Bone River

by Chance, Megan

  ALSO BY MEGAN CHANCE

  City of Ash

  Prima Donna

  The Spiritualist

  An Inconvenient Wife

  Susannah Morrow

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 Megan Chance

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Publishing

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612184845

  ISBN-10: 1612184847

  For extraordinary friends

  Lynn Beeman, Jo’Ell Catel, and Tammy McMullen

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  SHOALWATER BAY, WASHINGTON TERRITORY

  SPRING 1855

  IT WAS A sacred place, an ancient place. Here was the confluence of river and bay, of sky and forest, salt marsh and slough, the water stretching its fingers far into the land as if it meant always to reclaim it. Here was a presence that gave weight to the fog and the rain, that lingered in the swollen air, even in sunlight, especially in moonlight. A presence I felt, that I’d felt since my father and I had first come here three years ago, drawn by science, by possibility.

  The Indians all said the land was haunted, but Papa built a house and put up a barn without regard for spirits or Indian superstition—almost in spite of those things, as if he meant to insist upon our rationality—and the river rewarded him, spilling its secrets onto the bank, relics from an old Chinook village, detritus from middens long buried or washed away in floods. An ethnological gold mine that kept my father here even as he hated it. He built the house on a rise and glared at the Querquelin River as if he could keep it within its banks by sheer force of will. He saw only science here, and study, and he disdained that sacredness I felt, that sense that spirits hovered always. The land was haunted, I thought, but Papa only said, “You have too much imagination, Leonie,” and I knew he was right. It was unseemly in a scientist, a flaw I usually fought.

  But today I felt those spirits waiting to claim him.

  He coughed, and I was at his side in a moment, pulling the chair closer to his bed, reaching for the basin of cool water, dipping the cloth. I wrung it out, but before I could bring it to his fevered skin, he caught my hand to stop me with more strength than I’d expected.

  “Are you thirsty?” I asked. “Can I bring you something?”

  He shook his head. I let the rag drop back into the basin and curled my fingers around his, bringing them to my lips. His graying hair was sparse against his scalp, his sun-touched skin freckled with dark spots that only served to bring into contrast its ghastly hue. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and stubble upon his cheeks, and his lips were blue, as was the skin around his nostrils.

  He beckoned weakly for me to come closer. I leaned down, a corkscrew of blonde hair loosening from my pins to bounce against his shoulder. I saw his eyes follow it. He had always loved my hair. You have my mother’s hair, he’d said to me once. Funny, isn’t it, how things find their way down?

  I blinked back my tears; he would not want to see them.

  “Want...” His voice was hoarse, barely there.

  “You mustn’t talk. Save your strength.”

  A bare smile. “For...dying?”

  “Please don’t say that.”

  His fingers moved in my hand. “You...must...leave...”

  “Leave? I won’t leave your side, Papa, not now.”

  An impatient shake. “This...place.”

  I sighed. I squeezed his fingers. “Papa, please...let’s not talk of this now.”

  “When June...goes...”

  My chest tightened. I had been trying not to think of that, of Junius leaving us, though I knew he would once Papa was gone. My father’s protégé was a restless man, always looking for something better, his gaze settled ahead as if the world around him didn’t exist. There was nothing to bind him to this place once Papa was gone. “When June goes, I’ll still have Lord Tom. He’ll stay with me. You know he will. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “No,” he said. “June...you marry.”

  “Marry Junius?”

  He coughed. It went deep; he hacked and shuddered, and I put my arm around his shoulders to keep him from choking on his own blood, grabbing a nearby handkerchief, trying not to see the clots, the darkness of the blood, the proof that his lungs were no longer whole enough to keep him here.

  The attack went on long enough that I thought it must exhaust him. He closed his eyes and I leveled him gently back to the pillow. I wiped the blood from his lips and expected him to drift into unconsciousness, but he didn’t. His hand fell to his chest, searching for a talisman that was no longer there—a pendant he’d lost long ago, though the nervous habit of touching it had never left him.

  “Marry...June.” Insistent this time, even through his weakness.

  “You...you can’t mean it. He’s old, Papa. Why, he must be at least forty.”

  “Good...man.”

  “I know that.” And I did. But a husband...“I’m not ready. How can I be a wife? I have so much to do...”

  “Marry...him.” He attempted a smile. “Keep you...safe.”

  “He won’t want to, Papa. He has his own life—”

  “He says yes.”

  I stared at my father with surprise—and yes, a little resentment. “You asked him?”

  Papa nodded. “Promise...me.”

  He was dying. What right had I to question him? He’d never hesitated to do what was best for me. He’d been the only parent I’d ever known, becoming both mother and father from the moment my mother died birthing me. He had sacrificed everything for me. He had taught me everything I knew. And what else had I? When Papa was gone, I would be alone. Alone. I’d been fighting the thought for days. Now it rose to overwhelm me. What would I do without him? How would I survive?

  And in the grip of that fear I said, “All right.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  Again, that faint smile. The obvious effort of it tore at my heart.

  He closed his eyes.

  I stayed there by the bed. He lingered another hour, and then I felt him go, a gasp, a sinking, there and then suddenly...not. I put my head on his chest, listening for breathing I knew already I wouldn’t hear, and the stillness crept into me, an emptiness I did not know how to fill. I broke into helpless, convulsing sobs, crying into his shirt, wishing for his arms around me, no matter how clumsy and inept the embrace. He had always been uncomfortable with such displays, but I would have give
n anything to feel once again his awkward, hesitant patting, to hear his There, there, my dear. You know I hate to see you cry.

  I sat there for a long time, until I felt the warmth leave him, until the blue of twilight eased through the windows and my father’s body was covered in shadow, and then I went to his desk. On the shelf above were his leather-bound journals, on the desk were the relics we’d collected together, the ones that were his favorites: a bone knife from the Dalles, a Chinook horn spoon, a ceremonial rattle, a carved wooden bowl that now held spare buttons and a needle, and a small leather bag of tobacco, so dried out and old now it was mostly dust. I smiled at it, because it had been more than a year since he’d had to give up the pipe he’d loved, and yet that bag was still here, and I knew he’d been unable to throw it away, although he had to have known he would never smoke it. The contradiction of him, so sentimental even as ruled as he was by logic and reason...Oh, I would miss him so.

  I blinked, wiping tears away with the back of my hand, and glanced out the window at the deepening blue-gray sky, the fog rising now from the bay, ghostly and beautiful, and two men walking through it, crossing the salt marsh between the house and the mudflats. Lord Tom, the Shoalwater Indian who was like a second father to me, and Junius became more corporeal with every step, solid men finished with ghostly legs, Lord Tom looking for all the world like one of his Chinook ancestors, his long black hair bouncing over his shoulders, a net dangling from his hand, Junius capable and good-natured, laughing at something Lord Tom had said. I saw what my father loved about Junius. His strength was hard and sharp-edged; from here I could not see the gray threading through his brown hair. With a little startle I remembered the promise I’d made my father.

  I heard them on the porch, the low murmurs of their talk, their stomping feet, and then the door opening and closing, the soft call, “Leonie?”—careful not to wake him who was already gone. I heard the steps on the stairs.

  The two of them came inside, muddy-booted, wet from the knees, bringing cold and the smell of the bay and the marsh into a room that I realized suddenly was already cold. Had I fired up the stove today? I could not remember.

  Junius said, “Leonie, why are you standing in the dark?”

  Lord Tom said softly, “Teddy yaka memalose.”

  It was a measure of his grief, I knew, that he did not speak the English he knew perfectly well. I did not take my eyes from Junius. “Yes. He’s gone.”

  Junius glanced at the bed and then at me. “Gone? Christ, Lea, I’m so sorry—”

  Lord Tom made a little sound. When Junius and I looked at him, he said, “Mahsh kopa illahee.” We must bury him. He was already backing away, repelled, his people’s cultural fear of the dead overcoming even his grief. He could not wait to leave the room, and he would insist Papa’s body be gone before he would enter the house again.

  “Tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll bury him tomorrow.”

  Lord Tom nodded curtly and said, “I’ll bring the canoe.”

  I didn’t protest or stop him when he left. Instead, I looked at Junius and said, “He would not want to be buried like an Indian. No canoes. He would want a decent Christian burial. Will you make him a coffin?”

  “Yes,” Junius said.

  “He said you would marry me,” I said bluntly.

  Junius looked startled. “Yes, but—”

  “I promised him I would.”

  He hesitated. “Leonie, you should know...I...I’m already married. I have a wife. In San Francisco.”

  I blinked at him in confusion. A wife. Which meant he could not marry me, and I would be alone after all. Alone and lonely, with only the spirits for company. I struggled to contain my panic. “Then why did you tell my father you would marry me? And why haven’t you ever mentioned her?”

  “Because she doesn’t matter. I’ll marry you, if it’s what you wish.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I wish. You’re already married.”

  “She’s not important, Lea. I just wanted you to know. I promised your father I would marry you and keep you safe, and I will. Mary and I...we’ve been apart for...some time. I was young, and...we weren’t good together. I left her. She’s probably already forgotten me.”

  “But Junius—”

  “We’ll be together, you and I,” Junius went on quietly. “I’ll take care of you as I promised. Mary means nothing to me. But you...you do. I’m never going back to her. I’ll stay with you.”

  My fear fled in quick relief. I wouldn’t be alone. I could keep the promise I’d made to my dying father. And...I didn’t know much about marriage or laws, but surely Junius did. He was so much older. He knew better than I what was possible.

  “You’ll tell her, though?” I asked. “You’ll write her and do whatever...whatever must be done?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll take care of everything.”

  I nodded, relieved. The world had changed around me, and it seemed so sudden, though Papa had been dying for a long time. I’d never dared to think of what would happen once he was gone. But Papa had thought of everything for me, just as he always had. He’d given me Junius.

  The spirits in the air seemed to fade and quiet.

  “You’ll have me then?” Junius asked.

  I said, “Well...I said I would.”

  He held out his hand, and I stepped forward, taking it. I looked into his chiseled face, into his deep-set eyes, and he pulled me into his arms, holding me tight against his chest. I buried my face in his coarse cotton shirt, breathing in the salt-sweat smell of him, the tang of oysters and the bay and the tidal mud. He was solid and warm; I had not known I was cold until I touched him.

  “I’ll take care of you, Lea,” he whispered again into my hair. “I promise.”

  I felt my father’s blessing settle over us like a shroud, gentle and soft and benevolent.

  I was seventeen.

  CHAPTER 1

  TWENTY YEARS LATER

  AUTUMN 1875

  I HEARD THOSE spirits again the night the river gave up its bones.

  I was sitting at the kitchen table with Lord Tom, transcribing the Indian stories I loved, when the storm began, howling through the hemlocks, alders, and cedars ringing the salt marsh, an eerie wailing made worse by the screeching and clattering of branches and the high-pitched whine through the roof shingles.

  I shivered and glanced out the window to the darkness beyond. “Junius should be back by now.”

  “Hmmm,” Lord Tom said noncommittally. “No good to be out when the tomawanos howl.”

  I gave him my best quelling glance. “It’s only a storm, tot”—calling him uncle, as I always did—“not spirits.”

  He said nothing to that, and I looked back down at my notebook, trying to banish the sense of...suspense, I supposed...that hadn’t left me all day, as if something was lurking, waiting. It was the reason I’d asked Lord Tom to tell me the stories tonight, something to distract me. But it wasn’t working, and the storm wasn’t helping. The air felt shivery and odd, and Lord Tom’s talk of spirits only made it worse. I was already too sensitive to this kind of thing. Usually I was better at fighting it. This was only a storm like many others, I told myself. Still, when a gust of wind blew a spattering of rain hard against the window, I jumped.

  Lord Tom gave me a knowing glance. “You hear them too.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m only worried for June.”

  “That one fears nothing,” Lord Tom said. “He’s fine, okustee. Should I continue the story?”

  I nodded and took a deep breath, feeling warm and reassured when he used the nickname he kept only for me. Daughter. I drew strength from his calm and resolved to focus. “Go ahead.”

  “Chako elip sun wawa Italapas.” Lord Tom’s voice rose and fell, the harsh syllables and consonants of the Chinook jargon set to the time of the flickering lamplight and the scratching of my pen upon the paper as I transcribed the old tale. Come very early, said Coyote.

  I loved these stories, the tales
of the trickster Coyote and the great Thunderbird Hahness and the adventures of the time when the mountains were people. I loved the way they sounded in the old Chinook too, the way Lord Tom told them, that singsong voice that brought me back to when I was fourteen and had just come to this place, not yet used to settling, uneasy at the presence I felt here and my father’s impatience with my fears. I remembered one day, when Papa was buried in his cataloging, and Lord Tom had seen my loneliness and taken me salmon fishing. There, he’d begun to teach me the trading jargon and told me the first of many tales, as if he’d somehow understood the joy I would take from them. They helped me understand this strange new place, to make it mine, much to Papa’s dismay.

  I’d thought once the Indian legends would be the tales I told my children, but, well...some things didn’t work out as planned. Now I told myself I transcribed them for the scientific world, preserving a dying culture, but the truth...the truth I never admitted was that they were for me. I was fascinated by them, though they were lewd and primitive and my father had hated them and had forbidden me to listen to them. Junius agreed with my father—he disliked my interest and said the stories were too obscene for a woman to hear. But the nights I spent listening to Lord Tom were some of my favorite times.

  Except for tonight. Tonight, the harsh sounds of the jargon played on my nerves, and Coyote’s obscene tricks couldn’t make me laugh or distract me from the sound of the wind and the voices I heard in it.

  Voices? There are no voices, Leonie. It’s only your imagination. Do you understand? It’s not real. What kind of scientist gives in to such fancies? I heard my father’s words and his affectionate sighs of exasperation as if he stood beside me, though he’d been gone now more than twenty years.

  Lord Tom said, “What is it, okustee?” and I realized he’d been talking and I was just sitting there with my pen dripping ink onto the paper.

  “I’m sorry, tot, but—”

  There was a noise on the porch, and the door opened, bringing a blast of chill wind, the smell of the river and salt mud and Junius with it.

  I jumped up in relief. “There you are! I was worried.”