Frontier Father

by Dorothy Clark

  She eyed the desk and chair sitting beside the small, multipaned window on the side wall and her pulse quickened. She hurried into the bedroom, smiled at Hope who was lying on the bed holding a piece of red ribbon, her eyes heavy with sleep. “The emigrants have built you a lovely, spacious cabin, Emma. But where did you get such fine furniture? Have you been to Oregon city? Has one of Uncle Justin’s boats arrived?”

  Emma shook her head, continued searching in the trunk, then stopped, sat back on her heels and looked up at her. “I forgot you don’t know, Anne.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  Emma gave a soft laugh. “The emigrants didn’t build me this cabin, Zach did. And Zach bought the furniture from a widow who was returning to New York. We’re married. I’m Mrs. Zachary Thatcher.”

  “Married!” Her mouth gaped. “You’re married to your nemesis Zachary Thatcher!”

  Emma laughed. “I am. And I’ve never been happier. Oh, Annie, he’s such a wonderful man! So thoughtful and caring and loving. And—” her laughter stopped, her hands crossed over her abdomen “—I’m going to have a baby, Annie.”

  Her sister’s words were soft, hesitant. She was afraid to tell her. “Oh, Emma…” Anne went to her knees, hugged her older sister with all her strength. “I’m happy for you, Emma. Truly happy for you.” Memories washed over her. She pushed them away. She had made her family suffer much too long because of her fear of being hurt again.

  She rocked back on her heels, wiped tears from her eyes. “I suppose Mr. Thatcher wants a son.” Phillip did. He’d been disappointed when Grace was born. Pain squeezed her heart.

  “Actually, Zach insists he wants a little girl. A blond one, as stubborn as me.” Emma laughed, patted her abdomen. “He calls the baby his ‘little filly.’ I am the one that wants a son. One who is strong and adventurous and handsome, like Zach.”

  She tried to stop it, but envy crept into her heart and spirit. It wasn’t that she didn’t want Emma to have a wonderful husband and lovely children. It was that she wanted them, too. She wanted them with all of her heart. But not simply any husband and child. Her gaze lifted to the toddler asleep on the bed, and her whole body went still with the knowing. She wanted Mitchel and Hope.

  “Emma!”

  Anne jerked her head toward the door, looked a question at her sister.

  “It’s Lydia Hargrove.” Emma scrambled to her feet, headed for the open door. “Come along, Anne, we’ll look for dresses to alter when she’s gone.”

  She shook her head, grasped the front of the nightgown between her thumbs and index fingers and held it out from her body.

  “Oh, poof!” Emma gave a dismissive wave. “Lydia’s seen women in nightgowns before.”

  “Well…” Anne followed Emma, glanced at Hope sound asleep on the bed, closed the door and turned.

  “Oh!” She stared at the women stomping snow from their shoes, others who were crowding through the open door and froze in her tracks. Heat climbed into her cheeks.

  Lydia Hargrove took off her cloak, tossed it on the wood bench by the door and looked her way. She fisted her hands on her plump hips and nodded. “Glad to see you’re some rested, Anne. But you look a mite peaked. Better than what I expected though after what you’ve been through.” She shook her gray head, advanced into the room. “It was hard enough trekking through them mountains in a wagon, let alone walking and carrying a little one, and with no comforts to speak of.”

  There was a chorus of amens.

  “Anyway, the men told us about what happened at the mission. How you lost everything you had and all. And we figured you had some needs. Thought maybe we could help ’til you can make plans and get started again. Here’s a length of wool I was saving to make me a skirt. Should be enough for a dress for you.”

  There was a chorus of laughter. Lydia joined in, then sobered, placed the material on the settee and stepped aside. “The others can speak for themselves.”

  Anne looked down at the green wool fabric, swung her gaze to the others—they were all holding something. And she knew the cost was dear to most of them. Tears stung her eyes. She swallowed hard, forced words past the lump in her throat. “I—I don’t know what to say, ladies. I treated you all so—so shabbily on our journey here. I refused your company when you offered—” she swallowed back a rush of tears “—to befriend me. I’m undeserving of your kindness and generosity.”

  “Oh, pshaw! We’ve all had our bad times. This here’s a tablecloth, come from the old country. Figured you could make yourself a pretty shirtwaist from it.” Olga Lundquist stepped forward, placed a beautiful lace-trimmed tablecloth on top of the green wool.

  “I heard ’bout the little toddler you brought safe from them heathens’ grasp, an’ I brung one of my Jenny’s dresses for her.” Lorna Lewis stepped forward, placed a small blue dress on the pile, then gave her a fierce look. “An’ don’t you be sayin’ nothin’ ’bout not deservin’ it. If it weren’t for Dr. Emma I wouldn’t have my Jenny!”

  Anne nodded, became more and more choked up as one by one the women stepped forward and added their sacrifices to the growing pile. Every object given was a loved treasure or a protected necessity the women had brought with them on the long, arduous wagon journey from their homes back east to Oregon country.

  Her heart filled, overflowed with gratitude and affection for the women’s generosity in so readily forgiving her for holding them at a distance during the journey. How wrong she had been to turn her back on the love and understanding they had so freely offered then, were freely offering now. This time she would not withdraw to protect her heart. This time she would accept their friendship and give hers in return. Bless them for their generous hearts, Lord, I pray. And show me how I may become a blessing to them.

  She blinked the moisture from her eyes and moved forward to thank them.

  “I’ve only been to the mission once, Mitchel—when I brought Anne. I’m not familiar with the wide range of the country, but I’m sensing we’re getting close to Indian territory. Do you know where the Cayuse are located?”

  Mitchel looked over at the man sitting astride the roan stallion as if he’d grown there. There was little resemblance to the affable rancher of Promise. Zachary Thatcher’s features had sharpened, his bright blue eyes glinted with a hardness that provoked pity for the man’s enemies. “We’re getting close to their territory. There’s a large village a mile or so to the north of that next hill.”

  Zach nodded, held up his hand. The men following reined in, walked their mounts close, waited. “Mitchel says we’re getting close to Cayuse territory. I don’t expect there to be any braves standing lookout, and I know it’s dusk, but Indians can see a tic on a dog’s back at a hundred yards in the dark, so we’ll take to the woods here and rest our mounts. Charley, you scout ahead, find us a way to pass them in the night.”

  A small, wiry, dark-haired young man dressed in buckskins nodded, walked his mount forward, then touched his heels to his horse’s sides and disappeared against the backdrop of the trees.

  The rest of the men dismounted and led their horses, single file, into the woods.

  Mitchel slid from the saddle, gripped the reins and glanced up at the sky, willing night to fall. He wanted to get this trip to the mission over with and return to Hope…and Anne. He shook his head and moved forward into the murky light of the woods. Hearts were foolish things. At least his was. It didn’t know enough not to go where it wasn’t wanted.

  “I heard Zach tellin’ Axel it won’t take ’em more than two days ridin’ to get to the mission.”

  To get to the mission? Fear pounced. Anne shifted her gaze from Olga Lundquist to Emma, the buzz of conversation overcome by the roaring of her pulse in her ears. She wet her dry lips, forced out the question. “Mitchel and Zach have gone to the mission?”

  “Not alone, Anne. Several of the men went with them. They don’t know what they will encounter, or how much they will find at the mission that is salvageable.” Emma wrinkled
her brow in thought. “I saw Charley Karr and Luke Murray…and Seth Applegate in the yard.”

  “An’ Axel and Garth an’ Ernst joined ’em when they come by. Garth and Ernst figured they might could help herd back any stock still alive. An’ Axel knows how to rig up a wagon fit to carry things out of next to nothing!” There was pride in Olga Lundquist’s voice. She took a sip of cider, looked across the table at Lydia Hargrove. “What about Matthew?”

  Lydia nodded. “My Matthew went along. But that’s the men’s affair. We ladies have got other important business to talk about.”

  There was a murmur of agreement. Every eye fastened on her. Anne straightened, looked at Emma, who shrugged and shook her head.

  “Well get to it, Lydia.” Hannah Fletcher frowned at the older woman. “We all got chores waitin’. An’ don’t none of us want to leave here without knowin’.”

  “That’s right.” A murmur of agreement swept around the table.

  Lydia tapped her cup against the table. “If you’ll all hush, I’ll speak my piece.”

  Anne clenched her hands in her lap, fought the urge to squirm when all the women quieted and looked her way. What did they want of her?

  Lydia Hargrove cleared her throat. “Well, it’s this way, Anne. When our wagon train was forming, way back in Independence, we women had us a meeting and we made our husbands promise that, as soon as ever possible, after they settled in the place where they’d found our town of Promise, they’d build us a church and a school.”

  Affirmation sprang from the women’s lips.

  Anne glanced at Emma. There was a tiny smile playing at the corners of her sister’s mouth. A tingle of excitement spread through her. Could it be?

  Lydia tapped her cup for quiet. “A town isn’t rightfully a town without a church and a school. And while we’re right sorry for the trouble at the mission, when Zach told Mr. Hargrove what happened, he called a town meeting and we all agreed it could be turned into a blessing for everyone. Our cabins are all built and our husbands declared it was time they kept their promise to us.”

  She was certain now. And so was Emma. Her sister was beaming. Her heart began to pound.

  “So Mr. Hargrove and the men met with Mr. Banning, told him they were gonna build us a church and offered to give him land and build him a cabin if he’d be our pastor.”

  The pounding in her heart stopped, her breath stuck to her lungs, refused to release.

  “He said yes, so the men went with him to see what he could find to bring back for his new home.”

  Mitchel was staying. Her heart and lungs worked again.

  “And we women had us another meeting.” Lydia fixed her gaze on her. “We all know you left Promise and went on to the Banning Mission to teach school to the Indian children. So we came to ask would you teach our children? We can’t pay you anything yet. But our menfolk will build a cabin for you. And we’ll see you don’t want for food or firewood. Of course if you want to go back east after all you been through, we’ll understand.”

  She looked around the table at their anxious expressions. Thank You, God, for showing me the way to be a blessing to them.

  “Say ‘yes,’ Annie.”

  She looked at Emma and grinned. “Yes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mitchel slapped the snow from his hat brim, crouched beneath the beam supporting a scorched section of fallen roof and heaved. The beam slid to the left, caught on a protruding stone on the shoulder of the fireplace. He ground his feet into the ashes and cinders on the puncheon floor, placed his hand against the edge of the beam and shoved. It slid off the stone, crashed to the ground where the kitchen door once stood.

  He leaned down, scrubbed the black char from his hands in the snow, then straightened and looked at the fireplace he’d exposed. An iron stew pot hung from a hook on the crane. Spiders of different sizes sat on the hearth beside the iron teapot on its trivet. Large iron spoons, a two-tined fork and half-melted pewter porringers hung from iron nails in the mantel. The poker and fire tongs leaned against the stone. An oil lamp sat on the mantel.

  It wasn’t much, but at least he would be able to cook—once he learned how. An image of Anne, making biscuits in the darkened kitchen with fear in her beautiful eyes, her small chin raised in defiant purpose, flashed into his head.

  He gritted his teeth, set the oil lamp at the edge of the floor. Anne was out of his life now. She was back with her sister. There was no mission, no school and no reason for her to be with him. Anne had made it clear she still loved her husband and wanted no part of any other man. Or child, though her care for Hope during the Cayuse raid and their long journey had given him hope. No, that was of necessity. It did not mean she was beginning to care for his daughter. She thought as highly of the Cayuse children. She had shot a man to protect them.

  He pulled his thoughts back to the present, gathered the utensils and iron pots into a pile by the oil lamp, pushed aside part of a collapsed wall and what remained of the worktable and peered into the buttery. The walls were intact, the ceiling collapsed around the well. His stomach twisted at the thought of what would have happened to them had they taken refuge there.

  He picked up a bucket, undamaged except for a little char around the edge, and turned to survey what remained of the rest of the kitchen. The dining room wall with all the shelves had burned and fallen in.

  There was nothing more in the kitchen, or dining room. And little hope of anything at all from the parlor or bedrooms.

  He hopped down off the floor, walked through the snow to where the schoolroom had been and shoved aside the burned bottom section of the stairs. The support posts of the landing creaked, settled a little farther toward the schoolroom, stopped. He went to his knees, peered into the dark area. What looked like a burned trunk sat there, debris atop it. He frowned, looked up at the gaping hole where the ceiling had been. The trunk must have fallen from Anne’s room.

  He tossed aside the pieces of blackened wood on the floor to clear a path, grasped the scorched end and pulled. The handle and attached wood came off in his hand. He scooted farther forward, gripped both sides of the trunk and hauled it out into the open.

  The trunk was scorched beyond use. He lifted the lid, stared down at the neatly folded bed linens, blankets and towels. His chest tightened. At least being at the mission hadn’t cost Anne everything. He could return these to her. And perhaps more.

  He pushed the trunk aside, ducked his head and scanned the dark area again. His desk, the legs burned off, lay on its end, the drawer partially open, the spilled contents a pile of ashes. The oil lamp, the base intact, the globe shattered, sat on the floor beside it. And in the corner, its cover stained with ink from the broken inkwell that rested atop it, was his Bible.

  He drew it out, brushed a film of ashes from it. Hoofbeats jerked him to attention. He dropped his Bible onto the linens in the trunk and gripped his pistol.

  “Hello, Mitchel! Look what we found in the woods!”

  He rose, peered through the snow as Garth and Ernst Lundquist rode out of the wooded path. Three cows, one of them limping, and a calf trotted in front of them. The calf that had almost died at birth. For some reason he didn’t understand, the sight of that calf gladdened his heart. He hopped down from the floor onto the snow-covered ground and walked toward them.

  Axel Lundquist and Matthew Hargrove came out of what was left of the stables and joined him. “Found some harness and a saddle that can be saved with a good oiling. But that’s the whole of it.”

  His lips quirked. He would be able to ride—as soon as he could buy a horse.

  Axel squinted up at his sons. “What’s wrong with that cow?”

  Garth frowned. “She’s got a nasty gash on her hip. ’Pears like she might have caught a glancing blow from a tomahawk.”

  “Well, she’ll likely live if she’s made it this long.”

  Zach strode up to him. “Nothing in the gristmill or Halstrum’s cabin, Mitchel. The Indians seemed to take par
ticular care to ruin everything there.”

  Mitchel nodded, clenched his hands. “That’s probably where he hid the furs the trappers stole from the Cayuse.” He looked at the men coming from the direction of the smithy. “Seth, Luke, did you find anything?”

  “Nothing but the anvil. They either took the tools or threw them in the river. We looked around the ground some. Couldn’t find anything.”

  “You find anything, Mitchel?”

  He looked at Zach, nodded, brushed the ashes off his hands. “Some iron cookware and some dishes. My Bible, blankets and bed linens. And an oil lamp. Odd how something that delicate could survive the fire.”

  Zach nodded, turned his back to the rising wind. “That’s it then. No use wasting more time.” He peered up at the snow falling thicker and faster out of a gray sky. “Looks like God’s granting us favor. We can’t sneak through the Cayuse territory herding cows and carrying clanking pots. But Indians don’t like the cold. The Cayuse will stay close to their villages. And not even an Indian can see through a snowfall thick as this.”

  Zach motioned the man standing watch over their horses to bring them over. “Charley, you ride out and scout the trail, but don’t get too far ahead. This storm shows signs of getting serious, and I don’t want anyone getting lost. Garth and Ernst, you follow Charley with the cows.”

  Zach shifted his gaze to him. “Mitchel, divide up the stuff you found and we’ll carry it among us. Cold as it is, those blankets might prove a real blessing. The rest of you, mount up, take what Mitchel gives you and head out. And all of you, stay close together.”

  Mitchel gave each man a blanket or sheet to drape over their shoulders and warm their backs, then parceled out the iron pots he had collected. He tore the wet tablecloth in half, used one piece to pad the dishes in the bucket then hooked the bail over his saddle horn. He wrapped the oil lamp in the other piece of tablecloth and put it in the iron stew pot, tucked his Bible inside his shirtfront. One quick swing of his leg and he was in the saddle. He balanced the stew pot in front of him, reined his horse around and followed after the others.