Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (34 page)

When they took their leave, promising to return at week's
end, she stood alone in the shadows, unable to bear the sudden
emptiness. Going to the corner bed, she began stripping away
the linens, tears spotting her hands as she worked. But she kept
moving, rifling through this or that trunk or cupboard, trying to
collect her scattered thoughts, working till she was exhausted.
Time was lost to her altogether as she continued cleaning and sorting, getting things ready for Good Robe and Joe and Little
Eli, while packing up a few of her own beloved things.

At day's end she stood on the porch, waiting and wondering
and praying. The woods stared back at her, empty. Oh Lord,
did I dream it all? The gold ring on her hand was a blessed
reminder that she hadn't, yet her thoughts took a dark turn.
What if, since his leaving, he'd run into trouble? What if he
never returned? Their entwined lives now lay before her like
a blank book, full of untold, pleasurable possibilities. Or page
upon page of heartache.

The next morning she made coffee, unable to eat the biscuits
she'd baked. As she looked around the tidy cabin, empty of Pa's
comforting presence, she felt she no longer belonged to it, or it to
her. Joe and his family would be happy here, and if Jess ever came
back, they'd be waiting. The thought solaced her a bit, as did the
memory of their gratitude when she'd given them the deed.

Shivering, she drew her cape closer about her as she huddled
by the flickering hearth. There was little to do now but wait.
And pray. And dream. Her head tipped forward to her chest in
slumber, thoughts scattering. Through the cracked door at her
back came a wintry breeze-and something else.

The call of a dove.

Coming awake, she looked over her shoulder to the open door,
hope rising in her heart. Could it be? Slowly she made her way
to the porch. The lonesome call came again, but the clearing was
empty. She hugged a porch post, feeling it was the only thing
that held her up, and scanned the edges of the woods. Shadows
danced in the early dawn, golden light threading through the
bare branches. Had she only dreamed it then?

But there to her left, through a break in the trees, stood a man.
As soon as her eyes touched him, he was sprinting toward her across the leaf-strewn grass, and she was doing the same, so full of
joy she felt weightless. They collided, breathless-she crying with
gladness, he too moved to even speak. For long moments he held
her, eyes roaming over the clearing and surrounding woods.

His mouth was warm against her ear. "You knew I'd come
for you"

"I thought perhaps soldiers-"

He drew her closer and she clung to him, absorbing his warmth
and strength. Taking her handkerchief from inside his frocked
shirt, he dried her face and walked with her to the cabin. When
they went inside, he looked toward the empty bed, sorrow etched
across his face.

"Pa passed yesterday," Morrow said. "Joe and Good Robe
came soon after. . "

Even as she said it, she felt the need to leave and put the
memory behind her. Danger seemed to hover, hurrying them
into action. Although she was prepared to go, leaving everything
behind was a hurdle she'd not reckoned with. She'd likely never
see her home again.

He removed some garments from the haversack slung across
his back and passed them to her. A bit shy, she disappeared up
the stairs to her bedroom and shed her impractical dress, pleasure softening her grief. A calico shift, deep blue and figured with
tiny yellow flowers, was soft to her touch. Along with this was a
doeskin skirt bleached white, the blue beadwork and heavy fringe
a marvel of artistry falling just past her knees. Donning both, she
tied the leather belt around her waist and looked down at matching leggings and shoepacks. All she needed was her fur cape.

Going to her dresser, she peered into the small oval mirror, a
bit bewildered by the young woman looking back at her. In her
confusion and haste, she was hardly aware of Red Shirt on the
stairs. He came to stand behind her, hands on her shoulders.
Their eyes met in the mirror, and she sensed his urgency.

"I'm nearly ready," she said softly, tying the ribbon at her
throat with trembling fingers.

The handsome lines of his face held something she'd not seen
before. Deep concern ... doubt. "I ask a hard thing of you'

She turned to face him, alarmed. Was he having second
thoughts?

His jaw tensed. "I could take you East:'

To Aunt Etta c? Tears shone in her eyes, and she looked at
him entreatingly.

"No one need know what happened here"

"You mean our marriage"

"You could have an easier life-"

"A life without you?" She felt a twist of grief, hurt that he'd
even considered such. "Are you ... sorry?" And then she saw
the sheen of pain in his own eyes.

"No, Morrow. I just want you to be sure" The tenderness in
his tone returned, and she realized what weighted his mind and
heart. Was she truly ready to leave her old life-everything she'd
ever known-and go with him?

In answer she simply handed him the footwear she was unsure of. He knelt in front of her, slipping on a soft buckskin
moccasin followed by a rougher over-moccasin tanned black
to shed water. His long fingers made short work of the lacings,
tying them off at her knees. When he stood, the shadow of
doubt had left his face.

There was but one thing remaining. Crossing the dogtrot,
she stood in the ghostly cabin and bade a silent goodbye to the
hurtful memories of long ago. Red Shirt lingered in the doorway,
a reminder that they were wasting daylight.

Soon her mare, Pa's black stallion, and a packhorse were
loaded with quilts and sundry items, but most everything was
left behind for Joe and Good Robe. Taking a last look around,
she gathered up Pa's pipe and Bible where they rested on a table, tears blinding her. She said a final farewell to the home she'd
known so long before passing over the threshold to where the
horses waited, determined not to look back.

Danger seemed to nip at their heels as they slipped into the
forest. He took her north, away from Red River Station, along
the dreaded Warrior's Path. 'Twas a way unknown to her, and
she sat atop Dollie, back and shoulders stiff beneath her fur
cape. The landscape seemed skeletal and cold, the brittle leaves
beneath their feet crackling loud as musket fire. Anyone within
half a mile could hear them, she fretted. She didn't realize how
skittish she was till they halted beneath a pine tree and he helped
her down from the saddle.

She took the canteen he offered and brought it to her lips,
trembling so that water spilled down the front of her. Retrieving
a pewter cup from a saddlebag, Red Shirt filled it and covered
her hands with his to steady them, bringing the water to her
lips. The tender gesture settled her, and she gratefully took a
few sips. But when he turned away, she began shaking again,
ashamed when his eyes swept over her in quick appraisal and
saw her fear for what it was.

"'Tis the cold;' she said softly.

"More than the cold, Morrow"

Her eyes roamed the bleak woods till he gently turned her
face back to his, cupping her chin with his fingers. "Keep your
eyes on me. I'll watch the woods"

She managed a little smile. "'Twill not be hard to do-keeping
my eyes on you.

The confession came out a bit breathlessly, surprising him as
much as her, or so it seemed. He lifted her chin, lowering his head
till his mouth hovered over hers at a delicious angle. Suddenly the
danger around them was little more than mist. 'Twas the danger between them that set her to trembling again. Her thoughts were
so full of their wedded kiss in the cabin her stomach swirled.

"Lovemaking in these woods is a perilous occupation;' he
murmured, and his hands fell away. But he looked every bit as
disappointed as she felt.

He returned her to the saddle, taking care, she thought, not
to look at her overlong again.

Back on the trail, she did as he bid and kept her eyes on him.
Truly, studying him became her chief pleasure. When she grew
saddle sore, she walked. Her new clothes lent her an ease of
movement she'd never known, and she tried to imitate the innate grace with which he moved, seemingly at odds with his
strength and stature.

The further they traveled, the more certain she was that she'd
married a stranger. Their first hours together seemed to consist
of a dozen different introductions into his heart and mind. The
expert way he handled a horse. His staggering stamina. The
disarming way he had of lapsing from English into Shawnee.

Sometimes he hardly seemed aware of her, and then he would
suddenly turn to take her in, his eyes playful, almost roguish.
She delighted in those looks-they eased all the discomfort of
that first day when it seemed her body and bruised emotions
could go no further. When they finally made camp long past
twilight, she breathed a prayer of thanks.

Too tired to talk, she began mixing meal and water, pouring
the batter in a small iron skillet near the heart of the fire he'd
made, the orange flames licking skewers of salted venison, the
juices hissing and spitting as they cooked. With a little creek
beside them, there was plenty of water, its rushing making soothing music as the night settled in.

Side by side they ate, and then Morrow washed up while Red
Shirt finished constructing a bark shelter between two sturdy
trees, the roof and floor made of hemlock boughs cushioned by sundry blankets and quilts. Would this be their marriage bed,
then? A woozy rush of something she couldn't name swept
through her as she watched him work.

Never had she missed a mother's wisdom more than now. As
she sat and tried to piece together what was supposed to happen this night and what was expected of her as a wife, the fire
conspired to woo her, and she fell dead asleep, wrapped in its
warmth rather than in the unfamiliarity of Red Shirt's arms. She
didn't even remember him lifting her, removing her shoepacks,
and putting her to bed.

In the morning, he had to shake her awake. When she saw
him leaning over her, shirtless, his dark hair loose and disheveled, her first feeling was one of wonder. She'd dreamed she was
asleep atop her feather tick, not the hard ground, and certainly
not with a husband.

"You're beautiful awake;' he said with a knowing smile. "But
you're even more beautiful asleep"

Groggy, she watched him pull on his shirt against the cold
dawn. She scrambled to do the same with her shoepacks, deciding
to leave her hair down since it warmed her like a cloak. Already
it was tangled as if she'd spent a fitful night, and every muscle
she possessed cried out. Even her feet seemed scalded.

He helped her up, brushing back a hank of her hair. "How
do you feel?"

Feel? She blinked and looked up at him. How was she supposed to feel? She didn't feel married. She just felt ... bereaved.
And bewildered.

His fingers skimmed her cheek. "Am I pushing you too hard,
Morrow? I'm not used to traveling with a woman:"

She shook her head, willing her emotions to behave, thinking he might kiss her. The taste of charred venison was still in
her mouth from the night before, and she craved water-lots
and lots of water. Turning, she left the shelter and hurried to the creek with a pewter cup. The frigid dampness sent shivers
clean through her. She knelt and dipped the cup into the gurgling
water as it splashed over cold stones, then downed three cups
in rapid succession. Woozy, she stood, barely making it to the
bushes before emptying her stomach into the grass.

Soon he was behind her, taking her in his arms. "Today we'll
rest:"

When she awoke hours later, he was gone. The wind in the
treetops swept down and played with the fickle fire as she huddled beside it. Near her feet a small pot sat in the coals, its lid a
clean piece of bark. It was her smallest cooking vessel, and she
wondered what it held, if she should stir it. The wind whipped
the aroma away from her yet blew smoke into her face. She felt a
sudden pining for the cabin chimney but supposed she'd better
get used to the smoke and the dirt. Already her traveling clothes
were soiled in places, though she'd been careful as could be.