Ice Princess

by Judith B. Glad

  As long as she felt that way, he had a feelin' she wouldn't get much good out of a man's loving.

  I sure does wish I knew how to help her. She's got to let go of her mad before she's gonna get well. He knew, sure as he knew his own name, that fear and anger was all mixed together inside of her. And they were eatin' at her, like the pup was gnawin' on his bone. Takin' a little bit of her away with every gnaw, leavin' her less than she'd been. Less than she could be.

  Flower had cold meat and some of the flat bread she cooked on a hot rock ready when he came back from his bath. She didn't look at him when he sat down, and didn't say a word while they ate. He watched her, wishing he knew what to say.

  Flower watched William as they ate cold roast venison. His teeth, as they tore at the meat, shone white. The sight of his lips, shiny from grease, made her lick her own. A shiver went down her spine.

  "What you lookin' at woman? Didn't I get my face clean?"

  "Yes, but you have made it dirty again. You have grease smeared from one ear to the other." He had not, until he drew the back of one hand across his cheek, leaving a shiny trail.

  "You ain't much better. And they's a bit of meat right he--" He drew back his hand just before brushed her chest. "Right there."

  Looking down, she saw the shred of venison, stuck to her dress where it lay on the upper curve of her breast. Under the dress, her skin tingled where he had not quite touched her.

  When she raised her eyes, she looked straight into his. What she saw there made her catch her breath.

  She looked away, both frightened and filled with a curious warmth.

  Her fingers were clumsy, her movements jerky as she set the meat she could no longer eat aside and stood. "I must go wash," she said. As quickly as she could, she walked to the river. She would have run, except that William would have followed her, full of concern.

  He said nothing when she returned, but his gaze followed her as she tidied the campsite. She could almost feel the heat.

  "The beehive is somewhere off in that direction," she said, pointing to the southeast. "I'm going to see if I can find it."

  He stood. "I'll come with you."

  "No!" Forcing the squeak form her voice, she repeated, "No. You must stay here, keep the fire burning well. Do not let the flames grow, and do not let it die away. You must keep it hot, but not let it burn the meat. And if it gets too smoky, you must--"

  "I've dried a passel of meat, woman. I knows what to do."

  "Of course you do. I do not know what I was thinking." She fled.

  The sun was low in the western sky when she finally found the beehive. Once the bees were among the sagebrush, they were much more difficult to follow, and she made many false turns before locating the lightning-struck cedar where the bees made their home. They were still flying in and out, and Flower knew that she would be badly stung if she attempted to rob them.

  "I will come back early in the morning," she said aloud, "and bring wood so we can smoke them out." She picked up shards of wood, weathered but still sharp and splintered from the lightning blast. In this arid place, wood rotted slowly, especially if it was cedar.

  Beowulf met her some distance from camp, accompanied by William. The dog pranced about her in welcome.

  William did not. "'Bout time you got back" he said. "I don't like it when I don't know where you is."

  "Where you are," she corrected, then bit her lip. William's speech was improving every day, and it was not her place to criticize. He had no right to question her whereabouts, but that did not excuse her tactlessness.

  "Yes'm. But you still ain't got no business goin' off so far away."

  "Where I go is not your concern. I did not invite you to come with me, and I do not want you to be here."

  His big body blocked the trail. "Seems to me you come here after me. You coulda' just gone off to that there England and forgot all about me."

  "As if I was not aware of what I owe you?" she tried to dodge around him, but he held out an arm to stop her.

  "You don't owe me nothin'. I's...I'm here 'cause I want to be. Besides, you need somebody to watch over you, the way you is always pullin' that big knife on folks what lay a hand on you."

  The blind rage she had been working so hard to eradicate exploded and she snatched her knife from its sheath. "Like this?"

  The sharp point dented the buckskin just below his belt. He did not move.

  "You fool! I could skewer you as you stand!" She prodded, until the point of the knife punctured the leather of his pants and a small droplet of blood appeared.

  Like a striking snake, his hand slapped the knife aside. It flew through the air, clanked against a rock, and skittered across dusty soil. "Be a shame if the blade's nicked," he said quietly. "You shoulda' thought of that." Before she could reply, he stepped aside and fetched the knife. His finger tested the edge. "No, it ain't hurt none. But you'd oughta' take better care of it, seein' as how it's the only one you got." He tucked it under his belt.

  Flower made a grab for it, but he dodged aside. "Give it to me! It is mine!"

  "When you remember how to use a knife, I will. For now I'll keep it where it won't get ruined."

  Truly furious now, she flew at him, fingers curled into claws. "Give me my knife!" she screamed, raining blows on his chest, his shoulders, whatever she could reach. "Give it to me!"

  As he retreated, she followed, still hitting him. A small part of her knew she was out of control, but she did not care. He had taken her only protection from her and she had to get it back.

  He did not attempt to fend off her blows, but kept one big hand on the knife hilt so she could not snatch it from him. As she clawed at his hand, he only tightened his grip on the shaft.

  His lack of resistance infuriated her. Flower renewed her attack, striking him with all her strength. She might have made more impression on a cedar trunk.

  "Give it back," she cried again, from a throat tight with tears. "Give me my knife. I need it. I need it. I need..."

  "No you don't," he said. "You don't need nothin' but this." Strong arms encircled her, pulled her to rest against a hard chest. His voice, deep and low, came to her ears, meaningless syllables that soothed, comforted, as he swayed back and forth, rocking her. For a moment she fought his embrace, then her strength left her and she relaxed against him.

  He smelled of sweat and buckskin, wood smoke and sagebrush. His arms were tight around her, but did not imprison her. Inside them she felt as if nothing in the world could reach her, no earthly force could do her harm. How does he do this to me? she wondered, as she found the last of her rage draining away.

  Her arms went around him of their own accord, clasping his waist. The knife was under her elbow, but she did not care. As long as she was held close to him, she really did not need the knife.

  Why does he do this to me? I do not deserve his kindness. Her eyes closed of their own accord.

  The next instant they flew open again, on a world that spun, then settled again into place. But now she was in his arms and he was striding back along the trail toward their camp.

  "Put me down!" Her demand was as much a plea. "William! You are treating me like a child."

  "Hush," he said, voice still gentle and low. "Let me do this."

  Once in camp, he set her on the stump that was their only seat, draped the better blanket across her shoulders. Quickly he knelt beside the fire and coaxed it into flame.

  Although it was still dusk and the air was warm, Flower shivered. She felt as if she had run a long distance, or climbed a high hill-- short of breath, unsteady, weak. Cold. In short, she felt exhausted. But I have done nothing to exhaust myself!

  The small packet he pulled from her pack held her meager supply of tea. Flower had not opened it, because she knew he did not like its taste. She had been saving it for a special occasion.

  "How much?" he asked, holding the packet up.

  "For the pot? As much as would fill the big spoon one time."

  "How
much for just one cup?"

  "Enough to fill the small spoon." She watched without curiosity as he put the tea into the larger of their two tin cups. When the water boiled, he poured it over the tea leaves and set the cup aside to steep. "Where did you learn to make tea?"

  "I watched you, when you first come...came to Buffalo's cabin. You was so careful to do it just right, and you didn't waste a shred." Reaching past her, he picked up the other cup, shook it. A spider fell out. "We got to talk," he said, "'bout what we're gonna do next." His gaze was on the cup he was turning round and round between his hands, not on her.

  "There is nothing to talk about. When you are well, you will go home. I can be at Oregon City in a week, so you do not need to go with me."

  "You is the stubbornest woman I ever see...saw! Back there at Grande Ronde, me and Jacques, we got to talkin'. He said what's ahead is the worst part of the road. Some places there ain't nowhere to get off the trail like you did up to now. You'll be walkin' right along with anybody else who's goin' or comin'. No place to hide."

  Now he looked straight at her. "You figurin' on pullin your knife on ever' one of 'em who lays a hand on you?"

  "No one will see me!" Hilaire had warned her to be cautious when she followed the route built last year by Palmer and Barlow. Already brigands were preying on the occasional traveler, and at least one man had been left for dead, his pockets empty and his horses and mules stolen. She had planned to stay well of the trail. "I can walk in the woods."

  His head moved from side to side in denial. "That ain't what Jacques told me. If that trail is as bad as he said, you ain't gonna be walkin' anywheres but right down the middle of it."

  "Nonsense. He has never been there." She held out her hand. "May I have my knife?"

  "No'm, I reckon not."

  "I am not a child! You cannot treat me like this!"

  "You act like one sometimes. Tellin' me to go on home. Feelin' sorry for yourself. Runnin' away from trouble instead of facin' up to it."

  His words hit her like blows from a fist. "I have not..."

  "You ain't give me any good reason why you has to go off to England. That Earl fellow, he's just a man. How can he do any more'n me to keep you safe?"

  "He will not need to do anything. In England, there are laws to protect women. It is a civilized country, where I would never need to fear being harmed. Men like those who...like the renegades would be locked in prisons or sent away."

  "You really believe what you're sayin'? That there's places where wickedness don't happen? Where everybody lives by the laws and nobody tries to take more'n his share?" Again that head swing. "Woman, you is livin' in a dream world. I sure hopes you never has to wake up."

  Before she could find the words to answer, he had stood up and turned away from her. "Reckon I'll go see if I cotched any fish in that weir I set this mornin'. I'm gettin' tired of deer meat."

  "Come back here!"

  He never even slowed his pace. Flower stared at the big sagebrush past, which he'd disappeared. He is like a rock. Immovable. I hate him!

  * * * *

  Afterward she wondered why she had cooked supper for him. He did not deserve to be fed. Did not deserve to be treated kindly. He held her in contempt. That had been plain from his accusations this afternoon. I do not feel sorry for myself and I am not running from my troubles.

  Any woman who had been abused as she had would be marked by the experience, would want to know that in the future she could live without fear of its happening again. There was nothing cowardly in her feeling that way. Perhaps he did not understand what civilization could offer. He had, after all, been a slave from birth. He had never been in a city, not as a member of society, entitled to the protection of laws.

  Neither have you.

  She banished that thought from her mind. There was only one road to her future, and the sooner she was back on it, the better.

  Within her breast, her heart was heavy at the thought of walking that road alone.

  William is the kindest man I have ever known. As strong as my father, and as brave.

  They spoke little during supper and afterward. Flower did her best not to look at him, although she waited on him like he was still weak and sickly. William knew she was expecting him to tell her he was sorry for his mean words this afternoon, but he couldn't tell her something that wasn't true.

  She was the smartest, the prettiest, and the most exciting woman he'd ever known. The most set in her ways, too. Once she made her mind up about something, nothing was gonna change it.

  Maybe she didn't care for him enough to be his woman, but she could still go back to Cherry Vale with him. Mist' Em and him together, they could keep the women and the babies from harm.

  The babies. William looked across the fire, to where she was wiping the spider with a handful of dry grass. I never thought about babies before. He had a picture in his mind of Flower, big with child--my child!--holding a babe at her breast, holding a laughing, black-headed child on one hip.

  And then he thought of how she would get that babe and his body tightened painfully.

  "Let's get some sleep," he said, standing and turning a bit away from her. "I'm wore out."

  "Yes. You go ahead." There was something in her voice that hadn't been there before. "I will come...soon." A quaver?

  He checked the smoke-fire before he went to the big cedar where both their beds now lay, an arm-length apart. She had piled fresh branches under both blankets. He sat on his and smelled the tangy scent of crushed cedar. "You comin'?" he called when she did not join him after a long while.

  "In a moment, I must..."

  A soft rustle of leaves told him she had left the small clearing around their fire. Laying back, he stared out toward the embers of the campfire. After a while he saw her return, like a ghost in the moonlight. Full moon tonight or tomorrow, I reckon.

  As he watched, she stirred the embers of the small cooking fire, stood looking down into them. William could not see her face, but he'd seen fiddle strings wasn't stretched as tight as her body was. He opened his mouth to call, then closed it again. No sense pushin'. She'd come to her bed or she wouldn't, and there wasn't nothin' he could do about it.

  Beowulf came out of the brush and nosed her hand. She paid him no attention, just kept staring down into to the almost dead embers. After a couple of tries to get his ears scratched, he gave up and went to the flattened circle of grass he'd chosen as his bed.

  Maybe I oughta' go see...no, she's got to puzzle this out all her ownself.

  Once more Flower stirred the ashes, then tossed the stick aside. She added several small logs to the smoke-fire and sprinkled them with water, just enough to make them smolder instead of flame. At night there was no danger that someone would see the smoke and come looking for its cause as there was in daylight. Slowly then she crossed the clearing, went to her knees at the edge of the cedar's canopy. With a sidelong glance at him, she made a wide detour around his bed and found her own. A few rustles, a sigh, and silence.

  In the shadows, she was nothing more than a pale shape, but William could see her in his mind. She was layin' there all stiff and scared, not trustin' him any more tonight than she had from the first.

  "William?" Her voice was not much more than a whisper. "Are you awake?"

  "Yep."

  "I have been thinking..."

  He waited.

  After a while he decided she'd fallen asleep.

  "William?"

  "I'm listenin."

  She moved. He heard the rustle of her blanket.

  "Would you hold my hand?" Another rustle.

  He turned on his side, looking toward her. Even in the darkness, he could see the hand that reached out to him, fingers open. "I reckon." He stretched out his own arm, found he could just catch her fingertips. Without caring that he scooted off his soft cedar bed, he moved closer, so he could get a good hold.

  Her fingers closed around his, squeezed the littlest bit. The heat that flowed up his arm
and all through his body was better than the warmest blanket. Don't you get all hot and bothered, he warned his eager body. This don't mean anything but that she's startin' to feel easy with me.

  "Good night."

  Although he doubted he'd even close his eyes, William answered, "Sweet dreams." He wished he could make that a promise, not just words.

  * * * *

  Warmth enveloped her. Flower slowly drifted from sleep, aware of a contentment she had never known. Many years had passed since she had slept like this, in her mother's arms, held close and safe from harm.

  But my mother is dead! Cautiously she opened her eyes, just a slit.

  The face beside hers was dark, strong. Masculine.

  The arm that lay across her body, just under her breasts, was hard and muscular, yet it did not imprison her. She moved, ever so slightly, expecting it to tighten, to hold.

  Instead William moved too, pulling her closer to his warmth, yet leaving her the freedom to escape. Now she was so close that she could feel the gentle touch of his breath on her cheek. Moving slowly, she reached a hand upwards, touched his cheek where a dark bruise still told of the beating he had endured.

  For me!

  His eyes opened. His mouth curved in a smile of remarkable sweetness. "I'd like to wake up every morning like this, you in my arms."

  Her first thought was So would I! Then reality intruded. "Oh, William, I wish we could, but it is impossible."

  "Then maybe we better take what we can whilst we can," he murmured, moving his head closer.

  She felt the brush of his lips on her brow like the barest butterfly's kiss. Without a thought, she turned her face upwards. "Perhaps we should," she whispered, afraid to break the spell.

  For the smallest instant, she wondered how she could be so comfortable in his embrace, then all thought vanished as his mouth closed over hers, causing a response within her breast unlike anything she had ever felt.

  It was pain, yet it was not. She wanted to examine the feeling, yet she had no time, for her body was responding to his touch with a cascade of new sensations, each one stronger and more thrilling than the last. Her arms and legs tingled, heat flared in her belly and spread, until even her face felt as if it were aflame. The very breath in her nostrils felt fresh and new, with each inhalation bringing life and lightness into her body.