by Laura Frantz
"We're being followed by Bluecoat soldiers:"
What? Her thoughts began a woozy whirl and she gripped his hands. Men like McKie? Seeking to avenge McKie? Or bent on returning her to the Red River?
"If we continue west, we'll lead them right into the heart of my father's camp. Starting tonight we'll head northeast. The moon is full for travel. I know this land like I know your form and face, but they have no such advantage. By dawn we'll have outdistanced them"
She looked toward her mare, hiding her dismay. The poor animal seemed as tired as she. But they must go on. What choice did they have? Unable to speak, she simply nodded, a prayer for strength already dawning in her heart. Lord, protect us ... shelter us.
On into the moonlit night they rode. Morrow's worry faded to a sharp, cold wakefulness that pushed her beyond the edges of endurance. Toward dawn they took shelter in a cave, a small fire warming them and blackening the damp ceiling. She knew that smoke from an open fire, like their tracks in the snow, might lead the soldiers right to them. While he stood watch, she slept rolled up in his buffalo coat till the sun rode higher in the sky and shed fierce light on a forest that now seemed more enemy than friend.
They'd not yet spoken of McKie. He seemed a part of the past, shed like her velvet dress upon leaving the Red River. Yet she couldn't quite clear her mind of the fact that murder was wrong, no matter the motive. But what would she have done if he hadn't been killed? His death seemed to have delivered herand Pa-from a net of trickery and treason, as well as avenging the murders committed on the Kanawha against the Shawnee, and even Robbie Clay.
Red Shirt rode close beside her now, no longer leading, his leg brushing her own. "You can rest. The Bluecoats have turned back."
Strangely, the words brought small comfort. She was too worn to even utter a simple "I'm glad, though she saw the satisfaction in his eyes. Reaching out, he encircled her with one hard arm and brought her off her own horse and onto his. Sideways in the saddle, she lay limp as a rag doll against the bulwark of his body, her head cradled against his shoulder.
His arms formed a hedge around her as he held the reins, his voice already sounding queer and far-off. "Sleep, Morrow, and forget about the trouble"
Morrow awoke to a little glen drifted deep in white mist, the sulfurous odor reminding her of smelling salts. Was she dreaming? Red Shirt helped her down, steadying her till she got her bearings.
"Mineral springs?" she said in wonder.
"Long ago when I was a boy, the Shawnee made camp here. I wanted to show you"
"Pa used to speak of such springs in Virginia'
Weary as she was, she felt the delight of it clear to her toes. Tall stands of cedar and hemlock framed a number of steaming pools, the milky water a froth of bubbles and founts. Turning toward the mare, she fumbled with the tie on a saddlebag and retrieved a pewter cup. Walking to the edge of the nearest spring, she dipped her cup into the bubbling water and drank it down. Its warmth seemed to spread in a languid stream through her stiff limbs, bringing a sudden flush to her face.
He watched her keenly, amusement in his eyes. "I thought you'd want to bathe in it, not drink it'
"I'll do both" Handing him the empty cup, she began removing her shoepacks and leggings, shedding her shift and skirt along with all her inhibitions, finally freeing her hair of its pins.
Poised on the rim of the largest pool, she looked back at him, hair streaming over her paleness like some woodland nymph. Through the mist he regarded her with mingled wonder and desire, and she gave a belated blush, eyes falling to the steaming water. No matter the cold or the danger, she was a bride and he was her groom, and no Bluecoat soldiers bent on destruction could change that.
She was growing tired ... so tired. And it was becoming ever harder to hide it. What, she wondered, would Pa think if he could see her now? Each new day found her cleaning and stretching beaver plews on willow frames to dry, a snapping fire warming her back as she worked in their temporary shelter. The musky scent seemed to follow her everywhere, staining her hands and clothing, but somehow filling all the uncomfortable corners of her life with the satisfaction of work well done.
Standing on the banks of nameless creeks and streams, Morrow watched her husband wade into the frigid water and set his traps in the shallows, thrusting a pole through the ring end to hold and mark it, then smearing an exposed willow twig with beaver scent taken from the glands of earlier caches. He worked quickly and expertly, and the pile of plews mounted as they made their way north.
Soon she lost all track of time. As the days passed in a whirl of work and weariness, she tried to grasp the goodness in this trial. Although they were no longer heading toward Missouri, they were together. They'd eluded the soldiers. She was no longer the same Morrow who'd left the Red River weeks before. She had a new and wondrous secret ...
"We're nearing Loramie's Station," Red Shirt told her as if sensing her growing weariness. "We'll rest there and get fresh provisions before heading west:"
Loramie's Station. It sounded rough yet heaven-sent. A safe haven. Though they didn't speak of it, their flight from the Bluecoats seemed to wedge its way between them, tainting their joy. She thought of it as she sewed a new shirt for him around the fire, pleased by the satisfaction she saw in his face as he eyed her efforts. But her thread was almost gone, and somewhere along the way she'd lost Aunt Etta's silver thimble.
She paused to rest her eyes, her needle still. "Who is Loramie?"
He looked up from the trap he was repairing. "Loramie is French-a trader:"
"I've heard Joe talk of him. He's a loyal friend of the Indians:'
"And a bitter enemy of the Bluecoats, he added, saying no more.
She set aside her sewing and lay down on their makeshift bed. The wind seemed to whistle as it shook their small shelter, scattering smoke from the fire to the far corners. He joined her, his rifle within arm's reach. Tonight she was too tired to undress or even unravel her hair from the careless bun she'd made. She simply laid her head upon his shoulder.
The silence deepened, and she heard a lone wolf howl. A thousand thoughts swirled in her head, and she shut her eyes, one hand atop the smooth leather of Pa's worn Bible.
Strengthen Thou me.
Sunlight stole away the stars and sent the moon packing, ushering in an early dawn. When she awoke, Red Shirt had gone to check his traps, but he'd coaxed the waning fire into a cheerful blaze. She left the shelter to relieve herself, leaning against a tree when she stood. All around her the woods seemed to tilt and spin. Why had she walked so far from the shelter? Her mouth was dry as cotton, and she was trembling from head to toe. Even bundled warmly in her winter garb, she felt nearly naked.
With an overwhelmingly helpless feeling, she sank to her knees atop the hard ground, frozen moss and mud beneath her fingers. Despite the near-blinding whiteness of the snow, the edges of the forest began to grow shadowed, then quickly darkened to midnight. Before she collapsed completely, she heard Red Shirt calling her name.
Only an expert horseman could move so quickly, carrying her over such uneven ground her teeth chattered. She came to her senses twice, once when they crossed an ice-edged river and the horse stumbled, and again when the sun seemed almost to melt her and she realized she was burning up with fever. Though she could no longer hold her eyes open, her sense of smell was keen. The odor of tanned furs and lamp oil, coffee beans and tobacco, assailed her.
Equally strange were the voices, the most unusual of them being a man speaking heavily accented English. Red Shirt's voice was clearest of all and unmistakably anguished as he switched from English to Shawnee, then, to Morrow's surprise, into French. In time a woman's soothing voice bridged the darkness. The melodious sounds were like music, swelling like a stirring symphony on every side of her before ceasing altogether.
In time she stopped hearing anything at all, lost in the hellacious heat that soaked her and then made her shiver. Pa seemed to hover at her side, saying her name, soothing her as
he'd done when she was small and sick. But where was Red Shirt? Crying out for him only brought the terror nearer and made him seem farther away. Her dreams seemed to taunt her. She was not fit for his wild life, sick and white as she was. She was a burden he'd not dreamed of.
At last she awoke to a glimmer of light shining through a shuttered window. Beside her, Red Shirt was dozing in a chair. The spectacle almost made her smile. He sat arrow straight, head tipped back slightly against the rough wall, arms folded and eyes shut. How was it, she wondered, that even asleep he managed to look wary?
Slowly she sat up, fighting dizziness before swinging her feet free of the feather tick. Beneath her unfamiliar muslin shift, her body felt light as thistledown and her skin seemed to crawl. Only the weight of her uncombed, tangled hair falling to the small of her back was reassuringly familiar.
Before she'd taken two shaky steps, he jerked awake, catching her in his arms. Suddenly he was murmuring endearments in her ear, and his hands were everywhere at once-in her hair, on her bare shoulders, down her back-as if doubting she was truly standing, truly alive.
"I-I thought I was dying, she said, clutching the soft fringe of his frocked shirt as if to stay upright.
"You nearly did, he said.
"Where are we?"
"Loramie's Station."
"How long?"
"Six agonizing sleeps, he told her.
Six days, nights? A sense of the miraculous stole over her. If not for his quick action, she knew she'd have never made it. Gently he settled her back on the bed, and the tide of events slowly came back to her like fragments of a bad dream best forgotten. "You never left my side ... you were here all along" He nodded, and she rushed on. "But what of our furs-our camp?"
"Loramie sent his clerk to bring them in. But it matters little, Morrow"
He crouched in front of her and brushed back her hair with a rough hand. In turn her fingertips skimmed the smooth line of his jaw, noting the telling shadows beneath his eyes, the striking features more finely chiseled. "Why, you've hardly eaten-or slept:"
His intensity softened, and he smiled. "Now I can"
She darted a glance about the room, surprised by the fine armoire that graced one corner opposite a Windsor chair and writing desk, so at odds with the crude wood walls. Beneath her bare feet was a thick gros point rug covering unpolished planking that stretched to a rough wooden door. Bewildered, she looked back at him. "I thought I heard Pa calling my name.. "
His smile was relieved if wry. "Your father's spirit seemed to hover at my shoulder, demanding to know what I'd done with his daughter."
Her face softened. "Pa never doubted you'd take care of me."
"Loramie's wife made you well. I lost my medicine bag in the river, remember?"
But she was hardly able to recall their frantic flight across the icy water. As she groped about for details, a decisive knock sounded on the door. It swung open, revealing a brocade-clad figure, a bundle of fresh bedding in her arms. For a brief moment it seemed Good Robe stood before them, and Morrow nearly said her name. The woman came forward, followed by a boy with an armful of firewood and another lugging a hip bath.
"Leave your wife with me, and I promise to return her to you by supper," she said to Red Shirt with a surprising familiarity.
He simply nodded and then left without a word, tousling the dark heads of the two boys as they scampered ahead of him. Alone with the strange woman, Morrow felt a trifle tongue-tied as sharp black eyes appraised every inch of her.
"Ah, but you will be a pleasure to resurrect, she murmured in heavily accented English, calling over her shoulder for hot water. Within moments the door opened again, and a trio of girls trooped in bearing steaming buckets. They looked her way shyly, their comely features such a mix of Indian and white blood that Morrow was reminded of Little Eli.
"I want to thank you for helping make me well, Morrow told the woman.
"Oui, oui. We simply said our prayers and the Almighty answered;' she replied, her slender face creasing in a satisfied smile. She worked around Morrow as she sat on the edge of the bed, supervising the girls as they came and went with their buckets, checking the water level in the tub and adding a handful of something that scented the whole room. Lily of the valley, Morrow guessed. She hadn't had a real bath since her wedding day, if one didn't count the rivers and creeks and mineral springs. But when she stood to undress, her senses seemed to scatter.
The woman left the room, returning with a tray. Morrow tried to hide her surprise at the embroidered napkin, the porcelain teapot with an exquisite china cup, and the plate of tiny biscuits, cheeses, and sweetmeats set before her.
"You spoil me, Morrow exclaimed.
"You are a lady, no? Your husband tells me you are.
Morrow looked down at the cuts on her hands from skinning beaver, thought of the filthy dress she'd had on when she fell into the mud in her delirium. A lady indeed. Tears filled her eyes, touched that he'd say so and that this woman was gracious enough to believe him.
Without further ado, the woman began to pour the steaming tea, making belated introductions. "I am the wife of Pierre Loramie. Angelique is my French name, given to me by my voyageur father. I am also called Straight Ahead by my mother's people, the Shawnee:'
Morrow looked up. "And the children?"
"All those half bloods you see coming and going are mine as well. They will make their own introductions in time. For now you must simply eat and bathe. There is a bell on the table there, should you need me'
Famished, Morrow sampled each item on the tray and sipped the tea-strong bohea by its bite and flavor-and felt her strength return bit by bit. When she'd finished, she made her way to a window, pushed back the shutters, and peered out on pickets that seemed to impale a leaden sky. A sweeping glance told her she was in a two-story log house that was part of a fortified post. On every side, a winter tracing of trees held back bleak woods as far as the eye could see, evidence that they were in the very heart of the wilderness.
Turning away, she shed the strange shift and stepped into the steaming tub. The pleasure it gave her nearly made her moan. Hot water. Bayberry soap. A stack of soft cotton towels. Within minutes she felt renewed but couldn't see a speck of clean clothing anywhere in the room. Angelique soon remedied that, carrying in an armful of garments and placing them on a chair.
Taking up a comb, the elegant woman began to work, and in half an hour Morrow stood alone before a full-length mirror, shaken to her stocking feet. Once before, she'd had this strange feeling, when she'd first dressed in the clothing Red Shirt had brought her. Now the reflected image was startling in a different way. Her hips and legs were encased in silk stockings and garters and petticoats, her bosom buried beneath a camisole of finely embroidered muslin. Atop everything was a snug dress with faux pearl buttons, the soft apricot brocade overlaid with fragile ivory lace.
Who am I, anyway?
Woozy, she sat down again on the crisply made bed, thinking she couldn't possibly go below stairs. The smells of supper thickened on the air, and she could hear girlish laughter and the clink of cutlery as someone set a table and readied for a meal. She fingered the fine fabric, feeling a bit smothered by the too-tight bodice. There was no doubt she appreciated such fine things. They warmed her with memories of Philadelphia and Aunt Etta's fine dress shop and the old wardrobe in her attic room. But dressed as she was, she looked waxen ... fragile as eggshell. She felt fragile as eggshell. Red Shirt would no doubt be even more careful of her, particularly if she told him what she was now sure of ...
The door swung open without a warning knock, and he stepped into the room. She couldn't look at him, trussed up as she was, so she looked away, fixing her eyes on a crack in the floor by her right foot. The feather tick gave way as he sat beside her. He tucked in a stray curl that had come free of the ribbon and lace Angelique had woven into her upswept hair. Timidly her eyes skimmed the floor and fastened on one black boot firmly planted just beyond the sweep of he
r skirts. Next her eye trailed to seamless buckskin breeches before taking in the ruffled cuff of an exquisite linen shirtsleeve.
His voice was low and amused. "What a pair we make, Morrow. The lovesick Metis scout and the beautiful Shemanese princess. At least that's what Loramie called us when we dragged ourselves into this post"
At this she laughed and looked him fully in the face. His hair was freshly washed and hung in ebony strands about his shoulders, dampening his fine shirt. He smelled of bayberry and tobacco and something else she couldn't place. And his eyes, though tired, shone with pleasure.
"I hardly know you, she exclaimed softly, reaching out and touching the wedding band that glinted on his hand.
"I hardly know myself," he said.
"I'm ready to go below," she said with forced eagerness, ignoring the nausea swelling beneath her snug bodice. "I want to meet our host ... see where we are"
Though he said nothing, she sensed he saw past her pretense to the exhaustion beneath. But she'd not lie abed a minute longer. Avoiding his eyes, she took in all the details of the charmingly inconsistent room, lingering on the genteel painting above the rough-hewn mantel. An oil landscape, she guessed, like the ones she'd seen in Philadelphia. Who was this Pierre Loramie? Something told her he was as much a puzzle as their surroundings.
Through the cracked door came a sudden burst of childish giggling and French chatter. She looked up and found several children spying on them from the doorway, faces alight.
"Come, Monsieur Red Shirt, and bring your lovely bride. Our dear papa is waiting"
Days before, Morrow had been carried into Loramie's Station but had no recollection of it. Now, on Red Shirt's arm, she descended a wide set of steps, marveling at all she'd missed. Her fingers brushed a swirl of pungent greenery tied with gold ribbon along the polished handrail. Bayberry candles glinted abundantly in the foyer below, their scent so pleasant after the stale, shutin bedroom. She smelled roasting meat-goose, she guessed. And stuffing. Her mouth began to moisten. Across the way a door was open to a dining room, and on the long table was an enormous standing salt and salver of sweetmeats.
