Frontier Father

by Dorothy Clark

  She saw no purpose in sharing with others a God who took a husband and baby from her, but the underlying frustration in his voice tugged at her. “Perhaps sharing your largesse will help you reach the Indians with your…message.”

  He glanced at her, a look of speculation in his eyes. He apparently had not missed her hesitation. Her shoulders inched back, her fingers curled into her palms and her mouth firmed. Her old childhood “I will not give in” posture, resurrected.

  “That is my hope.”

  His quiet words deflated her defiance.

  He turned and started down a path that led off to the left, motioned toward a small, narrow building. “That is the ‘necessary.’ There is a bar on the inside to lock the door. Indians are curious.” He kept walking, matching his steps to her shorter stride, but she had not missed the warning note in his voice. What sort of place had she come to?

  They emerged from behind the mission house and he started down a rutted path that angled toward the front of the building. Straight across the path were two more buildings. He nodded toward the first. “This small building on your right is the blacksmith shop where we do our repairs.” He gave her a sidelong glance, waved his hand toward the other. “That large building is the stables. It has the granary attached. And this—” he indicated the path leading off to the right, the one she had followed to the front door last night “—as you know, goes to the mission house and the attached Indian gathering room.”

  “And the Indian camp?” She drew her gaze back from the Indians squatting and moving around a few campfires in the yard in front of the mission house to look up at him. “They were not here when I came. Do they gather here often?”

  “Whenever they choose.” He fixed his gaze on her. “As I told you last night, it would be best if you do not wander the grounds by yourself. Most of the Indians who come here are…agreeable, but not all. Until you learn their ways, it could be dangerous for you to encounter any of them. Even the friendly ones are suspicious and easily offended. I warn you because I do not wish you to come to harm. Nor do I want any troubling incidents that will undermine my work here.”

  “I understand. I shall stay a good distance from them.” She tucked a curl that had fallen onto her cheek behind her ear and pulled her hood farther forward. “Have you more to show me, or shall we return to the schoolroom?”

  He shook his head, looked beyond the river that flowed beside the mission. “Some braves are riding this way and I do not want it to appear as if we are spurning them. And I do not want you to go off by yourself.”

  The quietness of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. She looked the direction of his gaze and spotted three Indians astride horses with spots dappling their haunches. The same sort of horse Mr. Thatcher rode. “Are they coming to join the others in the camp?”

  He shook his head. “The Indians camping here are Nez Perce. The ones coming are Cayuse.” He shot her another look as the Indians splashed their horses through the river and thundered down the rutted path toward them. “Act natural, and go along with whatever I say.”

  She nodded, slipped off her hood and brushed the stray curls off her forehead.

  “And keep that red hair of yours covered.” His voice brooked no argument. “Indians are quite taken by blond or red hair. I don’t want to have to fend off some brave intent on making you his squaw.”

  Anne shot him a look, yanked her hood back in place, then tugged it forward as far as possible to hide the errant curls. Being killed was one thing. To live life as the wife of an Indian, or any other man, was not to be borne. She stiffened her spine and prepared to stand her ground.

  Chapter Four

  The Indians raced toward them, the horses’ hoofs thudding louder and louder.

  “Stand still and stay quiet, Anne. No flinching or screaming…or swooning.”

  Anne drew her cloak closed and glanced up. Obviously, her actions around his daughter had caused Mitchel Banning to hold her in low esteem. “I’m not given to hysterics, Mitchel.”

  “Good. Because these Indians are testing our courage—bravery wins their respect, fear earns their contempt.” He looked down at her. “I’ll do the talking.” She nodded, squared her shoulders as he turned his attention to the Indians who jerked their horses to a halt mere inches in front of them. “I bid my Cayuse brothers welcome.”

  The Indian in the middle grunted out a response. Mitchel nodded, replied in kind. Sunlight glinted off the hafts of the knives thrust into leather cases at the Indians’ waists and glowed against the heads of the tomahawks suspended from long loops that dangled the handles against their legs as they slid from their horses.

  Anne looked away, focused her attention on their mounts. The poor, gaunt beasts were ungroomed, their manes and tails dirty and matted. They looked—

  The Indian closest to her stepped forward, his moccasins whispering against the packed dirt of the path, the long fringe on his buckskin pants swaying. He stopped, stood like a statue before her, his leather-bound braids resting against his bare chest, his piercing black eyes staring at her.

  Indians are quite taken by blond or red hair. Her heart lurched. Were there any curls dangling on her forehead? Her fingers itched to reach up and check.

  Mitchel looked at the brave, spoke.

  The Indian grunted a reply, stepped closer.

  His interest sent alarm tingling along her nerves. Don’t show fear! She stood perfectly still, not allowing herself to inch toward the suddenly comforting presence of Mitchel Banning. The Indian walked around her, came back and stood staring at her. She lifted her chin and stared straight ahead.

  A string of guttural words issued from the brave. From the corner of her eye she saw Mitchel nod, watched his eyes darken as the brave spewed forth another string of words and jabbed a dirty finger her direction then held his hand toward Mitchel, palm out, fingers spread. She stiffened, held her breath, wishing she could understand what was being said. Mitchel shook his head, grunted out an answer, then turned to her. “Go into the house, Anne. Tell Sighing Wind these braves want food.”

  She looked into his hazel eyes, read a silent “do as I say” message and turned and walked down the path toward the door she had entered on her arrival. She kept her pace normal, ignoring the impulse to look back over her shoulder. The squeak of the door hinge was comforting. She stepped inside, closed the door and expelled a long breath. She hadn’t cared for the look in that Indian’s eyes. And Mitchel had not cared for what the Indian had said. It was about her. Of that she was certain. There was no mistaking the intent of that dirty, pointing finger. Had it to do with her hair? I don’t want to have to fend off some brave intent on making you his squaw.

  Oh, surely it was not that. She would ask Mitchel about the conversation later. She shook off her unease and hurried through the dining room into the kitchen, stopped and stared. Flies buzzed around an uncovered pail of milk sitting just inside the open outside door and more hovered and crawled over a haunch of raw meat and a pile of dirt-coated vegetables on the work table. Her fastidious nature and housekeeping training sprang to the fore. She’d never seen such filth! Where was Sighing Wind?

  She jerked the hems of her skirts above the grease-stained, dirt and crumb-littered floor and strode across the room toward the door. The Indian woman’s bulky frame suddenly blocked out the light. She stopped, watched Sighing Wind grab the pail of milk in her free hand and pad over to set it and the small basket of eggs she carried on the table. More flies swarmed around the basket, joined those crawling on the meat.

  The Indian woman looked at her and frowned. “Why for you here? What you want?”

  “There are three Cayuse braves outside. Mr. Banning said they want food.”

  Sighing Wind grunted, grabbed hold of a knife stuck in the table top and slashed thick slices from the haunch. “Warriors want Mister’s beef.”

  Anne clamped her jaw to keep from commenting as the meat slices, sluggish flies and all, were tossed into two large, food-e
ncrusted iron skillets on the hearth and placed over the glowing red coals of the fire. It was little wonder Mitchel Banning’s daughter was ill. It was a miracle Mitchel himself was in good health. Her stomach churned in objection to the thought of the two meals she had eaten since her arrival. One thing was certain. She would not eat another bite of food prepared among such filth! Nor would Mitchel or his baby. Her conscience would not allow it.

  She jerked her thoughts from the toddler and stepped back out of the way as Sighing Wind grabbed a burlap bag hanging from a peg driven into one of the thick, square table legs, shoved the rest of the raw haunch into it and put the partially-fried slabs of meat on top. “Give warriors.”

  Anne stared at the blood and grease stains spreading over the burlap bag Sighing Wind held out to her and gave a firm shake of her head. “No. I’ll stay here. You give it to the warriors.”

  The Indian woman shrugged and started for the door, her moccasins scuffing across the puncheon floor.

  Anne turned to the fireplace, grabbed the hem of her skirt, gripped the handles of the skillets and flipped them facedown over the fire as she had seen the women traveling with the wagon train do. The grease sputtered. She left the pans there to burn clean, and turned to survey the room.

  The kitchen was well equipped. A large dry sink with a tub for washing dishes and buckets for carrying water on the lower shelf stood against the right wall. On the far wall, on either side of the dining room door, shelves held dishes, crockery and various sized baskets. The grimy work table claimed the space on her left. And behind it, in the corner beyond a door at the far end of the fireplace, was a straw broom.

  She hurried around the work table, grasped the broom, then opened the door beside it. Air rushed out, moist and cool against her face and hands. A buttery. With a well! She rested the broom against the wall, glanced at the bench shelves and barrels sitting along the stone walls, at the beef, hams and slabs of bacon hanging from iron hooks driven into the slanting roof beams and stepped to the center of the small room.

  Her throat tightened. The well was like the one at Uncle Justin’s stables where she and Emma and William had learned to draw water for their horses. She touched the stone rim and memories rushed upon her. Longing for her family squeezed her heart. She yanked her hands away, brushed the feel of the cold stone off against her skirt and stiffened her spine. To love someone meant pain at their loss. It was better to be alone than suffer that agony again.

  She took her thoughts captive, refusing all recollections of family and home, slipped off the rope loop to free the handle of the windlass and tossed the attached bucket over the rim. When she heard the splash, she allowed a bit more rope to play out, waited for the bucket to fill, then turned the handle to bring up the full bucket. Cold drops spattered her hands as she poured the water into the bucket sitting on the floor.

  She sat the well bucket back on the rim and slipped the rope loop back over the handle as she’d been taught. The full bucket swung when she lifted it, sloshed water over the lip onto her skirt. She gripped the handle with both hands and carried it to the fireplace, grateful for the hard work ahead that would keep her too busy to remember, to feel.

  The crane squeaked as she pulled it toward her. She hung the largest iron pot on the longest hook, poured the water into it then pushed the crane back until the pot hung low over the pulsating coals. By the time she had finished sweeping, the water should be hot enough to scrub down the table. She snatched up the empty bucket, shooed the flies away from the milk pail, carried both into the buttery and emerged, broom in hand.

  The accumulated dust and dirt behind the baskets she pulled from beneath the shelves on the dining room wall were no match for her determination. The straw swished against the wide puncheons, pushing the dirt before it, the sound intensifying when she turned the broom edgewise and cleaned out the cracks. With every sweep, she could hear her adopted mother, You shan’t be as helpless as I was when I married Thad. All I knew then was how to manage servants. You shall learn how to do the work.

  Pain welled within her, stole her breath. She set her jaw and pushed the broom with greater vigor.

  “What you do?”

  “Oh!” Anne jerked her head up and spun around. Sighing Wind stood in the dining room doorway, curiosity gleaming in her dark eyes. Had the woman never seen a broom used? “I’m cleaning the floor.” The dark eyes staring at her, flickered, clouded with confusion. She pointed to the pile of debris by the broom, then at the dust, dirt and crumb-littered floor in front of her. “The floor is dirty.” She made a few sweeps, pushing the pile ahead with the broom, then indicated the floor she’d swept. “Now it is clean.”

  Sighing Wind came forward, squatted and ran her hand over the floor. “Clean.” She scooped up a handful of the debris and threw it back down. “Dirty.”

  “Yes.” Anne curled her nose and pointed to the un-swept portion of the floor. “Dirty is bad.”

  The Indian woman nodded and straightened, gripped the broom handle. “Make clean.”

  Anne stared at her a moment, then nodded. “Very well. But you must do it all. Like this.” She pointed under the dry sink and the table, took the broom, demonstrated how to clean in the corners and cracks, then handed the broom back to Sighing Wind. She pointed down at the pile of dirt and then to the open door. “Sweep it outside.”

  Sighing Wind nodded, took a few swipes with the broom, then nodded again and set to work.

  Anne watched her a moment, then took a bucket from beneath the dry sink, tossed in a folded rag and a piece of soap and carried it to the fireplace to see if the water was hot enough to scrub the worktable.

  Mitchel brushed his hair into place and turned from the mirror. It had been a long, hard day. That Cayuse brave who wanted to buy Anne Simms for his wife had been difficult to deal with. And the others had been demanding, as well. They’d wanted only those things he could give for their comfort, not his words of salvation. And now, because of Anne, he had to clean up and take time for supper. Supper. Corncakes and meat. It’s what Sighing Wind always fixed. Not that it mattered. The vegetables he grew blessed others.

  He frowned, dumped his wash water into the ceramic pail beneath the washstand, buttoned on his clean shirt and tugged his thoughts back to the story he was telling Hope. “And all the piglets chased the rooster around and around the sty until he gave up trying to eat their corn and flew over the fence.”

  Hope giggled. “Me see piggies?”

  The sound of her baby laughter, so rare since she’d become ill, pierced deep in his heart. He looked down at his daughter resting against her propped-up pillows. There was no fever flush on her face. She was having a good day. He dropped to his knees, brushed the back of his finger against the soft, baby skin of her cheek. “Not now, Hope, it’s late. Perhaps tomorrow.” Empty words. She was not well enough to go outside. He dare not chance her taking a chill. “Will you be a good girl and go to sleep for Papa so you can get strong?”

  “Me good girl.” Her small mouth opened in a wide yawn, but she did not stretch her arms or legs. Two years old, and his daughter had learned to be still because moving her limbs caused pain. He fought back a surge of anger, bent his head down and kissed her forehead. He could not afford anger, dared not let it turn his heart bitter. He had to hold on to his faith. Heal her, Almighty God. In Your great mercy and love, heal Hope, I pray. His face tightened at the repetition. How many times had he prayed that prayer?

  He pushed himself erect, wishing with all his heart he could give some of his robust strength and health to his baby girl. He pulled the blanket up close under Hope’s tiny chin and turned away. Fear for her dogged his steps as he shrugged into his jacket and strode to the dining room. If it weren’t for Anne he could work on the mission’s records while he ate. He was behind. As usual. He was always behind. He stopped short in the doorway, stared at the table. Blue and white patterned china rested on a white linen cloth. “What—”

  “I found the china while I wa
s searching through my trunks for table linen. I hope you don’t mind if we use it.”

  He lifted his gaze. Anne stood beside the door to the kitchen looking up at him. For the first time since her arrival her violet-blue eyes were clear. The grief that shadowed them had given way to a look of purpose. Still, he needed help, not more problems. That brave had offered five horses for her. He would be back to offer more. It was certain his life would be a good deal easier had William come. He tamped down his frustration, shook his head. “Not at all. I only hope I remember my manners. It’s been over five years since I’ve sat at a proper dinner table.”

  The sorrow flooded back into her eyes, the color left her cheeks. “It’s been awhile for me, also…seven months.” Her hand lifted, rubbed the black wool fabric covering her ribs.

  He glanced down. Her hand stopped moving, dropped back to her side. He looked up, saw her draw back her shoulders, read a “don’t question me” warning in her eyes.

  “There are no dinner tables, proper or otherwise, in a crowded wagon. Only tin plates balanced on one’s knees.”

  Her attempted smile was a mere curving of her lips. There was no amusement, no life in it. He nodded, remembering the effort smiling, for Hope’s sake, had cost him when Isobel died. It still came hard. There wasn’t much to smile about.

  “I’ll tell Sighing Wind you’re here. That it’s time to serve.”

  She would tell Sighing Wind? He stifled his shock, watched her hurry away. What had happened to make her take such authority on herself? And what had happened to her ribs? Was it connected to her husband’s death? He tugged at his suit coat, wishing he could ease Anne’s pain, knowing nothing but God and time could do so. Another situation where he was helpless. His life was rife with them. So often he found himself with no alternative but to pray and trust the Lord, when what he wanted was to do something to take care of the situation.