Winter Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  “There is no trail through them mountains, least-wise none fit for wagons. Who’s your captain?”

  “Reverend Harcort led us.”

  “He been across them mountains?”

  “No, but he had a vision. He said we were to establish an outpost and teach the heathens of the coming of our Lord.”

  “Then he still ain’t.”

  “What?”

  “He still ain’t been over them mountains. He’s dead.”

  “You have no faith.”

  “Yes, I do. I believe in my Hawkins rifle and the power of them mountains. I got no time for idiots.”

  He drew the tails off the coals and set them on the stones to cool.

  “I didn’t ask to come here,” she said.

  “Well, I didn’t invite you, neither.”

  He slit the tails down the middle, flaying them into two pieces and handed her half. She held it in two hands.

  “Well, go on,” he said.

  But she didn’t do as he said. She put the tail back on a flat rock and clasped her hands. Then she lowered her head and said grace. He groaned.

  “Amen,” she said. “Do you have a knife and fork?”

  “I left it in my pack with the good china.”

  She stood and walked silently to her blanket pack and rummaged a moment. She returned with two tin plates and silverware. She offered him a plate. He shook his head and took a huge bite from the tail. When the hot juice ran down his beard, she looked away.

  Despite her fancy manners, the woman polished off two and a half tails and was eyeing his other half. The Flatheads weren’t lying. She was hungry.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Oh, thank you. This really is delicious.”

  “You’re welcome, Delia.”

  She gazed at him a moment. “What is your Christian name?”

  “Thomas.”

  “Perhaps, I could call you by that and you could call me Cordelia.”

  He shook his head. “Delia.”

  She glanced away.

  “Did you have enough to eat?”

  “More than my share, I fear.”

  “You’ve got some catching up to do.”

  He kicked dirt on the fire and listened to the hiss. She pulled the shabby quilt tightly about her bony shoulders and shivered.

  He turned from her shuddering frame and added more wood to the fire. Under cover of darkness, the rising smoke posed no threat. Then he drew back the leather hide that covered his wigwam.

  “Won’t the Blackfoot see the flames?” she asked.

  “I’m up against a cliff here in a little holler. They’d have to be right on top of us to see the fire.”

  “My Indians found you,” she pointed out.

  “That was different. They’d passed by a while back and knew where to look.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  This next part would be tricky. He’d be damned if he’d sleep outside. When had he last lain beside Elizabeth? He wouldn’t think about it. His blood pounded in his ears. His whole body stung. Damn Cordelia for this.

  “Women belong at home,” he said. “What kind of man drags his woman into such a wilderness?”

  “My husband’s actions are none of your affair, Mr. Nash.” She yawned.

  “Let’s go to bed,” he said.

  She looked wide-awake now.

  “You shall not touch me, Mr. Nash. I am in mourning.”

  “Didn’t intend to.”

  He crawled into the tent with his rifle and threw back the buffalo robes. Then he put his butchering knife and pistol beside his head and thrust his legs between the furs.

  “You wear your boots to bed?” She sounded shocked. A smile crossed his face. She really was green.

  He pointed to the rock before him. “Hell yes! Once I shot a bear that sat on that very ledge. Grizzly was after an elk I took. But he weren’t particular. He figured I’d do. Here, a man has got to be ready, always.”

  She peered over her shoulder into the darkness, then crawled quickly into the wigwam and scooted beneath the furs coming to rest beside him. He chuckled.

  “And they ain’t boots,” he said. “These here are moccasins.”

  The robe was now up to her nose and her words were muffled. “I see.”

  “Night, Delia,” he said.

  “Good night, Mr. Nash.”

  He growled.

  The buffalo robe sagged, forming a kind of divider between them. But he could smell her now. The fragrance of sweet grass, like the hayfield in early summer, surrounded her. He fought the urge to drag her little body to his. He didn’t want to bother her; he just craved her scent.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning Cordelia awoke to the aroma of brewing coffee. She tipped back her head to better inhale the aroma. Then she sat up, feeling stiff from sleeping with nothing but the buffalo skin beneath her. Her neck hurt. She must make a pillow of some kind.

  Sorrow descended upon her. John was gone. She swallowed back the bile in her throat.

  She stared at the buckskin tent above her and remembered the trapper. Nash was a gentleman. He had not touched her in the night.

  Hunger brought her out of bed. She knelt beside the fire for a closer look. When she straightened, she found Nash grinning at her.

  “I cooked you something special—johnnycakes, coffee and beaver again.”

  “It smells wonderful.”

  She left the fire long enough to find a private place behind the rocks to relieve herself. She returned to her blanket roll of belongings and drew out her tortoiseshell comb. Her fingers loosened her braid. Slowly she combed her hair beginning at the tips. When the tangles were out, she rapidly divided her hair into three parts and made one thick braid down her back.

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “Thomas—the cakes are burning!”

  His gaze left her and he frowned at the skillet. “Damnation.” He flipped one blackened cake out of the pan with his knife. “I’ll eat that one.” He poked at the remaining cake. “This one’s just brown.”

  “I’d be glad to cook your breakfast from now on,” she said.

  His tone was angry again. “I cook my own meals. I said I’d eat that one. I like ’em that way.”

  She stared at the smoking biscuit, then lifted her gaze to meet his. His eyes dared her to say otherwise.

  “Is the coffee ready?” she asked.

  Nash poured the brew into a strange cup. She held the handle and studied the black and brown surface. It looked like stone, but was light.

  “What is this cup made from?”

  “Buffalo horn.”

  She made no comment as he scraped the black exterior from his johnnycake. She held out her tin plate and received a huge portion of meat and one small cake the size of her fist. She craved flour. Her body longed for it, and greens. Her stomach gurgled in anticipation. Nash eyed her rumbling middle and smiled.

  He ate his breakfast straight from the skillet, using only his knife. She bowed her head and prayed for patience. He knew she had a second plate and for some reason refused to use it.

  “I generally have cakes once a week. Have to make them every other week, now, if the flour is to last.”

  She chewed slower. It would be a long while before she had another.

  “Do you drink coffee every day?”

  He laughed but didn’t answer.

  She finished her meal in silence and hollowness left her. How long until she regained her strength? How long would it take to recover from those months of want?

  “That was a wonderful breakfast. Thank you.”

  “Yup,” he said.

  “I will clean the skillet.”

  “No, you’ll rub all the seasoning out of it. I got it just right.”

  “Very well then. I’ll just wash my plate.”

  She took her leave of him, walking to the brook. There she scoured her plate and utensils with sand. Then she washed her face and neck with a torn handkerchief. When she opened he
r eyes, he was kneeling beside her. She jerked her hand to her throat. “You gave me a start,” she said.

  His voice sounded defensive. “I came from down-wind.”

  “Are you suggesting I can smell you?”

  “You can’t?”

  “Well, no. I mean you don’t smell badly.”

  “I can smell you.”

  A tingle vibrated up her spine, lifting the hairs on her neck. What did he mean? And why had his voice dropped to nearly a whisper?

  “I have not acquired the knack.”

  He scrubbed his skillet quickly with sand and dipped it briefly in the water. “I don’t know what you’re saying half the time.” Then he dried the iron thoroughly with a soft bit of leather. “The grease keeps things from sticking. Too much washing or heat and you have to start again. I’ve got to go hunt. You stay put.”

  A rippling wave of panic broke in her belly. John had gone hunting, too. He never came back.

  “I’ll come along.”

  “I says ‘stay put.’”

  Her hands grew moist. What if he didn’t return? What if a bear or wildcat found him or he fell. She sprang to her feet.

  “No, Mr. Nash, I will not.”

  He pointed a finger at her.

  “You can’t come. You’ll slow me down and scare the elk. If I can smell you, so can they. You’re staying.”

  “No.”

  “I ain’t asking, you little bit of nothing. I’m telling you.”

  He stalked off. Cordelia followed him to camp. She bridled the other horse as he placed the saddle on his own.

  “Give me that!” He jerked the bridle off the horse and stuffed it into his saddlebag. “I’ll be back by dark.”

  He swung into the saddle and rode off. She doubled as if kicked by his horse. Her knees drove into the soft earth and she fell on all fours.

  He’d left her.

  John’s words echoed through her mind. Don’t fret, Cordelia. I’ll be back by nightfall. Don’t fret.

  She ran for her blanket and snatched up the hatchet the Indians had packed for her. Nash had disappeared.

  She turned to the remaining horse and stroked his head. Could she control the creature with only a halter? She had to try.

  She led the animal to a log and jumped onto his back. With effort she managed to get her head and shoulders over his withers. The beast walked after his comrade as she struggled to throw her leg over the horse’s rump.

  Seated at last on the horse’s bare back, she raised her chin high and gripped the halter lead.

  “I’ll not be left alone again.”

  In spite of her brave resolve, panic immediately choked her as she sat motionless on the horse, listening. Nash had told her this was Blackfoot country. If she could see him, she’d know he was safe. She nudged her heels into the animal’s furry sides. The bay’s winter coat acted like a saddle blanket beneath her.

  If he’d give her a chance, she could help. She knew how to shoot, if only she had a gun. Her hand clutched the hatchet. She had enough practice with this and her long ax to qualify as an expert. Her heart hammered as she crossed a patch of rock. The horse’s hooves rang as loud as a skillet struck with a wooden spoon. Her head swiveled about looking for Indians.

  She couldn’t survive up here without him. She knew it. Neither could she travel to Fort Hall alone. Nash was her only hope. Without him, she’d die in this wilderness. Better to go quick, she decided, than slowly starve to death over another long dark winter. She wouldn’t do it again, did not have the strength for it. Only her faith in God and sure knowledge that she would not see John in heaven if she took her own life kept her alive. Helpless, she’d prayed for death a dozen times. She thought the Indians were her answer for a swift end. Instead they brought her to Nash.

  She lost his trail. Uncertainty gnawed at her insides as she stopped the horse. Should she go forward with no trail and risk losing her way or go back alone? Her frantic gaze swept the ground and her heartbeat slammed inside her ears like a war drum.

  Which way?

  The ground was too rocky to leave an imprint of his horse’s hooves.

  She stroked the thick fur of the beast’s powerful neck. “Find your friend.”

  The horse pivoted one ear to listen to her, then stepped forward into the cottonwood grove. Each stride seemed to take her farther from him and farther from camp. She swiveled around to look behind her. Could she find her way back again? The horse stopped as if comprehending her uncertainty.

  She kicked him forward. Soon afterward she heard a nicker. Before she could grab her horse’s nose, it returned the call. Too late, she thought. Please let the horse belong to Nash and not an Indian. She clutched the hatchet. Her heels pressed the horse’s sides and they were off.

  She recognized his horse, black with three white feet and a blaze down his face. A long breath of air escaped her. She was close. His animal was tied to a tree. A prickling started on the back of her neck.

  What had happened to his master?

  She dismounted and slid to the ground. She stomped her numb feet to bring the blood back to them as she tied her horse beside his.

  A rifle shot reached her ears. The bubble of panic burst within her. Blindly she ran toward the sound as another round echoed in her ears. He was under attack. Her dress snagged on the brush. She yanked at the fabric and heard it tear. Her legs now pounded along the uneven ground. Her lungs burned. She had no wind. The winter had taken her strength. She ran through briars, the thorns grabbing her dress and piercing her skin. She fell into the clearing.

  “What the hell!” Nash stood before her, his rifle in one hand, a cocked pistol in the other and both aimed at her. “Idiot woman. I coulda shot you!”

  “I thought you were in trouble.”

  “Only since you showed up.” He lowered his pistol, released the hammer, then reloaded his rifle. She watched him pop a ball and cover from the wooden pallet, which hung from his waist. He used a small horn cup to measure the load, then rammed it home.

  The cork from his powder horn, which he held in his teeth, muddled his words.

  “Thought I told you to stay put.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You surely are that.”

  “But I heard shots.” She leaned forward now, pinching her side with one hand as she tried to relieve the burning cramp that seized her.

  He corked his horn.

  “You knew I was hunting. How’d you expect me to bring down an elk?”

  “I thought you needed help.”

  “From you?” He laughed. “That’ll be the day.” His gaze traveled down her body. “What a mess.”

  She looked at her dress. The torn waistband gaped, revealing her white petticoat. She clutched the tattered fabric. Blood beaded in a line along the scratch on her hand.

  “My skirt caught on the brush.”

  “So did your hair and your face.” He stepped forward. His finger brushed her cheek. He held his hand before her, revealing the blood. “Come on. Damn, you waste more of my day.”

  “I’m sorry.” She bowed her head to hide her burning cheeks.

  “That all you can say?”

  “I’m glad you are uninjured.”

  He sighed loudly, then grasped her wrist and pulled her toward a beaver pond. He wet a soft bit of deer hide and washed her arms and face. She sat on the bank and enjoyed the cool water on her hot cheek.

  “Are your legs bleeding?” She pulled the hem of her dress over her feet. He batted her hand away and yanked up her dress. He shook his head. Her black woolen stockings showed several new holes. The places she’d darned were obvious. Her cheeks burned as he studied her state of disrepair. “What kind of shoes is that to wear? No wonder you can’t run worth a damn.”

  He dropped the skirt back in place and handed her the scrap of soft buckskin.

  “Keep that on your cheek. It’s still bleeding. You thirsty?”

  She nodded.

  He dropped a water skin beside her and poi
nted to the ground.

  “Now stay there. I have to skin them critters.”

  The water made her teeth tingle it was so cold. She drank as he strode angrily away. Obviously, he hated her. Her cheek stung when she pressed the moist leather to her face. The scratch on her hand turned dark as a scab began to form. Thankfully he had some shred of human decency left or he’d surely leave her here.

  The thought brought her to her feet. Her gaze scanned the empty meadow. Where was he? She ran along the pond searching the clearing. Then she raced back to the horses. They both raised their heads in question at her frantic approach. Relief broke in her belly and swept through her. He was still here—somewhere. She petted the bay’s velvety nose.

  “It’s all right. We’re safe,” she cooed.

  She offered each animal a large hank of grass before going to search for Nash.

  She found him up to his elbows in blood, skinning a large buck. A second deer without antlers lay a few yards from the first.

  “Can’t you stay put?”

  “I thought I might help.”

  “You know how to skin a deer?”

  “Well, no—”

  “I thought not,” he said. The disdain in his voice needled her.

  “But I skinned an ox once.”

  His eyes lifted from the task to meet hers.

  “An ox?”

  She nodded.

  “Now, people don’t generally skin oxen.”

  “Well, I did.”

  He stood and extended the bloody knife. She swallowed back the memories of the last time she’d done this. She’d wept as she slit the beast’s throat. There was no gun. The ox looked at her as the blood poured from the gaping wound. Tears rolled down her cheeks and into the blood all about her. They had carried her across the prairies in good faith, and she had slaughtered them.

  “Well?” he asked.

  She grasped the knife and knelt beside the buck. She would give him no reason to abandon her. Somehow she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the animal’s face. His eyes were already glazed in death, and the large pink tongue lolled from his mouth. Her shoulders straightened and her fingers coiled about the knife with determination. She inserted the blade between the hide and muscle, cut the thick yellow membrane that held the skin and drew it back.

  A long breath escaped her. She felt Nash judging her from two paces back. She labored until the ribs and back were free of the hide, then moved to the flank. She shuddered as warm blood coated her hands.