by Zina Abbott
Libby turned to study Otto, who had rolled on his side and thrown his arm over his eyes. He appeared to be asleep. She wondered what it would be like to be able to wake each morning next to him as his wife. Besides being handsome, he was strong. His strength was on his inside—a man of character—as well as his outside. He deserved to have someone better than her for a wife—someone without her past. How she yearned for him. However, he must never know.
She allowed herself to study the tan of his exposed skin. His father had dressed him in a loose nightshirt, and Otto’s neck and the top portion of his chest were visible through the neckline left partially open to allow him to breathe more easily and stay cooler. She hoped under the sheet pulled up to his waist he also wore a pair of drawers, for as the upstairs heated with the hot, humid weather, she expected him to kick off even the sheet.
Henry had not been happy when informed by his father that until Otto could do for himself, he must help him with personal care, but he had agreed. The rest she would see to, and happily, but she would not go beyond what was proper. They had barely spoken since the day he had told Warren she was his wife, and she had no idea how he felt about her now he knew the ugliness of her past. She wondered if he thought ill of her, especially since he now suffered the consequences of standing up to Warren. She would not blame him if he wanted nothing to do with her.
On top of that, Warren Murray was still out there. He would not have left the area without first getting what he wanted—not after coming so far after all this time. Since she fled just before everything froze up north, she had enjoyed a few months of reprieve. However, he must have started his search downriver as soon as spring thaw opened all the waterways. Even with all her efforts to cover her tracks, it had only taken him until July to find her.
Once Otto is well, I must run again.
“Do I have a spot on my shirt, or do you hope to burn a hole through me?”
Libby blinked at Otto’s words. “I thought you were asleep. Would you like some water or willow bark tea? The doctor said as long as you don’t overdo it, the tea or the salicylic powder might bring down the swelling some.”
“I could use some water. I may drink some of that tea later. Right now, that morning sun pouring through the window is what bothers me most.”
Libby picked up and shook loose one of the blankets stacked on top of the chest. She draped it over the rod holding up the sheers covering the east-facing window.
The light level in the room immediately dimmed, and Otto moved his arm from his face, although he still kept his eyelids almost closed. “Pa already leave?”
“He just pulled out. Henry is down looking over everything in the barn. He says if you’re up to it, he wants to talk to you today before he starts on the rest of the planting.”
Libby returned with cool water from the barrel in the kitchen. Otto grunted in frustration as he hoisted up his upper body and balanced on one forearm while he accepted the cup with his other hand. After several swallows, he handed the cup back and sank once again into a prone position. “I hate being stuck here like this. I should be taking care of my own farm, not relying on others.”
Libby placed the cup on the table by his bed and sat in the chair she had brought up from downstairs and put where she could sit close to him. “You will be able to return to your work soon. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”
“He said the only reason he didn’t was because he knew we weren’t married.” Otto turned to look at her. “Libby, he’ll be back. It’s not safe for you here. I know you have Henry to watch out for you, but with me laid up like this, I’m not much help right now.”
“It’s because of me this happened. It was only right I help you until you’re better. I must get away from him, and I must keep him away from your family.” She clapped her hand to her mouth as her voice caught, and she willed the tears forming to not fall.
I will not cry. It does no good.
With her emotions once again under control, Libby sucked in a breath, and her eyes met his. On his face she saw more than the pain of his concussion--sorrow. She forced her words out so there would be no misunderstanding. “I’ll stay long enough to see you well again. Then, I must leave. I won’t tell you where I’ll go next.”
I don’t know where yet myself.
“I only know that even though I lived with the fear he would find me, I have felt free these past months. I won’t go back with him and give that up.”
“I agree. You mustn’t go back with him, Libby. But don’t keep running. Stay with people who have grown to care about you. Let us help you. The law is bound to catch up with him.”
Libby folded her arms around her middle and, without realizing it, began to rock to and fro. “What will the law do to him? In their eyes, what has he done wrong? He attacked you twice, but the second time, when he injured you, it’s your word against his. The first time, they could say he was reclaiming what was his—his Indian woman who ran away. If they lock him up, how long before they let him go?”
“Please, Libby. Stay and let us help you. Let me help you. I’ll be on my feet in a few days and…”
“And then I must leave, because it’s not proper that we are in the same house without being married. Yet, I dare not return to the Palmers, not with your sister and your niece living so close.”
Silence hung between them for several seconds.
“Libby, my offer still stands. I want to marry you. Stay here with me, and we can face this together.”
Libby studied his face. “How can you even bear to be around me, knowing the life I’ve lived? You’re still willing to marry me, even after what you know about me?”
“Yes.” Otto squeezed his eyes tight as he fought of a wave of light-headedness. “I know he gave you no choice. You were a child. I find what he did to you repulsive, but not you…not you. I know with this crippled leg I’m not the best choice for a husband. It takes me longer to do things. But, I do have a good farm. I have a house. I can protect you.”
Libby gently rested her hand on Otto’s forearm. “Otto, stop. You would make any woman a fine husband. Stop thinking of yourself as a cripple that no woman wants. My choice to not marry you was because I didn’t want to burden you with me. You should understand that, especially now you know about Warren.”
“I do know about Warren now, Libby. You still would not be a burden to me.”
Libby sat up straight, pressing her back into the chair. “You know so little about me, Otto.”
“Then tell me, Libby. I know you’ve been hiding much about your life. I suspect not everything you told Henry and me that night I talked about my time on the Powder River was the truth. Now that I know about Warren, can you trust me enough to tell me more?”
Libby lowered her head as she considered. “Yes, Otto. I’ll tell you about me.”
But not all.
Libby told him about her family, how her père was an American whose father had been a French trapper who married an Ojibwa woman. “When it came to the native tribes, the French were not like the British or the Americans who came after them. France wanted the tribal people to become French citizens. They encouraged intermarriage. The fur trading companies at the time, especially, for the sake of trade, wanted their trappers to make alliances with the native tribes by marrying into them. That was my father’s family.”
By the time her père was born, what had once been French territory had become part of the United States through the Louisiana Purchase. The fur trapping of her grandfather’s day had dried up by the time her father was grown, so he moved into trading. It was on one of his trips up the Ohio River that he met her mother. Her people were of Scots-Irish descent and wanted her to have nothing to do with the dark-haired Frenchman who was also part native. “My father used to joke that he stole my mother from her people and carried her away as fast as he could down the river. I don’t think she minded being stolen. They came across a Methodist preacher—a circuit rider—and he married them.”
/> Otto interrupted her. “I remember you telling Warren that’s how we married.”
Libby smiled and nodded. “It’s because I knew that story. When my père got my mother up to Minnesota, he convinced her to marry again in the Catholic church. I saw the record with my own eyes when I was a child. I was baptized there, and probably my brother and sister, too, but Ma never took to Catholicism. She continued to favor the Methodists. We had a little church near where we lived—I don’t know what kind, only I know now it was Protestant—and sometimes, she took us there.”
“Your father didn’t mind?”
“My father was a trader. He was gone much of the time. Only, he left on one trip when I was eight years old and never came back.”
Libby told how her père brought her mother to the land he had known as a youth. The Americans had driven most of the Ojibwa up into Canada, but some of the tribe remained. To provide for her mother during those times he was gone, he bought land thick with maple trees and taught her how the Ojibwa captured the sap and boiled it down to make syrup for sweetener. The excess they sold as a trade item, especially since there no longer was a large market for pelts.
“After we learned my father drowned when his canoe capsized while coming back down the Missouri, it was the land my step-father wanted, not my mother. I’m certain it was Warren who put him up to it, for my step-father is several years younger than my mother. As soon as they married, Warren built a small place for himself—much like the Ojibwa wigwams—on the far end of the property. That’s where he lived. He’d send for me to help him, and my mother would say I had to go.”
Otto reared up on his hand, a look of incredulity on his face. “You mean, your mother knew and sent you to him for him to…”
Libby shook her head and stared at her lap. “She didn’t know. Warren threatened to kill me if I ever said anything. I was a child. I believed him. Besides, Warren blamed me, and I accepted what he said and blamed myself. I was too ashamed to tell anyone.”
“But, you know now you weren’t to blame, don’t you, Libby?”
Libby nodded.
I do until the bad feelings and guilt overcome me, and I blame myself again.
“The land should be my brother’s. From the time he was young, my step-father bullied him. He often found reasons to beat him. My mother tried to stop him, but then he’d beat her, too. When the war came, my brother lied about his age and joined the militia when he was seventeen.”
Libby told about her brother deserting and telling others in his company he did not wish to return home. Instead, he wanted to stay out west. “He wasn’t of legal age yet when the war ended. He wouldn’t have been able to claim the land, even if he wanted to. I don’t think he was ready to go up against my step-father and Warren to demand what is his by right.”
Libby told about her younger sister. “She’s beautiful. Her skin is pale and freckles like Ma’s does. Her hair’s curly and had red in it, too, like Ma’s, only my sister’s hair is more brown where Ma’s was blonde before it started going white. They both have light eyes. To look at either my sister or brother, most people wouldn’t guess they have an Ojibwa grandmother. We see it, because we know. But, I’m the only child that shows my Ojibwa roots. That’s why the longer my père was dead, the more the stories spread I was not really my mother’s child, but one birthed by an Indian woman.”
“Did Warren also misuse your sister?”
Libby shook her head, and a sob caught in her throat. “I don’t think so. That’s why I had to stay, even though I hated it. He threatened to…I had to do what he demanded for fear he would. Ma thought she was too young to marry the day she turned sixteen, but I encouraged her. Her husband moved her two counties away. I begged her to never return home, even though she couldn’t understand why, and I wouldn’t say. Only then was I free to escape.”
Libby finished her story and looked out the south-facing window. The sun rode high in the sky and did not shine into the room. “It’s time to fix you and Henry something for dinner. Do you think you can keep down solid food?”
Otto stared at Libby, yearning for her more than ever now he better understood her. “I feel much improved, so I believe so. Libby, thank you. I hope you realize I still care for you—even more than I did before.”
I should have told her I love her.
Libby dropped her gaze to the ground. “Thank you, Otto. It means a lot that you don’t look at me with disgust, even though now you know secrets.”
All but one.
.
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.
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CHAPTER 21
~o0o~
By the next day, Libby found it impossible to keep Otto in bed. Once Henry came in from finishing his evening chores, Otto sent him up to the attic to find his cane he had used years before when his back was healing.
Libby protested. “If your leg bothers you enough to need a cane, perhaps it means you should stay in bed longer.”
“I can’t bear to lie around like an invalid, Libby. My leg aches no more than usual. I’ll use the cane for balance until I know my dizzy spells are past. Tomorrow, I intend to go out and do what I can to help Henry.”
Otto also had Henry pull his gun belt and holster, along with the 1851 Navy Revolver he had carried during the war, out of his trunk. Once Henry brought him some rags and oil, he set his brother to work cleaning the pistol while he worked on making sure the belt was cleaned. He inventoried what he had in cartridges. “Pa ever teach you to fire a pistol, Henry?”
“Some. Mostly, I’ve used the rifle and shotgun.”
“After you finish there, I’ll let you load that for me so I know you know the proper way to do it. Then you can bring up the rifle to clean. I think we need to be prepared for anything.”
Silently, Libby went downstairs and returned with the rifle. “How does this one work? The one I used didn’t have this metal piece by the trigger.”
“That’s a Spencer Repeating Rifle. I like to keep fifteen bullets in the stock. The metal piece is the lever that lets you ratchet the bullet into the chamber. That way, you can keep firing, one right after the other.” Otto looked up, his eyebrow raised in inquiry. “You know how to fire a rifle, Libby?”
“Yes. I often was sent to hunt game so we would have meat for the pot. We loaded bullets one at a time through the muzzle.”
“That sounds like the old muzzle-loaders like most soldiers had at the start of the war. We were issued these repeaters just before we left for Fort Laramie. They started using a lot of them towards the end of the war.”
“May I clean this rifle so I can see how it’s made? I may wish to use it. Is it accurate?”
“Yes. The sights on it are real good. Be my guest if you’d like to clean it.”
Henry held the pistol in front of him, and with one eye closed, looked down the sight as he clicked the hammer. “You’ll let me practice with this, won’t you, Otto? I’d like to get better at…”
Otto’s exasperated voice cut him off. “Henry, don’t pull the trigger on a gun in the house. If it was loaded and you didn’t know it, you could accidentally hurt someone.”
Bewildered, Henry turned to him. “I knew the pistol was unloaded. I just cleaned it, Otto. I haven’t even touched the cartridges, yet, so how could there be any in there?”
Otto exhaled. “All right, Henry. But, just as a matter of principle, please get in the habit of never pulling a trigger in the house unless you intend to shoot someone or something with it. I can take you out for some target practice, but not for a few days, yet. When I’m up to it, I’ll get more cartridges in town.”
“I’ll hold you to it, Otto. For one thing, someone needs to do some target practice in your vegetable garden. Looks like you got rabbits getting in there.”
The next morning, just before first light, Otto was awakened by a rifle shot that sounded like it came from right outside his open window. He rolled to a sitting position and blinked while he waited for a wave of light-headed
ness to pass. Next, he pulled on his pants, grabbed his pistol from the gun belt that was draped over the corner of his bedpost and stood. Snatching his cane in his left hand and his pistol in his right, he walked to the window. Although still quite dark, the sky had grayed enough so forms separated themselves from the shadows.
Otto arrived in time to see Libby walking from the garden patch with his rifle in one hand and a varmint of some sort dangling by its hind feet from her other hand. As she walked towards the back stoop, he turned to finished dressing.
With his gun belt and pistol secured to his hip and his cane slid between his belt and trousers, he used his hands to brace himself against the walls of the stairwell as he descended the stairs. Other than one wave of nausea and a headache that had been constant since he came to after the attack, he made it down the stairs and across the dining room to the kitchen without a repeat of the dizziness.
Otto stepped out on the back stoop to find Libby, dressed in an old work gown he had seen her wear at Mary’s place, skinning and dressing out a rabbit.
Off to the side, Henry, wearing only his pants with his suspenders over his shoulders and his hat on his head, bounced from foot to foot. “You see that, Otto? She got that brown cottontail with one shot—and a rifle shot, at that, instead of a shotgun.”
Otto turned to his brother with a laugh. “Henry, you best go in and get your clothes on before you scare the ladies. You keep dancing around like that without your boots, you’re going to fill your feet with stickers.”
“Yeah, sure. At least, it looks like we’re having something different than just beans and salt pork for dinner. She got it in the head, Otto! Didn’t even tear up most of the meat or the pelt, although the fur on a rabbit taken in summer isn’t the best.”
Libby looked up from her task. “It’s how I learned, Henry. Back home, I could only shoot my rifle once before I had to reload. I was forced to learn to hit my prey the first time. If I found nothing bigger, I at least tried to bring home a squirrel or two so we could have meat. If I shot them in the body, there wasn’t enough left for me to bring.” Libby turned to Otto. “You’re right about the rifle. The sights are true.”