As they neared the Indian camp, Monti took in the teepees, which rose like steeples toward the clouds. More imposing than she’d imagined from Antoine’s accounts. People milled around the area, women with long braids hanging over each shoulder and babies strapped to their backs. Men with equally long braids, working outside of the opened flaps of their homes.
Everyone stopped and watched them, and a single man strode forward to meet them just outside the circle of tents. He moved with a lithe grace, his bearing tall and regal. The children shifted from their cluster around Antoine to stand behind the Indian as though drawn to his magnetic leadership.
Antoine spoke to the man in the lyrical Indian tongue, and he responded in kind. It would have been nice to understand what was being said.
She stepped closer to Joseph and spoke under her breath. “What are they saying?”
“Just a greeting,” he murmured back. “This is Hungry Wolf, chief of the village.” Joseph paused. “And now the priest is introducing you.”
She’d gathered as much when Antoine motioned back at them and spoke her name.
“Now he’s telling about the supplies we brought.”
The Indian nodded, then motioned at the village behind him and spoke a few syllables. His voice was decisive in its finality, and he turned and strode through the crowd of children as they parted for him.
“He said to go and do.” Joseph turned to the horses and gathered their reins. “So I reckon’ we’d best get started.”
She stayed close to Joseph and Antoine as they distributed blankets and beads and food supplies to the people. They seemed to know her cousin well, and he joked with some of them, using a mixture of English and the Indians’ language.
She couldn’t help but notice one man who kept to himself, standing in front of a teepee at the edge of the group. His clothing was a bit more elaborate than the others, with bone and colored beadwork adorning his buckskin tunic. He wore some kind of feathered ornament in his hair, and most of the time he stood with his arms crossed, watching them.
“Who is he?” she asked Antoine as they left a group of young women and moved toward a circle of older women around a campfire.
“The Shaman. Medicine man. He’s been hesitant to accept my presence among his people. His role is both healer and spiritual guide, and he questions the Good News I bring about our Lord.”
The way the man’s gaze seemed to penetrate was unnerving, yet part of her wanted to turn and speak to him. Just to face his scrutiny and prove she wasn’t afraid of him. Even though the idea did make her heart race into her throat.
After visiting with the old squaws for a few moments, Antoine bid them farewell and continued on. She hadn’t seen Joseph for a little while, and she scanned the area.
A group of children darted about on the hillside at the edge of the village, drawing her gaze that direction. A larger, buckskin-clad figure lunged forward, scooping up one of the little ones. The echo of a giggle rang across the distance, intermingled with a man’s deep laugh.
She stared at the pair, the happy sounds seeping through her like a warm tea. Before she made the decision to step forward, her feet had already moved toward the gathering of playmates.
As she neared and the features of each became clear, she had to work to reconcile this picture of Joseph—playing with the Indian children, rolling on the ground in a mock wrestling match, tossing little Hollow Oak in the air until her giggles rang out. Was this the same Joseph she’d come to know over the past week? The man who’d been so quiet and somber?
This Joseph seemed to have lost the cloak of despair that sometimes shrouded him. This Joseph was light and carefree as a man enjoying the gifts God set before him.
He seemed to realize her presence then and turned to meet her gaze. The twenty feet or so that separated them melted away, and she lost herself in the twinkle of his amber gaze, the laugh lines around his eyes, the strength that resonated there.
She obeyed the magnetic pull that drew her toward him, but finally broke eye contact when Hollow Oak reached for her.
“Monti.” The child’s chubby hands reached around her neck as Monti took her, breathing in the warmth and softness of the little girl.
“Hello.” She balanced the girl on her hip and looked into those dark eyes. Her face was smudged with dirt, and she seemed to be breathing hard. Monti glanced at Joseph. “I think you’ve worn her out.”
He reached out and tugged one of the child’s braids, then spoke in her language.
The girl snuggled into Monti’s chest and looked at him shyly as she gave a soft answer.
He tapped her nose with a smile, then looked up at Monti. “She says she’s hungry.”
Monti tucked the girl in tighter, wrapping her arms around the little one. “We need to feed you then. What about the rest of the children? Are they all hungry?”
Joseph spoke the same words to them he’d asked Hollow Oak, and received a chorus of matching answers. He turned back to her with his mouth quirked. “Sounds like yes.”
Together, they strolled with the children through the camp, and Joseph stopped them in front of a large fire pit where two women worked. When he spoke, she was finally able to pick out a series of sounds that matched what he’d said before.
“Áóoyiwa.” Or something like that.
One of the women nodded and motioned toward a large carved wooden bowl. The children surged toward the dish, all reaching in and pulling out handfuls of some kind of mush. Apparently, it served as the village porridge bowl. At least for the children.
Hollow Oak squirmed, and Monti put her down, then stepped back beside Joseph as the girl scampered to join the others with their snack.
He touched her elbow. “I see the priest standing by the horses. We should get a move on before daylight leaves us.”
The sun had been bright today, warming the air and softening the snow into trickles of water. She walked beside him, glancing around at the Indian camp that didn’t seem quite as frightening now. But how different would it feel without the man striding beside her?
A strong part of her didn’t want to know. Although soon she’d find out. Joseph had his own life to live, and she couldn’t rely on him to be her crutch. Soon, she’d have to find the strength within herself to face her fears alone.
No, not alone. With God’s help, she could accomplish anything.
JOSEPH REINED IN AT the Bergeron cabin two days later, his ears picking up a scraping sound from around the side. He eased down from his saddle and moved toward the noise. Was the priest building something in the lean-to? It seemed a touch early in the day for that, but perhaps he needed to finish his work before they went back to the Indian camp.
As he stepped around the corner of the cabin, he stopped at the sight of a willowy backside. A familiar frame bending away from him as she scraped something out of a shallow pan. From the stench wafting toward him, she must have burned breakfast. Not surprising, since she had to cook over a hearth fire. Probably a task she’d never attempted back in Montreal.
He marveled at how far this French princess had come yet knew she’d mastered not even a fraction of what she had left to learn.
Which reminded him—he’d planned to teach her a few more meals. Now was probably as good a time as any.
He leaned against the corner of the house, propping one toe and crossing his arms over his chest. She made such a fetching image no matter what she did, and just now, it was hard to take his eyes from her.
It didn’t take his conscience long to push through, though, so he spoke up to make his presence known. “Have you tried oat pudding yet?”
She whirled to face him, raising her wooden spoon as though she planned to use it like a club. When she got a good look at him, her body seemed to sag with relief. “Joseph, you scared the breath out of me.”
He tried to hold in the grin that fought for release, but he couldn’t quite control the corners of his mouth. “Sorry.” Although, he might not have meant that
apology as much as he should have.
“You are not.” She blew at a piece of hair that clung to her mouth.
How did she know him so well already? His fingers itched to step forward and brush the hair from her face. But he forced himself to stay put. Maybe if he kept his focus on the cooking... “So what do you say? Oat pudding?”
She glanced down at the blackened pan in her hand. “My corn cakes didn’t do so well this morning.”
“I saw a barrel of oats under one of the crates in there, and I’m sure there’re some dried onions and greens somewhere.” He pushed off from the wall and reached for the pan. “It’s one of the easiest meals I know, and a good change from corn mush.”
She nodded and let him take the cast iron pan, then he followed her inside.
As they started into the simple meal, he was once again reminded how intelligent she was, easily catching onto ideas. And although she didn’t know the names of many ingredients or cooking techniques he mentioned, once she understood the concept, she worked through chopping the greens and packing the boiling bag with a confidence not many new cooks would possess.
When they had the pudding in the cloth and boiling in a pot full of water, he glanced around the room. “Where’s Father Bergeron?”
She wiped her hands on her apron. “He’s gone for a walk to commune with God. I planned to have the morning meal ready when he returned. How long will this take?”
He eyed it. “About an hour, usually. I hope he planned a long walk.” And that would mean he had an hour with Monti. Alone. Was that good or bad? His body and mind seemed to war within him over the question.
She glanced at him as she lifted the apron over her head. “What are you doing here? Surely you didn’t come just to enjoy my tasty meals.”
It was hard to hold in a smile at that, but he did his best. “I told your cousin I would help transport a few more supplies. He has more than could be tied onto the back of your saddles, so I brought a pack horse.”
She nodded and moved to the other side of the cabin. “I wondered how many trips it would take us to deliver all this. I’ve sorted through the crates and stacked all the supplies over here.”
As he followed her, his gaze swept around the room. The place did look a little different. Cleaner, maybe? The simple cabin seemed to have more of a smile than before. Although that sounded ridiculous.
She spun to face him. “Where can I get more fabric? Is there a mercantile in the area? And I’d like a rug—a nice big, colorful mat for the floor.”
He raised his brows at her. “The nearest trading post is a day’s ride away. You should talk to Emma, though. She’s got that kind of stuff everywhere. I think she probably has extra in trunks.”
A longing came into her gaze. “Your sister?”
The way she said it made him feel like an unthoughtful cur. Of course she’d want to get acquainted with the women in the area. She’d been away from civilization for weeks now, maybe even months. And since Emma and Aunt Mary were the only women within a half day’s ride, he should orchestrate the meeting.
He propped his hands at his waist and scuffed his boot on the wooden floor. “I should take you to meet her. My Aunt Mary, too. If they knew you were here, they’d have been over already.”
A noise sounded on the stoop, and the door creaked open.
“I’ll see when Father Bergeron can spare you.”
“I cannot spare her. Not ever.” The priest’s humorous tone entered the room before he did. After pulling off his gloves, he cupped his hands around his mouth and blew. “Now what is it you need my cousin for?”
Joseph fought the burn climbing his neck at the question, but it was no use. “I thought she might like to meet my sister and aunt. I could see if they can come here if it’s too much for Monti to go for a visit.”
The priest waved a dismissive hand. “Tomorrow is perfect for Monti to visit. I must travel to the Blood tribe over the mountain, and ’tis best I travel alone this time. There has been much sickness among them.”
“But Antoine”— Monti stepped forward—"if the people are ill, you’ll need my help. This is what I came for.”
He waved her words away. “These people do not take well to strangers. I have worked many years to be accepted in even a small way. Besides, it is the pox, which I have already been burdened with. You, ma fifille, have not, and it would be harmful for you to be exposed.”
An image of Monti with her face covered with red lesions flickered in his mind, and he tightened his jaw against it. “That disease could kill you, Monti. You can’t go. I can collect you right after breakfast. Or...” His mind spun to find an ingredient he could bring and teach her to cook. “Maybe I’ll see a snowshoe hare or two along the way and come a mite earlier. Perhaps you’d even offer to feed me if I brought part of the meal.”
She looked torn, turning thoughtful eyes to him. At last, she offered a weak smile. “Oui. I would be pleased to meet your sister and your aunt.”
Her words brought a flood of relief that finally eased the tension in his body. At least she wouldn’t be exposed to the dangers of smallpox. And if he’d also won an extra day in her presence, well...even better.
Chapter Ten
My heart aches for this pain another bears. I must find a way to help this time.
~ Monti’s Journal
MONTI’S SECOND TRIP to the Indian camp proved another eye-opening experience. The children flocked around them again, absorbing as much attention as the three of them could offer.
The adults seemed to be a bit harder to win over. The women were polite but never approached or spoke unless answering a question. Of course, asking a question was almost impossible for Monti, although she learned a few gestures in their sign language as the day progressed. The men kept to themselves mostly, sitting near a campfire crafting arrows or some other kind of wood carving. One of the men was carving bowls identical to the ones in Antoine’s cabin.
She really wanted to examine the carvings closer but didn’t dare stop and stare at the Indian braves. What would they think of that?
Joseph had left them before the midday meal, such as it was. Some kind of bread pudding that had steeped beside the fire several hours, then was allowed to form a crust on top. The taste wasn’t so bad. Certainly better than the charred corncakes she’d tossed out that morning. Almost as good as the oat pudding Joseph helped her make.
He was such a conundrum. Both a tough mountain man and a competent cook. The same hand that strummed a guitar frequently killed and skinned wild animals. Had he learned his domestic skills from his sister? Possibly from living on his own, too. Monti was looking forward to meeting this twin sister, his closest family.
A touch on her elbow broke through Monti’s thoughts, and she turned to see the pleasant face of a young Indian squaw. The woman spoke with a smile and motioned for Monti to follow her.
Monti glanced around for Antoine, but he was nowhere to be seen. Whatever this woman wanted, it would be helpful to have someone to translate for them. It appeared they’d have to muddle through with hand gestures.
She followed the lithe form of the young squaw to a teepee, and the woman motioned her to come inside as she stepped through the slit in the covering that served as a door.
Monti hesitated, glanced behind her. She’d not been inside one of the structures. Was it safe to enter alone? No sign of Antoine. If the Indians had planned to scalp her, they would have done so by now, right? And the woman might perceive it as an insult if she refused her hospitality.
Squaring her shoulders, Monti pulled one side of the opening back and peered in. The place seemed empty except the Indian woman, who was bent over something on the right. Monti stepped inside, and the woman motioned her over.
It didn’t take long for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior, because light spilled through the fibers of the animal skins stretched tight. A fire danced in the middle of the structure, fighting off the chill and making the space smoky, but still rather
cozy.
Monti approached the squaw, and a flicker of movement made her realize the woman knelt beside a person lying under a fur blanket.
“Monti.”
She stepped nearer, and her heart squeezed at the sight of the little girl tucked in the covers. “Hollow Oak. What’s wrong?” She looked to the squaw. “Is she napping?” Perhaps the girl was still small enough to need a midday rest.
The Indian’s face was blank, so Monti pressed her hands together and laid her head against them as if she were sleeping. “Is she napping?”
The woman shook her head and pressed a fist to her chest, over her heart. She spoke something, but Monti had no idea what. Then she made a motion of breaking something with her hands.
Heart breaking? Heart hurting?
Monti looked to the girl again, dropping to her knees beside the pallet of animal skins. “What’s wrong, mon chou? Are you ill?” She took Hollow Oak’s hand as the woman—her mother?—stepped back to allow them space.
The girl’s eyes seemed weak, and Monti pressed her free hand to one of her tawny cheeks. Not feverish, but her breathing seemed loud for such a small child. As though she struggled for each inhale.
She stroked the glossy black hair, softer than she would have expected. Hollow Oak’s eyes drifted partway closed, and Monti kept stroking. Her breathing didn’t seem to come any easier. What could be wrong with the girl? She’d been playing with Joseph and the others only an hour or so before. Some sort of running game where one person ran around and tagged the others, making them stand frozen until another person came and tagged them again.
Monti had watched from a distance while she followed Antoine on his rounds to visit people sitting in front of their lodges. Hollow Oak had seemed to be as vibrant as any young girl during the sport. But this wheezing definitely wasn’t normal.
Perhaps she had a bad cold. Monti scanned her face for signs of leaking nose or other irritants. Truthfully, she looked well, save the insipid look to her eyes and the labored breathing.
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