Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (11 page)

Since her near-drowning, Pa seemed to hover as if afraid she'd
get herself into trouble again. She couldn't tell him how nearly
losing her life had inexplicably shaken loose some of her fears.
The place that had haunted her for so long was now nothing
more than sand and red rock and rushing water. She wanted
to go back again, if only to make sure it no longer had any hold
on her, but all the chores of autumn waited. Joe came to help
with the harvest, joining Pa in the field and cutting the roasting ears from the towering stalks, then the stalks themselves
for fodder. It was blistering, backbreaking work, and she toted
piggin after piggin of cold water from the spring to quiet their
thirst. She was glad to return to the cabin, where she sat and
ground hard-shelled corn with a hand mill. But before she'd
filled a single sack with meal, she was spent.

Wiping her brow with a handkerchief, she considered other
pleasures to be had beyond the stifling porch. Pa wouldn't quit
working till dusk, so she had ample time to slip away, not so far
as to miss his call, but just beyond sight of the cabin's sturdy, twostory shadow. The woods were alive with thimbleberries, and she
had a basket on each arm, delighted when she found a patch thick
and sweet. A handful left the taste of summer on her tongue.

Mouth and fingers stained purple, she straightened from
stripping a vine and saw a flicker of movement deeper in the
woods. At once she went still. He made not a sound, but there
was no disguising the great height of him. A dozen discordant thoughts galloped through her head as she followed him with
curious eyes.

He's half white but moves like an Indian. He's half Indian but
educated like a white man. His English seems as fine as my own,
yet I spent years thinking otherwise. What other secrets might
he have?

Deliberately she stepped on a stick. Its crisp snap seemed to
echo in the stillness, shushing even the birdsong. The realization
that she'd seen him before he'd seen her gave her an inexplicable
little thrill. But suddenly she lost sight of him. Within moments
the fine hair on the back of her neck tingled, and she whirled,
nearly upsetting her baskets. He stood behind her, rifle in hand,
expression stoic. His eyes were so piercing they looked black,
not brown. Something skittered across their depths that made
her feel infinitely foolish.

She said in a little rush, "I thought you didn't see me"

"I saw you and purposed to avoid you"

"Why?"

"You're easily frightened:"

"Do you blame me?" Even as she said it, her eyes roamed the
woods, and she thought of soldiers and Indians and the panther
tracks Joe had warned them about. When he didn't answer, she
looked back at him, feeling bolder than she ever had in her life.
"Why are you called Red Shirt?"

The forthright if softly spoken question seemed to amuse
him. He regarded her in that thoughtful way he had, as if sifting
his every word before he spoke. "I scout for the British-the
Redcoats. But I refuse to wear their uniform coat, so they made
me a red shirt instead. It's something of a private joke"

"Don't you have an Indian name?"

"I do"

But you're not going to tell me.

Their eyes met and held, and she sensed his resistance. Heat seeped into her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes, taking in every
aspect of his dress as she did so. Today he looked more frontier
scout than Indian. In a loose tow linen shirt that fell to buckskin
leggings held up by colored garters, inky hair caught back in a
queue, he might have been any man in the settlement-but for
that bit of wildness about him. A shot pouch and powder horn
were slung over his left shoulder, and a tomahawk and sheathed
knife hung from his handwoven belt. A far cry from flashing
silver and fine linen.

He inclined his head to the left, bringing a halt to the conversation. "There's an abundance of berries beyond that big maple:"

She turned in that direction and began to walk, stepping
over brush and briars, mind whirling. When she looked back,
he'd gone. To see Pa again, she guessed. Her stomach knotted
with the notion that he came and went at will and put them all
in danger. Or perhaps he felt he could get away with it, isolated
as they were.

Why was she so befuddled in his presence, forgetting to ask
the only questions that mattered? If she didn't speak to him
now, she might never. Abandoning her baskets, she hurried
down the path he'd traveled moments before, hoping Pa was
still in the field.

As she rounded the cabin, she found Red Shirt filling up the
doorway, looking at her as if he lived there and not she. The idea
filled her with cold fury, and she climbed the steps and faced
him, her back against a porch post for support. But he spoke
before she could untie her tongue.

"Where is your father?"

She swallowed, unwilling to answer. "Why do you keep coming back here?"

"That's not what I asked you:"

His pointed calm blunted some of her anger. She looked down,
eyes on her berry-stained apron, feeling a sting of conscience. This man had kept her from drowning, yet she couldn't summon
a speck of kindness for him.

She said a bit more softly, "I-I don't know where he is. That's
not your concern. You shouldn't be here. 'Tis as dangerous for
you as it is for us'

"I'm well aware of the danger"

Taking a deep breath, she darted a look at him again. "I'm
concerned for my father. He isn't well. If you have any feelingany decency-you'll leave us alone-"

"Your father asked me to come. I wouldn't be here otherwise"

"That's right, Daughter."

She whirled and saw Pa standing behind her, Joe at his elbow.
Humiliation covered her like a cloud. Pa's eyes held a stern rebuke,
and he passed inside the cabin, calling for her to bring some cider
from the springhouse. She noticed Joe eyeing Red Shirt warily
and remembered he'd never seen him before. Grudgingly, she
went to fetch the cider, wanting to hide in the cool dimness of
the stone walls till they'd finished talking. But she did as Pa bid
and served them, fleeing to her room afterward and not coming
out till Pa stood at the bottom of the steps and called to her.

She hovered on the landing, looking down at him, and he
said, "I don't want you to discourage Red Shirt from coming,
Morrow"

Exasperation pricked her. "But Pa, that puts you in a terrible
predicament. You could be accused of spying for the Shawneeor the British"

"No one knows of our meetings"

"Not yet, you mean. Suppose someone sees them here
and-"

"I'll not bar the door to them, Daughter," he said sternly.
"Strange as it sounds, I consider them friends. Besides, I have
my own reasons for wanting them here"

Because of Jess. She sighed, spirits plummeting. In her haste to be rid of Red Shirt, she'd not thought to ask about Jess. "Did
you tell him about Major McKie?"

His smile was tight. "I'm sure he knows more about McKie than
we do. He's likely tracked McKie's every move since he and his men
came into this territory. Telling him about military matters would
be pointless-and would make me a spy as well. Wouldn't it?"

Chagrined, she fell silent. She'd not tell him of the hope kindling in her heart. Perhaps the coming of McKie's Virginians
meant the Shawnee visits would stop. Soon the woods would
be overrun with spies, ferreting out trouble, looking for Indian
sign. Surely that would keep them away.

Slowly she came down the steps, upended anew when he
said, "Red Shirt brought us both something:"

He took a package off the trestle table and held it out to her.
Startled by Red Shirt's unexpected gesture, she took it reluctantly,
noting the heavy paper and string. She felt Pa's eyes on her, as if
weighing her reaction. Did Red Shirt think he could curry her
favor, her forgiveness?

A rush of resistance rose up within her. Setting the gift aside,
she went out, bent on retrieving her berry baskets and finishing her task. Nay, forgiveness couldn't be curried or cajoled
or bought. It had to be given freely from a Christ-filled heart
absent of all hate.

Like Pa's. Not hers.

The next morning she placed her package on the bench by
the dogtrot door, wondering if Pa had opened his. But he wasn't
near enough to ask, having left the cabin before dawn to finish cribbing the corn before the heat set in. She'd overslept
this morning, thanks to a fitful night, and hadn't heard him go.
The previous day had been altogether too stimulating, and she
was worn out, so weary on wakening she'd wished it was dusk
instead of daylight.

Dutifully, she made a kettle of mush. As she worked, she eyed
the package, drawn yet repelled by its presence, thinking she'd
better bury it somewhere out of sight. Its presence gnawed at
her, tempting her to untie its string and unravel the mystery of
its bulk and weight. Perhaps it was an animal skin or pelt-or
some Indian trinket. Whatever it was, she wanted to be rid of
it and knew just the place.

Slowly she opened the door to the dogtrot. It groaned in
protest, the hinges rusty from disuse. Snatching up the package,
she hurried across to the east side of the cabin, pushing open
the heavy door for the first time since coming back from Philadelphia. For a moment she nearly forgot why she came, lost in
the bewildering disarray. Why, thirteen years later, did Pa still
refuse to right the furniture, sweep up the stray feathers, clean
up the mess? She'd hoped, during her time away, he'd have done
so. Or let her do it in his stead now that she'd come home. But
she knew the past was too painful. By shutting the door on the
life he'd lived with her mother, he hoped to heal.

A copper kettle sat by the hearth, tinted green from age. She
dropped the package into it, satisfied as it was swallowed up
and hidden from view. As she turned to go, a shaft of sunlight
came through a grimy windowpane high above, striking a floorlength mirror and catching her reflection. Snatching up an old
curtain, she rubbed a section of glass clean and peered closer,
wondering why McKie paid her any attention at all.

At the sound of a footfall on the porch, she hurried outside.
She drew the door shut as quietly as she could and came in
the front door to fool Pa. He was sitting at the table when she
entered, wearing a new beaver felt hat set at a slightly rakish
angle. It made him look years younger, covering his silverthreaded hair. Was this what Red Shirt had brought him? She
studied him as she poured him a cup of coffee and passed the
sugar.

"You needn't remove your hat, she said softly. "Considering
that it's new and all:"

Pa touched the felt brim as if he'd forgotten and watched as
she dished up the mush. Thus far he hadn't asked what she'd
done with her own package, but she sensed he understood her
reasons for shunning the gift. And she tried to be courteous,
though she was hard-pressed to hide her dismay at his obvious
delight. The comfortable silence they shared soon began fraying,
and she knew he had something on his mind that had little to
do with felt hats and unopened packages.

When she took his empty dish away, he cleared his throat.
"I've already milked this morning. Thought I'd spare you the
trouble:"

"I didn't mean to oversleep, she said, pouring him more coffee. "Now that you're done with the harvest, you can stay abed
a bit longer yourself."

Pa sighed, a strange utterance coming from him. Was it her
imagination, or was he flushing beneath his sandy beard? He
swallowed and said, "Did Lizzy speak with you at the last Sabbath service?"

His face was so hopeful she hated to shake her head no. He
had something womanly to tell her, she guessed, and it went
hard on him. "There was hardly time, remember? We were a
bit late, and then there was Major McKie .."

"Well, you'll need to ready your dress if you're to stand up
with her," he murmured.

She kept busy, putting beans in a kettle to soak and fussing
with the fire. "But I thought she had her heart set on a spring
wedding."