Wilderness Days

by Jennifer L. Holm

  Mrs. Frink smiled brightly. “So tell me, Miss Peck. What have you been doing with yourself these last few months? One has so much free time without social obligations, don’t you agree? That was one thing I did not miss on the trail, I confess,” and here she gave a little laugh.

  I wanted to say that I’d been spending all my free time surviving, not to mention washing every shirt in the territory several times. Instead, I said, “I rather miss calling on acquaintances.”

  Mrs. Frink worried her lip and swallowed. “Mr. Swan says that you’re quite a talented watercolorist.”

  “I’m afraid that Mr. Swan was no doubt drunk when he said so.”

  “Yes, well, I’d love to see your work sometime.” She tittered nervously. “So I may judge for myself.” Mrs. Frink’s gaze settled on my hair. “And you must come over another time and let me do something with your hair. I have a simply wonderful collection of combs, and I’m certain we could make a very fashionable arrangement,” she said eagerly.

  My hand flew to my head automatically. I was wearing a bonnet to hide the bald patch, but I knew those unruly stray curls that Sally Biddle used to tease me about were escaping everywhere. “No, thank you,” I said coldly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Mrs. Frink’s face fall.

  She pushed a plate of shortbread over to me. “Please have some shortbread, although it’s not nearly as delightful as your pie. You must please give me the receipt for that pie,” Mrs. Frink said in a strained voice.

  She wanted the receipt so that she could make it for the men!

  I stood up, knocking my chair back. “That receipt is a family secret.”

  Mrs. Frink wrung her hands. “Miss Peck, please forgive me. This is not what I had intended. This is going very badly indeed. Please, let us be friends. I know how hard it has been with you, and your unfortunate history with Mr. Baldt, and—”

  I didn’t want this woman’s pity! “I do not appreciate your gossiping about me behind my back,” I said tightly. “Please excuse me. I find that I have lost my appetite.”

  And with that, I walked quickly from the cabin.

  Later that afternoon as I was cutting out biscuits for supper, the door banged open.

  “I don’t know where Mrs. Frink is,” I said irritably, not looking up.

  “Wasn’t looking for Mrs. Frink,” Jehu said dryly. “I was looking for you.”

  “I’m making supper,” I said in a dogged voice.

  And then without any explanation, he grabbed my hand and tugged me out the door.

  “Jehu,” I protested.

  He just shook his head, and held my hand more tightly with his warm one. He led me along the curving beach in the opposite direction from where the Frinks were constructing their hotel, and the farther we walked away from the encampment and Mrs. Frink’s influence, the calmer I felt. The wind whipping off the water cooled my temper.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “You’ll see,” he said mysteriously.

  We rounded a bend along the bay, and there it was: a rich, green vista, mountains rising high above, sheltering the land like a cove. He led me up a rocky cliff to stand on the edge.

  “What do you think?” he asked. He swept his hand in front of him, at the warm afternoon light dancing across the bay. Water stretched out in all directions, and the sound of soft waves lapping against the shore was comforting, like Brandywine’s snore. A sparkling stream ran down one side of the cliff.

  It was perfect, perhaps the most perfect spot on the bay.

  “It’s lovely.”

  He grinned, the scar in his cheek crinkling. “I thought so,” he said in a very self-satisfied voice.

  I peered over the edge of the cliff. “It is a bit high.”

  He raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “You’re afraid of heights?”

  I nodded. “Although, when I was a little girl, my playmate Jebediah Parker and I used to run along the rooftops, spitting at men passing far below.”

  “You? Spit?” he asked, a look of pure astonishment on his face.

  “I was very good at spitting. There were men who walked around Philadelphia all day long who never even knew that they had great gobs of spit on their hats.” I couldn’t help it; I giggled.

  Jehu roared in laughter, the sound goading me into remembrance.

  “We were fearless, just running along the roofs. It was a whole different world.”

  “So when did you become afraid of heights, then?” he asked, puzzled.

  “One spring day a gentleman we spat on was so furious that he chased us halfway across Philadelphia. And just when we thought we’d escaped him, he appeared on the roof, brandishing a cane at us. I was so startled that I lost my balance and slipped.”

  Jehu’s expression silently encouraged me to continue.

  “I fell, but I grabbed onto the ledge, and just hung on. The man came over and hauled me up, but only after letting me dangle there for what seemed like forever, wondering whether or not I was going to fall to my death.”

  I swallowed hard, remembering the sheer terror of hovering above the street, my fingers grappling the loose bricks. “After he finally pulled me up, he took one look at my white face and said in a satisfied voice, ‘I don’t think you’ll be spitting on hats anymore.’”

  Jehu whistled through his teeth.

  “And he was right,” I said with a weak smile.

  “Oh, Jane,” Jehu said, taking my shoulders in his hands and looking at me, his eyes so clear with … what? Worry for the little girl who had once been fearless? But it didn’t matter, because all at once I remembered the feel of his lips against mine as we danced beneath a starry sky mere months ago. He had held me then, too, his hands warm about my waist, and we were spinning, spinning, spinning—

  “I’ve put in a claim,” he said abruptly.

  “Oh,” I said.

  “I was thinking I’d build a house right here. I know you like to look at the bay.”

  I looked into the eyes of this quiet, sturdy, dependable man, and now saw his desire to please me so clearly on his tanned face.

  “It’s going to have a balcony on the water.” He leaned into me, his arms at my waist now, his body warm. “And there’ll be steps leading to the beach.” He leaned even closer, his breath tickling my ear. “And there’s a grove of trees with a slope just on the edge of the property line.”

  The wind seemed to blow gently, like a sigh, humming between us. And to think that I had once turned him away because of William Baldt, a man who wanted to marry me to get more land!

  “Jehu,” I said, tugging his head down to mine.

  “And on the other side of that,” he breathed, his cheek brushing against mine, his unshaven face tickling like so many butterfly wings, “there’s another plot of land that I’d like to put in a claim for.”

  Something cold settled in my chest.

  “Another claim,” I said in a dull voice, remembering William’s schemes.

  “Yes, you see I have plans to—”

  But I wasn’t listening anymore. I suddenly knew why he’d brought me here. He wanted to marry me to get more land, just like William Baldt.

  For land. Not for me!

  I yanked away from the circle of his arms. “You’re despicable!”

  “I want—”

  “Oh, I know exactly what you want,” I bit out furiously.

  Jehu stared at me, a bewildered expression on his face.

  “Boston Jane!”

  I turned to the voice, grateful for the distraction. Sootie was running toward us, crying.

  Jehu dropped my hand, his jaw muscles working.

  “Boston Jane,” Sootie cried anxiously, her small face streaked with tears. The little girl flung herself into my arms and began sobbing in earnest. I held her tight, refusing to meet Jehu’s eyes. After a moment, I set her away gently.

  “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

  She thrust a small bundle into my hands. It was her clam doll, or what was lef
t of it anyway.

  “Brandywine ate dolly!” Sootie cried, and burst into tears again.

  “Oh dear,” I said.

  “Jane,” Jehu said in a low voice.

  I ignored him and gave Sootie a hug, glaring over her shoulder at him.

  He flung up his hands and stalked away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  or,

  An Unexpected Guest

  I woke to cool, crisp weather and the sound of horses neighing like fretful children.

  November had slipped away, and December had arrived like an unexpected guest, cold and blustery and demanding attention. Outside the cabin I heard the sound of horses and wondered who it might be. Horses were in short supply on the bay. I quickly pulled my dress on over my head, not bothering to brush my tangled locks. By now my bald patch was covered with a thin, stubby layer of hair. I grabbed up my cape and went out to the porch.

  He looked much the same as when I’d first met him. Bright blond hair and chiseled chin. Pale gray eyes. An impossibly straight nose.

  “William,” I said stiffly to my former betrothed.

  “Jane,” he replied uncomfortably.

  He had been my father’s apprentice back in Philadelphia, and he had lodged with us in our house on Walnut Street. The images flashed through my mind. Papa and William and I laughing at the supper table. The three of us sitting in the parlor in front of the cheery fire. Papa and William debating medical treatments. He was the only one in the entire territory who would ever remember Papa the way I did—strong, robust, laughing—and alive. I felt a rush of grief so strong that the only thing I could do was stand there and look at him.

  “Papa’s dead,” I finally blurted.

  Something in his face softened. “I heard, Jane. Mr. Swan told me. I’m very sorry. He was a fine man. I admired him greatly.”

  He took a step toward me, taking hold of my hands, bending his head, and the smell of him, so near, so wrapped up in my memories of Philadelphia and Papa, caused something in me to loosen, something I had been holding tight next to my heart for weeks now. Without warning, tears ran down my face, hot with held-in pain and aching sorrow and a thousand regrets.

  “Oh, Jane,” he said softly, his voice so familiar.

  I don’t know how long we stood there on the porch with me weeping into his scratchy wool shirt. All I know is that when I heard Mr. Russell’s voice I stepped quickly away.

  “Gal?” Mr. Russell asked, eyeing William darkly.

  I wiped my eyes quickly, sniffling.

  Mr. Swan was rushing toward us across the clearing, his face anxious. “Oh, my dear, I neglected to tell you that William was arriving—” he began hurriedly.

  “As you can see, I’ve discovered him myself,” I said, looking at William and taking in for the first time the two other men on horses behind him. They looked travel worn and tired. By the way one of the horses was pawing the ground, it seemed that the animals were as fatigued as the men.

  “What exactly are you doing here?” I asked William, abruptly remembering that this man was responsible for my being in this blasted wilderness.

  “Confidential business for the governor,” William said shortly. His eyes lingered on my bald patch, and I felt his disapproval as clearly as I had all those years ago when I was a little girl running around with stained aprons and tangled hair.

  “Oh yes, well, harrumph,” Mr. Swan interrupted, shifting on his feet, shooting an urgent plea for help to Mr. Russell. “Perhaps, William, you and your men might want to let your horses rest for a bit?”

  Mr. Russell jerked his head and said, “Thar’s a stream yonder where ya can water yer animals.”

  William nodded, fatigue evident in his eyes. “We need some sleep. We’ve been riding hard for three days now.” He looked pointedly at Mr. Russell’s cabin.

  If William thought that he was going to stay in this cabin, he was most mistaken.

  As if reading my thoughts, Mr. Swan spoke clearly. “I do believe I can lend you and your men some very comfortable tents.”

  William just grunted. Without a backward glance he took the reins of his horse and headed toward the stream, his men following him. When he was out of sight, I whirled on Mr. Swan.

  “How could you not tell me he was coming?”

  Mr. Swan looked apologetic. “My dear girl, I truly wish I’d warned you. It’s just that I was speaking with Toke and we lost track of the time and—”

  “Mr. Swan!” I stamped my foot. “What is he doing here?”

  “Yes. Well. As you know, Jane, William is the governor’s man. And the governor has called for a meeting—a rendezvous, really—of all the tribes in this part of the territory. William will be escorting us to the rendezvous along with representatives of the tribe. Mr. Russell and I are going along to translate.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  So this was why Mr. Russell wanted me to learn how to milk Burton the cow.

  “Now my dear, it would be lovely if you could prepare a special supper since William is here.”

  “Mr. Swan, how can you even ask that?” I demanded. Cook supper for the lout who had dragged me west and married another woman?

  Mr. Swan was wringing his hands anxiously. “I know that this is very awkward, but William has the governor’s ear, and what he decides could influence the fate of our little community.”

  By which he meant that William could force Keer-ukso, and Sootie, and Chief Toke, and all the Chinook onto a reservation, and then where would we be? I thought of Sootie, and schooled myself. After all, it was just one meal.

  “Very well,” I mumbled.

  “Capital, capital,” Mr. Swan said, and started to walk away. He paused, turning. “I don’t suppose you’d make a pie?”

  I just glared at him.

  When William had lived with Papa and me at our house on Walnut Street, we had employed help to cook our supper and wait on us. In Mr. Russell’s cabin I had no help unless you considered Brandywine, although the only service he provided was eating whatever scraps fell to the floor.

  The men crowded around the sawbuck table: Mr. Swan, Mr. Russell, Chief Toke, Keer-ukso, Jehu, Father Joseph, and William. I had made up plates for the other two men in William’s party, and they were eating on the porch.

  Jehu’s attendance rather surprised me. I had not spoken with him for several days—not since our confrontation on the cliff—but he had showed up at the cabin with Keer-ukso and Chief Toke. And he seemed to be spending a great deal of time quietly studying William.

  The raucous sounds of eating punctuated by the occasional belch filled the cabin as the men dug into their biscuits and gravy. The fire flickered warmly and I took my own plate to the table, squeezing in next to Father Joseph and across from Jehu.

  William sat at the head of the table. “This is very good, Jane,” he said. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

  “There’s rather a lot you don’t know about me,” I said in a low voice.

  I expected him to snipe back at me but he merely laughed, a condescending sort of laugh. I bit my tongue and stared down at my plate. Under the table I felt a knee brush against mine, and I looked up to see Jehu’s stoic face.

  “So tell me, William, what are the governor’s intentions?” Mr. Swan asked, flecks of gravy in his beard.

  “I am recommending to the governor that the Indians in this part of the territory be placed on a reservation,” he said importantly. He didn’t seem to care that Chief Toke was sitting right in front of him.

  Mr. Swan struggled to finish chewing, and then, as if carefully choosing his words, said, “Well, William, I think you will find some opposition to that course of action.”

  “What do you mean, ‘opposition’?” William asked guardedly. His hair shone in the firelight like a golden flame. “From whom?”

  “From me, for a start,” Mr. Russell said. He looked appraisingly around the table. “I been here a sight longer than all of ya, and wh
en I first got here I wouldn’t have survived without the Indians. And now we depend on ’em. Who do ya think cuts the wood, and helps with the oystering and such? Thar ain’t no point in moving ’em to a reservation. We won’t have any men.” He chewed a lump of tobacco and spit it on the floor. “’Sides, we ain’t got no troubles. We live fine together. Real peaceful. We get more trouble from the bears if ya ask me, always sneaking in and stealing our salmon.”

  Nervous laughter punctuated the silence.

  “Your position is rather unfortunately in conflict with the government’s policy. There has been trouble elsewhere. The savages are unpredictable. It is our duty to protect you—from yourself, if necessary,” William added.

  Mr. Russell’s eyes flicked over to William. “Don’t much care for the government’s opinion of things. That’s why I come out here in the first place.”

  Father Joseph cleared his throat. “Monsieur Baldt, these Indians feel very strongly about living close to their ancestors’ graves.”

  “They’re superstitious, the lot of them,” William said dismissively.

  “Monsieur, they are no different than we are. Do we not wish to live near the resting places of our loved ones?”

  Chief Toke’s eyes met mine from across the table, and I swear he winked at me. Winked!

  “Boston William,” Chief Toke said in good, clear English, startling William. “You are foolish, but all young men are foolish. You should marry older woman. She make you wiser.”

  “I already have a wife, thank you,” William said coldly, completely missing Chief Toke’s point. But no one else did.

  Clearly, trying to tell William that the Chinooks were our friends would fall on deaf ears, so I took a more practical approach.

  “William, Mr. Russell is right. Who shall help us with the oyster harvest?” I asked. “We are all very much dependent on the goodwill and advice of Toke’s people.”

  “Miss Peck,” William said in a formal voice, his face going dark. “Obviously, your education was for naught. You’ve never learned that politics and matters of state are not affairs for a lady. Perhaps you ought to concern yourself with more suitable pursuits”—he shot a scathing look at my bald patch—“such as your hair.”