Ice Princess

by Judith B. Glad

  "You should have. Now I will not sleep tonight." She stretched, yawning. "But I do feel wonderfully rested."

  "I wasn't thinkin' of sleepin' tonight, either," he said, and when she looked at him, he winked. Flower felt the blood surge to her face.

  "Now I sees why they calls you a 'redskin,'" he said, grinning widely.

  Spinning on her heel, she walked out of the clearing and toward the river. "I will bathe again," she said, loud enough for him to hear. "And this time, I would like to do so in privacy."

  "Just don't be too long," he called after her, "else I come and get you."

  She considered the source and ignored him. She had her pride, after all.

  Idly scratching Beowulf's ear, William watched her disappear among the sagebrush. She shouldn't ought to be alone down there. Why anybody standing on the bluff across the river could see her.

  Yep. She needed someone to watch over her. "Stay," he told the pup.

  Pausing behind a screen of brush, he peeked through. She was layin' back in the water, just like earlier, her body white as a magnolia blossom.

  "I reckon I needs a bath too," he murmured. Quickly he shucked his britches.

  Since her eyes were closed, she didn't see him come near, and she shrieked when he splashed into the water alongside her.

  "Go away!" she cried, covering her breasts with one arm, her thatch with the other hand. "Now! I told you I wanted to be alone."

  With all the commotion, she came unbalanced and sank. Blubbering and spitting, she emerged and glared at him, her hair laying in dripping strings across her forehead. "Go away!" she said again.

  "No'm. You hadn't oughta' be alone down here."

  She turned her back. "I've been alone before, and have been perfectly fine."

  Lowering himself in to the water, William moved so close he was almost touching her. "You really want me to go away," he said softly.

  "Yes!" She turned her head, looked at him over her shoulder.

  William waited, not moving. The water lapped around him, still stirred up from their movements. It seemed like the world was waiting with him. Aside from the constant splash and babble of the river, the only sound was the whisper of the breeze in the sagebrush and cedar. In the afternoon's heat, even the birds were silent.

  "No," she said at last. "Stay." She turned again and reached out to him.

  His body never had stopped bein' ready, not even right after he'd had her the first time. He reckoned it'd take him about as long as he lived to get enough of her. And maybe not even then.

  If the water had been any deeper, they'd have likely drownded, the way they thrashed and writhed. William held her on his lap, knowing she still wouldn't want him atop her. She kept her eyes open as he entered her, smiled as he drove gently into her hot core.

  Afterward, she smiled a cat-in-the-cream smile and said, "I am surprised the water did not boil."

  He leaned back, shoulders in the shallows. "Back in Buff's bathtub," he said, referring to the hot spring-fed hollow at her father's cabin, "I used to lay there soakin' and think of doin' this. 'Specially after you come." Idly he traced the faint veins in her breasts with one finger. "But I never figured I'd get the chance."

  Her smile disappeared. "It is only for now," she said, "so don't expect--"

  He touched her lips, hushing her. "We can't ever know what's gonna happen tomorrow," he said, "so let's just not worry about it."

  Her mouth turned down at the corners, but she didn't say anything. Those big gray eyes of hers, though, they told him she hadn't changed her mind about England.

  "I been thinkin'," he said, wanting to change the subject, "that maybe you could fix my brand so's I wouldn't get took...taken as a runaway slave." With one finger he traced the brand on his thigh, feeling the raised-up flesh, hard and ugly. He could read the letters now. H-L-Y, set inside a box. They'd stretched and bent some as he'd grown, but they was still plain enough that that Turner feller recognized them.

  How had Marse Yates cancelled the brands? From what Turner had said, there was something special about it. William closed his eyes, trying to see the brand on his brother's leg. It was still red and weepin' when Heke had come to say goodbye.

  "What are you thinking?" Flower said. "You looked so sad."

  "I was rememberin' my brother," he told her, staring off toward the hill across the river. His eyes burned, like he was gonna cry, and he didn't want her to see him do it. "Hadn't given him a thought for a long time. He was wantin' to take a wife, and the marse's boy decided he wanted Nolly for his ownself. So Heke got sold." A lump at the back of his throat made the words hard to get out. He swallowed, rubbed a hand across his mouth.

  And remembered the brand. The overseer had took a red-hot poker, or something like that, and laid it twice across the letters.

  William had heard Heke scream, clear out in the cotton field.

  Sitting up, he caught Flower's hand in his, pulled her around to face him. "I wants you to cancel my brand," he told her. "I can tell you how. You can use that knife of mine, heat it up in the fire 'til it's red-hot."

  Her eyes were wide and scared looking. "You mean brand you again? No! I cannot!" Kneeling in the water, she took his face between her hands. "William, you have given me back my life. You have sacrificed yourself for me. I owe you so much--"

  "You don't owe me nothin'. I keeps tellin' you." He pushed her gently away, "Look here." He scooted back up on the bank so he could show her his thigh. "You need to make two lines. Here." His finger drew a line across the letters, top to bottom and side to side. "And here." Another line, crossing the first. Like a long, wide X.

  She stared down at his thigh, traced the letters with a finger that barely skimmed his skin. At last she raised her head. " I cannot."

  Without a word he stood and shook himself, like a dog coming from the water. He went behind the screen of brush and fetched his britches and pulled them on. Flower was still in the water, watching him. He could feel it.

  When he was decently covered, he turned back to her. "You keep sayin' you owe me," he said, hating the very taste of the words, "so I'm askin' you again. Will you cancel my brand?"

  She stared at him for a long time. At last she nodded, her chin barely moving up and down.

  "Let's go then. Get it over with." He headed back to the clearing, picking up sticks as he went. Guess I better go get more wood before we does it, else I don't feel like it for a day or two. He refused to think about how the hot steel would sear his flesh.

  I ain't gonna scream. Not this time.

  Flower had supper prepared when he returned with the third load of firewood. The dried fish was gone, but there was more than enough venison to replace it. They would make it over the mountain easily. Tomorrow she would gather kamass and yampah, perhaps dig some cattail root. She had seen a small stand of it when she was seeking a good place to set her deer snare.

  The day after tomorrow they could resume their journey. In a week, ten days at the most, they would be in Oregon City.

  And I will say goodbye to William.

  Resolutely she sent her thoughts in other directions. I must wash the blankets in the morning. They will dry quickly in this heat. And the deer hide--I must finish scraping it, too. It will not be worth much in trade, but if my father's money is gone--no! Doctor McLoughlin will have kept it safe. And he will help me book passage on a ship to England.

  Surely there are still ships sailing there, even if the Americans have taken over the fort.

  William set the wood he was carrying beside the rest. "Where's my knife?"

  "We cannot use it," she said, not looking at him. "Heating it hot enough to brand you will ruin its temper." She had remembered her father complaining how one of his best knives would no longer hold an edge after it had been used to cauterize a rattlesnake bite. While William might have made her promise she would cancel his brand, she was going to make it impossible to accomplish, if she could.

  "Are you tryin' to fool me?"

/>   This time she looked at him. "No, although I would if I could. Do you not remember that after we heated Emmet's knife red-hot, he gave it to Hattie to dig with? He said it was as useless as...he said it was useless as a knife, until it could be retempered."

  He muttered something under his breath.

  They ate in silence, the playful, loving mood of the afternoon fled. Flower wondered if he was sulking, as a spoiled child might, but then she looked carefully at his face. No, he seemed to be thinking.

  After supper, he went to the pack. "You still got that bundle of mine? The one wrapped in that old red shirt Hattie gave me?"

  "It is in the bottom of the pack, I believe. I kept it because the cloth could be useful, even though it seems to be falling apart."

  "Good." He dug, setting her bundles of yarbs and the small pouch containing their gold coins aside. The packets of tea and salt followed, as did the larger one holding the moss she had brought, just in case her courses resumed. "Here it is," he said, holding the small package up. It was tied with a rawhide thong. She had never looked to see what was inside, assuming it held some small thing of value only to William.

  Curiously she watched him carefully unwind the red fabric. Inside was a string of small, brightly colored beads and something the shade of old brass. When he held it up and opened it, she saw that it was a small folding knife with a chipped blade. He ran a finger along the discolored steel. "Was it not for this, I'd'a starved more'n once."

  Still holding the open knife, he went to the woodpile and sorted through the smaller lengths. He picked up one about the size of his hand, a stringy, twisted piece of dry sagebrush wood. "This oughta' do." Carefully he forced the blade of the knife into the wood, until it was held firmly. "Needs a handle," he said, answering her unspoken question.

  Flower realized, with a sinking heart, what he was doing. Mouth dry, she watched as he set the knife in the fire, carefully protecting the embedded blade by laying the cook pot over it. "There. That oughta' be ready in a bit." He leaned down and blew on the coals, causing them to flare into red heat.

  Flower licked her lips. "William, I cannot do this to you."

  He knelt before her. "Look at me, woman."

  She shook her head.

  Gently he cupped her chin, forced it up. "Flower, I gots...I have to have that brand cancelled, else I'll always walk scairt. As long as it says I'm a runaway slave, anybody who wants can cotch me, turn me in for a reward. Marse Yates, he's a powerful man, and he's got a long memory."

  "You're imagining that! No one is that powerful."

  "A feller named Turner, back in The Dalles, he looked at the brand and knew it. Said Marse Yates would pay to get me back."

  She studied his face, saw the truth in it. Drawing a deep breath, she said, "Very well. I will do it. Just let me get my yarbs, so that afterward--"

  "No'm. Afterwards you let it alone. If we makes it better right away, it won't look like it was done quick and mean." He turned back to the fire. The knife handle had darkened. With a stick he moved more coals around it, blew them into life.

  Flower had helped her mother tend the sick and the dying. She had cauterized an infected gunshot wound and had helped in the birthing of more than one babe. Twice she had slit a man's throat and watched, unmoved, the life blood drain from the wound. She was a strong woman.

  Tonight her hand shook.

  Again William looked at the knife. Even she could see that it glowed faintly red at its edges. "You oughta be able to hold it with the wood," he said. He loosened the thong at his waist, dropped his buckskin britches. In the flickering firelight, his skin was a dark, weathered bronze inlaid over ebony.

  "You--" She swallowed. "You must sit." Her voice sounded strained, strange. Leaning forward, she examined the brand. The brand was distorted scars on otherwise matte perfect skin. He must have been small when he was branded, for it had plainly stretched and twisted as his leg lengthened. "How do you want...?"

  His finger traced an X across the box enclosing the letters. Each line was a good six inches long.

  "Oh, William, the pain! How will you stand it?"

  "Do it!" As close to a command he had ever given her.

  Flower picked up the knife, holding firmly by the makeshift wooden handle. She could feel the heat of it as she guided it to his leg. She bit into her lower lip, forcing herself to move carefully. Do not falter. Lay it firmly on his skin, for to hesitate will hurt him far more.

  She lowered the glowing brass until it touched his skin, applied slight pressure.

  His breath hissed between his teeth, but he moved not a muscle.

  She lifted, lowered again, for the brass handle was not so long as the scar. Again the harsh hiss of indrawn breath.

  Twice more she applied the heated metal to his leg, smelling the stink of burned hair, of burned flesh. And when the hateful marks had had been made, she carefully laid the knife to cool on one of the rocks surrounding the fire.

  Only then did she look at William.

  He had fallen back and was stretched out on the ground. Beowulf, who had been asleep under his sagebrush, was beside him, licking his face and whining. Sweat glistened on his face, on his belly. His sex lay flacid between his legs.

  And on his thigh was the obscene, already swelling brand she had given him.

  Afraid to touch him, Flower knelt at his side.

  "That you?" he whispered when her skirt brushed his arm. He kept his eyes closed.

  "I am not kissing you, if that is what you ask. But I am here."

  "Woman, don't you think I can tell the difference between your kisses and the pup's?"

  "After what I did, perhaps you would prefer his kisses."

  "Hah!" The sound was breathy, almost without voice. "You done good, Flower. It didn't hardly hurt atall." Then his mouth twisted. "Well, not as much, anyhow, as I recall it hurt the first time."

  She laid her hand on his broad chest. Under it she felt the pounding of his heart. "William, let me bring the blanket to you here. The less you move, the less you will feel pain."

  He agreed with a nod. Soon she had him settled, his torso and unbranded leg covered against the night's chill with both blankets. She would sleep with Beowulf.

  Before she could follow her intention, he caught at her skirt. "Lay you down here with me, woman. I needs to know where you is."

  Willingly she lowered herself to the ground. A corner of the blanket covered her well enough. With her arm across his chest, she tried to relax.

  "I had hoped to start across the mountains the day after tomorrow," she said, when many minutes had passed and they both still lay tense and awake. "Now we must wait until your leg has healed."

  "No'm we mustn't. I'll be ready to travel when you are. You want to get to Oregon City before winter, we'd best not waste time."

  "It is still summer!"

  "You never know what's gonna happen tomorrow," he said. "That there mountain we're gonna cross, it's got snow atop it right now." He moved restlessly, and she knew the pain from his leg must be torturing him.

  "William! Are you intent on killing yourself for me?"

  His hand sought hers, squeezed. "You know I'd die for you, Flower, if needs be."

  She felt as if her heart had faltered within her breast. "I know you would, William," she whispered. "But oh! Please do not!" She stroked his warm skin, knowing what strength, of body and of will, lay beneath it. "Do not die for me."

  "I got no intention of dyin', woman. I still wants...want to live my whole life with you."

  Instead of telling him he was dreaming, she found herself wondering if such a future might be possible.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Muller was about to give up. The Nigger had disappeared without a trace. He and Turner had searched the whole town. They got help from a couple of Injuns who'd sell their brother for a drink, and poked around the Injun village. He was pretty sure the Nigger wasn't hiding there.

  A few miles outside of town, they found a place w
here it looked like somebody'd camped and cleared out quick. He'd wanted to cast around for a trail, but Turner hadn't been in favor of doing any more. He wanted to get started across the mountains.

  Well, so do I. I'll stick here a while longer, but I aim to be somewhere else come winter.

  He looked up as a stranger came in the door. "Afternoon," he said. "What can I get you?"

  "Beer." The fellow dropped a quarter-eagle on the counter. "And information."

  He was a soft-lookin' man, round-faced and running to fat. In each earlobe he wore a gold ring. His clothes were dusty and soiled, like he'd lived in 'em for a while.

  Setting a foaming mug before him, Muller waited.

  "I'm looking for a squaw. Short. Skinny. Her hair cut real short."

  "There's a Wasco village downriver," Muller said, hooking a thumb in that direction. "You looked down there?"

  "Not yet. And I doubt she'd be there. She come from over on the Snake." He drained the mug and slid it across for a refill. "She might have a Nigger with her."

  Muller felt his ears perk up. "What's your reason for wanting to find her?"

  "That's my business. You seen her?"

  "Nope. But I seen a Nigger, couple of weeks back."

  The fellow leaned forward. "Here? He was here?"

  Now it was Muller's turn to play coy. "Hereabouts, anyhow."

  "Was he dressed like a trapper? All in fringed buckskin? Carryin' a big skinning knife?"

  Muller shook his head. "Not this one. We figured he was a slave got loose from one of the wagon trains and been livin' off the land for a spell." No need to tell him everything, and it never hurts to spread a little confusion. "This Nigger was wearing raggedy britches and nothin' else." He paused, looked off to one side. "'Course, he did have a big knife stuck down his pants."

  "A skinning knife?"

  Reaching under the counter, Muller brought out the knife he'd took off the Nigger. "This one," he said. He set it on the counter and slid it half out of its sheath.

  The handle was smooth and dark with use, but the blade was clean and sharp enough to shave with. Somebody had tooled the hard leather of the sheath with curlicues and a crude outline of a beaver.