Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (37 page)

"Mineral springs?" she said in wonder.

"Long ago when I was a boy, the Shawnee made camp here.
I wanted to show you"

"Pa used to speak of such springs in Virginia'

Weary as she was, she felt the delight of it clear to her toes.
Tall stands of cedar and hemlock framed a number of steaming
pools, the milky water a froth of bubbles and founts. Turning
toward the mare, she fumbled with the tie on a saddlebag and
retrieved a pewter cup. Walking to the edge of the nearest spring,
she dipped her cup into the bubbling water and drank it down.
Its warmth seemed to spread in a languid stream through her
stiff limbs, bringing a sudden flush to her face.

He watched her keenly, amusement in his eyes. "I thought
you'd want to bathe in it, not drink it'

"I'll do both" Handing him the empty cup, she began removing
her shoepacks and leggings, shedding her shift and skirt along
with all her inhibitions, finally freeing her hair of its pins.

Poised on the rim of the largest pool, she looked back at him,
hair streaming over her paleness like some woodland nymph.
Through the mist he regarded her with mingled wonder and
desire, and she gave a belated blush, eyes falling to the steaming
water. No matter the cold or the danger, she was a bride and he
was her groom, and no Bluecoat soldiers bent on destruction
could change that.

She was growing tired ... so tired. And it was becoming ever
harder to hide it. What, she wondered, would Pa think if he could
see her now? Each new day found her cleaning and stretching
beaver plews on willow frames to dry, a snapping fire warming
her back as she worked in their temporary shelter. The musky
scent seemed to follow her everywhere, staining her hands and
clothing, but somehow filling all the uncomfortable corners of
her life with the satisfaction of work well done.

Standing on the banks of nameless creeks and streams, Morrow watched her husband wade into the frigid water and set
his traps in the shallows, thrusting a pole through the ring end
to hold and mark it, then smearing an exposed willow twig
with beaver scent taken from the glands of earlier caches. He
worked quickly and expertly, and the pile of plews mounted as
they made their way north.

Soon she lost all track of time. As the days passed in a whirl
of work and weariness, she tried to grasp the goodness in this
trial. Although they were no longer heading toward Missouri,
they were together. They'd eluded the soldiers. She was no longer
the same Morrow who'd left the Red River weeks before. She
had a new and wondrous secret ...

"We're nearing Loramie's Station," Red Shirt told her as if
sensing her growing weariness. "We'll rest there and get fresh
provisions before heading west:"

Loramie's Station. It sounded rough yet heaven-sent. A safe
haven. Though they didn't speak of it, their flight from the Bluecoats seemed to wedge its way between them, tainting their joy.
She thought of it as she sewed a new shirt for him around the
fire, pleased by the satisfaction she saw in his face as he eyed
her efforts. But her thread was almost gone, and somewhere
along the way she'd lost Aunt Etta's silver thimble.

She paused to rest her eyes, her needle still. "Who is Loramie?"

He looked up from the trap he was repairing. "Loramie is
French-a trader:"

"I've heard Joe talk of him. He's a loyal friend of the Indians:'

"And a bitter enemy of the Bluecoats, he added, saying no
more.

She set aside her sewing and lay down on their makeshift
bed. The wind seemed to whistle as it shook their small shelter,
scattering smoke from the fire to the far corners. He joined her,
his rifle within arm's reach. Tonight she was too tired to undress
or even unravel her hair from the careless bun she'd made. She
simply laid her head upon his shoulder.

The silence deepened, and she heard a lone wolf howl. A
thousand thoughts swirled in her head, and she shut her eyes,
one hand atop the smooth leather of Pa's worn Bible.

Strengthen Thou me.

Sunlight stole away the stars and sent the moon packing, ushering in an early dawn. When she awoke, Red Shirt had gone to
check his traps, but he'd coaxed the waning fire into a cheerful
blaze. She left the shelter to relieve herself, leaning against a tree
when she stood. All around her the woods seemed to tilt and
spin. Why had she walked so far from the shelter? Her mouth was dry as cotton, and she was trembling from head to toe. Even
bundled warmly in her winter garb, she felt nearly naked.

With an overwhelmingly helpless feeling, she sank to her
knees atop the hard ground, frozen moss and mud beneath
her fingers. Despite the near-blinding whiteness of the snow,
the edges of the forest began to grow shadowed, then quickly
darkened to midnight. Before she collapsed completely, she
heard Red Shirt calling her name.

Only an expert horseman could move so quickly, carrying
her over such uneven ground her teeth chattered. She came to
her senses twice, once when they crossed an ice-edged river and
the horse stumbled, and again when the sun seemed almost to
melt her and she realized she was burning up with fever. Though
she could no longer hold her eyes open, her sense of smell was
keen. The odor of tanned furs and lamp oil, coffee beans and
tobacco, assailed her.

Equally strange were the voices, the most unusual of them
being a man speaking heavily accented English. Red Shirt's voice
was clearest of all and unmistakably anguished as he switched
from English to Shawnee, then, to Morrow's surprise, into
French. In time a woman's soothing voice bridged the darkness.
The melodious sounds were like music, swelling like a stirring
symphony on every side of her before ceasing altogether.

In time she stopped hearing anything at all, lost in the hellacious heat that soaked her and then made her shiver. Pa seemed
to hover at her side, saying her name, soothing her as he'd done
when she was small and sick. But where was Red Shirt? Crying
out for him only brought the terror nearer and made him seem
farther away. Her dreams seemed to taunt her. She was not fit
for his wild life, sick and white as she was. She was a burden
he'd not dreamed of.

At last she awoke to a glimmer of light shining through a
shuttered window. Beside her, Red Shirt was dozing in a chair.
The spectacle almost made her smile. He sat arrow straight,
head tipped back slightly against the rough wall, arms folded
and eyes shut. How was it, she wondered, that even asleep he
managed to look wary?

Slowly she sat up, fighting dizziness before swinging her feet
free of the feather tick. Beneath her unfamiliar muslin shift, her
body felt light as thistledown and her skin seemed to crawl. Only
the weight of her uncombed, tangled hair falling to the small of
her back was reassuringly familiar.

Before she'd taken two shaky steps, he jerked awake, catching
her in his arms. Suddenly he was murmuring endearments in
her ear, and his hands were everywhere at once-in her hair,
on her bare shoulders, down her back-as if doubting she was
truly standing, truly alive.

"I-I thought I was dying, she said, clutching the soft fringe
of his frocked shirt as if to stay upright.

"You nearly did, he said.

"Where are we?"

"Loramie's Station."

"How long?"

"Six agonizing sleeps, he told her.

Six days, nights? A sense of the miraculous stole over her. If not
for his quick action, she knew she'd have never made it. Gently
he settled her back on the bed, and the tide of events slowly came
back to her like fragments of a bad dream best forgotten. "You
never left my side ... you were here all along" He nodded, and
she rushed on. "But what of our furs-our camp?"

"Loramie sent his clerk to bring them in. But it matters little,
Morrow"

He crouched in front of her and brushed back her hair with a
rough hand. In turn her fingertips skimmed the smooth line of his jaw, noting the telling shadows beneath his eyes, the striking
features more finely chiseled. "Why, you've hardly eaten-or
slept:"

His intensity softened, and he smiled. "Now I can"

She darted a glance about the room, surprised by the fine
armoire that graced one corner opposite a Windsor chair and
writing desk, so at odds with the crude wood walls. Beneath her
bare feet was a thick gros point rug covering unpolished planking
that stretched to a rough wooden door. Bewildered, she looked
back at him. "I thought I heard Pa calling my name.. "

His smile was relieved if wry. "Your father's spirit seemed to
hover at my shoulder, demanding to know what I'd done with
his daughter."

Her face softened. "Pa never doubted you'd take care of
me."

"Loramie's wife made you well. I lost my medicine bag in the
river, remember?"

But she was hardly able to recall their frantic flight across
the icy water. As she groped about for details, a decisive knock
sounded on the door. It swung open, revealing a brocade-clad
figure, a bundle of fresh bedding in her arms. For a brief moment
it seemed Good Robe stood before them, and Morrow nearly
said her name. The woman came forward, followed by a boy
with an armful of firewood and another lugging a hip bath.

"Leave your wife with me, and I promise to return her to you
by supper," she said to Red Shirt with a surprising familiarity.

He simply nodded and then left without a word, tousling the
dark heads of the two boys as they scampered ahead of him.
Alone with the strange woman, Morrow felt a trifle tongue-tied
as sharp black eyes appraised every inch of her.

"Ah, but you will be a pleasure to resurrect, she murmured
in heavily accented English, calling over her shoulder for hot
water. Within moments the door opened again, and a trio of girls trooped in bearing steaming buckets. They looked her way
shyly, their comely features such a mix of Indian and white blood
that Morrow was reminded of Little Eli.

"I want to thank you for helping make me well, Morrow told
the woman.

"Oui, oui. We simply said our prayers and the Almighty answered;' she replied, her slender face creasing in a satisfied smile.
She worked around Morrow as she sat on the edge of the bed,
supervising the girls as they came and went with their buckets,
checking the water level in the tub and adding a handful of
something that scented the whole room. Lily of the valley, Morrow guessed. She hadn't had a real bath since her wedding day, if
one didn't count the rivers and creeks and mineral springs. But
when she stood to undress, her senses seemed to scatter.

The woman left the room, returning with a tray. Morrow tried
to hide her surprise at the embroidered napkin, the porcelain
teapot with an exquisite china cup, and the plate of tiny biscuits,
cheeses, and sweetmeats set before her.

"You spoil me, Morrow exclaimed.

"You are a lady, no? Your husband tells me you are.

Morrow looked down at the cuts on her hands from skinning beaver, thought of the filthy dress she'd had on when she
fell into the mud in her delirium. A lady indeed. Tears filled her
eyes, touched that he'd say so and that this woman was gracious
enough to believe him.