Frontier Father

by Dorothy Clark

  He rubbed his right fist into his left palm, paced. “I asked Spotted Owl where the village was located, but that was a few days ago and I said nothing that would make it seem important. And Chief White Cloud knows I want to take Hope there to see your sister.”

  “Will he tell the warriors where to find us?”

  Her voice sounded stronger. He glanced her way. Her color had improved. “I don’t believe he will. But I am taking the circuitous path in case. Though it will mean we will be on the trail for five or six days.” He sought her gaze, held it with his. “We must go on as usual here at the mission. It is important no one guess what we are planning. That’s why I need you to hide what we pack for Hope in your room, along with what you are taking. Sighing Wind and Laughing Rain never go to your room. Will you come with me now, while Hope is sleeping, and get her things? She must not know, lest she mention it to Laughing Rain.”

  She took a breath, rubbed her palms on her skirt and nodded.

  “We must be quick. Hope has a fever and is restless tonight.” He led the way to his daughter’s bedroom, his heart clutching at the sight of her sleeping face. “Her things are there, in the dresser. Top drawer. Choose what you deem best.” He opened the chest beneath the window, pulled out a blanket.

  “Mitchel…?”

  He closed the chest at Anne’s soft whisper, walked over to stand beside her.

  She gestured toward the open drawer. “The child will need to be dressed for warmth. Where are her coat, bonnet and shoes? I find nothing here but nightgowns.” The firelight played over her refined features, revealed the concern in her eyes.

  He frowned. “That is all Hope has. And those too small. The husband of the woman at the fort who makes Hope’s clothes has not brought her by in some time, and I’ve not been able to get away with Hope being so ill.” He lifted the blanket in his hands. “A nightgown will have to do. I’ll wrap her in this blanket.”

  She stared up at him a moment, then nodded and turned back to the drawer. She selected a nightgown, turned to the nightstand and lifted the crock. “I have a smaller crock in my room. I’ll put most of the ointment in it and bring this one back.” She headed toward the door, turned back to look at him. “If you go to the kitchen and build a small fire, I’ll bake some biscuits to take along.” She whirled toward the door.

  “A moment, Anne.” He hurried into his room, opened his chest and pulled out two leather pokes, carried them back and held them out to her. “Cap and ball for the pistols. I have more.”

  She stared at them a long moment, then clasped the necks of the bags with her free hand and hurried from the room.

  He turned back to tend the fire.

  “Papa.”

  He jerked his gaze to Hope. Tears were pooling in her overbright blue eyes. Had she seen or heard—

  “Me hurt, Papa.”

  “I know, Hope. I know.” He rushed to her bed, scooped her up, blankets and all, and carried her to the rocker. He brushed the damp curls off her forehead and cuddled her as close as he dared, his heart seared with a pain that took his breath.

  “Please, Almighty God. Please.” All his pain and fear for his daughter rose in his prayer. He lowered his head against Hope’s soft curls and rocked.

  Anne scooped the face and hand balm into the slop bucket and carried the small crock back to her dresser. The lilac scent clinging to her fingers brought memories soaring back. Anger shook her.

  She jammed her trembling fingers into the ointment, scraped them off into the small crock and stabbed them into the ointment again. The astringent odor stung her nose, overpowered the mild, floral scent. Her eyes teared. She would not have another man and child ripped from her life. She would not! They were not hers. She had been very careful to keep her heart safe from them. But still… The child was little more than a baby. And she needed her father.

  The anger welled to fury. She added enough ointment from her fingers to fill the small crock, scraped the rest off against the lip of the large one and replaced the covers.

  Tears blurred her vision. She blinked, swiped her sleeve across her eyes and soaped up her hands. The ointment came off, even in cold water. She dried her hands, grabbed up the large crock and hurried downstairs and across the sitting room to the child’s bedroom. “Mitchel…”

  Silence greeted her whisper. She peered into the room. Firelight danced across the child’s sleeping face, highlighted the fevered flush, touched the blond curls on the pillow with gold.

  Pain streaked through her. She moved forward, compelled by a hunger stronger than the pain. She placed the crock on the nightstand, knelt by the bed and touched her trembling finger to Hope’s soft cheek. The scab covering her heart split open, pain from its wound poured out through hot tears that flowed down her cheeks. Her body quivered. Not again, God. Not again.

  She drew a long breath, wiped the tears from her face and lifted the edge of the covers, looked at the small hand and exposed wrist, smoothed the covers back in place, rose and walked from the room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I put the ointment on the nightstand in your daughter’s room.”

  Mitchel glanced over his shoulder. Anne was coming down the length of the kitchen toward him, her face set, resolve in her every step. Dim light from the lowered wick of the oil lamp he’d set on the heavy, wood table shone on her face, caught the flowing movement of the long skirt of her black gown setting it apart from the surrounding darkness. “Is she still resting quietly?”

  “Yes.”

  Quiet, abrupt. “I don’t want to talk about your daughter” clearly spoken without saying a word. He nodded, placed another small chunk of wood on the greedily feeding fire, brushed off his hands and rose. He understood her distress in being around Hope, but there was no other choice. He was trying to keep them all alive.

  She ducked her head as she crossed in front of him, but not before he saw the flickering light of the fire glittering on the sheen of tears in her eyes. Resentment flashed at being forced to cause her pain.

  “Do you think the Indians are watching?”

  “From a distance, yes.”

  “Well, making biscuits should seem innocent enough to them, I suppose.” She snatched the apron she’d made off a nail in the wall and tied it around her waist. He looked down, stretched and flexed his fingers. He could probably span her waist with his hands. The intense longing to do so jarred him.

  “Thank you for starting the fire.”

  He looked up, watched her move about the room gathering various containers and carrying them to the long table. He listened to the soft fall of her steps, the whisper of the hem of her dress against the puncheon floorboards and anger constricted his chest. Why did You allow her to come here, Lord? She belongs with her family back east, where she’d be safe.

  “It doesn’t take long for biscuits to bake.” She spooned ingredients into a large bowl, picked up a fork, looked at him. “When they are done, I shall snuff the lamp and then take them to my room while you bank the fire. Anyone watching will not be able to see, and Sighing Wind will be none the wiser when she comes in the morning.”

  She stopped stirring, dropped the fork she’d been using onto the table, pushed a curl off her forehead with the back of her hand. “I need milk.”

  “I’ll get it.” He walked into the buttery, waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, searched out the pail of milk. He turned toward the door, stopped. Faint as it was, the light coming in the door created shadows among the rough stone of the walls and gave form to the well in the center of the small room. He stared at the door. Only one man could come through it at a time. And two people, armed with Colt Paterson revolvers and crouched behind the well for protection, would have no trouble stopping them. For a time.

  He glanced up at the iron hooks driven into the center beam, the coiled ropes that held hams and slabs of bacon and sides of beef, then back at the door. It could be tied shut. Not that it would keep determined attackers out forever, but it would mak
e it more difficult for them to reach them. Give them time to get in position, to prepare…

  His face drew taut. He didn’t like the idea of being trapped inside, but if they couldn’t sneak away, this would be the best place to make a stand. Stone didn’t burn.

  The knots that had taken up residence in his stomach twisted tighter. How had his life come to this?

  “Mitchel? Did you find the milk?”

  Anne’s soft whisper made his heart squeeze. “Yes, coming.” He took a stronger grip on the pail and carried it to the worktable. “Here you are.”

  “Thank you.” She dipped a cup into the milk, poured it into the bowl and stirred with the fork. “Do you think she will be all right, Mitchel? I mean, if the Cayuse attack and we escape and make the journey to the emigrant village in this cold, rainy weather?”

  Her words brought the constant, gnawing fear for his daughter surging to the fore. Her innocent life was threatened by so many things. He gripped the handle of the pail, lifted it down from the table. “I don’t know, Anne. I pray—”

  She jerked her head up, looked at him, her eyes dark in the reflected light on her face. “That doesn’t work, Mitchel.” She tossed flour onto the smooth, clean work surface and dumped the contents of the bowl onto it. “If God answered prayer, my baby would be alive.”

  There was so much pain in her voice. He forced aside his own fear, his own doubts about prayer and grabbed hold of his remaining faith. Without God, they did not stand a chance. He made his voice firm, confident. “God does answer prayer, Anne. Though not always as we want or expect Him to. The things men do have consequences and—”

  “Consequences.” She breathed the word, stopped kneading the biscuit dough and looked up at him, her eyes shadowed, her face tense. “Like an overturned carriage.” She caught her breath, swallowed. “I don’t understand why Phillip didn’t stop, Mitchel. I begged him to slow down, to stop racing. But he only laughed and urged the horses on. And then our wheel hit a rut and the carriage rocked…”

  She blinked, folded the dough toward her, placed the heels of her hands against the pile, pushed, folded, pushed. “There was a large stone at the side of the road. The carriage wheel climbed it and we overturned. I flew against the carriage lamp and Grace was torn from my arms. The rest you know.”

  He nodded, wished he could comfort her, take her pain. He watched her narrow hands patting out the dough into a large circle and ached to hold them, to let her know by his touch that he understood and he cared. “I’m sorry, Anne.” Such inadequate words.

  She gave a small nod. “Do you remember when you told me one of the most painful things you suffered at your wife’s death was a sense of betrayal?”

  “Yes.”

  She picked up the tin cup, pressed its rim into the dough and twisted, paused. “I didn’t know, until that moment, why I was so furious with Phillip. And I was ashamed of feeling anger for my beloved husband when he died. But I know now it was the betrayal. If he had only slowed the horses…” She lifted the cup, pressed it into the dough and twisted out another biscuit. “Phillip’s love of racing took him from me. And it took my baby, also. He betrayed his vow to—”

  The mass of russet curls at her crown quivered at the abrupt shake of her head. “But that is not important now. You have the danger at hand to think of. I only wanted to thank you, Mitchel, for helping me to understand. I may not have a chance…later.” She looked up at him, curved her lips in a sad little smile and went back to cutting out biscuits.

  He bent and picked up the pail to fill his hands so he wouldn’t reach for her, wouldn’t take her in his arms and hold her safe where nothing would hurt her again. He couldn’t do that. No matter how he ached to protect her. There were too many obstacles, too many impossibilities—they faced grave danger, she still loved her husband, and she couldn’t bring herself to speak his daughter’s name. He carried the pail of milk to the buttery, set it inside and closed the door.

  Anne hung the small nightgown and the blanket Mitchel had given her over the edge of the chest, filled a pillowcase with the rest of their supplies and carried it to the chair sitting close to the top of the stairs. The crock of ointment, the leather pokes of cap and ball for the pistol hit the chair seat with a dull thunk. She draped a petticoat over the pillowcase and strode to her bed.

  Not again, God. Not again. The words echoed in her head, replacing fear with determination. She yanked back her covers and sheet, grabbed the scissors from the sewing box she’d taken from the chest and cut along the edge of the India-rubber sack that had protected her mattress from any water that might flood into the wagon while fording rivers on the way across the country.

  She cast a glance at the window, furious at the idea that there were Indian braves out there watching the mission. They could not see in the small upstairs window, but they could see her light, and Mitchel said they must go on as usual. She frowned, folded the large, flat piece of India-rubber sheeting she’d cut free, laid it on the stool beside the chimney and remade her bed. She could not cover the window, but she refused to snuff the lamp. How could she sew without light?

  She bent to adjust the edge of the coverlet, stared at the dark area beneath the bed, straightened. If she cleaned off the washstand and pulled it a bit closer, sat the chair at the other end of the bed, at the same distance away, then stretched the coverlet between them and the bed…

  Mitchel frowned, listened to the faint scuffing sound from overhead. What was Anne doing? He rose from the chair, put his cleaned and loaded rifle back on the hooks over the mantel. Paul’s rifle hung above it, cleaned and ready to shoot. He stared up at them, clenched his hands and turned away, a stony weight in the pit of his stomach. He was preparing to fight the people he had come to minister to. But, for all the messages of Christ’s love and Christian ways he’d shared with them, the Cayuse still followed their heathen path. And now some had turned on him. Treachery was a common practice among the tribes. It was disheartening, but not surprising they would believe it of him.

  The scuffing sound came again, stopped. He tried to place it, failed. It was too soft for him to hear well. He stood listening for a moment, then picked up his gun-cleaning equipment, put it back in the chest and closed the lid. White Cloud had said the warriors were watching Bonner and Turner, waiting for Halstrum’s return before they struck and captured the two thieves.

  He sucked in air, fought back a surge of bile at the thought of what the trappers and Halstrum and his sons would suffer at the hands of the angry, vengeful Eagle Claw and his followers. He would wish that on no man. Not even one who had endangered all he held most dear. And Halstrum’s sons… The things men do have consequences.

  The bile surged again. He gripped the mantel, hung his head between his arms and breathed deep. There was nothing he could do. No way he could warn Halstrum about the trap. He and Hope and Anne were already ensnared. The Cayuse were out there, watching the mission, watching them. One false move and—

  He jerked erect, thudded the heels of his hands against the log mantel. He looked at Hope, at her closed eyes with the light brown lashes that rested on her rosy, fevered cheeks, at her tiny, tip-tilted nose and her little mouth that looked always ready to smile, even in her pain, at her soft, blond curls lying against the pillow. Fear seized his throat. He clenched his hands, forced words through the constriction.

  “Father God, I need help. You know my weapons and plans are pitiful against the horde of warriors that will descend on us. Hope is but a baby, and Anne innocent of any wrongdoing in these thefts. My guilt lies only in hiring Halstrum to work here at the mission. Spare us, Almighty God, I pray. But if my life must be forfeit, then I ask that You please save Hope and Anne.”

  Tears burned at the backs of his eyes, pain at thought of what would happen to his little, ill daughter without him to protect her or care for her seared his heart. “If it is Your will that I die, I beg You please…put it in Anne’s heart to love and care for my daughter. I ask it in the name
of Your beloved Son, Jesus. Amen.”

  It worked. The room was dark but for the splash of light on the floor beneath the coverlet. Anne crawled into her cramped work space, pushed the oil lamp over against the wall, then spread the blanket Mitchel had given her out on the floor and cut it in half crossways. She folded one half of the blanket and put it under the edge of the bed out of her way, measured the length of the small nightgown, added several inches and cut a circle to her measurement out of the other blanket half.

  Tears stung her eyes. The last time she had made a cloak, it had been a little green velvet one with gold ribbon ties for Grace. She’d been wearing it the day she died.

  Anne pressed her lips together, blinked to clear her vision, folded the blanket circle in two, then doubled it again and cut a tiny quarter circle out of the pointed end for a neck hole. She hadn’t been able to save her baby, but she could see that Mitchel’s child stayed warm and dry on their way to Emma. She laid the circle of wool blanket out on the floor, measured the neck hole and cut an adjoining slit so the child’s head would fit through. Ribbon ties attached to the hemmed edges would hold the slit together.

  She jumped, looked toward the base of the chimney visible between the legs of the washstand. What was that thud? It didn’t sound like Mitchel adding wood to the fire. It was too soft a sound for that. Perhaps it was something to do with his preparations for their departure or a possible Indian attack.

  She lowered her hands to her lap, stared at the joining of the rough floorboards and the smooth chimney stones. Would she soon be dead at the hand of hostile Indians? How odd if it should happen now, when she was beginning to feel alive again, when she was beginning to believe her life might have a purpose after all.