The Trapper

by Jenna Kernan

  He sniffed the air, as his nose took in the smell of roasting meat.

  “Who’s cooking bear?” he growled.

  She jumped at his intrusion into her quiet morning then smiled.

  “I am.”

  He threw off the buffalo robe and came closer to inspect her work.

  “Right over the coals. Looks about done. Good work.”

  “I was about to wake you.”

  She handed him a portion. He devoured the entire piece, filling the emptiness in his belly as Lena observed his progress.

  “Is it good?”

  “Best I’ve ever tasted. What did you do?”

  “I rubbed the exterior with fresh ground pepper, salt and dried sage, just as Cook does to lamb. Mother insists a lady know how to supervise her servants, especially in the kitchen.”

  He nodded his approval. “Damned good.”

  They stared in silence and Lena grew uncomfortable first. She rose.

  “Well, I’ve already had my breakfast. Where are we bound for this day?”

  “I figure I can set you a trap for some small critter then scrape these hides.”

  “So we will remain here today?”

  He wondered if she knew how hopeful she sounded and noted the circles beneath her eyes. Likely she was sore from riding and exhausted. From now on he’d make her life as easy as possible.

  “If that suits you.”

  “Why yes. If you don’t mind, I’ll do some sketches of you preparing the skins.”

  He hesitated, not wanting to be collected with her assortment of wild Indians and savage beasts, then realizing that was just where he fit.

  He nodded his consent then turned to the drudgery of scraping the hides clean. Lena rummaged in her packs and set up her paints on a fallen log, which she used as a seat before her easel.

  “Don’t suppose you know how to tan a hide?” he asked.

  She set her jaw and then gave her head a quick shake. “The sight of blood disturbs me.”

  He added this to the hundred reasons she was not for him, hoping the weight of them would convince his heart to be rid of foolish notions. A trapper with a woman who shrank from the sight of blood. He shook his head. She was too gentle for this life, too softhearted. It proved as another reminder that she did not belong here with him.

  He continued his rhythmic work as she began hers. Gradually the bits of flesh and sinew fell away.

  She watched him, her gaze flicking back to the page on occasion. “I admire your endurance.”

  “Comes with practice.”

  After a time, he moved beside her and studied her work. There he sat upon her page scraping the hide, another specimen she encountered on her grand adventure. He fought against the ache in his chest.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  He gazed at his savage appearance.

  “Looks just like me.”

  She grinned, obviously pleased, and he held in the sorrow.

  “Another painting for your collection,” he said.

  “I like this one the best.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because it shall always remind me of you.”

  “Will you?” he asked.

  “What?” she asked as she gathered her paint tubes.

  “Remember me.”

  She stilled, her fingers temporarily frozen at their task. Lena turned her gaze on him and he felt his pulse quicken.

  “Until they put me in my grave,” she said.

  He cocked his head, wondering if she toyed with him.

  “Truly,” she whispered. “You are unique.”

  He felt his ears tingle at her pledge and he grinned. “Ain’t we all?”

  “No, sir, we are not. The men I know spend all their days drinking brandy and gambling away the fortunes given to them by more industrious ancestors. We inbreed like rabbits and can do nothing for ourselves. Do you realize that this morning was the first time, the very first time mind you, that I cooked a meal?”

  “Good start.”

  She did not appear to hear him for she continued on. “Your life is so exciting. I would give anything to have gone where you have been.” She clasped a hand to her breast. “Oh, the memories you must have.”

  He knew in that moment he’d trade them all for the chance to make memories they could both keep.

  She fiddled with the lace on her shirt. He recognized the sign. Something other than breakfast was on her mind.

  “Out with it?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Princess, I read signs, including yours.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Your directness takes some adjustment on my part. I have never met anyone who was so blunt.”

  “You ain’t exactly my normal traveling partner, either.”

  Her laughter filled the clearing.

  “I suppose that’s true. I just wanted to apologize for last night. I had no right to burden you with my troubles.”

  “Princess, I’d say you have good reason to run. That’s what I would have done.”

  That’s what he had done. Ran from the sorrow of Rachel even as the grief latched on with sharp claws. He never escaped it, only carried it from place to place, inside him like an unborn child. He’d run so far that by the time he heard about the trouble at home he could not reach them in time to save them.

  “It isn’t as if they have been bad parents, and I do love them. They see to all my needs. I have had the finest of everything. I must be the most ungrateful of children. All my friends say they would die to be in my place. Mother calls me stubborn and unnatural. Father, well, he barely speaks except to find fault. I wish…well it doesn’t matter.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just that he never shows my mother or I any affection. He’s very gruff, you understand. And mother notices only my flaws. I slouch or laugh with my teeth showing.”

  “Your teeth?”

  She giggled, bringing her hand before her mouth and he scowled.

  “That’s how it’s done.”

  He made a face.

  “Well, you got time to deal with all that. For now you can howl at the moon if you’ve a mind to. Nobody will know any different.”

  “I’m so lucky to have found you. I’ve never had conversations like the ones we share. At home no one speaks of what really matters. You are the only person I know to understand my meaning.”

  The intensity of her regard made him as nervous as a lone deer at a water hole. He thumbed over his shoulder.

  “I best see to the horses.”

  The next day, they followed the Yellowstone southwest until candle-lighting time. As twilight stole the colors from the day, a flock of pintail ducks stretched their long necks as they headed for the center of the water. The birds made an easy target, but he disliked the idea of going for a swim to retrieve the carcasses.

  Lena deserved something other than jerky after two tough days. First frostbite, then a bear. This was not the same as looking after an outfit of trappers or guiding the army. Lena had no skills to survive, nothing but her stubborn pride and some internal toughness. Most women would have quit long ago. He grew more convinced that her troubles, not her ambitions, drove her on. Her little excursion made him responsible for her in a way he was just beginning to grasp. How long would she have lasted if that bear had killed him?

  The calculating portion of his brain answered immediately—three days, maybe four.

  She must know how to find shelter and make fire and learn to shoot game. Most of all he needed her off that damned skiddery pony she so admired.

  Even her clothing was dangerous, cutting off her air, keeping out neither rain, wind nor sun. He thought of her saddle and gritted his teeth wondering what imbecile had decided this was the way a woman should ride.

  “Troy, it’s nearly dark. Hadn’t we better stop?”

  He nodded. They were well into the prairie. Trees were sparse. For tonight and probably the next several days there would be no wo
od for the fire, so instead he’d burn the dried buffalo pies, a trick he’d learned from the Sioux who knew how to make use of every part of the creature except the snout. He slid down from Dahlonega. “Here’s good.”

  She gave a sigh of relief that made him smile. He held the reins as she dismounted, then hobbled the mare’s front legs and left Lena to see to her saddle. When he returned from gathering circular droppings he headed for the river. The bend in the river slowed the current here, making the water calm. The pintails paddled in a great flock, the whites of their necks glowing bright in the twilight. He slipped off his belt and powder horn, then his shirt and moccasins. Casting a look back, he found Lena a mere silhouette against the darkening sky. He drew off his only dry breeches and lifted his shotgun. Standing naked, he took aim at a cluster of birds before squeezing the trigger. Buckshot peppered the water. The ducks not hit rose into the air with a loud beating of wings.

  He cast aside the gun and dived into the water. While he paddled out to retrieve three ducks, he thought of his old ’coon hound, Smoke. This used to be his job.

  Once he reached shore, he found Lena waiting on the bank. He squatted in the waist-deep water clutching three ducks by their limp necks. She stood waiting as he pondered his predicament.

  Finally he tossed the birds at her feet. “Pluck these.”

  She did not move, but only stared at the ducks.

  He wanted out of the cold water. His privates were shriveling, but she just stood like a stick.

  “Well?” His voice did not disguise his irritation.

  “I have no notion how to pluck a bird.”

  “Well, just carry them up to the camp then.”

  She squatted and used two fingers to lift a duck by a limp leg as if it had died of something catching. In the last light that still clung to the day, he saw the look of disgust evident in her down-turned lips. She made no move to retreat.

  “Git.”

  “What?”

  “Go on.”

  She looked into the darkness behind her. “What if there’s a bear?”

  “Bears don’t roam the prairie.”

  “Wolves?”

  “Wolves follow buffalo. When you find one, the other is not far behind. There’s none about. Now shoo.”

  Still she hesitated, wringing her hands.

  “It’s cold as a witch’s…” He thought better of the comment and his words fell off.

  “Then come out,” she said, sounding as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “I will.” He stood and the water lapped his middle. “You ever seen a naked man?”

  “Of course not.”

  He took another step. “Well then, should be a new experience for ya.”

  She hesitated a moment longer, her brow wrinkled in confusion. Then she dropped the duck, whirled and charged up the bank as if her skirts were on fire.

  He chuckled as he stepped onto the grass and shook off, then slid into his breeches that stuck to his wet legs. Once fully garbed, he lifted the three ducks and walked up the bank to find her sitting on the pile of dried dung, her rifle balanced across her knees.

  She spoke into the darkness, still unwilling to face him. “I had no idea you were, I mean to say, if I had the slightest inkling that you had disrobed, I never would have lingered.”

  Pity, he thought. “I reckon not.” He wondered if she blushed. “I’ve been thinking. You need to know a few things, starting with getting a fire lit,” he said.

  “I have a burning lens.”

  “Sun’s down. Also, it won’t work in rain or snow.”

  “You left my tinderbox in Fort Union.”

  He slipped his hand into his possibles bag and withdrew a chunk of flint and his iron striker. He hit one to the other and sent a shower of sparks dancing before him.

  “Try these.”

  He helped her position the two and smiled as she successfully made her own sparks. He decided that he and she were like that stone and that iron. Every time they touched there were sparks. He knew that together they’d make a powerful fire.

  “I did it!”

  “Now you have to get the sparks to hit the fodder.”

  He dug a fire pit, carefully removing the dry grass and roots from the area. Nothing caught quicker than prairie grass. Satisfied with the fire pit, he cupped a papery bit of cedar bark in his left hand behind the flint and struck with iron. The sparks leap to the fodder. A tiny wisp of smoke rose. He waved his hand in a lazy circle encouraging the fragile ember. Soon more smoke emerged. He lay down the bundle and blew. A flame erupted from the mass. He fed small dry twigs from his pouch to the hungry fire. Finally, the flame was strong enough to add small pieces of dried buffalo dung, which lit immediately.

  “Tomorrow you make the fire,” he said.

  She looked none too eager, but nodded.

  “Now, about them ducks.”

  Soon feathers were flying in all directions.

  “This is rather entertaining.” She held aloft a handful of down and blew it at him. The tiny feathers stuck in his hair and she laughed.

  Only someone who never plucked feathers would find this work amusing and only someone with plenty would waste good down feathers. Another whirl of feathers assaulted him. He held up a fistful.

  “You like a wad of these down your back?”

  She held up her hands in surrender.

  He gutted the first bird. “You do the others.”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t.”

  Their eyes met and he saw the look of disgust on her face. She didn’t mind eating them, just so long as she didn’t get her hands dirty.

  “A mite squeamish for an adventurer.”

  She smiled. “Until today, my only experience with duck was telling Cook what kind of sauce to prepare.”

  “No sauce tonight.”

  She smiled. “No matter. I’m quite famished.”

  After gutting the remaining birds on his own, Troy staked them and set them to roast.

  Lena settled beside him on the ground, watching. She poked at the duck.

  “How do you know when they are done?”

  He stabbed the breast and watched the juices issue forth. “When the liquid is clear, it’s ready.”

  He offered her the stake and there was no more talk for some time. At last she laid the carcass aside and stared at the fire. “I’ve never seen wood like this.”

  He laughed, knowing he would enjoy the next few minutes something fierce.

  “’Cause it ain’t wood.”

  She leaned forward, unknowingly perched upon her own throne of manure. “What is it?”

  “Same thing you’re sitting on—dried buffalo shit.”

  She sprang to her feet as if launched from a cannon, brushing her backside furiously. He laughed so hard his sides ached.

  Her chin lifted as she assumed a regal stance. “Oh, I see. You are playing games again.”

  He clutched his ribs. “No, Princess. It’s dung. You’ve been sitting on it and you’ve been cooking with it.”

  She pressed her lips together as her hand clasped her mouth. Her face paled and he thought she might lose her dinner. She gagged and he moved to rest a hand on her back.

  “Don’t touch me.” She slapped at him, whirling toward him with eyes flashing fire. “How could you?”

  He grinned. “Just the way it’s done here.”

  “Why did you not tell me?”

  “Just did.”

  Her finger pointed at his chest. He longed to grab her wrist and kiss her until she was breathless.

  “This is the most…most, well I am heartily offended…”

  Then something remarkable happened. She laughed. Not the small, polite kind of laugh with her mouth covered, but a full-bellied laugh. Side by side they roared. He slapped his knee and she held her face in her hands as her eyes watered.

  It was something he had never expected—a woman like her being able to laugh at herself.

  At last she could
speak once more.

  “You are a devil,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Why not use wood? Was this to humble me?”

  “No, Princess. There just ain’t no wood here.”

  She glanced across the plains of grass and smiled. “Gives the duck a distinctive flavor, don’t you think?”

  His smile lingered. “Reckon so.”

  She lowered herself to the grass and studied the pile of dung. Her shoulders bobbed again as she clucked.

  “I suppose it’s just grass, after all.”

  A warm silence stretched between them. She sat still and erect against the night. He wondered what occupied her thoughts as she seldom went so long without jabbering. A faint snore issued from her.

  He smiled. Tuckered out then. That explained it. He removed the remaining duck from the spit and lay out his bed, then hers, placing their feet to the fire. He left a gap between them, but not much. He liked to watch her sleep. Living out here alone, he’d developed night vision to rival a horned owl’s. By starlight, he watched Lena’s hand slip from her cheek and her head drooped. Another minute and she’d fall in the fire.

  His smile faded. She wasn’t for him. She’d live in a grand house with hundreds of servants to see to her every whim. She didn’t need to know how to pluck feathers or tan leather, because she wasn’t staying.

  She groaned as he lifted her and slid her between the sleeping skins like a child. Then he knelt beside her and tucked the hide close beneath her chin. Her smile hit him in a deep place in his gut. How did she make him feel protective even in her sleep? She was exasperating, surprising and completely unique. She fascinated him. The urge to slide in beside her tugged at him, but he resisted.

  “She ain’t for you,” he muttered to himself as his eyes drank in the sight of her. Lena was like a rose, gone before first frost.

  Chapter 10

  After spending half the night tossing as if he slept on an anthill, Troy resolved to keep his distance from Lena. Why torture himself with her scent and the touch of her soft skin? It was like giving a mouthful of water to a man dying of thirst. Maybe if he could locate Black Feather’s tribe, he could find a willing woman. He recalled a particular doe-eyed gal who was lithe as a weasel. The thought only further darkened his mood. He didn’t want a weasel; he wanted that high-spirited woman who smelled of roses.