by Jenna Kernan
“I’ll start the other,” he said. She’d passed this test.
After removing the hide, she let Nash do the butchering. He took the flanks, ribs, liver and brain of each beast and wrapped them in the hides.
“With any luck that will hold you for dinner,” he said.
She frowned at the barb. Then saw his smile. Was he teasing her? He threw the hides over his shoulder and headed back to the horses. He tied the bloody bundle on her mount. “Wash up, then we’ll head back.”
She reached the pond first. Leaning over, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in still waters. Her hair was in wild disarray, falling about her shoulders and tangled in knots. Her face showed the red line of the briar thorn. She looked like a crazy woman. Her hand splashed down in the center of her image. The ripples distorted her reflection. She was careful not to loosen the new scabs as she washed away evidence of the deer. Her clothing was streaked with blood from the skinning. She had only her Sunday dress left.
Nash finished washing as she struggled with her hair. Without her comb, the job was impossible.
“Come on,” he said.
She drew her tresses into an unruly mess at her neck with a bit of fabric from her hem.
He offered her a hand from the back of the black horse.
“Can’t I ride the bay?” she asked.
“If you’d rather ride with the meat,” he said.
She looked back at the bloody hides and wrinkled her nose. Then she accepted his hand as he pulled her up behind him.
She let her hands rest loosely at his hips. He sat the horse as if the animal were a part of him, while she shifted and squirmed, trying to find a comfortable seat on the lip of his saddle.
“Quit wiggling,” he ordered.
She stilled instantly. His proximity was unsettling. After so much solitude, his nearness made her body unnaturally sensitive to touch. The heat from his broad back radiated warmth into the cool afternoon. She allowed herself to move closer. Heat warmed her chest, belly and thighs. She was grateful. But now his scent disturbed her. The smell of smoked leather filled her nostrils. His hair tickled her face. She blew a strand from her nose and heard him laugh. She didn’t care. The rocking of the horse and the warmth of the man’s broad back lulled her. She let her eyes drop closed.
When the horse stopped her eyes popped open.
“You awake?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said. “Slide off.” He held her arm and pulled her from her place. She shivered and glanced up at the first stars cutting through the darkening sky. They were back at camp. “Unpack the horse. I got to run my traps.”
“I’ll come, too.”
“I said, ‘unpack the horse.’” He was angry again. He wheeled his mount about and headed off.
She stood motionless, torn from within.
“He’ll be right back,” she whispered to the night. Blood rushed past her ears in a deafening roar. No, he’d never be back. She ran after him, her feet echoing the pounding of her heart.
Chapter Three
Nash returned later with his catch, three more beavers. One was nearly the size of a grown pig.
The fire gleamed through the tree cover. Damn, the woman made it bright enough to see from a hundred yards. She was making it near impossible for him to protect her.
She couldn’t shoot him without a weapon, but he didn’t want to frighten her. So he called to her.
“Delia.”
He received no answer, nor did he to the next call or the next. In a moment he galloped into the camp looking for tracks.
Fool of a woman, where was she? He slid off the horse and tossed his catch toward the fire. His heart raced with his feet. What if she’d followed him and gotten lost in the forest? She’d be alone in the dark.
“Delia!” he shouted. Anyone in the area would hear him. He didn’t care. He had to find her.
He ran from one side of the camp to the next, sweeping his gaze along the ground for tracks.
“Here I am,” she called.
He whirled to see her standing beside the fire. Her wet hair curled about her scratched face. Worry crystallized into anger as he ran the few feet separating them and grabbed her by the shoulders. Surprise registered in her face as he held her much too tight.
“Where were you?” he shouted.
“I was by the stream. What did I do wrong?”
“Didn’t you hear me calling?”
“I came when I did.”
He released her then. If he didn’t, he was afraid he’d shake her. She stumbled a moment before regaining her footing.
“Do you have any idea…” He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t leave camp in the dark—understand? What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“I was washing up before dinner. I’m cooking ribs,” she said proudly. At the same moment, the skewer branch burned through and their dinner plummeted into the fire.
She lunged for the ribs, but his hand flashed out and stopped her.
“Sit down, you idiot.” He used two branches to fish the food from the ash. “Didn’t you use green wood?”
“Green wood?” she echoed. He rolled his eyes.
He doused the meat in water and skewered it on a branch he cut from a tree. “Green wood,” he said.
She lowered her head. At last she raised her gaze to meet his. He could see the sorrow reflected in the tears that slid down her thin face. His anger slipped away.
“I don’t understand why you are always angry with me. But I am sorry.”
“Just don’t wander off after dark. It’s dangerous.”
She nodded.
He set the skillet over some coals and added grease. He cut the liver into steaks and fried it.
“Do you ever eat vegetables?” she asked.
“I don’t have time to collect any.”
“If you’ll show me what is edible, I’ll collect them.”
“All right.”
He lay the cooked liver on her tin plate, then added some ribs. They were too large and hung over the sides. She tried for a time to cut the ribs with her knife and fork as Nash held his like an ear of corn.
“Like this, ya idiot.”
He heard her stomach growl and chuckled when hunger won out over table manners. She grabbed a rib in her hands.
She picked clean seven ribs and ate all the liver he’d given her.
“That was delicious, Nash, thank you. I am still unaccustomed to outdoor cooking and prefer my woodstove. I would like to learn to cook on a fire. I’m accustomed to a stove.”
“You know,” he said, “the only time you’re quiet is when you’re eating.”
“I’m sorry my conversation disturbs you.”
“Well, I ain’t finished yet.”
She sat in silence for a time. “Do you enjoy stories, Nash? I could read to you.”
“You got a book?”
“I have the Bible.”
He groaned. “No, thanks. I like quiet.”
“Perhaps you’d prefer to read it to yourself.”
He considered telling her that the only time he’d asked God for something he’d been turned down flat. Since He’d taken Elizabeth, they were not on speaking terms. Instead he said, “I can’t read.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” she said.
Momentarily guilt jabbed at him.
“I can read a trail and read the land and read an expression well enough. No reason to be sorry.”
“Of course.” Why did she have to be so understanding? If she wasn’t apologizing, she was being understanding. It was damn irritating.
“Well, if you change your mind. I will be glad to read to you.”
“You got any other books?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry about most everything.”
“I’m—yes.”
“I got work to do.”
She watched as he skinned his beaver very quickly. She admired his skill. He held up the hid
e. “Good plew!”
“Plew?”
“Beaver skin is called plew.”
She nodded her understanding.
He turned and threw one hide over a felled log. She watched in astonishment as he lifted the large trunk easily and set it in a notched tree. Then he sat behind the skin and began to scrape the bits of flesh from the leather.
“Can I help you?”
“No.” He never glanced up.
She sighed and returned to the fire.
When the hides were all scraped, he retrieved an awl from the bag hanging at his waist and punched holes about the edges of one pelt. She watched him thread leather through the holes and stretch the hide onto round frames of green wood using rawhide.
“I think I could make those holes,” she said.
He handed her the awl. So he stretched and she used his metal punch for the holes. When they finished, he took the remaining deer meat and hung it away from camp, high in a tree.
When Nash returned, he retrieved his pipe from another bag dangling from his leather belt. This signaled to her the end of his work.
She retrieved her journal from her skirt pocket and dug about in the fabric lining for the stub of a pencil. The worn leather book fit easily in her hand. She noted the small scratches as she lifted the cover and smiled at the elaborate signature she’d penned many months and many miles ago. Turning to a blank page, she began to write. The wood in the fire popped as the graphite scraped rhythmically across the blank page. She recorded her thoughts and feelings of the day. She wrote about her terror of being left alone again and her pride at skinning the deer. She was just recording her humiliation at the ribs falling into the fire when he spoke.
“What’s that?”
He rarely spoke except to answer a question or give an order. She smiled at his interest.
“My most precious possession. This is my journal.” There was no need to hide it. He could not read, after all.
“What you writing?”
“I write my thoughts and experiences.”
He nodded.
“How long you been at it?”
“I began this journal when we started our journey west. I thought it would be a grand adventure.” The journal faithfully recorded terrible things she could never have dreamed. The book held her sorrows and hopes, all on neatly lined pages.
He pointed with his chin, his clay pipe clamped between his teeth. “Read that.”
She placed a protective hand over the page. “No, this is private. Perhaps something from Ecclesiastes?”
“What?”
“The Bible?” He shook his head and lowered his eyes to the fire.
He was gone before Cordelia woke. The man made her feel lazy as an indoor cat. The sun wasn’t even up, but he was gone. She’d fallen asleep to the soft sound of him scraping hides. He’d been to bed. She remembered him telling her to shove over, which she had. But a cold wind had brought her to his side of the buffalo robe during the night, and she’d been huddled in a ball against him dressed only in her petticoat. He did not tell her to move again.
She crawled out from beneath the heavy hides and stretched. Sunshine warmed her face. She discovered the horses were still hobbled in the field. He wasn’t far. For a moment she felt torn between the need to search for him and the desire to take a few moments to repair her clothing. She’d battled the same demons last night when he’d run his traps and stayed behind only because she’d known she could not follow in the darkness. He’ll be back. She quickly changed into her Sunday dress. Her brown dress was covered with dried blood. She scrubbed the fabric with sand from the river, then retrieved her needle and white thread from her sewing kit.
She clucked as she assessed the damage. The waistband was torn in three places. The hem had ripped. She didn’t dare look at her stockings. She repaired the waist first. The length was now uneven by several inches. She hung the dress on a branch and tore out the rest of the hem. How she longed for her pins. The Indians had left those behind.
At last the task was complete and she turned her attention to her stockings. The heel was worn through again and several new holes gapped as a result of her dash through the briar patch. She rubbed fingers over the deep scratches on her ankles. She winced and considered the results of her last attempt to find him. The urge to follow tugged at her again, this time even stronger.
Beaver was scarce. Soon Nash would need to move again. First, he’d smoke the deer hides and make her a proper set of clothes. Homespun was not sturdy enough for the mountains.
He came upon the camp silently, as was his custom. Would she still be in bed? The gray morning had given way to brilliant sunshine. His eyes relayed an unfamiliar splash of blue. He darted behind a tree and peeked around the trunk to find Delia wearing a dark blue dress. The color made her hair look more startling in contrast as it hung loose down her back. She sat on the ground, bare feet and white leg showing against an indigo background. She ran her fingers over her skin. His mouth went dry. What the devil? he thought. Is she trying to drive me mad? He crept closer. She was studying her scratches, running her hand over the red welts. He remembered those fingers lifting his arm as she weaseled against him last night. She was warm as a Franklin stove, except her feet. He smiled in memory. She insisted on taking off her shoes and dress. Her toes were the same temperature as ice water.
Fingernails poked at bruised flesh.
“Don’t pick at that,” he said. She jumped at the sound of his voice and yanked the skirt over her long legs. “The scab won’t heal if you pick at it.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“You never will,” he said, and threw the beaver skin down by the cold fire pit. He set to work stretching his plew. That damn dress. She looked like an angel. Why didn’t she put her hair up? Delia’s mane rippled in thick waves down her back. Soft as mink, he recalled.
“Going to a party?”
She smiled at his gibe. He watched the corners of her lips turn up and felt a tugging ache in his rib.
“I’m repairing my other dress.”
“Neither one’s worth fixing.” Although that blue suited her.
“Well, they’re all I have.”
“I’ll make you some buckskin.”
She shifted from one bare foot to the next. Her toes peaked out from beneath her hem.
“These will do,” she said.
“No, they won’t. They catch and tear. You make a fine target in that color.”
“Still, you needn’t bother.”
“Delia, you put me at risk.”
She stilled, her face suddenly serious. “Oh, I see. Whatever you say, then.”
He nodded and filled his clay pipe. Warm smoke filled his lungs as he punctured the beaver hide. When he finished, he called her over and made her stand on a piece of rawhide.
“About time you had proper footwear,” he said. He traced her feet using a bit of charcoal. Her skin was pale as porcelain. He found her gaze on his powder horn.
“Did you do that scrimshaw?” she asked.
“Yup.”
“May I see it?” He looked up at her, then glanced about the clearing to be sure he would not need his powder. His rifle leaned against a tree beside him and he had a second shot in his pistol. He handed her the horn.
She studied the little scene he had scratched into the surface last winter. He had drawn his precious mountains as the background of the battle between the grizzly bear and himself. You could see the fire coming out of his gun as the bear reared up to attack.
“Thomas, this is beautiful! You’re an artist. The trapper looks just like you. And the bear, did you really face him like this? You’re lucky to be alive. He must be ten feet tall.”
He didn’t answer her. There seemed no need. If he waited, she’d be on to the next thought that entered her head without any help from him.
“Step off,” he said. She moved to the side and handed back his horn. He began slicing the leather with his butcher knife. He made the mo
ccasin with a double rawhide bottom. They’d last until fall. The sides and top he fashioned from buckskin. He had no gewgaws to add. She deserved some flash, so he fringed the tops. “Try these.”
She sat on the ground and slipped one moccasin over her slim ankle. The top reached midcalf. He could see it fit, but decided to check for himself. Her leg was warm and her skin as soft as the tanned leather.
“It’ll do,” he said.
“They’re wonderful. Thank you, Thomas.”
Cordelia had washed her brown dress last night and hung it to dry by the fire. Sometime during the night the fire went out and the skirt froze. Her Sunday dress now dragged on the ground. The new moccasins had no heels and so she was two inches shorter. She squeezed the bottom of her brown dress. The fabric was so stiff it looked starched. It would have to do.
She glanced about the empty camp. Nash was nowhere in sight. But he had the annoying habit of appearing without a sound.
“Mr. Nash?” she called, then waited in the silence.
Quickly she worked the buttons on the front of her blue dress and slipped the fabric down, stepping out of the center.
“What?”
She spun around to find Nash standing before her. She pulled the dress up and clutched the bodice before her bosom. Goose bumps rose on her arms and chest as his eyes scanned her.
“You called me, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what’s wrong?” He scowled at her as she swallowed in a vain effort to push down her shock.
“I merely wondered if you were about. I wanted to change.”
“Well, what do you need me for?” He sounded exasperated.
Her face felt hot at the same time her hands and feet grew cold.
“No, you misunderstand. I wanted to be sure you were not about.”
“So you called me.”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Women!” He spun in place and strode back into the forest.
She pressed her burning face into the fabric of her dress. He’s right. I am an idiot.