Frontier Father

by Dorothy Clark

  He set the pail on the ground, shook out the rag. She had been so obstinate the night she’d said she would not go with him when he took Hope to the emigrant village. He thought about the loss of her child, understood. He didn’t want her to suffer because of him or Hope, but all the same, he was grateful she’d changed her mind. He could not go off and leave her here alone, not even when Halstrum came back. Not with Eagle Claw around.

  He glanced in the direction of the schoolroom. Smoke streamed into the sky from its chimney, the plume looking almost white against the thunderclouds overhead. She was there, teaching her students.

  He squelched an urge to go to the lean-to and make certain none of the Cayuse braves, who were butchering the pig he had given them as payment for their help around the mission, had wandered into the schoolroom. Anne was so beautiful. And with that mass of red curls…

  Not that he ever saw them.

  He scowled, swiped the rag around the inside edge of the wheel’s hub to remove the mud from the riverbank, jammed his fingers into the pail, then smeared the warm grease all over the inside of the hub. He hated that black thing she wore on her head. It made her look so wan and lifeless. Except for her eyes. She had incredible eyes—even when they were shadowed by sorrow and grief. Or darkened by anger. And when she looked up at him…

  He frowned at the stirring in his gut, stepped to the wagon and smeared grease around the bare, back axle. He had no business thinking about Anne or his growing attraction to her. He’d best keep his emotions under control and his mind focused on the facts. He was a widower with a small, seriously ill daughter. Anne was a widow, still grieving for her husband and baby girl. She wanted no part of him or his child. She’d made that plain.

  He wiped his hand on the rag, grasped the wheel and rolled it over to the wagon. One strong heave had it up and wobbling on the end of the axle.

  Rain poured down, blew in under the back side of the roof, dampened the pants stretched over his calves. He drove the linchpin into place with three hard, quick blows of the mallet.

  Lightning snapped, sizzled to the earth. Thunder crashed with a force that made his chest vibrate. He jerked his head up, looked toward the window in his daughter’s bedroom. That would have frightened her. She was afraid of loud thunder. He tossed the mallet into the wagon, ducked his head and raced through the rain toward the mission house.

  Anne flinched at the crack of thunder, slid the oil lamp closer to her slate and chalked, a rather sad, but she hoped distinguishable, buffalo. “Who can tell me what this is?”

  Iva and Kitturah raised their hands, looked at her with expectancy brightening their blue eyes. Running Wolf snuck a peek at her drawing, then sat like a statue, his gaze fastened on his own blank slate. “Running Wolf—” she held the slate in front of him, tapped it with her finger “—what is this?”

  The boy looked at the drawing. “Qoq’á lx.”

  She tapped her slate again. “Buffalo. In the white man’s language it is a buffalo.” She pointed to her mouth, “buff-a-lo” then pointed to him. Waited.

  “Buff-a-lo.”

  “Yes. Very good, Running Wolf.” She nodded, smiled. He looked away, but not before she had caught the gleam of pleasure in his eye at the approval.

  She lifted her chalk, drew B b on her slate. “This is the letter B. Repeat the letter’s name as I point to you please.” She pointed to Iva, then Kitturah, received their answers, and pointed to Running Wolf. He gave the girls a sidelong look, glanced at the slate and then looked up at her and answered. She nodded and smiled.

  “Very good, everyone. Now listen carefully.” She pointed to the letters. “B says bu—” she pointed to her drawing “—as in buffalo. Repeat that please.” The girls chorused the answer. She looked at Running Wolf. He answered. She nodded, smiled at them all and had them repeat it in unison a few more times. “Now all of you draw a buffalo on your slate.”

  She put her slate down on the bench desk where they could all see it, pointed to her drawing, then tapped Running Wolf’s slate. He caught her meaning and began to draw.

  Rain pounded on the roof. Lightning flashed outside the small window, thunder crashed and rumbled. Anne moved to the hearth, checked her bread dough then turned and studied the children’s bowed heads. School was going well, better than she had expected. Running Wolf was a very intelligent young boy and was becoming less surly in his attitude as the days progressed. Iva was quick and helpful. And Kitturah… She glanced at the youngest child, at her small hand holding the chalk, and turned away. It was better to think of the children as students, not as individuals. Her heart would be safer that way.

  The patter of the rain outside blended with the murmur and crackle of the fire and the scratch of Mitchel’s pen as he worked on the mission’s record book.

  Anne tilted the fabric toward the light from the oil lamp on the chest and took another stitch along the fold that formed the hemmed edge of one of the apron’s ties. Only a few stitches to go and she would be finished with this one.

  Her temple twitched. She laid the needle on the fabric, slipped a fingertip beneath the edge of her turban bonnet and scratched at the spot, frowned and removed the hat. Wearing it all day made her skin itch. She rubbed at the curls flattened against her temples and the nape of her neck, then picked up the needle and took another stitch.

  A burned log on the hearth collapsed with a hiss. The log atop it fell onto the hot coals, flamed up, then died down to a steady burn. She rested her hands on her lap, stared at the pulsating coals and dancing flames. Did Iva and Kitturah’s mother have a fire? Or was it damp and chilly in their tent?

  “A fire is a comforting thing on a night like this.”

  She jumped, lifted her head. Mitchel was standing at the end of the settee.

  “Sorry, Anne. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Not at all. I was simply lost in thought.” She bent her head, took up her sewing. “I was wondering if a tepee was warm on a cold, damp night like this.”

  “They keep a fire going in the center and put their pallets around it. But I imagine it gets cold around the outside.”

  She nodded, looked up as he added wood to the fire. He straightened, turned his right hand toward the firelight and dug at the pad at the base of his finger with the thumbnail of his left hand, winced. “Have you injured yourself?”

  He glanced her way, shook his head. “I picked up a sliver when I was working on the wagon wheel, and it’s in a most inconvenient spot. Every time I curl my fingers it jags me.” He went back to digging at his hand.

  “Mother used to take slivers out of William’s hands with a needle.” She knotted her thread, snipped it off and held her needle out to him.

  “A splendid idea. Thank you.” He moved the chair closer to the light, sat and took the needle, poked at his right hand.

  She watched his clumsy attempts at removal as long as she could stand it. “I could try to remove it, if you would like.”

  He looked up. “Thank you. That would be very helpful. It’s awkward using my left hand.” He handed her the needle, held his right hand out, palm up.

  She scooted forward on the settee until their knees almost touched, braced her elbow on her lap and wrapped her fingers around his, knowing immediately she had erred. Her hand trembled.

  He looked up, a question in his eyes.

  She forced a polite smile. “I hope I don’t hurt you.”

  “Not with that needle.”

  She nodded, pulled his hand into position and bent her head over it, pushed away a strong impression that was not what he wanted to say. She focused on removing the sliver, tried to ignore the firm calloused fingers folded ever so slightly over the tips of hers, the warmth uncoiling deep inside her. She broke through the calloused skin, exposed the tip of the splinter. Two more gentle probes and the tiny sliver of wood was out.

  He flexed his fingers, looked into her eyes, his face so close she could see gold specks in his. “You got it.”

 
“Yes.” The word rode the last bit of air out of her lungs. She slipped the tips of her fingers from beneath his, rose and gathered her sewing, snatched up her turban bonnet and fled the room.

  Chapter Eleven

  Perhaps she was wrong. Anne gathered the children’s slates, carried them to her table and wiped them clean. Perhaps it was best that she return to the emigrant town. All day she’d fought the memory of Mitchel’s fingers curled atop hers, the increased pressure when she’d looked up and their gazes met. She couldn’t block it out—not even when she was teaching. But it was the tentative stirring in her heart at his touch, like a bud about to open, that disturbed her.

  She frowned, stacked the slates, swirled her cloak around her shoulders and slipped her wrist through the drawstrings of the small bag she had made from the leftover pieces of fabric from the apron. It was only that she allowed no one to touch her since that day. Yes. That was it. She would feel the same no matter who touched her.

  She slipped the small loop of roping over the wool-covered button at the neck of the cloak and reaching for the next, glanced at the hearth. The fire was only a pile of coals. It was safe to leave it. She paused with her fingers on the next button, and stared at the winking coals. When she came in tomorrow morning a fresh fire would be laid. Mitchel had one waiting for her every morning. All she need do was touch a burning candle to the tinder. He was very thoughtful of her comfort.

  She stiffened, finished buttoning her cloak. That was pure foolishness. Mitchel was simply taking care of the children. The same way he cared for his daughter. And that was how she wanted it. She desired no obligation or friendship between them. She refused to allow that. She was not going to be hurt again.

  She pulled the hood up over her turban bonnet and strode to the door, threw back the bar-lock and stepped out into the damp, chilly air. The wind whistled around the corner of the lean-to, plucked at her cloak and the hems of her skirts. At least it wasn’t raining…for the moment. She shivered, held on to the hood and tipped her head back to look up at the sky. The gloomy, gray expanse full of dark clouds wasn’t hopeful. Perhaps Sunday would dawn with a clear sky.

  A hammer clanged against iron. Mitchel was working at the blacksmith shop. A stroke of good fortune. She ducked her head against the wind and hurried down the path and looked around the corner. No Indians. The hammer clanged again. She straightened, adjusted her hood, crowded close to the protection of the mission building, then braved the wind and angled across the path toward the smithy.

  “Mitchel.”

  He turned, looked down at her. Something flashed in his eyes. Something reminiscent of the tiny, flickering flames consuming the coals she’d left burning on the hearth. She lost her breath and voice.

  He turned away, tossed the mallet he was holding into the back of the wagon, snatched a dirty rag off the tailboard and wiped at the black, greasy smudges on his hands. “Did you need something, Anne?”

  She looked away from the ripple of muscles beneath the shirt stretched taut across his shoulders. “I’m going to begin teaching numbers on Monday, and I plan to use some small stones. I did not want to roam about looking for them without your knowledge.”

  He turned back, his expression polite, concerned. “There’s no need to roam. You’ll find all the stones you want along the riverbank.”

  She nodded, looked at the wagon. A thick length of log propped beneath a front corner held it upright. The missing wheel leaned against the side. Her heart gave a hopeful little skip. Perhaps they wouldn’t be able to leave. “Is there something wrong with the wheel?”

  “The iron rim was loose because the wood was dried out. I’ve been soaking them in the river overnight.” He reached out and touched the rim. “This is the last one. When I put it back on, the wagon is ready to go. Except for the packing. That has to wait until the day we leave, lest the Indians discover our preparations and we have nothing left.”

  An image of the wagon as it had been packed on the journey across the country from Missouri flashed into her head. This time there would be a sling bed cradling an ill toddler. How would she bear it? She took a breath, lifted the drawstring bag. “I’d best go collect the stones. I have a meal to prepare.”

  “Anne.”

  She looked up, wished she hadn’t.

  “I don’t believe there are any unfriendly Indians around, but stay close. I don’t want you out of my sight.”

  She nodded, stepped out from under the sheltering roof and hurried toward the river, knowing he was watching her, and helpless to stop the safe, protected feeling stealing through her.

  “Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not kill.” Mitchel scanned the faces of the braves sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring up at him. Most worked at the mission and were here because he required their attendance at his Sunday meetings. Chief White Cloud, Strong Heart and Red Squirrel had accepted the Christian faith and came every Sunday to learn more of their new God. There were a few he had never seen before, but from their expressions, it was likely they had come because they had heard about the meal he provided after he’d shared his message. “These are the words of God.”

  “White man’s god, squaw god. He afraid to fight.”

  There was a chorus of affirmative grunts. Even the Indians who worked at the mission had joined in. Mitchel shook his head, looked down at the Cayuse brave who had spoken, chose his words of translation carefully, so as not to give offense. “Your heart is good. But your words, for lack of knowledge, are false. I do not speak of a ‘White man’s god.’ I speak of a God who is Father to all men—white or red. A powerful God, strong and mighty in battle. But His ways are ways of peace. As are the ways of His children when He lives in their hearts.”

  The brave jabbed a hand toward him, his pointing finger accusing, his black eyes glittering. “If your words true, why you have knife and tomahawk? Knife and tomahawk no for peace. Knife kill. Tomahawk kill. My ears hear you no have knife and tomahawk. You put him far away.”

  So he would be defenseless? The thought drew him up taut. He glanced toward White Cloud. The old chief sat huddled in his blanket, his gaze fixed straight ahead on the brave who had spoken. Something about the elderly Indian sent a prickle crawling over his flesh, raised the hair at the nape of his neck. Lord, give me wisdom…

  He shifted his gaze back to the belligerent brave and shook his head. “It is not the knife or tomahawk that kills. It is what is in the heart of the man who wields the knife or tomahawk that kills.” He slowly moved his hand to his belt, drew his knife and laid the blade flat against his other palm, held it out in front of him for all gathered to see. “My knife can slice rope or leather. It can butcher an animal and cut a fish—or I can use it to defend myself and my family. These are things of peace.”

  “You fight, you kill. No peace. Your god angry. You bury knife and tomahawk.”

  Another request for him to remove his weapons. His sense of danger strengthened. He shook his head. “No. My weapons stay at my side.” He sheathed his knife, swept his gaze over all the braves. “The Almighty God of whom I speak has eyes that see into a man’s heart.” The Indians stared up at him, uttered sounds of amazement. His heart thudded. They were listening. He pressed his point. “If I am attacked, it is not in my heart to kill. To kill is in the heart of the one who attacks me. The Almighty God, my Father, sees this and He makes me strong to protect myself and my family. His ways are of peace, but if His children’s hearts are good, and they are attacked by men with bad hearts, He makes them powerful warriors.”

  “I would hear of such a warrior.”

  Grunts of agreement came from every direction.

  He glanced at Chief White Cloud, noted the warning in his eyes and nodded. “Many years ago, in a land far across the big water, there was a brave called David, who was small, not yet grown into a man.” He held his hand level with his shoulder, received nods of understanding. “A tribe of giants—braves of great size—” he stretched his arm above his head and went on ti
ptoe to reach as high as possible “—came to make war on David’s people.”

  There were scowls, mutters. These braves understood war.

  “One warrior of the giant tribe called Goliath, bigger than all the rest, challenged any of the warriors of David’s tribe to meet him in a battle. If the giant lost, his tribe would leave David’s tribe in peace.”

  Feathers bobbed as the assembled braves nodded. They swelled their chests, clenched their hands on their knees to show they would accept such a challenge.

  “The warriors of David’s tribe were afraid. They turned their backs to the challenge.”

  Whoops of derision and scorn burst from the braves.

  He held up his hand, spoke into the resulting quiet. “But David knew the Almighty God, His Father, lived in his heart and would make him strong and brave! He had no spear, no shield. He picked up a stone, put it in a sling—” He mimed the action so they would understand a sling.

  The braves tensed, waited, their black eyes glistening with excitement.

  He looked at the warrior who had challenged him to put down his weapons. “The giant cursed David from his bad heart, raised his shield and spear to kill him. But David called on Almighty God and threw his stone.” He hit his forehead with his fisted hand. “Almighty God made David so strong the stone sunk in Goliath’s head. The giant fell dead. David’s tribe was safe.”

  “Whaah!” The sound of amazement echoed around the semicircle. Excited chatter broke out among the braves. The one who had challenged him scowled, rose and stalked from the Indian room, two others with him. The smell of beef roasting over an open fire flowed in the opened door. The rest of the braves rose and filed outside, eager to get their free meal.

  The tension drained from him. He had averted the danger this time, but when would the threat of attack rear again? He had to get Anne to the emigrant village, for all their sakes.