by Laura Frantz
"Why, yes ... of course, Morrow murmured, taking back her hand.
He let go reluctantly, his eyes never leaving her face. Was this what was meant by being instantly smitten? She feared so but couldn't fathom why. She was simply a settlement girl in a too-fancy hat ...
Pa came to stand between them, a welcome buffer. Never in her life had she felt so glad to have him near. "I see you've met my daughter," he said.
Major McKie shook his outstretched hand. "Met her? I'm afraid I can't take my eyes off her"
The heavy-handed compliment only upended her further. She turned to find Jemima still hovering and made introductions softly without looking at him again. "These are my friends Jemima Talbot and Lizzy Freeman:"
An awkward silence followed their greetings. Pa cleared his throat, taking her arm and squeezing it as if well aware of her unease. He cast a look at the open blockhouse door as people exited. "We'd best be starting for home, given the heat. The dog days of August are upon us"
"So it seems;' the major said tersely, finally looking away from her. "I admit I was reluctant to take a post on the frontier, but I'm beginning to find the aggravation well worth it"
"Good Sabbath, Pa said, putting on his hat.
Morrow turned to go, forgetting to bid Lizzy and Jemima goodbye. Outside on the fort common, settlement folk and soldiers were milling about despite the suffocating heat and dust, lingering by the artillery and admiring the small cannon and corral full of military mounts. Pa helped her into the wagon, and they soon passed through the fort's postern gates, waving as the sentries doffed their hats. She expelled a relieved breath and looked over her shoulder at the fading pickets. Major McKie stood stalwart beneath the oak beam that bore the name Red River Station, but she didn't raise her hand in farewell.
Pa pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes. "Daughter, I'm afraid your return has garnered attention from every quarter"
"I don't know why," she said softly. "Except that there are so few women here-and an abundance of men"
The wind was so brisk it seemed to devour her every word. He gave no indication he'd heard her and appeared locked in serious thought. Was he, like she, trying to dismiss the ominous sight of so many munitions and uniformed men? The silence made the ride even longer, and halfway home a wagon wheel began to wobble. He jumped down to tighten it, but the effort seemed to unleash his deep cough. The summer cold he'd taken wouldn't budge, so stubborn that all the tonics she'd tried didn't help. Aunt Sally had just given her some cherry bark. Perhaps she'd make a tea of that once they got home.
Despite the beauty of the day and the dance of the wind all around her, she felt a new uneasiness. When Pa was well again, she'd not feel so unsettled, she reasoned. Singing school would soon commence, and she might even have a sweetheart. Most importantly, now that the soldiers had come, Kentucke would cease to be a battleground. Surely with McKie's Virginians to defend their settlement, the Shawnee would leave them alone. Morrow leaned over the letter, quill pen suspended.
Dear Aunt Etta,
Forgive me for not writing to you sooner. Since I've returned to the Red River, there seem a thousand things that keep me from ink and paper. Each time I sit down, I am called away. Pa needs my help as never before. Please pray for him, as he's come down with a racking cough that even Aunt Sally cannot mend.
The sewing chest you gave me for my birthday is beautiful and a reminder of our happy times together. I'm sure the dress shop is a bit lonesome. I doubt you miss my singeing ribbons with the goffer iron or forgetting to order enough fabric, though you might still covet my help with the ledgers. Hopefully Lady Richmond is easier to please than when I left.
I must tell you that your dream of my marrying a man of rank may come to pass. A Virginian has arrived at Red River Station with a regiment of his own. Now there are dozens of soldiers to choose from. But Bluecoats, not Redcoats ...
She dipped the quill in the ink pot again, a half smile playing across her face. Somehow Major McKie and Aunt Etta's letter seemed an interesting coincidence. Though he did seem a bit bold, she almost preferred this to the awkward, uncouth settlement men. And he was handsome in a worldly sort of way, all shine and polish and fine manners-
"Morrow, I'm in need of you" Pa stood in the cabin doorway, his perspiring face apologetic.
Flushed, she got up from his writing desk, ashamed of her romantic notions. "My letter can wait, Pa. I'm only writing Aunt Etta"
Despite her reassuring words, he still looked pained. She knew how hard it was for him to ask for her help. Doing so was a reminder of his own lack, the cough that wouldn't quit ... and Jess. She was little good being a daughter-and a small, weak one at that-but he seemed intent on keeping her that way, forever reminding her to wear gloves or her bonnet as if trying to preserve her for that day he could hand her to a man with far better prospects than he had. A man like McKie ...
Following him to the barn loft, she watched alongside the barn swallows as he balanced on a high-timbered beam, hanging tobacco from a long pole suspended between oak rafters. One racking cough, she thought, and he might come crashing down.
"Careful, Morrow, don't step too near the edge. Just hand me another sheaf."
She did as he bid, aware of the tobacco's pungent leaf, a painful reminder of pipes and kinnikinnik and unwelcome visitors. She didn't like coming to the barn now. Doing so brought back her meeting with the Shawnee. Her eyes drifted to the haystrewn floor where she'd faced him, and she nearly winced. Hindsight made her rue she'd not stayed stalwart but had run like a rat for cover. How much better it would have been if she'd mastered her angst and spoken to him instead. Pa would have been spared her tears, and their questions about Jess might have been answered.
Half an hour later, with tobacco dust in her hair and sweat streaming, Morrow descended the loft ladder in dire need of a bath. Dismissing the copper hip tub half hidden by the corncrib, she considered the river. Beyond the open barn door, summer itself seemed to issue an invitation. With a quick word to Pa, she made her way down the trail with soft soap and clean towels, fighting trepidation all the way. The water was at its warmest in late August, a beguiling sapphire blue that looked like the sky turned upside down. Everything else was dry and dusty, the brown earth wrinkled from lack of rain, a few trees already turning a pale gold.
She paused at a fork in the trail, torn. The path she usually took led to the laurel and the half-hidden canoe and Trapper Joe's. The other was overgrown, a tangle of brush and vines and abandonment. Perhaps ... She shut the thought away, only to take it up again when she was partway down the familiar trail. Perhaps one has to face one's fears in order to banish them. Should she return to the place where it had all began? A place not even Pa would go?
She battled a full five minutes, the shadows of the giant elms and oaks lengthening all around her, her eyes on the old trail that begged to be taken. With a tentative step, she started making her way as best she could, the hum of insects all around her. Briars and thornbushes scratched her bare arms and ankles, but she kept on, thirsty with curiosity. The old way wandered around a towering sycamore and a thick stand of laurel, as if testing her memory, before expending itself on the broad riverbank.
This was the place she'd last been with Jess all those years ago. Only it looked nothing like she remembered. Since then the river had cut a different path, and the boulders along its banks, once big as cabins to her childish mind, now seemed impossibly small. Her eyes lingered on the far shore, breathtakingly beautiful in the reddish-gold light. An abundance of grapevine wended its way with abandon, following the course of the river. It beckoned to her like something out of Eden, forbidden fruit, as if taunting her inability to swim. But how hard could it be?
Jessamyn had been a fine swimmer, and it had been Pa who'd taught him. She remembered how they'd frolicked on this very spot. Both of them had teased her and tried to pull her under back then, but she preferred to watch them from the sandy shallows. Sometimes she'd hold her breath
as they disappeared under the calm face of the river for long periods, only to resurface and tease her further. The memory saddened her ... made her bold.
She stood unsteadily and stripped to her shift, the river rock slippery beneath her bare feet as she waded forward. The sun touched the water with a final golden finger before hiding behind the treetops. She was up to her shoulders now, the water cold, the current moving past her arms and legs with a pulsing rhythm. She looked back to see her clothes lying where she'd left them, a small, insignificant pile of linen and a limp hair ribbon.
She kept on, her feet soon leaving bottom. Jess had taught her to dog-paddle, and the jerky movements came back to her now. She was almost halfway across but frightfully out of breath. She didn't remember it being this hard, being so winded. The river was no longer blue but black, more enemy than friend. A fierce current lashed her legs and pulled at her. Eyes wide-open, she went down. In seconds the enormity of her predicament washed over her. Oh, Pa!Pa! Where are you? Till now he'd always been near when she needed him. The thought of him all alone, buckled with the weight of another loss, deepened the darkness. Panic forced the last bit of air out of her lungs and she thrashed about wildly in the water. But the world beneath was cold as winter and seemed to pin her beneath its weight.
Weary, she stopped struggling. Memories of Ma surrounded her, warming her, easing her panic. Welcoming her home. For one fleeting moment she could see Euphemia just as she'd been back then-fair hair, mouth like a rosebud, eyes like blue buttons.
I'm dying... Lord, help me!
But there was no flash of light, no miraculous parting of the waters. She let go then, of her life and her breath, eyes shut against the darkness. Once she surrendered, she felt someone else fighting for her. Arms like hanks of rope encircled her, tugging her upward, freeing her from the current. When she opened her eyes, she thought she was dreaming. A man had hold of her, and she was floating on top of the water, choking and gasping, the thin muslin of her shift hovering around her as he swam her to shore.
He laid her on the bank, the sand a welcome bed. He bent over, chest heaving, hands on his knees, his dark form dripping water. It rained down on her, and she stared up into the last face she expected to see.
Surrounded by the Enemy's son.
Rolling over, she did the most unladylike thing she knew. She threw up all her supper, and a bucket of water, besides. He crouched next to her, his face clouded with concern. "Lie still till all the water's gone-and you can breathe again:"
Shutting her eyes, she took a deep, shuddering breath and obeyed. But her mind reeled in confusion. The rich precision of his words, his tawny features, and the clothing that was a confusing medley of both Indian and white made her all the more wary. Who was he? Looking at him now, she saw things she'd not noticed before. His eyes ... were they golden brown? Almost amber?
"You shouldn't come here alone;' he said tersely. "There's trouble upriver"
She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back. He gathered up her clothes and hair ribbon farther down the bank before picking her up like she was little more than a corn-husk doll. She lay limp in his arms, feeling his grace of movement despite the burden of her wet body. The lights of the cabin came into view, and he climbed the steps, thrusting open the cabin door with one moccasin.
Pa's chair overturned with a thud as he stood. Before he said a word, she could sense his shock. Her unlikely rescuer stood her gently on her feet, his bulk supporting her while she faced her father and his. Surrounded obviously surmised what had happened in one sweep, but Pa struggled to make sense of the poignant silence.
"Daughter ... did you nearly drown?" He came forward, eyes wet.
"I ... I .." Her teeth were chattering now, not from the cold but from sheer emotion.
Face ashen, Pa eased her into a chair by the hearth, wrapping a blanket around her shaking shoulders. She wanted to cry-out of thankfulness and relief. Perhaps this was how the chief had felt when they'd saved his son. And now his son had saved her. The debt was paid in full. Each of them seemed to be thinking the same thing at once, the silence brimming despite their speechlessness.
Pa cleared his throat and went to the corner cupboard for a jug, then poured himself some whiskey. He offered it to the Indians, who declined, and then downed it in one gulp. Morrow's eyes widened at the sight. She glanced at the man who'd saved her life and was now dripping water onto the plank floor, his wet buckskins darkened to black. But he wasn't looking at her. He kept a wary eye on the open door as if expecting the trouble upriver to materialize on their threshold at any moment.
She took a measured breath, trying to summon enough decency to thank him, but the words wouldn't come. Instead she pulled her eyes from him, afraid her unwillingness was plain. But Pa more than made up for her lack, thanking them in English and Shawnee, his gratitude apparent. When they left, she sank into her seat by the fire, hugging the blanket closer, too tired to talk yet riddled with questions.
As if sensing her curiosity, Pa said, "They came right after you went to the river. Surrounded warned of a party of Cherokee near here. His son seemed restless when I told them you'd gone to the river. I tried to keep him here. I didn't want him to surprise you-or you him, half dressed:" His face took on a reddish tint. "Surrounded said something about the water spirits drawing people to the bottom of the river. Some Shawnee superstition, I suppose. Being the young buck he is, his son soon disappeared, and by heaven, I'm glad he did"
She swallowed, still feeling she had a bucket of water inside her. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble, Pa ... just saw some grapes on the other side of the river:"
He shook his head in disbelief. "I can't bear the thought of losing you, Morrow. Don't ever try anything so foolish again:'
The tears in his eyes made her more contrite, and she was suddenly exhausted. Standing on shaky legs, she turned toward the stairs, but he stopped her, putting an arm around her, hugging her like he'd not done since her childhood. She hugged him back, dampening his shirt, surprised when he seemed reluctant to release her.
"Tonight, while you were at the river, when Surrounded came with Red Shirt. . ' '
Red Shirt. Was that his name? She felt a strange disappointment. She'd expected something else. Something strong and Indian-like. Not this. Drawing the blanket closer, she waited for him to finish.
"I found out a few things about our English-speaking Shawnee. He's a half blood. His mother was a white captive:"
What? The startling words seemed only to skim the surface of conscious thought and left her staring at him, unable to speak.
"He was sent to the Brafferton School for Indians as a boy"
"Brafferton?" she echoed. She'd read about the school in the Virginia Gazette. It had a rich if controversial history. Had he been part of that?
"Apparently he did well there. A family in Williamsburg wanted to adopt him. But after a time he left and found his way back to his father."
She held her breath, trying to grasp all that he'd just told her, letting the words soften and reshape the misconceptions she'd had about him. Was he truly half white? She wondered why she hadn't suspected as much. His skin was too light for a true Indian, as were his hazel eyes, though his dress and manner were convincing enough.
He swallowed and said, "We talked some about Jess. I tried to describe him as I remember him. But it's been so long. . "
His eyes were a shimmer of gray green. She extended a hand to him, but he'd turned away, clearly too weary for more conversation. Bidding him good night, she climbed the stairs to her room, her own heart sore. Exhausted, she combed out her tangled hair and dressed in her warmest nightgown, drawing the bedcovers around her shivering form. Remembering she'd failed to say her prayers, she dropped to her knees, feeling more unworthy than she had in her whole life.
Father, forgive me. For holding a grudge. For hating the Shawnee. Thank You for sending Red Shirt to spare my life.
Since her near-drowning, Pa seemed to hover as if afraid sh
e'd get herself into trouble again. She couldn't tell him how nearly losing her life had inexplicably shaken loose some of her fears. The place that had haunted her for so long was now nothing more than sand and red rock and rushing water. She wanted to go back again, if only to make sure it no longer had any hold on her, but all the chores of autumn waited. Joe came to help with the harvest, joining Pa in the field and cutting the roasting ears from the towering stalks, then the stalks themselves for fodder. It was blistering, backbreaking work, and she toted piggin after piggin of cold water from the spring to quiet their thirst. She was glad to return to the cabin, where she sat and ground hard-shelled corn with a hand mill. But before she'd filled a single sack with meal, she was spent.
Wiping her brow with a handkerchief, she considered other pleasures to be had beyond the stifling porch. Pa wouldn't quit working till dusk, so she had ample time to slip away, not so far as to miss his call, but just beyond sight of the cabin's sturdy, twostory shadow. The woods were alive with thimbleberries, and she had a basket on each arm, delighted when she found a patch thick and sweet. A handful left the taste of summer on her tongue.
Mouth and fingers stained purple, she straightened from stripping a vine and saw a flicker of movement deeper in the woods. At once she went still. He made not a sound, but there was no disguising the great height of him. A dozen discordant thoughts galloped through her head as she followed him with curious eyes.
He's half white but moves like an Indian. He's half Indian but educated like a white man. His English seems as fine as my own, yet I spent years thinking otherwise. What other secrets might he have?
Deliberately she stepped on a stick. Its crisp snap seemed to echo in the stillness, shushing even the birdsong. The realization that she'd seen him before he'd seen her gave her an inexplicable little thrill. But suddenly she lost sight of him. Within moments the fine hair on the back of her neck tingled, and she whirled, nearly upsetting her baskets. He stood behind her, rifle in hand, expression stoic. His eyes were so piercing they looked black, not brown. Something skittered across their depths that made her feel infinitely foolish.