Nate swallowed a huge chunk of guilt. He should have prepared her for her first visit to a Shawnee village instead of allowing her to believe Smith’s store sat in the middle of a civilized town. But she had so many fears to work through already, he didn’t have the heart to cause her more worry. Things were sure to come as a shock to her. He eyed the trader slouched on a flour sack with his grubby hands dangling between his knobby knees. Just what would the old geezer take to let her go back where she belonged?
Catching the eye of the Indian riding with them, Nate motioned for him to take over. The brave obliged and handed Nate his pole then took control of the rudder stick while Nate made his way gingerly across the logs to Smith. He cleared his throat.
The man peered up at him and grunted.
Speaking in tones Rose would not overhear, he met the trader’s narrowed eyes. “Look, Eustice. You know an’ I know that Indian village is no place for a proper lady like Rose Harwood. Tell me what I can give you to let her go back to her kind. Do the decent thing for once in your life.”
The man fingered his beard as if considering the matter and let out a deep huff. His bony shoulders rose with a shrug, then he looked up at Nate in all seriousness. “The truth of it is, if I had me enough furs or cash money ta quit sellin’ stuff to folks an’ go off where I’d be able ta live in comfort the rest o’ my life, I’d take it. This trip’s prit’near been the end o’ me, Kinyon. It’s all I can do to put one foot in front o’ the other. I’m too old to be gallivantin’ back east for goods ta sell then hike over mountain trails an’ sleep on the hard ground in all kinds o’ weather. Thing is, right now I need that gal to cook me some good food till I’m able ta consider packin’ up an’ leavin’. That’s all I can tell ya.”
A tide of discouragement swept over Nate. Enough furs or cash money to live on for the rest of his life! How could a body come up with that? Awhile back, he remembered hearing rumors about silver, about some Shawnee chief downriver toward the Mississippi having a secret silver mine. Could it be true? Well even if it was, rumor had it that some Frenchies had set up a trading post of their own down there, and they sure wouldn’t want any competition. Still …one never knew. He turned to admire Rose again. Somebody had to do something, and there was nobody to do anything but him. He’d just have to find a way, that’s all there was to it.
Chapter 15
Rose didn’t know what she expected to see when she arrived at the settlement where Mr. Smith’s trading post was located, but it wasn’t anything remotely compared to what she found. Before her lay fenced, cultivated fields that flanked a goodly number of dome-shaped and cone-shaped dwellings covered with bark and animal hides, and even some long, low lodges. When the raft passed some of the conelike structures near the riverbank, bronze-skinned men, women, and naked children had charged out of them, whooping and yelling as they ran alongside, keeping pace with the raft. Others, many attired in pale deerskin, streamed from other huts to join them. Her anticipation mounted with the excitement of the gathering throng.
Scanning the enthusiastic revelers, Rose searched for Mrs. Smith among the mass, but to no avail. Obviously the woman was shy or perhaps used to such displays and reluctant to be jostled by such an eager crowd. She grabbed hold of the railing as the raft floated next to one of the others and dug into the moist riverbank. Nate’s strong arm saved her from pitching forward as it lurched to a stop.
Mr. Smith hollered some harsh orders in the Indian language, and the crowd backed away, though they continued to chatter in their guttural way and laugh among themselves, pointing at the newcomers. Most of their attention centered on Rose.
Uncomfortable with their unbridled ogling, Rose gasped as Nate scooped her up into his arms and jumped ashore. Amid the ear-splitting racket going on all around them, she could barely make out his explanation about not wanting to ruin her shoes as he set her on dry ground and returned to the raft.
Left on her own, she found herself instantly surrounded as a mob of Indians of all ages closed in around her, babbling in their foreign tongue. The stench of bear grease on their shiny bodies filled her nostrils. Eager voices of men, women, and children drowned out every other sound as frantic hands shot forth from all directions to touch her, grabbing at her clothing, her skin, and her hair. The stylish bonnet was torn away, and her hair tumbled from the pins she’d so carefully placed in order to look nice for Mrs. Smith. As locks of it were yanked one way and then another, some fell before her eyes, nearly blocking her vision. Overcome by mounting panic, she couldn’t even speak. She wanted them all to stop touching her and step away. Dear Lord, help me. Protect me. I do not know what to do.
From behind, someone suddenly whisked her up, and her heart nearly exploded from fright. Recognizing Nate, she regained her senses, and her heightened breathing slowed to normal. He’d come back, saved her again, and bullied his way through the crowd. To Rose’s utmost relief, the Indians did not follow after them as he carried her away from the melee.
This was not the welcome she’d expected. Wanting no more than to relax into the comfort of his embrace, Rose knew it was not proper to do so. Instead she assessed more of the settlement, amazed at its size and the extensive array of crops. But as Nate strode away from the cluster of dwellings and headed toward the outskirts, she looked ahead and saw they were coming to a building completely different from the rest. Made of logs piled one on top of the other on three sides, the open front had only a canvas covering, which had been pulled to the side. Rose blew a wisp of hair out of her disbelieving eyes and her heart stopped. This—this decrepit hut—was the profitable enterprise the trader owned? She didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or burst into tears. Shocked beyond words, she could only gape at the wretched structure, where a pair of unfamiliar braves who looked younger than she by a few years sat on the ground, cross-legged, leaning back against posts flanking either side of the entrance, their black eyes glittering. Peering as hard as she could within the shaded confines of the store, she could not make out Mrs. Smith anywhere.
“Sorry I left you alone like that, Rose,” Nate said as he set her down. “I should’ve figgered they’d be meddlesome, seein’ somebody so pretty as you outta the blue. Anyway, looks like Eustice can get along fine without my help.” He motioned with his head toward the crowd, where the trader was directing the unloading of his merchandise. Following Nate’s gaze, she saw horses and cows being led ashore, goods hauled off, and workers being greeted and hugged by loved ones. The accumulating piles of supplies drew considerable attention as curious inhabitants of the village craned their necks to peer inside the crates, while Mr. Smith continued to yell at them in their language. Obviously he didn’t want anyone making off with any of his precious cargo.
Considering everything she’d endured since her arrival in this land, Rose wondered why any of these circumstances surprised her. It was actually a fitting ending for an incredibly unbelievable journey. After all, the trader had sloughed off every question she’d asked regarding his store.
Even Nate, her protector, had given only the barest hint of a response when she inquired about specific details, she reminded herself. But having known him long enough to appreciate his stalwart character, she gave him the benefit of the doubt, surmising that he’d only been trying to be merciful. She moistened her lips and took a deep breath, doing her best to smooth her hair into some semblance of order with her fingers as she looked up at him. “I had no idea that they were like this. I’d heard so many stories about the noble savage, I thought they’d all be …proud.
Self-controlled. Instead, they bring to mind the poor street urchins in the slums of London. Wild, smelly, and loud.”
Nate’s hazel eyes radiated gentleness, and a sheepish half smile played across his mouth. “I’m truly sorry for bein’ so remiss. I shoulda warned you not to dress so fancy-like. Most of ‘em have never seen such fine women’s clothes. Thing is, I was so caught up feastin’ my eyes on how pretty you look, I just plumb forgot. I
hope you’ll forgive me.”
At Nate and Rose’s approach, the unsmiling Indians at the store’s entrance unfurled their legs and sprang to their feet, catching up muskets as their ferret eyes squinted with suspicion. Both men had tattooed arms and wore their hair loose with cloth bands tied above their brows, and they were attired differently from the braves Rose had ridden with for the past weeks. Instead of wearing long buckskin trousers, they had on only breechcloths and beaded moccasins, leaving their legs bare. Each wore an intricate breastplate of beads over their hairless chests. Trying not to gape, she nodded a polite greeting then started into the trading post to see if she might have missed Mrs. Smith behind a stack of kegs or barrels. Moving past the braves, she felt their intent gaze following her.
A touch roomier than it appeared at first glance, the trading post had several kegs and barrels occupying its corners. She noted some cooking pots and kettles hanging on hooks, along with wooden bowls of different sizes. Crates of tomahawks and hunting knives sat on the dirt floor beside half-a-dozen muskets. A rustic shelf fastened to one of the log walls held yard goods, folded blankets, and an open box containing an array of mismatched buttons. Brass looking glasses nearby reflected light from the entrance onto a variety of colored beads, and the odor of cured animal hides stacked almost waist high permeated the structure.
She heard Nate greet the pair from the open doorway where he stood. “Running Wolf, Spotted Elk. How’re things goin’ for you boys?”
“No trouble,” one muttered, his tone more cool than friendly.
Rose stopped to glance over her shoulder. None of the Indians she’d traveled with had spoken a word of English in her presence, though they seemed to understand whatever Mr. Smith said to them.
“We let no one in,” the young brave continued. “Trade only on blanket out here. No one steal from Fawn Woman when Smith not here.”
Nate nodded. “That should please Eustice. I’m sure he’ll reward you and Fawn Woman with somethin’ real good for bein’ so diligent. By the way, Miss Harwood here would like to meet Eustice’s wife. Where might she be?”
The brave pointed toward the crowd surrounding the rafts being unloaded. “She waits to see what gifts husband bring.”
Hearing that information, Rose turned and came forward to look toward the crowd. So Mrs. Smith had been there all the while. Strange that she couldn’t be seen amid the onlookers pressed shoulder to shoulder at the river. And where were the woman’s brothers? Becoming aware that neither stone-faced brave had smiled as yet but stood erect, eyeing her, Rose thought they reminded her of the Royal Palace Guard at London’s Windsor Castle. Ignoring their leering stares, she searched the milling throng chattering near the trade goods, but she still could not spot the trader’s wife among them. Obviously the woman must be quite comfortable around the Indians, or she wouldn’t mingle so closely with them. No doubt after living among these people she’d become rather fluent in their language the way her husband had. As yet unable to make out even the simplest of words, Rose marveled. Would she ever be able to converse with them herself?
As Rose wandered again among the goods in the store waiting for the trader and his wife, Nate moved closer to the guards. “Do you boys know if any of the Miamis or Illinois from downriver have come up this way with metal bracelets to trade?”
The pair exchanged wordless glances; then one of them shook his head. “Metal bracelets come from over great sea, not from setting sun. English make good bracelets.” He rubbed his tanned fingers over the wide brass circlet clasped around his upper arm. “French bracelets no good.”
“Aye. The English ones are best.” Gratified that no one here had become aware of the silver discovery farther west, Nate glanced toward the river where supplies from the rafts were being carried to the store. He leaned inside the entrance. “They’re bringin’ stuff up from the river now, Rose. Come outside an’ have a seat. I’d like a word with you.”
“Of course. I shouldn’t want to be in the way while the goods are being stored.” She followed him to a log in front of a dead campfire and sank down onto it.
He propped a foot alongside her, and they watched the parade of crates and sacks being transported into the trading post. “In a few days I’ll be headin’ out,” he said at last.
“I beg your pardon?” A flicker of fear sparked in her eyes as she met his gaze.
He gave a nod. “I spoke to Eustice, an’ I believe I can get him the price he wants to sell you to me.”
Her fear evaporated. Anger took its place. Her mouth dropped open in a look of shock, and her face grew white.
Her reaction floored him. Hadn’t it been clear all along that he’d come on this journey with the intent of getting her free of Eustice Smith? He reared back with a frown. “What’s the problem? I thought that’s what you wanted.”
Chapter 16
Rose’s fists closed around handfuls of her skirt, and she clenched her teeth together so hard they hurt. This man—this rescuer she had counted on all this time—wanted to buy her, not free her. She did want to be out of here, but not as merely another man’s property. Surely the bounder did not expect to purchase her from Mr. Smith so he could drag her off somewhere for his own amusement!
She fought for words to express her fury so Nate Kinyon would have no doubt as to how despicable a cur she thought him to be. But before she could verbalize her opinion of him and that plan of his, Mr. Smith emerged from the group of Indian workers toting cargo to the trading post and strode over to her. He gestured with his thumb toward the rear of the store.
“Back there, woman, there’s a pen o’ chickens. An’ off to the right o’ that you’ll find my wife’s garden. Make me up a pot o’ rich chicken soup with plenty o’ cooked-down vegetables. My sleepin’ quarters are in that wigwam left o’ here. There’s a dutch oven inside ya can use. Oh, an’ milk the cow first off. I need some milk to soothe my innards right quick.”
Rose stared at him, completely dumbfounded. She was quite capable of plucking chicken feathers, but he expected her to go and kill the poor bird herself? The swine! Already in high dudgeon over Nate Kinyon’s announcement moments ago, she felt her stomach tighten further. This was all too much.
“Well, get to it, gal.” His scowl darkened. “Now.”
“But—I’ve yet to meet your wife. I’d hoped—”
He rolled his squinty eyes and shook his head. “Ain’t no use. You’ll get no help from her.”
“Please.”
His bony shoulders sagged. “Oh, all right.” He swung on his heel and turned to Running Wolf or Spotted Elk—Rose didn’t know which was which—who stood speaking to a squaw. “Fawn Woman! Get over here.”
In total disbelief, Rose felt the single wish that had sustained her throughout the endless journey crumble to ashes as a slender Indian woman grimaced to the young brave and approached on silent feet. Near Rose’s own age, the dusky-skinned woman with a beaded leather headband above long, shiny braids and a beaded dress of soft doeskin would have been considered quite a beauty, were it not for the obstinate expression of sheer disgust that hardened her features. She cut a wordless glance to Mr. Smith, then to Rose.
Her husband tilted his head toward Rose. “This here’s Rose Harwood. I brung her to cook fer me. Miss Harwood, this is my wife, Fawn Woman Smith.”
Too devastated to utter a response, Rose merely stared as the woman raked her head to toe with her deep brown gaze and grunted. She reached out and felt Rose’s gown. “Want gown.” She pouted at her husband.
That Indian woman wants my clothes! Not only is she not English, she wants my clothes! Rose all but choked.
Mr. Smith steered his wife away. “Ya don’t need that rag o’ hers, Fawn. I brung you a gown of yer own. Better an’ much grander than hers. You’ll see.”
“Hmph.” Only slightly mollified, the squaw crossed her arms in defiance. “She cook for you. I no eat pale-woman food. Woman no sleep in my wigwam.”
“She won’t have to,” t
he trader agreed, “soon as ya build her one next to ours.”
“Me?” The squaw raised her chin and sneered. “Aye, woman. You.”
She huffed and pursed her lips. “Want gown. Give now.”
Smith appeared noticeably weary of the situation, but his determined stance showed he wasn’t about to give in to his wife or any other female. “First ya build the wigwam. Then ya get the gown. That’s final.” Shaking his grizzled head, he turned to Rose and lifted a hand palm up in question. “What’re you still standin’ there fer? Git a move on. I need that soup quick. I got a powerful ache in my belly.”
Rose fully understood. Her own stomach wasn’t feeling so wonderful at the moment, imagining the chicken she’d have to butcher with her own hands.
Having witnessed the conversation, Nate cleared his throat and stepped up beside Rose. “Think I’ll give the little lady a hand, if it’s all the same to you, Eustice.”
The trader shrugged and stomped away, while his wife cast a scathing glare over her shoulder at both of them and went to see to her task.
Rose gave the frontiersman a wavering smile. He’d come to her aid again. How could she stay mad at him? Once again God had shown His faithful presence, His mercy. As Papa always said, “God is a sure help in time of need.” She sent a thankful prayer aloft and followed Nate behind the trading post to the chicken pen, her feet dragging the entire way.
The village lay quiet. Night sounds from the surrounding forest drifted across the area as the moon shed its light on the sleepy settlement. Lounging on his sleeping pallet with a cup of tea at the campfire in front of Rose’s thrown-together wigwam, Nate shook his head, wondering when a gust of wind would blow the pitiful thing clear out over the next ridge. Fawn Woman had put the least effort possible into its construction, her disdain for Eustice’s new cook almost tangible.
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