Rose's Pledge

by Dianna Crawford

  Bob laughed. “You haven’t settled on killin’ the man, I hope.”

  “Actually, the thought did cross my mind.” Nate flashed a sheepish grin. “But the way these Shawnees love that store of his, I figured they’d scalp me for sure.” On the other hand, Smith might not go for the new plan….

  From her position near the store, Rose watched in disappointment as Nate and Robert shoved the canoe back into the water then hopped into it. Two Indians joined them, and the four men began paddling back across the river. Nate said he and his partner would leave as soon as Robert returned, but how could they go so suddenly without so much as a brief farewell? Her throat closed up, and her chest began to ache as hot tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back, determined not to cry. She needed to stay strong before these village people.

  Mr. Smith came up behind her. “Those two’re prob’ly goin’ over to fetch Bob’s horse. The river’s too deep fer it to swim across. They’ll have to build a raft to get the mare to this side.”

  A wave of relief swept over Rose, but she was still confused. “Why did they not take one that’s already beached here?”

  He looked at her as if she were daft. “‘Cause o’ the swift current. They’d have a time of it tryin’ to paddle one o’ them lumberin’ things upstream. It’s too deep fer polin’.”

  Rose tamped down her embarrassment. She should have known that, remembering how swiftly the raft moved yesterday when she arrived. At least she had hope that the men would soon return.

  “Another lazy hunter to feed.” The trader grimaced and started away then turned back. “Don’t be killin’ another chicken. I’ll get ya some venison to cook fer ‘em. I’ll eat whatever’s left o’ last night’s chicken stew. But make plenty o’ puddin’.”

  An hour later, Rose added a pinch more seasoning to the venison stewing in the kettle, hoping to make it smell and taste more like meat she preferred. To her nostrils it smelled worse than the bear grease the Indians lathered on themselves to fend off mosquitoes. She gazed out across the river yet another time, wondering how much longer it would be until the men returned. How she wished she could see past the bend where they’d paddled out of sight. Mr. Smith had never actually lied to her, but it would be nice to have proof he’d been right about their constructing a raft.

  As if her thought had conjured the man up, the trader again strode up to her without her noticing, quiet as an Indian in the moccasins he now wore. “Don’t be wastin’ all my good flour on them upstarts. Make ‘em some corn bread instead.”

  “As you wish.” She slid a weary glance after him as he sauntered back to the store. Would he be that stingy with his food once the men had gone? Gone. Even the word was depressing. How she would miss the two once they left. She’d be entirely friendless then and would have God alone to turn to.

  Chapter 18

  After hours of felling trees and constructing a raft for his partner’s horse, Nate wanted nothing more than to bed down for the night. But the enticing aroma wafting his way from Rose’s kettle revived him as he and Bob climbed the rise to Smith’s trading post. Not far from the store, Rose bent over the fire, stirring the suspended pot, and his gaze drank in the picture of grace and femininity she made with her honey-colored hair streaming over her slender shoulder.

  Before they reached her, Running Wolf and Spotted Elk left their posts and came to greet Bob, eager to hear the details of his exploits.

  Nate gave them a polite nod and looked again in Rose’s direction. She’d seen him, too, and the surprise on her face warmed his insides …until her gaze shifted to his partner and really lit up.

  “You’re looking rather well,” she told Bob when the four of them arrived. “Were you able to rescue that boy?”

  He grinned from ear to ear. “Aye. He should be back in the arms of his ma by now. It’ll prob’ly be a long time before he strays far from home again.”

  “Praise the Lord.”

  “Amen to that.” He laughed and moved closer to her.

  Rose continued to regard only him. “We must give a sincere thank-you to the Almighty when we bless the food this eve. ‘Tis just about ready.”

  “And it smells mighty good.” Nate managed to wedge into the conversation.

  His partner glanced across the distance between Rose’s cook fire and Fawn Woman Smith’s, where the squaw tended her own pot. “Does she eat separate?”

  Nate answered for Rose. “Her an’ her brothers. That’s how she wants it.”

  “Hmm.” Leaving Nate and Rose, Bob walked over to her.

  She looked up at him with a pleasant expression. Smiling warmly, she spoke to him in her language, gesturing toward her own cooked meal.

  He gave a nod but responded in a voice too low to be heard at a distance.

  The woman’s smile flattened momentarily, but as Bob kept talking, her glum demeanor brightened, and she turned with a stiff smile toward Nate and Rose.

  Grinning with satisfaction, Bob rejoined Rose and the men. “Mrs. Smith’s invitin’ us to join her. Help me tote this good-smellin’ food over to her fire, boys.”

  Noticing how eagerly the braves grabbed up trenchers and cups, Nate suspected they’d been yearning to try some of Rose’s good cooking.

  As Bob snatched the board holding the corn bread and the pail of milk, Nate released a long, slow breath. He much preferred it when there’d been just Smith and him and Rose.

  Or better yet, just him and Rose. But that was not to be. Yet.

  Reluctantly, he plucked a rag to protect his hands from the hot kettle handle and unhooked the pot from the tripod then reached to pick up a smaller pot at the edge of the coals.

  Rose looked up. “Oh, that one’s not to be shared. ‘Tis for Mr. Smith and his poor digestion.”

  “Don’t forget to bring some fur robes to sit on,” Bob called over his shoulder.

  Rose had yet to move. Nate could tell she was no more thrilled about the unexpected arrangement than Mrs. Smith was. “It’ll be all right,” he assured her. “Bob always wants folks to get along, whether they want to or not. It’s his way.”

  “Well, I’m afraid she has the opposite desire,” Rose said wryly.

  “Mebbe. But try to make the best of it. While we’re gone, it’d be better to have her for a friend than an enemy.” He tried to cheer her with a grin.

  Rose looked all the more troubled and quickly turned away. “I’d best go tell Mr. Smith dinner’s ready.”

  Watching after her, Nate could tell from the sad droop of her shoulders that she didn’t want him and Bob to leave her. But he also knew that the sooner they left, the sooner he’d be able to come back for her and take her with them.

  Rose found her owner trading with an Indian who’d come from downstream earlier that day. She waited for him to finish his business dealings before announcing supper, hoping his presence at the meal would lend the support she needed to face his unpleasant wife.

  A touch of the day’s heat still lingered in the early evening, and when Rose and the trader joined the group, everyone had gathered in a circle away from the cook fire. They’d piled food on their trenchers but had yet to begin eating. By the eagerness in their expressions as she and Mr. Smith approached, she assumed Robert had mentioned that most white people began their meal with a blessing, a custom not followed by Indians.

  The brothers’ nostrils flared as they inhaled the aroma of the food before them, and Rose hoped their eager display would not anger their sister. Fortunately all the men had been wise enough to take portions from both women’s cooking pots.

  Robert nodded to Nate. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll do the prayin’ this time.”

  “Sure, go ahead.” Unsmiling, Nate gave a nod.

  Rose saw a muscle work in his jaw. He seemed disappointed. Perplexed, she bowed her head along with the others as Robert began speaking.

  “Thank You, heavenly Father, for Fawn Woman’s kindness in askin’ us to share some o’ her fine cookin’. We ask You to bless
it as we eat. Thank You, too, for allowin’ Billy Wexler to be restored to his family. Now please protect me an’ Nate as we leave tomorrow to visit new tribes. Make ‘em curious to know about You. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  “Amen,” Rose whispered. She needed a chance to collect herself after hearing of his and Nate’s departure on the very morrow, so she took her time filling her trencher over both pots. When she turned back to take a seat on one of the pallets, all the men were eating with great gusto—especially Fawn Woman’s brothers. Even more amazing, the woman herself took a gingerly sniff of Rose’s stew, which encouraged Rose. She scanned the group. “Did you know that Rome was once saved from savage hordes from the north with pepper?”

  Robert hiked his brows. “You don’t say.”

  “‘Tis true. The Romans bought them off with all the pepper they had in the city. It seems everyone enjoys a variety of spices.” Mrs. Smith had yet to sample any of the meat from Rose’s kettle, so Rose decided to plunge in and taste the squaw’s stew to show her appreciation. She deftly avoided the fatty meat and tried the woman’s greasy mixture of corn, beans, and summer squash. A grisly chunk of fat hid beneath the vegetables, but she managed to keep from gagging as she forced it down whole with a smile and a nod.

  Alas, Fawn Woman wasn’t even looking her way.

  “Muskrat.” Nate grinned. “Tasty, eh?”

  The squaw gave a smug nod while Rose struggled to keep the food down. “Rat?” Her gaze darted across the fire, where Robert and Mr. Smith both sat chuckling.

  Robert reached over and gave Rose’s arm an empathetic pat. “It’s not really a rat. More like a beaver. That robe you’re sittin’ on is made from muskrat pelts.”

  Her hand automatically went down to touch the brown fur and found it thick and soft to the touch. It was rather sweet of him to comfort her. How she wished she was attracted to the dedicated Christian instead of to Nate.

  While the men took their time eating the meal, Rose and Fawn Woman picked at theirs. Rose noticed that her hostess continued to ignore her presence.

  Nate broke the silence. He turned to the trader. “Eustice, when that boy got ransomed, his pa an’ his companion didn’t have enough goods or cash on ‘em, so Bob had to use all his own money to help out. That got me to thinkin’. You front us a canoe loaded with trade goods, an’ I’m sure we’ll get a lot more prime pelts for the truck out where there ain’t a tradin’ post for a hundred miles.”

  The trader lazed back a moment, pondering the matter, then sported a sly smile. “If I git my cost back off the top, then I’m willin’ to be generous. I’ll split the profit with ya, since you boys’ll be riskin’ yer necks—or should I say scalps.”

  That last statement struck Rose hard. The caravan hadn’t had any real trouble on the way here—but there’d been seven well-armed men in the party.

  Nate looked from Robert to Mr. Smith. “We’ll give you all the furs. All I want is Rose.”

  This time she really had to fight not to retch. How mortifying to have a man bartering over her—and in front of Mr. Smith’s already haughty wife! A gleam in those sullen eyes proved the squaw understood quite a bit more English than she spoke.

  The trader toyed with his beard. “It’ll take more’n one measly little tradin’ trip to set me up fer life, ya know. I ‘spect you boys’ll be paddlin’ down there a whole lot more times than ya bargained fer.”

  Nate narrowed his eyes and studied the man. “Exactly how much do you figger you’re gonna need to set yourself up, anyway?”

  Rose wanted desperately to put a stop to this outrageous conversation, but the thought of bringing notice to herself at such a humiliating moment seemed even worse.

  Mr. Smith rested an elbow on one knee and leaned his bearded chin on his fist, appearing to give the matter serious thought. “I’d say about five hundred pounds.”

  Nate set down his trencher. “Three’s more like it.”

  “Not hardly. But I mebbe could squeeze by on, say, four hundred.”

  To Rose’s astonishment, she saw the frontiersman reach over to the trader with his hand outstretched. “Deal. An’ I’d like that in writin’.”

  Four hundred pounds! He’d never be able to earn such a fortune in ten years, much less one summer. Even two or three. “I must see to cleaning the kettle,” she mumbled. She needed to leave before she broke down in front of them all. Rising, she snatched the pot from where it sat near the fire, not caring that the handle was still hot, and hurried away. For all Nate Kinyon’s big talk, they both knew she’d be here for the full four years of her indenturement.

  Tears blurred Rose’s vision as Nate and Robert Bloom took their leave. To help with the unfamiliar dialect needed in the Wabash area, they hired a Miami lad who’d been stolen as a youth, and the three of them paddled downriver in a long canoe piled high with bundles of trade goods. Please watch over them, Father. Keep them safe.

  When the boat vanished from sight around the river’s bend, she inhaled a wavering breath and trudged slowly back to her wigwam. The fact that the return of the young brave would guarantee Nate and Bob a hearty welcome eased her mind a bit, but she couldn’t help wondering if her two frontiersmen would come back alive. Mr. Smith’s caustic remark about their scalps still rang in her mind.

  From the corner of her eye, she spotted Fawn Woman coming her way.

  The squaw didn’t bother with any sort of greeting. “You. Go. Me gown.” Rose sighed and went to fetch her sewing, which had been interrupted by the men’s departure. Nate had divulged a second reason why the Indian woman was so adamant about a new gown. Shawnee women didn’t have the fine thread or needles Rose possessed. Instead, they used leather thongs and reed strands, along with what looked like hair or whiskers from animals. The clothing they made appeared sturdy, but they were also coarse. Mrs. Smith would be quite the envy of the others in the village, having not one, but two cloth gowns.

  Rose briefly considered selling two of her own better gowns out of the mere four she had brought from England. If what Mr. Smith predicted turned out to be true and Nate came up short of pelts even after several trips, the money her gowns might bring in could help out. Once the other squaws caught sight of Fawn Woman’s gown, they’d probably be willing to pay for one of their own.

  Sinking down onto a log, Rose opened her sewing basket. Her thread supply was shrinking fast. She wished she’d had the foresight to bring much more along. Picking up the partially sewn gown, she set to work.

  Her thoughts drifted to the possibility of leaving Mr. Smith’s protection and riding off with Nate Kinyon. Could that actually happen? And if so, would it be a wise choice? What exactly were Nate’s plans for her? Did he truly intend merely to return her to her sisters after everything he’d have to do to earn four hundred pounds? That was hard to believe. And he’d never even hinted at marriage. Dear Lord, this is such a dilemma. I need Your wisdom to show me what to do.

  Just then a shadow moved across her basket, and Rose looked up.

  Her heart froze.

  Chapter 19

  Rose’s mouth dropped open in shock. A pitiful-looking white woman stood before her in a filthy, ragged daygown. Her puffy blue eyes were rimmed with red, her skin sallow and blotchy, and hair that once might have been the soft gold of a wheat field hung in matted strings. But far worse, cuts and bruises covered her face and all exposed skin. A whimpering infant was slung behind her slumped back.

  Setting her work aside, Rose placed her sewing basket on the ground and stood, trying to compose herself. “What can I do for you?”

  “Milk.” The word came out in a croak. “For my baby. I dried up.” With effort she drew a ragged breath. “I’m …dyin’.”

  “That cannot be.” Rose glanced out across the village, but no one was paying them any mind, as if a woman so obviously suffering didn’t merit the slightest consideration. Swallowing her abhorrence, Rose motioned toward the sitting log. “Please, sit down. I’ll get milk for both of you.”

 
Trembling, the woman dropped down with a gasp.

  Her heart crimping, Rose moistened her lips. “I’ll take the baby for you.” She lifted the infant out of the ragged sling, noticing that though the baby was thin and dirty, it seemed unhurt. She estimated its age to be four or five months at most. The little one gazed up with wide blue eyes, hungry eyes that made her wonder when it had last eaten.

  Leaving the child’s mother, Rose hurried down to the brook, where she kept a pail of milk cool in the water’s flow, and fetched it back. She shifted the baby to one hip then plucked a couple of dipping gourds from her wigwam, along with one of the few small metal spoons Mr. Smith possessed and returned to the slumped woman. Setting down the pail, she quickly dipped some milk for her. “Here. This may make you feel a bit better.”

  She raised a discolored arm and pushed the gourd away. Her hand burned with fever. “Jenny needs it more.”

  Rose shook her head and thrust the milk back to her. “I’ve plenty for your baby girl. This is for you. Please drink it.” Satisfied when the woman acquiesced and raised it shakily to her lips, Rose dipped the second gourd into the pail and took a seat on a nearby fur blanket within eyesight of the baby’s mother. She began spoon-feeding the infant. The poor little thing slurped at it so greedily, Rose’s eyes swam. She could hardly get it to her fast enough.

  The mother looked longingly at the baby devouring the milk, and she tried to smile. “My name …is Hannah Wright.” The strangled whisper seemed to sap much of her strength, but she took a sharp breath and went on. “I come from a homestead up near …the west fork of the Susquehanna.” A pause. “My husband’s name was Adam.”

  As Hannah Wright drew another breath, Rose felt a sudden ache in her throat. Past tense. He must be dead. The baby squawked and kicked its tiny feet, and Rose resumed feeding it.