Courting Morrow Little: A Novel Read online

  "Three, four months:"

  She kept her eyes on the restive water. "Don't you miss home when you're away?"

  He leaned down and picked up a stone, skimming it over the river's surface. "My mother died when I was a boy. Since then no particular place has seemed like home to me:"

  "Pa told me she was a captive"

  He nodded. "She was taken as a girl along the Clinch River in Virginia:"

  She hesitated, a hundred questions in her head and heart. "What was she like?"

  He grew thoughtful. "I remember her hair was yellow and she had eyes like yours'

  Yellow hair. Blue eyes. Precious little to hold on to, she thought.

  "She taught me the white words ... English"

  "What else do you remember?"

  "Very little. The Shawnee don't speak of the dead"

  Nor does my father, she almost said. She studied the strong, angular line of his jaw and the heavy fringe of his lashes as he looked down at the water. Did he ache to know more about his mother, just as she did, even though it was denied him? Did he feel there was a part of his life yawning empty, needing to be filled? She watched as he released another stone across the river's surface, face pensive.

  I remember she'd talk to God with her hands folded. Sometimes she'd take my hands in hers, and together we'd pray."

  She took the words in, a bit disbelieving.

  "She called God her Father, like your father does"

  Her voice softened. "What happened to her?"

  "She died of a fever when I was a boy"

  The poignancy of his tone touched her. "You must miss her"

  He shrugged slightly. "I have my father ... others. It's enough for now"

  For now. When, she wondered, would it cease to be enough? Would he ever want a wife, children? A home of his own? Being a half blood, what would he choose? The white way or the Indian? She shut the thought away, a sudden frustration overlaying her sadness. Whoever he was, or chose to be, he came and went as he pleased, revealing little, while their lives had been laid bare to him from the very beginning in all their dullness and simplicity.

  I know so little about you, she said suddenly.

  "What do you want to know?"

  Her forehead furrowed. "I .." She swallowed and looked at the ground. "Why do you keep coming back here?"

  "Your father asks me to come. And your cabin sits near the path I often travel:"

  Though he hadn't said the name of it, she knew. The Warrior's Path. It cut through the heart of the Red River, across their very land. Perhaps that's why the Shawnee had done what they'd done that summer's day. Perhaps a settler's cabin was a desecration to them ...

  "I know you don't like my coming, he said, eyes on the river again. "And I don't blame you"

  She shifted uncomfortably on the rain-slicked rock, his heartfelt question at the gravesite returning to her in a poignant rush. "I-I know you mean us no harm. But it seems dangerous for you. Your father."

  "It's no more dangerous here than anywhere else."

  "Aren't you still a British scout?"

  "Not any longer" He sat beside her again, the damp linen of his shirt sagging against his broad shoulders, his buckskin leggings darkening to black. "I've begun to see that the Redcoats are using the Shawnee as a weapon to fight the Americans. And my father's people are suffering because of it. Their only hope is to break from the British and make peace with the Americans. Try to honor the treaty terms and hold on to their lands"

  She thought of all she'd overheard Joe and Pa discuss of late, of McKie and his men, and her forehead furrowed. "But there are settlers-and soldiers-who violate the treaties being made at Fort Pitt"

  He nodded. `And there are Shawnee who do the same by raiding the settlements."

  "Is that why you're always on the move? Trying to keep the peace?"

  "I travel to various tribes and frontier forts, sometimes acting as courier. Mostly I serve as interpreter and mediator for negotiations between the Shawnee and the British and Americans"

  She shuddered, thinking he was in the very heart of the danger. She'd not wanted to talk war, yet here she was, trying to make sense of the turmoil swirling around them. Before she could mind her tongue, she said in a little rush, "I hope you stay away from Red River Station"

  He turned thoughtful eyes on her, startling her with their intensity. "I'm well aware of the commander there. And I give that post wide berth"

  She felt an inexplicable rush of relief at the words. 'Twas just as Pa had told her. He was, for better or worse, far more knowledgeable about McKie than they. "You're very brave to do what you do;' she said quietly. "Or very foolish"

  "Perhaps a bit of both." His eyes flickered over her through a haze of cold rain, his voice edged with concern. "You need to go back to the cabin. You're shaking"

  But her trembling had less to do with the chill than her tumult of emotions. She opened her mouth to inquire why he'd asked for her forgiveness at the gravesites, but the words slipped away. Breathless, she stood, wanting to return to the cabin and the warmth of the hearth. She nearly fell on the slippery rocks lining the river's edge, but he caught her, steadying her with a hard hand all the way up the muddy trail and into the clearing. Pa was waiting on the porch with Surrounded, and the horses were now ready to go south. 'Twas a dismal night for travel, she thought. Dismal and dangerous.

  Turning to Red Shirt, she said suddenly, "God be with you"

  He let go of her arm, a telling surprise in his eyes. But it failed to match the astonishment she herself felt. For a fleeting moment he'd seemed almost like a friend. She'd seen him in a new light ... had looked past his Indianness and nearly forgotten who he was.

  And that she must never do again.

  "We need to pray, Morrow," Pa said, surprising her with his abruptness.

  Chilled, she stood by the hearth's fire as close as she dared without singeing her wool skirts, while he lingered at the table. "Pray for what, Pa?"

  "While you were at the river, Surrounded told me the British and Indians are readying to strike the settlements again if McKie and his men cross the Ohio like they plan." His face assumed a gravity she'd rarely seen. "He wants Red Shirt to resume working for the British. Apparently he's the Redcoats' pick as lead scout and liaison. Even General Hamilton has asked for him by name."

  "General Hamilton?" She spoke the name with a sort of revulsion. Hair-buyer Hamilton? The British commander who was goading the Shawnee into fighting their battles for them and paying dearly for settlement scalps?

  "I'm afraid Surrounded expects-even demands-his son to do as he bids:"

  "But Red Shirt doesn't want to," she surmised. Although she'd overheard only the barest scraps of their private conversations, she'd gathered all was not well between Surrounded and his son.

  "Red Shirt has come of age and must decide which road he will take. His heart is with the Shawnee, and he's served with their British allies in the past, but his white blood makes him reluctant to go against his mother's people. He's not made for war, he says, though he's fought many a white man already."

  Had he? She'd suspected as much, but hearing it from Pa's own lips seemed to magnify her fears. "Were they with the war party that burned Hinkley's Station?"

  He shook his head. "Surrounded says no, and I believe him. But he's going to join the fight to keep McKie out of the middle ground if it comes to that:"

  She struggled to stay calm, sensing they were being drawn deeper into a conflict they'd best stay clear of, and knotted her hands in her lap. "How should we pray, then?"

  He set his pipe aside. "Let's pray that McKie and his men will abide by the latest treaty and keep to this side of the Ohio River, and Surrounded will see that peace is preferable to warespecially war with white men who seem to have no end, as Red Shirt says:"

  They joined hands across the table and bowed their heads. But as was so often the case, Morrow could not shape her wayward thoughts into any sort of petition. The Shawnee had simply take
n too much. She could only say, "Amen"

  Soon a heavy frost touched the land, and the time for singing school was at hand. Morrow sat beside a shivering Jemima, cupping a candle between her cold fingers. Blasts of bitter air swept through the loopholes in the thick blockhouse walls, and the room remained frigid despite the fire that greedily licked big burls of seasoned oak. She felt nearly numb beneath her scarlet cape, though Lizzy's fine kettle of soup warmed her insides during the lull between the Sabbath service and singing school.

  She listened halfheartedly to Jemima's idle chatter as she relayed all the happenings Morrow had missed being absent from the fort. Jemima recounted courtships and illnesses and heartbreaks with such relish that she paused for breath only when the blockhouse door swung open to admit another member of the choir.

  "Why, looks like the whole army's here, Jemima whispered with satisfaction as the rows behind them filled. She looked askance at Morrow. "Major McKie's back from his latest foray just in time. Might that have something to do with you?"

  Unable to answer, Morrow looked at Pa as he stood at the front of the room and readied for the singing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Major McKie turn in her row to sit beside her. He was agonizingly near, so close that one wool-clad knee pressed against her cape. She gave a slight nod of acknowledgment but couldn't-wouldn't-look at him.

  Jemima whispered a trifle loudly, "I hear the major has a mighty fine voice"

  But Morrow hardly heard her, eyes on Pa. Behind the sturdy pulpit, he seemed shrunken, a shadow of the man he'd been in years past. Did anyone else notice-or care? In one gloved hand he clasped a clean linen handkerchief, not yet soiled with specks of blood. She looked down at her gloved hands, fighting fresh alarm.

  He'll not be here another winter.

  The realization took hold of her and seemed to shake her. As Pa tapped the tuning fork on the podium, then set it down on its stem to give a starting note, all that surfaced in her throat was a hard knot. If he died, what then? What was life without him?

  The sweet strains of "Baloo Lammy" echoed around her, but she couldn't sing, nor could Pa for coughing. She opened her mouth to join in-once ... twice ... a third time. Heat pricked her neck and face, and she felt McKie's eyes on her as she struggled to start. But Jemima's soprano more than made up for her lack, and the major, though she hated to admit it, had as fine a voice as she'd ever heard. Robust. Perfectly pitched. Blending beautifully with Jemima's own. Morrow longed to follow along, but today her throat clenched tight as a fist as she watched Pa struggle to sing and pretend that nothing was the matter, perhaps for her benefit.

  Before the music ended, she was on her feet, scooting past Jemima's bulk to turn out of her row. Head down, her profile hidden by the generous brim of her bonnet, she nevertheless noticed Robbie Clay seated on a bench by the door, eyes on her as she exited. Frantic he or McKie might follow, she headed toward the necessary at the other end of the common. A corral full of horses, mostly the Virginians, nickered as she passed. The sudden thud of a cabin door sent her scurrying into the narrow space behind the nearest wall.

  "Morrow, is that you?"

  Lizzy? The relief she felt was beyond measure. Her friend squeezed in beside her, slowed by her expanding waist. "I saw you come out of the blockhouse. I thought you'd be glad to start singin' again:'

  "I've no heart for it today," Morrow said.

  "It's your pa, ain't it?" Lizzy's voice faded to a whisper. "I noticed he seemed poorly. At noon he hardly ate-couldn't for coughin"

  "Oh, Lizzy, I feel lost. Pa's so sick, and my prayers go unanswered. There's no medicine to ease him. Even Aunt Sally has given up"

  Lizzy moved nearer, voice soothing. "I remember when Ma took sick right before I met Abe. Seein' her so ill, bein' unable to help her, was the hardest thing I've ever known. But God was with me helpin' me to bear it. He brought Abe alongside me when I thought nothin' could ease the hurt of it."

  "I know God is with me, Lizzy. But there's no Abe for me, and I don't know if there ever will be"

  "Morrow," she said, a new firmness in her tone, "there's a dozen men in the settlement who'd marry you tomorrow if you'd just look their way. But that's the trouble-you won't"

  "With Pa so sick, I can't think of such things. Besides, being a spinster doesn't scare me. Perhaps I could earn a living sewing-

  "Here?"

  "In the city. Aunt Etta's shop .."

  Lizzy shook her head. "You were little more than a slave there, sewin' night and day for those wealthy ladies. Would you trade all this"-she gestured to the far-flung stars and wide-open space behind their hiding place-"for the stench of the city? Is that what you want?"

  "No" Her answer was flat, emphatic.

  "Morrow, listen to good sense. You need to be thinkin' of what will make your pa rest easy. He's worried about leavin' you alone, surely. If he knew you were goin' to be taken care of, have a secure future, he could go in peace."

  "But-"

  "Now, we can rule out McKie. And I know you ain't fond of Lysander. But Robbie Clay is a right admirable man, and I've seen the way he watches you. He's got no bad habits to speak of, except bein' a bit afraid of the major'

  Morrow listened halfheartedly, unable to tell her the true root of her turmoil. Lately she'd begun to feel she was living a sort of double life. The Morrow who came to the fort on the Sabbath was no longer the one who lived at the Red River with secrets she couldn't share. She needed a friend to reveal all that was on her heart, but the risk was too great. All she could utter was, "You'd best go inside, Lizzy. You shouldn't be out in the chill with a baby coming"

  "Promise me, Lizzy said, squeezing her arm. "Promise me you'll think on it."

  Morrow nodded and watched her go, wanting to call her back. A new heaviness weighted her as Lizzy left. She had little recourse but to return to the blockhouse, for there was nowhere else to go. Pa fixed a wary eye on her when she entered, as if trying to make sense of her unexplained absence. She could see he was merely mouthing the words to the song being sung. His rich baritone was missing but hardly needed; all she heard was Major McKie and the heavy drone of soldiers making a travesty of "0 Tannenbaum' Even Jemima's piercing soprano was smothered by the swell of masculine voices.

  Resuming her place on the bench, Morrow kept a respectful distance from McKie. His tricorn hat with its fancy cockade sat between them, resting atop pristine leather gloves. But it was more than this that divided them. The debacle at Fort Randolph pushed them apart, hurtful to her in ways she couldn't fathom. What evil was he planning next, she wondered? How could men do such things in the sight of God?

  Pa was looking at them, his face cast in shadows. What, she thought numbly, did he think of McKie sitting beside her as if he had some sort of proprietary right to her? If she did change her mind and act on Lizzy's urgings, McKie barred the way. No man would approach her while he stood guard, certainly not Robbie Clay.

  When the closing hymn was sung, the blockhouse seemed to fill with a resounding silence. Jemima got to her feet, smiling at the courting couples and soldiers on the bench behind them, but McKie's eyes were fixed on Morrow.

  "Miss Little, the major began, putting on his hat, "I would ask you to walk about with me if the weather wasn't so chill. Perhaps another day"

  "Yes, another day," she echoed, feeling caught in a lie. "I must go ... my father .."

  The sound of coughing was a welcome interruption, and she hurried outside toward the waiting wagon, relieved when McKie was detained by some settlement men. She laced her arm through Pa's, buoyed by a sweet feeling of deliverance.

  He looked down at her, a telling concern in their depths. "Where'd you disappear to, Daughter?"

  "I needed some room, Pa, she said quietly.

  "McKie's crowding you a bit, I suppose"

  She looked over her shoulder to make sure they were alone. "Something like that"

  He drew her closer in a sort of wordless understanding, and her composure nearly crumbled again
. She didn't dare tell him it was his own deathly appearance that sent her stumbling out the blockhouse door.

  "Remember, Morrow," he said, a trace of wistfulness in his tone, "when you meet the man you want to be with for life, you'll want to run to him and not away from him."

  The heartfelt words touched her. Is that how he'd felt about her ma? Would she, given time, feel the same? A deep melancholy stole over her. With all the turmoil in her heart, there seemed little room left for tender feelings.

  Theywere sliding toward winter now, cold rain stealing every shred of Indian summer's brilliance. Morrow stood by her attic window, able to see the Red River through the woods' bare branches. In the early winter gloom, it looked like melted lead. Sometimes it seemed she'd always be here, watching and waiting, never changing. But then from somewhere in the cabin, Pa would start his coughing, and she'd be reminded that time was moving like the river in ways she couldn't see, working to turn her hair from cider to silver ... have its way with her ... leave her wanting.

  In the dark days of early December, Lizzy's heartfelt plea seemed to make more sense. The names and faces of the suitors she might consider rumbled through her mind like a discordant melody. Robbie Clay. One of McKie's men. The smithy's son who was the most recently smitten. But trying to think of them in a romantic way made her skittish, and she shut her heart to the notion.

  From below, Pa's voice, punctuated by bursts of coughing, ended her reverie. "Morrow, we'd best go see Good Robe and the baby."

  She hurried down the steps, snatching up her cloak before following him over the rain-soaked ground toward the river. He pulled his felt hat lower against the weather, mumbling something about the sky looking like snow. She wanted it to snow-so hard they wouldn't be able to return to the fort till spring, so deep they could climb into the colonial cutter and sit back as it whisked them over ruts and rocks to Joe's. But today the canoe sufficed, partially exposed by a near-naked stand of laurel along the muddy bank.