Frontier Father

by Dorothy Clark

  He scowled, vowed again to work on his impatience and stepped into the room, his attention snagged by the flickering flames of the fire reflected in the glass panes of the window. Clean window panes. Soft, yellow light shone through the smoke-free glass chimney on the oil lamp that sat on the table beneath the window. A table free of dust. He looked around. The entire room was clean. Something deep inside him lightened. He had been so busy, so overwhelmed with his fears and troubles, he had become inured to the accumulating dirt. He hadn’t realized…

  The hem of Anne’s gown whispered against the floor. Sighing Wind’s moccasins scuffed behind. He moved to the fireplace, picked up the poker and shoved the logs closer together. The smell of fresh-baked biscuits teased his nose. He put the poker down, watched them place pork chops, potatoes, carrots, green beans and a linen-lined basket of biscuits on the table. Sighing Wind shuffled back to the kitchen and Anne slipped onto a chair.

  He stepped to the table and took his own seat, his throat swelled to a painful fullness. The lonely, empty existence his life had become pressed upon him, weighted his heart. He cleared the tightness from his throat, bowed his head and asked God’s blessing on the abundant food He’d provided. But he couldn’t help wishing God would provide something to fill his hungry heart.

  He frowned at his lack of thankfulness, sent a silent prayer for forgiveness winging upward. Hope was enough. Please God, heal Hope. Please let her stay with me. He filled his plate with meat and vegetables, split a warm biscuit and reached for the butter.

  “Mitchel, what did that Indian warrior say about me?”

  He glanced across the table at Anne, sitting so erect in her chair, looking vulnerable but defensive. And lovely. William’s adopted sister was a beautiful young woman, though a bit prickly for his taste. Isobel had been so…amenable. He looked back down and spread the butter, prepared himself for a scene. Prickly and defensive or not, Anne might be frightened by the truth, and he’d seen her close to swooning twice. “He gave you a name.” He glanced up. “Little Crow.”

  “Little Crow!”

  He nodded. “Because of your widow’s garb—and your size.” He reassessed the possibility of her swooning. She had gone stiff as a board and her violet-blue eyes were fairly flashing with sparks of anger.

  “I am not that short!”

  A sore point, obviously. He would not debate the issue with her, though a woman that barely reached his chin did not seem overly tall to him. “Perhaps not. But you are very slender and…small.” The starchiness drained from her. The shadows returned to dull her eyes.

  “I’ve been…ill.” She looked down, ran her hand over the black wool fabric covering her ribs. “I suppose the name is…understandable.” She lifted her head. “What did the Indian say when he pointed at me, and held up his five fingers.”

  His instinct to protect rose strong within him. His fingers tightened on the knife he’d picked up to cut a piece of meat. “He said you were frightened, but very brave. That you were worthy to be a warrior’s wife. He offered me five horses for you.”

  She stared at him, a gauntlet of emotions sweeping across her face—shock, astonishment, anger, horror, fear and outrage. She drew her shoulders back, lifted her chin and looked straight into his eyes. “And what was your answer, Mitchel?”

  “I told him you were my woman, and you were not for sale.”

  She gave a sharp intake of breath. “Your—you had no right to say such a thing! Phillip is my husband.”

  He met her furious gaze, shook his head. “Your husband is dead, Anne. He is not here to protect you from that brave, or from those who might offer for you in the future. I am. And the best way I know to protect you is to tell them you belong to me. You’d best not deny it.”

  Chapter Five

  Anne rushed outside, pulled the door closed on the toddler’s cries and sagged against the wall. Her arms trembled, her heart ached with the need to hold her baby girl. She thrust away the broom she’d been using and pressed her hands to her mouth to hold back the sobs crowding into her throat. She’d come here to escape! To forget! How was she to survive when every day the child’s cries were a constant reminder of—

  She opened her eyes, forced away the memory. Her face tightened, her jaw set. Where was Mitchel? Why was he not— No. That was unfair. Mitchel worked harder than any man she knew. And he spent his every spare minute with his child. She frowned and pushed away from the wall. All the same, she could not face going back into that house until the child was asleep.

  She snatched up the broom and looked at the lean-to schoolroom attached to the back wall of the mission. Mitchel had said nothing more about her teaching, but she could at least look at the room.

  Cold, stale air rushed out when she opened the door. She stepped inside and looked around. The roof, festooned with cobwebs, sloped from the log wall of the mission to the lower, outside wall opposite it. A stone fireplace stood in the center of the low wall, a fire laid and ready to be lit.

  Why did the toddler cry so often? What caused her pain?

  She sucked in her breath, concentrated on the room to dispel the unwanted thoughts. In front of her, three long, rough wood bench desks with low, backless seats marched the length of the room toward a table. Beneath a small window in the far wall sat the two trunks of school supplies William had purchased in anticipation of teaching here at the mission. On her right, a large wood box, filled with firewood, crouched in the corner beside the door. The room and furnishings were rough and crude.

  Did Laughing Rain know how to care for the baby? Or—

  Why could she not stop thinking of the child? She clenched her hands on the handle, advanced into the schoolroom and laid about her with the broom, swished and whacked, until every filmy cobweb was gone and its creator dead. Mitchel’s daughter’s care was none of her concern.

  She turned her attention to the dusty floor, jabbed the broom into the corners, angled it into the grooves between the wide, rough boards. Tending the sick was what Papa Doc and Emma cared about. She did not care. She would not care!

  Whatever was wrong with the baby was serious. Mitchel was afraid—

  She stiffened her spine, worked harder, coughing from the dust raised by her furious sweeping. The unbidden, unwelcome thoughts remained—plucked at her conscience. She whirled about, drew back her broom and sent the pile of dust and dirt flying out the door—straight onto a pair of black leather boots. She lifted her head, stared at Mitchel Banning.

  “I saw the door was open and came to investigate. The Indians do not consider it wrong to take whatever they want.” His startled expression changed to one of concern. “What’s wrong, Anne?”

  “Why…nothing.” She cleared the tightness from her throat. “I’m cleaning.”

  “You’re crying.”

  Was she? She jerked her hand up, felt a streak of moisture on her cheek. “The dust…” She blinked her eyes and wiggled the broom.

  He didn’t answer, simply looked at her. She whirled about and began sweeping the low, bench seats. He was a minister. Had her evasion angered him? Would he refuse to let her teach? Perhaps make her go back to Emma? No. He didn’t know Emma was in Oregon country. But he knew about the town the emigrants were founding, and—

  His boots thudded against the floorboards. He was coming inside! She swept faster.

  “I’m afraid this table will have to serve as your desk. I’ve nothing better. I’ll bring you a chair.”

  He was going to let her stay and teach! She stopped sweeping, looked down the length of the room. “The table will be fine. And a chair would be helpful. Thank you.”

  He nodded, looked at her, his eyes shadowed with doubt, questions. “You will have to be firm with the Indian children. Especially the boys…if any come.” His brow furrowed. “In their culture the women and girls do all the work. The men and boys hunt and fish and go to battle against their enemies. As I said before, they are undisciplined and unaccustomed to schedules or responsibilities.” The fur
rows in his brow deepened. He looked out the door, looked back at her. “There is more I have to say, but I have work to do in the fields while there is light. We will discuss the other things tonight.”

  “Very well.” She turned back to her work, listened as his footsteps drew near, caught her breath when they paused beside her. She kept her head bent and the broom moving, watched through her eyelashes as he continued on out the door, then dropped the broom and sagged onto the bench.

  He knew there was something wrong. She would have to be stronger, do better at hiding her emotions. She couldn’t tell him the truth. He would never let her stay if he knew she couldn’t bear being around his daughter. He would take her back to the emigrant town for certain. And that would mean being with Emma. And the memories.

  Pressure settled in her chest. She gripped the edge of the bench and looked around. If only she could begin teaching and spend her entire day in this room. She would be safe here. But she needed students. Until then, she would spend her time in the kitchen teaching Sighing Wind about housekeeping and cooking. The child’s cries were not as loud there.

  She carried the broom outside, closed the door and walked toward the gate in the garden fence. She would go in through the kitchen door. She didn’t want to chance running into the Indian nanny, Laughing Rain, and Mitchel’s daughter.

  Mitchel watched the calf struggle, nodded with satisfaction as it gained its feet. It had been a difficult birth, but both the cow and her calf would live. He would keep them in the barn, safe from the weather and predators, for a few days. He tossed some fresh hay in the stall, stretched his back and arms and went outside. The temperature had dropped considerably.

  He started toward the mission house looming black in the darkness, its windows spilling yellow lamplight into the night. The ever-present fear quickened. Had Spotted Owl brought in wood so Laughing Rain could keep Hope’s fire going? Or had he gone hunting instead? He so often turned surly when asked to do work. Please let Hope be all right, Lord. Please let her be all right. He heard her crying as he neared her window. She was having a bad day. He broke into a run.

  Mitchel washed off the barn smell, dried his face and hands and continued the story of the calf’s birth. “So the mama cow lowered her head and nudged her baby. And when the little calf stood up, its legs wobbled like this.” He made his ankles go slack and swayed back and forth, his knees jutting and bending at extreme angles.

  Hope looked up at him, her eyes glassy-bright in her fever-flushed face. Her little lips trembled, but she stopped crying. He bent over and lifted her, blankets and all, into his arms, cuddled her as close as he dared. His heart ached with the need to comfort her with a hug. He suppressed the urge for fear of hurting her. Resentment kindled, the angry flames lashing at his spirit the way the tongues of fire were licking at the new wood he’d brought in to replace what had been consumed.

  Don’t let that happen to me, Lord. Don’t let me be consumed by the anger and fear. Please strengthen my faith lest I fail You. Lest I fail Hope. I believe in Your Word and in Your son, Almighty God. I believe. Help Thou my unbelief.

  He swallowed back the lump in his throat, laid his cheek against Hope’s golden curls and walked around the small room praying for her pain to ease so she could sleep before he joined Anne for dinner.

  Anne took a bite of squash, laid down her fork and looked across the table at Mitchel. He looked tired with a weariness beyond that caused by hard, physical labor. Worry and fear for a child did that. It was— She shifted her gaze to her plate. It was not her concern. Mitchel’s burdens had nothing to do with her.

  She picked up her fork, jabbed it into her potatoes, laid it down again and clenched her hands in her lap. She couldn’t swallow. Must everything in this house remind her of her loss! She snatched the napkin off her lap, placed it on the table and raised her head. “Mitchel…”

  “Yes?” He looked up.

  She knew so well the pain that shadowed his eyes. She closed her mind to it. “You seem tired after your day’s labors. Perhaps, you would care to postpone our discussion?”

  He shook his head. “That’s thoughtful of you, Anne. But one day is as busy as another. And there are things you need to know. However, you’re right. I am tired. If you will join me in the other room, we shall have our discussion there.”

  “Very well.” She glanced up as he rose from his chair. The worry was so evident. “Would you like to have an after-dinner coffee there?”

  “That is an excellent suggestion.”

  She poured out the dark brew, handed him the cup, then led the way into the other room and seated herself near the hearth, on the chair closest to the stairs.

  Mitchel stood by the fire, took a sip of the hot coffee. He raised his brows, stared down at the cup. “This tastes different.”

  “Better, I hope.”

  “Yes. Much better.” He gave her a quizzical look. “What did you do to it?”

  “I cleaned the pot.”

  “And a lot more.” He looked around the room, brought his gaze back to rest on her. “I have been remiss, Anne, in not thanking you for taking upon yourself the task of cleaning the mission. As you have discovered, Sighing Wind has little knowledge of housekeeping or cooking. Your efforts have made a great difference. The meals are excellent. And the mission looks…” He stopped, rolled the cup between his hands. “I’d forgotten…”

  What it was like before his wife died? Did one ever forget? “It is not necessary to thank me, Mitchel.” She looked down, smoothed a fold from her skirt. “With no students to teach as yet, overseeing the cleaning of the mission and the preparation of meals has…given me a purpose.” She glanced up, caught her breath at the flash of understanding in his eyes and jerked her gaze away lest he say something that would penetrate her defenses and cause her buried grief to rise.

  “You should have students soon.”

  “Truly?” Her relief spilled out in her tone.

  He nodded, took another swallow of his coffee. “I have sent word among the Indians that the mission is to have a school where their children can learn to speak and write the white man’s tongue and learn the white man’s numbers so they can trade with wisdom.” He gave her a wry smile. “That last should gain you at least one or two male students.” His smile faded. “But you must be prepared for dealing with the Indians, Anne. They are very different in their outlook.”

  He drained his cup, placed it on the mantel and shoved the logs together with his booted foot. “The mission is situated close to both the Nez Perce and Cayuse nations.” He turned back toward her, a frown creased his brow. “The Cayuse have proven to be less than welcoming. A few are friendly, but most are insolent and demanding. They tolerate our presence for the goods the mission provides them. They consider us as traders, nothing more. The Nez Perce are more open to our ways. You will find their children to be—”

  “Papaaa… Papaaaa…”

  Mitchel jerked his head toward the doorway on the other side of the room.

  She jumped to her feet, turned toward the stairs.

  “Papaaa…”

  He glanced back her way. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Anne. I have to go to Hope.”

  “What causes your daughter’s pain, Mitchel?” The words were out before she could stop them. Words that had been roiling about in her head all day. Emma’s words. Papa Doc’s words. She took a breath, clenched her hands.

  He stopped, shook his head. “The doctor at Fort Walla Walla died before Hope took sick, and I—I fear she would not survive the longer journey needed to see another.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what sickness has struck her. I only know I would give my life to spare her. Now, I must go to her. I can sometimes soothe her by holding her, though I must be careful of her joints.”

  Her joints. Emma’s discussions with Papa Doc swarmed into her head, their words came out of her mouth. “Are they red and swollen? Warm and fevered to the touch?”

  “Yes.” His gaze locked on hers. “Anne�
�”

  She shook her head, backed up a step. “I was injured…” She sucked in her breath, fought the trembling starting in her hands. “I have an ointment that may ease her pain.” She whirled around, grasped her skirt and lifted the hem out of the way and ran toward the stairs, saw Mitchel hurrying across the room as she climbed.

  She didn’t want to do this! Didn’t know enough… The pressure squeezed her chest. The lack of breath threatened darkness. She willed it away, went to her knees in front of the trunk and fought the twitching of her fingers that made it difficult to open the latch. If the ointment would ease the child’s pain she would stop crying. And if the toddler stopped crying the memories would stop haunting her. It would all be better in the end, if she could hold on…

  She lifted out the sealed crock of ointment, set it aside and pulled out the narrow rolls of red flannel Emma had used to bind her injured ribs. They were much too long for a toddler’s small limbs. She blinked the tears from her eyes, took her scissors from her sewing box and cut one of the rolls into short lengths. She pressed her hand against her lap to control the shaking and slit one end of each length in half to make strips that could be used to tie the bandage in place.

  When she finished, she gathered the short red flannel strips into a pile, draped them over her arm, picked up the crock of ointment and hurried down the stairs. Her steps lagged as she crossed the room. The pressure in her chest increased at the sound of the toddler’s quiet sobs.

  She stepped up to the open door, saw Mitchel pacing the room, his little daughter in his arms, and the hot, prickly feeling washed over her. She stepped back and leaned against the wall, her breath coming in quick, short gasps.

  She forced her lungs to yield, drew in long, slow breaths. The threat of fainting subsided. She stepped away from the wall, raised her hand and rapped on the door frame.

  Chapter Six

  Mitchel turned at the quiet knock. Anne stood in the doorway, her posture rigid, her face pale in the flickering firelight. Her lashes were lowered, her eyes hidden beneath their lush darkness.