“Do you ever regret marrying me?”
Shocked, Nate forgot himself and rose onto his elbows. “Why do you ask?”
“Do you?”
“Of course not. I love you with all my heart.”
“But would you be happier married to a white woman?”
Nate’s brow knit as he tried to ascertain the reason for her concern. He’d never mentioned a word to her about Adeline. “No, I wouldn’t,” he stated firmly. “I couldn’t possibly be happier than I am right at this moment. I’m insulted, Winona, that you would even think to ask.”
“I don’t mean to offend you.”
“Then why bring it up?”
Winona stopped stirring and faced him. “Who is Adeline?”
If the roof had collapsed onto his head, Nate wouldn’t have been more flabbergasted than he was. “Where did you hear her name?”
“From you. While you were unconscious.”
Nate detected hurt in her eyes and struggled to keep his voice calm, his face composed. “What did I say about her?”
“Nothing. You only called her name. Four times.”
“I see,” Nate said, stalling, debating whether to reveal the whole truth. He didn’t want to upset Winona more than she already had been. “Adeline Van Buren is a woman I knew in New York City. We were friends.”
“Only friends?”
“More than friends,” Nate admitted. “We were thinking about getting married.”
“Oh,” Winona said, the word barely audible. She turned to the pot again.
“Come here,” Nate said.
Winona didn’t budge.
“Please.”
Her slender shoulders slumping, Winona let go of the ladle and came over to the edge of the bed.
“Sit down. Please.”
Winona complied reluctantly, averting her gaze.
Grunting, Nate sat up and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Look at me.”
She did so, moisture rimming her eyes.
“You’re all upset for no reason,” Nate assured her. “Adeline Van Buren means nothing to me. I have no regrets over leaving her.” He paused, pulled Winona forward, and gently kissed her. “I married you, dearest, because I love you more than any woman I’ve ever known. More than I could ever care for Adeline. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, raising a family and growing old together. And, God willing, I want to be buried at your side when we both go to meet our Maker.” He paused again. “Do you understand? I would not be happier married to a white woman. I would be miserable without you.”
Winona suddenly threw her arms around him and pressed her face to his neck. “Thank you, husband,” she said quietly.
Nate felt her tears on his skin and a lump formed in his throat. He stroked her hair, chiding himself for not telling her about Adeline sooner. Causing her misery was the last thing he ever wanted to do. He opened his mouth to tell her as much when from outside the cabin came a sound that inevitably heralded trouble.
The crack of a shot.
Chapter Four
Nate let his arms drop and Winona promptly stood, their mutual anxiety forgotten.
Nate put his palms on the bed and swung his legs over the side.
“What do you think you are doing?”
Nate ignored the question, touched his soles to the rough wooden floor, and shoved. He succeeded in rising although his legs shrieked in protest. Swaying precariously, he might have fallen had not Winona quickly stepped to his side and looped an arm around his waist.
“You should stay in bed,” she scolded him.
“Help me to the window,” Nate said, and moved stiffly when she reluctantly complied. They stood next to the deerskin flap that his Uncle Zeke had tacked to the top of the window years ago when the cabin was built. Winona had rolled up the bottom edge half an inch and tied it at that height for ventilation. “How far off do you think that shot was?”
“The other side of the lake.”
Nate nodded. “I’d guess the same.” He bent at the waist and peered out the crack. All he saw was snow and more snow. “Who would be out in weather like this?” he asked absently.
“Utes.”
Incipient apprehension flared in Nate’s breast. He was in no condition to do battle with a band of bloodthirsty Utes. The cabin was located in their territory and his uncle had fought off marauding warriors on several occasions. “I hope you’re wrong,” he said.
“Even if there is a war party in the area, I doubt they can find our cabin.”
Nate liked the way she referred to their home as “our.” He listened for a minute, then began to straighten.
From the distance came a second shot, muffled by the heavy snow and echoing off the high peaks that rimmed the valley in which the cabin was situated.
“That one was a little closer,” Nate commented, at a loss to explain the gunfire. Certainly no one would be hunting in such inclement weather; seeing the game would be impossible. Perhaps the shots were signals of some sort.
“You should lie down,” Winona proposed. “I will keep watch out the window.”
“That’s my job,” Nate disagreed. “Get me a chair and I’ll be fine.”
Hesitating, Winona frowned to emphasize her displeasure, then went to a nearby chair he’d constructed with his own hands and set it in front of the sill. “Here.”
“Thank you,” Nate said gratefully, sinking down. He didn’t know how much longer he could have stayed on his feet. Uncharacteristic weakness pervaded him and he longed to curl up on the bed and sleep for a week.
“Would you like your stew?”
“Yes. And my guns and my other set of buckskins.”
Winona wisely brought the Hawken and both flintlocks over first. None were loaded. He frowned at his oversight. No matter how badly he’d been hurt, reloading should have been his first priority. Nate requested the powder horn and the ammunition-pouch and prepared all three guns in case there should be uninvited visitors. Next he put on the clothes, wedged the pistols under his belt, then started in on the stew. Never had buffalo meat and broth tasted so delicious. He chewed each morsel and savored every drop.
Carting over the other chair, Winona took a seat on his left and watched him finish off the meal. “Would you like more?”
“Not now,” Nate said, rubbing his stomach. “Another drop and I’ll be too drowsy to stay awake.” He gave her the bowl and positioned the Hawken on his lap. The meal had invigorated him and he felt ready to wrestle a bear. A small bear. He was close enough to the window that a slight, cool breeze touched his face and made him feel chilly, a convincing reminder he mustn’t push himself too hard or he’d be back in bed in no time.
Winona moved off, and when next she stepped into view she had a heavy buffalo robe draped over her shoulders. She walked to the front door and gripped the wooden latch.
“Where are you heading?” Nate inquired.
“One of us must check on the horses.”
“I’ll do it,” Nate said, rising.
“Please, husband. You must stay inside and stay warm. I will be back soon.”
Nate stood. Their four animals were in a pen he’d constructed on the south side of the cabin. Verifying the horses were all right would take only a minute, but he didn’t like the notion of Winona venturing out in the blizzard when there might be Utes in the vicinity. “I’ll go.”
“You’re being stubborn. I will be fine.”
Moving over to where his patched Mackinaw hung on a hook on the wall, Nate propped the rifle against his left leg, took the red coat down, and slipped his arms into the sleeves. “Thank you for sewing the rips.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Winona said stiffly. “You shouldn’t go out and you know it.”
“If it will make you feel any better,” Nate offered to appease her, “why don’t we both go?”
“If you insist But stay close to me.”
Nate found his moccasins, put them on, and retrieved the Hawken. “I’ll go fi
rst,” he offered.
A blast of icy wind tore into their cozy home the moment he opened the stout door. Tucking his chin to his chest, Nate steeled himself and walked outside. The whipping snow obscured everything beyond a range of fifteen feet Moist flakes lashed his cheeks.
Winona closed the door behind them.
To their left, stacked against the cabin, was the immense stack of firewood Nate had cut for the winter. Since their home faced due east, he turned right, staying close to the wall as he walked to the corner and peered around the edge. The snow prevented him from seeing the entire pen. He reasoned that the animals would instinctively congregate at the west side of the fence where the forest beyond was thickest and would act as a windbreak.
Nate walked to the pen and began to follow the fence around. He glanced at his wife, who was to his left, and smiled. She gave him a stare every bit as frosty as the blizzard. Annoyed that she didn’t appreciate his selfless gesture in not wanting to expose her to potential danger, he trudged around the south end of the pen and halted when he finally spied the four horses.
The animals had indeed gathered to the west and were huddled together. They gazed at him longingly, as if in the expectation he would make them warm again.
Winona stepped to a pile of grass they had collected to use as feed and dumped several armloads over the top rail, in reality a long limb like all the rest Nate had employed to fashion the fence.
None of the horses moved.
Taking his wife’s elbow, Nate started to retrace their route. The cold was causing him to shiver and he was eager to get inside where the fire would warm him. He entertained the idea of eating another bowl of stew, and thus preoccupied he hiked to within a yard of the entrance when he stopped in midstride.
The front door hung open.
Stunned, Nate exchanged an alarmed glance with Winona. He leveled the Hawken and eased cautiously to the jamb. Had someone been watching the cabin and seen them depart? He rejected that idea because of the limited field of visibility, but then a shadow flitted across the doorway.
Any doubt that there was someone inside evaporated and Nate’s features hardened. It must be Utes, he deduced. If so, they’d pay dearly for violating his home. He cocked the hammer, being careful not to let it click loudly, and peeked into the cabin. His anger gave way to baffled amusement.
A portly white man attired in buckskins stood at the fireplace ladling stew into his fleshy mouth as swiftly as he could dip the implement. He sported a scruffy beard and a thin moustache. On his head perched a cap made from an otter skin. A Kentucky rifle leaned against the wall nearby.
Nate slid into the room and advanced halfway to the fireplace before speaking. “That’s my stew you’re helping yourself to, stranger.”
At the sound of Nate’s voice the man started, dropped the ladle, and spun, some of the broth dripping down over his fat jowls. He blinked a few times, then glanced at the Kentucky rifle.
“You’ll be dead before you touch it,” Nate warned gravely.
The man looked past him as Winona entered, then swallowed and licked his lips.
“Do you have a name?” Nate asked.
“Kennedy, sir,” the man responded in a high, whining voice. “Isaac Kennedy at your service.”
“And what are you doing helping yourself to our stew?”
“I’m sorry,” Kennedy said, and went on in a rush of words as if anxious to explain before he was shot. “I truly am. But I was cold and starving and when I stumbled on your cabin and no one answered my knock I just opened the door and saw the stew and couldn’t resist the temptation.”
Unable to suppress a grin, Nate let the Hawken barrel droop. He shifted and glanced at Winona, then nodded at the door. She scanned the area outside before closing it.
“I didn’t mean no harm, sir,” Kennedy said. “But I was so hungry. I haven’t eaten for over twenty-four hours.”
“That long, eh?” Nate responded with a straight face. He studied the stranger, trying to ascertain the man’s character. One fact was obvious; Isaac Kennedy had no place being in the wilderness. The man clearly was no mountaineer.
“And it’s so cold out there,” Kennedy said, shuddering. “I swear I nearly froze to death a dozen times.”
Nate had a thought. “Was that you doing the shooting earlier?”
“No, sir. That must have been my two partners,” Kennedy said. “We became separated and they were probably searching for me. I heard them shoot but I couldn’t answer them.”
“Why not?”
“I snagged my powder-horn on a tree limb and it was torn off. I tried to find it, but couldn’t.”
Nate stared at the Kentucky rifle. “Your gun isn’t loaded?”
“No, sir. I forgot to load it after I shot at a rabbit the day before yesterday.”
“It’s not very smart to wander around the mountains with an empty rifle.”
“I know. Newton and Lambert are always reminding me to reload right after I fire, but I keep forgetting.”
“I take it that Newton and Lambert are your partners?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stop calling me sir. My name is Nate King,” Nate revealed, and motioned at Winona. “This is Winona, my wife.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Kennedy said, wiping his left sleeve across his chin. He looked at the Hawken and gulped. “You’re not fixing to shoot me, are you?”
“No,” Nate said. He gave the rifle to Winona, who hung it on a rack on the north wall next to the bed. Removing the Mackinaw, he exposed the two flintlocks and saw the man’s eyes widen. “What are you and your partners doing in this neck of the woods?” he asked as he hung the coat up.
“We’re trappers, sir.”
“Is that a fact?” Nate remarked, concealing his disbelief. Why the man should lie, he didn’t know. But if Isaac Kennedy was a trapper, then Nate was the Queen of England. “I’m a free trapper myself. Do you work for one of the fur companies?”
“No,” Kennedy answered quickly, a bit too quickly. “We’re free trappers also.”
“Have you been at it long?”
“Newton and Lambert have. This is my first trip into the Rockies.”
“I never would have guessed,” Nate said. He gestured at one of the chairs. “Why don’t you take a seat, Isaac, and we’ll give you a bowl of stew.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense. We wouldn’t be good Samaritans if we didn’t feed those in need.”
Rubbing his thick hands together in anticipation, Kennedy grinned and walked over to sit down. “Thank you. I’ll never forget your hospitality. I can’t get over how friendly folks are west of the Mississippi. The people in Independence, Missouri, were courteous and helpful to a fault.”
Nate idly scratched the left side of his beard, carefully avoiding the bite mark. Independence, located on the very edge of the frontier, had been founded two years ago and served as the start-off point for many traveling into these vast uncharted lands. “I gather you’re from the East.”
“Ohio,” Kennedy answered, watching as Winona moved to the pot with a bowl in her hand.
“Did you come all this way on foot?”
“No sir. My horse ran away when I fell off it.”
Nate wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “You fell off your horse?”
“Right after I snagged my ammo-pouch on that tree,” Kennedy said, unable to take his eyes off the stew being ladled into the bowl.
“Tell me, Isaac. What did you do before you decided to become a trapper?”
“I was a merchant. Owned my own store,” Kennedy said, almost drooling as Winona approached him with the steaming stew.
“And where do you and your partners plan to do your trapping?”
Kennedy gazed at Nate and replied in all innocence: “In Ute country.”
Chapter Five
The tall man stood beside his horse in the sheltering midst of a stand of high pines and peered skyward at the
diminishing snowfall. He patted his mount, then swung lithely into the saddle. Buckskins and a brown wool coat covered his thin frame. His angular face was surrounded by a black beard at the bottom and a tangled mop of dark hair at the top. Eyes the color of a high country lake but colder than the snow regarded his surroundings with the alert air of a seasoned mountaineer. A perpetual sneer curled his thin lips. In his right hand he clutched a rifle. Snug under the black belt girding his coat was a flintlock.
He goaded his horse out of the pines and across a tract of clear land toward a jumble of boulders at the base of the mountains bordering the valley on the east side. His body swayed slightly with the stride of his animal, as if the horse and him were one entity.
As he neared the boulders he surveyed the area until he saw a spiral of smoke rising from behind several monoliths positioned close together. Urging his horse to go faster he soon arrived at the site and passed between a pair of boulders each the size of a house to find a campfire blazing and another man squatting by the flames who looked up at his advent on the scene.
The second man also wore buckskins and a black coat. He possessed a stockier build and wore a cap constructed from a wolf pelt with the tail dangling down his back. His hair was brown, as were his eyes. A short, trimmed beard lent his face a squarish profile. Leaning on a rock near his left hand was a modified .60 caliber Kentucky rifle, its barrel having been trimmed by several inches and a larger than normal stock added.
A dozen yards behind the man, tethered in a string, were seven pack animals all bearing heavy loads consisting of long wooden crates. Close-by stood a saddle horse.
“Any luck, Lambert?” the man at the fire asked.
“None,” the rider responded, reining up and sliding to the ground. He walked over to the fire, tucked his rifle under his left arm, and extended his fingers toward the welcome warmth. “That damn fool probably got himself killed.”
“I hope not.”
Lambert snorted. “We don’t need that idiot, Newton. I say good riddance to the stupid son of a bitch. In all my born days I’ve never met anyone so incompetent.”
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