River Bend

by Barbara Shepherd

  She tried to smooth the ache of her lips by rubbing the back of her hand across them, but her hand was too frigid to help. She cried, warm tears spilling out, but they froze before they could tumble the full length of her reddened cheeks.

  “Dear God,” she continued, “I don’t understand why you’ve placed me in this predicament. It seems I’ve weathered more pain and sorrow in my short span of life than need be, but I am only a part of the whole. I know not what you require of me, but I cannot believe that I have ventured this far and endured this much, only to die in a blizzard. And what of my babe? It is only weeks until the birthing. Dearest God in Heaven, I beg of you to lead me where you would have me go, whether that is back to the dugout or to some new shelter, or into this white oblivion. And I pray that you would give me the common sense and the faith to follow as you lead. Amen.”

  She remembered how her belief in God carried her to a break in the storm where she caught a glimpse of her home. She had traveled in a circle.

  The fierce wind outside continued to howl, but the inside of the dugout was dry. Belle wondered how long she had sat in silence. Closing her eyes, she prayed, “Thank you, God, for leading me to safety. Amen.”

  “Oh my,” she said, drawing in her breath. “I almost let the fire go out.” Stoking the fire with a hand-forged poker and thinking how stunning the red-hot coals were, she added more wood.

  Feeling warmer than she had felt in a long time, she removed her outer wrap and brought a quilt to warm before the fire. She held it until the quilt was hot to the touch before she wrapped up in it and lay down on top of the bed, too exhausted to take off her clothing and dress for bed. She slept.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Belle woke to a searing pain in her abdomen. She massaged it, wondering what had caused the fleeting pain, but found no cut or burn. She stifled a yawn and peered into the darkness through listless eyes, her lids swollen with sleep. Maybe it was a dream. Stifling another yawn, she snuggled into her covers, too tired and sleepy to get up.

  A half-moon cast intricate, lace patterns through uneven slits of the door onto the dugout’s dirt floor, one that had been swept so often the red dirt shined in the moonlight. Just then, another pain tore through her semi-conscious state. Her abdomen cramped and froze into a tight ball.

  “Oh, no, the birthing process,” she moaned. “Not now. Not this early.”

  She sat, whimpering like a frightened child, unsure what to do. When the next pain came, she wailed, “Not now, not while I’m alone.” The pain was not intense yet, but her terror was. She panicked and jumped out of bed, but at the same moment, another pain hit. Falling to the floor, she took several deep breaths to keep from crying out again.

  Pains were coming stronger now and closer together. When Belle felt a rush of wetness between her legs, she crawled, like a clumsy spider minus several of his legs, over to her clean wash to retrieve soft cloths and a small blanket to wrap the babe in. Stripping away her clothing, she pulled a nightdress over her head, catching her breath when the cold fabric came in contact with her skin. Crawling back, she struggled to get her bulky form up on the bed while her tense body reacted to more birth pain.

  Dawn was breaking when Belle cried out with pain again, unaware she had been asleep for hours. But a pause between each pain no longer existed. She battled one continuous labor pain and prayed for strength to endure it.

  The dugout door opened. Moccasin-clad feet made no sound as they scurried across the hard-packed earth. Black onyx eyes and bronzed arms frightened Belle until she recognized her friend, the Indian woman she had seen more often the past month.

  Laughing Maiden pressed a cool, damp cloth against Belle’s feverish brow. Calming her by talking in hushed tones, Laughing Maiden also stroked her friend’s legs, now beaded with sweat.

  Although she couldn’t understand Laughing Maiden’s words, Belle welcomed her presence. After a while, the pain subsided, and she leaned back on the feather pillow to rest. Late in the afternoon, the unrelenting pain hit again, this time with a fury Belle would not have thought possible. And then, she pushed. She didn’t know why—she just pushed.

  Laughing Maiden tried to communicate with her, but Belle had no time or energy to translate. Scared and in excruciating pain, Belle screamed and pushed harder.

  Laughing Maiden squealed something, but Belle couldn’t understand her words.

  When Belle screamed with the next massive pain and pushed again, the pains stopped.

  After Laughing Maiden cried out in delight and held the newborn babe up, Belle smiled and passed out from fatigue. Her Indian friend chewed through the umbilical cord and bathed the baby before she left.

  Later, tiny cries wafted into Belle’s dream. She turned toward the noise, feeling an unfamiliar padding between her legs. When cramping in her abdomen convinced her she was not dreaming, she opened her eyes and saw a tiny bundle beside her on the bed. She embraced it and cooed to her newborn child. She quieted him, but his cries renewed when she uncovered him and cold air reached him.

  “I have to look at you,” she said, her voice tender, “to see if your tiny toes and fingers are all here. And, they are. Oh, you sweet bundle, my darling babe. I’m so glad you’re here.” She traced the wrinkle lines on his little feet and squirming legs, noticing the physical proof of his manhood. She prayed, thanking God for her son and for sending Laughing Maiden.

  The babe’s cries became more insistent and his face almost purple with rage. Belle uncovered her breast and placed his mouth near the nipple. When he found it and clamped down with toothless gums, she cried out, her voice echoing inside the dugout. Embarrassed at her response, yet feeling real pain, she realized no one had told her this would hurt.

  “I don’t want to frighten you, little one,” she whispered, “but I can’t help it.” She winced again and took a deep breath. “I’m going to have to get used to this.” She caressed the babe’s bald pate and held him tighter, crooning to him, until they both drifted off to a sound sleep.

  Bright rays of sunlight filtered through cracks in the door of the dugout when Belle woke to stillness, the silent aftermath of last night’s winter storm. She tiptoed on hard-packed earth to the opening of her isolated home and looked out on a winter wonderland. Arctic white covered everything, wet snow resting in the forks of trees and clinging to their shadowed sides. Giant icicles, gleaming in the morning sun, hung from ebony-colored branches.

  She reached outside to pinch snow between her fingers and then reveled in the purity and frostiness of it when she placed it on her tongue. A packet to her left caught her attention, its brown wrapping in sharp contrast to her all-white world. “Another packet.” She retrieved it, brushing away snow, and hurried inside to open it.

  “Where are these coming from?” Excitement built as she opened it with a knife. Sitting on the bed beside her still-dozing son, she smiled at her good fortune. Everything had come in packets or bundles—the babe Johnathan and these intriguing presents of wonderful fabrics. With trembling fingers, she sorted through exquisite pieces of cloth—smooth to the touch, luxurious in vibrant hues, and patterned like she had never seen.

  With this packet and three earlier ones, she reconciled herself to the fact she wouldn’t be able to search for answers until the winter weather subsided. In the meantime, these unexpected presents provided a bright spot in her solitary existence, like sunshine in a cold and lonely world.

  But still, she couldn’t avoid the perplexing thoughts of who could be thinking of her and where the packets were coming from.

  “This is a great day, Johnathan Michael Strong,” she whispered. “I’m going to put on a pot of soup and start work on a new quilt.” She gave his snugly- wrapped body a love pat. “And I’m going to love you, too. What a fabulous day.”

  Kneeling on the cold, red earth of her home, she gave thanks to God for helping her survive, for Johnathan, and for all her good fortune.

  She spent the day like the gift it was, enjoying the com
pany of her son, fabrics, food, and living. While the child slept, she wrote in her journal, catching up by recording the day-to-day events of her life. When he woke, she read to him, selecting pages that included the grandmother he would never meet. She planned to wait until he was older to introduce him to the father who would never get to hold him.

  “Johnathan, I’ve written about fear and anger but also about pleasant things. In this journal, I’ve recorded the worst of the worst and the best of the best. Let’s pray we have many more pages that fit into the best category.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Puffs of white in a cerulean sky framed the open door of the captain’s cabin. Trader Jake watched the clouds glide by as his ship raced across glassy water, its prow skimming the top of a tranquil sea. For the first time in weeks, weather had turned fair and graced them with a perfect wind, billowing out the sails.

  The jaunty crew, putting all tension and worries aside, were on their way home—home to wives or sweethearts after only one more stop, this one in the Port of Canton. Their voices rang loud in merriment as they sang ribald lyrics to familiar songs and jested with one another.

  “Perhaps they’ve forgotten our lady passenger from Wales,” Jake said. “Mrs. Burcham is wise to keep to her cabin.”

  He was glad to have the resources to reunite the Burchams, and knowing they would enjoy running the hotel would benefit an already-wise financial move. The hotel in Horseshoe Bend was a new business venture for Jake, and he believed more people would travel west in the not-too-distant future.

  Pleased with the new look inside the hotel since he acquired it, he planned to be ready for more discriminating guests. Burcham had accomplished wonders with the sound structure before Jake left, and Belle Strong’s quilts added an elegance without opulence, bed coverings that were warm and inviting to a weary traveler, yet added a bright cheeriness, a unique charm all their own.

  Jake remembered the sadness he witnessed in Belle when she was forced to sell her quilts for supplies, and although he overpaid for the lovely quilts, he knew from her fiery disposition she would never accept charity. He grinned, recalling her spirited pride and the stubborn tilt of her chin when she turned down Stephen Owens’ offer of credit, insincere as it was.

  With more time on his hands while out on the open seas, Jake was more convinced than ever that he was right in purchasing the quilts. They represented countless hours of Belle’s fine handiwork and added to the improvements on the hotel, but there was more. Maybe she would make new quilts during her time of mourning. By keeping her hands busy and her mind occupied, perhaps she could overcome the sadness and loneliness enveloping one who is grieving.

  Remembering his own grief six years earlier when his father and mother perished in a violent spring storm still caused heaviness in Jake’s heart. He squeezed his eyes shut to stem threatening tears from the painful memory of losing the parents he loved so much.

  Trying to focus on something more pleasant, he remembered his trek west from Kentucky to the wilderness called Texas, leaving his birthright and his inheritance behind. It had been an arduous journey, and at times foolhardy, but it helped to ease his grief, simply because the tasks he set for himself left little time for grieving. In those six years, he had made his mark in the Mexican province and in many ports around the world. He worked hard but enjoyed the career he had chosen.

  His thoughts went to the young widow, who also made a difficult trek and was dealing with grief, and he hoped she was comfortable. Entrusting a couple of his trapper friends to check on her and bring her wild game, he also counted on Laughing Maiden and When The Eagle Speaks who promised to watch over her. It was not the ultimate security he wished for her. His presence beside her, as protector, would ease his concern for her welfare and remove the loneliness tugging at his heart, but convention and circumstance separated them. While a sigh of resignation escaped his lips, he realized safety was the only thing he could offer her now, and he felt as secure as anyone could afford to feel when people live on the outer fringe of civilization.

  Jake shook himself from his reverie, not wishing to think of negative possibilities. He would trust in God that Belle would remain safe. A smile played at the corners of his lips as he thought of the packets he had sent her. He traded in several ports for swatches of beautiful cottons, linens, the ever-popular linsey-woolsey, woolens, and other fabrics used for clothing and bed coverings. He prepared fabric packets and sent them to Belle by way of other traders making port in New Orleans. Having owned his fleet for three years, he had acquainted himself with captains of many ships. Rather than delivering all fabric purchases when he returned or sending several together, he arranged for each one to arrive at different times and hoped they would brighten her lonely days.

  When he thought of Belle receiving the unrequested packets of bright fabrics from a mysterious source, he chuckled. Oh, how he wished he could be a mouse in the corner of her home when she received a packet so he could see the mixed expressions on her beautiful face, probably excited yet puzzled.

  He shook his head, trying to erase the vision from his mind, and stepped outside his cabin. Breathing in gulps of salty air, he savored the freedom and vast expanse of his world.

  The ship, still making good time, put him in a smug mood. All in all, it had been a memorable trip and financially successful, with Jake trading the ever-abundant furs from the wilds of North America to the countries lining the western seacoast of Europe. He had earned well his “Trader Jake” moniker, bartering in the islands of the south seas for coffee beans and bitter cacao beans. Worth more than their weight in gold back home, cacao beans were the basis for the new chocolate rage. The world-renowned hostess, Dolley Madison, wife to the former President, made chocolate tortes for all her grand parties, and of course, the whole country tried to duplicate her delectable confections.

  Laughing, Jake envisioned all the grand ladies on the social register, fervently attempting to imitate the rich desserts but burning their layers of chocolate cake—brilliant, red flames and black smoke billowing from the cooks’ hearth ovens. The more times women, or their servants, attempted the former First Lady’s recipe, the more cacao beans they would need and the more money Jake would pocket. Though already a wealthy man, staying that way and attaining more capital always made him happy.

  Beaver pelts continued to fetch premium prices in France and England since their beaver had been trapped out long ago. Trading for English teas might prove profitable as would the many bolts of cloth he was bringing back to tailors and dressmakers. Silks and velvets would bring a high price when he came into port all along the Eastern seaboard. He planned to save some of the elegant fabrics for New Orleans and Saint Louis where he would be able to name his price.

  He entered his cabin and stepped over to his sea chest, thinking how many voyages they had made together, he and this battered chest, its worn leather hinges begging to be replaced. Jake loved the sea, yet he loved the untamed wilderness as well. How Stephen could be happy staying in one place mystified him.

  Jake knelt on the planked flooring, polished by his continual pacing, and lifted the lid, its hinges creaking. He pulled back unbleached muslin wrappings from a collection of silks and a bolt of deep-emerald velvet. Smiling, he remembered the trade—both he and the merchant searching an entire storeroom for the perfect shade of green. He planned to reserve one of the tea chests, when empty, and transfer the fabrics into it for presentation.

  He could hardly wait to return home and see Belle, the elusive vixen who haunted his dreams wearing an elegant gown made of the velvet, with her emerald eyes sparkling, her creamy skin alluring and begging to be caressed. Her auburn tresses gleaming in bright sunlight with curly tendrils framing her delicate face sometimes woke him.

  A sigh escaped from somewhere inside his torso when he realized he was daydreaming. How he longed to possess the dainty widow, the little spitfire who was impossible to forget. Oh, how he had tried, but she was unforgettable, she was sp
ecial, and she had cast a spell over him that he could not break. Many times, he cursed and threw temper tantrums. He busted up furniture while in a drunken and foul mood, then drank more of the vile rotgut until he was in a stupor, only to have her vision reappear when he woke to a fuzzy world.

  Finally, he had resigned himself to the fact he could not get her out of his mind and set a plan into motion. How much better he felt since facing facts. She was not only in his mind, but she was imbedded in his heart.

  I have to have her! He longed to hold her in his arms and let her experience the love welling up inside him. He wanted to share everything with her, to give of himself until he was drained, and then give again to show her that his love knew no bounds. Of all the women he had met in his life, none had ever struck such a nerve. Sensing her underlying passion, he longed to be the man to unleash it. But her green eyes promised more, revealing the intensity of the young woman, one who could love and be loved with her heart and soul. Behind Jake’s closed eyelids, he held her in a tight embrace, their world snug and comfortable. Forever.

  When he opened his eyes to face the real world, he paced, for even in the remote area around Horseshoe Bend, customs and taboos existed. He could not court Mrs. Strong so soon after her husband’s death, but he could let her know his intentions and see to her needs.

  “Needs,” he chided himself, “food and shelter needs, not desires.” He rubbed his chin. “Hmm, I never considered what she might desire.” Thinking only of what he wanted and her aloneness, he had never speculated as to whether she might desire him or that she might not.

  He smoothed his hand over the exposed velvet in a caress that revealed its nap before he rewrapped it in its muslin casing. Closing the sea chest, he was confused due to his mood shifting from pleasant to smug, then to confidence and desire, and finally to uncertainty. Not wanting to ponder this new question of Belle’s acceptance, he strode from his cabin and joined his jovial crew.