Winter Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  “Oh, thank you, Thomas!” She kissed his cheek in joy.

  His fingers slid through her hair as he gripped her. Her gaze met his. Blue eyes stared down, intent and hungry. Her body reacted instantly like powder to a spark.

  She knew he would kiss her now. She lifted her chin and her lips parted. His mouth slanted over hers, starting a wave of pleasure that rippled through her. Suddenly she forgot to breathe and her heart threatened to burst with its frantic rhythm.

  She hadn’t been kissed in nearly a year. And never had a kiss felt like this. She yearned for this man.

  John’s kiss, pleasant as it was, never ignited this wanting. A sudden image of her husband flickered in her mind, and she pulled back from the warmth of Thomas’s embrace.

  “What’s wrong, Delia?” He looked confused. She felt so guilty. How could she? She’d misled this man and betrayed her husband’s memory at the same instant. She jumped to her feet, hand gripped tight to her traitorous mouth and raced away. “Delia! Delia, come back here.”

  Somehow he got himself up and followed her to the edge of the pond.

  “Delia, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t of kissed you like that.”

  He reached out his hand to stroke her shoulder, but she stepped away.

  “Oh, Delia, you don’t have to worry. I won’t touch you lest you want me to.”

  Her bottom lip trembled. She wrapped her arms tightly before herself.

  “That’s the trouble, don’t you see. I did want you to. Oh, Thomas, what must you think of me? My John’s not even gone a year and I allow a man to kiss me.”

  “A year—bah!” His voice sounded cross at first, then tender. “This here’s the mountains. Those rules don’t go here. You’re just feeling guilty about living.”

  She looked at him in astonishment.

  “That’s right, Thomas, I do. How could you know?”

  “’Cause when I lost my wife, Elizabeth, I felt much the same. She died and I couldn’t do nothing to save her. Then I got angry with God for not taking me instead. But he didn’t take me or you.”

  “Sometimes I can’t believe he is dead.”

  “He’s gone, Delia.”

  The tears filled her throat now. They changed her voice into a wavering, unrecognizable thing. “I still love him. I always will.”

  “Of course. This don’t change none of what you shared with him.”

  She allowed him to enfold her in his great, strong arms and absorb her sorrow.

  Delia finally accepted his offer of partnership. Nash wasn’t sure if it was the kiss or the hard words about her husband that convinced her. He wished he’d never kissed her.

  There was a new tension between them now. She rarely smiled. She jumped when he called her. Worst of all, she never touched him. He watched her like a dog waiting for some small sign of affection.

  She kept all her thoughts more secret than before. He yearned to know what troubled her, but could gain nothing in conversation.

  The beaver were trapped out. They stayed so he could heal. His ribs only hurt if he stretched too far. He thought he could sit a horse now. He rubbed his fingers over the scar on his head.

  “Stop scratching,” she said without looking up. She punched a hole in the leather of the possibles bag she had made herself.

  “They itch worse every day,” he said.

  “Perhaps it’s time for the stitches to come out.”

  Then she’d have to touch him.

  “Take ’em out,” he said. She kept working the leather. “Take ’em out or I’ll claw ’em out.”

  “All right, Nash. Let me retrieve my scissors.”

  She called him Nash again, instead of Thomas. He hated the stiffness of her tone. The laughter was gone. He missed that most of all.

  He held still as she carefully cut the thread. Her businesslike manner irritated him no end. The first tug pulled at his scalp. This was followed by the next, until his head pounded from the little stabs of pain. The ear took her quite a while to work loose.

  “There,” she said at last. “That’s all.”

  He looked at the little pile of blackened thread beside him.

  “My head must have looked worse than your stockings.”

  She smiled at that. It was a start.

  “I’m going hunting. I saw some rabbit tracks up by the briar bushes,” she said. “Will you be all right?”

  He nodded.

  “Take this along,” he said. He held out the powder horn that he had made her. “About time you had your own.”

  “Oh, Nash! It’s beautiful.” She admired the scrimshaw. He had carved a picture depicting her shooting the bear. “This looks just like the bear. You have such a talent. Thank you. But I did not shoot him, you did. I lied to those men.”

  “You shot him all right. Not the kill shot, maybe—but you hit him, just the same. Stood your ground against a fifteen-foot critter. Few can say the same.”

  She lowered her gaze, but did not move to hug him this time. He thought she might be choked up.

  “I filled it for you. It’s ready to go.”

  When she lifted her head, he saw her eyes were misty, but she didn’t cry and he strung the horn across her shoulder. It hung to her hip beside the knife sheathed in the Crow casing. About her neck were two necklaces. The first was a buffalo tooth tied on a leather lanyard strung through bits of colored bird bones, also a gift from her Crow admirers. The other was the huge grizzly claw he had made into a necklace with blue trade beads and leather. She looked like some ancient goddess of the hunt as she strode toward the horses, holding the shotgun loosely in her right hand.

  He waited until her horse was out of sight to retrieve her journal.

  Nash recognized Delia’s struggle was much like his own. She felt sorrow, just as he had and wished to die from it. It changed her. Well, he was changed, too. He understood now, why she needed to come with him. She was frightened it would happen again.

  He opened the brown leather cover to the place he’d left off. He needed her words. Here he could share her secret thoughts, the part of her she kept for herself.

  December 28, 1834—The snow is over the cabin now. I had to clear the stovepipe by digging down several feet. The snow is so deep the wolves and panthers do not come at night to prowl. I almost miss them. I feel at times as if I am the last person in the world.

  My John lies beneath deep snow. He and I are both buried here. My mind grips this thought and I find no respite.

  What had he been doing that day? He thought back to his own cabin on the Yellowstone. The trapping was good. A beaver’s coat is thickest in the winter. He remembered the bitter cold and heavy snow. The sunlight was brief then and nights long.

  March 8, 1835—The snow has melted on the mountain. Last night the water began flooding beneath the cabin door. I took what I could and moved to the wagon. Today, I moved the stove. I have no grease and am afraid it will rust. The canvas is back upon the wagon as well. The whole world is a river running two feet deep and covering the meadow.

  March 22, 1835—Still the spring thaw runs by my wagon. I have been unable to light a fire. Uncooked Indian meal and raw salt beef again today. My gums bleed every day now.

  Scurvy, he knew the disease. How she’d suffered. He realized he clenched his teeth against the anger he felt. She’d endured so much.

  The next entry was in pencil. The line was light and hard to read.

  March 30, 1835—My ink is gone. I knocked the bottle over. I was adding a log to the stove when sparks leaped to the wagon floor. I doused the flame, but lost my ink in the process. I have no more meal. I am afraid to eat the plants that begin to grow about me for fear they are poisonous. The beef is nearly gone as well. I have rationed myself to one meal a day in hopes it will last until I am found. Reverend Harcort will surely send help when the snow melts from the mountains. I have begun to eat the crop we brought for planting. One by one the corn, barley and pumpkin seeds disappear with my dreams.

  He’d tau
ght her how to find dry wood even in a rainstorm. She’d have cooked beef now, by God, he thought. She came to him in May. Only two months ago she wrote those words. What did she think of him then? He hadn’t been very welcoming. Well, how was he supposed to know what a wonder she was? All he’d seen was another woman he might grow attached to and lose. Why should he take her in, get close to her? He swore he’d never leave himself open to that kind of hurt again.

  Yet, that was just what he’d done.

  May 7, 1835—Two Indians on painted ponies arrived in the meadow today. I was so frightened I forgot how to run. My mind raced with all the terrible stories of what red savages do to white women. My knees actually banged together in my terror.

  As soon as they determined I was alone they began raiding my wagon. Suddenly I was more frightened of being left alone with no supplies than being savaged or killed. One man restrained me as the other bundled my possessions. They even took my ax. I begged them to leave my things alone. They did not understand me. I called out to God to protect me. In a thrice I was swept up onto a horse and away we went. Where, I knew not.

  I must confess my anguish and lack of any strength brought sleep to me, and I did not wake until the men roused me. To my surprise, neither laid a hand upon me, but fed me and treated me kindly. Wherever are they taking me?

  She was almost to him now. He turned the page to hurry to their first meeting.

  May 14, 1835—I am at the mercy of a wild man. He is nearly as fearsome as the savages who found me.

  Wild man, was he? He’d fed her, hadn’t he?

  May 15, 1835—My Indian friends have left me with a trapper. He is coarse and unkempt. What sort of man is this? And what will befall me now?

  I was so distraught yesterday, I forgot to mention his name. He insists I call him Nash, though his full name is Thomas Nash. He has the most atrocious table manners. Food and grease cover his hairy face. It was all I could do not to be ill at the sight of him.

  He slammed the journal shut and tossed it aside. This was not what he’d hoped to see. He did not like the picture she drew of him in her journal. Did she really see him as some wild man? This would not do.

  Cordelia tied the horse to the branch and released the girth about the animal’s middle. She balanced the turkey and saddle in one hand and carried the shotgun in the other. Her strength was returning. She noticed the change. She was never out of breath now, and it didn’t hurt to sit on the horse because she had a bit more padding. She took a deep breath of the sweet spring air. It felt good to be alive.

  She turned to face the stranger holding Nash’s Hawkins rifle.

  She dropped the saddle and turkey to aim the loaded shotgun at his chest.

  “What have you done with Nash?”

  He raised one hand to stop her.

  “I am Nash,” said the man.

  She instantly recognized his familiar clothing, crystal-blue eyes and low voice. But his face, dear Lord, that she did not recognize. He was easily the handsomest man she ever seen. His jaw was square with a cleft in his chin. His mouth drew her gaze. That was the mouth she kissed, the lips that stirred such hunger with the briefest touch. A tingling excitement began in her belly and fluttered up to her breasts to bring a sweet familiar ache.

  “You act like you never seen me before.” His voice sounded irritated.

  “I haven’t, not really. Why did you shave your face?” Her voice sounded breathless. She wanted the beard back. It acted like a mask, hiding his masculine beauty from her.

  “It’s warm now. Beards are for cold weather.”

  She forced her eyes away from him. Her hand grabbed the leg of the gobbler she’d taken.

  “I can hardly believe it’s you.”

  “I’m running the traps with you tonight,” he said.

  She looked up into those amazing blue eyes, then looked quickly away. “All right, if you feel up to it.”

  “What is the matter. Have I got something stuck on my face?”

  “No, Nash,” she said.

  “Then why won’t you look at me when I’m talking?”

  She stared. The change was remarkable. Who would have believed the removal of a little growth of beard could transform him to such a—

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “Beg pardon?” She realized he was speaking, because she watched his lips moving. What he said was a complete blank. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  “You hit your head?”

  “I’m fine, I do assure you. Now what is it you wanted?” Listen this time, she told herself.

  “I want you to cut my hair. Like I was saying. Can you even up the mess you made, sort of trim it all one length?”

  That would mean touching him. A shiver of excitement climbed her spine. Oh, no—she couldn’t do that, not with her heart beating with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings.

  “It looks fine.” She wondered if she sounded convincing. He frowned.

  “No, it don’t.” He ran a hand over his uneven mane then extended his hand to her. She jumped backward. “What has gotten into you? You’re twitchy as a cat with wet feet.”

  “It will be much shorter,” she cautioned.

  “Well then, leave the back long. Maybe it could cover my ear.”

  She nodded and retrieved her scissors from her possibles bag. He sat on a log staring off at the aspen across the pond. She hesitated a moment longer, taking deep breaths in a vain effort to get a hold of herself.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Yes, just coming,” she said, and stepped up behind him.

  She drew her tortoise comb through his thick hair. He closed his eyes. His face held a serene expression. She allowed her fingers to pet his soft mane as she prepared to repair some of the damage she’d done. She leaned forward, nearly brushing his back, hovering there, just beyond his touch. Her fingers held the hair and she snipped the scissors. The brown coil fell to the ground beside his foot. She worked quickly now, trying to ignore his earthy scent that seemed to beckon her.

  When she finished she sighed in relief. She’d endured somehow. She stepped back, thankfully, and assessed her work. She frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is it lopsided?”

  He looked more handsome than before.

  “No. It’s even.”

  “All them little hairs tickle my neck. I’m going to take a bath.”

  “Oh—well, I…I’ll just dress the bird.” She left the pond and sat with her back to him, but his shouts brought her scurrying back to the shore.

  “Thomas!” she cried. The pond was quiet. The surface showed ripples. Could some animal have pulled him under? “Thomas!”

  He surfaced a few feet from her, his naked shoulders and chest gleaming in the afternoon sun. Her jaw dropped and she gaped at him. He was feeling better.

  “You scared the life out of me,” she called. “Why were you shouting?”

  “The water’s damn cold. Shriveled up my—ah, puckered my skin.”

  He stood now and she could see the muscles of his chest and stomach. His wide shoulders tapered to a narrow waist. Below the surface she saw a thatch of dark hair. She spun about. Her face was so hot she half expected to burst into flames.

  “Oh, now Delia. I know you seen a naked man before.”

  “Nash, come out of there before you catch pneumonia.”

  “All right.”

  He walked toward her. She heard the water splashing as he approached. His voice came from just behind her as a whisper.

  “Care to warm me up?”

  Squeezing her eyes closed did not banish the image his words created in her mind.

  “Nash, put on your clothes this instant.”

  “I forgot to bring my drying skin.”

  Droplets of water spattered her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shaking off.”

  She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks and hurried off to get the buckskin. She couldn’t resist taking one lo
ok at him from within the wigwam. He stood tall and perfect within a circle of sunlight. His legs were long and muscular. She wondered about the scar that marked one thigh. His body radiated power.

  She wadded the skin and flung it at him. She watched the leather sail through the air and land at his feet. Her skin was moist, as if she’d been the one swimming.

  A few minutes later he stood before her dressed in only his britches. He somehow looked bigger to her now. She gripped the feathers and pulled them from the turkey.

  “One of them feathers would look pretty in your hair.”

  “A feather?”

  “The Flathead women tie feathers at the end of their braids. Like this.” He gathered a few smaller feathers like a bouquet of flowers and held them to the end of her braid. His skin smelled clean. Droplets of water sparkled on the dark curling hairs covering his chest. His presence disturbed her more than his kiss. Her breathing came in short little pants.

  “Yes. Perhaps, I’ll try that.”

  She took the feathers from him. Her fingers brushed over his cool flesh. At last he moved away.

  This was ridiculous. She’d lived with this man for over a month and had never been so affected by his physical presence.

  But he’d shared his heart with her. He’d told her about his wife’s death and how it hurt him. Now she understood perfectly why he had come to the mountains. It explained why he was so reluctant to accept her into his life. She was a reminder of a woman he’d loved and lost. She was another chance to suffer pain. The realization made him dearer to her. He touched her spirit. Now his physical presence drew her body.

  She could not believe her battered heart stirred again, not after so much pain. But here she was feeling that strong desire to touch and hold. Somehow her heart was ready. Her mind held back. The pain was too fresh. She couldn’t go through that kind of suffering again. Not again.

  Chapter Eight

  Nash could sit his horse. He announced they would move camp again. They followed the stream to the Musselshell. The main channel forked into three branches.