Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (31 page)

He tucked the damp handkerchief in his hunting shirt, then
caught the handle of the basket she held and led her deeper into
the woods. Wordlessly, they climbed the side of the mountain for
a full five minutes, far off the familiar trail. She soon felt the cool
breath of a cave fanning the ferns and brush all around them.
At its entrance, they sat on a cold slab of rock, and she shivered.
Did he know every inch of this land? It had been the Shawnees'
before hers. Would she ever stop feeling like a trespasser?

"Morrow, you need to go back to the cabin. I'll take you there,
but you must promise not to wander so far again"

"But Pa-he needs something to ease him. . " She broke off, her heartache rising, ready to spill over at the slightest provocation. Turning her head away, she studied the late-blooming
laurel all about them. The bloodred blossoms reminded her of
Pa's stained handkerchiefs about the cabin, too many to count,
each like a banner declaring a life ebbing.

He said quietly, "Morrow, look at me"

She needed no such invitation and turned back to him, eyes
wet. Oh, but he was so handsome it hurt her. This close, she felt
drawn to him in ways that bewildered her. How could he both
fascinate and frighten?

The intensity of his tone shook her further when he said,
"Promise me you'll stay close to the cabin. There's a regiment of
soldiers coming over the trace nearest your cabin. A Shawnee
war party is in back of them. You'll come to no harm. But you
need to bar the doors and stay inside"

"Will there be a fight?"

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and she knew he was trying
not to scare her. Despite the danger pulsing all around them,
she felt becalmed by his presence. Ever so gently he took her
fingers in his, and they trembled like a bird's wing against the
deep mahogany of his hand. He was looking down at the bruises
that encircled her wrist like a dark bracelet, his expression inscrutable. But she was no longer thinking of McKie.

If the simple pressure of his hand fills me with such pleasure,
what must it be like within the warm circle of his arms?

A gust of wind seemed to bring her to her senses, shooing
her off the ledge. She wouldn't mention McKie. The risk was far
too great. Doing so might endanger him just as it had Robbie
Clay. Despite her desperation, she kept silent and started down
the mountain ahead of him, clutching the hoe and basket, the
herbs forgotten. As she walked, she had the uncanny sense they
weren't alone and looked back. The sight of a dozen or more
frontiersmen and Indians filled her with raw alarm.

"I'm traveling with a party in case of ambush;' Red Shirt said.

Each Indian seemed dressed for war, skin glistening with
oil and paint, British muskets in hand. Her eyes were drawn to
their silver-embellished scalp locks and somber countenances
before moving to the familiar garb of the frontiersmen. All bore
rawhide belts hung with tomahawks and trade knives, powder
horns and shot pouches slung over their shoulders. This was
no hunting expedition, truly.

He took her elbow and propelled her past flaming oaks and
maples while the party fanned out about them, ever watchful and
stunningly silent. They moved quickly, their moccasins eating
up the autumn ground. They had no horses, and she knew why.
Horses left a plain trail and made too much noise and trouble,
yet could move them to their destination far faster. They were
on foot for good reason, she knew.

At the edge of the cabin clearing, Red Shirt paused while his
party filed past. She looked to the porch but saw no sign of Pa.
He was likely sleeping again, his only respite from the cough that
racked him. Red Shirt's eyes swept the pasture and outbuildings
warily and came to rest on her. Though he was but an arm's
length away, she could no longer see him through her tears. If
she wasn't so weary, she might have stood here as stoic as he,
drawing strength from the forbidden bond of affection she felt
between them. She wanted to smile, to give him something of
herself, but there was no lightheartedness left in her.

"Stay close to the cabin, he said again, taking out the handkerchief and drying her tears a final time.

Her throat tightened as he turned away. Leaning on her hoe, she
stood completely still and watched the men leave. Before the long
column disappeared through the trees, the final brave turned back
to her, the faintest glimmer of a smile on his unfamiliar face. At his
waist, dangling from a willow hoop, was a fresh russet scalp.

The same color as Major McKie's.

It took some time for her to compose herself enough to return
to the cabin. She didn't want to alarm Pa with her absence yet
feared the shock she felt still strained her face. But truly, she
didn't know whose scalp she'd seen dangling from that dark
waist. There were bound to be a few settlers with that same shade
of hair, though she knew of none offhand. She looked again at
the woods where Red Shirt's party had just vanished. Her mind
and emotions, sore from so much worry, now deepened to a
sharp grief at his leaving. Returning the hoe to the barn, she
walked woodenly to the cabin, empty basket in hand.

Pa was waiting, sitting by the hearth, worry creasing his face.
"I wondered where you'd gone to, Daughter. It's not safe to be
about in the woods, remember."

"I just wanted to find some medicine;' she said.

Moving to the hearth, she hung the kettle from the crane over
the fire and took some sassafras from a tin on the mantel. But
she couldn't still her trembling hands and sent the roots and a
pewter cup clanking to the floor. Mercifully, Pa made light of it
and said no more. She worked around him, unable to be still. In
time the kettle began to hiss, but it in no way muffled the thunder
of hoofbeats outside their door. Going to a window, she saw half
a dozen soldiers approaching, Lysander Clay among them.

Oh Lord, not soldiers.

Were they part of the regiment Red Shirt had told her was
coming over the trace? She pressed a trembling hand to the
windowpane, panic flooding her. They drew up just short of
the porch and called for Pa to open the door. Retrieving his
cane, she helped him up, then slowly opened the door. The late
afternoon sun was in her eyes, but the stark unfriendliness in
their faces was plain. Had Major McKie poisoned them with
his traitorous talk? She took in the uniformed men and tried to master the fear and revulsion that swelled inside her. It seemed
no one moved so much as a hairbreadth for a full minute.

"Good day, Pastor Little, Miss Little:" The uniformed man
who spoke was unknown to her. "I'm Captain Christie. We're
conducting a search for Major McKie. We've word that he may
have come to your cabin of late"

Pa stifled a cough then nodded. "McKie was here three days
ago, Captain, speaking with my daughter."

"You've not seen him since?"

"No, sir. He stopped but briefly then left:"

The captain turned to Morrow, his horse restlessly pawing
the ground. "Did he give any indication of where he was headed,
Miss Little?"

Straight to hell. She swallowed down the horrible thought,
the bile rising in her throat, and made herself look at him. But
it was the dangling scalp she saw, still bloody, a telltale russet.
"He said he had business north of here and would be back to
see me again, she said.

Some of the men smiled faintly and cast furtive glances at
each other. Pa began to cough, and she moved toward him as
if shielding him from their hard stares.

Finally the captain removed his hat and looked about the
cabin clearing, lingering on the distant cornfield now turned
to stubble. "We'll not trouble you further today"

Today. Morrow's heart turned to stone. Would they return
tomorrow, then, with their sly glances and unspoken accusations? Would they accuse her and Pa not only of treason but of
murder as well? She felt hunted, hemmed in, desperately afraid
for herself and Pa-and Red Shirt.

At last they turned to go. As they rode away, Pa turned to
her, looking more perplexed than she'd ever seen.

"What do you suppose has happened to Major McKie, Morrow?" he murmured, stifling a cough.

She passed him a clean handkerchief from her apron pocket,
wanting to spill out what she suspected. "I-I'm not sure"

He sighed. "I have grave reservations about the major, particularly where you're concerned. But I never wished him ill.
Or dead:"

She looked north to the woods where Red Shirt had slipped
away a mere half hour before. Already it seemed like a dream
but for the memory of that dangling scalp.

"Did McKie say where he was going, by chance?"

She sat down unsteadily in her churning chair. "No, Pa'

"Perhaps he's still on business north of here. 'Tis strange he'd
be missing:'

When he passed inside, she shut her eyes tight, trying to empty
her mind of Robbie Clay and McKie. Oh, Red Shirt, what have
you done? In the gathering shadows of dusk, she felt the bond
between them strengthen and her own confusion deepen.

Lord, I am lost.

Remembering Red Shirt's words to stay near the cabin, Morrow
heeded his advice for several days, shuddering as Trapper Joe
spoke with Pa about the search parties combing the woods for
Major McKie. Listening, she felt privy to some horrible secret.
Although the wilderness had swallowed more than a few men
whole, his vanishing seemed more sinister, and the settlement
was abuzz with alarm. Each tick of the mantel clock seemed to
bring something dire and dangerous nearer, and her nerves grew
raw. She tended to Pa, reading Scripture aloud to ease him, till
her supply of tallow candles dwindled and she was too tired to
climb the steps to her room. Holding on to his hand, she dozed
in her chair between his bouts of coughing.

"Go upstairs to bed, Daughter," he urged, trying to smile in
reassurance.

But she shook her head, afraid to leave him lest soldiers
rush in.

His voice was a broken whisper in the tense air. "I can't have
you by my side day and night. If you become sick, what will
we do?"

Against her wishes, she moved to her room and sat on the
edge of her bed, feet numb from the attic chill. Taking up her
brush, she tried to find solace in routine things. The customary hundred strokes turned her hair into a silken curtain in
the candlelight, but she hardly knew what she did. Worn with
fatigue, she dropped the brush and it clattered to the cold floor. As she bent to retrieve it, tears spotted the backs of her hands.
The memory of Red Shirt drying her face then tucking her handkerchief into his hunting shirt rose to bedevil her. Did he take
it to keep her memory close, to have something to remember
her by in case he never saw her again?

She lay down and became aware of a telling silence. The
absence of Pa's coughing turned the cabin into a tomb. Heart
pumping wildly, she rushed downstairs to his side. His hand,
his cheek-cold. He was too still, too peaceful ...