Courting Morrow Little: A Novel Page 5

  "I've brought you a pie, some things for the baby," she said.

  Trapper Joe lifted the linen and peered inside before reaching for his hunting knife. The steel blade dissected the flaky crust, and he cradled a generous wedge in one callused hand. Taking the knife, Good Robe cut her own slice, smiling at the first bite.

  "Oui-sah;' she said.

  "That's Shawnee for `good', Joe said, wiping the steel blade clean in the grass and returning it to its worn sheath. He turned to take her in. "Seen them two Shawanoe lately?"

  She darted a look at him and almost sighed aloud. Not once in Philadelphia had people talked of Indians. Now that she'd returned home, it seemed they talked of nothing else. "No sign of them since I've come back;' she murmured.

  He grunted and finished his pie in three bites, wiping his mouth with a loose linen sleeve. "You're liable to see them again shortly, once huntin' and trappin' commence."

  Tamping down her dismay, she removed her bonnet and used the limp brim to fan herself. "I keep thinking they'll stop coming"

  "This is still their territory, remember," he said, gaze sharp. "There's an abandoned Shawanoe village near here called Es- kippakithiki" At this, Good Robe looked up, her eyes fixed on his face. "Word is they have a silver mine where the Red River empties into Kettle Creek." Morrow stopped her fanning and he shrugged. "'Course, I ain't seen any evidence of such, just hearsay, mostly what Good Robe told me. The big silver mines are up north near the Indian towns."

  Morrow shot an apologetic glance at the Indian girl, but she seemed content to be left out of the conversation, examining the tiny clothes Morrow had made and smiling her appreciation.

  Joe was studying her again, his eyes needle sharp. "Somethin' the matter with your pa? He ain't one to let you out of his sight'

  "Pa's feeling poorly," she said, a bit embarrassed at the admis sion, accurate though it was. She was almost ashamed to say he'd caught another cold, as if it was somehow her doing.

  "He ain't been well since you left. I keep hopin, now that you're back, he'll right himself."

  "I'd best not stay overlong lest he come looking for me:" She stood up, a bit light-headed from the heat. Sweat beaded her brow and upper lip, and she pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her face. The subtle scent of rose water clung to the sultry air and then vanished when she tucked the handkerchief away.

  "Don't be a stranger," she said with a smile, catching up her empty basket. "Our door's always open"

  "Much obliged for the pie;' Trapper Joe said. "Give my regards to Elias"

  Good Robe raised a hand. "Paselo."

  "7hank you"? Morrow wondered. Or `farewell"?

  As she pushed the canoe into the current, holding her shoes and skirts above the cool water, she half expected to see Pa waiting. He liked to ferry her about, admiring the fine lines and buoyancy of the boat and the smooth curve of the oak paddle. But he was resting as needs be, and she felt an inexplicable urge to get back to him.

  Joe's booming voice called after her. "Best fetch me next time them Shawnee come callin' I've got a terrible hankerin' to meet em.

  She merely nodded, anxious to get away from his unwelcome words, glad when the blue water separated them. As the wind brushed her back and pushed her upriver, she shivered, her thoughts on the Shawnee and Joe's prediction of their coming. Each slap of the paddle on the still water seemed to stir her emotions until they became a breathless, desperate prayer.

  Please, Lord. No more visits. No more kinnikinnik or canoes or horses. Let the Shawnee leave us alone.

  As soon as she stepped through the open cabin door, Morrow realized something was amiss. The air was thick with the scent of Indian tobacco, its peculiar bluish white smoke stinging her eyes. For a fleeting moment she felt she'd walked into a trap. Pa and the Indian she remembered all too well stood near the hearth, backs to her. She started to turn away, words of welcome dying in her throat.

  Pa swung round to face her, stopping her before she slipped out the door. "Morrow, if you remember, this is Surrounded by the Enemy, a principal chief of the Shawnee:"

  Surrounded by the Enemy. Why, she supposed she was indeed. The irony of it stung her. Her timid gaze trailed from the deeply lined face of the chief to the bear claws strung about his tawny neck. She didn't know which was more intimidating, the frightening jewelry or the man who wore it. Though she'd been away for more than two years, time and distance had not dulled his grandeur. Tall as a tree he was, and proud.

  She marveled at Pa's composure-and the lack of her own. Beneath her linsey dress, her body began to tremble, and she could feel her face empty of all color. What had Pa told Trapper Joe? I don't think they mean us any harm, but they rattle poor Morrow considerably. Truly, considerably was kind. Hadn't she just prayed the Lord would keep them away?

  She cast a desperate glance about the cabin. Her prayer was half answered, at least, for the chief had come without his son. She began backing out the door, mumbling something about milking, the striking of the mantel clock a blessed reminder it was time for this chore. Once in the safe haven of the barn, she breathed in the comforting scent of hay and horses, aging wood and tobacco. The afternoon shadows were lengthening, and she shut the heavy door, increasing the gloom. For a moment she leaned against the crossbar till her shaking subsided, wondering how long the Indian would stay. She'd tarry here till he'd gone. From her stall, Tansy bawled a protest, and Morrow reached for the milk pail hanging from a nail.

  She took but three steps toward the back of the barn when she saw a shadow dance on the far wall. A trick of the light? She shut her eyes briefly as if to clear them, rooted to the hay-strewn floor, the milk bucket hanging heavy in her hands. Oh no ... She wasn't alone-she could sense it now. Terror rose up and snatched all good sense, and she gave a sharp cry, holding the bucket in front of her like a piece of armor.

  Not three feet away stood a man. He drew himself to his full height, and their eyes locked in mutual surprise. Above his loincloth and leggings was a loose linen shirt that fell a little below his hips. Even in the dim light she could tell it was some of the finest fabric she'd ever seen. Her seamstress's eye discerned it was English-made, without buttons at the neck or wrists, and it seemed to stretch taut as it ran the width of his shoulders. Every creamy fold was a striking contrast to his inky, shoulderlength hair. A trio of eagle feathers angled over one ear, affixed by a small silver medallion.

  She was nearly slack-jawed with shock. Was this the chief's son? The boyishness that had once defined him was gone. He'd grown even taller since she'd last seen him, and his lithe form had fleshed out, filling his clothes with an understated elegance. There was something remarkable about him-an aura of barely restrained strength, like a panther about to pounce. She took a small step backward, but his dark eyes seemed to prevent her from taking a second.

  In that instant she realized he was taking her measure as well, from the loose curls pinned atop her head to the impractical slippers showing beneath the hem of her petticoat. Heat fanned across her face, staining her neck and the square of pale skin above her snug bodice. The trembling that had begun to ebb started anew and her heart raced. Had she been penned up in the barn with a wild animal, her fright could have been no greater.

  "I'm not going to hurt you"

  The quiet words, so well articulated, so very English, knocked the wind out of her. She simply stared at him, unable to move. All her wrong assumptions rose up and left her breathless. Shame topped them all as she realized she'd thought an Indian incapable of speaking English. But this was quickly smothered by anger that he'd let her think so-let her and Pa make fools of themselves ...

  Dropping the milk pail, she pushed at the barn door, and it clamored shut as she fled. The pasture opened up before her, drenched a deep gold in the setting sun. She didn't stop running till she was at the paling fence that hemmed in Ma's and Euphemia's graves. Since coming back from Philadelphia, she'd not been here once. She hadn't meant to come now. Che
st heaving, she began to cry, feeling five again and not eighteen.

  Whether minutes or hours passed, she didn't know. Pa found her sitting there amidst a tangle of honeysuckle vine, head in her hands.

  "Morrow, you all right?" His voice reached out to her, solicitous as always.

  But she couldn't answer. He sat down beside her, and she looked up with a heavy heart, eyes awash. He seemed to be aging overnight, his russet hair going not gray but white. Years of being a widower and losing a beloved son and daughter continued to take a toll on him, and nothing she did could erase it.

  She knew better than to give way to her turmoil, but it bubbled forth like a pent-up spring, every syllable soft but threaded with heat. "I wish you'd told me the son was here-before I went out to milk-"

  "He means you no harm, Morrow."

  She dashed a hand across her damp face, having lost her handkerchief in the field as she'd fled. "You might have warned me he was in the barn"

  "His father wanted to borrow a horse:"

  "A horse? Why?"

  I didn't ask-just gave him one'

  "He's not who we think he is, Pa. He speaks English"

  "What's that?"

  "He said he wasn't going to hurt me. But I don't believe him. Even if he's as well-spoken as a white man, he's still a savage" She shook her head in dismay. "We've opened our door to them and made fools of ourselves, believing he spoke only Shawnee. All this time he's been misleading us-making us think-"

  "Slow yourself down, Daughter. I can hardly follow you" He turned solemn eyes on her like she was a schoolgirl who'd failed to mind her tongue. "Do you blame him for his reticence? I suspect he's not sure whom he can trust. I see wisdom in his silence given these troubled times. It puts me in mind of the Scripture, `He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life: Besides, he seldom comes. And when he does he says but little. His father does the talking"

  The quoted verse did nothing to assuage her anger. He'd ever been slow to take offense, quick to forgive. And she understood it no more now than she did when he'd first taken the Shawnee in. Turning her head away, she set her jaw, ashamed to let him see her tears.

  His tone was thoughtful if grave. "Perhaps the Almighty sent the Shawnee to our door"

  At this, the tempest inside her erupted all over again. "Did the Almighty also send them the first time, Pa? To kill Ma and Euphemia and take Jess?"

  He seemed to wilt at her hasty words, though his voice held firm. "We're coming closer, Morrow. Now that we know Surrounded's son speaks English, we can ask about Jess. You might help, you know"

  "Help?"

  "Talk to him. Ask about your brother. It seems like a Godgiven opportunity"

  His urging grieved her, though she worked to keep her dismay down. "It's been a long time, Pa. Jess would be twenty-three now, a man. And you know what Joe said. Some captives don't want to come back"

  "The Shawnee nation is large and spreads far," he conceded. "Jess could be with any of their bands scattered from Ohio to d'Etroit. Or he might have been traded to another tribe and moved further west"

  She heard the regret in his voice and saw how his shoulders sagged as if bowed by the weight of it. He'd omitted but one thing. Jess could be dead. She didn't dare say so, but surely he'd thought of it himself.

  "There's one thing that gives me comfort. God knows where Jess is, even if we don't. I believe we'll be reunited one day. If not here, heaven" Slowly he got to his feet, helping her up after him, his eyes scanning the woods. "Best not mention our visits with the Shawnee. Not even to Lizzy. We wouldn't want to court trouble"

  She looked at him, a bit stung that he thought her so glib. Of course she'd not mention their visits. She was so ashamed of their coming, so fearful her father's friendship with them would be misinterpreted, she'd keep it a secret till her dying breath.

  "Think no more of it;' he told her as they walked across the darkening ground toward home. "We've other things to ponder. Tomorrow's the Sabbath and we must go to the fort. You've not been there since your homecoming. I imagine Lizzy and Jemima will be glad to see you again"

  Would they, she wondered? If they knew about the Shawnee coming, would they even count her as a friend?

  Morrow took a seat on the first blockhouse bench, untying the strings of her bonnet and placing it in her lap. She could feel the stares given her by the Red River congregation as they shuffled in. Perhaps she'd gone too far wearing her Philadelphia finery. The purple cloth of the bonnet was decidedly elegant, a far cry from simple settlement standards, with its silken cluster of lilacs hugging the brim. She'd worn it thinking no one would notice, or care. The bright summer's day seemed to call for it. But the unspoken consensus seemed to say it was too fine for a preacher's daughter. And it was creating a stir she'd not reckoned with.

  Jemima turned into her row, Lizzy in her wake. Jemima's face was a stew of displeasure, her voice a hiss. "Morrow Mary, I wish you'd hurry up and get hitched so the rest of us could have a chance to do the same. As it is, you keep the men so stirred up with your coming and going they won't light and look elsewhere:" As if to prove her point, she turned and skewered the unmarried men along the back row with glittering green eyes.

  Morrow shrank down a bit on the bench, solaced that she'd given the men no encouraging glances. Still, their steadfast stares seemed to bore a hole in her back and embarrassed her as much as Jemima's harshness. She looked at the small watch pinned to her bodice. Would Pa never appear?

  Once she'd counted the Sabbath her favorite day. For years she'd been at home on the front row, squeezed between Ma and Jess. In the shadowy corners of her mind, she could still see their silhouettes and hear baby Euphemia's fussing during the lengthy sermons. But being here today amidst all the male attention was something of a chore. Since she'd returned from Philadelphia, folks seemed to regard her in a new, bewildering way, and she couldn't quite fathom why.

  With a glance her direction, Pa passed in front of his congregants and took his place behind the pulpit near the fire. Clearing his throat, he announced, "Now that the harvest is near, the start of singing school is at hand"

  Morrow felt a flicker of delight. There had been no singing school that she knew of in Philadelphia, no gathering of folks like-minded about music, singing the winter away. The fact that the meetings were little more than an excuse for courting made them all the more worthwhile. She couldn't count the couples Pa had married since its humble beginnings years before.

  As soon as he'd spoken, he removed his Bible from the pulpit and took a seat beside her. What? No sermon? She didn't need to look at him to know something was amiss. To her right, Jemima seemed to titter as a stranger in uniform took his place behind the hickory pulpit. The stale air in the blockhouse suddenly seemed warmer, the press of people more unpleasant. Morrow took in the striking figure in buff and blue, and the telling line of Aunt Etta's letter struck her like lightning.

  The uniformed man cleared his throat and removed his tricorn hat, resting it on the pulpit. "To those of you who don't know, I'm Nathaniel McKie-Major McKie of the Virginia colony. My regiment has been sent here expressly for your protection. Red River Station will serve as the base of military operations as we plan our first foray into Indian territory"

  He paused as if to let the weight of his words have their full effect. All around her, people began to murmur amongst themselves till the sound was a small roar in the large room. He held up a hand to still the din. "We Virginians have heard of the degradations this settlement and others have suffered at the hands of the British and Shawnee. By the authority of Governor Henry and the Virginia legislature, we mean to stop the hostilities-by any means necessary."

  Morrow kept her eyes down as he went on to talk about the artillery they'd brought, the heavy cannon, the fresh supplies of shot and powder. Truly, this man liked the sound of his own voice. He smacked of civilization from the polished brass buttons of his fine blue coat to his shiny black boots.

  "We know that the British are agitat
ing the Indians, supplying them with guns and trade goods, goading them into reclaiming the Kentucke territory as their own:" He paused and leaned into the pulpit, his finely modulated drawl that of a seasoned orator. "Surely a land like this is worth contending for'

  There was a ripple of assent and several shouted "ayes" from the men. Morrow flexed her gloved hands, noting the fingertips were soiled. Beside her, Pa sat still as stone. When Major McKie's speech ended, Pa stood to pray. For peace. For God's will to be done in the settlement and to the ends of the earth. When he finished, he moved to the pulpit to give his sermon, but she hardly noticed.

  There seemed to be a small collective gasp from the women present as Major McKie turned in her row. He took the seat Pa had just vacated, and his knee brushed the folds of her dress and stayed there. Prickles of heat climbed from her bare neck to her face. Even the tips of her ears felt on fire. He was entirely too close. She could smell his perspiring beneath the confines of his Continental coat. The fine lines of his uniform were striking but unfamiliar, accustomed as she was to the British scarlet and white. Jabbing Morrow with a sharp elbow, Jemima gave a murmur of disapproval. Or jealousy. Morrow didn't dare look at her.

  By sermon's end, her face and neck still felt overwarm as the officer beside her turned to her straightaway. "I'd heard the preacher had a beautiful daughter, but I find the praise somewhat ... restrained:"

  She raised her eyes to look up at him, extending a gloved hand in her befuddlement. He took it firmly, not letting go. Jemima stood just behind her, a heavy shadow in the dim light. "Well, Morrow Mary, aren't you going to introduce me to the major? Or have you forgotten your fine Philadelphia manners?"