Frontier Father

by Dorothy Clark

  She watched his eyes, knew he saw the wisdom in what she said, though the crease between his brows shouted he didn’t like it. She pressed her case. “Also, if we are attacked, you must be ready to protect us. You cannot fight with Hope in your arms.”

  Anger darkened his eyes, the muscle along his jaw twitched, and her heart ached for him. Mitchel had no choice. Neither did she.

  “You’d better have this.” She reached in her pocket, drew out the gun and placed it in his left hand, unfastened her cloak and took Hope into her arms. She wrapped her cloak around the toddler, gripped the top edge in her hand so it could not blow open and smiled. “There, we’re all snug and warm and ready to go for a walk. And this time your papa is coming with us.”

  Thank goodness for her hood! Anne blinked her eyes, stared at the large, fluffy snowflakes piled on Mitchel’s head and shoulders and on the pillowcase he had slung on his back. The snowfall was so thick she had trouble seeing him.

  “Me tired. Me go home, go bed?”

  Anne glanced down at Hope, shook her head. “No, Hope. Papa’s taking us for a walk, remember?”

  The toddler’s lower lip pouted out. “Me tired.”

  Her face tightened. Hope didn’t deserve any of this! None of them did. “I know, Hope. Put your head on my shoulder and close your eyes.” She tilted her head, pressed her cheek against Hope’s head to shield her from the snow and hummed her way across the field.

  The gristmill loomed, a heap of snow atop half walls, crazily tilted timbers and collapsed roof, the undersides scorched and blackened. There’s no place to run. We’ll fort up in the gristmill. An image of Halstrum and his son flashed before her. Tortured screams echoed in her head. Tears welled into her eyes, trailed a hot path down her cold cheeks. No one should die that way.

  She jerked her gaze from the coals still burning hot where the snow didn’t reach, looked down lest a worse horror appear, and followed the impressions of Mitchel’s footprints in the snow. They dissolved into a blur of snow, dirt and dead leaves.

  “Anne.”

  She stopped, lifted her head. The snowfall had lightened, the flakes hampered in their descent by the intermingled branches of surrounding trees. River water gurgled and rushed somewhere close by. Mitchel was a dark form holding a less dark object over his shoulder.

  She blinked to clear her vision, but nothing changed. White eyes. A smile touched her lips at thought of the young Cayuse boy who had saved them. “Yes?”

  “We are hidden now and it’s highly unlikely any Cayuse are out in this storm. They don’t like inclement weather, and I’ve not seen a storm this bad since I came west to found the mission. Still, they’ll be out searching for us tomorrow and we’ve a long way to go until dawn. I’ll carry Hope.”

  His deep voice, warm with concern flowed over her, brought foolish tears swimming into her eyes. It was the exhaustion. She’d had no sleep last night and little the two nights before. But she didn’t have a wounded arm and whatever made him wince when he moved his head quickly. She shook her head. “She’s sleeping, Mitchel. And she is warm and snug with my cloak covering her. I’ll carry her until I tire.”

  Mitchel looked up at the lightening sky. Dawn was breaking. It was time to stop. He eyed the stand of pine at the top of the wash and altered course to approach it from the side. It would mean a little steeper climb, which he was reluctant to put Anne through in her exhausted state, but it was the safest way.

  He chose the easiest path, reached the pines, led the way to a campsite beside the babbling rill that drained the hill into the river, then went back and looked down the wash. The snow had already obliterated all trace of their passage. He made his way through the trees until he could see up the fold of the hill, found nothing alarming and went back to camp.

  His head was throbbing and his bruised body was screaming for rest, but his heart lifted at the sight of his daughter sitting on a blanket pad, draped with another blanket and eating a biscuit.

  “I’m gonna have a ’prise, Papa.”

  “You are?” He glanced at Anne.

  “I brought dried apples. I give her a slice when she finishes her biscuit.”

  She was kneeling on the snow-covered ground, a small mound of pine needles in front of her and the flint and steel he had given her to pack away in her hands. She looked exhausted and perturbed. “I can’t seem to make this work.”

  Her voice quavered ever so slightly. He hadn’t the heart to tell her you couldn’t start a fire with damp pine needles.

  “Perhaps I can help.” He glanced around, spotted a rotting stump, brushed aside the snow at its base and grabbed a handful of the dried, crumbled wood from the underside, broke off a few slivers of the dried wood. “This should work.”

  He squatted beside her, made a “nest” of the tinder in the top of her pile of pine needles and took the flint and steel into his hands. Four quick strikes and the tinder started to smolder. He leaned down, blew gently. The tinder flamed. He fed the fledgling fire the slivers of wood, rose and gathered pieces of dead branch, added enough to make a small fire.

  The burning pine crackled and snapped, made the small, hidden area among the tall trees seem more comforting, the snow sifting through the branches overhead more bearable.

  “Me all done, want ’prise now.”

  He accepted the dried apple ring Anne pulled from a small bag and handed it to Hope, spotted the tin cup on the ground beside his daughter and helped her drink the water.

  “If Indians come near, will they see the smoke from the fire?”

  He glanced at Anne, handed her the cup when she held out her hand. “There is very little smoke when you burn dried wood. And what smoke there is will be lost among the branches of the trees.”

  She nodded, stepped to the rill, filled the cup, brought it back and placed it close to the fire. She picked up a stick, pulled some warm ashes from the fire and set a small crock on them. Her hands were shaking.

  Fear or weariness? Likely both. He clenched his hands to keep from reaching for her. “Why don’t you rest while you’re able, Anne?”

  “In a bit.” She glanced at Hope, leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “She was crying with pain before I distracted her with the biscuit and the apple. I want to treat her joints while there is some heat from the fire to warm the ointment.”

  “Anne and Papa play whisser game?” Hope’s eyes widened. She looked around. “This be secwet place?”

  He glanced at Anne, clenched his hands and jaw. What had she suffered alone with his daughter in that cave while the Cayuse raided and burned the mission? He sucked in air to calm the anger, went on his knees in front of Hope and took her tiny hands in his. “We may have to play the whisper game often, Hope. And, sometimes, we may not be able to tell you it’s time to play the game. So if Anne or I do this—” he placed his finger across his lips “—it means you are not to talk. Do you understand?”

  She frowned, shook her head. “Ind’an do this!” She pressed her hand over her mouth, then pointed a tiny finger at him.

  His heart stopped, lurched into a staggered beat. He turned to Anne. “What Indian? What is she talking about? What happened?”

  She met his gaze, looked away. “It was Barking Fox—when the Cayuse were…searching the woods.” She took a breath, rubbed her hands over the cloak covering her knees. “I heard them talking and walking around overhead. I picked up Hope and ran into the dark at the back of the cave. But a few minutes later an Indian came in carrying a torch and his tomahawk.”

  His stomach twisted, his pulse raced. He took a breath, reminded himself they were all right, strained to hear her over the roaring in his head.

  “He came toward us and the light of his torch blinded me.” She looked over at him, her eyes wide and puzzled. “And then he lowered the torch and I saw the puckered scar on his cheek. I knew, then, it was Running Wolf’s father. He did as Hope said, he placed his hand over his mouth and pointed at us. When I repeated the motion and nodded, he left
and the searchers went away.” Her voice broke. Her hands trembled. “Barking Fox saved us.”

  “Anne—”

  She shook her head, reached into the pillowcase and handed him a bag. “I will put the ointment on Hope while you eat. And then I will tend to your wound.”

  He opened the bag, smelled the biscuits she’d baked the night he’d told her they should be prepared to leave. His throat closed. He’d come so close to losing them both. God in Heaven, help us. Give me strength to protect them and wisdom to get us safely to the emigrant town, I pray.

  Strength. He needed strength to protect and care for Hope and Anne on the long journey ahead. He took a biscuit from the bag and took a bite.

  Mitchel chewed on a piece of dried apple and watched the deft movement of Anne’s fine-boned hands as she made her preparations. Two ribbons were snipped from the ruffle of her petticoat, quickly joined by a cut-off length of the cotton cloth. He frowned, vowed to replace her ruined garment, then realized that would be inappropriate. But a bolt of material would be acceptable.

  “You made the pants and cloak for Hope from the blanket I gave you to bring along?”

  She nodded, cut a square off one end of the length of material and set the rest aside. “I thought it would be as warm and much easier to carry her.”

  He nodded, watched her drop the square of cloth into the cup of water warming by the fire.

  “I’m ready. Take your arm out of your jacket please.”

  He slipped his jacket off his left shoulder, grabbed hold of the end of the sleeve and pulled it off his arm. She gasped, paled. He looked at his shirtsleeve, from the slit down it was stiff with dried blood, and some fresh. He frowned. “The wound is not that bad. It bleeds when I use it.”

  She nodded, picked up her scissors. “I shall have to cut off your shirtsleeve.” She held the sleeve away from his arm, slid the scissors into the knife slit and began cutting.

  “Where did you get the India rubber for the cloak?”

  “William had the mattresses in the wagon encased in India-rubber sacks to protect them at river fordings and such. I cut the top from one sack.” She dropped the bloodied sleeve on the ground, squeezed the excess water from the rag in the cup and began washing his arm.

  “Clever of you to think of using it for Hope’s cloak.” He looked at his sleeping daughter, thought of how the clothes Anne had made her kept her snug and warm and protected from the weather from the top of her head to the bottom of her little feet. It kept him from thinking about the softness of Anne’s hand on his arm.

  “Not really. It was raining that day. That’s what made me think she would need protection as well as warmth.” She dipped the cloth again, gently cleaned the wound. “How did this happen, Mitchel?”

  “Red Squirrel lied about Chief White Cloud. It was a trap. I was ambushed on the trail.”

  Her hands stilled, then continued to cleanse the wound. “Was it Eagle Claw?”

  “Yes.”

  She dropped the bloody rag on top of the shirtsleeve and picked up the length of cotton. “I have no unguent to put on the wound. I hope cleaning it well will be enough to help it heal.” She placed the cotton cloth over the wound, held one end and wrapped the rest of the length twice around his arm. “Hold that please.”

  He felt the light touch of her fingers on the swelling on the back of his head. “How did this happen?” She tied one of the ribbons around the bandage on his arm and picked up the other.

  “We fell off a cliff.”

  She stared at him a moment, then tied on the other ribbon. Her hands were shaking against his arm. “Is that when you lost your weapons?”

  “Yes.”

  “How fortunate that you gave me your partner’s pistol to carry.”

  He looked down at the Colt Paterson stuck in the belt that carried his knife and tomahawk and nodded. “It is indeed.”

  “I’m finished, you may put your jacket on.”

  “Thank you, Anne. My arm feels much better.”

  She nodded, picked up the cup. “This must be cleaned.” She turned toward the rill.

  He stepped to her side, took the cup from her hand. “No more, Anne. I’ll clean the cup. And it’s time to put out the fire. You lie down on the pallet and share Hope’s blanket. You need to rest while there’s time.”

  That stubborn little chin of hers jutted into the air.

  “And what of you, Mitchel? When will you rest?”

  “I’ll keep watch while you sleep this morning. I’ll sleep this afternoon.”

  She stared up at him a moment, then nodded. “Very well.” She stepped over to the pallet, slid beneath the blanket and curled up beside Hope.

  He picked up a branch, spread the burning wood apart and started for the rill to clean the cup.

  “Mitchel.”

  Her voice was heavy with approaching sleep.

  He turned and looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, her long lashes dark smudges against her pale skin. “Yes, Anne.”

  “I forgot…to tell you. Pistol has…empty chamber.” Her eyelashes fluttered, lifted, closed again. “I shot… Halstrum.” She gave a long sigh and fell asleep.

  Mitchel stared at her, lying beside his daughter beneath the snow-covered blanket, the hood of her cloak pulled forward to cover all but the profile of her face against the pallet. She was so lovely, so delicate. And so incredibly frustrating. How could she say such a thing and then fall asleep and leave him standing here with every muscle tensed and twitching, every nerve jangling?

  I shot Halstrum.

  Had she been dreaming?

  He pulled the pistol from his belt, squatted beside the dying fire and checked the chambers. One was, indeed, empty. Shock caromed through him, jolting from nerve to nerve. Anger ricocheted in its wake. He clenched his jaw, looked up through the falling snow and the tree branches to the awakening sky.

  No more, God, no more. She has suffered enough. Keep Anne from all danger I pray. If there is more trouble to come, let it come to me.

  He reached into the pillowcase, grabbed the bags of cap and ball, reloaded the pistol then rose, placed the pistol back in his belt and leaned against a tree keeping watch over his child and the woman he was trying his best not to love.

  Chapter Twenty

  “We’re ready.”

  Mitchel looked at Anne, at his daughter held close in her arms, Anne’s cloak wrapped snugly around her. A perfect picture of mother and child. If only it could be so.

  He closed his heart to the wish. Every day his attraction to Anne grew stronger. She was wonderful in her care of Hope and him, but there was a reserve about her, a holding back of her heart he couldn’t overlook. He could not wed a woman who did not give her heart wholly to him and his daughter, no matter how much he loved her.

  He clenched his jaw, picked up the pillowcase and gave one last look around the campsite. His effort to hide any evidence of their stay here would not bear close scrutiny by a Cayuse warrior, but a passing glance would not betray them. He fixed his thoughts on the need to move on and led the way through the trees. The clear sky and the dry feel of the air signaled trouble. Temperatures could plummet quickly in the mountains. He would prefer to stay in camp and keep Hope and Anne close to a fire, but two days spent in the same spot was dangerous if the Cayuse had picked up their trail.

  “There is a valley at the top of this hill, Anne. When we reach it, we will go straight across, then follow the fold of the hill that angles down to the right. At that point, we will be halfway to the emigrant town.”

  “Halfway to ‘Promise.’ That’s what they named it.”

  He nodded, skirted around an outcropping of stone. “A good name choice for the first town those making the long, hard, wagon journey to Oregon country will encounter.”

  “Yes. That was their feeling when they chose the name. It was how they felt when they arrived.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “But not you?”

  “I was not looking for a promise.
And I had my destination.”

  Her quiet words brought a rush of guilt. She had suffered so much since coming to the mission.

  He stopped, grasped her elbow beneath her cloak and steadied her while she carried Hope over a tree fallen across their path. “Keeping to these tree-lined washes helps hide our trail, but it makes the walking more difficult.”

  She looked up at him and nodded. “I understand your purpose, Mitchel.”

  He looked into her eyes, dark in the moonlight, their beautiful dark blue color hidden but to his memory. “Do you ever complain, Anne?”

  “Bitterly, when it’s deserved. But not to someone who is trying to save our lives.” She curved her lips in a soft smile.

  His heart kicked like a mule. The bone-chilling cold fell away. The ache in his arm, the dull throb in his head ceased to exist. He held Anne’s gaze, tightened his grip on her elbow, leaned down.

  Don’t do it! Turn away, get moving again. The thought came, lost itself in the beauty that was Anne Simms.

  Her breath came in a soft gasp, clouded the air between them. She looked down, shivered beneath his hand.

  He snapped back to his senses, lifted his hand and tugged Hope’s hood a little farther forward, dropped a light, highly unsatisfying, kiss on his daughter’s cold cheek, turned and continued up the wash.

  “Me c-cold.”

  “I know, sweetie.” Anne hitched Hope higher in her arms, took more of the toddler’s weight on her shoulder. “Put your face against my neck. It will help keep you warm.”

  Her hood fell away as Hope lowered her head and burrowed her little face into the curve of her neck. Chills chased down her spine as the cold air bit at her ears and neck. A shiver joined the tremble that began with Mitchel’s touch.