Frontier Father

by Dorothy Clark

  She opened a trunk, pulled out sheets, spread them over the top mattress, tucked their hemmed edges beneath it, then replaced the blankets and added a woven coverlet. A few quick tugs and embroidered cases covered her feather pillows. She placed them on the bed, took out a towel and closed the trunk.

  How fortuitously everything had worked out. William’s expecting wife had developed the severe nausea that prevented them from making the journey, and their misfortune had provided her the perfect opportunity to escape her loving family’s nurturing that, however well-intended, served only to keep her grief ever before her. Except for Emma. She had not escaped her adopted sister. Until now.

  Anne frowned, hung the towel on a hook, moved the lit lamp from the washstand to the dresser, then lifted comb, brush and mirror from another trunk and placed them beside it. She burrowed through the trunk, extracted her toothbrush, tooth powder and soap and placed them on the washstand beside the china pitcher and bowl. She hesitated over the small crock of lilac-scented face and hand balm Papa Doc had made for her. She lifted it out, ran her fingers over the crock’s smooth surface, flawed with a small bump here and there. Emma was so like their adopted father. She had refused to let her make the long journey through the wilderness alone in her injured condition. Even though that was what she wanted. After the carriage accident had wounded her and killed her husband and daughter, she had not cared if she survived. Indeed, had hoped she would not. But Emma would not let her be.

  Anne shoved the balm back in the trunk, clenched her hands and cast another look around the attic room with its rough-sawn wood floor and beamed wood ceiling. Because of her adopted sister Emma’s constant bullying and doctoring, she had lived. Now all she could do was hope teaching might give her life some purpose. She unclenched her hands, brushed one over the fabric covering her ribs, her twitching fingers searching out the raised scar caused by the carriage lamp when she had been thrown from the wildly careening vehicle. If only the finial of the lamp had penetrated deeper. Oh, if only it had. She would this moment be with Phillip and—

  “Papaaa… Papaaaa…”

  The baby! The toddler’s calls sent pain ripping through her. Anne gasped, pressed her fingers to her ears to close out the child’s crying. She succeeded only in muting it. Her breath shortened. She whirled around, looked for someplace to go, somewhere to hide from the heart-shredding cries. Nothing presented itself. She lifted the hems of her skirts and ran for the stairs, raced down them into the entrance room, then jerked to a halt. Mitchel Banning was entering the room holding his daughter, rubbing her back. The child’s face was buried in the curve of his neck, her golden-blond hair curling over the blanket that swaddled her. “Did you need something, Anne?”

  She closed her eyes to block out the sight of the toddler, but it was too late. A hot, prickly feeling swept over her. She gripped the back of the settee beside her, swayed, held tighter.

  “Are you all right, Anne?”

  Concern laced Mitchel Banning’s voice. Anne forced air into her laboring lungs, opened her eyes and focused on his face, held her gaze riveted there. “Yes, I…suddenly felt the need for some fresh air. If you will excuse me…” She looked down at the floor, hurried to the door and yanked it open.

  “Anne, wait—”

  She closed the door on his words, leaned back against the house wall and gasped for air. What had she done? She had wanted to escape family and memories, had come to where there was nothing to remind her of her loss. And now— Oh, why had William not told her about Mitchel’s child—

  The squeaking hinge warned her. She pushed erect, stepped away from the house before the door opened.

  “Anne, come inside.” Mitchel Banning’s voice was pitched low, his tone firm and unyielding. “There are Indian braves camped on the grounds and it would be best if you do not encounter any of them while you are alone.”

  Indian braves? She would far rather face them than the child in his arms. But her situation was too tenuous to anger him. She drew in a long breath and turned. The lamplight made his tall, broad-shouldered body into a silhouette framed by the doorway, the toddler in his arms no more than a deeper shadow. The child seemed to have fallen asleep. Perhaps it would be all right. She expelled the breath and nodded. “Very well. I have no wish to cause you concern, Mitchel. But it is a most pleasant evening.” She took another steadying breath, moved toward the door.

  “But chilly.” He stepped aside to let her pass.

  “A little, yes.” A shiver slithered through her and she realized she had rushed outside without her cloak. Was he commenting on her rash behavior? She must be more careful.

  The door latch clicked into place. She watched as he lifted a bar in one hand and quietly dropped it into place across the door. Lamplight played over his face and she saw the worry in his eyes as he looked down at his child. Her heart contracted. Mitchel Banning was afraid for his daughter. She whirled and headed for the stairs, forcing herself to keep a sedate pace when everything within her was screaming Run! Run and do not stop running!

  But where could she go?

  Mitchel paced the floor, rubbing Hope’s back, careful not to touch her elbows or wrists. She cried when he touched them. And tonight, she was feverish—her forehead hot and dry beneath his hand. Did that mean she was getting worse? The fear he couldn’t conquer washed over him. He lowered his cheek to rest against Hope’s hair and closed his eyes.

  Soft footfalls sounded overhead, paced the length of the room, returned. He frowned, listened as the path was repeated. An image of Anne’s face, pale and strained, as she had clutched the settee and stared at him, flashed into his head. What was wrong with her? Was she ill? His frown deepened. His determination to send Anne Simms back to the emigrant village strengthened. He didn’t need another ill person to care for. He did not have time enough to care for Hope as he should. Far too often he had to leave her with Sighing Wind and Laughing Rain. And every time he returned after hours away from her he was afraid—

  Mitchel sucked in a long breath, cast down the imagination and took the thought captive as the Bible instructed. He moved across the room and made himself place Hope in her bed. He had to hold on to his faith. He knew only too well, if God chose to call Hope home his arms could not hold her. No more than they had been able to hold her mother. The fear pounced again, tightened its hold.

  “The weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strong holds.” Mitchel spoke the Scripture as a declaration, but even as the words left his mouth he knew the fear remained in his heart. He sank to his knees, placed his elbows on the small bed and rested his forehead on his clasped hands. “Please, Almighty God, I ask You to relieve Hope’s pain and grant her restful sleep throughout the night. And, if it would be good in Your sight, Almighty God, in Your mercy, restore her to health I pray. Amen.”

  It was as close as he could come to giving his daughter into God’s hands. He pulled the coverlet over her small, blanket-swaddled body, kissed her hot forehead, then turned to put more wood on the fire. The heat seemed to help Hope’s pain.

  The crying had stopped. Anne halted her pacing and listened to the silence. The child must have fallen asleep again. What was wrong with her? No, she would not wonder about the baby’s illness, would not question the reason for her pain. For the toddler was in pain. Her mother’s instinct told her that. Oh, why had William not told her about Mitchel Banning’s toddler daughter!

  She jerked her thoughts from the path that led to memories too painful to be borne, fisted her hands against the shaking she could not control and looked around the room that was supposed to have been her escape and, instead, had turned into a trap. A two-year-old little girl. Grace would be almost two now. The sickening grief washed over her. She pressed her fingers to her mouth and closed her eyes. When the baby cried, how could she not remember—

  A muted thump echoed from the chimney. Another followed.

  Oh, do not wake her!

  Anne o
pened her eyes and tiptoed to the tower of stones, listened to Mitchel adding fuel to the fire, willed him to be quiet. She winced at the dull clank of a poker being lifted from its holder and prodding wood into place. And then there was only silence. She turned and leaned against the stones, letting the warmth radiating off them seep into her body.

  At least she would no longer be cold.

  She shivered at thought of the frigid discomfort of her wagon as the train traveled across the higher, snowy elevations of the mountains. The wind had howled and whistled as it rippled the canvas and insinuated its frosty breath between cover and wagon bed. It had been impossible to get warm, even beneath a pile of blankets. She frowned, ran her fingers over the scar again. The cold added to the jolting punishment of the wagon had made her newly healed ribs ache more than when they were broken in the carriage accident. But that was only physical pain. It was nothing compared to the rending agony of grief.

  She stepped to the dresser, eased open the top drawer and removed her blue cotton nightgown and matching quilted robe. Her face tightened. She brushed her palm across the black fabric she had used to cover the embroidered rosebuds that decorated the gown’s gathered bodice. Every stitch had felt as if the needle went straight into her heart. She tossed the gown and robe on the bed and tugged the combs from her hair. Her long, russet-colored curls tumbled free to hang halfway down her back. They had once reached to her waist. Phillip had loved her hair. But she hated it now. She had cut it as short as she dared when—

  She caught her breath, thrust the combs on the dresser and began to undo the jet-black buttons on the bodice of her black wool gown. She wanted nothing to remind her of him. Nothing! But her hair had grown long again during the journey here from St. Louis. And now she had to keep it to look presentable. Mitchel Banning was already less than enthusiastic about her being here to teach in William’s stead. She must do nothing to give him cause for dismissal. Though he could hardly put her out. There was nothing but wilderness around the mission. And that suited her purpose well. She wanted to be alone. She did not want her family or anyone she cared about close to her. Not ever again. She wanted to be safe. To never again suffer the pain of loss.

  She hung her petticoat and gown on a peg protruding from one of the logs that formed the gable end of the building and slipped her nightgown on over her head. Her fingers twitched as she gathered the hated mass of curls, wove them into a loose braid and climbed into bed. She pulled the covers up to her neck and stared at the rough board roof that started at the floor and sloped up to the peak. She would relive the long journey from St. Louis to Banning Mission, every uncomfortable, painful moment of it. Perhaps that would be enough to help her sleep, to keep away the dreams…

  Unless the baby cried.

  Chapter Three

  Anne broke a piece off the slice of coarse-grained bread on her plate, spread a dab of butter on it and held back a sigh. How much longer would Mitchel be at his breakfast? She wanted to be out of the mission before his daughter awakened. She stole a look across the table. Only a few bites of food remained on his plate. She bit back the admonition to hurry that sprang to her lips, placed the bite of bread and her knife on her plate and folded her hands in her lap. “If you have time, Mitchel, I should like to discuss the mission school. How many students attend? And what is the present schedule?”

  He looked across the table, two small frown lines etched between his dark brown brows. “At present there is no school. I have had no teacher.” He looked down, stabbed the last piece of bacon on his plate, then glanced back up. “Any schedule would have to take into consideration the Indians’ way of life. They are accustomed to roaming free and are not amenable to schedules.”

  “I see.” Indeed she did. If Mitchel’s frown were any indication, he still felt he had no teacher. And was still intent on discouraging her from assuming that position. She brushed a wayward curl off her temple and lifted her chin. “That being the situation, there is no need for further discussion. Would you be so kind as to show me to the schoolhouse, please?”

  He stared at her for a moment, then wiped the frown from his face and nodded. “You will need your cloak. The morning air is quite brisk this time of year.” He crossed his knife and fork on his plate and rose, started around the table.

  She jumped to her feet, stepped away from her chair. He paused, gave her a questioning look. “I will get my cloak.” She turned toward the door. Let him wonder about her lack of graceful manners in not waiting for him to assist her in rising from her chair. She did not want him, or any other man, touching her, erasing the memory of Phillip.

  “Pa-p-p-paa!”

  She stiffened, looked at the Indian woman coming into the dining room, Mitchel’s sobbing daughter in her arms. The toddler’s glassy-looking, blue eyes were flowing tears onto cheeks that were red with fever. Blond curls clung to the baby’s small, moist forehead.

  Anne sucked in air against a sudden light-headedness, dropped her gaze to the floor and pressed back against the table to give the woman ample room to pass.

  “Papa is here, Hope.” Mitchel’s boots invaded her view as he stepped forward. The child whimpered, cloth rustled as he took the toddler into his arms. “I must see to my daughter’s needs before I show you around the mission grounds, Anne.”

  “Yes, of course. I will get my cloak and await your summons.” She walked from the room, hurried to the stairs and started to climb, tears blinding her vision. Was it not enough that God had taken her husband and child? Must He bring her here where she would be confronted every day with a toddler baby Grace’s age? Her toe caught in the hems of her long skirts and she plunged forward, caught herself and continued up the stairs.

  “I am ready, Anne.”

  Mitchel Banning’s deep voice drifted up to her, increased the tension in her shoulders. Surely he would not take a sick child out into the chilly morning air. Surely he would not. Anne rose from her perch on the edge of the bed, swirled her cloak around her shoulders and walked to the top of the stairs. Mitchel was standing at the bottom, his arms empty. She breathed out her relief and started down. He looked up at her and she read puzzlement, disappointment and perhaps a touch of censure in his eyes. Her spine stiffened.

  “We go out this door.” He depressed the thumb latch and opened the door on his right.

  So there was to be no demand for an explanation of her behavior. Her defenses relaxed. She stepped down onto the bottom tread and her gaze grew level with his. The fear for his daughter shadowed the depths of his hazel eyes. Her own grief and sorrow rose in response. She reached up and pulled her hood in place, breaking the eye contact, the inner connection of mutual grief, then slipped by him and walked out the door.

  “The mission does not have a schoolhouse as yet. There has been no need. My wife was to have been the teacher. However, in anticipation of William’s arrival, I added a room on the back of the mission.” He swept his arm left, toward a log addition with a sloping shed roof.

  She turned toward the schoolroom door, waited for him to step out of her way.

  “I think it would be well for me to show you around the mission grounds. You will need to know your way around when I’m not here.”

  Panic struck. What of the baby? She took a firm grip on the fear and looked up. “Are you gone often?”

  He stared down at her, and the look in his eyes told her clearly he knew her thoughts and found her wanting as a woman.

  “No more than is needed. I do not like to leave Hope. Still, I must see to the work around the mission. And there are sometimes emergencies…” He faced forward. “If you will come with me, we shall walk straight down this path.”

  His voice had cooled considerably, and the last thing she wanted to do was linger in his presence. All she wanted was to be alone. But she nodded and fell into step beside him.

  “This large addition to the mission house on the right is the kitchen and pantry. And here, where the path curves behind it, are the kitchen gardens.” He ga
ve a rueful shake of his head. “I’m afraid they look sadly unkempt at the moment, but the Indians who help me decided they would rather go fishing. I shall have to finish gathering the vegetables and pulling the plants when I find time.”

  She glanced over the solid fence constructed of sturdy branches that had been cut to length and driven side-by-side into the ground and their tops lashed together. The earth had been overturned in spots and a few tiny potatoes still clung to the dead, exposed roots. Squashes and cabbages lay among limp stems and dying foliage. “It seems you have success in raising vegetables for your table.”

  “Since I dug the irrigation ditch, yes. The climate is dry in summer. I have put in a small orchard with apple, cherry and pear trees at the other edge of the garden, also. But they are only saplings and are not yet bearing fruit.” He turned. “Now, here, beyond this fence—” she looked straight down the path they were on “—is the Halstrums’ cabin. Adam runs the gristmill, and helps with the blacksmith work. His oldest son helps out, as well. His young son will attend the school.”

  “And Mrs. Halstrum?”

  “She passed away before Adam came.” He glanced her way, then looked back over the fence. “In that small barn, we keep the milk cows and the goats and chickens. The circular corral you see beyond the barn holds hogs. And that larger building, farther out to the left, by the river, is the gristmill.” She looked in the direction of the sweep of his arm.

  A rather grim look of satisfaction flickered across his face. “My efforts at converting the Indians from their heathen ways may not have met with much success as yet, but we do not go hungry. And there is enough food to share with those who come in need in the winter.”