Frontier Father

by Dorothy Clark

A vision of Mitchel standing by the hearth, the firelight playing over his strong, handsome face, flashed before her. Her pulse quickened. Memory of the look in his eyes when he’d fastened his gaze on her brought heat rising to her cheeks. She’d wanted to go to him, to put her head on his shoulder and feel his strong arms holding her. A longing, no doubt brought forth because of her awareness of danger, of the knowledge of the possibility of imminent death. Mitchel was a strong, courageous man, resolute and unwavering in his determination to protect his daughter. Of course, his strength would draw her. He made their situation seem…manageable.

  She frowned, went back to her sewing. She could do nothing about the Indians or their intent, her purpose was to care for Mitchel’s child with whatever tools lay in her hands. And the first thing was to keep her warm and dry should they have to run for their lives.

  She eyed one of the scrap pieces, picked it up and tugged at the cut edge. The tight weave held its shape, did not ravel. There would be no hemming needed. That would make the work go apace. She heaved a sigh of relief, cut out a piece to make a hood and pieces for loose-fitting trousers which she would sew closed at the bottom to protect the child’s feet from the cold. But what of her little hands? Tears surged again. The child was so little and helpless. She wiped tears from her cheeks and cut a second cloak from the rubber sheeting. The blanket and sheeting pieces together would provide the child with a warm, rainproof cloak. She pulled the oil lamp close, threaded her needle and took long, running stitches around the outside edges, then sewed the top seam of the hood together.

  The child cried, called for her papa.

  Anne ignored the flash of pain, blocked the child’s sweet face, the soft, smooth feel of her too-warm cheek from her mind and joined the hood to the neck hole in the cloak, easing in the fullness, and making the seam strong with small, neat stitches. Hope would not suffer from the weather—not if she could help it!

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wind gusted down the chimney, puffed smoke into the room.

  Anne turned her head, coughed her lungs clear of the acrid smoke irritation and closed her eyes against the sting. Tears welled, momentarily easing the dry, burning discomfort that was the cost of her sewing projects. But the fruits of her labor were worth the loss of a night’s sleep and tired eyes.

  Everything was finished and stowed away in the pillowcase she’d lined with a leftover piece of the India-rubber sheeting. Everything but the small nightgown she had cut from her warmest cotton petticoat, and the pistol. That was in the large pocket she had sewn into the side seam of the skirt of her gown. The weight of it dragging at her waist band was quite uncomfortable—but comforting.

  She shook her head at the incongruity of the thought, pulled the crane toward her and forked the large chunk of ham off the plate she held into the iron pot. She added the wedges of onion, blinked her eyes clear of a second spate of tears and ladled in enough water to cover the meat. A small push of the crane and the pot hung over the fire.

  Everything must be as usual. Yet, nothing was.

  She stepped back to the heavy, wood table, ladled water over the dried green beans she had waiting in a bowl and began cleaning the carrots. The door opened, cold air rushed in. She tensed, lowered her hand to her side and raised her head. A shiver passed through her. She released her hold on the pistol. “Good morning, Sighing Wind.”

  The plump Indian woman grunted, put her backside against the door and pushed it wide, stepped inside, a milk pail in one hand and a basket of eggs in the other. A quick bump with her round hip slammed the door closed. “Rain she go. Snow she come, maybe so.” The fringe at the bottom of Sighing Wind’s long, buckskin tunic swayed as she scuffed her way to the table, plunked down the pail and the basket of eggs, then shoved the rocker closer to the fire and sat.

  Anne glanced at the eggs, at the bits of nesting material clinging to them. At least it was too cold for flies. She moved them away from her soaking beans, picked up a knife and cut the cleaned carrots into large chunks and piled them on the plate. She carried them to the hearth, added them to the ham and onions to simmer while she was teaching. Would they eat this meal? Or would they be running toward Emma and the emigrant town? Or would they be— No.

  Not again, God. Not again.

  She put the lid on the iron pot, carried the pail of milk and the basket of eggs into the buttery. There would be cream enough to make butter now. Would they even need butter? No matter. Everything must go on as usual.

  She closed the buttery door, removed her apron and hung it on the nail on the wall. The weight of the revolver pressed against her thigh, reminded her of their danger. Mitchel was at work outside. Was he safe?

  She thrust the thought away, pushed the hair combs deeper into the pile of curls on her head and looked toward the hearth. Sighing Wind. The name put her in mind of slender tall grasses and supple tree tops swaying gracefully in a breeze. An odd fit for the solid, stoic Indian woman in the rocker. Did she know about the furs Mitchel’s helper had stolen?

  She took a deep breath. “Sighing Wind, I have to go to the schoolroom. I would like you to please wash the table. And when the cream has risen to the top of today’s milk, add it to the cream already saved in the crock, and churn butter.”

  A grunt was her answer. She smoothed her hands over the front of her skirt and walked to the dining room, the pistol bumping against her leg with every other step. She continued on across the small room to the parlor, headed for the back door at the foot of the stairs, stopped and looked over her shoulder. The bedroom door at the other end of the parlor was open. She clenched her hands, looked back at the door and willed her feet to move, but they stayed stubbornly in place.

  She gave in to the need to see the child safe in her bed, turned and walked the length of the room, pressed close to the wall and peered around the door frame into the bedroom.

  Laughing Rain was adding wood to the fire. The child was propped against her pillows, holding a doll made of sticks in her hand, the red flannel wrappings on her wrists visible beneath the too-short sleeves of a cotton nightgown. The child was so small, so ill.

  Tears surged, clogged her throat. She blinked her eyes, covered her mouth with her hand and ran on tiptoe back to the door, snatched her cloak off the peg on the wall and rushed outside. She would help the child in every way possible, but she would not risk her heart.

  The rain had stopped. But the damp, chill air of the past few days had taken on a new bite. Mitchel frowned, looked toward the low hills. He should ride out and check on his cows, but it was too far. He couldn’t bring himself to leave the area around the mission house.

  He turned back to the pile of firewood, set a length of log on end, took a firm hold on his axe and swung from the shoulder. The sharp steel bit into the log, split it dead center. He set up the halves, split them and threw the chunks into the wagon.

  It wasn’t as if he didn’t have enough work to do around the place. Spotted Owl and all the other Cayuse braves who helped him around the mission had disappeared. They’d simply wandered off, one by one. Not an unusual thing in itself. The Indian lifestyle was not given to disciplined schedules. The braves worked when they wanted, and when they tired of whatever job they were doing they simply threw down the tools and went hunting, fishing or raiding. But they had never before gone all at once. His uneasiness grew. He didn’t like it.

  He split a few more lengths of wood, tossed the pieces on the wagon to top off the load and walked to the head of the horse standing quietly between the traces. “Come on, girl.” He took hold of the reins and walked her out onto the path that led to the rear of the mission house.

  Hoofbeats thundered against the ground. He looked to the trail that led by the mission, tensed. Four—no five—Cayuse warriors were approaching, the two in the rear each leading a string of horses. A raiding party then. Hopefully their success would have them in good humor.

  He stopped the horse with the wagon barring the path, checked to make sure his knife
would easily slip free of its sheath and stood waiting. The mare tossed her head, snorted as the Indians came close. He reached up and stroked her neck. “Whoa, girl. It’s all right. Everything is all right.” Grant that it may be so, Lord. Be with me.

  “Why you do squaw work, Mission Man?”

  Mitchel ignored the sneer of the leader, the laughter of the other warriors. “A white man’s squaw does not gather wood. A white man cuts wood with his sharp axe to keep his family warm when the air bites and snow hides the ground.”

  “Whah! Squaw hunt meat? Raid village get horse you ride?”

  The warriors glanced at each other, laughed at their leader’s mockery of the Mission Man.

  Mitchel shook his head. “No. I raise my meat, and buy my horses. I do not steal. It is bad in the eyes of my God.”

  The warrior’s gaze sharpened. “You no talk about your God. You no tell bad to steal. Our bellies hungry. You give meat.” He raised his hand, pointed an imperious finger at the sows in the round corral attached to the sty.

  He met the warrior’s angry gaze fully, nodded. “I am happy to share with my Cayuse brothers the meat my God puts in my hand. No warrior leaves my mission with his belly empty.”

  The warriors slid from their horses, ran for the corral and leaped the fence. The sows ran around the enclosure, snorting and grunting, spun, with teeth bared, and charged the whooping braves chasing them. Piglets squealed and squirmed out of their captor’s hands, raced in and out between the warriors’ moccasin-clad feet, tripping them and sending them headlong into the churned up mud to the hooting delight of their friends.

  It was bedlam. And a blessing. Mitchel grabbed a bucket, ran and scooped it full of dried bark and wood chips, rushed into the smithy and grabbed a small, iron pot of hot coals and hurried toward the corral. The bark caught fire immediately, the chips smoldered, then burst into flames. He ran to the wagon, grabbed an armload of firewood and ran back.

  One of the warriors gave a cry that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He looked into the corral, saw the brave astride a huge sow, watched him lean forward and slice his knife across its throat, and whooping with victory, ride it until its knees buckled and it collapsed. Another followed suit. He turned away from the carnage, threw more wood on the fire. When the warriors had finished their butchering, and their custom of eating parts of their kill raw, they would haul it to the fire. He wanted it ready.

  He turned and walked back to the wagon, approached slowly so as not to spook the Indian mounts, grasped the reins and led the mare toward the corral. Lord, please, let those Indian ponies follow. He wanted them as far from the mission house and the schoolroom as he could manage.

  “What is that?” Earsplitting whoops, squeals of pigs drowned out her voice. Anne dropped the stones she held, pressed her hand to the base of her throat. An ululating cry quivered on the air, raised goose bumps on her flesh.

  “That victory cry!”

  Mitchel! She slid her hand into her pocket, ran to the door, yanked it open and rushed outside. He was leading a horse pulling a wagon toward the pigsty.

  “Get inside and lock that door!” He hissed the words at her without pausing, without so much as looking her direction.

  She turned, her legs wobbly with relief, and almost fell over the children standing beside her and laughing at the mayhem in the pig corral. “Inside, children.”

  She spread her arms and herded them back into the schoolroom, leaned against the door and took a deep breath. The children stood like little statues watching her. She motioned them to their seats. “Please put your slate and chalk on my table, then you are free to go. School is over for today.” There would be no danger to them from the warriors. But if they stayed…

  “You afraid Indian.”

  She stiffened at the trace of satisfaction and scorn in the quiet words, buried her trembling hands in the folds of her long skirt and looked at Running Wolf. “I was startled by the yelling. Men do not behave in such a manner where I come from.” She held her hands at her sides though she was itching to throw the bar-lock in place. “I am dismissing school because of the goings-on outside. It is impossible to teach if I have to shout to be heard.” She fixed a steady gaze on the young Indian boy. “And when did you learn to speak English, Running Wolf?”

  He placed his slate on her table atop those of Iva and Kitturah, drew himself up straight and looked up at her. “Me go fort. Me listen white man much good.”

  “I see.” She looked at his proud stance, decided not to make an issue of his devious behavior in holding back the truth from her. “It is good to know. From now on, you will speak English in school. And Iva will no longer translate my instructions to you.”

  She smiled at her three young students, stepped back and opened the door. “Good afternoon, I shall see you tomorrow.”

  They filed out, ran around the corner of the kitchen and disappeared. She closed and locked the door, sagged against it. She must never show fear in front of the children again. Especially Running Wolf. It would cost her all the respect she had thus far earned.

  She took a long, slow breath, walked to the bench desk and picked up the small stones she had dropped, searched for one that had gone missing. She needed all of them to teach the children their numbers, and the rudiments of ciphering. She found the stone under the second bench, placed it in the small, drawstring bag and put it on her table. A few quick prods with the poker separated the burning logs of the fire so they would simply smolder and go out.

  She swirled her cloak around her shoulders, turned down the wick on the lamp, cupped her hand over the chimney and blew out the flame.

  “Piggies crying, Papa.”

  “Yes they were, Hope.” Mitchel looked down at the frown on his daughter’s face, sought the right words to explain away her concern. “Sometimes pigs get hurt and they cry.” He tapped the end of her tiny, tip-tilted nose and smiled. “The same as little girls cry when they hurt.”

  “Papas don’t cry.”

  Oh, but their hearts do, Hope. Their hearts do. “That’s because we’re big and tough!” He stopped the rocker, sat up ramrod straight, put a fierce look on his face. She giggled. A beautiful sound that filled his heart with tears. It was so seldom she laughed. He relaxed back in the chair, pushed against the floor with his toe and set it rocking again.

  Her frown returned. “Piggies hurt all better?”

  “Yes. The pigs do not hurt anymore.”

  “Me glad. Me don’t like to hurt, Papa.”

  Another wound to his heart. It would soon drown in its tears. “I know, Hope.” He kissed her soft, warm cheek, too choked to say more.

  “Lady make me better.”

  Her voice faded. He looked down at her heavy-lidded eyes, rose and carried her to her bed. “Time to go to sleep, Hope.” He tucked the covers up under her chin, leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Happy dreams, Hope.”

  “Me dream…horsey…”

  Such a simple dream for a child. But not for Hope. Pain and anger surged. He stood looking down at his daughter, struggling to control his emotions, to fight his way through the knowledge of all that threatened her and find the faith that had once come so easily to him. “I believe, Almighty God, I believe. ‘Help Thou my unbelief.’ Keep Hope safe, I pray. And someday, Lord, make her well so she can ride her horsey. Amen.”

  Mitchel wrote another sentence, paused, forced himself to keep his gaze focused on the paper. Not an easy task. All he need do was take a few steps across the room to satisfy the growing demand in him to be close to Anne, to share these quiet night hours with her. God alone knew—

  He shoved back from the desk and went to stand by the hearth. What purpose did record keeping serve given the peril of their present situation? What did it matter if the Cayuse warriors slaughtered three pigs for sport?

  He poked at the fire, leaned the poker against the stones and allowed himself to drink in the loveliness that was Anne. The way the firelight kissed the long, brown lash
es shielding her eyes, drew a golden whisper across her high cheekbones and the tip of her patrician nose took his breath.

  He told himself he should look away. But what did it matter if he let his heart dream? What harm would imagining do under the circumstances? It was only the shared danger that heightened the attraction, that made him want to be close to her, to share his thoughts, his hopes and his fears with her. Anne could not bear to be around his daughter. And he could never truly care for a woman who did not love Hope.

  “Have you finished your day’s accounting?”

  Anne lifted her head and he caught a glimpse of the smudges of weariness beneath her eyes before she returned to her sewing. Reality replaced his wandering thoughts. What should he tell her? That there was no purpose? He shook his head. “It’s difficult to muster enthusiasm for the task tonight.”

  Her hands stilled. She looked up, nodded. “Yes, I imagine it would be hard under the circumstances.”

  He read the understanding in her eyes, wanted to take the knowledge of it from her, to spare her the worry and protect her from the fear. He was helpless to do any of it. “And you?” He nodded toward the small pile of fabric on her lap. “Are you almost finished with your sewing?”

  “Yes.” She took a stitch, pulled the thread taut, then reached for her scissors and snipped the needle free. “I’ve finished the hem. Now I’ve only to attach the ties.” She lifted the garment by its narrow shoulders, shook it out.

  He stared, reality and imagination merged, hope flared. “You’ve made a nightgown for Hope?”

  She nodded, picked up her needle and a short length of ribbon, bent her head over her work. “You said the child suffered with the cold, and that her nightgowns are too small.” She placed the ribbon at the edge of the neck opening, jabbed the needle through to the underside of the fabric, turned it and pushed it through to the top again. “Emma and Papa Doc would never forgive me if I did not see that your daughter had warm clothes for our journey to the emigrant town.”