Mountain Magic

by Simmons, Trana Mae

  "Yes," Caitlyn said with a tolerant smile through the glass. "Jon's very nice."

  Just then Jon glanced over his shoulder at the window. He stopped walking when he caught sight of Caitlyn, and the horses docilely dropped their heads.

  Caitlyn lifted her free hand and wiggled her fingers at him, stifling another giggle when Jon's mouth dropped open for the second time and he shook his head. She really couldn't fault him for his amazement, she guessed. After all, a minute ago she'd been more or less castigating him for his language, and now she was standing there smiling at him.

  A teasing glint entered her eyes, and Caitlyn lifted a finger to her lips, kissed it and blew the kiss to Jon. She couldn't hear him, of course, but she could lip-read his response: "Women!"

  Jon took a step, then stopped again. Turning back toward the window, he lifted one hand in a wave before he led the horses off again.

  Humming to herself, Caitlyn turned away from the window to see what she could fix for supper. After consigning Little Sun to the crib again, where he happily picked up his maple candy once more, she laid a couple more logs on the fire.

  As she started supper preparations, she tried to sort through her thoughts, focusing on today's happenings, rather than those long-ago memories. She could dust them off and examine them later.

  She'd become a woman today — and she had no regrets about that. She couldn't find one iota of guilt anywhere about making love with Jon. In fact, given the chance, she didn't think she would be able to resist him again.

  But she darned well knew where things like that led. Sky Woman had never told her the details of the act, but she'd overheard Sky Woman and another woman discussing things one day. Lore passed down woman-to-woman through the years said that a woman couldn't get with child while she was nursing her current baby.

  Well, that left Caitlyn out, but Sky Woman had also said that if a couple decided they didn't want another child immediately after weaning one, the couple would avoid....

  Caitlyn frowned as she poured flour into a bowl for biscuits. What was the Nez Perce word for it? Well, never mind, it still meant lovemaking. They avoided lovemaking during the middle days between a woman's monthly courses. How on earth the women had figured this out down through time she had no idea. Perhaps they'd noticed that if their men were off on a hunting or raiding trip during this time, they received their flow as usual that month.

  That should make her safe, if it were true, since her next flow was due to start any day.

  Despite her resolve to keep her other thoughts at bay until she had some privacy that evening, flashes of memory intruded again. Perhaps because of her longing for another woman to talk to about today, the memories were mostly of her mother — and Reggie. But a tall, salt-and-pepper haired man was there, too. Someone she had idolized with every fiber of her being, who treated her with love in return.

  Was that why she had buried the attack in her mind? Was it too painful for her to remember how much love had been torn from her young life on that day, which had started out so peacefully?

  Jon came through the door and shut it quickly. He glanced briefly at her, then shrugged out of his buffalo- skin robe and hung it up.

  "Silas is back," he said without looking at her. "He's putting up his horse. I was starting to think I might have to go out and try to find him."

  "Silas is smart enough to know he needs to get back here when a storm blows in."

  "I'm glad you think at least some men have a few brains left," Jon grumbled as he walked over and sat down on his bunk. He leaned down and pulled out the mate to the snowshoe he had already finished. Toying with the still unstrung rawhide lacing, he ignored Caitlyn's approach.

  "I'm sorry, Jon," she murmured, and Jon finally glanced up. "I don't know what got into me. You were being so nice to me, and I acted like that shrew in the story we were discussing, didn't I?"

  "Well, I guess you were still kind of upset," Jon said a little less grumpily. "I should have realized that."

  "'Ice," Little Sun called, pushing himself to his feet and rocking the crib. "Jon, 'ice!"

  "Nice," Caitlyn corrected him. "Jon's very nice."

  "Ver' 'ice," Little Sun said with a chortle.

  "Aw, who's been teaching him that?" Jon asked needlessly.

  Caitlyn bent her head and kissed him softly. "Ver' 'ice," she whispered before she turned back toward the table to finish the biscuits.

  Silas slammed the door behind him, but Little Sun and Dog appeared to be the only ones who noticed his entry. Dog crawled out from under Silas's bunk, and Little Sun held the now almost nonexistent piece of maple candy out to him.

  Caitlyn looked up from cutting out biscuits on the table, but her eyes centered on Jon. And Jon sat there on the bunk with a silly grin on his face, not even attempting to work on the snowshoe in his hand.

  "Hey, boyo," Silas called, finally getting Jon's attention. "What's all that white stuff on your face? You been helping Cat make biscuits?"

  Jon reached up and brushed at his face, his hand coming away with a glob of dough.

  "Nope, not biscuits, Silas. Not biscuits at all."

  But though Silas waited for him to continue, Jon only chuckled to himself and rolled the piece of dough between his fingers. Not biscuits. No, not biscuit making, but lovemaking crowded his mind.

  ****

  Chapter 20

  Caitlyn gently laid the leather-bound journal against her propped-up legs and ran her fingertips across the cover. The flame on the candle in the brass holder sitting on her bedside table glowed steadily, enclosing her in a cocoon of light, though shadows lingered in the deeper recesses of her room.

  Other shadows lingered, also — memory shadows, still caught in the mists of her mind. The clearer images — at least some of them — were probably waiting for her on the journal pages. But first she had to deal with the memories that she could now recall.

  It had truly been a beautiful day. Late September, perhaps, or maybe even as far into the fall as early October. The tree leaves had already changed, and her father, bourgeois of the trading post, expected his voyageurs back any day with new supplies for the winter trading. Until that group of almost a dozen men returned, there were only seven people at the post.

  Her step-father, James, of course, and her mother, Mauvreen. Little Reggie, not even walking yet, though he scooted and crawled so fast that Caitlyn could barely take her eyes off him whenever her mother was busy.

  The Indian woman cook, Yellow Wing, was there, kept on through the summer even though Caitlyn's mother could have handled cooking for so few people. The men thoroughly enjoyed the meals the cook prepared, and well-fed men worked harder, her father had insisted. It would be too hard to replace Yellow Wing after the men returned, if she moved somewhere else with her people over the summer. Better to keep her with them.

  A couple other men had also stayed to help her father with the summer chores — stockpiling enough wood for the long winter; re-caulking the spaces opened between the logs that had settled since the post and men's quarters were built the previous summer.

  Mauvreen and Yellow Wing gathered and dried berries over the summer, and her mother even tended a small vegetable garden she had planted with seeds she brought with her. Caitlyn recalled her father chuckling tolerantly when her mother demanded that he spade up the earth for her. So what if she had never planted a garden before in her life, Mauvreen had said in a haughty voice. She had bought a book on gardening before they came out here. And she read and planted, read some more and planted some more. James himself was voracious in his praise when the garden started bearing and fresh vegetables appeared at their meals.

  But he did bemoan the calluses on Mauvreen's formerly soft hands, and she had to assure him more than once that she didn't give a diddly darn about her skin now being a golden tan, rather than milky white. Nevertheless, her father told her that he had ordered his men to bring back a dozen pair of gardening gloves, and several wide-brimmed, straw hats.
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br />   Caitlyn frowned in concentration at the nagging thought that gave way to flashes of pictures of her mother. Giggling when she lifted her long skirts and stared at the moccasins on her feet. Daintily stepping into a canoe, which wobbled wildly, and her step-father grabbing Mauvreen just as the canoe tipped over. Mauvreen staring in dismay at Yellow Wing, who was plucking feathers from the wild turkeys the men brought into camp, then bravely reaching out to help.

  But now Caitlyn recalled that every one of her own dresses had been decorated with fine embroidery. And Reggie's gowns, though dirt-stained at the end of the day, had all been hand-sewn by her mother.

  The seeming contradiction cleared in Caitlyn's mind. Her mother had come from a lady's background. She could sew and embroider, and Caitlyn now remembered some other little touches in the log post: Beautiful arrangements of wildflowers on the table and countertop, which the Indians who came to trade stared at in amazement. The place settings just so for their evening meals. Her mother's voice explaining to Caitlyn, who was reluctant to sit still and quiet after her active day, that they wouldn't always live so far from civilization and she wanted Caitlyn and Reggie to fit in properly back in polite society.

  Her father, too, made a ceremony of supper each evening. The family ate separatly from the men, who more often than not just filled their plates and carried them to their quarters or, weather permitting, plopped down under a nearby tree. But Yellow Wing good-naturedly served that one meal course-by-course to the family she had come to love.

  From reading Jon's books, Caitlyn knew her mother had insisted on retaining at least that semblance of her former life. To know these genteel manners, she had to have been taught herself. Her step-father, also, since he seemed completely at ease each evening, though during the day he could curse and back-slap with the best of his men, and even the Indians who came to trade.

  Why then, with backgrounds that obviously included servants and refinement, had they come so far out into the wilderness to live? And where had they lived these lives of a lady and gentleman?

  Try as she would, Caitlyn couldn't penetrate the darker memory mists. She could, however, now remember in acute detail that last day.

  Caitlyn had been playing in the yard with Reggie late that afternoon, one ear cocked toward the cabin, since she knew her mother would call her in any minute to clean up before the evening meal. The lone voyageur to escape the attack on the supply caravan had stumbled into the yard, bleeding and babbling incoherently. Caitlyn had screamed in fright, and her mother and father both raced out of the cabin, with Yellow Wing close behind. The two other men emerged from their quarters, rifles in hand.

  ****

  James ran over to the voyageur, who had collapsed in the yard. "What happened, man? Who did this?" he demanded as he knelt and slipped a hand under the voyageur's head.

  Mauvreen grabbed Reggie into her arms, and Caitlyn buried her face in her mother's skirts. But she could hear the voyageur's gasping voice.

  "Bourgeois, we had no warning. They...they came from nowhere!"

  "Who, man?" James demanded again.

  "I...Indians. Painted devils. All...all are dead."

  "When?" James insisted.

  "This...this morning — just after dawn. So many...too many to fight."

  "Jesus," James breathed. "Where are they now? How did you get away?"

  "I swam," the voyageur said. "The others...they could not. I...I know we were to protect your supplies. But bourgeois, there were too many!"

  Despite the voyageur's injuries, James shook him roughly. "Are you sure they didn't follow you? Tell me!"

  The voyageur groaned and a bubble of blood escaped from his mouth. James tore open the man's shirt, his mouth thinning into a grim line when he saw the shaft of an arrow protruding from beneath the man's rib cage. The voyageur couldn't have travelled far with that fatal wound, though his progress would have been excruciatingly slow.

  But that meant the marauding party of Indians could be very close. The wounded voyageur had probably been in too much pain to attempt to hide his trail, and the blood spots left behind would tell the Indians what the crushed undergrowth did not.

  "Get the children inside the post!" James shouted at Mauvreen. As his wife ran toward the cabin, pulling Caitlyn along by her hand, James waved the other two men to his side.

  "Get him into the cabin," he ordered. "I'll get the other rifles ready."

  But even inside the cabin Caitlyn could hear the war whoops and shouts of defiance from out in the yard. Mauvreen choked out a scream of fright and tried to hand Reggie to Yellow Wing and turn back to the doorway. The Indian woman grabbed Mauvreen by the shoulders and hissed at her to be quiet. Shoving Mauvreen and the children ahead of her, she pushed them out the rear doorway.

  They ran through the underbrush until Caitlyn was gasping for breath, stumbling more than running. Yellow Wing took Reggie, and Mauvreen picked Caitlyn up, then they ran some more.

  "James," Mauvreen sobbed over and over. "Oh, God, James, my darling!"

  When even the women could run no more, they staggered to a stop. Mauvreen sank to the ground, pulling Caitlyn onto her lap and burying her face on Caitlyn's small neck. Clutching Reggie tightly, Yellow Wing gazed wildly around her.

  Yellow Wing reached down and grabbed Mauvreen's shoulder. "Up," she ordered.

  "I...can't!" Mauvreen said with a sob. "I can't go any farther!"

  "You can," Yellow Wing replied. "Over there. It will be safe."

  Mauvreen lifted her head and her gaze followed Yellow Wing's pointing finger. The Indian woman was indicating a huge, dead tree, the upper portion of which had toppled from the trunk.

  "Come!" Yellow Wing commanded.

  Still not understanding, Mauvreen somehow managed to stumble to her feet and follow Yellow Wing. The Indian woman led them around the tree and showed Mauvreen the large split on the other side. The tree was dead because lightning had split it at some time, and Mauvreen immediately saw that the charred interior of the trunk would hold her and the children.

  She scrambled inside with Caitlyn, and Yellow Wing handed Reggie to her.

  "You get in here, too, Yellow Wing," Mauvreen insisted.

  "No. I will go on. With their blood lust high, they may not think to check if they still follow two women's tracks. You will be safe. And the children."

  "You can't sacrifice yourself for us," Mauvreen said with a gasp of dismay.

  "I can run fast. And, if I can, I will return for you. I will take you to my people."

  "James," Mauvreen said with a whimper as she understood Yellow Wing's meaning. "He's dead, isn't he?"

  "They will leave no one alive," Yellow Wing informed her in a flat voice. "It is their way."

  Tears streamed from Mauvreen's eyes, and she laid her head back against the charred tree trunk. Tears clouding her own eyes, Caitlyn peered past her mother and watched Yellow Wing race lightly away. Just before the Indian woman disappeared once more, she broke off a small branch, knowing that the sharp eyes of the attackers would see it and follow her trail.

  Reggie, overcome by the tension in the air and his mother's sobbing, started whimpering. Mauvreen jerked her head upright and tried to soothe him.

  "Hush. Oh darling Reggie, please hush."

  But her own voice broke, and Reggie whimpered louder. In a moment, he would be crying loudly.

  Mauvreen had no choice. She grabbed Caitlyn and shoved her deeper into the tree trunk. Caitlyn's eyes widened in terror, but Mauvreen laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it tightly.

  "Whatever happens, you stay here and don't move," she ordered. "I'm just going to take Reggie over to a new hiding place until I get him quiet."

  "I want to go with you!" Caitlyn said.

  "You obey me, Caitlyn Mauvreen O'Neal Do you hear me?"

  "Yes, Mama," Caitlyn whispered.

  Mauvreen pulled Caitlyn against her breast and kissed her hair. After she released her, she cupped Caitlyn's cheek in her palm. "I love you, C
aitlyn," she said in a quiet voice. "I'll always love you."

  "I love you, too, Mama. Please, let me go...."

  "No! Promise me, Caitlyn. Whatever happens — whatever you see, you stay here in hiding. Promise me!"

  "I...I promise, Mama," Caitlyn choked out.

  Mauvreen tenderly stroked Caitlyn's cheek, then resolutely gathered Reggie into her arms. Slipping outside the tree trunk, she stood for a moment, studying the area around her. Reggie continued whimpering, and she walked away from the tree trunk. Suddenly her head whipped around and she stared back the way they had come.

  With a sob, Mauvreen clapped a hand over Reggie's mouth and ran. Caitlyn watched her disappear, her hands covering her own mouth to stifle her sobs. Then she heard a guttural cry and shrank back into the tree trunk.

  Feet whispered by her hiding place and a second later Caitlyn heard a ki-yi-yip of victory — and her mother scream. She buried her face on her raised knees, her arms clenching her legs tightly. But still she could hear.

  Reggie's cries joined her mother's. Then she heard a thud, and the baby's cries were cut off. Mauvreen's screams grew higher, her shrieks of despair ending in a keening sound of near madness.

  A second later, near silence reigned. The underbrush rustled faintly, but no other sounds broke the quiet until one loud whoop. The sounds of feet returning were pounding now, and try as she might to keep her head buried, Caitlyn couldn't. She lifted her head and, despite being so far back in the huge tree trunk, found that she could see out through the split.

  The Indian stopped nearby, dancing in a circle, his arm raised and the long, black cape of hair dangling from his fingers. Blood streamed down his upraised arm. He finally stopped and threw back his head, his scream echoing as he shook the arm holding the scalp at the heavens and raised his other arm in accompaniment. The hand not covered by her mother's scalp wore a yellow, gardening glove.

  As soon as his cry died out, two more Indian men joined the first one and the three of them disappeared back down the trail.