Frontier Father

by Dorothy Clark

  “Here is the ointment. And some cloths…”

  He glanced down at the crock in her hands, the red cloths hanging over her arm. The cloths fluttered. She was shaking. Perhaps the illness she’d spoken of was a recurring one. He squelched a frown, pushed the thought aside to be considered later. “Come in, Anne.”

  She hesitated a moment, then stepped to the washstand by Hope’s bed. She set down the crock and turned to the rocker by the hearth, leaned down, the gold of the firelight outlining the mass of red curls on her crown. “I’ll hang these here for you. Papa Doc and Emma say it’s soothing to have the cloths warm when you wrap the sore joints.”

  “Warmth does seem to help. I keep the fire going all the time.” He rubbed Hope’s back, watched as Anne draped the cloths over the arm of the rocker. She straightened, buried her hands among the folds in her long skirt. Did she hope he wouldn’t notice their trembling, the twitching of her fingers?

  “I cut ties into one end of the cloths.” She started toward the door, her eyes still hidden by her lowered lashes. “I hope the ointment helps.”

  “Please don’t leave, Anne. I need your help. I’ve never done this.”

  She halted. Froze would be more accurate. He stared at her stiff back, frowned. “Please. I don’t want to hurt her.”

  She rubbed her palms against her skirt, turned. “Very well.”

  Why would she not look at him? “I’ll put Hope in her bed.”

  She nodded, moved to the washstand and removed the cover from the crock.

  The fire crackled and popped, spit red sparks up the chimney. He laid Hope on her bed, caught a whiff of herbs and camphor and gave a loud sniff, hoping to distract her from the pain of movement. “Do you smell that, Hope?”

  She nodded, her blue eyes swimming with tears.

  “That’s an ointment. Anne will put some on you. It will help the hurting.”

  “Me b-be better, P-papa?”

  There was a sharp intake of breath. From the corner of his eyes he saw Anne’s skirts swirl out as she spun about and hurried toward the hearth. “I pray so, Hope.” He uncovered her, placed the blankets at the foot of the bed.

  Anne returned, the red flannel strips quivering in her hands. She placed the cloths on the bed, turned, picked up the crock of ointment and knelt beside the bed.

  “P-papa…”

  “I’m here, Hope.” He went to his knees, brushed a blond curl off her moist forehead. Please, Lord…

  Anne moved. He glanced sideways, watched as she reached across Hope, undid the ribbon ties at his daughter’s tiny wrist and gently slipped the sleeve of her nightgown up above her elbow.

  He stroked Hope’s hair, murmured words of comfort to take her mind off any pain Anne caused, kissed her fevered forehead to soothe any fear and looked back at Anne. His stomach knotted. He’d never seen anyone so pale, so…tense. She looked brittle, as if she would shatter into pieces if he spoke to her or touched her. If she swooned… But that didn’t seem likely. She was working efficiently. It was the inner stillness and silence about her that was worrying. Almighty God, I don’t know what is wrong with Anne. But You do. Please heal her. I offer myself as a vessel for You to use should it be Your will. Amen.

  The fire snapped. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no live ember had flown out into the room, turned back. Anne had bared Hope’s other arm and placed red flannel strips beneath Hope’s elbows and wrists. He held his breath, offered a silent prayer as she dipped her fingers into the ointment and began to rub it onto Hope’s joints.

  He leaned toward his daughter, ready to offer what comfort he was able to give. She was staring at Anne, her teary blue eyes wide, her quiet sobs abating. Would the ointment work that quickly?

  He kept his hand on Hope’s soft, blond curls and watched Anne wrap his daughter’s treated joints, tie the flannel bindings in place, then slip the sleeves of Hope’s nightgown down over them and tie the ribbons at her tiny wrists. She turned slightly, lifted the hem of Hope’s nightgown and treated and wrapped her ankles and knees. When she finished, she pulled the nightgown down into place and rose.

  He covered Hope with the blankets, tucked them under her chin.

  “Me be…better…Papa…”

  He looked at his daughter’s closing eyes, rubbed his finger against the warm, silky skin of her cheek, his heart flooded with gratefulness that she could sleep. He cleared the lump from his throat, looked up as Anne placed the crock back on the washstand. “Thank you, Anne.”

  She nodded and turned toward the door, the black wool of her gown rustling softly as she walked away.

  The wood on the hearth crackled. Firelight flickered through the dark, silent room, lit the empty doorway. He listened to her footsteps fade, stepped to the hearth and added another log to the fire, his heart burdened with a new care.

  Anne soaped her shaking hands again, scrubbed them together and swished them through the water in the washbowl. The soft, silky feel of baby skin stayed on her fingers, the sweet baby smell lingered in her head.

  She yanked the towel off the nail on the wall, rubbed her hands, then buried her face in the damp cloth. She had to stop remembering, had to do something to force the thoughts away. She jammed the towel back on the nail, caught a glimpse of the moon hanging in the night sky, its silver face limned by the darkness.

  “‘O thou pale orb, that silent shines, While care-untroubled mortals sleep!’” She turned to the window, pressed her hands down on the log sill to still her twitching fingers. “‘Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, And wanders here to wail and weep!’”

  Her face tightened. Quoting Robert Burns only made her think of Emma and her atrocious attempts at a Scottish accent.

  She spun from the window, wrapped her arms about herself and strode down the length of the room. The Constitution. She had memorized it at school in the orphanage. That would be safe. “We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility—” Domestic tranquility…

  The shaking grew more violent. She whirled toward the bed, snatched off the coverlet and draped it around her shoulders, grasped the edges and continued pacing. Was there nothing she could think of that did not bring back some painful memory? That did not increase the chill inside her? She was so tired of being cold.

  She glanced at the bed, rejected all thought of climbing beneath the blankets. If she fell asleep she would dream. She walked to the chimney, leaned against the stones to absorb what warmth they offered, though they could not warm her inside.

  Tea.

  The thought came, strong and tantalizing. The image of the hot, steaming cup in her hands, the warmth of the tea sliding down her throat to relax the tightness in her chest. Tea would chase away the cold, at least for a few minutes.

  But she could not go downstairs. The risk was too great. Although, it was quiet.

  She pushed away from the chimney and hurried to the top of the stairs, listening. There was no sound from below. The child must be sleeping. Was Mitchel sitting with her? Had he retired? She draped the coverlet over the railing and inched partway down the stairs, scanned the living room. Empty. Should she chance another encounter?

  She gripped the railing and continued down, the whisper of her skirts blending with the quiet crackle of the fire. She released her held breath and hurried to the dining room, rushed through it into the kitchen. Sighing Wind had banked the fire before going home to her tepee behind the mission.

  She uncovered the live embers, added bits of bark and a few twigs and blew softly. The embers glowed red hot, the bits of bark burst into flame catching the twigs afire. She stacked a few small pieces of firewood around them, checked the iron teakettle for water, set it on a trivet over the fire and reached for the tin of tea and the pewter teapot on the mantel. She lifted them down to the table. The lid on the tin defeated her shaking hands. Her trembling fingers lost their grip, slipped off. She heard a sound and froze. Boot heels struck against t
he wood floor. She should have stayed in her room.

  “Allow me.”

  Mitchel stepped close beside her, grasped hold of the tin. She jerked her hands away, stepped back and clasped her arms around her waist to hide the shaking.

  “I heard you come downstairs.” He pulled the lid off the tin, dumped a portion of the dark, dry leaves into the teapot and replaced the lid. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong, Anne?” He turned toward her, the firelight playing over his strong, handsome features. “And please don’t say ‘nothing.’ It’s obvious you are in distress. I’d like to help…if I’m able.”

  The concern in his voice brought her perilously close to tears. She cleared her throat, moved with brisk purpose back to the fireplace to check on the water. “There is nothing you can do.”

  “I’d like to try. And I’m certain William would want—”

  She spun on him, her hands clenched, her chest heaving with her effort to breathe. “Very well, Mitchel. Are you able to bring the dead to life? Can you call my husband and my baby daughter from the grave and restore them to me, the way Jesus called forth Lazarus?” She saw shock pass over his face and tried to stop, but the words kept pouring out. “Go ahead. Call them! My husband’s name is Phillip. And my baby’s name is Grace. I named her that because I so longed for a child and I was certain God had answered my prayers and graced my life with her. Of course, I didn’t know, then, that He was going to take her from me!” Pain ripped through her. Her chest squeezed and her laboring lungs emptied. The darkness came, the blessed darkness where there was no memory.

  She tried to ignore the voice calling her, to stay in the darkness where there was no pain, but the cold on her forehead was too intense, making her shiver. Something wet trickled down her temple into her hair. She frowned, raised her hand to wipe it away, touched the warm, firm flesh of a hand and opened her eyes. She was lying on the hide-covered settee in the living room, Mitchel kneeling on the floor beside it looking down at her. Memory flooded back. The scene she’d created in the kitchen replayed in her mind. She’d let her fury with God break free, given voice to her anger. Well, there was no help for it now. Mitchel was certain to send her away.

  “Are you all right?”

  His words were soft, concerned. But foolish. Oh, so foolish. The anger surged back. She swept the dripping cloth from her head and handed it to him. “I am conscious. I doubt I shall ever be all right again.”

  He nodded, dropped the cloth into a bowl beside him, set the bowl on the chest and rose to his feet.

  Guilt smote her. Her pain was not Mitchel’s doing. She pushed to a sitting position. “I’m sorry, Mitchel. Please forgive me. I didn’t—”

  “There’s no need to apologize, Anne. I understand your anger.” He fastened his gaze on hers, and she knew he was speaking the truth. “When Isobel died, the pain of her loss was terrible—and I was helpless to stop it. It made me furious. That, and the…betrayal.” He leaned down and picked up the bowl, turned toward the kitchen. “Wait here. I’ll be right back with the tea.”

  Betrayal. She pushed a wet curl off her forehead and stared after Mitchel, aware of something deep inside her breaking open. She was not at all certain she wanted to examine what was being exposed.

  She rose and stepped close to the fire, letting the warmth chase away the outward chill.

  “This should help warm you.”

  She turned, watched Mitchel moving gingerly toward her, his gaze glued to the cups in his hands. She stepped forward, glanced at the cups, hesitated. Her fingers were twitching too much to chance holding the full cup.

  “Did I put in too much cream?”

  “No. I—” She rubbed her hands against her long skirt, stopped when he looked down.

  “Seems like that fire could use some encouraging. I’ll set these here.” He placed the cups on the chest beside the settee and stepped around her to the woodbox. “I’m sorry about your baby daughter, Anne. I didn’t know.” He selected two pieces of split log and added them to the fire.

  “Nor could you.” She sank down on the settee, folded both hands around a cup, tightened them to control the twitching, and took a swallow of the rich brew. The delicious warmth slid down her throat. She stared at the tea he had prepared for her, looked up and met the warmth and compassion in his gaze. “I didn’t mean to sound ungracious, Mitchel. I thank you for your…sympathy.” Her throat closed.

  She looked down, took another swallow of tea to ease the tightness, pulled in a breath. “It’s only… I haven’t spoken of…” Her hands jerked. The tea sloshed close to the brim. She placed the cup on the chest and clasped her hands in her lap. “I try not to think of…that day.”

  “Would you like me to pray with you?”

  She snapped her head up, met his gaze. “To a God who took my husband and baby from me and left me alive to suffer this agony of bereavement? Certainly not!” She surged to her feet, her hand sliding across the hated black wool and seeking the raised scar tissue on her ribs. “I should have died that day, too. Why didn’t He take me, too?”

  “Sometimes illness—”

  “There was no illness. It was an accident.” She stared at him, not bothering to hide her bitterness. “We had gone into town to buy gifts to celebrate Grace’s first birthday and, on our way back to cousin Mary’s, Phillip…lost control of the carriage. It overturned.” She stared off into the distance, rubbing at her ribs. “I was thrown from the seat, struck the carriage lamp and Grace…flew from my arms.” She shuddered, drew back her shoulders and clenched her hands into fists. “When I came back to consciousness, I was in bed, with William watching over me. Emma was— She tried all she knew, but my baby…died in her arms. Phillip had died immediately.”

  She sought his face, looked straight into his eyes. “That was in April, when William was preparing his wagons to join the wagon train to come here and teach in your school. When Caroline became too ill, carrying their baby, to make the journey, I came in his stead. In spite of my injuries, I survived the journey. Though I hoped I would not.”

  She rubbed the scar on her ribs again, lifted her chin. “And now you know why I am here. And why I will not pray. Not ever again.” She took a breath. “I know that is unacceptable to you, Mitchel. That you want a person of faith to teach in your mission school. My faith died with my husband and child. I should have been honest with you about that when I arrived. Again, I ask your forgiveness. I will pack my things.”

  “Anne—”

  She lifted her trembling hand, shook her head, turned and headed for the stairs.

  “I need a teacher, Anne. I want you to stay.”

  Her steps faltered. She turned, looked at him, at the quiet strength, the resolve on his face. “You’re certain?”

  “I’m certain. I am no stranger to the struggle to maintain faith in the face of grief.” He turned and walked to Hope’s room, disappeared inside.

  The tears started then. She whirled around and ran to the stairs, stumbled up them and threw herself on her bed to muffle her sobs with her pillow.

  Chapter Seven

  Not another one! Anne frowned at the whisper of moccasins against the floor. All afternoon the Indians who helped around the mission had been coming to lift the towel and poke their dirty fingers into the large bowl of rising dough on the hearth, their eyes going wide, their mouths forming round circles from which emitted sounds of amazement. It seemed risen bread was unknown to them, and word had spread by way of Sighing Wind.

  Her frown deepened. In spite of her past lectures on cleanliness, the Indian woman had come in after gathering eggs that morning and thrust her fingers deep in the soft mass. Tiny bits of nesting material had stuck to the dough, but the dirt did not bother Sighing Wind. She had shuffled outside, oohing and aahing and babbling with excitement.

  Anne glanced toward the floor. She’d quickly made a second batch of dough and hidden it so there would be bread for Mitchel’s table that evening. And it was well she had. The Indians came and st
abbed the dough on the hearth, and when they tired of that, roamed around the room peering into things and handling whatever took their fancy. And she had learned, by their angry scowls and stiffened postures, not to refuse them.

  She glanced at the brave squatting on his heels poking at the dough and resisted the urge to lift her hems and peek into the covered basket hidden beneath them. The dough should be ready. When the brave left she would punch it down and put it into the pans she’d found on a shelf behind some crocks. Hopefully, that would be soon. She dare not move and expose the basket, and she wanted to cook Mitchel a good meal, to show him he would not regret his kindness in allowing her to stay on at the mission after her “lack of faith” confession last night.

  She sighed, and pulling the cabbage she was cutting into wedges closer, cut through the last half. Learning to cook without a stove was difficult. Now she had these Indians wandering in and out of the kitchen to make it even harder.

  A spate of deep, guttural words, different in tone from the exclamations over the dough, froze her hands in mid-slice. She looked up. Her heart jolted. A fierce-looking brave with a puckered scar running across his cheek and a knife and tomahawk dangling at his waist stood in the doorway. Her mouth went dry. This was no mission Indian, this was a warrior. And his interest was not in the bread dough—his dark eyes were focused on her.

  Her hair! Had any curls slipped free of her black turban bonnet? Her pulse stuttered, raced. She dropped her gaze back to the cabbage, listened to Sighing Wind speak with the warrior. She severed the last cabbage wedge and reached for the washed carrots. Where was Mitchel? Was he close enough to hear her if—

  The soft brush of leather against wood knotted her stomach. She swallowed hard, tightened her grip on the knife and lifted her head, darted a glance toward the doorway, stared at Sighing Wind’s round bulk. The warrior was gone. And so was the Indian who had been squatting on the hearth. She dropped the knife and sagged against the table.