“Nez Perce,” Sam replied.
“You speak English very well. Did Alex teach you?”
“No. I attended a Catholic mission school when I was younger. I can read and write as well.”
“He can also speak French and Chinook Jargon,” Alex said, anticipating her question. “It’s a sort of trade language among the tribes.”
“I see.” Wisps of her brown hair blew across her face as the wind picked up. Without appearing to care, Grace continued. “What about Cayuse? Do you speak their language?”
“We share our language,” Sam replied. “They have a separate language, but many of the Cayuse have forgotten it. Much of their language has been blended into Nez Perce as our people have intermarried.”
“And are you married?” Grace asked, seeming genuinely interested.
“I am.” Sam didn’t seem in the least annoyed by her questions. “I have two children and one that will come soon. And you?”
“No. I have no children. I was married—after a fashion. My husband is dead, however.”
“How can a person be married after a fashion?” Sam asked and looked to Alex for interpretation.
“It’s not important,” Grace assured him. “I’m here with my two younger sisters.”
“Why did you come west?” Sam asked.
“That’s a long story. Our mother died, and we had no other family but an uncle who moved some years ago to Oregon City.”
“What’s your uncle’s name?” Alex asked. “I know quite a few people there.”
“Edward Marsh.”
Alex nodded. “I do know him, but he’s not in Oregon City. At least not at this time. He’s gone south to buy cattle.”
She looked crestfallen. “Do you know when he’ll return?”
“I don’t know for certain, but I guess he’ll be back by spring. He only left a couple of weeks ago. I saw him at Fort Vancouver.”
She nodded and gave a heavy sigh. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. We figured to winter here anyway, since Dr. Whitman offered us his hospitality.”
Sam nudged Alex. “I came to let you know that I’m heading back to my village. Gabriel’s coming with me and said he’d meet you there.” He gave a slight nod to Grace. “It was nice to meet you.”
Then without even awaiting her reply, he took off in the same direction from which he’d come.
Grace watched the departing Indian for several silent moments. When she looked back to Alex, she found him watching her.
“He was the first Indian I’ve ever met. He seemed so . . . so . . .”
“Civilized?” Alex asked with a smile. “He is. Most of his people are.”
“My husband said the Indians were savages incapable of civilizing themselves without the help of whites. He said they were like children who needed a firm hand of discipline.”
Alex frowned. “Your husband was a fool.”
Grace was surprised by his comment. “I often concluded as much myself, but why do you say that? Most white men believe the Indians in need of civilizing.”
“Most white men are fools.” Alex’s eyes darkened to a black hue that matched his hair.
“Because they see the Indians in need of help?”
“Because they don’t bother to know the people of this land. They have been told stories, and that’s all they care to learn. They believe the people are savage and wild—ready to scalp every white man and steal away white women and children.”
Grace could hear the anger in his voice. “But you must admit we have reason to believe those things. The Indians have scalped white men and stolen away women and children. My father and grandfather fought in many uprisings back east, and I’ve heard horrific tales. It would benefit the Indian to put aside such murderous ways and take our help.”
“Our help? They’ve lived off the land for hundreds of years without our help. What makes you think they need us now?”
Tightening her hold on her shawl more out of frustration than cold, Grace lifted her chin. “Because we will populate this country. Now that the United States has come to terms with the British regarding the boundaries of the land, the government is urging westward settlement. You surely are aware of that, even if you are a trapper.”
His eyes narrowed. “Your prejudice suggests you think me as illiterate and savage as you think the Indians. Your ignorance is insulting, but as a gentleman, I won’t respond in such a way as to give credence to your assumptions. However, I would pose a question. Why suggest that the Indian become like the white man? Why not suggest that the white man become more like the Indian? After all, they have successfully lived on this land for generations without the conveniences most whites seem to require.”
Grace tried her best not to react to his obvious anger. She shook her head. “The future cannot be reached by living in the past. The Indian may very well have lived here for hundreds of years without our help, but the future will prove most difficult for him if he expects to continue living as he has. I don’t say that to be harsh or unfeeling, or even prejudiced, as you suggest. It’s simply a fact. The government has determined that this part of the country will be settled, and so they will settle it.”
“Even if it costs the lives of every single man who dares to reject that notion?”
Grace shrugged. “I certainly hope it won’t come to that. If the Indian is truly as civilized and capable as you suggest, then I would think they could change with the times. However, if they are less capable, as it appears, they will need a great deal of help.” With that, she started to walk away.
“It’s a pity.”
Grace couldn’t help but turn back. “What do you mean by that?”
“It’s a pity that you can’t accept folks for who they are and what they’re capable of.”
He used her own words against her, then fixed her with a look that dared her to counter his comment. Instead of giving him the satisfaction, however, Grace simply turned and left him to contemplate the matter alone.
It seemed all men in the west were opinionated and full of self-importance.
Sam and Gabe weren’t long on their way to the Nez Perce village when Alex caught up to them. Sam could see Alex was in a foul temper, but he wasn’t one to pry. Gabe, on the other hand, didn’t often keep his thoughts to himself.
“What’s eatin’ at you?”
Alex shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Ain’t likely you’re tellin’ the truth,” Gabe countered. “I can see you’re het up over somethin’. You and Doc Whitman get into it again?”
“No.”
Sam couldn’t help but smile. “Last time I saw him, he was talking to a pretty woman.”
“Oh, no. Woman troubles are never good.”
“I don’t have woman troubles,” Alex said.
“Sounds to me like she must have read him a page out of the Good Book,” Gabe said, looking at Sam.
Sam thought that while it was possible Grace had chewed Alex out, it was more likely his friend was just suffering from having been near a female. They’d been a long time in the mountains trapping.
“I can’t see you lettin’ yourself get all riled over a woman,” Gabe continued. “Personally I’d rather wrestle a grizzly bear than fight with a woman.”
“It wasn’t a fight—it was more a conflict of views.” Alex looked at Gabe and then Sam.
“She’s very pretty,” Sam said with a teasing tone. “And she’s a widow.”
Gabe moaned. “That’s all we need. It’s gonna be a long winter, and I’m too old for this nonsense. I think I’ll just head up to the cabin and forego the village.” He reined back on his horse and shook his head. “You boys join me when you get this female situation under control. I’m gonna need your help cutting some trees.” He nudged the sides of his mount and headed off to the right, disappearing into the trees.
“What’s gotten into him?” Alex asked.
Sam shrugged. “Who can say?”
They rode in silence until they stopped to r
est the horses and take some food. Chewing on pieces of jerked meat, Sam could see that Alex was still troubled. As long as Sam had known Alex, he had seen his friend given to times of silent contemplation. Alex had a troubled past he couldn’t seem to overcome. He’d mentioned a little of it, but mostly he just kept it bottled up inside along with a guarded reserve toward God.
Sam kept his thoughts to himself. “You ready?”
Alex looked up and gave a nod. They remounted but hadn’t gone twenty yards when Alex finally offered up a small bit of insight. “Sometimes I’m ashamed to be a white man.”
Chapter
4
I think you write beautifully,” Hope said as she finished reading from John Sager’s journal. She looked at the young man who touched her heart like no one else ever had. “Where do you get such thoughts?”
He shrugged. “I see things and they just spark ideas and words. I can’t help but write them down. It always makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something important.”
Hope nodded. “It is important. It’s like seeing into your heart.”
John smiled. “You aren’t like other girls.”
She shook her head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, older women like my writing just fine, but when I’ve shown it to younger ones, they think I’m just being sappy and sentimental.”
“Then it’s their loss. I think what you write is wonderful. I especially like the part about your folks. I know how hard it is to lose someone you love. Our Da died a long time ago, when I was just about Mercy’s age. Then our Mama died last winter. I miss them.”
John reached out and squeezed her hand. “It’s hard.”
Hope thought her heart might beat right out of her chest. She swallowed hard and glanced up at John’s sympathetic expression. She couldn’t explain the feeling that washed over her. Suddenly all of the men and boys she’d flirted with and teased over the years seemed unimportant. Was this love?
“I need to get back to help Mercy.”
“I think it’s really wonderful that you care so much about your sisters. My brothers and sisters and I wouldn’t have been able to stay together if not for the Whitmans—Father and Mother.” He smiled. “They’ve been real good to us.”
Hope nodded. “I never really understood or appreciated all that Grace did for us after Mama died, but coming here has made me see it. You’ve helped too—with your writing. I hope you keep putting down your thoughts and stories. I want to read them all.” She felt her face flush. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, and Hope thought she might well faint. “I don’t mind at all. In fact, I like the idea a lot. Maybe after supper we can take a walk together, and I’ll tell you more about how I come up with the words.”
Hope could barely speak. “Yes, Johnny. I’d like that . . . a lot.”
Leaving the mission house was hard, but Hope reminded herself that she would get a chance to be with John again after supper.
Her thoughts were so concentrated on that idea that when she walked straight into a group of Cayuse braves, she let out a little scream. The men laughed and assessed her from head to toe.
“You pretty,” one of the men said. “You have man?”
Hope didn’t know why, but she nodded. She couldn’t begin to speak, however. The stench of their unwashed bodies and their continued study of her made her want to run. She began backing up but kept her eyes on the man who seemed to be in charge.
“You run away like scared doe,” he said, laughing. He said something in his native tongue, and when the men around her laughed and ogled her all the more, Hope could no longer stand it. She lit out and ran as fast as her feet would carry her and didn’t stop until she was back at the emigrant house and safely behind the closed door.
She held up her trembling hands and tried to force her spirit to calm. There was something very dangerous in the look of those men, and she hoped never to encounter them again. Unfortunately, the Indians were often at the mission, and the likelihood of avoiding them altogether was slim.
As she began to feel her heart slow, Hope felt her tension ease. Tonight after supper she would talk to Johnny about what had happened and see what he thought might be done.
Time had a way of flying by without being noticed. It had been over a week since the Brownings departed the mission, and Grace found that she missed her friend more than she’d anticipated. It had been hard to leave folks behind in Missouri, although Grace could only call to mind three or four who truly mattered, but without Eletta, she felt more alone and vulnerable than she had in a very long time. With most of the remaining wagon train preparing to press on to the west, Grace wondered what the winter might hold in store.
Mercy was still sick. In fact, she was very weak, and Grace couldn’t help but worry. Hope helped care for their younger sister and did so without complaint. Perhaps it was a show of maturity or maybe just desperation to avoid doing laundry. Whatever the reason, it had been a tremendous help to Grace.
When Hope wasn’t helping with Mercy, she sought out the company of John Sager. John and his six siblings had lost their parents on the journey west some years earlier, and the Whitmans had adopted them to raise as their own. Unfortunately, as with so many others at the mission, several of the Sagers had contracted the measles. Including John. Mrs. Whitman and other women who lived at the mission house helped to care for him, but when Hope wasn’t with Mercy, she was at the mission house seeing to John. Grace had been told that Hope could often be found at his side, reading to him.
Dr. Whitman led them in Sunday services, and to Grace’s surprise, she found his preaching quite good. She also enjoyed Narcissa’s singing. Mrs. Whitman still seemed reserved, but she was kind and generous overall. Harriet Kimball had told Grace how the Whitmans’ little daughter, Alice, had drowned years earlier and Narcissa had never recovered from her grief. Narcissa believed it was her fault that Alice had been taken, because she had made her child more important than her work for God. God had seen her heart and knew it to be corrupt. Grace thought it very sad that such a conclusion should be made and even sadder that it should continue to haunt the poor woman. It was little wonder there seemed to be a perpetual sadness about her.
Two of the bachelors at the mission, James Young and Andy Rogers, had taken an interest in Grace. She was first introduced to Andy when he joined Narcissa in singing at church. The Right Reverend would have had a conniption had he been there. As a Congregationalist, he didn’t believe in men and women singing together in church services.
James Young lived with his family in the Blue Mountains at the sawmill Dr. Whitman had set up. He made regular trips to the mission to deliver finished wood for the new additions at the gristmill and houses. He was a handsome man of twenty-four, only a year younger than Andy. Both men were easygoing and good conversationalists, unlike the handsome and opinionated trapper who continued to dance around Grace’s memories. What was it about Alex Armistead that made her think about him nearly every day?
“You look mighty pretty today, Miss Grace,” Andy said, taking a seat across the table from her at the noon meal.
“I’ll say,” James agreed, sitting down beside Andy. He gave Grace a wide smile.
Grace felt her cheeks warm. “Thank you, Andy, James.” She complimented Andy on his singing. “I particularly enjoyed the hymn you shared with us today.” She smiled. “And I heard Mrs. Whitman say that you intend to play your violin tonight.”
The slender man blushed to the roots of his blond hair. “I do, Miss Grace. I hope you’ll join us here at the mission house.”
“It will depend on Mercy. Still, I wouldn’t like to miss it.”
“Miss what?”
To Grace’s displeasure, she looked up to find Nigel Grierson approaching the seat to her right. “Mr. Rogers is going to play his violin tonight.”
“Wish I could stay to hear it,” James said. “I have to head back to the sawmill right after lunch
.”
Nigel grunted something unintelligible and plopped down beside Grace. “I hope after the meal you’ll take a walk with me. I’m leaving with the others tomorrow, and there are a few things we need to discuss.”
No doubt he was going to propose again, and Grace had little desire to endure it. However, rather than create a scene at the table, she smiled and nodded. “Very well.”
Prayers were offered with special petition on behalf of all who suffered from measles. Grace was particularly concerned about the adults who’d taken the disease. The expectant Mrs. Osborn had taken ill, and everyone feared for her and the unborn baby she carried. Her husband, along with several of the other men and multiple children, had also contracted measles.
Once the prayers concluded, Nigel asked, “Where is Hope?”
Grace kept her gaze on the table in front of her. “She’s sitting with Mercy.”
“How is your little sister doing?” Andy asked.
Meeting his concerned expression, Grace replied, “She’s still very ill. The disease has been particularly hard because she was so exhausted from the trail. She lost so much weight on the trip west, and she was small for her age to begin with.” Grace spread some jam on a piece of bread. “Still, I have no reason to doubt she’ll recover.”
“That’s good,” Andy said, nodding.
“You’re quite the healer.” James kept his voice low. “I’ve heard others talk about how you took care of folks on the wagon train. It’s surely a gift from God.”
Nigel huffed as if completely disgusted with Grace for speaking to anyone but him. She turned to him. “Is something wrong, Mr. Grierson? You don’t seem to be enjoying your meal.”
He huffed again and picked up his fork. “I’m just fine.”
Once the meal finally concluded, Nigel hurried her away from the others. She protested, telling him she needed to help with the cleanup first, but Harriet Kimball, all smiles, handed Grace her shawl.
“You two go on. We’ve plenty of help.”
Grace took the wrap and returned Harriet’s smile with a nod. She had little choice but to go with Nigel unless she wanted to make a scene.
Treasured Grace Page 4
