He led her into the orchard amidst the branches now picked clean of apples. Her thoughts whirled back to her meeting with Red Shirt. Robbie Clay had once stood here too ...
"You must pardon me, Miss Little. I usually don't dress for war when I'm calling. 'Tis a sign of the times, I'm afraid:'
She merely nodded, and he offered her his good arm, which she took reluctantly. He held his wounded arm a bit stiffly, and she could see the lump of bandaging beneath his uniform sleeve.
Deeper into the orchard they went, far from the eyes of Pa and McKie's men. Stopping abruptly, he looked down at her, his speech formal and clipped and cold. "Circumstances necessitate a speedy declaration, I'm afraid. Matters of war leave little time for courting, so I must cast aside conventions and ask you to become my wife"
She stepped back if he'd struck her. "Major McKie. .
He smiled, but it was hollow, almost haunting. "Why are you so surprised, Morrow? You are an astonishingly lovely woman. And I am in need of a wife:"
"But we've hardly spoken-"
"Surely time spent sitting beside you at Sabbath services and singing school counts for something" His tight smile became a smirk. "I'm aware you're from fine Virginia stock. Botetourt County, to be exact. I believe you to be of good breeding and intelligence. It's obvious you have an uncommon grace about you:'
"B-but I hardly know you"
He looked a trifle irritated. "What is it you want to know?"
She said nothing, her angst so acute she looked down at her feet, feeling the woozy warning rush of unconsciousness.
Tossing his hat onto a stump, he took her arms, his fingers firm upon her thin sleeves. "Perhaps all you need to know is this. I'm aware that you're aiding and abetting the enemy, both Shawnee and British. The penalty for being a traitor is death, Miss Little, by hanging or firing squad. Would you wish this on your dying father? Yourself?"
The words sent her reeling. She took a step back, or tried to, but his hands shackled her, his fingernails puncturing the tender skin of her wrists.
"W-what do you speak of, sir? You have no proof-"
"Oh, but I do" The look he gave her was triumphant. "I have spies who've informed me of Indian sign about your cabin. And there seems to be more than a few people at the fort who are willing to believe the worst of you, including your dear friend Jemima."
Spies?Jemima? Sparks of disbelief kindled inside her. They'd been betrayed by friends? Settlement folk? And Lizzy? Had Lizzy and Abe been among them?
Morrow began to shake. She had to open her mouth to breathe. He was looking at her with such unabashed hunger she felt dirty. His hands gripped her arms, and his tobacco-tainted breath blew hot in her face as his mouth came down hard on hers. Frantic, she tried to push him away, but it was like felling a tree with her fists.
He shook her, face tight with fury. "It would grieve me to have to press the matter, Morrow. I could easily quell this traitorous talk ... if you allow me the pleasure of calling you my wife:"
Wife. For a moment she thought she would retch on his polished black boots. The woods seemed to tilt and spin, the cabin a mere pinprick of light.
With a little shove, he released her and she stumbled, nearly falling to the ground. He took time to straighten his stock, his mouth in a hard line. "I'll leave you for now, understand. But I shall return in a few days' time, and we'll announce our betrothal to your father and the settlement'
With that, he turned toward his horse and rode out. She started back to the cabin, but her legs wouldn't hold her. Falling to her knees in the grass, she sat shaking. Overhead, storm clouds were gathering again, and a chill seeped into her as the sky gave up its light. Unbidden, Aunt Etta's words returned to haunt her anew.
Dearest Morrow, I've dreamed that you're to marry a man of rank...
"You all right, Daughter?" Pa was waiting by the hearth, looking so old and vulnerable it made her heart ache.
From somewhere deep inside herself, she summoned the selfpossession to say, "McKie's gone, Pa." Dare she lie? "He stopped by to see if we're well:"
Silence. Could he see her turmoil in the candlelit shadows? Did he believe her? She wouldn't tell him the truth. Being branded a traitor-betrayed by supposed friends-would likely kill him sooner than the consumption.
Oh Father, help us ... spare us ... deliver us from evil.
In the days to come, Morrow's mind seemed bent beyond all reason as she agonized over McKie. The memory of his rough mouth, the bruises on her wrists she tried to hide from Pa, was nothing like the stain on her soul. Was he even now telling others about suspecting them as spies and traitors? Would he truly dismiss such allegations once they'd wed? Her desperate thoughts would center on running away and then would circle back to the man whose cough seemed to reach the rafters, tethering her to the cabin. She tried to disguise what lay so heavy on her heart, yet surely he sensed her distress.
"I'll not last till spring, Daughter," he said.
Spring was generous, she thought. It hurt her to look at him, scarecrow thin as he was. The medicine Aunt Sally had given them failed to ease him, and her own supply of herbs had dwindled. Thinking coltsfoot or mullein might help, she made preparations to go gathering. Whatever danger might befall her in the woods was far preferable to marrying Major McKie.
While Pa slept, she slipped out with a hoe and basket, wandering past red-rock cliffs and arches along the river's path, the call of warblers and woodpeckers her only company. Gold and crimson leaves, large as a man's hand, lay upon the surface of the still water. She walked slowly, thankful for the solitude if nothing else. Here among the hollows where the sun rose late and set early, she could cry unhindered.
As she went, the sigh of the wind seemed to whisper her name. Sleepless as her nights had been, it was little wonder she imagined things. The trees stopped their rustling and she resumed her search, plucking a crimson leaf from her hair. When she'd finally found a patch of coltsfoot, she seemed to hear the call again, this time nearer. Slowly she turned, hoe in hand, nigh terrified. McKie?
Red Shirt stood in the shadows just behind her. The sight of him, so near when she'd thought him so far away, nearly proved her undoing. She turned her back on him for just a moment, fumbling for the handkerchief she'd misplaced. When she faced him once again, she spilled out her angst. "You shouldn't be here. Major McKie has spies everywhere-"
"Not here, Morrow:"
She saw that he held the hankie she'd dropped somewhere along the way. The lace-edged cloth, trimmed with tiny yellow flowers, looked so fragile in his rough hand. Taking a step closer, he brought it to her face, carefully wiping her tears away. She wanted to tell him all that had happened with Robbie Clay and McKie, but her throat was so tight it seemed she'd swallowed shards of glass. She simply leaned into her hoe, feeling it was the only thing that kept her upright. Beneath her soiled muslin shift, she could feel a trickle of sweat brought on by her tumult of emotions.
He tucked the damp handkerchief in his hunting shirt, then caught the handle of the basket she held and led her deeper into the woods. Wordlessly, they climbed the side of the mountain for a full five minutes, far off the familiar trail. She soon felt the cool breath of a cave fanning the ferns and brush all around them. At its entrance, they sat on a cold slab of rock, and she shivered. Did he know every inch of this land? It had been the Shawnees' before hers. Would she ever stop feeling like a trespasser?
"Morrow, you need to go back to the cabin. I'll take you there, but you must promise not to wander so far again"
"But Pa-he needs something to ease him. . " She broke off, her heartache rising, ready to spill over at the slightest provocation. Turning her head away, she studied the late-blooming laurel all about them. The bloodred blossoms reminded her of Pa's stained handkerchiefs about the cabin, too many to count, each like a banner declaring a life ebbing.
He said quietly, "Morrow, look at me"
She needed no such invitation and turned back to him, eyes wet. Oh, but he was so hands
ome it hurt her. This close, she felt drawn to him in ways that bewildered her. How could he both fascinate and frighten?
The intensity of his tone shook her further when he said, "Promise me you'll stay close to the cabin. There's a regiment of soldiers coming over the trace nearest your cabin. A Shawnee war party is in back of them. You'll come to no harm. But you need to bar the doors and stay inside"
"Will there be a fight?"
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and she knew he was trying not to scare her. Despite the danger pulsing all around them, she felt becalmed by his presence. Ever so gently he took her fingers in his, and they trembled like a bird's wing against the deep mahogany of his hand. He was looking down at the bruises that encircled her wrist like a dark bracelet, his expression inscrutable. But she was no longer thinking of McKie.
If the simple pressure of his hand fills me with such pleasure, what must it be like within the warm circle of his arms?
A gust of wind seemed to bring her to her senses, shooing her off the ledge. She wouldn't mention McKie. The risk was far too great. Doing so might endanger him just as it had Robbie Clay. Despite her desperation, she kept silent and started down the mountain ahead of him, clutching the hoe and basket, the herbs forgotten. As she walked, she had the uncanny sense they weren't alone and looked back. The sight of a dozen or more frontiersmen and Indians filled her with raw alarm.
"I'm traveling with a party in case of ambush;' Red Shirt said.
Each Indian seemed dressed for war, skin glistening with oil and paint, British muskets in hand. Her eyes were drawn to their silver-embellished scalp locks and somber countenances before moving to the familiar garb of the frontiersmen. All bore rawhide belts hung with tomahawks and trade knives, powder horns and shot pouches slung over their shoulders. This was no hunting expedition, truly.
He took her elbow and propelled her past flaming oaks and maples while the party fanned out about them, ever watchful and stunningly silent. They moved quickly, their moccasins eating up the autumn ground. They had no horses, and she knew why. Horses left a plain trail and made too much noise and trouble, yet could move them to their destination far faster. They were on foot for good reason, she knew.
At the edge of the cabin clearing, Red Shirt paused while his party filed past. She looked to the porch but saw no sign of Pa. He was likely sleeping again, his only respite from the cough that racked him. Red Shirt's eyes swept the pasture and outbuildings warily and came to rest on her. Though he was but an arm's length away, she could no longer see him through her tears. If she wasn't so weary, she might have stood here as stoic as he, drawing strength from the forbidden bond of affection she felt between them. She wanted to smile, to give him something of herself, but there was no lightheartedness left in her.
"Stay close to the cabin, he said again, taking out the handkerchief and drying her tears a final time.
Her throat tightened as he turned away. Leaning on her hoe, she stood completely still and watched the men leave. Before the long column disappeared through the trees, the final brave turned back to her, the faintest glimmer of a smile on his unfamiliar face. At his waist, dangling from a willow hoop, was a fresh russet scalp.
The same color as Major McKie's.
It took some time for her to compose herself enough to return to the cabin. She didn't want to alarm Pa with her absence yet feared the shock she felt still strained her face. But truly, she didn't know whose scalp she'd seen dangling from that dark waist. There were bound to be a few settlers with that same shade of hair, though she knew of none offhand. She looked again at the woods where Red Shirt's party had just vanished. Her mind and emotions, sore from so much worry, now deepened to a sharp grief at his leaving. Returning the hoe to the barn, she walked woodenly to the cabin, empty basket in hand.
Pa was waiting, sitting by the hearth, worry creasing his face. "I wondered where you'd gone to, Daughter. It's not safe to be about in the woods, remember."
"I just wanted to find some medicine;' she said.
Moving to the hearth, she hung the kettle from the crane over the fire and took some sassafras from a tin on the mantel. But she couldn't still her trembling hands and sent the roots and a pewter cup clanking to the floor. Mercifully, Pa made light of it and said no more. She worked around him, unable to be still. In time the kettle began to hiss, but it in no way muffled the thunder of hoofbeats outside their door. Going to a window, she saw half a dozen soldiers approaching, Lysander Clay among them.
Oh Lord, not soldiers.
Were they part of the regiment Red Shirt had told her was coming over the trace? She pressed a trembling hand to the windowpane, panic flooding her. They drew up just short of the porch and called for Pa to open the door. Retrieving his cane, she helped him up, then slowly opened the door. The late afternoon sun was in her eyes, but the stark unfriendliness in their faces was plain. Had Major McKie poisoned them with his traitorous talk? She took in the uniformed men and tried to master the fear and revulsion that swelled inside her. It seemed no one moved so much as a hairbreadth for a full minute.
"Good day, Pastor Little, Miss Little:" The uniformed man who spoke was unknown to her. "I'm Captain Christie. We're conducting a search for Major McKie. We've word that he may have come to your cabin of late"
Pa stifled a cough then nodded. "McKie was here three days ago, Captain, speaking with my daughter."
"You've not seen him since?"
"No, sir. He stopped but briefly then left:"
The captain turned to Morrow, his horse restlessly pawing the ground. "Did he give any indication of where he was headed, Miss Little?"
Straight to hell. She swallowed down the horrible thought, the bile rising in her throat, and made herself look at him. But it was the dangling scalp she saw, still bloody, a telltale russet. "He said he had business north of here and would be back to see me again, she said.
Some of the men smiled faintly and cast furtive glances at each other. Pa began to cough, and she moved toward him as if shielding him from their hard stares.
Finally the captain removed his hat and looked about the cabin clearing, lingering on the distant cornfield now turned to stubble. "We'll not trouble you further today"
Today. Morrow's heart turned to stone. Would they return tomorrow, then, with their sly glances and unspoken accusations? Would they accuse her and Pa not only of treason but of murder as well? She felt hunted, hemmed in, desperately afraid for herself and Pa-and Red Shirt.
At last they turned to go. As they rode away, Pa turned to her, looking more perplexed than she'd ever seen.
"What do you suppose has happened to Major McKie, Morrow?" he murmured, stifling a cough.
She passed him a clean handkerchief from her apron pocket, wanting to spill out what she suspected. "I-I'm not sure"
He sighed. "I have grave reservations about the major, particularly where you're concerned. But I never wished him ill. Or dead:"
She looked north to the woods where Red Shirt had slipped away a mere half hour before. Already it seemed like a dream but for the memory of that dangling scalp.
"Did McKie say where he was going, by chance?"
She sat down unsteadily in her churning chair. "No, Pa'
"Perhaps he's still on business north of here. 'Tis strange he'd be missing:'
When he passed inside, she shut her eyes tight, trying to empty her mind of Robbie Clay and McKie. Oh, Red Shirt, what have you done? In the gathering shadows of dusk, she felt the bond between them strengthen and her own confusion deepen.
Lord, I am lost.
Remembering Red Shirt's words to stay near the cabin, Morrow heeded his advice for several days, shuddering as Trapper Joe spoke with Pa about the search parties combing the woods for Major McKie. Listening, she felt privy to some horrible secret. Although the wilderness had swallowed more than a few men whole, his vanishing seemed more sinister, and the settlement was abuzz with alarm. Each tick of the mantel clock seemed to bring something dire and d
angerous nearer, and her nerves grew raw. She tended to Pa, reading Scripture aloud to ease him, till her supply of tallow candles dwindled and she was too tired to climb the steps to her room. Holding on to his hand, she dozed in her chair between his bouts of coughing.
"Go upstairs to bed, Daughter," he urged, trying to smile in reassurance.
But she shook her head, afraid to leave him lest soldiers rush in.
His voice was a broken whisper in the tense air. "I can't have you by my side day and night. If you become sick, what will we do?"
Against her wishes, she moved to her room and sat on the edge of her bed, feet numb from the attic chill. Taking up her brush, she tried to find solace in routine things. The customary hundred strokes turned her hair into a silken curtain in the candlelight, but she hardly knew what she did. Worn with fatigue, she dropped the brush and it clattered to the cold floor. As she bent to retrieve it, tears spotted the backs of her hands. The memory of Red Shirt drying her face then tucking her handkerchief into his hunting shirt rose to bedevil her. Did he take it to keep her memory close, to have something to remember her by in case he never saw her again?
She lay down and became aware of a telling silence. The absence of Pa's coughing turned the cabin into a tomb. Heart pumping wildly, she rushed downstairs to his side. His hand, his cheek-cold. He was too still, too peaceful ...