Courting Morrow Little: A Novel

  "I think you're in need of your own medicine;' he finally said.

  Kneeling, she smoothed out one rumpled corner of the hide, nearly too weary to get back up. She'd hardly slept knowing he was under their roof, terrified he'd worsen in the night or leave them. The suspicion that he might yet still nettled her.

  Suddenly the raucous bawling of the cow beyond the frozen window reminded her that no matter what was happening within cabin walls, their daily chores awaited.

  He lay back slowly, favoring his wound. "When I wake up, I'll tell you about my trip south to Tennessee"

  His eyes were already closing, and she breathed a plaintive prayer. Mindful of the frigid draft along the floor, she took the quilt off her bed and covered him. Reluctantly, she began backing out the door, wondering if his sleepiness was little more than a ruse to leave once she and Pa weren't looking.

  It seemed he slept a solid three days, awakening only to eat and drink or have his shoulder bandaged. She rarely went upstairs, though sometimes when Pa was outside chopping wood or seeing to the horses, she crept up to the landing and peered through the crack in the door like a child of five, not a young woman of eighteen. Once she spied a book lying open on his bedding while he slept. Curiosity made her tiptoe nearer until she saw it plain. A Bible. Could he read? The notion was nearly as jarring as his speaking English. His time at Brafferton returned to her, stoking her growing curiosity about his past.

  She kept busy below, but there was a heaviness edging all that she did. She expected to find him gone at any moment-or soldiers at their door. Perhaps he'd be well enough to travel by Christmas Eve. She'd nearly forgotten the party to be held for the singing school at their very own cabin. In years past she'd anticipated the event like no other, enjoying playing the hostess, preparing for the evening with a week's worth of baking. But now in just a fortnight, the group would gather, build a bonfire between the barn and cabin, roast chestnuts and dance and sing, drink cider and share supper. The coming event filled her with dread.

  "We'll go on as before. If we didn't, we might be suspect, Pa told her as she began rolling out dough for apple tarts. "Red Shirt can stay upstairs, and no one will be the wiser"

  "But some of the soldiers will be here, Major McKie among them' She kept her voice soft, afraid of it drifting upstairs. Even now she looked around for any trace of Red Shirt's presence. Spying Surrounded's medicine bag, she wiped her hands on her apron and hid it away in a corner cupboard. By now, the wily chief was well on his way to Fort Pitt, some two hundred miles upriver. Who knew when he'd return?

  Pa began to wheeze, a sure sign of his own agitation. "A great deal more is accomplished by prayer than by worry," he said, shrugging on his coat. "I need to go check the fence line. One of the horses is missing. But I'll be back by supper, Lord willing."

  She looked up, surprised that he would leave her alone with Red Shirt, but he simply kissed her cheek and went out, the staccato hoofbeats of his horse growing fainter and fainter in the frozen air. The snow that had blustered with such fierceness two days past had dwindled, leaving a few scant inches upon the ground. But it was bone-chilling, the cold. She placed the heavy bar across the front door and replenished the fire, then returned to her baking.

  The afternoon loomed long and lonesome, leaving little to do but sew the promised shirt. Thus far she'd stitched but one sleeve, relying on Red Shirt's measurements by sight alone. It had been easy enough to guess the breadth of his shoulders and chest by observing Pa dressing his wound. Recalling it now nearly made her miss a stitch and lose the thread altogether.

  She held her wayward needle still, suddenly aware of the creak of the stairs and her own thudding heart. Red Shirt stood behind her on the last step, leaning against the railing, wearing leggings and Pa's largest nightshirt, his feet minus moccasins.

  Relief washed over her like a wave. "I was beginning to think you were an old bear, hibernating in our attic all winter long"

  Slowly he came and sat opposite her, taking Pa's chair. "How long have I been here?"

  She held up five fingers. "Five sleeps, she said, echoing something she'd heard Surrounded say.

  His mouth crooked in amusement, and he looked about the spacious cabin as if getting his bearings before returning to the linen in her lap. "Is that my shirt?"

  She took another stitch. "You can't leave till I'm finished"

  "You're sewing very slowly."

  She tried not to smile, but she felt her mouth tilt upward nonetheless. "I promise it will be a fine shirt. Better than the one I cut off you"

  He leaned back and put a hand to his hair, surprise skimming over his features. "You made me a braid"

  "Pa wanted your hair off your hurt shoulder," she explained, a bit perplexed as she recalled her pleasure in the simple task. His hair had slipped through her hands like the finest black silk, but as she'd plaited it and tied it with black ribbon, he hadn't so much as stirred, lost as he was in the grip of sickness.

  "I feel stronger-the fever's gone"

  "You'll be weak yet as you lost so much blood, she said. "But there's another reason you can't go. You still haven't told me about your trip to Tennessee"

  A sudden spark seemed to light his keen eyes. "I wanted to tell you, but you didn't come, even when I gave you back your bed."

  She looked up, full of wonder. "You wanted me to come upstairs?"

  "You know I wouldn't hurt you ... dishonor you"

  "I-I know you wouldn't ... but ... being alone with you ... like that ..." She faltered and looked away, a furious blush staining her face.

  "It's not the proper way," he finished for her.

  She merely nodded, trying to start sewing again, but instead making a knot of her thread.

  He said quietly, "Sometimes I think you're still afraid of me."

  She looked up at him again and wished she hadn't. His eyes held hers with a startling intensity, as if daring her to deny it. She got up abruptly, nearly spilling her sewing onto the floor.

  "I made some broth;' she said. "You'll need to regain your strength. And I'll have to see to your shoulder."

  With Pa away, she had little choice. Standing beside his chair, she peeled back the bandages and began to clean the wound with warm water and clean rags. Red Shirt stared into the fire without so much as wincing. A nagging fear took hold of her. What if he could no longer use his arm? Hold a gun? Scare up his supper? Fight for his life?

  Despite her gentleness, the blood began to flow again, and she swallowed down her dismay. The ointment Aunt Sally had given them long ago had a pleasant, lemonlike smell and braced her for a moment, but then the room tilted and began to spin. He was looking at her now, his eyes filled with sympathetic light. Gently yet firmly, his hand encircled her upper arm so that she was able to finish her task. But when he released her, she swayed like she was dancing and came down hard on his lap.

  Oh Lord ... how weak I am. 'Tis just as Robbie Clay said. I'm too soft.

  Shame shot through her as he steadied her once again, standing her upright even as he got to his own feet. A perfect gentleman he was, giving her his chair. She took a deep breath as she sank down onto the hard hickory slats. He moved away from her and went to the hearth, taking up a black ladle and lifting the lid off the soup kettle. Turning back around, he hitched a stool closer with one foot, balancing a bowl of steaming broth in his good hand. Wincing, she turned her head away.

  Amusement played across his handsome face. "What will I tell your father when he finds you on the floor?"

  "I'll not faint ... I should be spooning that soup to you:"

  His eyes narrowed. "That's the trouble. You take care of mebut not yourself."

  She took the broth from him, glad to see him hungry as well. When had she last eaten? Yesterday?

  They sat together in companionable silence, sharing a bowl, her senses alert to any trouble beyond the barred doors. She knew he was as wary as she, though there wasn't a trace of unease about him, at least that she could see.
The sooner he healed and passed from beneath their roof, the safer both of them would be.

  Red Shirt was on his feet now, helping Pa with the horses. Although his wound aggravated him, he made no complaint. She could sense his frustration with his slow recovery, his impatience at having to sit down and rest. He pushed himself, making daily strides toward some unspoken goal. One morning when she'd bundled up to do the milking, she found him leading Pa's prized black stallion out of the barn as she was about to go in. He seemed immune to the cold and wore no coat, just his usual buckskins and his new shirt. She, on the other hand, was nearly shaking as soon as she set foot on the porch.

  Eyes on her, he held the bridle in one hand and the heavy barn door open with the other. The big horse nickered softly as if anticipating some pleasure. She wished she had a sugar lump to give him. He was so beautiful-and high-spirited. She'd never ridden him herself. Pa kept her confined to the mare. Wistfully, she looked at them both, wondering where they were going but hesitant to ask.

  He took the bucket from her hand and set it down, shutting the barn door. When he turned back around, he mounted the stallion's bare back with tremendous grace and offered her his good arm. A bit clumsily she took hold, and he pulled her up behind him. Her wool skirt rode to her knees, revealing several layers of beribboned petticoats and snug wool stockings above worn black boots

  Reaching behind, he took her arms and folded them about his supple waist. The simple gesture startled her ... and turned her insides to jelly. She was glad he couldn't see her face. A quick glance toward the pasture reassured her Pa couldn't either. Nor had he given his approval, she was certain. Red Shirt had his own way of doing things, of asking and answering to no one.

  He turned his head, his profile questioning. "Would you rather be in the barn?"

  "No, she answered a bit breathlessly.

  With that, he kicked gently at the horse's sides, and they turned away from the cabin, trotting briefly, then coming to a rolling gallop and clearing the first fence in the pasture, then the second. A queer exhilaration took hold of her, and she leaned into him, her wool hat flying off her head and lying like a blue puddle on the frozen ground.

  He headed west, away from the fort, clear of danger. Or so she hoped. For a time they followed the river. It didn't take long for her to feel she was in a new land, a new life.

  Sights she'd never seen unfolded all around her-a frozen falls, otters sliding down the icy banks of some nameless stream, sandstone cliffs set like a cougar's teeth in the side of a mountain. He was heading higher, through dense stands of pine, their redolence like some exotic spice.

  "Are you cold, Morrow?"

  His breath was a cloud, and in answer she wrapped her arms more tightly about him, urging him on. How could she possibly be cold, pressed against him, his warm body shielding her from the wind?

  They climbed higher toward a circling eagle, and the trees seemed to fall away. Snow-slicked rocks scattered beneath the horse's hooves on the thin ribbon of trail. It seemed a bit hard to breathe, the air was so sharp and cold.

  His gun was at hand, and the confidence with which he rode dispelled her fears. He'd been here before, perhaps many times, or so his purposeful stride assured her. Not once did she think about Pa or his alarm at finding both her and his finest horse missing. That was a world away, so dull and colorless she hardly missed its going. The present was all that mattered, and it was, in a word, divine.

  When they could climb no further, he dismounted, taking her with him. She nearly slipped on an icy rock, but he caught her, his shoepacks sure on the frozen ground. He led her up a shaded path to a limestone wall, where they squeezed through an opening like a loophole. On the other side, the earth fell away, and it seemed they stepped into open sky.

  She gave a little gasp, not of fear, but of awe. He turned to take her in, pressing his back against the cold cliff and drawing her in front of him. She looked down and found the toes of her boots in midair with only her heels on the ledge. But he had one hard arm around her, grounding her.

  His breath was warm against her cold cheek. "I wanted to show you Cherokee territory, not just tell you about it"

  She followed the sweep of his arm south, his finger pointing to distant snow-dusted mountains and a wide opal river. Small puffs of smoke revealed few campfires or cabins. The land lay before them like a disheveled white coverlet, uninhabited and without end, broken by more mountains and wending waterways. The unspoiled beauty of it took her breath. For a moment he relaxed his hold on her. With a cry, she reached for him again, fearing she might fall into nothingness.

  "Careful, he murmured, steadying her. "Trust me:"

  She shut her eyes tight as his arms settled around her, anchoring her to the side of the cliff. Frightened as she was, she felt a tingling from her bare head to her feet. 'Twas altogether bewildering and frightening ... yet pleasing. Gingerly, as if doing a slow dance, he led her off the ledge onto safe ground, where he released her and turned toward the stallion grazing on a tuft of grass.

  His smile was tight. "We should return-soon, before your father thinks I took you captive"

  Reluctantly she walked behind him, framing every part of him in her mind in those few, unguarded moments before he mounted. If he could ride to the top of a mountain and back, what was to stop him from reaching Fort Pitt?

  He was quiet on the way down and, contrary to his concern about Pa, seemed to take his time returning her home. The sun foretold that it was nearly noon. They'd been away hours, though she felt they'd stepped outside of time.

  A spasm of guilt shot through her. Not once had she thought of Pa-or missing the morning's milking. The cow would likely be bawling in complaint, and supper would be late. But as they came into the cabin clearing, all was quiet.

  Red Shirt helped her down and then turned the stallion loose in the pasture. She peered into the barn, where she saw the cow had been milked and was bedded down in some straw. Together they walked up the cabin steps and through the front door. Morrow braced herself for the coming confrontation. They had violated Pa's unspoken code of conduct on several fronts, the least of which was being unchaperoned.

  They found him sitting in his chair by the fire facing the door. Her wool hat-the one the wind had whisked off as they'd ridden away-was on the table. She kept her eyes down and murmured a muted hello. Red Shirt said nothing at all. Her hair was undone and her cheeks were raw from the wind and cold, but she'd never felt better in her life. Contentment suffused every part of her, disheveled as she was. Could Pa see that?

  He looked to her, then Red Shirt. "Did you have a good ride?"

  "Yes, Red Shirt answered, coming to stand beside her as she perched nervously on the edge of her chair. But the openness in Pa's features soon set her at ease. Why, he looked no more perturbed than if they'd gone to Sabbath meeting together.

  He gestured toward the hearth. "It's bitter out. I've made some coffee"

  She got up and poured two cups, adding sugar to Red Shirt's and taking cream herself before sitting down again. The silence wasn't stilted but strangely comfortable. Perhaps Pa was waiting till Red Shirt went upstairs-or outside-before taking her to task. They finished the coffee in silence as Pa loaded a large oak backlog onto the fire. When he turned back around, he looked toward the medicine pouch and said, "I'd best see to your shoulder"

  She watched as Red Shirt shed his shirt without a hint of reserve, and caught Pa's eyes on her. Shamed, she looked into the fire, color creeping into her face. If he knew how he'd just held her ... made her feel. That was why she found it so hard to look away from him. Yet they'd done nothing wrong ... had they?

  The wound was bleeding again. Perhaps their ride had simply been too much. Troubled, she turned back to them as Pa bound the shoulder with a long cloth strip. Feeling woozy, she went out onto the porch. Pa soon came to stand beside her, curiously silent.

  "I'm sorry, Pa, for leaving without telling you;' she said, eyes on her boots.

  "I knew you
'd come to no harm;' he said quietly. "I knew you were in good hands'

  Yes, she thought, still stunned that she'd just stood on the side of a mountain, one step away from death. Yet she'd felt like she was on the flattest plain, safe and sure-footed with Red Shirt beside her. She'd left her heart high up on that mountain, and it seemed she was there still, spirits soaring. She'd not felt so freeso fearless-in years. Could Pa tell just by looking at her?

  The silence lengthened and turned tense. "I'd best see to supper, she finally said, glad to have something to do.

  "Morrow.. " He started to speak, then swallowed down a cough and motioned her inside the cabin. She went willingly, shutting the door on his tortured hacking. The sound made her eyes water and brought her none too gently down to earth.

  Red Shirt sat by the fire, resting his shoulder and reading an old copy of the Virginia Gazette. She removed her cape and set about making supper. Though it had been a simple ride, and nothing significant had been said, there seemed a new understanding between them, a new tie. She couldn't shake the feeling that he would be there for her once Pa wasn't, that even now he sensed her sorrow and uncertainty about the future. The man who'd held her on the side of the mountain would continue to hold her in the valley.

  If she'd let him.

  Morrow had been missing the sanctuary of her room. Sleeping in the cramped trundle bed with Pa so near was making her something of a night owl. She heard all manner of things that never made it upstairs-his snoring, the scurrying of mice, the settling and shifting of the fire. Now, just as the mantel clock struck four, she came wide-awake at the opening of her bedroom door. She lay completely still, Pa's snoring finally giving way to coughing and masking the movement she so wanted to hear.

  Red Shirt ... leaving?