by Jenna Kernan
She made a fire pit beside him, then gathered dead wood from the trees. She cooked some bear meat in its grease then added water to make a broth. As evening approached she hobbled the horses so they could graze without wandering. The sky was cloudy. Perhaps it would rain again.
She retrieved the green-wood frame he’d made for their shelter and restaked each pole. By the time she set the skin above him, the sky was dark.
She realized the bear carcass would draw scavengers. But it weighed hundreds of pounds. How would she move the thing? She let her eyes wander about their camp until they came to rest on the horses. It took some time to tie the bear to the horses. She led them forward. Their nervous steps were high and mincing. Her steady voice lured them on. They pulled and the bear remained inert. She clicked and coaxed. The animals strained and the bear carcass slid forward. Finally they reached the far edge of the pond and she freed the bloody remains.
Back at the camp, she worried that the firelight might attract Indians. She doused it.
“Nash,” she called. He gave no answer. She gently patted his shoulder. “Nash!”
“What?” One eye popped open.
“Drink this broth.” She held the horn cup to his lips. He finished three full rounds.
“We kill that bear, Delia?”
“Yes, Thomas.”
“That’s my girl,” he said, and closed his eyes.
At night she heard the wolves devouring the carcass of the bear across the pond. The fearful fighting and growling brought her out in front of their shelter with the shotgun. Blackfoot be damned, she thought and struck steel to flint. The spark caught the dry tinder and lit. She added some of his dry pine sap. The flame leaped higher and she cautiously inserted twigs, branches, finally logs.
All night she sat tending the fire with the shotgun resting across her lap. Gradually she began to see the forest around her. The sky crept from blackness to deep gray. The wolves disappeared before dawn.
She took his “medicine” and set off at first light to check his traps. There were ten beavers in fifteen traps. She reset and staked each one adding a dab of the foul-smelling oil to each pole.
Back at camp she skinned all ten beavers. Her fingers cramped at the work. Nash stirred only when the smell of beaver tail filled the air.
“Who’s cooking tail?” he asked.
Delia stuck her head beneath the hides. He smiled. “Thought I’d gone beaver,” he said.
She gave him a puzzled look. What was he talking about?
“Gone beaver?” he repeated. “I thought I was a dead man—like my plew.”
“Well, you are very much alive.”
He looked about him.
“Lordy, Delia. How’d you get me back to camp?”
“I didn’t.” She threw the hide back to reveal the beaver pond. “I built the camp around you.”
He gave out one guffaw then groaned. “Don’t make me laugh, Delia. My rib’s broke.”
“Hungry?”
“That I am.” He reached for the plate of meat she handed him. His knife sliced a piece of the bear steak and he chewed a while in silence. Then he said, “I thought for a time it would be the other way around.”
“What?”
He grinned. “I thought the bear would eat me.”
She couldn’t return his smile. The fear was still too close. He’d nearly died. She pressed her eyes shut against the images that filled her mind. Had such a beast killed her John?
“Oh, Delia, I’m all right.”
“Yes, this time,” she whispered. Her eyes met his and his face lost its jovial expression.
“Got to see to my horses,” he said, trying to rise from the pallet. A gentle hand was all it took to lay him back in place.
“I took care of them. They are staked on the riverbank.”
“My head feels like a cracked egg. Ain’t felt nothing like it since last year’s Rendezvous.” His fingers gingerly dabbed at his wound. “Damnation, woman! What’d you do to my hair?”
“I had to trim it to see your skin.”
He touched the bristly spots and short pieces. “I must look like a dog with the mange. This scalp ain’t fit for a lodge pole.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When a warrior takes a scalp he tans it and hangs it on his lodge pole. But they’d leave me because my hair’s shorn.”
Delia tugged at a piece of her own long hair.
“Perhaps I should take those shears to my hair.”
“Don’t you dare touch one lock,” he ordered.
“Why not?”
“I like your hair. It’s pretty.”
“Why, thank you, Thomas.” Warmth, which had nothing to do with the food, filled her belly.
He looked outside.
“Where’s the grizzly?”
“That was a grizzly bear?” She shuddered again.
“Of course. You expecting something bigger?”
“I dragged it to the far side of the pond. The wolves were after it last night.”
“That bear must have weighed close to a ton. How’d you get it around the pond?”
“The horses helped me drag it.”
He chuckled again, then clutched his side and winced.
“I would have loved to take that hide.” She heard the remorse in his voice.
“I skinned it.”
“What? Impossible.” He stared at her as if he’d never seen her before in his life. “Truly?”
She nodded. Pride filled her at the admiration in his gaze.
“Did you take the claws?”
She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Whatever for?”
“Why for proof. No one will ever believe us, lessen we have proof. I’ll make you a necklace and decorate my shirt with the others.”
She didn’t relish the thought of seeing what the wolves had left. They might still be about. His eyes twinkled brightly, like sun off blue ice and she knew she’d go.
“I’ll have a look,” she promised.
“That’s my girl.” He slapped her leg. That was twice he’d called her his girl. For some reason the endearment pleased her. She smiled and ducked out of the tent.
She rode his horse around the pond, his shotgun resting across her lap. Flies buzzed around the carcass. The wolves had gutted the beast and taken most of the meat from his ribs and limbs, and in only one night, she thought and shuddered.
The claws held fast despite her carving at the paws. Finally she cut through the digit at the joint. She wrapped the vile things in leather and headed back to the horse. She was certain she would never want to wear one of these nasty trophies about her neck. That bear had nearly killed Nash. She didn’t want any reminders of that.
He was pleased with the claws. She staked one of the beaver pelts to the ground and began the process of cleaning.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked from his bed.
“From your trap this morning. You caught ten beaver.”
“Ten!” His voice was excited. He tried to sit up and groaned again. “What’d you do with the traps?” he asked at last.
“I reset them.”
He looked at her in disbelief.
“You have learned a thing or two, ain’t you?”
She nodded and returned to her work.
Finally the hides were all scraped clean. She stretched her aching back. Then she gathered green wood to make the stretching frames for the pelts. It took her the entire morning to dress the hides. When she finished, she found him sleeping again.
Ahead lay the dreadful task of scraping the bearskin.
She brought the huge hide to the ground. She cut most of the meat into thin strips to dry for jerky. These she laid across green wood above her smudge fire.
She found a log nearby large enough to use for scraping the hide and threw the pelt fur side down over the bark. She hummed hymns to herself as she scraped the fat and flesh from the skin. When she was done, little bits of tissue spattered her arms and dress.
A quick check on Thomas found him still sleeping. His body needed rest to heal. She walked to the pond and pulled off her britches and buckskin. Standing waist deep in the water, she scrubbed sand into the dress and rinsed away the grease. When she finished, she draped the dress on the reeds to dry. Her hair felt dirty as well. She lifted her braid to her nose and inhaled the smell of wood smoke. Her fingers worked loose the overlapping strands.
She dove beneath the cold water. The mud and sand at the bottom oozed between her toes as she stood. Thomas told her sand would clean most anything. She rubbed the gritty mud across her arm and then rinsed clean. She washed her entire body quickly, then rubbed the gooey mess into her hair. Three dunks and vigorous rubbing removed the last of the sand.
When she finished, Cordelia stood knee deep in the pond and wrung the water from her hair, then straightened and breathed deep the crisp air. For the first time in her life she stood naked before God.
Thomas held himself painfully up on one elbow. His ribs stabbed at him like a hot knifepoint. He didn’t care. It was worth it just to see her the way God made her.
He’d done it. He’d saved her life. Somehow it made Elizabeth’s death more bearable. Maybe that’s why he was still here on earth, to keep this woman alive. The grizzly nearly got him though. He’d said his goodbyes as that bear clamped on to his skull. That’s all he remembered until he’d heard Delia’s voice.
He watched her now.
“Delia,” he whispered. Her skin was as white as his clay pipe beneath that hide. Before his eyes, the cold waters turned her pink. Damned if she didn’t have breasts after all. He studied the gentle swell of her bosom, then frowned at the sight of her shrunken belly. She’d had a hard winter, no doubt. Her curves would return if he kept her fed.
He groaned. How would he hunt with broken ribs? Each breath was agony. Just drawing air made him dizzy and he wondered if his lungs were bleeding.
A fly buzzed above him, but he had no energy to shoo the blasted thing. If he could just get on the horse, he’d probably make it. Unless the rib snaps and punctures your lung. Then you’ll bleed to death. The bear meat would last a few days and the beaver was plentiful.
She was on the bank now, ringing out her hair. Water streamed down her body. Her skin glistened as if she were oiled. His groin stirred. Oh, no, he thought, dancing with a woman now would surely kill him. Might be worth it though.
He closed his eyes and settled back to the pallet. A few moments later she entered the hut. Her hair was wet and tightly braided. Her cheeks glowed a rosy pink. He hadn’t noticed until now. Her skin looked healthy, no longer sallow. Her eyes were clear and bright as well.
“How was your nap?” she asked.
He considered telling her about his dream of a naked water sprite. But that would surely reduce the chances of seeing her again.
“Why is your hair wet?” He scowled at her.
“I washed it.”
“You trying to get a chill and die? I didn’t save your life just to have you catch pneumonia.”
If he couldn’t bed her, at least he could heat her blood with words. He shifted on the buffalo robe, suddenly aware of a more urgent matter.
“Help me up.”
“You need to rest,” she insisted.
“All right, if you want me to wet the bed.”
Her hand rose before her mouth. He waited for the pink flush and smiled as it colored her cheeks.
“What should I do?” she asked.
He tried to use her body to pull himself to a sitting position. The stabbing in his chest took his breath away. He saw spots—big white sparks of light exploding before him like the flash from a rifle. He eased back down.
“Can’t do it.”
“I have an idea.” She brought him his horn cup.
His head was swimming. He raised the empty cup in dismay.
“I ain’t thirsty, Delia, I’m bursting.”
“When my father was ill he used a bucket to, ah, relieve himself.”
“I’ll never be able to drink out of it again,” he moaned.
“Certainly you can. I’ll wash it thoroughly, I can assure you.”
“Would you drink out of it?”
Her eyes fixed on the buffalo robe.
“Well, no,” she said.
He nodded. “Go to my pack and get the buffalo bladder.”
“You have an animal bladder in your pack?” She looked horrified.
“It’s inside my rabbit hat, fetch it quick.”
She rushed out beneath the hides. When she returned she held his hat.
“This?” she asked.
He reached inside and drew out the bladder. A Flathead squaw had made it for him to carry water. The top was adorned with braided leather and a carrying handle.
“An appropriate choice to use it again for its original purpose,” she said.
He grunted and reached for the ties on his britches.
“Wait! Mr. Nash, give me a moment to withdraw.”
He called after her, “Damn skidderish for a woman that’s been married.”
He sighed as relief came at last.
“Delia, come back,” he called.
She accepted the leather handle from him and inhaled sharply. The bladder was half-full.
“Oh my Lord, you poor man.”
When she returned she handed him the empty bladder. “You should keep this at hand.”
He nodded and met her gaze. Something was on her mind.
She sat on the edge of his bedding.
“Why did you holler and splash? You drew that bear on purpose, didn’t you?” He smiled. “That was an idiotic thing to do, Thomas.”
“So now I’m the idiot, you ungrateful bit of baggage. Next time I’ll let the bear gnaw on your head.”
“I’d prefer that to watching you die.”
“That’s real noble.”
“It is not noble. How long do you think I’d survive out here alone?” He thought about that for a moment and his smile dropped away. She couldn’t read trail and couldn’t tell north from south. Her chances were slim.
“Not long,” he admitted.
“So what right do you have to go and get yourself killed?” She slapped at his shoulder. “I’d rather have that bear kill me than be left alone again. Do you understand me? Don’t you dare leave me alone!”
The tears burst from her like water from a leaking beaver dam. He patted her arm as she covered her eyes with her hands.
“I’m sorry, Delia. But it all worked out. See, I’m alive. You’re not alone. In a few months I’ll take you out of here. You’ll see. You’ll be back East for Christmas dinner.” Her warm eyes were on him again. His body responded to her gaze, like dry grass beneath the fire lens. He nodded. “Christmas dinner,” he said. “I promise.”
Chapter Six
She was too quiet.
“Delia, is there anything troubling you?” he asked.
She shook her head. Her lips pinched tight as she scratched away in her journal. Nash had grown to hate those pages. Whenever she seemed sad, she opened that damn book instead of turning to him. He sighed. Why wouldn’t she turn to him?
He tried again. “Why not tell me what’s on your mind?”
She stared at him with those inscrutable cat eyes and closed her book.
“I have to check the traps.” She laid the journal beside her belongings and strode away toward the horses.
Nash stared in silence at the book. He listened to be sure Delia was gone, then opened her journal.
He began in the middle.
October 26, 1834—The wolves came again last night. They whine and scratch at the door. They smell the slaughtered ox. I don’t know why they do not leap onto the roof. Surely they could rip through the canvas. I sat in the dark trembling with nothing but the ax to comfort me. At daybreak I found tracks of a great cat circling my little cabin. My blood runs cold that I shall have to face them again tonight.
He closed his hands, snapping the j
ournal shut. Why had this happened to such a good woman? She should never have left home. He wondered where she began her journey. His fingers flicked back to page one.
Dayton, Ohio, March 10, 1834—John says we are ready to begin. All my hopes and dreams are packed into our new wagon. The glorious West and a grand adventure lie ahead of us. What marvels will I see a year hence? I tremble with anticipation. I know my life will be forever changed by this journey. I place myself in God’s hands.
He slammed the journal shut again. This was going to be harder than he thought. He was angry already with the men who had taken her from the safety of Ohio. Then he thought of Elizabeth’s death. She was safely back East when the carriage ran her down, crushing her leg. The doctor insisted the amputation was the only way to save her. But he was wrong. Blood poisoning set in and nothing could save her. Ohio wasn’t safe, nowhere was. He chewed on that for a while, then opened the journal again. He studied her handwriting. She had a pen at first. The blue ink was evenly drawn in neat loops and lines across the page.
He traced his finger beneath her writing to keep his place. She wrote a damn sight better than him, but his eight-grade education served him well enough. Some of her words were unfamiliar. What was “debacle”?
September 10, 1834—John has fixed the wheel. I want to set out immediately to catch up with the others. He says we need a full larder before we cross the Rockies. Snows come early here. So he has gone to hunt for elk.
Her husband was a damned fool. There was a space between this entry and the next.
Night is falling and my John has not returned. I am worried. I’ve made a large signal fire to guide him home. Where is my husband? I pray to God that he is safe.