Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (19 page)

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.

With her help, Pa hefted the canoe into the shallows, holding it steady till she took her seat, then jumped in and pushed
off almost at once. Despite his illness, he was still agile and
maneuvered the vessel as expertly as his horse.

"How long will Joe be gone, Pa?" she asked, watching the
river dimple in the rain.

"Oh, you know Joe. He tends to lose track of time out in the
woods. Might not be back till spring"

"I'm surprised Good Robe didn't go with him."

"She wanted to, but it's a dangerous time to be about, and
the winter promises to be a hard one. I assured Joe we'd keep
an eye on them, help with whatever they need"

The little cabin soon came into view, its sturdy chimney puffing smoke. She'd meant to bring them a little something but had
flown out of the house in such a hurry she'd forgotten all but her
wits. Good Robe seemed as glad to see them as they were to see
her, and Little Eli looked rounder and sturdier than before.

They visited all the dreary afternoon, Pa and Good Robe
speaking a strange mishmash of English and Shawnee, as the
four of them ate together around the crackling fire. Morrow
marveled at Good Robe's economy, watching as she combined
dried beans and corn and squash into a tasty medley. Holding
up her wooden bowl for seconds, Morrow smiled as Little Eli
waved his spoon as if asking for the same. But without Joe's
joviality, it seemed a bit too quiet.

I have a feeling Joe is missing your cooking about now," Pa
told her.

Good Robe smiled at his praise, pointing to a beaver pelt drying in the corner. "Beaver tail his favorite, Pa Little. You too?"

At this Morrow stopped chewing, eyes flying to the corner
pelt.

"I don't believe Morrow's ever made it;' he replied. "But I'd
be pleased if she did"

Good Robe nodded vigorously. "First you trap beaver and
hang over fire. The heat makes skin split and peel back. Then
you cut up and boil with vegetables. Oui-sah"

"Oui-sah;' Pa said with relish. "Good, indeed"

Morrow discreetly removed her handkerchief from her sleeve
and made a quick deposit, wondering how this succotash would
taste with bacon instead of beaver tail. Little Eli looked up at
her with wide green eyes, so startling beneath his fringe of inky
hair. She fed him the rest of his gruel, amazed at his appetite. In
the windowless cabin, the grease lamps smoked and their eyes
stung, but they continued to talk, speculating on where Trapper
Joe might have gone and when he might come back.

"And Surrounded? Red Shirt?" Good Robe asked. "You see
them?"

Pa cleared his throat. "Not since fall. Last I heard they were
headed south to Tennessee territory"

She nodded knowingly. "They go talk with the Cherokee about
the soldiers"

Morrow felt her stomach knot. She rifled the baby's glossy
hair as he sat in her lap chewing on a wooden spoon, relieved
when the conversation took a turn and Pa began answering
Good Robe's questions about the white man's God. Opening
his Bible, he tried to translate some passages in Shawnee about
sin and forgiveness, peace and prayer.

She listened absently, a bit startled as the rainy night at the
river with Red Shirt returned to her. Looking down at Little Eli,
Morrow tried to picture Red Shirt as a boy, inky-haired and
amber-eyed as he prayed with his captive mother. Had Surrounded been tender with her? Had he minded that she clung
to her beliefs and passed them on to their son?

The longer she lingered on the image, the more another mem ory flowered. She could recall soft whispered words and amens.
Jess's short petitions and Euphemia's babyish jabber. Cold knees
on the hard floor. Warm kisses afterward. She sat and let it assuage her hurt, surprised that it could soften and dispel some of
the darkness. Her thoughts kept returning to Red Shirt's heartfelt
question by the gravesites and her inability to answer. Why was
forgiveness so hard to find? Why was it even harder to bestow?

When they got up to go, it was nearly twilight. Good Robe
opened the door, and they gave a collective gasp. Snow swirled
down over the expanse of soggy brown ground, the flakes big as
English shillings. Icicles were already forming under the cabin
eave, and Morrow nearly lost her footing in her fragile slippers.

She and Pa hurried to the river, the surface wind-whipped
and edged in ice. Pa pushed off and paddled hard, but by the
time their cabin came into view, he was spent. Morrow was
so stiff from the cold she had trouble getting out of the canoe.
He helped her to the bank and then beached the vessel upside
down beneath the same snowy clump of laurel, urging her to
go on without him. He had to see to the horses and bring them
in from the pasture.

Hastened by a bitter wind, she hurried up the river path,
marveling at the frozen world around her. It seemed to take an
age to reach the front porch, and when she did the snow came
up to her ankles. Just ahead she saw that the cabin chimney was
belching considerable smoke, far more than their prolonged
absence allowed. Her heart gave a queer lurch as she slowly
pushed open the door. The familiar figures draped in buffalo
coats weren't frightening now, just unexpected. Had they already
returned from Tennessee?

She stepped nearer the hearth, no longer aware of her sodden slippers, and greeted them. "Pa's seeing to the horses, she
said softly.

Surrounded swept past, leaving her alone with Red Shirt. In the ensuing silence, she removed her gloves and cape, busying herself at
the fire. "You must be hungry, tired:" She tied on an apron and bent
to hang a kettle of leftover soup from the crane, nearly scorching
her hand as she did so. "You're wise to come at night:"

"We cannot stay," he said.

"But the snow. . " she said, glancing at the ice-encrusted
windows. "I've plenty of soup and bread:" Turning, she brought
out what was left of a black walnut cake from the hutch.

He made no reply, but his dark eyes glittered and took her
in with an intensity that nearly made her forget where she was.
Setting the cake on the table, she watched him take a seat on
the opposite bench. He moved a bit stiffly, keeping his heavy
coat about him, his handsome profile stoic in the firelight. Yet
she sensed something grievously different about him.

Her hands stilled. "Would you like some cider while I warm
supper?"

Oddly, he made no answer. She busied herself setting the
table around him, trying to determine what made her so uneasy.
Where was Surrounded? Pa? She glanced at him again-and
forgot all about supper and her own growling stomach. Beneath
the bench upon which he sat was a small but startling puddle of
red. A suffocating sense of alarm shot through her.

What... ?

The sight made her inch her way down the table, slightly
open-mouthed. He turned toward her as she approached, and
his face held a strange heat. Dropping down beside him, she
stepped on a corner of his buffalo robe and the heavy fur gave
way, revealing a linen shirt stained scarlet. The sight of so much
blood made her shut her eyes. Without thinking, she pressed a
cold hand to his face, feeling she'd touched an andiron instead.
He moved back slightly as if to get away from her, but in his
fever-weakened state, she was faster. Turning to her sewing
chest, she took out a pair of newly sharpened shears. In one swift motion she cut the back of his shirt from neck to hem,
desperate to find out how badly he was hurt.

Oh, Pa ... where are you, Pa?

His right shoulder was mangled, the wound packed with
what looked to be buzzard down, but even that failed to stem
the bleeding. Panic choked her, and she fumbled with the scraps
of shirt, trying to staunch the flow. Woozy, she sank down onto
the bench beside him.

"Morrow.. " He seemed to grit his teeth as he said her name.

She didn't answer, just looked on helplessly as he leaned into
her. In seconds her lovely wool dress was poppy red as his body
sagged against her, his head against the lace of her kerchief. She
lowered her face into the gloss of his hair, awe and pleasure
piercing her pain.

"Morrow!" The clap of Pa's voice was like the coming of thunder in the cabin. "What in heaven's name is happening here?"

She looked up, feeling pale and shaken. Surrounded was behind Pa, clutching his medicine bag. She'd seen it dozens of times
but hoped they'd never need it. Their long shadows hovered as
they began moving Red Shirt, leaving her with the mess of her
dress, her thoughts scattered.

In moments he was in Pa's bed again, just as he'd been as a
boy. The distant memory pulled at her, and she began doing
the same things she'd done then-boiling water, cutting strips
of linen into bandages, praying silently. She kept looking over
her shoulder to the bed, where Pa was examining the wound by
lantern light. The mounting fear she felt was nauseating.

Face grim, Pa moved to the fire and thrust his hunting knife
into the flames. "What happened out there?"

"Soldiers," Surrounded said tersely, then lapsed into Shawnee.

Pa paused briefly to examine the hot steel. "Was there a
fight?"

Surrounded simply nodded, eyes on the barred door.

"Were they known to you?"

"Mattah. Bad men spring up like grass everywhere .."

Pa turned back to the bed, jaw clenched. "Hold the lantern
for me, Morrow"

"Pa..:"Her voice was fraying fast. "Can't you give him some
medicine-anything-to ease him?"

"Look at him, Daughter," he said a tad sharply. "He's already
unconscious."

She took up the lantern but couldn't look. The smell of blood
sickened her, and the light swayed in her hand. Pa stifled a cough
and reached out to steady the light. "I'll not have the both of
you to tend, understand"

Shamed, she steadied herself, noting his own pallor was as
sickly as Red Shirt's. Sweat beaded his wrinkled brow, but he
kept on, at last extracting the ball. "Bring some water, and we'll
clean the wound then mix some medicine:"

Thankfully, his stomach was stronger than hers. She held the
basin of steaming water, watching it redden before she replaced
it. Red Shirt's eyes were still shut, his head turned away from
them, his dark hair like spilled ink against the white bedding.

Pa looked from him to Surrounded. "He'll need to remain here
while you go on to Fort Pitt. He's in no condition to travel:"

Surrounded merely nodded, but Morrow's face clouded.
"Shouldn't we move him upstairs? If someone comes-if there's
trouble .."

"He'll be out of sight, protected," Pa finished for her. "Go up
and ready your room. The sooner we move him, the better. I'll
tend him through the night, and you can spell me come morning"

Lighting a candle, she climbed the stairs, seeing everything
with new eyes. Opening her room to him was a little like opening her soul. She held the light high, assessing everything in one sweep. All within was clean, feminine, tidy. The bed was hardly
big enough to hold him, though the linens were freshly washed.
On a nearby table was a washbasin and porcelain pitcher full of
water. She crossed to the shelf of dolls and gathered them up,
burying them in the bottom of her wardrobe. Next she turned
the bed down, folding the colorful quilt up at the bottom. He'd
hardly need it with a fever.

She could hear the men coming up the steps, and she moved
to hold the door open. Strong as they were, it was all they could
do to carry Red Shirt. The move seemed to aggravate his shoulder further, sending sticky rivulets from his bare chest to the
beaded belt at his waist. Slipping past them, Morrow went below
and gathered up the weapons he'd left at the door, bringing them
upstairs. Along one wall she placed his rifle and hunting knife
and heavy trade tomahawk. She could feel Surrounded watching
her, and she sensed approval in his gaze.

He looked down at his son a final time, his face graver than
she'd ever seen. Then, without a word, he was gone, following Pa
downstairs, leaving her behind with the lantern. She hesitated,
knowing she should go. He lay peaceful, entirely still.

From the doorway, she heard a slight cough. "Morrow, go
below to bed. I'll tend Red Shirt tonight"

How long had he stood at the door, watching her watching
him? "Will he be all right?"