Winter Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  “How do you know?”

  He stared down into her whiskey eyes. Her fear made them huge in her small face. His heart felt as if she squeezed it in her fist. She was worse than chiggers the way she wheedled under his skin. And the itch she caused was a hundred times more irritating.

  “Why, you count the time from when you see the flash till when you hears the thunder. Try it.” She counted to eight before the thunder reached them, still clinging tightly to his chest. He hoped the storm would never pass. He dipped his head to inhale her scent. “That’s already two miles off and traveling west.”

  Her arms began to relax their hold upon him. She slid off his lap.

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded. The place where she’d rested against him turned cold.

  “Could I have a piece of buckskin?”

  “What for?”

  She shifted uncomfortable beneath his gaze.

  “I’d like to make some alterations in the leggings.”

  “Some what?”

  “Changes, that is,” she said.

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Nothing. But I would prefer britches.”

  “Britches? Squaws don’t wear britches. Leggings is what the Flathead women wear.”

  “I am not an Indian squaw. I simply cannot go about without undergarments.”

  He rummaged in his pack and withdrew a piece of tanned leather. She ordered him to cover his eyes, which he refused to do, but looked straight ahead as she moved to the back of the overhang to remove her leggings.

  His suggestion of adding a loincloth was rejected. Together they made, punctured and tied the leather to the leggings. She would not let him check the fit. A few moments later she sat beside him and sighed.

  “This is so much better. I was getting a draft.”

  He laughed, a full, hearty belly-roller. She scowled for a moment and then joined him in laughter.

  The rain tapered off to cold drizzle. Nash left the horses hobbled so they could feed.

  “We’ll camp here tonight.”

  He gave her the journal and sat down to sharpen his ax and knives.

  She woke to find him gone again. Her heart began hammering when she noticed his horse was missing. She bolted to her feet and ran about looking for the horse’s trail. Then she realized he’d left his gear. She sank down beside his pack. He was coming back. At least he meant to. Why didn’t he take her along? She bridled the bay and was just mounting up, when she heard him call.

  “Hello, the camp!”

  “Hello,” she called. Relief washed over her. He was safe. She dropped the reins and dashed to meet him. He held three grouse out to her. She accepted the fowl.

  “Going somewhere?” he asked looking at his bridled horse. His crystal-blue eyes were on her again searching for answers. For a moment she wondered what his face looked like beneath his coarse beard.

  “I was going after you.”

  “You can’t keep doing this. You’ll get lost or kilt or taken by Blackfoot.”

  “The same thing could happen to you,” she said.

  “You got to stay put.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I just can’t. Please let me come with you.” She was pleading again, holding his leg. She hated her weakness, hated her fear.

  “I’ll come back, Delia. I’ll always come back.”

  She lowered her head. “John said that, too.”

  He slid off his horse and held her in his arms. She rested her head upon his chest, taking the comfort he offered. His hands swept up and down her back. She noticed the change instantly. Her body trembled as she looked up at him. The compassion she’d seen reflected in his clear blue eyes melted into desire. Her breath caught in her throat. For a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. She gasped as she realized she’d let him. She looked to the ground, focusing on controlling her rapid breathing. His arms slipped away.

  “I scouted the area. There’s no Indians, hereabouts. Maybe if you knew how to shoot, you’d feel better ’bout being alone.” His voice rasped, lower than normal.

  “I do know how to shoot.” She dared a quick glance at his face. He clenched his jaw, his gaze now inscrutable.

  “Do you?” He didn’t sound as if he believed her.

  “But I have no gun.”

  “Can you shoot a rifle or shotgun?”

  “I’ve fired both.”

  He set up a large chunk of wood against the hillside, then stood back about twenty paces.

  “Hit that,” he said. “Careful, my Bess has got a powerful kick. I used a half load. Still, it’s a wallop.”

  He checked the placement of the gun upon her shoulder then stood back. The gun was longer and heavier than any rifle she’d ever held. The barrel wobbled and she was unable to hold it steady.

  “Here,” he said, “kneel down and rest your elbow on your knee, like this.”

  She copied his position and was able to hold the barrel still. Her gaze traveled down to the bead, which she sighted over the target. She took a gulp of air, exhaled half and held her breath, then squeezed the trigger.

  The gun exploded against her shoulder, throwing her to her backside as the barrel kicked skyward, then fell from her hands. The jarring ride rattled her teeth. She groaned and rubbed her bruised shoulder, and the echo of the shot rolled back down the mountain.

  “Damn close,” he said. “Let’s try the shotgun, then the pistol.”

  She preferred the pistol. The kick was small. Her aim was best with the shotgun. She hated the Hawkins rifle he called Bess.

  “Not bad,” he said as she fired the shotgun and sent the chunk of wood jumping.

  “Can I come with you now?”

  “Well, I can’t hobble you like the horses, though I’ve a mind to.”

  “Then you’ll take me hunting and trapping?”

  “I reckon.”

  “Oh, thank you, you won’t regret this.”

  “I regret it already.”

  The next day he woke her before dawn. She crawled out of the pallet without complaint. The air was cold. She ignored the rumbling in her belly as she mounted the packhorse, and followed quietly behind as he rode out. The sky turned from gray to violet as the sun crept closer to the horizon. They came to another river and followed it upstream. As the sun beamed over the mountains, she recognized the landscape. They were back in camp. There was no second river. It was the same one.

  “Why, we’ve just ridden in a circle,” she said in astonishment.

  “Not much of a sense of direction, have you?”

  “John used to say I could get lost between the barn and the henhouse.” She smiled. It was the first time she thought of him without feeling desperately sad and hollow inside. Now his memory warmed her. She turned her attention from within, back to the man dismounting before her. “Why did you do that?”

  “Just cutting for sign.”

  Sometimes she wondered what language he spoke.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Looking for signs of Indians or game. I want to head upriver today.”

  He cooked the remains of the grouse for breakfast. She tied her bundle on the horse and then began gathering up the bedding as she’d seen him do. He inspected her knots and the distribution of the gear and nodded. She smiled, knowing she had done it correctly.

  Shortly after they set out it began to drizzle. He didn’t stop this time. She looked at the sky and wondered how he could tell this storm held no threat. The man could see things invisible to her. Perhaps he couldn’t read, but he was bright and resourceful and had knowledge that could keep them both alive.

  She spent the day doing as he suggested, watching. She watched where he looked and followed his line of sight. By doing so she saw the little marmot darting along the top of a fallen log. An unfamiliar birdcall came to her ears. His body tensed, instantly alert. His head pivoted toward the river. She couldn’t see beyond the reeds growing high along t
he bank.

  He led them farther into the forest and up along a ridge. From the rocky outcropping, she saw the river below. Then she noticed peculiar objects floating on the water. They looked like large hollow bowls. Inside, Indians paddled along.

  “Blackfoot,” he whispered.

  So that was what they looked like. She’d heard nothing good about them. These Indians were killers. They did not trade or take prisoners.

  “What kind of boats are those?”

  “Buffalo boats. They’re made from the skin of one animal stretched over a green-wood frame. Much as a wigwam turned upside down.”

  She watched the men float downstream in their little leather boats. From up here they didn’t look imposing.

  “Come on,” he said. “Time to pull foot.”

  They headed over the ridge. He stopped in a pine forest and cut the chunks of crusty yellow pitch off the trunks of several trees. These he carefully wrapped in leather and stored in his fire-starting pouch.

  He chose to camp beside a huge white pine. The boughs hung down to brush the ground. But beneath the branches was a dry protected circle large enough to sleep. The pine needles made a soft bed for their pallet.

  “No fire tonight,” he said.

  “Because the wood is too wet?” she asked.

  “Naw. I can collect dry wood still on the trees. Blackfoot is why.”

  “Have you seen signs?”

  “Not since the river.”

  They tied the horses beneath one tree and crawled beneath their own. She chewed on the jerky he offered and drank from the water skin.

  “Do you think I could sew a pocket in this dress?”

  “There’s no pockets in buckskin, you idiot. Water will get in. You tie your possibles to your belt.”

  “My possibles?” she asked.

  “Your personal gear, everything you might possibly need. Like this.” He held up the little pouch that was always on his belt. “My possibles. You could carry your comb, sewing kit and such.”

  “What do you carry?”

  “My bullet mold, awl, a small knife, tobacco and pipe. This one’s got ball and patch, flint and my fire-glass.”

  He kept everything close at hand.

  “I should have a bag and case for my knife,” she said.

  He nodded.

  She didn’t miss the fire that night. His body kept her warm as always. His solid mass stood between her and all the dangers in the wilderness. She pressed her back against his side, feeling hopeful for the first time in many months.

  Three days later he found his new trapping grounds. They followed a tributary of the Musselshell past the Three Forks and up the mountain to find several beaver dams climbing the hillside like steps.

  She walked with him as he set his traps. This time she studied exactly where he placed his line. He was right. There was a different way of learning than by questions. Before, she did not really see what he did. Her eyes merely collected the images without thought.

  She helped him cut green wood for the frame of their shelter. That afternoon, she went hunting with him and shot a duck for supper.

  That evening he roasted the duck over the coals. He handed her a leg. The meat was sweet and juicy.

  “This tastes better than any duck I can remember,” she said.

  “Because you provided for yourself,” he said.

  The silence between them felt more natural to her now. She was comfortable with the quiet. She smiled in pleasure as she watched him bite another piece of her duck.

  She took out her journal after dinner to record her triumph at taking the duck. The smell of his tobacco rose up about her. She inhaled the scent, which was now as familiar as the smell of leather.

  He woke her the next morning so they could run his trap lines. Cordelia carried the shotgun and he held his Hawkins. His gun was never more than a foot from him. He even rode with Bess resting across the horn of his saddle.

  The last trap, closest to camp, was not where he’d set it. She glanced about the water, searching for the wooden stake, which floated when torn from the pond bottom.

  “There it is.” She pointed to the stick. The trap ring was visible several feet from shore. He hadn’t lost his trap.

  Nash waded out toward it. The pond bottom must have dropped sharply, because the hand holding his gun went up suddenly to keep it dry as he slid into the water to his waist.

  “Damn!” He waded out of the water. He glanced about, took off his knife, powder horn and possibles bags and lay them beside Bess on the bank. Then he waded in again. She shivered thinking of the icy temperature of the water. He was chest deep when she heard the snorting of a large animal.

  She turned to see a huge bear charging straight at her. Terror rooted her to the spot. She could not even scream. From beside her, she heard Nash hollering and splashing.

  The bear turned toward the sound and raced past her, so close she could feel his fur brush her leg. The great brown monster leaped into the water at the same time Nash dove beneath the surface. The bear stood and bellowed. She thought it must be eleven feet tall. Nash surfaced some distance from the bear, which dove after him.

  “Run,” he shouted to her.

  She couldn’t move. Her heart fluttered uselessly in her throat as her legs refused her brain’s command to move.

  Twice more he dove. The last time he misjudged the bear’s position. Nash breached the water right beneath the animal’s jaw. The bear grabbed his head in his mouth. She heard the scream leave her body as she watched Nash shaken like a dead rat in the mouth of a terrier.

  She raised the shotgun to her shoulder, sighted the beast’s ear and pulled the trigger. The kick threw her off her feet into the reeds. The shot echoed for a moment and mingled with the scream of the angry bear. She rose to her knees and watched the monster drop Nash and charge out of the water toward her. She turned and ran toward the camp, knowing it would catch her and tear her apart.

  Chapter Five

  The sharp retort of the Hawkins rifle split the air. She ran on, turning toward the bear as she fled.

  The beast lay facedown, unmoving on the ground.

  “Nash!” She heard no answer.

  She charged past the bear, expecting it to reach out and grab her. Nash lay on the bank with his legs still in the water. The gun was clutched in his hands. She turned him to his back. The sight before her nearly caused her to let go. Blood poured from a gaping wound across his scalp. His skin and hair dropped forward across his face. The white bone of his scalp glistened.

  He began to sputter. Somehow, he was still alive.

  “Nash?”

  She half dragged, half pulled him up the bank. He kicked his feet, aiding their progress through the reeds and onto the river grass. With trembling hands she cradled his head in her lap.

  “My rib is broken,” he told her.

  She saw the gashes across his side now, where the bear’s claws had torn through his clothing. A quick glance revealed the bear was still lying motionless, facedown on the ground.

  “Your head is bleeding. What should I do?”

  “You’ll have to stitch up the gashes, Delia,” he whispered. He collapsed on the bank.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can!” He looked unconscious, but his voice was strong. “I seen your stitches in that dress. This is much the same.”

  She ran to the camp and grabbed her sewing kit. When she returned, the sight of his blood on the grass made her blanch.

  “Thomas?” He gave no answer. “Thomas, please don’t die.”

  “I don’t aim to,” he whispered.

  She flipped his scalp in place. The gash ran from the top of his head past his left ear. She used her shears to cut away much of his hair. There were two more gashes on the right side of his head.

  Her fingers shook as she drew a needle from the ivory case. Finally the white thread cleared the eye. She quickly tied a knot and pierced his skin for the first time. She winced as the thread turned red as i
t ran through his scalp. She lost track of the number of stitches as she worked her way over his head. He lay so still she believed he’d passed out.

  She lowered her head to his back and held her breath straining to hear his heartbeat.

  “I ain’t dead, Delia.”

  “Thomas, your ear is nearly torn off. I don’t think it’s all here. I can’t save it.” She looked at the mangled bit of flesh.

  “Well, you have to, is all. Sew it back, Delia.”

  “Yes, Thomas.”

  She didn’t know where to begin. Only a small patch connected the tissue to his scalp. Just do it. She sewed a blanket stitch to hold the torn ear together, then backstitched to hold the skin to his scalp. The bleeding stopped as she closed the last gash.

  “Is it back on?” He opened one eye to look at her.

  “Yes, Thomas.”

  She wet a piece of leather and gently washed the blood from his face and hair. Then she used her shears to cut the ties that held his buckskin shirt closed. As soon as she released the leather, the gashes began to bleed again. They weren’t deep. Thank God, his lung wasn’t punctured. She retrieved her petticoat and tore it into strips for bandages.

  “You’ll have to sit up, Thomas,” she said.

  He did, but wobbled slightly as she folded a pad over the claw marks and wound the cloth snugly around his chest.

  “You done?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” he said, then fainted. She tried to drag him to camp, but he was too heavy to move. She collected his horse, but had trouble getting the beast to the water. The horse’s eyes rolled white as it danced sideways. Cordelia knew the smell of blood and bear terrified the animal.

  Finally she got the beast calm enough to tie a rope to the saddle horn and then beneath Nash’s arms. She stopped before she finished the last knot. This would surely do more damage to him, dragging him over the uneven ground, getting dirt in his wounds.

  She brought the buffalo robes to him and rolled his body between the warm hides. His heart beat steadily. She sat back on her heels to think. The sweat covering her body turned cold.

  She skinned the bear where it lay, running back to Nash periodically to check on him. He seemed to be sleeping now; soft little snores came from his nose. Returning to the beast, she finished removing the hide. Next she began butchering. She cut away the meat from the great hind legs and took the long back muscle. She placed the meat in the hide and she pulled the entire thing up into the trees fifteen feet from the ground and five feet from the branch as he’d shown her. Back at the pond, she splashed water on her dress. The blood rolled off the buckskin with the water.