by Jenna Kernan
Abandoned again, yet he was right before her. No—not again. She’d fight this time.
“You are not walking out on me.”
“Delia, I got nothing for you. I got no furs, no land, nothing. You are going back to America. God knows this is no place for you.”
“But we have horses and guns. We can start again.”
“No.”
“But why?” She reached out. Her fingers clung to his fringe of his sleeve.
He shook his head. “A million reasons. We got no traps, no scent, no ammunition. I need an outfit, not just a half-wild horse and a rifle.”
“We’ll get them.”
“With what, my good looks? Delia, I ain’t paid for last year’s traps yet. The only way I get more traps is to sign on with a fur company. Everything I catch will be theirs. If I’m lucky and live, I could wind up in debt to them. It’s easy enough when they charge a dollar and a half for a pound of coffee.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“You can’t. The outfit is up to thirty men, living wild, trapping one valley to the next.”
“What will I do, without you?” Her voice was tiny, as small as she felt.
“You’ve been saying it since the beginning. You don’t belong here.”
She thought her heart had died, dried, withered and fallen to dust long ago. But it was not so, for it bled again.
“You want me to go?”
“You won’t last another winter in these mountains, Delia. Winter’s hard and you know it better than most.”
She shuddered as she remembered the wolves at the door, the bone-chilling wind.
“So you send me away.”
He looked her in the eye and nodded.
“Yes.”
They plodded on and her heart kept beating. She glanced about, dazed. A bird flitted overhead. Far above an eagle soared, even as her life fell to ruins once more.
“I thought you loved me.”
“That’s why I’m sending you East. You deserve a husband who can take care of you proper. You deserve a home and pretty things.”
“I don’t want pretty things. I want you.” She heard her voice turn to the whine of a small child. Tears blurred her vision. “You offered to marry me.”
“Not no more. Not with my head down in shame, I won’t.”
“There must be a way.”
“There ain’t. Don’t you think I’ve gone over this again and again? There ain’t no other way. We lost everything back there. It’s finished.”
“But what will I do without you?”
“You’re a survivor—you said so yourself.”
“Not this time.” She dug her heels into the horse’s ribs. The animal gave a surprised lurch forward then sprang ahead of his mare.
She rode along before him, allowing the horse to find her own way. A rush of tears blurred her vision. She sniffed, wishing for the handkerchief she had traded to the Nez Percé. Buckskin had its uses, but the smoked, tanned leather was not absorbent.
Twelve months ago her husband walked over a hill and out of her life. Now Thomas meant to do the same thing. How could she stop him? She had opened her heart once more and this was her reward. Her throat burned. He hadn’t even asked her to wait. A needling awareness bristled in her belly. He did not ask because he knew he might not come back.
She had survived the mountains. That was better than many, but it wasn’t enough.
She was weary. Her body felt decades older than when she had come to this new territory, only a year ago. It took all her strength to merely stay her seat on the horse as she climbed the mountain trail. She didn’t realize her horse had stopped and was busy grabbing hanks of grass until Thomas rode past and grasped the single rein from her hand.
They crossed through the first gap late in the day. She could see that higher peaks lay beyond. Thomas stopped the horses. She heard the sound a moment after he did. The low huffing of a bear reached her ears.
Instantly, the ennui dissolved as her blood rushed through her veins. She glanced to the left to see low berry bushes covering the rocky flat. The mother grizzly fed ravenously on the berries beside a large cub. The bears had not seen them yet.
Thomas passed her the reins and motioned to the sharply descending trail. She nodded. Then he silently spurred his horse and she followed, charging down the hill. Behind her, she heard a roar of protest. She glanced back to see the grizzly charging after them.
She forced her eyes forward. The rocky trail slashed downward. If her horse fell, the bear would have them. The sound of panting came from immediately behind. Her horse flattened her ears and kicked.
Her mount lurched. She turned to see the great bear’s claws tangled in her mare’s tail. The horse screamed and raced forward, dragging the bear along for several feet. Sliding gravel skidded past her, hissing like a thousand snakes.
A well-placed hoof met the bear’s shoulder with a solid thud and they were free. Her heart beat in her throat as they careened down the mountain. She glanced back again and saw the bear retreating. Before her, Thomas sat motionless, his rifle aimed and ready.
He lowered the weapon now.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. That bear looked like a sleigh behind your horse.”
Her breathing came in frantic blasts. It took several minutes before she could speak.
“Without these horses, we’d be dead now, wouldn’t we?”
He nodded.
“Hello the camp!”
Delia startled at the unexpected call.
“Hello,” Nash replied.
Out of the darkness stepped two trappers, leading their horses.
“I told you, Jacob. That’s a white woman.” She looked at the man, noticing his tobacco-stained beard, hooked nose and wide-brimmed hat. She could see little else. She reached for the shotgun, closing her finger around the cold metal trigger. “Howdy, I’m Gabe Laster. This here’s Jacob Black. Mind if we join you?”
She looked at Nash. He sat relaxed beside the fire with his Hawkins across his lap.
“We got coffee,” Jacob said. She noted the man’s girth. He looked like a bear with his big barrel chest and rounded belly. His hair and wiry beard were dark.
Nash nodded. She released the trigger and smiled.
“Of course, you’re welcome,” Delia said.
“Did you hear that, we’re welcome?” Jacob pushed back his hat and leaned forward, peering at her.
Cordelia glanced at Nash but he remained silent and watchful so she made introductions. “This is Mr. Thomas Nash and I am Mrs. Cordelia Channing.”
Jacob gaped. “I can’t believe my eyes. I ain’t see a woman, a white woman that is, for three years.”
“Is there anything we can do for you? Would you like coffee?” Gabe stepped between her and Jacob, momentarily gaining the upper hand. He was thin by comparison to his partner, all muscle and tendon. “We got sugar.”
She laughed and slid the shotgun back into its sheath. These two acted as if she were some kind of royalty.
“Coffee would be lovely.”
“Did you hear that, Jacob? Lovely. Get the pot.”
“You get it!”
The men faced off silently for a moment. Gabe backed down, disappearing into the night. He returned in record time carrying a tin coffeepot, sack of coffee and brown cone of sugar.
Jacob ground the beans on a flat rock with the butt of his butcher knife.
“I’m afraid we don’t have any cups,” she said.
Gabe disappeared again and returned with two tin and two horn cups.
“Do you like sugar?” he asked.
“I hardly remember, it’s been so long.” She laughed.
Jacob threw the ground coffee into the pot already warming on the coals. Carefully Gabe shaved off slivers of sugar into each cup.
The aroma of coffee filled her with memories of civilization. Soon she would have coffee and tea, but she would lose Nash.
“Are you headed to the Rendezvous?” Jacob seemed to have j
ust remembered that Nash was there and took his eyes off her for a moment to ask the question.
“Yup,” said Nash.
What was wrong with him? He was more talkative with the Indians than his own people.
“I told you, we shoulda stayed.” Gabe’s voice came out as a whine.
“Any longer and we’d have lost everything we made,” Jacob said.
“Oh, but a woman. Isn’t she fine?”
Jacob turned to Nash again. “Most men wouldn’t bring a wife into such country. You two missionaries?”
“She is,” he said. “But she ain’t my wife.”
The trappers stared at each other. Jacob’s mouth made a silent little O. Gabe stroked his beard for a moment.
“We got to go back,” Gabe said.
Nash waved his tin cup at the fire.
“Coffee’s burning,” he said.
Jacob grabbed at the handle and scorched his hand. Gabe used the hem of his long shirt to pull the pot to safety, then poured her a cup, stirring in the sugar with a battered horn spoon.
He held out the cup with both hands like an offering. “Is your husband waiting at the Rendezvous?”
“My husband passed away last fall.” She saw him trying to keep the glee from his expression. A smile quirked his thick mustache.
“That’s a real shame.”
“A woman shouldn’t be without a man out here.”
“She ain’t without a man,” Nash said. “I just ain’t married her.”
Delia felt her face burn with shame. He made her sound like his mistress. She dropped her eyes to the fire as she realized she was just that. Now these men knew she was a fallen woman. She couldn’t face them.
“Of course she is. But maybe she might like to have a change.”
Delia lifted the coffee to her lips. The brew tasted like sweetened ash. How appropriate, she thought.
“She don’t,” growled Nash.
“Mind your manners, Gabriel,” Jacob said.
Gabe had the decency to look contrite. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just such a wonder to see you here. You remind me of home.”
“It’s good to meet you, as well. I thank you for the coffee.”
Her words seemed to remind him of the pot he clutched, and he poured three more cups, offering them to Nash and his partner. He took a long drink and spit the liquid on the fire.
“It’s burned! God, awful! Don’t drink that, Miss Delia. We’ll make some more.”
“How far to the Rendezvous?” asked Nash.
“Took us two days to get here. That’s mostly uphill. I’d say you could make her in one.”
The next morning, they left the trappers arguing by the fire about whether to return to the Rendezvous.
By full light, they were over the mountain and on the final downhill climb. The trail was well-worn by the coming of many men and horses. Nash saw evidence of their camps all around.
He expected Delia to cause a stir at the Rendezvous. He just hadn’t anticipated his response. His gut felt as if someone pumped him full of buckshot. I wonder if I can get through this without killing somebody?
Well, he’d have to find someone to take her East, wouldn’t he? He needed a reliable man, well equipped and honorable. He shook his head. This was going to be hard.
Delia spent the morning wearing an unchanging somber expression. Only her amber eyes flashed the fire his words ignited within her. She answered him in a clipped tone he found irritating as grit in cornmeal.
From this slope, he could see the Green River coiling through the grassy plains like a sleeping serpent. Far off, the smoke of many fires rose from the trees. They’d make camp by dark.
He passed her a leg from the rabbit he had roasted last night. She refused it. He hated the cold shoulder she showed him.
Insects buzzed as they crossed the river flats, following the winding curves. As the afternoon wore on the bullfrogs along the banks began to croak. At one time he would have enjoyed their song. Now it only reminded him they were near the Rendezvous, nearer to the end of his time with her. He didn’t want to spend his last moments with her solemn silence.
“Delia, I’m only doing what’s best for you.”
“You have no idea what is best for me.”
“Then why don’t you tell me?”
“What’s best is for a man and woman who love each other to marry and live together, in good times and bad.”
“I can’t marry you.”
“So you’ve said.”
He got off his horse and stood beside her, resisting the urge to cling to her long leg.
“I can’t ask you to wait. You know the dangers. I’ll do all I can, but it wouldn’t be fair.”
“Thomas, if you love me, you’ll find another way.”
He met her level gaze, feeling the heat from her amber eyes. She was magnificent, tanned and strong. She looked like a savage queen.
“I’m sorry, Delia.”
“I’m sorry as well.”
He mounted up and they set off again. Several miles downriver, he caught wind of the campfires. Next he spotted the smoke again, and finally the low buzz of many men reached his ears.
“That you, Tuck?”
Nash turned toward the familiar voice. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Milt?” There was his old trapping partner, sitting astride the prettiest dappled gray he’d ever seen. He noticed the fat deer tied to the animal’s rump. Both men dismounted. Nash frowned to see Milt still favoring his leg, as if it pained him.
“Well, I’d about given you up for dead.” Milt laughed, hugging him fiercely for a moment. Nash thumped his back several times. “Where’s your plew?”
Nash glanced at his moccasins.
“Lost.”
“Oh, sorry to hear it, Tuck, real sorry. But look here. This looks much more interesting.” He regarded Delia intently.
“Milton Sublette, this is Delia Channing.”
“It’s a pleasure.” He removed his greasy hat, showing matted hair. Then he turned to Nash. “Your wife?”
“No. I’m just getting her back to her people.”
“Then you’re a fool.” Now he faced Delia. “It just so happens, Miss Channing, I’m headed back East at the end of the Rendezvous. I got to see a doctor about this damn foot. Oh, sorry, ma’am. I’m going to St. Louis. You’re welcome along.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sublette. I may take you up on that. But it’s Mrs. Channing.”
“Oh, I see. Where is your husband then?”
Nash spoke up. “He died last fall. Flathead brought Delia to me in June. She survived the winter alone in the foothills of the Bull Mountains.”
Sublette’s jaw dropped open. He stared at her for a long moment. “I’ve heard of you.”
“Have you any word of the wagon train?”
“Can’t say I do. We’ll ask in camp. There’s over three hundred men. Someone must know something.”
Nash watched him struggle to mount and offered him a leg up. He accepted it with a gruff word of thanks.
“Why do you call him Tuck, Mr. Sublette?” asked Delia.
“Oh that’s a story in itself. Best wait until you’re settled and I’ll be glad to swap a tale or two with you.”
“Most of which will be lies,” Nash said.
“Just the same, I’d like to hear,” Delia said.
“Well, ride beside me, I’ll tell you now,” said Sublette.
The trail was only wide enough for two horses. Delia glanced at Nash. He didn’t try to stop her, though he wanted to. Realization gnawed at him like a beaver at green wood. Soon he’d send her away. The thought made him want to reach out and drag her onto his horse.
He waited for her to decide.
She gave Sublette an apologetic smile. “I think I’ll ride with my partner.”
Chapter Twenty-One
A few hundred yards upriver they met Mr. Sublette’s current partner, a man named Joseph Meeker. Delia liked him immediately. He had an honest
face and a gift with words.
Nash gave up his place beside her on the trail, riding next to Mr. Sublette and allowing Mr. Meeker to accompany her to the Rendezvous.
“Old Tuck’s been hiding you all summer, the dog. Can’t say as I blame him. Where you been trapping?”
“North along the Musselshell and the Three Forks,” she said.
“Three Forks! Damn fool.” He pivoted to face Nash. “You idiot, what are you doing bringing a woman trapping in Blackfoot country?”
“I didn’t bring her. I found her there.”
“She was wintering in the Bull Mountains,” Sublette added.
Meeker rested a hand on his horse’s rump and leaned farther out over the back of his saddle.
“Wintering there? In Blackfoot territory?” He spun to face her again. “Why?”
“Our wheel broke and we were separated from the wagon train.”
“Where bound?”
“Oregon. We were missionaries. John thought we’d catch up.”
“But you didn’t,” Meeker said.
“No. My husband went hunting one fall day and did not return. I found his remains two weeks later.” She glanced away from his piercing brown eyes. “Then the snows came. Well, that’s all, really.”
“That’s all? You survived a winter alone in Blackfoot country and that’s all? You must be the luckiest woman alive, or the smartest. What did you eat? You hunt for game?”
“I had no gun. So I butchered the oxen.”
“See any wolves?”
“Many.” She couldn’t quite repress the shudder.
“Stay in the wagon?”
“No, I built a shelter from cottonwood, mud and straw.”
He whistled. “Nash find you, did he?”
“No. In the spring, two Indians appeared in the meadow.”
He turned back to Nash.
“Blackfoot?” he asked.
“Flathead,” Nash said.
Meeker faced her again. “Damn lucky. Blackfoot would have lifted your scalp. You should have shot them, just to be safe. Oh, you had no gun. Lucky again.”
“Yes, well, they brought me to Mr. Nash.”
“When?”
“I recorded the date as May fourteenth.”
“Recorded? You write?”
“Yes, I kept a journal.”
