Wilderness Days (21 page)

“I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion,” he teased gently.

I smiled and looked at my patch of land.

My land.

The fog was rolling in from the bay, but in spite of the chill in the air I felt warm clear through. This wild, rough, tumbling wilderness that had once seemed so terribly cold and unfriendly now burgeoned with hope and enterprise and friendship. And I can’t be sure, but I swear I heard a voice in the waves crashing on the rocks below.

Home
, it whispered.

“I believe I would like the porch right here,” I announced, my feet curling on the edge of the cliff. Jehu caught me to him, tucking his chin on my head, his arm safely anchoring my waist.

“Fine place for a porch,” he murmured.

I elbowed him gently. “And perhaps a garden over there?”

He stifled a grin. “I know just the man to dig it out.”

I stared out at the bay rolling in, the gulls kissing the waves.

“I’ve been wondering about something,” I said.

“Hmmm?”

I turned to him, tracing the scar on his cheek gently. “What did you mean when you said that Mr. Russell was right about me?”

Jehu chuckled, smoothing my hand flat to his cheek. He pressed a kiss in the palm.

“Stop trying to distract me,” I said, giving him a little push. “Tell me.”

Jehu Scudder, the blue-eyed sailor who had stolen my heart, shook his head and smiled. “He said, ‘That gal is full of spit.’”

“Spit?”

He winked, and then said in a fair imitation of Mr. Russell, “And yar, gal.”

The Frink Hotel opened its doors to great fanfare in late winter.

There was an opening day gala, and I was complimented by everyone on the beautifully appointed rooms as well as the delicious food. Mrs. Frink announced that my pies were to be the signature dessert of the hotel.

Winter seemed to pass in a heartbeat, and spring arrived on the bay, bringing with it rainy days and settlers. New people seemed to be arriving daily, and not just men anymore. There were now several families, with women and children, as well as a real doctor. Small houses were springing up everywhere. We were full to capacity at the hotel, and Father Joseph was thrilled to have so many new parishioners to attend his church.

Jehu, who now acted as the harbor’s pilot, guiding the arriving vessels through the many shoals, was building my house bit by bit. We spent our evenings in the cozy parlor of the hotel, where I was living until my house was ready. Jehu and Keer-ukso intended to start a sawmill business together but needed capital to do so. Jehu was planning to go to San Francisco sometime soon to find an investor for their venture.

Spaark was a frequent guest at Chief Toke’s lodge, and on occasion she helped me at the hotel, where I enjoyed her company very much. She didn’t speak English yet, but I spoke the Jargon well enough to carry on conversation. She confided in me that while she found Keer-ukso very easy on the eye, it was his sense of humor that attracted her.

“Sense of humor?” I asked.

She nodded seriously, her eyes dancing. “He is most funny. He tells stories about you, Boston Jane,” she confessed with a giggle.

“Stories?” I asked, alarmed.

“Skunk stories,” she said, and then burst into peals of laughter.

At Mrs. Frink’s urging, I gave Sootie the rag doll I’d made.
The little girl was thrilled, and now often gave tea parties for both her dolls. Sootie adored the china doll, but it was the rag doll she dragged by the arm everywhere she went—so much so that the poor doll often lost its appendages and I was prevailed upon to doctor it.

I confess, the sight of that armless doll warmed my heart as nothing else ever could.

“Jane,” Mrs. Frink said, looking up from the ledger she was writing in. “Would you mind going down to the beach? There’s a schooner arriving that should have those extra dishes we ordered. If they’re broken, I want them sent back directly on the same ship. Jehu’s down there already.”

I was in the kitchen experimenting on a new concoction. Salmonberry jam.

“Of course,” I said, wiping my hands on my apron, happy for the opportunity to be outside on a day like this. As I made my way down to the beach, I passed Mr. Swan.

“Hello, my dear,” he said. “Capital day, don’t you think?”

“It’s simply beautiful,” I agreed.

Mr. Swan cleared his throat nervously. “Actually, I was looking for you.”

“Yes?”

He handed me a piece of paper.

“What is this?” I asked.

“The deed to the oyster bed. My dear, I am ashamed to say that I shall never be able to repay you for the money that I, well”—here he swallowed hard—“gambled away.”

I looked at Mr. Swan and remembered how his voice had shaken with fear when he’d defended me from Mr. Black.

“Mr. Swan,” I sighed, handing him back the deed. “I shall never find a partner as good as you.”

“But my dear, I ruined everything—”

“No,” I said firmly, patting his hand. “We are partners. I’m sure you can find some other way to pay back the money.”

“Are you sure, my dear?” he asked, a hopeful smile wreathing his face.

“A lady always knows her own mind, Mr. Swan.”

He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Although I believe that
I
shall hold the money from now on,” I added as an afterthought.

He had the good grace to look sheepish.

And then we both laughed.

“Where are you off to?” he asked finally.

“The beach. There’s a schooner arriving with some dishes we ordered from San Francisco.”

“Oh yes,” he said, his white beard shining in the sun. “And there are some passengers on the schooner, too, I believe.”

I smiled. “We’ll be a regular town in no time.”

“Yes, yes. I imagine we shall even have to have some elections soon.”

“Elections?”

“For mayor, judge, et cetera,” he said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.

“You’d make a wonderful mayor,” I said.

His eyes lit up at this suggestion. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes, I really do,” I said. “Now I must go. The boat will be arriving.”

As I walked away, I heard him murmur to himself in a bemused voice, “Mayor? What a capital idea.”

A light wind was whipping across the beach, bringing with it the scent of the sea. In the distance a schooner had weighed anchor, and cargo and passengers were being lowered into Jehu’s waiting rowboat.

Sootie was perched on a boulder, playing with a small grouping of dolls. In addition to my doll and Mrs. Frink’s doll, there were two new dolls—one fashioned from a clamshell and a rag doll most certainly acquired from one of the pioneer children.

“You sure have a lot of dolls there,” I said, taking in the small pile.

“Yes,” she said in a satisfied little voice. “I traded. I have more dolls than any other girl. I am very rich.”

“I see,” I said.

Sootie grinned up at me. “But I like yours best.”

Chief Toke came walking over to us, and I nodded in greeting. He ruffled his daughter’s silky hair.

Sootie had piled a bunch of small pebbles in front of one of the dolls and was elaborately giving pebbles to the other dolls.

“What are you playing?” I asked, curious.

“Potlatch.”

“What’s that?”

Chief Toke cleared his throat and said,
“Potlatch
is ceremony giving gifts. Give everything away to guests.”

“But why would you give everything away?” I asked confused. “Then you will have nothing.”

“You give things away, and new things will be given to you,” he said simply.

“Boston Jane,” Sootie said urgently, “will you make new dress for this doll?” She waved the new rag doll. “With buttons, too.”

I met Chief Toke’s eyes over Sootie’s head and smiled. Perhaps he was right. I might have lost everything, but I had found more than I ever expected.

“You come to lodge for supper,” Chief Toke said firmly.

“Of course,” I said.

“Come, Sootie,” he said, lifting her to the ground and helping her gather her dolls.

“I’ll help you with the dress tomorrow,” I promised Sootie.

As they walked away, Chief Toke paused and turned to me. “Boston Jane, will you make me shirt like Jehu?”

“The blue calico one?”

“It is good shirt.” And here he winked. “Jehu won’t trade it.”

I smiled at him and watched as father and daughter climbed over the dunes, heading home. I perched on Sootie’s boulder to wait, looking out at the bay, at the fast-moving clouds dancing across the sky. It seemed so strange to think that I was now a resident and landowner of this gentle stretch of wilderness.

A rowboat was winging its way to shore through the waves; at its head I spotted Jehu’s familiar black hair. The settlers in the boat waved and shouted to me. I went down to the edge of the
water to greet them, recalling how months before I had stood on this very same stretch of beach with my trunk packed, prepared to return to Philadelphia.

When I was a child on Walnut Street, happiness had been the sound of Papa’s voice.

But here, a continent away, at the edge of the wilderness, happiness was Jehu’s gruff laugh, and Sootie’s excited shout, and even the sound of Mr. Russell spitting.

I was the luckiest girl in the world.

I heard everything now—the hum of the land, the soothing waves, and the excitement in the voices of the settlers with their hope for a new life. Yet one sound rang clear through above all others.

A voice screeched across the water, sharp as glass.

“Jane Peck!”

I swear, my heart stopped beating.

Standing in the middle of the rowboat, blond curls flying in the wind, head straining forward, was someone I truly thought I’d never see again in all my born days.

Miss Sally Biddle of Philadelphia.

The End

I really got into the spirit of this book. In addition to the usual research, I actually made what James Swan describes as “a fisherman’s pudding,” and found it quite tasty (if a little sweet!).

Here are some other ways real life and research influenced Jane’s story:

The Stevens negotiations actually did take place, but later, in February of 1855. The Cowlitz, Chinook, Chehalis, and Shoalwater Bay tribes did not sign the Stevens treaty. James Swan attended the negotiations and described them in his book,
The Northwest Coast, Or Three Years’ Residence in Washington Territory
. Shoalwater Bay is known as Willapa Bay today.

The character of Mrs. Frink was inspired by, but not based on, an actual pioneer woman, Margaret Frink, who traveled from Indiana to California in 1850 for the Gold Rush. You can read an actual account of Mr. and Mrs. Frink’s difficult journey in her diary, published as
Covered Wagon Women, Diaries & Letters from the Western Trails, 1850
.

The fur trade, whose heyday ran from the early 1800s until
the early 1840s, was driven by fashion. Gentlemen’s hats made of beaver fur were all the rage, but like all fashion fads, the hats eventually lost favor. However, the myth of the fur trapper, or mountain man, grew to heroic proportions. To learn more about the hardships and high adventures of mountain men, contact the Museum of the Fur Trade, 6321 Highway 20, Chadron, NE 69337.

Chehalis Tribal Office, Oakville, Washington.

Chinook Tribal Office, Chinook, Washington.

Museum of the Fur Trade, Chadron, Nebraska.

Pacific County Historical Society and Museum, South Bend, Washington.

Covered Wagon Women: Diaries & Letters from the Western Trails, 1850
, edited and compiled by Kenneth L. Holmes, University of Nebraska Press.

The Northwest Coast, Or Three Years’ Residence in Washington Territory
, James G. Swan, University of Washington Press.

A Rendezvous Reader: Tall, Tangled, and True Tales of the Mountain Men 1805–1850
, edited by James H. Maguire, Peter Wild, and Donald A. Barclay, University of Utah Press.

Jennifer L. Holm
is the author of two Newbery Honor books,
Our Only May Amelia
and
Penny from Heaven
. She is also the author of several other highly praised books, including the Boston Jane trilogy,
Middle School Is Worse Than Meatloaf
, and the Babymouse series, which she collaborates on with her brother Matthew Holm. Jennifer lives in California with her husband and two children. You can visit her Web site at
www.jenniferholm.com
.

Don’t miss book three
in the Boston Jane trilogy

Coming from Yearling in September 2010!
Turn the page for a preview.

Excerpt copyright © 2004 by Jennifer L. Holm. Originally published in hardcover by HarperCollins Children’s Books, New York, in 2004. Yearling edition published by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

I was standing on
a high bluff looking out at the vast shimmering sweep of blue-green water that was Shoalwater Bay.