Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (47 page)

He ran a hand through her unbound hair. "When I come
back, there will be time for us."

If you come back.

Tonight, in this stifling room, was all they had. The brevity of
it broke her heart into little pieces and made her reckless. She
needed him-all of him-if only for the little time left to them.
She needed the memory to hold on to till spring.

She turned her face to him. "Just one kiss"

She sensed him smile in the darkness. "Morrow, there is no
such thing:"

Her voice was a beguiling whisper. "Just ... one"

A gust of wind slapped the shutter against the wood wall,
and Rosebud startled, letting out a little cry. Reaching a hand
into the cradle, Morrow rubbed her bare back till she settled.
The babies had just been fed-surely they'd sleep.

Before she turned back to him, he was reaching for her again,
his raw strength making her feel doubly fragile.

"One;' he whispered.

He took his time, his mouth moving along the damp wisps of
her hairline to her ear. Breathless, she freed his hair of its leather
tie till it spilled like a black waterfall onto the thin fabric of her
nightshift. Oh, but she'd forgotten how sweet he could be ...
how unerringly gentle, even gallant.

She felt like a bride again and shut her eyes, remembering how
he'd held her that very first time, beside all that rushing water.
Only now, with time against them, it was sweeter still.

Morrow unlatched the shutters, peering past the frosted glass
to take in the swell of slopes to the west with their bright dusting of snow. Somewhere out there beyond the icy Mississippi
River was the place called Missouri, and further still stood the
Shining Mountains. But here, in her upstairs room, the twins
were making their musical baby noises from the snug confines
of their cradle near a crackling hearth, and all was warmth and
comfort and peace.

Oh, Red Shirt, where are you on such a cold morning?

Resting her forehead on the frosty pane, she breathed a prayer
just as she'd done every morning since he'd left in September.
Now that it was December, she felt prayer was all that tethered
them, that it might be the only thing that brought him back to
her. Having made amends with her hurt over his leaving, she
admitted he'd been right to bring them here. Loramie and Angelique spared nothing for their comfort and happiness, treating
her like family, keeping her with them at the house instead of
the lonesome cabin. She'd even assumed a place in the trade
room, overseeing all the sewing goods from d'Etroit.

Without Red Shirt, her days were relentlessly the same. Leaving the twins with Angelique and her daughters, she went to
work every morning save the Sabbath. As she opened crates of
cloth and needles, scissors and sewing chests, her heartache
was softened somewhat. She was glad to be useful. Busy in the
big timbered room with its rich aromas, she kept a discreet eye on the men who came to trade, always searching for some
semblance of Jess in their bearded, intense faces. Sometimes it
seemed they eyed her more intently than she did them, and she
felt chilled by their brazen scrutiny. To be less conspicuous, she
wore simple wool and subdued her hair in a severe knot.

But the day came when Loramie took her aside, a wary light
in his keen eyes. "Madame Red Shirt, you are-ah, shall I say,
not a plain woman. Since your coming, the success of our sewing
goods has increased tenfold, and for that I am grateful. But only
this morning I have had two more offers for your hand"

Surprise-and a decided flush-swept across her face, and she
fanned her hands over the heavy dress that draped her rounding middle. The glint of gold on her wedding finger caught the
lantern light, reminding her of Red Shirt's missing ring.

Loramie forged ahead as tactfully as he could. "It matters not
that you are enceinte and tightly wed. These hungry frontiersmen and Indians look no further than your lovely face. Your
husband, I fear, would not be pleased with the arrangement.
So, chere Morrow, I must close the curtain on your tenure as
my clerk, however profitable it has been to us both:"

His gentlemanly phrasing elicited a slightly sheepish smile
from her, and she said as gracefully as she could, "I think I hear
my babies crying'

But at five months, they rarely cried except when hungry,
doted on as they were by Angelique and the children. She guessed
she didn't need the distraction of the trading room, truly. She
was tremendously content with the twins, nuzzling their velvety
necks, kissing their plump fingers and toes, nursing them, and
napping with them till time was lost to her altogether.

She'd written Aunt Etta of their birth but received no reply.
She considered writing Lizzy but feared where that might lead.
Perhaps it was best if no one knew she was in this far-flung post.
And so now, in the dwindling days before Christmas, as snow piled high against the pickets, she kept to the family's quarters,
counting the days till spring and wishing Red Shirt was back.
When he came, his wee son and daughter wouldn't know him,
or he them. And now, this new one ...

She was at her window again, looking west, night falling like a
curtain over the land. The winter air was so bitter the occasional
snap of a tree split the air like musket fire. It was only this she
thought she heard as she drew the shutters closed. But the pop
and snap sounded again-and again-and when she peered past
the shutter a second time, the far pickets of the entire west wall
seemed to melt away. Her eyes ricocheted about as she tried to
make sense of what she saw.

Below, scattering like ants on the common, were Loramie's
clerks and housekeeper and guests. And flooding through the
post's gates were a great many men-Bluecoats?-and a great
many Indians. The Americans hated Loramie-and he them.
Were they now storming his post? Whirling, she began scooping up her sleeping babies, only to lay them down again in her
panic and confusion to search for their slings.

Trembling, she arranged Rosebud across her breast, just above
her swelling waist, cinching the calico sling in a double knot.
From below she could hear Loramie's frantic shouting and the
high-pitched screams of his daughters. Minon?Esme? Hysteria
began rising inside her like steam from a kettle. Rushing to the
door with both her babies, she nearly collided with Angelique
as she swept into the room. Her usually placid face was tight
with fright as she took Jess from her.

"Come quickly, we must take the back stairs!"

The hall outside was dark, the sconces extinguished by a
furious draft. Morrow's senses felt singed with the stench of
burning fabric and furs, wood and trade goods. Billows of smoke
swept in like a tide and soon separated them. Panicked, choking, Morrow called out for Angelique, but her cries were lost as a series of explosions erupted deep inside the post. Had the
powder magazine met the fire's fury?

She stumbled out the door into the slush of the common,
where the heat of the fire melted any remaining snow and speckled her face and neck with sweat. A herd of horses stampeded
past, and she hugged a wall, her thin slippers sinking deep into
icy mud. Terrified, she took in yet another fire-eaten wall.

Where was her little son? Angelique?

She could see soldiers looting and fighting among themselves,
carrying trade goods beyond the inferno's reach, swinging swords
at any who tried to stop them. Her mind began piecing words
together in a terror-riddled prayer. Father ... help us ... spare
us. Before the words left her lips, an Indian emerged from the
smoke and shadows, the tails of his Continental coat flapping
around mud-spattered leggings. He fastened his eyes on her, his
face so ravaged with hate it seemed to wound her.

He was but one of several Indians who surrounded her in a
nooselike circle. She blinked, trying to make sense of his face
and form through the smoke. Hadn't she seen him days before
in the trade room? Hadn't she seen them all? Their eyes were
fixed on the sling across her breast, and she hugged Rosebud
tighter, fearing they might tear her away and fling her against
a burning post. With one lithe movement, an Indian grabbed
her wrist and pulled her to a waiting mare.

The horse shied, but he jerked its bridle and manhandled her
into the saddle, nearly spilling Rosebud from her sling. The tawny
men surrounding her turned and mounted skittish horses of
their own, clearly anxious to be away from the destruction they'd
made. The Bluecoat Indian rode at the front, a jug of rum tipped
to his lips. Around her fanned several warriors. Terrified, she
wondered if they were Shawnee turncoats, perhaps American
spies and scouts. All were dressed warmly in buckskins and
buffalo robes and beaver hats.

Thoughts rattled around her head like spent musket balls.
Where were they going? Why? On such a night it seemed more
fool's errand than battle plan. But they went boldly down the
frozen valley, carrying pitch-pine torches. Once she looked back
to see a furious column of black smoke rising like some evil offering, a great funnel of swirling spark and ash, the flourishing
finish to Loramie's Station. Her heart couldn't hold it all, and
she hung her head, numb with disbelief.

In time they came to a nameless river that uncoiled like a
mud-covered serpent. They put her in a bull boat with two
men who paddled, then crossed at the river's narrowest point.
She sat rigid as if doing so would keep her fraying emotions in
check. The choppy water bore chunks of floating ice, and the
occasional spray from the paddles reminded her of how little
she wore. Just a wool dress and worthless slippers. Her feet were
wet, benumbed. But at least Rosebud was snug in a swanskin
nightgown and a little lace-edged sleeping cap, her feet bound
in fur-lined shoes.

Thoughts of her little son-his sweet, milk-sated smile, the
dimpled hands that pulled at her bodice, the sounds he was beginning to make in French and English-burned like a hot ember
in her breast. He was so small and it was so cold. Had Angelique
made it out of the burning post? As Morrow's eyes filled and
overflowed, she felt a rough hand push her out of the boat, and
she was surprised to see fresh horses on the opposite shore.

Amidst all the jostling, Rosebud awoke and began to cry.
With shaking hands Morrow fumbled with the lacing of her
dress so she could nurse, so cold she felt she'd turned to ice.
Rough hands helped her mount another mare, and someone
draped a buffalo robe about her. Toward dawn one man shoved
a canteen of water at her, but when she refused it, he gestured to
his tomahawk. Dumbly she stared back at him, wondering why
he'd even offered. She had no ally among these men.

That first night, her chief captor sat opposite her across the
fire, eyes on the sling as he ate a piece of roasted meat. "I will
kill the child if it cries"

The threat jerked her awake, but she held her tongue, bent on
protecting her baby at all costs. The other warriors were watching her-and watching him, as if anticipating what he might do
to her. Looking away, she swiped her nose dry with the edge of
her dress sleeve. She'd taken a cold and was still feeling its ill
effects, head throbbing and throat raw.

One warrior crouched beside her and dropped a piece of
jerky and some kernels of parched corn in her lap. She nearly
refused them but knew she must keep up her strength, if only
for Rosebud's sake. Each bite threatened to come up, so she
chewed slowly, tamping it down with sips of water. Though the
fire burned brightly, she felt she'd never be warm again.

As the night grew longer, a guard was posted and the men
rolled up in buffalo robes, feet to the fire. She was tethered to
a lanky brave, his eyes slits of contempt in his leatherlike face.
Cocooned in the robe, she drew Rosebud closer, letting her nurse
at will through the long, near-sleepless night. In the morning
she was too tired to sit on her horse, falling asleep in the saddle
before they'd made much time. Circling back, the Bluecoat chief
slapped her on the leg with his whip. The sting of it jolted her
awake and made a bloody welt under her dress, but it kept her
alert mile after miserable mile.