Rose's Pledge

by Dianna Crawford

  Lumbering to his feet, Smith rubbed his belly. Nate cleared his throat. “I’d like a private minute with you, Eustice.” He grimaced, easing back down. “Don’t tell me you’re fixin’ to shove off, too.”

  “I’m not sure. You still set on draggin’ that poor gentlewoman off to that godforsaken Shawnee settlement of yours?”

  Smith narrowed his beady eyes. “Look here, Kinyon. I didn’t buy that gal just so’s I’d have a skirt around to gawk at. Like I tol’ ya, I’m in dire need. Her comin’ with me’s a matter of life and death. Mine.”

  “Aha. Just like I figgered.”

  “What’re ya talkin’ about?”

  Nate shook his head in disdain. “Some chief’s got it in for you, an’ you bought her for him as a way of atonement. Well, I’m here to tell you, that ain’t gonna happen.” He snatched his hunting knife from the scabbard hooked to his belt and raised it to make his point. “I’ll do you in myself first.”

  The man’s eyes flared, and he jerked to his feet, spilling his cup to the ground. “Wait just a minute!” He stretched out a hand to ward Nate off. “Ya got it all wrong. I bought her papers so’s she could cook fer me, an’ that’s the plain truth. My stomach’s been ailin’ me sore most all the time, and sometimes”—he peered around and lowered his voice— “I even pass some blood now an’ again. If I don’t get me some soothin’ food soon, I could up an’ die.”

  Nate sat back and eyed him closely in the growing darkness. Though grime and the man’s frizzled beard hid most of his face, Smith did look a mite poorly, and his eyes had a yellowish tinge.

  The trader continued. “I got me some chickens off a passin’ raidin’ party awhile back, an’ now with the cows I’m bringin’ home, there’ll be milk an’ eggs a’plenty. Enough to see me through till my stomach gets put to rights. I even bought some good English spices and healin’ herbs the gal knows how to use. So as you can see, no price in this world’s gonna buy her off me till I’m in fine fettle again.”

  Serious raindrops began spattering them as they stared each other down. Nate grimaced and dried his knife on his pant leg then shoved it back inside its sheath. He’d just have to wait Smith out, one way or the other. “Well then, Eustice, I reckon my answer to that question of yours is I’ll be ridin’ with you the rest of the way.” He got up and strode to his own shelter.

  Rain, rain, rain. Slogging along the muddy trail, Rose looked woefully up at the gloomy sky and shook her head. At least the thunder and lightning had ceased sometime during the wee hours. From the time she’d left the leaky shelter of the crude hut where she’d slept last night, they’d all sloshed through mud or been splattered by it as the caravan trudged up one ridge and down the other side. Then it was start up yet another mucky ridge and face the inevitable swollen stream they needed to cross at the bottom. All the while, water poured from the sky as if angels were emptying barrels of it at a time.

  Whenever Mr. Smith gave the order to rest the horses, Rose hopped down into ankle-deep mud, which saw to the swift ruination of her soft leather shoes. The soles barely allowed her to keep her footing, especially on any sort of grade. Going downhill was hard even on the animals, who also struggled to keep their footing beneath their heavy loads.

  Gritting her teeth as the rain continued to pummel her, Rose clutched her soggy cloak closer. Soaked through, its hue was more violet than burgundy. She turned her head slightly to peer around, and the limp brim of her bonnet drooped like a funnel, pouring a stream of cold water down her nose and hands. She winced. If there was anything that smelled worse than a wet horse, it was her smelling like a wet horse!

  She knew the rest of the party looked as bedraggled and smelled as odorous as she did. The decorative feathers the Shawnee braves sported in their braids and on their clothes now drooped as sadly as everyone’s expressions. Thank heaven it was June and only mildly cool, or they’d all be shivering and covered with gooseflesh.

  Up ahead, she saw Nate on his horse, coming back from scouting after nearly an hour. She wondered if anyone—Indian or bandit—possessed gumption enough to lie in wait to ambush a caravan in such abysmal weather. After he stopped to converse with Mr. Smith, he headed down the line to her.

  “You look like a drowned chicken.” A sympathetic smile curved one side of his lips.

  She snickered. “I beg to differ. The Indians with all their soggy feathers look like drowned chickens. I, on the other hand, look and smell rather like a drowned skunk.” The sad truth of her words made her grimace.

  A teasing spark lit his eyes as he leaned closer, the brim of his hat spilling rainwater onto the ground. “I’d say in that wet wool, you smell more like a dead sheep.” He reached around and untied his bedroll, shaking out the fur blanket he slept in. He handed it to her. “Shed that wet cloak of yours and wrap this around you instead. The rain won’t get through it.”

  Rose was touched by his kind offer. “Are you sure you don’t need it?” A dollop of water dropped on her hand from overhead branches.

  He smiled as she glared up at the tree. “Actually, I’m used to weather like this. Been traipsin’ around out in nature nigh onto ten years now. Like it says in Ma’s Bible, ‘This, too, shall pass,’ and all that.”

  Rose only hoped it would. As gracefully as possible, she shed her sodden cloak and accepted his covering. It was heavier than she’d expected—far heavier than her wet cloak. She took measure of the thick fur, which held little resemblance to the coveted wraps and muffs displayed in the elegant shop windows at Bath. “What type of fur is this?”

  He shrugged. “Buffalo. Keeps a body dry when it needs to.”

  “Dry? Is there such a thing?” Laughing, she pulled it around her soaked clothes.

  Nate reached over to help her. The weight of the wrap was no match for his strength, and he hefted it as if it weighed no more than a feather.

  But what surprised Rose even more was his gentleness. Suddenly she was acutely aware of how very close he was. She could feel the warmth of his breath feathering her cheek, and it sent a tingly sort of pleasure through her being, the likes of which she’d never felt before. But then, he was the sort of man the likes of which she’d never encountered before. Nate Kinyon was like a protecting angel. Her own protecting angel.

  He fiddled with the fur wrap until he had it snugly about her shoulders. His hazel eyes, very near, met hers and lingered there for a breathless moment. Finally he centered himself again on his saddle and gathered his reins. Cocking his head to one side, he flashed a grin. “Keep it warm for me till I get back.”

  Without further word, he spurred his horse on.

  Now, whatever did he mean by that? Uncertain whether or not she liked that particular smile, she couldn’t help staring after him. Then she straightened her spine. The man was such a flirt.

  Chapter 12

  The rain gradually slowed and came to an end. Rose swept a thankful gaze up at the sky as late-afternoon sunshine broke through the clouds, slanting shafts of light into the forest. Familiar with Britain’s wet climate, she was intimately acquainted with rain, but except for the drenching suffered on her homeward trek from Bristol during a downpour, she’d never felt like a drowned rat until now. And at least the road in England had been cobbled, not a slippery quagmire. Moisture still dripped from the trees onto the soggy trail, making travel precarious, but she knew several hours of strong sunshine would set things to right. As the pack train continued a descent that began half an hour ago, the pathway began to level out, making the journey a bit easier. Perhaps they were coming to the river Mr. Smith had mentioned last eve. She certainly hoped so. They were supposed to stop and make camp there.

  The buffalo robe Nate Kinyon had loaned her had protected her from getting any wetter, but she longed to get out of her still-damp clothes and into something dry. How ironic that after fearing for her sisters and being concerned about their welfare, she was the one traveling into the unknown. The girls were undoubtedly warm and dry in substantial homes with
tight roofs over their heads, while she herself could easily catch lung fever and slowly waste away.

  Shrugging off the temptation to feel sorry for herself, Rose directed her thoughts across the ocean to her father and brothers. She hoped her and her sisters’ sacrifices had indeed saved the rest of the family from ruin. But how marvelous it would be to go home again, be snuggled and toasty warm in her own feather bed with a blazing fire in the hearth, the wonderful smell of rich stew from supper permeating the dwelling. She should never have taken such blessings for granted. She breathed a prayer for her sorely missed loved ones, trusting them in God’s hands, and vowed that if ever she found herself living a life of ease again, she would express her utmost thankfulness daily.

  A sudden gust of wind chilled by the storm swirled around her, and Rose tugged the fur tighter about her. At least she still had that one small comfort, even if it was only a loan from Nate.

  Where was Nate? Turning in her saddle, she searched past two of the Shawnee and their strings of horses and discovered him and Mr. Smith conversing as they rode side by side. The frontiersman must have ridden in while she allowed herself that brief moment of self-pity. She didn’t dare dwell for long on how truly miserable she felt, lest she fall apart, and when the reality of her situation occasionally did intrude, she strove to quash it as quickly as possible. She had to remain strong—or at least appear to.

  Now that the storm had passed and the last of the heavy clouds scudded from view, the bright sunlight cheered her up. But her optimism quickly faded as she detected the ominous roar of a river ahead growing louder by the moment. Rain had probably swollen the volume of water, as Mr. Smith had predicted. Remembering the last crossing, which had been tentative enough to give any brave soul pause for thought, she hoped they wouldn’t attempt to cross an even mightier river this eve.

  The party emerged into an open meadow, and Rose feasted her eyes on the variegated greens sprinkled liberally with summer wildflowers. Everything looked fresh and clean, and leftover raindrops sparkled like diamonds amid the tall weeds. Even the cool breeze smelled sweet. Then she saw more red men.

  A cluster of nearly naked Indians with shaved heads stared at them from the riverbank. They looked nothing like the Shawnee she’d grown used to seeing. Attired only in loincloths and bedecked with feathers, they sported piercings and strange-looking tattoos on various parts of their bodies. They smiled and waved, however, so Rose hoped Providence would find them friendly after all. Still, she couldn’t shake off her anxiety.

  The man ahead of her appeared at ease after spotting the braves, but Rose saw that his hand now rested on the butt of his musket.

  Three long canoes lay upturned on the bank near a ferry raft similar to the one used at the last river crossing. The sight of crude shelters like the caravan had used last evening indicated the Indians must have camped there during the storm. Now they had a campfire to warm their chilled bones and some delicious-smelling meat roasting over the blaze. Rose breathed in the enticing aroma.

  Reaching the unfamiliar group, the pack train came to a halt. Nate, Mr. Smith, and the first of the Shawnee riders dismounted and joined the strangers. Rose was not near enough to make out voices or words, but she noticed that as the men talked, they used their hands more than their mouths, communicating with grunts and broad gestures that looked somewhat comical.

  Her first impulse was to get off her horse, but since the other Shawnee in the party had remained mounted while they watched the exchange, she resisted any thought of sliding down. Even though she sensed no hint of danger, she assured herself that the Indians at the camp didn’t mean any harm.

  After a few tense moments, Mr. Smith broke away from the group and headed toward Rose. He stopped at her side and spoke under his breath. “I want ya to stay put till we build ya a shelter. Then ya need to get in it and stay there. We’ll bring over some food when it’s done.”

  The thought of actual food, fresh and hot and tasty, sounded inviting, yet a sense of unease slithered through Rose. She glanced beyond the trader to Nate, who continued gesturing and nodding with the strange Indians. “Surely you don’t mean we must stay the night here …with these …other strange Indians.”

  “Aye. That’s just what I’m sayin’. They come downriver with a mind to do a bit o’ tradin’. An’ as you’ll learn soon enough, redskins don’t get in no big rush about it. We might be up half the night dickerin’ and parlayin’ over what’s tossed on the blanket …an’ I don’t want you throwed into the mix. Is that clear?”

  Thrown into the mix! What did that mean? Rose wanted more of an explanation and opened her mouth to protest the whole affair but bit back her words. She’d already been auctioned off once, only to be dragged out to this uncharted expanse of emptiness, and she couldn’t begin to imagine what horrors might await her were she to be purchased by one of those vicious-looking tattooed Indians. “Rest assured, Mr. Smith, I shall be only too happy to leave you gentlemen to your business.”

  “Gentlemen, eh?” The trader gave a wry chuckle. Then he winced and rubbed back and forth across his protruding belly. “Sure will be glad to get back to my place. This trip’s takin’ the starch clean outta me.” The short, paunchy man took a step away then turned back. “Remember what I said. Stay outta sight.”

  Stay out of sight! As if Rose needed her owner to tell her that more than once. Despite the day’s mild temperature, she huddled within the confines of Nate Kinyon’s fur blanket and sat still as a post until the other horses in the pack train had been unloaded. With even her nose buried inside the hairy cover, she’d scarcely even peeked out of it, avoiding all eye contact with the peculiar Indians.

  The sound of approaching footsteps made her pulse quicken, until she recognized them as Nate’s.

  “You can get down now, little missy. And don’t worry none about stayin’ safe. We’ll all of us be keepin’ watch.”

  Somewhat encouraged, Rose opened the fur wrap, but felt somehow as exposed as a flag on a pole. Missing its privacy, she shivered.

  Nate reached up to her, and she gratefully accepted his help. Again she was impressed at the way gentleness tempered his strength, and part of her wished she could remain within the safe circle of those strong arms. A man of his ilk would make any woman feel secure and protected. But each nerve in her body sensed that everyone was watching. Her skin crawled as she felt dark, hooded eyes observing her every step on the way to her private shelter.

  The low jabbering started up again. Already Rose regretted having parted with Nate’s fur robe. She still felt vulnerable and exposed even inside the crude hut with the added protection of her belongings surrounding her. Any thought of shedding her damp clothing and changing into a dry outfit fled her mind. Instead she peered out the entrance toward the fire, watching the goings-on at the gathering.

  The men from the pack train clustered around the Indians’ campfire, drying out, with the exception of Nate, who occupied himself with the unsaddling of her horse. For ten minutes or more Rose kept an eye on the group. Finally she exhaled a bated breath as she saw them all settle down onto blankets around the fire. One of the Indians turned a spit, which held what appeared to be a wild turkey and perhaps a goose. The aroma of those roasting birds was almost more than her hungry stomach could endure.

  She continued to observe the men for several more minutes to be sure no one was leaving the others. Then she hurriedly flung open her trunk and plucked out some bedding and some dry clothes, intending to be changed and have her bed made before anyone started moving about again.

  Without Bob around, Nate was glad a Cherokee by the name of Two Crows spoke passable English. Nate fared well enough using sign language but preferred being able to talk in plain words whenever possible. The Indian had recognized Nate’s name and even asked about Black Horse Bob.

  But once they’d waded through all the polite questions regarding mutual acquaintances, the expression on Two Crows’s face changed from friendly smiles to stony reserve.
r />   Nate tensed. Why the sudden change?

  “What you hear about Mohawk Chief Tiyanoga and English governor Clinton at Albany?” The Indian’s black eyes narrowed as he studied Nate.

  Nate and Eustice Smith swapped a glance and shrugged.

  “We ain’t heard nothin’,” Smith replied evenly. “I been down in Baltimore. There was talk about some French soldiers an’ a black robe movin’ aways south of Lake Erie to build a fort. Nobody’s happy about it. That’s the last I heard.” He sniffed.

  The Indian hiked his chin. “Chief Tiyanoga say they build forts from big lake to Ohio River. He say to Clinton, ‘We make treaty with you. Why you no go stop the French?’ Then Tiyanoga say, ‘Mohawk support English allies, but English allies no support Mohawk.’ He say the Dutch buy small piece of land from Mohawk, but say piece is bigger.” Two Crows spread his arms wide. “Tiyanoga say no more. He say he send wampum belt to the Six Nations, say chain is broken with the English.”

  Neither Nate nor Smith moved, but their eyes met and held for a brief second.

  The trader shook his head offhandedly. “That bunch up in New York is always gettin’ things wrong with the Nations. But them Indians up there got William Johnson to speak for ‘em. He’s a fair man. He’ll sort things out sure ‘nuff.”

  “Aye, that he will.” Nate gave an emphatic nod. But inside, he knew that if Governor Clinton did nothing and allowed the French to gain control of the Ohio, Smith’s trading post and every other English enterprise this side of the Alleghenies would be at risk.

  Inhaling a troubled breath, he glanced around the circle of Indians, wondering if even the Shawnee and the Cherokee farther to the south would turn on them. If so, what would become of Rose …his Rose of Sharon?

  Chapter 13