Winter Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  His blue eyes held her. There were so many ways to die here.

  “Woo-waugh!” he hollered, and hit his hand on his knee. “That was some ride!”

  She looked at him, astonished. “Thomas, you enjoyed that?”

  “I always enjoy living over dying, Delia.” He ran a hand through his long wet hair. “Damn, I lost my hat. Come on, we got to get this gear dried or my guns will rust.”

  “My journal!” She pulled the waterlogged skins aside to retrieve her bags. Reaching inside, she pulled the journal free. It was still tied tightly in the mink-oiled buckskin. Frantically she pulled at the binding cord. It fell away and the package came open. Not a drop of water fell from within.

  “Oh, look! It’s dry.” She stopped herself from cradling the book against her wet bosom.

  “That’s more than I can say for us. Come on.”

  Together they dragged the remains of their boat up the bank. They stopped at a grassy knoll surrounded by more cliffs, rising ten feet above them. Judging from the amount of driftwood, she decided this area was prone to flood. There was no way out except up the sheer cliff or down the river.

  “I’ll get the wood,” she said.

  When she had finished stacking the logs and branches, she helped Thomas unpack the last of the supplies. The jerky bag was filled with water. His guns were wet, but his powder had stayed dry. She laid the jerky out on a stone and Thomas cleaned and oiled the guns.

  She went to the riverbank and dug a hole in the sand, then waited as the water seeped in from below. In a few minutes she filled the water skin with clear liquid.

  Back at the fire she stared at Thomas, sitting barefoot and shirtless, examining the boat. His battered shoulder was already beginning to scab. All their reserve clothing was draped over rocks and bushes.

  He shrugged. “They dry faster off than on.”

  She sat on the ground and pulled off her sodden moccasins, setting them by the fire.

  “How is the boat?” she asked.

  He ran a hand over the bottom. “Some of the frame is busted, small wonder. I don’t see any cuts, except for this one.” He popped a finger through a six-inch gash on the side.

  They’d have to walk. Delia looked up at the cliffs for a moment. They towered above them.

  He smiled. “Don’t worry, Delia. I can patch her.”

  “That’s what I was worried about.”

  He snorted and smiled up at her.

  “Don’t. The rest should be smooth sailing.”

  She sighed. “You said you had never run this river.”

  “Nobody has, but Bridger—well now, Bridger and us. The cliffs kept me from seeing the bad water, though I knew the rapids was there. Most of the rest of this river I’ve seen. I followed it up to the Yellowstone and crossed to the Musselshell. We’ll be all right.”

  “Really?”

  “I won’t lie to you, Delia.”

  No, he wouldn’t.

  “Let’s patch it then.”

  He drew out his awl and a horn cup holding the remains of the gray patch. While he punctured holes in the leather, she cut a piece to fit. The skin was so wet the work was easy and soon finished.

  He propped the frame on two stout branches so it sat nearly upright at the edge of the fire. She watched the smoke curl about the hide.

  “Will it shrink again?”

  “Sure will.”

  “How far do you think we came today?”

  He rubbed his chin and looked skyward as he considered. She took the opportunity to admire his physique. It was a mistake. Her blood began rushing, beginning a dull throbbing.

  “I reckon we been over fifty miles. That’s a third the distance. We won’t be going that fast from here out, though.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  He nodded. His eyes stared fixedly upon her. His eyes burned as they passed over the wet leather that molded to her like a second skin. Her body pulsed with anticipation. She smiled in welcome.

  He pulled his gaze away. She watched him squeeze his hands into fists.

  “Best have something to eat. We have a long day, tomorrow.”

  Suddenly her wet buckskin was cold as the river. She shivered. He brought her to a boil with a glance and then threw ice water on her. Why?

  She looked at his shoulder. Was it his injury? She hoped that was the reason. Needles of doubt pricked at her.

  She stumbled toward her clothing drying over brush. Checking them was an excuse to leave his side. He was battered and her shoulder throbbed. They needed rest and nourishment, of course they did. Her fingers tested the blue dress. Rivulets of water ran from the sodden cotton fabric. When had she worn this last? It seemed like a hundred long years ago.

  She moved to the second doeskin dress. This one he’d made for her, showing her how. At the time she had thought it indecent, showing far too much leg. She had made britches, now discarded in the warm days of summer. He’d been right about its practicality. But if he had wanted her in utilitarian clothing, why had he sewn elk teeth across the bodice? She smiled. This was dryer than the one she wore. She pulled it from the shrubs and stepped behind them, quickly exchanging the garments.

  He was smoking his pipe when she returned. Somehow his tobacco, too, had stayed dry. She noticed the clay stem was broken. This didn’t stop him from puffing on the ragged edge. She drew out her journal and began to record their latest adventures.

  When she had finished, she flipped back through the pages, but only as far as the day she met Nash. Oh, what a rascal she’d thought him then, a scoundrel with a black heart. How had she ever thought it? She read the angry words she’d written after he’d read her journal and smiled. It did not seem so important now. Here was the bear attack. She’d been sure he’d die that day. Her heart sped up at the vivid memories. He had saved her life so many times. When she reached the writings about the Crow village, she stopped. Lifting her eyes from the page, she found him studying her silently across the fire. She held his gaze.

  “Would you like to hear some of our adventures?”

  His eyebrows lifted and he puffed upon his pipe a moment longer then lowered his hand and nodded.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nash loved the sound of her voice. Her words were almost a song, the way she ran them all together. He’d never heard such a tale. This was different than the lies told by men around the camp, each trying to outdo the other.

  Her words were real. He could see the Crow camp through her eyes. And by the way she described their escape from the Blackfoot warriors, he could feel her terror. He would never have thought of calling that little crack in the rock the outer circle of hell. But she was right. Falling into their hiding place did seem like descending into hell. She told of her feelings, too. All the raw fear and heart-pounding adventure of that wild river ride was there.

  This was the next best thing to holding her in his arms. He was thankful she shared her words with him. After what he’d done, he couldn’t see why she would.

  She closed the book. He lifted his gaze from the firelight. The sun had set and the stars were out. He hadn’t seen it turn, so caught up he’d been in her tale.

  “That was something,” he said. “I never heard anyone tell a story like you just done. That was really something.”

  Her smile raised a dull ache in his chest as if there was an empty spot there.

  He resisted the urge to move to her. He had nothing to offer now. Somehow he had let that detail slip his mind and he’d bedded her, right there on the riverbank, next to the bull boat. He would not forget again. He had no right now.

  “Why? You were there, you know exactly what happened,” she said.

  “But I never could tell it like you done. I could hear the river roar again. You got a gift.”

  He gripped the log with both hands holding him in place as if to keep in an imaginary boat.

  “Is that your stomach?” she asked.

  The growling from within came again.

  “Guess so.�
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  “Well, we’d better have some of that jerky, before you starve to death.”

  That night they lay under the stars. She nestled against his side. He allowed himself the luxury of holding her in his arms. If only there was a way for them. But he knew the world was very cruel to those without money or property. He had neither.

  In the morning Nash lashed more green willow over the cracked pieces. The dry skin now fit tightly over the frame. He tested the boat in shallow water. The patch held.

  “All aboard,” he called.

  Together they loaded their packs and the guns, now wrapped in oilskin. He held her small hand until she sat, and then passed her a new paddle.

  “Try and hold on to that one.”

  She grinned. “Aye, aye, Captain.” Her mock salute brought a smile.

  One quick push and they were river-bound once more. The current grabbed them immediately. His blood surged in rhythm with the rushing water. He cut his paddle behind the boat, making a rudder to guide their course.

  Delia clutched both sides of the bow until her knuckles turned white. After the ride they’d had yesterday, he was amazed she got in the boat at all.

  The morning sped by with the swift river. By midday he reckoned that they’d gone another thirty miles. The water flowed calmly and so he paddled steadily. Delia stroked along with him for much of the afternoon, finally giving up and having a long drink from the water skin. She was strong now and a better paddler than many men he’d seen.

  “How is your shoulder?” he asked.

  “It burns a bit.”

  He nodded, giving his own shoulder a tentative shrug.

  They passed many tributaries leading from the mountains. Soon he’d have to pick one and they’d be on their feet once more. They had only fifty miles or so to travel, as the crow flies. He looked at the Wind River Range to the right. For them it would be straight up and straight down before they saw the Green River. Fifty miles would seem like a hundred.

  “Don’t you ever get tired?” Her voice sounded irritated.

  He smiled. Her hair curled in small ringlets all about her face. Her nose was pink.

  “You need a hat.”

  “I’m not an English gentleman. I don’t want to wear a beaver on my head.”

  “Then I’ll make you one of elk.”

  Her fingers felt the part in her hair. She frowned.

  He confirmed her suspicions. “It’s burned.”

  She rummaged in her bag and pulled a sad scrap of white cotton from within. This she folded into a triangle and tied it over her head pulling the peak out enough to shade her nose.

  “I haven’t burned before,” she said.

  “We’ve been under cover most days.”

  The smell of wood smoke alerted him. He looked about for the source. Up ahead on the left bank across from a large tributary, he saw a grouping of tepees. He swung their boat toward the opposite shore.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, and then turned forward. He watched her lower her profile and reach for the guns.

  “They’re Nez Percé. I don’t reckon we’ll need the guns.”

  He paddled along until the woman at the river noticed their approach and sounded the alarm. Minutes later the warriors lined the bank.

  He held the boat across from the village, waiting.

  “Take off your kerchief, Delia, let them see your hair.” She dragged the cloth away and knelt in the bow. He listened to a murmur run through the men. “Wave the cloth.”

  She waved the white cloth above her head. He raised his open hand in greeting. One man came down to the bank and raised his hand in salute.

  Nash paddled toward them.

  A warrior helped Delia out of the boat. He lifted her braid then let it fall back to her shoulder. Her blond hair always caused a stir. Who could blame them? Hair the color of cornsilk was rare anywhere he’d been, as well.

  A wild cry slit the air, followed by the answering calls of many women. Delia turned a worried eye to him.

  “That’s a kind of welcome,” Nash assured.

  Men led them up the bank. Nash passed by the Indians’ horses, guarded by young boys. Damn, he wished he had something to trade. An awl and a few beads would get them a horse. But that all had gone with the Blackfoot, damn them.

  Delia graciously accepted a platter of food. Nash explained in sign they were heading over the mountains. He was led to believe through sign that many broad hats, their sign for trappers, passed over recently.

  They confirmed to him that he should follow the North Fork and cross the flatland to the Green River where the broad hats gathered.

  “How far?” asked Delia, between bits of the fat cow she ate.

  “Less than fifty miles, over those.” He pointed to the Wind River Range far beyond the bank.

  “That looks like a tough trail to walk.”

  He nodded. “Walking and hunting, it will take us over ten days.”

  “Will they still be there?”

  “I think so.” Someone would. The fur companies would remain along with a few trappers who stayed until the whiskey or money ran out, then they’d leave in debt for another season.

  “Will these people trade for horses?” she asked.

  “I got nothing to trade, except my revolver and shotgun and I’ll be damned first.”

  She reached into her personal bag and pulled out a tortoiseshell case, inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  He’d forgotten that. She’d told him once that it was a sewing case from her great-aunt. It had great value in both worlds. He wouldn’t let her give it up. It was a precious reminder of her life in America.

  “Put it away,” he said.

  But already the Indians gathered around. She held up the case. The men leaned in to look.

  “Delia.”

  She set her teeth like a horse with the bit. “Thomas, I don’t want to walk to the Rendezvous.”

  “That’s yours, Delia, and no one else’s.”

  She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Things aren’t important, Thomas, people are.”

  “And horses,” he added.

  She smiled and flipped open the case, revealing the silver-handled embroidery scissors, which she demonstrated on a bit of cloth. Next she displayed a crochet hook, tortoiseshell comb, ivory needle case and red velvet pincushion.

  The men gasped in amazement. She withdrew the comb and began to brush out her braid for the last time. The realization made him clench his jaw as impotent anger seethed in his blood.

  Next, she trimmed her fingernails and opened the needle case, withdrawing one slim needle. She used the black thread and created a chain stitch in the shape of a flower on the kerchief and then ran a blanket stitch along the edge.

  A man stepped forward with an armful of beaver skins and lay them at her feet. She shook her head and pointed to the horses. She held up two slim fingers. Within minutes two horses were led before them.

  “Are these sound?” she asked him.

  “Delia, you don’t have to give up your case. We’ll make it.” They might. Being on foot placed them at a serious disadvantage. Wildcats, Indians, grizzlies—they needed the horses. She stared at him. He rose and inspected the Appaloosa and then the bay. “They’ll do.”

  She took the contents out of the case and laid it on the cloth. There was a rumble through the group. The man before her frowned and shook his head. He held up one finger. She shook her head as well and pointed to the furs. There was a long, silent moment as the two faced off. The brave nodded, scooping up the case and contents before Delia could change her mind.

  “There now.” She brushed the remains of a dried chokecherry from her skirt. “We have our horses.”

  He felt a cloud settle over him. This was worse than having nothing. Now he was in debt.

  Nash managed to get some traveling provisions in exchange for their boat. The dried ground buffalo mixed with pounded dried fruit and fat made a meal the size of a currant bun.

  The
new owner of the boat rode across the river with them as the horses swam behind on long leads. Their boat mate untied the wet animals and handed the lead to Nash. They watched the man climb back into the boat and push off, the currents pulling him farther downstream.

  They rode along the river flats for much of the afternoon. He noticed the days were shorter. Soon there would be frost. With each hoofbeat on the grass, he drifted further into despair. How would he ever live without her? That’s not what matters, focus on seeing her safe and headed back East. He’d been a damned fool to think he’d ever have her. Hadn’t he learned the last time that love and life are temporary?

  “Thomas?”

  He swiveled about to look back at her. She sat astride the Appaloosa, her tan legs dangling on either side of the creature’s chest.

  His eyebrows rose in a silent question.

  “I was just thinking—we need to make some plans.” He had hoped to get her to the Rendezvous before telling her. “We don’t have enough furs to make much money. What will we do?”

  She still had hope. His had died when he cut loose the packhorse.

  “I’m going to sign on with a trapping outfit.”

  “You are?”

  The confusion in her expression ripped into him like the steel jaws of a trap. He swung back to face the trail. She rode up alongside him as if seeing his face would explain everything.

  “Thomas, you said those contracts are for over a year.”

  “It’s a three-year stint.”

  “But—but what about us?”

  He stopped his horse and met her gaze. Her eyes looked huge in her pale face.

  “There is no us.”

  Chapter Twenty

  He would leave her.

  Delia stared into his cold eyes. Certainty filled her as swiftly as the river water swamped a boat. He had his way with her and now he was leaving. Why buy the cow, when you can get the milk for free?

  No—not Thomas, she wouldn’t believe it. There was more.

  “But you love me,” she said.

  “That’s why I’m sending you East.”