his fringe of inky hair. She fed him the rest of his gruel, amazed at his appetite. In the windowless cabin, the grease lamps smoked and their eyes stung, but they continued to talk, speculating on where Trapper Joe might have gone and when he might come back.

  "And Surrounded? Red Shirt?" Good Robe asked. "You see them?"

  Pa cleared his throat. "Not since fall. Last I heard they were headed south to Tennessee territory"

  She nodded knowingly. "They go talk with the Cherokee about the soldiers"

  Morrow felt her stomach knot. She rifled the baby's glossy hair as he sat in her lap chewing on a wooden spoon, relieved when the conversation took a turn and Pa began answering Good Robe's questions about the white man's God. Opening his Bible, he tried to translate some passages in Shawnee about sin and forgiveness, peace and prayer.

  She listened absently, a bit startled as the rainy night at the river with Red Shirt returned to her. Looking down at Little Eli, Morrow tried to picture Red Shirt as a boy, inky-haired and amber-eyed as he prayed with his captive mother. Had Surrounded been tender with her? Had he minded that she clung to her beliefs and passed them on to their son?

  The longer she lingered on the image, the more another mem ory flowered. She could recall soft whispered words and amens. Jess's short petitions and Euphemia's babyish jabber. Cold knees on the hard floor. Warm kisses afterward. She sat and let it assuage her hurt, surprised that it could soften and dispel some of the darkness. Her thoughts kept returning to Red Shirt's heartfelt question by the gravesites and her inability to answer. Why was forgiveness so hard to find? Why was it even harder to bestow?

  When they got up to go, it was nearly twilight. Good Robe opened the door, and they gave a collective gasp. Snow swirled down over the expanse of soggy brown ground, the flakes big as English shillings. Icicles were already forming under the cabin eave, and Morrow nearly lost her footing in her fragile slippers.

  She and Pa hurried to the river, the surface wind-whipped and edged in ice. Pa pushed off and paddled hard, but by the time their cabin came into view, he was spent. Morrow was so stiff from the cold she had trouble getting out of the canoe. He helped her to the bank and then beached the vessel upside down beneath the same snowy clump of laurel, urging her to go on without him. He had to see to the horses and bring them in from the pasture.

  Hastened by a bitter wind, she hurried up the river path, marveling at the frozen world around her. It seemed to take an age to reach the front porch, and when she did the snow came up to her ankles. Just ahead she saw that the cabin chimney was belching considerable smoke, far more than their prolonged absence allowed. Her heart gave a queer lurch as she slowly pushed open the door. The familiar figures draped in buffalo coats weren't frightening now, just unexpected. Had they already returned from Tennessee?

  She stepped nearer the hearth, no longer aware of her sodden slippers, and greeted them. "Pa's seeing to the horses, she said softly.

  Surrounded swept past, leaving her alone with Red Shirt. In the ensuing silence, she removed her gloves and cape, busying herself at the fire. "You must be hungry, tired:" She tied on an apron and bent to hang a kettle of leftover soup from the crane, nearly scorching her hand as she did so. "You're wise to come at night:"

  "We cannot stay," he said.

  "But the snow. . " she said, glancing at the ice-encrusted windows. "I've plenty of soup and bread:" Turning, she brought out what was left of a black walnut cake from the hutch.

  He made no reply, but his dark eyes glittered and took her in with an intensity that nearly made her forget where she was. Setting the cake on the table, she watched him take a seat on the opposite bench. He moved a bit stiffly, keeping his heavy coat about him, his handsome profile stoic in the firelight. Yet she sensed something grievously different about him.

  Her hands stilled. "Would you like some cider while I warm supper?"

  Oddly, he made no answer. She busied herself setting the table around him, trying to determine what made her so uneasy. Where was Surrounded? Pa? She glanced at him again-and forgot all about supper and her own growling stomach. Beneath the bench upon which he sat was a small but startling puddle of red. A suffocating sense of alarm shot through her.

  What... ?

  The sight made her inch her way down the table, slightly open-mouthed. He turned toward her as she approached, and his face held a strange heat. Dropping down beside him, she stepped on a corner of his buffalo robe and the heavy fur gave way, revealing a linen shirt stained scarlet. The sight of so much blood made her shut her eyes. Without thinking, she pressed a cold hand to his face, feeling she'd touched an andiron instead. He moved back slightly as if to get away from her, but in his fever-weakened state, she was faster. Turning to her sewing chest, she took out a pair of newly sharpened shears. In one swift motion she cut the back of his shirt from neck to hem, desperate to find out how badly he was hurt.

  Oh, Pa ... where are you, Pa?

  His right shoulder was mangled, the wound packed with what looked to be buzzard down, but even that failed to stem the bleeding. Panic choked her, and she fumbled with the scraps of shirt, trying to staunch the flow. Woozy, she sank down onto the bench beside him.

  "Morrow.. " He seemed to grit his teeth as he said her name.

  She didn't answer, just looked on helplessly as he leaned into her. In seconds her lovely wool dress was poppy red as his body sagged against her, his head against the lace of her kerchief. She lowered her face into the gloss of his hair, awe and pleasure piercing her pain.

  "Morrow!" The clap of Pa's voice was like the coming of thunder in the cabin. "What in heaven's name is happening here?"

  She looked up, feeling pale and shaken. Surrounded was behind Pa, clutching his medicine bag. She'd seen it dozens of times but hoped they'd never need it. Their long shadows hovered
as they began moving Red Shirt, leaving her with the mess of her dress, her thoughts scattered.

  In moments he was in Pa's bed again, just as he'd been as a boy. The distant memory pulled at her, and she began doing the same things she'd done then-boiling water, cutting strips of linen into bandages, praying silently. She kept looking over her shoulder to the bed, where Pa was examining the wound by lantern light. The mounting fear she felt was nauseating.

  Face grim, Pa moved to the fire and thrust his hunting knife into the flames. "What happened out there?"

  "Soldiers," Surrounded said tersely, then lapsed into Shawnee.

  Pa paused briefly to examine the hot steel. "Was there a fight?"

  Surrounded simply nodded, eyes on the barred door.

  "Were they known to you?"

  "Mattah. Bad men spring up like grass everywhere .."

  Pa turned back to the bed, jaw clenched. "Hold the lantern for me, Morrow"

  "Pa..:"Her voice was fraying fast. "Can't you give him some medicine-anything-to ease him?"

  "Look at him, Daughter," he said a tad sharply. "He's already unconscious."

  She took up the lantern but couldn't look. The smell of blood sickened her, and the light swayed in her hand. Pa stifled a cough and reached out to steady the light. "I'll not have the both of you to tend, understand"

  Shamed, she steadied herself, noting his own pallor was as sickly as Red Shirt's. Sweat beaded his wrinkled brow, but he kept on, at last extracting the ball. "Bring some water, and we'll clean the wound then mix some medicine:"

  Thankfully, his stomach was stronger than hers. She held the basin of steaming water, watching it redden before she replaced it. Red Shirt's eyes were still shut, his head turned away from them, his dark hair like spilled ink against the white bedding.

  Pa looked from him to Surrounded. "He'll need to remain here while you go on to Fort Pitt. He's in no condition to travel:"

  Surrounded merely nodded, but Morrow's face clouded. "Shouldn't we move him upstairs? If someone comes-if there's trouble .."

  "He'll be out of sight, protected," Pa finished for her. "Go up and ready your room. The sooner we move him, the better. I'll tend him through the night, and you can spell me come morning"

  Lighting a candle, she climbed the stairs, seeing everything with new eyes. Opening her room to him was a little like opening her soul. She held the light high, assessing everything in one sweep. All within was clean, feminine, tidy. The bed was hardly big enough to hold him, though the linens were freshly washed. On a nearby table was a washbasin and porcelain pitcher full of water. She crossed to the shelf of dolls and gathered them up, burying them in the bottom of her wardrobe. Next she turned the bed down, folding the colorful quilt up at the bottom. He'd hardly need it with a fever.

  She could hear the men coming up the steps, and she moved to hold the door open. Strong as they were, it was all they could do to carry Red Shirt. The move seemed to aggravate his shoulder further, sending sticky rivulets from his bare chest to the beaded belt at his waist. Slipping past them, Morrow went below and gathered up the weapons he'd left at the door, bringing them upstairs. Along one wall she placed his rifle and hunting knife and heavy trade tomahawk. She could feel Surrounded watching her, and she sensed approval in his gaze.

  He looked down at his son a final time, his face graver than she'd ever seen. Then, without a word, he was gone, following Pa downstairs, leaving her behind with the lantern. She hesitated, knowing she should go. He lay peaceful, entirely still.

  From the doorway, she heard a slight cough. "Morrow, go below to bed. I'll tend Red Shirt tonight"

  How long had he stood at the door, watching her watching him? "Will he be all right?"

  He came from behind and placed a bony hand on her shoulder. "He's strong. And the wound is clean. I believe all he needs is rest:"

  "But the fever-"

  "I'll try to break the fever with boneset. We've other herbs besides. Surrounded has left some medicine"

  This brought some comfort. The Shawnee were noted healers, even among the whites. Joe had often spoken of their skill. But sleep would be long in coming, if at all. She felt a sudden chill. What if he worsened in the night? What if she withheld what he asked of her? He might die without knowing her forgiveness ...

  "Pa, please, won't you let me stay and help?" Her plea was so poignant his own eyes glittered when he looked at her.

  "No, Morrow, go below" His quiet words held a hint of rebuke.

  Reluctantly, she turned away.

  Sometime in the night, when the cabin was completely still, she heard her name. Pushing back the quilt that covered her, she climbed out of the trundle bed and paused on the first step, shivering in her thin nightgown. The stairs seemed to stretch to the heavens beneath her wobbly legs, and her heart slammed inside her chest. But she heard the call again nevertheless.

  Morrow.

  Dawn edged the landing window with pale yellow light as she passed by and entered her dark bedroom. Pa was sound asleep on a corner pallet, and the candle she'd left hours ago was spent. She could make out the shadowed figure in her bed, so distinct even in the darkness. Red Shirt was attempting to get up, and she ran to him, a small cry of alarm spilling out of her. Frantic, she pushed him back, but he caught her hands, entangling her in his bare arms. The heat of his skin shocked her.

  "Don't-your shoulder. . " she whispered as he unfolded to his full height, determination in every line of his striking face. The slats of the bed seemed to sigh with relief as he stood, then groaned as he sat back down again.

  "You must rest, she whispered, glancing at Pa.

  He took a deep, shuddering breath, and his forehead fell against the soft slope of her shoulder. Breathless, she watched him struggle to regain his bearings and finally sit upright. She could see the intense emotion in his expression, limned as it was by dawn's intrusion through the windows. Slowly she framed his flushed face with her hands, and their coldness seemed to help ground him.

  "Olame ne tagh que loge," he muttered. "I am very sick"

  "Yes, you are very sick, she echoed.

  He looked past her to his weapons lining the wall. "I need water ... then I will be on my way."

  She shook her head. `No, you need someone to nurse you-to take care of your wound:'

  He looked down as if surprised to find his shoulder seeping, the bandages bloodied, but the sight seemed only to harden his resolve. "I can't stay here any longer ... you know the danger"

  She felt a sudden flash of sympathy. "If you go, you'll not make it to Fort Pitt. Your father left you with us for a reason. I-" She swallowed down the emotion that threatened to spill over, hardly believing what she was about to say. "I-I beg you to stay."

  To hide her angst as much as to help him, she turned away and poured a cup of water. He drank it down and asked for another. Pa stirred on his pallet as Red Shirt stooped and began gathering his weapons, returning each to his belt, his movements sure and resolute. But when he stood, he staggered backward, straight into the older man's leanness, nearly toppling Pa in the process.

  "You'll go nowhere this day, Pa said, struggling to right him and steer him back to bed.

  Unwillingly, Red Shirt sat, one hand resting on the belt where his knife had been, the empty sheath digging into the soft feather tick. The blood was running again, creating tiny tributaries from his shoulder to his stomach.

  She watched as Pa began to peel away the layers of soiled linen, her eyes entreating when she looked again at Red Shirt. "At least stay until I can sew you a shirt"

  Pa cleared his throat and shot her a wilting look. "You'd do well to mind your own dress, Daughter."

  Shamed, she crossed to her dresser for clean under things, then opened the wardrobe and rummaged for a gown. She went below to dress and start breakfast, trying to lose herself in the routine of making porridge and frying bacon. She saw Surrounded's medicine pouch on a table and began boiling water, wondering what could be done to break so high a fever.
A cup on the table held the last bitter dregs of boneset, evidence of Pa's attempts the night before.

  She hardly heard Pa behind her. He'd become so light in body the stairs no longer creaked to announce his coming. The corpse of a katydid, Aunt Sally called him. Weary, she turned to face him.

  "He's in bed again, but I don't know how long he'll stay," he told her, washing his hands in a basin. "I've a good mind to knock him out with a double dose of whiskey."

  The suggestion sent her hurrying to their medicine chest. With the dark jug in one hand, she rummaged for a small cup with the other.

  He sat down, his beard covering a rueful smile. "You'll have to give it to him, Daughter. I doubt he'll take it from me, but from you he just might:"

  His wry amusement surprised her, but she hurried back upstairs, marveling at her eagerness to return to the sickroomand Pa's allowing it.

  Wary, Red Shirt leaned back against the headboard and watched her as she sat down by his side, the bed hardly giving beneath her weight. "You want me to drink the whiskey," he surmised. "If you bring me my buffalo coat and saddlebags, I will:"

  "You first;' she said, extending the cup.

  He obliged, trying to stay stoic despite several disagreeable swallows. Pa retrieved the saddlebags from the barn while she fulfilled her part of the bargain, lugging the heavy hide to her room. She found the smell of it oddly fragrant, reminiscent of the kinnikkinnikhe smoked. His appreciation shone in his feverish eyes, and he took it from her with studied effort, spreading it flat on the floor with her help until it became a huge, duncolored carpet.

  "Your bed is making me soft," he said.

  Perplexed, she looked down at the thick hide, wondering if he'd truly trade the feather tick for the cold, hard floor. But he was already upon it, exhaustion-or whiskey-slurring his speech. She studied him, concern tightening her features, and he studied her in turn.