Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (20 page)

He came from behind and placed a bony hand on her shoulder. "He's strong. And the wound is clean. I believe all he needs
is rest:"

"But the fever-"

"I'll try to break the fever with boneset. We've other herbs
besides. Surrounded has left some medicine"

This brought some comfort. The Shawnee were noted healers, even among the whites. Joe had often spoken of their skill.
But sleep would be long in coming, if at all. She felt a sudden chill. What if he worsened in the night? What if she withheld
what he asked of her? He might die without knowing her forgiveness ...

"Pa, please, won't you let me stay and help?" Her plea was so
poignant his own eyes glittered when he looked at her.

"No, Morrow, go below" His quiet words held a hint of rebuke.

Reluctantly, she turned away.

Sometime in the night, when the cabin was completely still,
she heard her name. Pushing back the quilt that covered her,
she climbed out of the trundle bed and paused on the first step,
shivering in her thin nightgown. The stairs seemed to stretch to
the heavens beneath her wobbly legs, and her heart slammed
inside her chest. But she heard the call again nevertheless.

Morrow.

Dawn edged the landing window with pale yellow light as she
passed by and entered her dark bedroom. Pa was sound asleep
on a corner pallet, and the candle she'd left hours ago was spent.
She could make out the shadowed figure in her bed, so distinct
even in the darkness. Red Shirt was attempting to get up, and
she ran to him, a small cry of alarm spilling out of her. Frantic,
she pushed him back, but he caught her hands, entangling her
in his bare arms. The heat of his skin shocked her.

"Don't-your shoulder. . " she whispered as he unfolded to
his full height, determination in every line of his striking face.
The slats of the bed seemed to sigh with relief as he stood, then
groaned as he sat back down again.

"You must rest, she whispered, glancing at Pa.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and his forehead fell
against the soft slope of her shoulder. Breathless, she watched
him struggle to regain his bearings and finally sit upright. She could see the intense emotion in his expression, limned as it was
by dawn's intrusion through the windows. Slowly she framed
his flushed face with her hands, and their coldness seemed to
help ground him.

"Olame ne tagh que loge," he muttered. "I am very sick"

"Yes, you are very sick, she echoed.

He looked past her to his weapons lining the wall. "I need
water ... then I will be on my way."

She shook her head. `No, you need someone to nurse you-to
take care of your wound:'

He looked down as if surprised to find his shoulder seeping,
the bandages bloodied, but the sight seemed only to harden
his resolve. "I can't stay here any longer ... you know the
danger"

She felt a sudden flash of sympathy. "If you go, you'll not make
it to Fort Pitt. Your father left you with us for a reason. I-" She
swallowed down the emotion that threatened to spill over, hardly
believing what she was about to say. "I-I beg you to stay."

To hide her angst as much as to help him, she turned away and
poured a cup of water. He drank it down and asked for another.
Pa stirred on his pallet as Red Shirt stooped and began gathering
his weapons, returning each to his belt, his movements sure and
resolute. But when he stood, he staggered backward, straight into
the older man's leanness, nearly toppling Pa in the process.

"You'll go nowhere this day, Pa said, struggling to right him
and steer him back to bed.

Unwillingly, Red Shirt sat, one hand resting on the belt where
his knife had been, the empty sheath digging into the soft feather
tick. The blood was running again, creating tiny tributaries from
his shoulder to his stomach.

She watched as Pa began to peel away the layers of soiled
linen, her eyes entreating when she looked again at Red Shirt.
"At least stay until I can sew you a shirt"

Pa cleared his throat and shot her a wilting look. "You'd do
well to mind your own dress, Daughter."

Shamed, she crossed to her dresser for clean under things,
then opened the wardrobe and rummaged for a gown. She went
below to dress and start breakfast, trying to lose herself in the
routine of making porridge and frying bacon. She saw Surrounded's medicine pouch on a table and began boiling water,
wondering what could be done to break so high a fever. A cup
on the table held the last bitter dregs of boneset, evidence of
Pa's attempts the night before.

She hardly heard Pa behind her. He'd become so light in body
the stairs no longer creaked to announce his coming. The corpse
of a katydid, Aunt Sally called him. Weary, she turned to face
him.

"He's in bed again, but I don't know how long he'll stay," he
told her, washing his hands in a basin. "I've a good mind to knock
him out with a double dose of whiskey."

The suggestion sent her hurrying to their medicine chest.
With the dark jug in one hand, she rummaged for a small cup
with the other.

He sat down, his beard covering a rueful smile. "You'll have
to give it to him, Daughter. I doubt he'll take it from me, but
from you he just might:"

His wry amusement surprised her, but she hurried back upstairs, marveling at her eagerness to return to the sickroomand Pa's allowing it.

Wary, Red Shirt leaned back against the headboard and
watched her as she sat down by his side, the bed hardly giving
beneath her weight. "You want me to drink the whiskey," he
surmised. "If you bring me my buffalo coat and saddlebags, I
will:"

"You first;' she said, extending the cup.

He obliged, trying to stay stoic despite several disagreeable swallows. Pa retrieved the saddlebags from the barn while she
fulfilled her part of the bargain, lugging the heavy hide to her
room. She found the smell of it oddly fragrant, reminiscent of
the kinnikkinnikhe smoked. His appreciation shone in his feverish eyes, and he took it from her with studied effort, spreading
it flat on the floor with her help until it became a huge, duncolored carpet.

"Your bed is making me soft," he said.

Perplexed, she looked down at the thick hide, wondering
if he'd truly trade the feather tick for the cold, hard floor. But
he was already upon it, exhaustion-or whiskey-slurring his
speech. She studied him, concern tightening her features, and
he studied her in turn.

"I think you're in need of your own medicine;' he finally
said.

Kneeling, she smoothed out one rumpled corner of the hide,
nearly too weary to get back up. She'd hardly slept knowing he
was under their roof, terrified he'd worsen in the night or leave
them. The suspicion that he might yet still nettled her.

Suddenly the raucous bawling of the cow beyond the frozen
window reminded her that no matter what was happening within
cabin walls, their daily chores awaited.

He lay back slowly, favoring his wound. "When I wake up,
I'll tell you about my trip south to Tennessee"

His eyes were already closing, and she breathed a plaintive
prayer. Mindful of the frigid draft along the floor, she took the
quilt off her bed and covered him. Reluctantly, she began backing
out the door, wondering if his sleepiness was little more than a
ruse to leave once she and Pa weren't looking.

It seemed he slept a solid three days, awakening only to eat and
drink or have his shoulder bandaged. She rarely went upstairs,
though sometimes when Pa was outside chopping wood or seeing to the horses, she crept up to the landing and peered through
the crack in the door like a child of five, not a young woman
of eighteen. Once she spied a book lying open on his bedding
while he slept. Curiosity made her tiptoe nearer until she saw it
plain. A Bible. Could he read? The notion was nearly as jarring
as his speaking English. His time at Brafferton returned to her,
stoking her growing curiosity about his past.

She kept busy below, but there was a heaviness edging all
that she did. She expected to find him gone at any moment-or
soldiers at their door. Perhaps he'd be well enough to travel by
Christmas Eve. She'd nearly forgotten the party to be held for
the singing school at their very own cabin. In years past she'd
anticipated the event like no other, enjoying playing the hostess,
preparing for the evening with a week's worth of baking. But
now in just a fortnight, the group would gather, build a bonfire
between the barn and cabin, roast chestnuts and dance and
sing, drink cider and share supper. The coming event filled her
with dread.

"We'll go on as before. If we didn't, we might be suspect, Pa
told her as she began rolling out dough for apple tarts. "Red
Shirt can stay upstairs, and no one will be the wiser"

"But some of the soldiers will be here, Major McKie among them' She kept her voice soft, afraid of it drifting upstairs. Even
now she looked around for any trace of Red Shirt's presence.
Spying Surrounded's medicine bag, she wiped her hands on her
apron and hid it away in a corner cupboard. By now, the wily
chief was well on his way to Fort Pitt, some two hundred miles
upriver. Who knew when he'd return?

Pa began to wheeze, a sure sign of his own agitation. "A
great deal more is accomplished by prayer than by worry," he
said, shrugging on his coat. "I need to go check the fence line.
One of the horses is missing. But I'll be back by supper, Lord
willing."

She looked up, surprised that he would leave her alone with
Red Shirt, but he simply kissed her cheek and went out, the
staccato hoofbeats of his horse growing fainter and fainter in
the frozen air. The snow that had blustered with such fierceness
two days past had dwindled, leaving a few scant inches upon
the ground. But it was bone-chilling, the cold. She placed the
heavy bar across the front door and replenished the fire, then
returned to her baking.

The afternoon loomed long and lonesome, leaving little to
do but sew the promised shirt. Thus far she'd stitched but one
sleeve, relying on Red Shirt's measurements by sight alone. It
had been easy enough to guess the breadth of his shoulders and
chest by observing Pa dressing his wound. Recalling it now nearly
made her miss a stitch and lose the thread altogether.

She held her wayward needle still, suddenly aware of the creak
of the stairs and her own thudding heart. Red Shirt stood behind
her on the last step, leaning against the railing, wearing leggings
and Pa's largest nightshirt, his feet minus moccasins.

Relief washed over her like a wave. "I was beginning to think
you were an old bear, hibernating in our attic all winter long"

Slowly he came and sat opposite her, taking Pa's chair. "How
long have I been here?"

She held up five fingers. "Five sleeps, she said, echoing something she'd heard Surrounded say.

His mouth crooked in amusement, and he looked about the
spacious cabin as if getting his bearings before returning to the
linen in her lap. "Is that my shirt?"