Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (10 page)

Dear Aunt Etta,

Forgive me for not writing to you sooner. Since I've returned
to the Red River, there seem a thousand things that keep me
from ink and paper. Each time I sit down, I am called away. Pa
needs my help as never before. Please pray for him, as he's come
down with a racking cough that even Aunt Sally cannot mend.

The sewing chest you gave me for my birthday is beautiful
and a reminder of our happy times together. I'm sure the dress
shop is a bit lonesome. I doubt you miss my singeing ribbons
with the goffer iron or forgetting to order enough fabric, though
you might still covet my help with the ledgers. Hopefully Lady
Richmond is easier to please than when I left.

I must tell you that your dream of my marrying a man of rank
may come to pass. A Virginian has arrived at Red River Station
with a regiment of his own. Now there are dozens of soldiers to
choose from. But Bluecoats, not Redcoats ...

She dipped the quill in the ink pot again, a half smile playing
across her face. Somehow Major McKie and Aunt Etta's letter
seemed an interesting coincidence. Though he did seem a bit
bold, she almost preferred this to the awkward, uncouth settlement men. And he was handsome in a worldly sort of way, all
shine and polish and fine manners-

"Morrow, I'm in need of you" Pa stood in the cabin doorway,
his perspiring face apologetic.

Flushed, she got up from his writing desk, ashamed of her
romantic notions. "My letter can wait, Pa. I'm only writing Aunt
Etta"

Despite her reassuring words, he still looked pained. She
knew how hard it was for him to ask for her help. Doing so was
a reminder of his own lack, the cough that wouldn't quit ... and
Jess. She was little good being a daughter-and a small, weak one at that-but he seemed intent on keeping her that way,
forever reminding her to wear gloves or her bonnet as if trying
to preserve her for that day he could hand her to a man with far
better prospects than he had. A man like McKie ...

Following him to the barn loft, she watched alongside the
barn swallows as he balanced on a high-timbered beam, hanging tobacco from a long pole suspended between oak rafters.
One racking cough, she thought, and he might come crashing
down.

"Careful, Morrow, don't step too near the edge. Just hand
me another sheaf."

She did as he bid, aware of the tobacco's pungent leaf, a painful reminder of pipes and kinnikinnik and unwelcome visitors.
She didn't like coming to the barn now. Doing so brought back
her meeting with the Shawnee. Her eyes drifted to the haystrewn floor where she'd faced him, and she nearly winced.
Hindsight made her rue she'd not stayed stalwart but had run
like a rat for cover. How much better it would have been if she'd
mastered her angst and spoken to him instead. Pa would have
been spared her tears, and their questions about Jess might
have been answered.

Half an hour later, with tobacco dust in her hair and sweat
streaming, Morrow descended the loft ladder in dire need of a
bath. Dismissing the copper hip tub half hidden by the corncrib,
she considered the river. Beyond the open barn door, summer
itself seemed to issue an invitation. With a quick word to Pa, she
made her way down the trail with soft soap and clean towels,
fighting trepidation all the way. The water was at its warmest
in late August, a beguiling sapphire blue that looked like the
sky turned upside down. Everything else was dry and dusty,
the brown earth wrinkled from lack of rain, a few trees already
turning a pale gold.

She paused at a fork in the trail, torn. The path she usually took led to the laurel and the half-hidden canoe and Trapper
Joe's. The other was overgrown, a tangle of brush and vines and
abandonment. Perhaps ... She shut the thought away, only to
take it up again when she was partway down the familiar trail.
Perhaps one has to face one's fears in order to banish them. Should
she return to the place where it had all began? A place not even
Pa would go?

She battled a full five minutes, the shadows of the giant elms
and oaks lengthening all around her, her eyes on the old trail that
begged to be taken. With a tentative step, she started making her
way as best she could, the hum of insects all around her. Briars
and thornbushes scratched her bare arms and ankles, but she
kept on, thirsty with curiosity. The old way wandered around a
towering sycamore and a thick stand of laurel, as if testing her
memory, before expending itself on the broad riverbank.

This was the place she'd last been with Jess all those years ago.
Only it looked nothing like she remembered. Since then the river
had cut a different path, and the boulders along its banks, once
big as cabins to her childish mind, now seemed impossibly small.
Her eyes lingered on the far shore, breathtakingly beautiful in
the reddish-gold light. An abundance of grapevine wended its
way with abandon, following the course of the river. It beckoned
to her like something out of Eden, forbidden fruit, as if taunting
her inability to swim. But how hard could it be?

Jessamyn had been a fine swimmer, and it had been Pa who'd
taught him. She remembered how they'd frolicked on this very
spot. Both of them had teased her and tried to pull her under
back then, but she preferred to watch them from the sandy
shallows. Sometimes she'd hold her breath as they disappeared
under the calm face of the river for long periods, only to resurface and tease her further. The memory saddened her ...
made her bold.

She stood unsteadily and stripped to her shift, the river rock slippery beneath her bare feet as she waded forward. The sun
touched the water with a final golden finger before hiding behind
the treetops. She was up to her shoulders now, the water cold, the
current moving past her arms and legs with a pulsing rhythm.
She looked back to see her clothes lying where she'd left them,
a small, insignificant pile of linen and a limp hair ribbon.

She kept on, her feet soon leaving bottom. Jess had taught
her to dog-paddle, and the jerky movements came back to her
now. She was almost halfway across but frightfully out of breath.
She didn't remember it being this hard, being so winded. The
river was no longer blue but black, more enemy than friend. A
fierce current lashed her legs and pulled at her. Eyes wide-open,
she went down. In seconds the enormity of her predicament
washed over her. Oh, Pa!Pa! Where are you? Till now he'd always
been near when she needed him. The thought of him all alone,
buckled with the weight of another loss, deepened the darkness.
Panic forced the last bit of air out of her lungs and she thrashed
about wildly in the water. But the world beneath was cold as
winter and seemed to pin her beneath its weight.

Weary, she stopped struggling. Memories of Ma surrounded
her, warming her, easing her panic. Welcoming her home. For one
fleeting moment she could see Euphemia just as she'd been back
then-fair hair, mouth like a rosebud, eyes like blue buttons.

I'm dying... Lord, help me!

But there was no flash of light, no miraculous parting of the
waters. She let go then, of her life and her breath, eyes shut
against the darkness. Once she surrendered, she felt someone
else fighting for her. Arms like hanks of rope encircled her, tugging her upward, freeing her from the current. When she opened
her eyes, she thought she was dreaming. A man had hold of her,
and she was floating on top of the water, choking and gasping,
the thin muslin of her shift hovering around her as he swam
her to shore.

He laid her on the bank, the sand a welcome bed. He bent
over, chest heaving, hands on his knees, his dark form dripping
water. It rained down on her, and she stared up into the last face
she expected to see.

Surrounded by the Enemy's son.

Rolling over, she did the most unladylike thing she knew.
She threw up all her supper, and a bucket of water, besides. He
crouched next to her, his face clouded with concern. "Lie still
till all the water's gone-and you can breathe again:"

Shutting her eyes, she took a deep, shuddering breath and
obeyed. But her mind reeled in confusion. The rich precision
of his words, his tawny features, and the clothing that was a
confusing medley of both Indian and white made her all the
more wary. Who was he? Looking at him now, she saw things
she'd not noticed before. His eyes ... were they golden brown?
Almost amber?

"You shouldn't come here alone;' he said tersely. "There's
trouble upriver"

She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back. He gathered up
her clothes and hair ribbon farther down the bank before picking her up like she was little more than a corn-husk doll. She
lay limp in his arms, feeling his grace of movement despite the
burden of her wet body. The lights of the cabin came into view,
and he climbed the steps, thrusting open the cabin door with
one moccasin.

Pa's chair overturned with a thud as he stood. Before he said
a word, she could sense his shock. Her unlikely rescuer stood
her gently on her feet, his bulk supporting her while she faced
her father and his. Surrounded obviously surmised what had
happened in one sweep, but Pa struggled to make sense of the
poignant silence.

"Daughter ... did you nearly drown?" He came forward, eyes
wet.

"I ... I .." Her teeth were chattering now, not from the cold
but from sheer emotion.

Face ashen, Pa eased her into a chair by the hearth, wrapping a blanket around her shaking shoulders. She wanted to
cry-out of thankfulness and relief. Perhaps this was how the
chief had felt when they'd saved his son. And now his son had
saved her. The debt was paid in full. Each of them seemed to be
thinking the same thing at once, the silence brimming despite
their speechlessness.

Pa cleared his throat and went to the corner cupboard for
a jug, then poured himself some whiskey. He offered it to the
Indians, who declined, and then downed it in one gulp. Morrow's
eyes widened at the sight. She glanced at the man who'd saved
her life and was now dripping water onto the plank floor, his
wet buckskins darkened to black. But he wasn't looking at her.
He kept a wary eye on the open door as if expecting the trouble
upriver to materialize on their threshold at any moment.

She took a measured breath, trying to summon enough decency to thank him, but the words wouldn't come. Instead she
pulled her eyes from him, afraid her unwillingness was plain. But
Pa more than made up for her lack, thanking them in English
and Shawnee, his gratitude apparent. When they left, she sank
into her seat by the fire, hugging the blanket closer, too tired to
talk yet riddled with questions.

As if sensing her curiosity, Pa said, "They came right after you
went to the river. Surrounded warned of a party of Cherokee near
here. His son seemed restless when I told them you'd gone to
the river. I tried to keep him here. I didn't want him to surprise
you-or you him, half dressed:" His face took on a reddish tint.
"Surrounded said something about the water spirits drawing
people to the bottom of the river. Some Shawnee superstition, I
suppose. Being the young buck he is, his son soon disappeared,
and by heaven, I'm glad he did"

She swallowed, still feeling she had a bucket of water inside
her. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble, Pa ... just saw some
grapes on the other side of the river:"

He shook his head in disbelief. "I can't bear the thought of
losing you, Morrow. Don't ever try anything so foolish again:'

The tears in his eyes made her more contrite, and she was
suddenly exhausted. Standing on shaky legs, she turned toward
the stairs, but he stopped her, putting an arm around her, hugging her like he'd not done since her childhood. She hugged him
back, dampening his shirt, surprised when he seemed reluctant
to release her.

"Tonight, while you were at the river, when Surrounded came
with Red Shirt. . '
'

Red Shirt. Was that his name? She felt a strange disappointment. She'd expected something else. Something strong and
Indian-like. Not this. Drawing the blanket closer, she waited
for him to finish.

"I found out a few things about our English-speaking Shawnee. He's a half blood. His mother was a white captive:"

What? The startling words seemed only to skim the surface of conscious thought and left her staring at him, unable
to speak.

"He was sent to the Brafferton School for Indians as a boy"

"Brafferton?" she echoed. She'd read about the school in the
Virginia Gazette. It had a rich if controversial history. Had he
been part of that?

"Apparently he did well there. A family in Williamsburg
wanted to adopt him. But after a time he left and found his
way back to his father."

She held her breath, trying to grasp all that he'd just told her,
letting the words soften and reshape the misconceptions she'd
had about him. Was he truly half white? She wondered why
she hadn't suspected as much. His skin was too light for a true Indian, as were his hazel eyes, though his dress and manner
were convincing enough.

He swallowed and said, "We talked some about Jess. I tried
to describe him as I remember him. But it's been so long. . "

His eyes were a shimmer of gray green. She extended a hand
to him, but he'd turned away, clearly too weary for more conversation. Bidding him good night, she climbed the stairs to
her room, her own heart sore. Exhausted, she combed out her
tangled hair and dressed in her warmest nightgown, drawing
the bedcovers around her shivering form. Remembering she'd
failed to say her prayers, she dropped to her knees, feeling more
unworthy than she had in her whole life.

Father, forgive me. For holding a grudge. For hating the Shawnee. Thank You for sending Red Shirt to spare my life.