Read Courting Morrow Little: A Novel Online

Authors: Laura Frantz

Tags: #Romance, #General, #Christian, #Historical, #Fiction

Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (5 page)

Startled, she lifted her veil. "But they don't speak English.
And you don't speak Shawnee"

He cast a triumphant look her way. "I can communicate a
bit:"

Stunned, she nearly fell off the wagon seat with the next lurch.
"How?"

"Trapper Joe."

Surprise seemed to seep into her very bones at the mention of
their nearest neighbor. Half savage himself, the wily woodsman
spoke a dozen different Indian dialects and knew the way of the
woods as well as any Shawnee. Why, she'd nearly forgotten all
about him. Or that Pa had entrusted him with the memory of
Jess. Trapper Joe was faithful to bring back any news of white
captives, though not once had he led them to believe that what
they'd lost might one day be returned to them.

She looked toward the woods, the sun warm upon her back.
Unbidden, the image of the two Shawnee hovered and refused
to budge. The old fear she'd felt at last seeing them resurfaced.
She recalled with crystal clarity the day they'd come to the cabin
that stifling afternoon shortly before she left for Philadelphia.
She'd been busy packing her trunk and Pa was cleaning his rifle
when their sturdy shadows filled the open doorway.

They'd entered the cabin like they owned it, and she'd backed
into a corner, the rough wood of the wall digging into her back. The tall Indian was turning toward Pa, and as he did so, his
hand fell to the tomahawk at his waist. Before he could pull
it free, she let out a high, girlish scream, and Pa swung round
and faced her.

"Morrow!" His stern voice seemed sharp as an ax.

The sound died in her throat, and the Shawnee laid their
weapons on the table. Pa was motioning her forward, and soon,
despite her trembling hands, she was serving fried grouse, new
potatoes, green beans, gravy, and corn bread. The Indians ate
by the fire with their fingers, shunning utensils and the trestle
table, their eyes on her as she moved to serve them. The younger
man-the son-upended her completely, his painted physique
a rainbow of red and black.

Afterward, she listened to their lilting voices on the porch,
finding their tongue strangely melodic, coming as it was from the
mouths of men painted for war. She'd carried the bitter memory
clear to Philadelphia, and it had increased the fervency of her
prayers for her vulnerable father left alone on the Red River.

Pa coughed again, the persistent sound startling her out of her
reverie. "I've not seen the two Shawnee since winter. It's a dangerous time to be about, whether Indian or white. There's been
some raiding-horse stealing and such. A family was burned
out over on Drowning Creek. And Captain Click just told me
the colony of Virginia is sending soldiers to Kentucke to try to
quell the trouble"

Pondering his worrisome words, she fell silent and tried to
take in all the loveliness that had so long been denied her. A
cardinal flew by with a flash of red as they moved into the shade
and took a westward turn. Home. This was her home, no matter
what, no matter the memories. She lifted her chin and smiled
at the sky.

Thank You, Lord, for bringing me back.

 

There was no place on earth more like Eden than their home on
the Red River, Morrow thought. In certain seasons, the stately
two-story cabin couldn't be seen, smothered as it was by trees.
But it was a peculiar place, the house only half lived in. She and
Pa occupied the west side while the east side was kept shuttered
and shadowed. A dogtrot divided the two, joining twin porches
at front and back. Two fine chimneys of river rock adorned each
end, one nearly continually puffing smoke, the other banked for
a decade or better. To her knowledge, Pa had never entered the
east side since that tragic summer's day all those years before,
though her own footprints had mingled with those of the mice,
marring the dusty floor.

All was chaos within, just as the Shawnee had left it. The
spinning wheel where Ma had slumped sat untouched, the wool
she'd been working mere spiderwebbing. Splintered furniture
was strewn about-a chair leg here, a hatchet-marked cradle
there. All the prized glass from the broken front window had
been swept up by someone, sometime, and replaced with oiled
paper. But a few stray feathers from the shredded tick remained,
having escaped a brisk broom, and startled her anew each time
she entered. With the door ajar, they danced in the draft, and
she felt she was five years old again, fresh grief spilling into her
heart.

Their side of the cabin was feather-free and tidy as could be.
Bright rag rugs lay like pressed flowers on the clean pine planks, and a huge hutch bore plates of pewter and what remained of
the fine English china. From spring to fall, fresh flowers graced
the trestle table, and winter boasted bittersweet. A staircase
hugged the west wall, its hickory steps and handrail worn smooth
with time.

Today she hurried to her room at the top of the stairs, standing in the doorway and surveying the plate-glass windows she'd
just cleaned that bubbled and streaked in the sun. Her eyes
were drawn to her bed, bigger than a girl's had any right to be,
its counterpane immaculate, the pillows fluffed, the chamber
pot out of sight beneath. Her old dolls sat primly on a shelf, and
her fine Philadelphia clothes were hidden in a corner wardrobe
painted with a fleur-de-lis. When she'd left for Aunt Etta's, the
room had seemed just right. Now, two years later, why did it
have a childish feel?

Although she'd been home less than a week, it seemed longer
somehow, and she'd resumed her old routine with nary a blink.
Still weary from the trip, she sank down atop the soft bed, her
thoughts far upriver. To Fort Pitt and beyond to the bustle of
Philadelphia. She missed it a bit. She'd forgotten how quiet the
cabin was ... how lonesome she felt. Pa was mending fences in
the far pasture and likely wouldn't be home till supper.

She looked through the shiny windows, suddenly aware of
a door groaning open below. The ensuing silence sent an icy
finger of alarm down her spine. Pa always called to her when
he entered, as if he knew it would ease her. She tried to swallow
down her fear, but it had followed her for so long she felt nearly
suffocated by it.

If it wasn't Pa ... who?

Isolated as they were, company rarely came. A reassuring
rumble of voices sent her scurrying to the landing, where she
leaned over the stair rail. As she peered down, surprise lit her
face. Standing below was an Indian girl scarcely older than she herself, clutching a bundle. Good Robe? She'd nearly forgotten
the wife of Trapper Joe, who lived downriver. A stocky shadow
appeared in the open doorway behind the tawny figure, voice
booming.

"Miz Morrow, where are you?"

"Right here, Joe, she answered, hurrying down the steps.

He took her in head to toe with a surprised grin, as if making up for the time they'd been apart. "Well, I doubt I'd know
you if you hadn't answered to your name. The fort's all abuzzel
with news that you've come back. But I had to come over here
and see for myself."

"I've not been home long," she said with a smile, hovering
on the last step.

He pulled on his unkempt beard, eyes alight. "Well, it's high
time I showed you my son;' he told her. "We're calling him Elias,
or Little Eli, after your pa"

She came forward, eyeing the bundle. "Pa told me the happy
news. He's hardly a month old, is that right?"

Even before Morrow asked, Good Robe was offering her treasure. "You like?"

Touched, Morrow took the baby, thinking him no heavier
than a feather pillow. The sight of his tiny face, eyes shuttered
in sleep, wee fists curled tightly beneath his chin, filled her with
wonder. "He's ... beautiful:"

"Good Robe was a mite skittish about comin' over here, seein'
as how Aunt Sally turned her away," Joe said. "But I told her you
ain't nothin' like them other settlement women:'

Morrow flushed. Just yesterday Pa had related in the most
genteel terms how Good Robe had walked miles to the fort
while laboring only to have the settlement midwife shun her.
She'd given birth on the trail going home, and after a frantic
hunt Joe had found her, alone but having safely delivered their
son. Morrow's heart twisted at the telling, yet she could hardly blame Aunt Sally either. The woman had lost a child in an Indian
raid and had worn her unforgiveness like a badge of bitterness
ever since.

"Please sit down and I'll make you some coffee;' she told
them, passing the baby back to Good Robe and showing her
to a rocking chair. As she filled a small kettle with water and
measured coffee at the hearth, she heard the scrape of boots
on the porch.

Pa came in, mouth curving warmly at the sight of them. "Glad
to see you, Joe, Good Robe. Is that my namesake there?"

"Sure is," Joe answered. "I was just showin' him off to Miz
Morrow. But I got other business to discuss with you once we've
had some coffee:'

Hearing the somber edge to his voice, Morrow felt a touch
of dread. Often, fresh from his forays into the woods, Joe would
bring back news of what was truly happening on the western
fringe of the frontier-not the slanted, tainted tales often told
by British and American officers and the local militia, but the
honest-to-goodness truth.

She served Good Robe first, then took the men their coffee
on the back porch, where they sat with their pipes, enjoying a
rare rain. Even the birdsong had stilled, giving way to the gentle
slurring sound as the midsummer dust was dampened down.
Standing in the dogtrot and looking toward the river, Morrow
fancied she could smell honeysuckle, its sweet scent banishing
the lingering supper smells.

She felt a bit awkward left alone with Good Robe. The Indian
girl spoke little English that she knew of, though Joe spoke her
tongue like he was born to it. They'd wed right before she'd
left for Philadelphia, Morrow remembered. Joe had supposedly swapped five horses for her in some Indian town across
the Ohio River. As the story circulated through the settlement,
its baseness hurt her somehow. The Almighty had created man and woman and called it good, Pa said, and a woman's worth
wasn't measured in horses. But to his credit, Joe did seem to
care for her.

The sight of Good Robe rocking her baby was a welcome
distraction, given the intense if hushed tones of the men outside.
A sudden lull in their voices made her turn and look beyond
the back door. Fireflies winged about with tiny lanterns on their
backs, resurrecting a memory she'd rather forget. She sighed
and tried to put it down, but it came on anyway.

When she and Jess were small, they'd catch a dozen or so
fireflies and imprison them in glass jars, but he'd cry after mere
minutes and beg to release them. Did he, wherever he was,
remember her calling him lily-livered and stomping upstairs
to the room they shared? It seemed he'd always given in to her
whims, letting her use the fireflies like a night-light by their bed.
But by morning they were mere bugs in a jar, hardly the ethereal
creatures they'd been the night before.

Joe's voice seemed to saw into the silence, ending her reverie.
"There's been some talk of a prisoner exchange, he was saying,
pausing at intervals to puff on his pipe. "Some chiefs and soldiers
at Fort Pitt are hammerin' out the details:"

Listening, Morrow felt the same bewilderment she always
did when they discussed her long-lost brother, torn between
covering her ears and eavesdropping. She finally succumbed to
the latter. Returning to the hearth, she sat down opposite Good
Robe, nearly drowning out the men's voices by the creak of Ma's
old chair as it pitched to and fro. But her foot came down at
Joe's next question, and her rocking ceased. "Seen them two
Shawanoe lately?"

Pa seemed to take his time with the answer, but already Morrow was straining for it, a deep dread knotting her insides.

"Not since last winter," Pa said.

"They been comin' for years now and I still ain't seen 'em'

Other books

The Devil's Interval by J. J. Salkeld
Linda Needham by A Scandal to Remember
The Way We Fall by Crewe, Megan
A Distant Father by Antonio Skarmeta
The Bridge by Butler, James
''I Do''...Take Two! by Merline Lovelace


readsbookonline.com Copyright 2016 - 2024