Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (28 page)

As she walked to the river to bathe, one bare foot skimming
the water, she felt autumn in its cold rushing. She was careful
to stay close to shore, recalling how the river had almost made
her a watery grave. Thoughts of Red Shirt seemed to hover as
she relived the moment he'd brought her out of the river. The
memory was growing a bit dusty, as were his words to her in the
attic before he'd disappeared. But the feeling he wrought-and
she fought-remained.

Months had passed since he'd ridden away on McKie's fine
horse. Not once had they seen so much as his shadow. His absence spelled something momentous, surely. Had he severed all
ties with them, given the escalating conflict? Or had he taken up with the British again as Pa feared? Though they rarely spoke of
him, she sensed he was often in Pa's thoughts, and it seemed they
danced around the unspoken possibility he'd been wounded or
even killed since seeing Joe at Kekionga last winter.

Oh Lord, wherever he is, please let no harm come to him.

Heartsore, she finished her bath and returned to the cabin
to comb out her damp hair and secure it atop her head. But
the heavy locks kept spilling down in wayward wisps about her
face and neck despite an abundance of pins. As she rummaged
through her wardrobe, she was careful not to stray to the fur
shawl, instead picking the first dress her fingers touched. 'Twas
a badly wrinkled sprigged muslin, light and airy and begging
for the clothespress. She put it on anyway, liking the pale blue
flowers that bloomed across the carnation-colored fabric and
the way the rounded neckline was ruched with a deeper blue
ribbon. She considered donning a kerchief to better cover up.
But no one was about, save Pa.

"Morrow, I'm going out to the pasture to see to the horses,
he called from the bottom of the stairs.

She called out an acknowledgment and then, feeling hemmed
in by the shadows, went out into the orchard. There amidst the
tangle of lush limbs and late apples where she hoped to find
solace, she simply found a deeper sadness. Why was it that
everywhere she went, Red Shirt's memory seemed to shadow
her? Why was he even now so indelibly engraved on her heart?
Here it was no different. She was cast back in time to the day
he'd stood with her while she dipped candles, talking of Jess and
sharing things she'd shared with no one, not even Pa.

In the lengthening shadows, the sweet sound of a dove calling for its mate carried on the wind. She paused, waiting for
the answering call. The cooing came again, as lonesome and
full of yearning as she herself felt. Still, no answer. Clasping
her hands behind her back, she began walking slowly toward the depths of the orchard, wanting a look at the lonely dove. A
sudden movement through the trees made her start, and she
saw a telling flash of brown.

She swerved toward the shadow, but he was faster, the heavily
laden branches swallowing him from sight. A bit dazed, she ran
after him but within moments didn't know who was pursuing
whom. They chased each other in dizzying circles till she wanted
to fall to the ground, pleasure pumping through her, completely
out of breath.

I must be dreaming...

She felt a sweet, bubbling relief that Red Shirt stood before her,
hale and hearty, when she feared he'd never do so again. Without
Pa's watchful presence, she took stock of him inch by inch, feeling
she'd somehow earned the right after so much time apart. His
hard jaw was clean shaven, the black silk of his hair damp from
a washing and looking freshly combed, his amber eyes flickering
warm as a hearth's fire. He was, she noticed, hardly winded.

Breathlessly, she said, "I heard a dove calling for its mate. But
now I think that dove was you"

There was a hint of a smile in his eyes. "I was waiting for you
to answer"

"I can't make birdcalls"

I could teach you:'

He seemed to be drinking in the sight of her as well, and
she felt a certain shyness without her shawl. Yet she sensed he
needed to see something soft and womanly and feminine. She
was suddenly glad of her tumbled hair and bare shoulders and
beribboned dress. And then a feeling of shame swept through
her. No man had ever seen her so unkempt.

Her smile faded. "You must be tired-hungry."

"Mostly thirsty," he said, looking toward the cabin.

"Come in and I'll get you some cider. Pa's in the pasture but
should be back soon:"

"How is he?" The concern in his face was so telling, tears came
to her eyes. He said quietly, "That's answer enough"

Shifting his rifle to his other arm, he took her elbow and
walked with her to the cabin. The pressure of his callused hand
seemed to steady her, and she felt a deep contentment. "I wasn't
sure we'd see you again."

"I can't stay long. Overnight, perhaps. I need to talk to your
father"

"He's been a bit downcast about the prisoner exchange."

He nodded in understanding, the lines about his eyes creasing
as he squinted into the setting sun. "Everything is unraveling.
From the war in the East to the trouble here in Kentucke and
Ohio's middle ground. I'd not thought to see it come to this"

"Isn't there peace anywhere?" she wondered aloud.

"Here," he said, looking down at her.

For the briefest moment their eyes met. She'd not considered
how welcome their cabin might look to him, hungry and tired
as he surely was from a long journey. In a world where nothing
seemed safe or peaceful or good, was their home on the Red
River a refuge? Her eyes trailed to the shoulder Pa had tended
so carefully last winter, wondering if it still ailed him.

"How is your wound?"

"Never better. I have you and your father to thank for that"

"I was afraid, when you didn't come back.. "

He smiled and looked away from her, eyes scanning the clearing and woods before they passed inside. "I've lived a score or
more years thus far. I intend to live another score or better"

Twenty or so to her nineteen. She'd been wondering just how
old he was. Now she tucked the knowledge away like a keepsake
to save. He lay his rifle on the trestle table alongside his powder
horn and shot pouch while she fetched a crock of cold cider from
the springhouse. By the time she'd returned, Pa was back, the
pleasure on his face at seeing Red Shirt so heartening she found herself near tears again. They embraced, and she stood apart,
surprised at how easily they took to being together again.

As she warmed leftovers from supper, they sat by the hearth
and talked unceasingly in low tones, broken only by Pa's bursts
of coughing. The contrast they made wrenched her heart. Red
Shirt exuded strength and health and vitality, magnifying Pa's
decrepit condition. Not much longer now, her soul seemed to
whisper.

Toward nightfall she sensed Pa was growing weary. Before
the mantel clock struck seven, he was asleep in his chair, head
tipped to his chest, while Red Shirt sat across from him and
quietly cleaned his rifle.

"I've made you a bed in the barn," she said, wishing he'd not
insisted upon it. "But I'd rather you stay in the house with us:"

"I'll not take your bed again," he replied, wiping down the
barrel with a piece of tow linen she'd given him. "Feather ticks
are for females. I prefer the hard ground:"

She gave him a half smile, watching as he loaded his rifle.
"I'm afraid Tansy isn't very good company. Not to mention all
those horses:"

"You should show me which stall is mine, he said, finishing
his task.

Standing, he cast a long shadow in the last of the flickering
firelight, and she moved toward the door ahead of him. The
smell of rain was in the air, and they looked toward a surly sky
thick with thunderheads. The wind was picking up, promising a
stormy night. Her eyes roamed over the broad lines of the barn,
a black silhouette in the gloom, and a new worry pricked her.

"I'm afraid Pa hasn't been able to fix the barn roof. You might
spend a damp night:'

He smiled, his teeth a flash of white in his tanned face. "Do
I look like I mind a little rain, Morrow?"

The question seemed an invitation to look at him, and she did just that, taking in his worn buckskins and clean if fraying
frocked shirt. How many stormy nights had he spent in the
weather, she wondered? She'd yet to spend one. Opening the
barn door, she realized she'd forgotten a lantern, but she slipped
into the shadows anyway, showing him the first stall in a gesture
she now knew was completely unnecessary.

He leaned his rifle against a post before he turned back to her.
"I wanted to talk to you away from the cabin. Your father .." He
hesitated as if well aware how the mention hurt her. "Your father
is concerned for you. What will you do when he's gone?"

She looked away, feeling small and uncertain standing there
before him. "I-I don't know."

He asked quietly, "Will you marry?"

Her heart clenched in alarm. Had Pa told him of Robbie Clay?
She felt a bit sick at the thought. "I can't think of marriage now,
not with Pa so ill:"

"Why not let him choose?"

She took a deep breath, daring a look at him, wanting to share
her heart. "A husband, you mean?"

"Some practice it. Love comes in time"

In time ... She didn't have much time. Robbie Clay would be
back any day. She looked away, trying to tamp down her heartache, the intimate question on the tip of her tongue begging to
be answered. "Do you have a ... woman?"

For a moment she thought he might say yes, and she tensed.

"No;' he finally said.

A bittersweet relief swept through her. Here and now, in the
shadowed barn, nothing seemed to matter but the two of them.
Every obstacle seemed to fade away. All the barriers between
them turned to ashes with that one definitive no.

He leaned back against a post while she clasped her hands
together and tried to summon the will to walk away. But the
ensuing silence was rife with a hundred heartfelt things, each wooing her to stay. How different this was than the first time,
when he'd surprised her in the barn and she'd run away from
him. Was he remembering it too?

Looking down at the hay strewn about her feet, she felt his
fingers graze her cheek and brush back the wisps of hair that
had come free of her pins. She nearly shivered, yet the warmth
of his hand seemed to reach clear to her heart. Was the sigh she
heard his-or her own?

Slowly she looked up and his hand fell away. Without thinking,
she reached for him again, needing his warmth and strength,
and returned his callused palm to her flushed cheek. Despite
the darkness, she sensed his surprise, and it matched her own
as he ever so carefully closed the distance between them.

"Morrow.. "

He was so close he could lower his face into her hair and
breathe in the rose scent of her if he wanted to. He'd not dishonor
her, he'd once said. She didn't rightly know what that meant, yet
she almost wanted to find out. She was on dangerous ground,
all her feelings tied in knots, her genteel ways fraying like silk
thread. She felt the pressure of his other hand warm about her
waist ... his breath on her cheek ... his fingers cradling her
chin and drawing her in.

Oh Lord, I am lost.

She shut her eyes and waited for his mouth to meet hers. But
in that achingly sweet instant, another sound rent the stillness.
The barn door groaned open, and Pa's coughing filled the air
with unwelcome fury. Red Shirt stepped away from her, and she
whirled to face her father, so bereft she felt ill.

"Morrow, you all right?"

Had he seen their near embrace? "I-I was just coming
back."

"It's going to storm," he said, leaning against the heavy
door.

She went to him and, without another look back, shut the
heavy door behind them with shaking hands. Walking across
the dried grass of the clearing was an agony, for she'd left her
heart in the barn. Pa took the porch steps slowly as if trying to
get his breath, and she struggled for composure before the cabin
lamp revealed her turmoil. Once inside, he didn't go straight to
bed as she'd hoped but took a seat at the hearth and watched
as she finished burying the coals for the morning's fire with a
small shovel.

He passed a hand over his beard, voice solemn. "Are you in
love with Red Shirt, Morrow?"

Stricken, she looked up, eyes awash. His face held a startling
frankness that insisted she respond in kind. "Pa, I think you've
misjudged us. We have a fine friendship, nothing more'

He hesitated, eyes grave. "I've seen the way he looks at you.
I'd have to be blind as well as consumptive not to notice"

And just how does he look at me? She felt herself go hot and
cold all over and fixed her eyes on the floor. Could he see what
she tried so hard to hide? His curiosity-and questioningseemed to strip her nearly naked and expose all her raw emotions.

"If I might be so bold, did Red Shirt ask for your hand?"

Setting the shovel aside, she said, "No, Pa. Why would he?"

"Why would he? Heaven has blessed you with a fine face and
figure, and intelligence and grace besides. Nay, the question is,
why wouldn't he?"

She sat down across from him, her hands twisting in her lap.
"He merely asked if I'd given any thought to the future ... to
marriage:" She swallowed hard. "He suggested I let you choose
for me-a husband, I mean"

"And what did you say?"

"I ..." What had she said? The memory only deepened her
embarrassment. "I-I asked if he had a-a woman:'

His eyebrows rose to sharp peaks, and she looked away,
mortified at what she'd done. In the barn, the question seemed
innocent enough, but now it seemed like she'd thrown herself
at his feet in the asking. Was that what Red Shirt thought? Pa
did, surely.

"Daughter, need I remind you that you're as good as betrothed?"

Betrothed. She smoothed her wrinkled skirt, grasping for
words. "I ... I .."