There was a sudden tenseness about him. She shouldn’t have inquired into his friend’s death. She wanted no questions about the deaths of her loved ones. “How terrible to find your friend like that. I’m sorry, Mitchel. I should not have asked.”
“I think, perhaps, it’s good that you did.”
“In what way?”
He looked down at her, squared his shoulders, shook his head. “An idle thought. Anyway, Paul’s death was over two years ago. He…died, a few weeks after Isobel passed away.”
Shadows darkened his eyes, and she knew he was remembering. Her heart ached in sympathy. “That must have been a difficult time for you.”
“Yes.” He stooped and added a log to the fire. “The worst part was the fear. Hope was a tiny baby, and I, a new father with no knowledge of caring for her. I kept wondering if I would lose her, too. I still wonder…”
She caught her breath, raised her hand and placed it on her chest, rubbed at the gathering tightness.
He straightened, looked down at her. “Now I must apologize, Anne. I should not have—”
She raised her hand, shook her head to stop the words she didn’t want to hear. Again turned the conversation back onto safe ground. “Please go on. How did you care for your daughter?”
“Isobel never recovered her strength after Hope’s birth, and we hired a Cayuse woman as a wet nurse. She stayed on when Isobel passed. Then, a few days after Paul died, Mr. Overbeck and Mr. Newhouse and their wives stopped on their way to found a mission among the Yakimas. The weather being unfavorable for travel they stayed on awhile. The men helped me finish the buildings Paul and I had started, and the ladies took over Hope’s care. They bathed her, and fed her. The wet nurse became offended and went back to her village.
“When the missionaries left, I imitated what I had seen the ladies do. And I hired Laughing Rain to care for Hope when I was unable to be here. I had the mission to run. And the Indians started coming in ever larger numbers.”
She felt the tension growing in him again, knew, intuitively, he needed to keep talking, to relieve the pressure with words. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes. I was very pleased.”
Was?
“The Cayuse and Nez Perce were welcoming, and seemed to accept my message of Christ. Some were baptized.” He looked over at her. “That’s when I wrote William about the school.”
Seemed? She studied his face, something in his eyes sent a chill skittering over her flesh. “But that has changed?”
He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “The Indians do not like to be told that warring and stealing and taking slaves and trading women are wrong. They resent it. They say their life was better before I told them it was bad to do those things.”
“Then you shall have to convince them otherwise.”
“Yes. I suppose I shall. If any come back to hear my messages. Most of them have stopped coming to my Sunday services.” He rubbed his hand across the muscles at the nape of his neck, rested his forearm on the mantel and looked at her. “Eagle Claw is right. You have a strong spirit and a brave heart. It’s surprising, when you look so…so—”
“Like a crow?” She looked down, brushed at her skirt, lest her aggravation show on her face. The unflattering name rankled.
“I was going to say…fragile.” He cleared his throat. “I haven’t asked—had you a purpose in coming downstairs? Was there something you wanted?”
Her hands stilled. She glanced toward the open door across the room, forced out the words. “I wondered… There’s been no crying…” She inched back her shoulders, looked at him. “Has the sickness gone, Mitchel? Is your daughter well?”
The shake of his head killed her hope.
“She is much improved, thanks to your kindness. Her pain is greatly lessened by the ointment and wrappings you provided, and she is able to sleep because of them. But the pain is still there. And she still has a fever.”
There was such sadness on his face. She had to tell him. “Mitchel, you said the other night that you had not taken your daughter to a doctor because of fear the journey would injure her further.” She looked down at the dancing flames, fought for control, spun away from the hearth and moved to stand behind the hide-covered settee. “My sister Emma is a doctor.”
“Yes, I know. William wrote—”
“She is here. In Oregon country. At the new emigrant town.”
He straightened, stared at her, hope blazing in his eyes.
She lifted her hand, rubbed at the scar on her ribs. “Emma came on the wagon train because she would not allow me to travel alone with my injuries. I don’t know if she can help your daughter, but she’s a very good doctor. I thought you should know she was here.” The words came out in bursts, flat, without emotion. She had become adept at hiding the pain. She turned toward the stairs.
“Wait, Anne!”
She froze.
Mitchel rushed around the chair, gripped her upper arms. “Where is the town?”
She went rigid, glanced down at his hands then relaxed. He didn’t even realize he was holding her. She took a breath, shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mitchel. I didn’t think—I don’t know.”
He stared at her, released his grip and stepped back. “No. Of course you wouldn’t…” He bowed his head, rubbed at the back of his neck. “How far away is it?”
“It was three days’ travel in the wagon.”
“The wagon.” He jerked his head up, looked at her. “Hope would be protected from the weather in your wagon.”
“Yes. You are welcome to it.”
“But the jolting…” He looked toward his daughter’s doorway, his shoulders slumped. “The jolting would be too painful for her. It might harm her.”
She couldn’t stand watching the hope fade from his eyes. She lived with hopelessness. She wrapped her arms about herself and rubbed where his hands had gripped her, erasing the warmth, the memory of his touch before it could steal into her heart. “There was a toddler on the train who was injured falling from her wagon during a storm. Emma found her and treated her injuries and then refused to move her wagon until the child had regained consciousness.” She looked up, met Mitchel’s intent gaze. “Mr. Thatcher made a sling bed and hung it by leather thongs from the ribs that supported the cover. It protected the toddler from the jarring and bouncing of the wagon. Emma described it to me. I could tell you.”
He stood there nodding, staring into the distance. “Clever. That would work…” He lifted his hands, rubbed his right fist against his left palm and strode around the room. “I’ll find out where the town is located. The Indians will know.” He shot a look in her direction. “And I’ll prepare the wagon so we’re ready to go when Halstrum gets back. Make sure the wheels are tight and the hubs are greased…”
We’re? Surely he didn’t think— She clenched her hands and walked to the stairs.
“We’ll need lanterns and bedding and food. And Hope’s clothes. And the ointment and… Horses.” He stopped pacing, looked at her. “Is there anything special you need?”
To protect my heart. She gripped the banister, shook her head. “No, Mitchel. I will do all I can to help you prepare for the journey, but I’ll not come with you. Laughing Rain can care for your daughter.” She turned away, lifted the hems of her long skirt with her free hand and climbed the stairs.
Mitchel stared down at his sleeping daughter, his throat so tight he could not swallow. Was God answering his prayers? Had Anne been the answer all along and he had not understood because of his own desire for William to come and help him?
He sank to his knees, crossed his arms on Hope’s bed and lowered his head to rest on them. “Almighty God, I thank You Anne came to teach in William’s stead. And I thank You that Emma came along on the wagon train to care for Anne. If it be Your will, use them to heal Hope I pray.”
The words were muffled, strained. He drew in air to ease the pressure in his chest, rose and went to add wood to the fire. He wante
d to believe Anne was God’s answer, but if that were true, why would she refuse to care for Hope? The doubt he’d battled since Isobel and Paul’s death, that had grown since Hope’s illness, rose, strangled his faith like weeds in a wheat field.
His chest squeezed, ached. He gripped the mantel with both hands, hung his head between his arms and stared down at the fire. How could he know? How could he believe God heard and answered prayer when so much had gone wrong in spite of his own fervent prayers to the contrary?
And now the Cayuse were becoming more and more belligerent. Or were they? Had they only feigned friendship and pretended to accept the white man’s God in order to receive food and the services the mission rendered them? Services and food they had demanded with increasing boldness since he was alone at the mission.
The thought came again. The one he’d been suppressing ever since it occurred to him during his conversation with Anne. Had Paul fallen over that cliff—or been pushed?
His stomach knotted. He didn’t want to believe the Indians would do such a thing. But Paul had been on that trail dozens of times without incident. And he’d been too wary to allow an unknown Indian to come close. And his horse hadn’t come home. It should have, would have unless something or someone prevented it. He knew that now, though he’d been too green to realize it at the time. And it was since Paul’s death the attitude and behavior of the Cayuse braves had changed. And now…now he had been openly threatened.
Mitchel looked at Hope, clenched his hands and strode over to the chest at the foot of his bed. He lifted out the leather belt he’d worn on his way across the wilderness. The knife was snug in its sheath, the hatchet dangled from its loop. He closed the chest, tested the edge of the hatchet’s blade, brushed the pad of his thumb against the double-edged knife. He would hone them in the morning.
He laid them on the chest, kicked an ember that popped out onto the floor back into the fire and strode to his desk in the other room and turned up the wick in the oil lamp. Yellow light spilled across the paper he’d left there. He sat, lifted the stopper from the inkwell and dipped his pen.
I have written you of the Indians’ antipathy toward Sunday services. And, also, of the opening of our school. I am hopeful that educating them in our ways will lead to them a greater acceptance of the Christian message.
To conclude, gentlemen: It is with deep regret, I inform you that things on the mission field here in Oregon country are not as you suppose them to be. The Indians are far different than I was led to believe. They do not listen or accept truth as you imagine. A very few of them are tolerant and slowly accept some of our ways, but many of the Cayuse are troublesome. They are increasingly threatening in their behavior.
Mission work viewed from our native land is peaceful and godlike. Here, on the field, it is a harsh, dangerous reality. I am concerned for my young daughter should I lose my life. It is for this reason I am breaking the “no-arms” rule set forth by the mission board and will go armed beginning tomorrow. I will do whatever is necessary to preserve my life, that my daughter might live. I realize you will wish to recall my posting due to this insubordination. To facilitate the matter for you, I will remain at my position until my replacement arrives.
In His service,
Mitchel Banning
He folded the letter, directed it to the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, applied his wax seal and rose to place it on the mantel to wait for the next mountain man who stopped by the mission on his way east.
God grant that it might be soon.
Chapter Nine
“You come.”
Anne looked up, saw Sighing Wind’s bulk disappear from the dining room doorway and frowned. She’d given the Indian woman the task of sweeping and dusting the living room because she did not want to go in there. It was too close to Mitchel’s daughter’s room. No matter how hard she tried to ignore them, she heard every little outcry, every sob. But they were less frequent since she had given Mitchel the ointment.
She had to go see what Sighing Wind needed. She jabbed the threaded needle through the cotton fabric to hold its place, rose and laid the apron she was making from one of Mitchel’s mother-in-law’s tablecloths on the chair. She listened intently, heard no sound from the child. If she hurried… She shook out her long skirt, rushed through the kitchen and dining room to the living room.
“What is it, Sigh—” She stopped short, stared at the two small Indian girls standing just inside the front door, a bearded man wearing buckskins and holding the barrel of his grounded rifle beside them.
The man whipped off his fur hat, dipped his head. “Good day to you, ma’am. Name’s Joe Means.”
She lifted her gaze to him.
“I heard tell the mission is startin’ up a school, and I’ve brung my children.”
His children? She shifted her gaze back to the little girls in their fringed skirts, moccasins and bead-decorated tunics. Their dark hair, parted in the middle, swept down over their ears, accentuating their small round faces, then hung in braided loops against their chests. Their eyes, blue like their father’s, proclaimed their mixed blood.
“This here is Iva.” The man laid a broad, scarred hand on the tallest girl’s head. “She’s seven years. And this here one is Kitturah. She’s five come December.”
He lifted his gaze back to her. “I want they should have an education, learn my people’s ways. My squaw’s settin’ up camp ’mongst the trees next to the river so they won’t be a trouble to you. She won’t bother you none.” He gave a brisk nod, slapped his hat on his head. “I’ll be back to fetch ’em come spring.”
Spring! Before she could gather her wits to respond, he yanked open the door and slipped outside. “Wait!” She rushed to the door, opened it and hurried outside, looked around. “Mr. Means?” There was no sign of him.
What was she to do now? She hadn’t expected to begin school today. She wasn’t prepared. She blew out a frustrated breath, went back inside and closed the door. The girls were standing silent and still as shadows, those startling blue eyes fastened on her. She smoothed the front of her long skirt, raised a hand to check that no curls had escaped her black turban bonnet. “Well, I suppose the first—” She stopped, looked at the oldest girl. “You do speak English, Iva?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Me do, too.”
“I! Not me.”
Kitturah’s offering earned her a scowling correction from her older sister. She pressed her little lips together and looked down at the floor.
Anne’s heart squeezed. The little girl looked crushed. How well she remembered feeling that way when Emma or William corrected her. She frowned, buried the sudden rush of empathy beneath a brisk, businesslike attitude. “I’m very pleased that you both speak English. It will make my job much easier.”
What now? Her plans for the day fell away. Prepared or not, she was a teacher now. A tiny jolt of anticipation tingled through her. Perhaps her life would have a purpose. She walked to the fireplace, lit a candle stub and looked at the girls. “Come with me, please.” She cupped her hand around the candle flame and led them out the back door, turned toward the lean-to on their left.
“This is the schoolroom.” She glanced down at the two sober faces, felt another tiny jolt of purpose at the betraying gleam of excitement in their blue eyes. “Open the door please, Iva.” The girl hastened to obey, then stepped back beside her little sister. Obviously, discipline would not be a problem. But overcoming their taciturn ways might prove difficult.
A gust of cold wind swept down the path, swirled back upon itself in the cul-de-sac formed by the mission house and the attached kitchen and schoolroom. The candle flame flickered. Anne shivered, shielded the candle with her body and stepped inside, her two silent shadows at her heels. “Close the door please, Kitturah.”
She hurried to the fireplace and touched the burning candle to the laid fire. The tinder caught with a whoosh, flames licked at the short lengths of encircling small bra
nches, found the dry bark to their liking and began to burn in earnest. Smoke rose, pooled at the top of the firebox, hovered and roiled, then found escape up the chimney.
“There now—it will soon be warm in here.” She blew out the candle, set it on the mantel and turned. The girls were standing just inside the door. “Please, come sit close by the fire where you’ll be warm.” She indicated the bench closest to the table at the front of the room. The whisper of their moccasins against the rough planks of the floor blended with the crackle and pop of the burning wood as they obeyed her bidding.
“These will be your seats. You will sit here whenever you come to school. Do you understand?” Their dark heads nodded in unison. “Good. Now then, I know your names but you do not know mine. You will address me as…” I told him you were my woman, and you were not for sale. You’d best not deny it. “As…Miss Anne.”
Wind gusted down the chimney, smoke puffed out into the room, swirled around her head, crawled up the sloped roof. She coughed, moved away from the hearth and wiped tears from her smarting eyes. “Can you read, Iva?”
The girl’s blue eyes clouded. “I don’t know ‘read.’”
“I see.” A shiver raised goose bumps on her flesh. She rubbed her upper arms and wished she had taken the time to go upstairs for her cloak. “Do you know the alphabet?”
A frown drew Iva’s dark, straight brows together. “I do not know what is ‘al-phabet.’”
“Then that is where we shall begin.” She hurried to the table at the front of the room, picked up slates, grabbed chalk sticks from the crock, hurried back and placed them on the table. “Now then I shall write—” She stopped, looked at the girls who were staring at the slates and chalk, their eyes wide, their hands drawn back behind their small bodies.
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