Bread water. The meal Red Shirt had made when they'd first been on the trail. The memory only deepened the sadness inside her. She began feeding Rosebud and said, "You know a lot about the Shawnee"
"I lived with them for a time. Married a Shawanoe woman."
Surprised, she took another bite of the gruel he'd laced generously with molasses, thinking of the tender care the Mekoche midwife had shown her. "I suppose there's much to admire about them-the Shawnee, I mean"
He nodded. "Intelligent. Brave. Eloquent. Tolerant of whites who want to learn their ways. It's a shame it's so one-sided:"
She thought of Colonel Clark and McKie and all the Indian haters she knew. But for Pa, she'd have been among them. "How old was your little girl?" she dared to ask, not looking at him.
He hesitated, eyes on the fire. "Nearly two. She died of smallpox, same as my wife:"
"I'm sorry." The words, though heartfelt, seemed woefully inadequate.
"You're no stranger to suffering yourself from the sound of it. Didn't you say your father died last year?"
She nodded. "Pa had consumption. My mother and sister died years before in an Indian raid ... and my brother was taken captive. Pa tried to find him, participate in a prisoner exchange, but nothing ever came of it'
"Sometimes white captives want to stay missing;' he said simply.
She nodded, wiping Rosebud's mouth. "I've heard the same"
"Was it Shawnees who killed your ma and sister ... took your brother?"
She hesitated, thinking of Surrounded. "Yes"
He eyed her thoughtfully. "How'd you come to make peace?"
"My father made peace with them. One winter he took in a sick Indian boy during a blizzard and nursed him back to health. He turned out to be the half-blood son of a chief. After that the boy and his father kept coming back. Pa thought they might know about Jess-"
"Your brother?"
She nodded. "He was a few years older than me, about ten when he was taken. For a long time I couldn't forgive the Shawnee for what they'd done. But Pa ..." She hesitated, feeling the familiar lump thicken in her throat. "Pa refused to hold a grudge. I wanted to be like him, but it took time"
He nodded slowly as if understanding all she couldn't say.
"I heard you singing to your baby last night. Are you French?"
"My mother was, but I don't remember much about her. I guess I'm thinking of a song she sang to me."
"You've forgotten the last line, he told her, setting his bowl aside. "It goes like this" He sang a few words in perfect French, stunning her with his fine baritone.
"H-how did you know?"
He shrugged. "I've lived among the French all my life-traders and trappers and their wives up around Vincennes. I know a few ditties, most of them unmentionable"
She stared at him openly now, though he seemed not to notice, busy as he was assembling shot and powder. Something about the angle of his jaw, the way he held his mouth while speaking, the smile that was bewilderingly familiar ...
She swallowed down her inhibitions and heard herself say, "What's your name?"
The rough hands that cleaned the fine rifle stilled. "Louis."
Louis, or Lewis? First name, or last? She felt a stinging disappointment and began fussing with Rosebud, folding a length of linen and swaddling her bottom before tying the ends off. She wished he'd tell her more about himself and satisfy her curiosity, but he'd put on his hat, and the simple gesture seemed to build a wall between them. He kept busy with his rifle, his actions telling her he was about to go hunting. When she looked up again, he was handing her a weapon. The flintlock pistol gleamed silver in the firelight, its handle smooth and worn.
"Know how to shoot?" he asked. When she shook her head, he said, "Time you learned how. I've loaded it for you. All you have to do is cock this here and pull the trigger"
She marveled at the weapon's strangeness, praying she'd have no occasion to use it.
"I'll be back before long, hopefully with a bear or buffalo. We need fresh meat and can jerk a bit for the rest of the trip. If you see a panther or anything that spooks you, don't hesitate to use it." His warning gaze slid into a grin. "Just don't shoot me"
She merely nodded and held Rosebud tighter, backing up further into the shelter. At the sight of his retreating back, she felt a sharp, cold lonesomeness.
When he'd reached a tall cedar almost out of sight, he turned back to her, his deep voice cutting through the twilight. "You stay put-don't even twitch-till I come back"
You stay put-don't even twitch-till I come back.
The words seemed to echo across time like the skimming of a rock on a murky pond, each word a ripple, resurrecting memories of a different place, a different life. They were Jess's words, the same ones he'd uttered on the banks of the Red River when the Shawnee first came. The last words she'd ever heard him say. She lay Rosebud down and scrambled out of the shelter after him, bewildered and disbelieving.
The cedar where he'd been standing stood stalwart, its graceful branches brushing her as they swayed in the wind. But he was gone, and there was no sense running after him. The snow he'd predicted was already erasing his tracks, falling and swirling in a lovely winter's dance that nearly made her forget where and who she was. For a few moments, she was five again, standing alone on the riverbank with what was left of her shattered life.
The sound of Rosebud's cooing pulled her back. She returned to the shelter, praying that Louis-for that is what he'd come to be in her mind-would find his way back. All she had to do was stay put and feed the fire at the front of the shelter. There was no moon tonight, but it didn't seem to matter, for the snow was bright as a lantern even with the last of daylight snuffed out.
He giveth snow like wool: he scattereth the hoarfrost like ashes.
Just when it seemed her hope was spent, God had sent the snow. The trail of man or beast was plain for all to see, though in this unending forest it seemed of little consequence. Yet might it lead Red Shirt to her? Or her to him? She dismissed all other terrifying possibilities. The pistol lay beside her, and she eyed it as she held Rosebud. Surely even a panther had sense enough to take cover on such a night.
After a time she fell asleep, pulling the buffalo robe close about her. But her dreams were disturbing, confused. She jerked awake at the report of a rifle.
The world she awoke to was not the one of an hour before. Just beyond the mouth of the shelter, the snow lay calf-deep. Her gaze traveled from the dwindling fire to the far cedar, where she saw a man. Not Louis. The shadow was too tall and moved in an altogether different manner. One of Clark's men? Talks About Him?
Panic rose up and seemed to smother her. Something told her he'd not take her captive again but would kill her. Shaking, she held up the gun. The cold metal seemed to hurt her hand.
Father, forgive me.
For Red Shirt she did this. And her babies.
When he was within twenty feet of the half-face shelter, she cocked the gun. It snapped in the cold, inviting her to finish. She held it with both hands to quell her trembling. Closer and closer the shadow came till it stood between her and the fire.
"Morrow?"
With a cry she dropped the pistol, and it went off with a flash, blinding her. Warily, Red Shirt bent over and began to make his way toward them, while Rosebud cried with such ferocity it seemed to shake the very shelter.
She'd almost killed him.
When he touched her, it seemed to unleash an avalanche of emotion. All her angst and exhaustion came crashing down and took her breath. Sobbing, she felt him take her in his arms, murmuring things she thought she'd never hear again.
"Neewa, what a welcome." His voice was bemused, disbelieving.
"D-did I h-hurt you?"
"No ... you're a poor shot"
Rosebud howled louder, ending their exchange. Red Shirt took her and held her close, smoothing her silky hair, blowing gently on her face to quiet her. She stilled and raised her head to look at him. For a long
moment, she took in every aspect of his firelit form before smiling shyly and reaching up to touch his cheek and chin. Looking on, Morrow's heart turned over. Though time and trouble had separated them, Rosebud seemed to know it was her father.
His eyes were damp, full of things he couldn't say. For a time they just sat where they were, huddled together, his strengthening presence settling them. Soon Rosebud's eyes closed and she drooped against him, her tiny fingers entwined in the fringe of his hunting shirt. Carefully he wrapped her in a trade blanket and put her down.
He drew Morrow closer, taking in her disheveled hair and tear-streaked face. "You knew I would come"
"I-I didn't doubt you, but it's not safe. Clark is looking for you-for me-"
"No, Morrow. Clark and his men never left the fort"
His reassuring words failed to burrow beneath her exhaustion, and her voice broke. "But our little son-and Angelique and Loramie-"
"They're just a few leagues from here. When Loramie's burned, they fled to the nearest Shawnee town. I've seen them myself, and all are safe and well, though our son is missing you."
She simply stared at him, trying to take it all in. Thankfulness flooded her, and she shut her eyes, a bit disbelieving that Clark had given up the chase. Could it truly be over?
He stroked her hair, his mouth near her ear. "Did anyone hurt you-the baby?"
"No ... and the one I'm carrying has come to no harm, she said in a little rush.
His hand stilled in her hair.
She whispered, "Perhaps it's too soon to be bearing again .."
"Soon? You're still not strong-"
"I'm stronger than I look"
"You're not strong, just stubborn. We've had this conversation before:"
She laid her cheek against his shoulder. "You say I'm not strong, yet I've just come a hundred or more miles to a strange fort in a near blizzard, with a baby in my arms and another inside me, with little to eat, not knowing if I'll ever see you or my little son again. And here I am on the run again .."
She sensed he was smiling, though the shadows hid him. "Tomorrow we'll meet up with the party I'm traveling with and head west."
But her thoughts were leaping ahead-to her little son waiting for them, and Louis. "I've met a man-a guide. I owe so much to him-he took me from the fort. Colonel Clark wanted to lure you there-"
"I know. This man-Louis-killed a buffalo near our camp tonight and is there now, sharing his meat. He told me you were here ... how you came to be together"
"So we're ... safe?"
"Safer than you've ever been-and almost to Missouri"
"I wish we could leave tonight"
"Tomorrow will be soon enough"
He was smiling now, his joy so plain it spilled over to her as she leaned against him. He loosened the remaining pins that held back her hair, unraveling its length with one hand till it covered her shaking shoulders like a shawl. "Go to sleep, Morrow, and forget about all this trouble:"
She smiled, her whispered words weary but rife with relief. "What trouble?"
As they traveled to meet up with Louis the next morning, Red Shirt explained that he'd been on his way back to her, not wanting to wait till spring, sensing there might be more trouble brewing in the middle ground. When he was within a day's reach of Loramie's Station, he'd learned that the post had been destroyed and Loramie and his family had fled to the nearest Shawnee town. Indian scouts told him they'd seen Shawnee turncoats taking a woman and baby south toward the Falls of the Ohio. He was soon on his way there, intersecting with Louis as he was hunting. Despite everything, Morrow's prayers had been answered, and she was nearer Missouri than she'd ever been.
Now she stood in the midst of a dozen frontiersmen and Indians, a small remnant from Loramie's Station who would accompany them west to Missouri. Her longing to be on the trail was nearly overwhelming as she watched Red Shirt prepare her horse for travel. She began fashioning a sling for Rosebud out of some stroud in Louis's provisions, speculating on the trip before them.
"How long will it take to meet up with Loramie's party and see our son?"
"A few days or so;' he told her, adjusting the saddle. "We'll go slowly. I don't want you-or the babies-to have trouble"
"What made Loramie decide to go on to Missouri with us rather than d'Etroit?"
"He said a new land needs a new trading post. And it's far beyond the reach of the Bluecoats"
They rode west single file through a great cathedral of trees, Red Shirt leading, she in the middle of the procession, and Louis riding directly behind on his sorrel horse. Often Red Shirt would circle back to see how she fared, taking Rosebud for a time so she could rest. Their prayers for fair weather prevailed, and the sky above was a stunning ice blue. Dressed in shoepacks and a buffalo coat, she was able to stay warm enough, and they made rapid progress. Any weariness was replaced with excitement the closer they came. Soon she'd hold both her babies in her arms ... sit by the fire with her sewing ... laugh with Angelique and her children.
For now, the monotony of cold nights about the campfire was relieved by laughter and storytelling. The men regaled each other with hunting exploits or other feats of valor, softened, Morrow thought, for her benefit. Seated between Louis and Red Shirt, she smiled at their bravado, wondering what Louis thought of all the big talk. In his quiet, soft-spoken way, he told a few stories of his own that proved every bit as interesting as theirs.
He'd traveled far, knew the middle ground of Kentucke and Ohio as well as they, had even wintered with the Cherokee to the south and the Sioux to the west. He spoke half a dozen Indian languages and was considering opening a trading post toward the Shining Mountains. Upon hearing this, Morrow felt a sudden sadness. He would move on, then, once they came to Missouri, and she'd be left with a hoard of unasked questions begging for answers.
Turning to him in the firelight, she spoke in a whisper. "Don't you have any family?"
Louis looked at her thoughtfully. "A sister"
"A sister," she echoed. "Is that all?"
He chuckled and took a buffalo rib from the fire's spit. "You want me to make up some kin, invent a few names, maybe?"
She smiled at his teasing. "I just don't like the thought of you all alone, is all:'
"Maybe I like being alone:"
"Have you ever thought of marrying again-having a family?"
He smiled. "Sounds like you have somebody you'd like to tie me to"
She could hardly see his face for the generous brim of his hat and didn't know how far to tread. Thinking of Esme, she dared. "As a matter of fact, I do"
"And who might that be?"
"Come with us and find out, she said.
Leaning back, he tossed a bone to a frontiersman's dog. "I plan on seeing you safely settled ... but I can't guarantee anything beyond that."
"I can never repay you for what you've done for us, Morrow said again.
He merely nodded, taking out a pipe and packing it full of tobacco crumbles. She reached into the fire for a twig with which to light it, and he thanked her, looking pleased.
Red Shirt was watching them, Rosebud asleep in his arms, her dusky head half-hidden beneath the red cap Hester had given her. Taking the baby from him, Morrow retreated into a sapling shelter, leaving the men to smoke. Stretched out on the makeshift bed of trade blankets, she was still able to see the goings-on about the fire. Louis's profile was etched clearly against the backdrop of the burnt-orange flames, but it was her father's face she saw beneath the brim of his felt hat, before time and grief had done their work. Or was she simply wishing it was so?
Turning over, she hugged Rosebud closer and tried to sleep. Red Shirt soon joined her, his voice low and contemplative. "What do you know of Louis, Morrow?"
The pointed question nearly brought her upright. She turned toward him, thinking of what she'd gleaned since they'd been together on the trail. "I know his name. He's buried a Shawnee wife and child ... served as scout and interpreter for Colonel Clark ... has a sister.
Why do you ask?"
"I see your father in his face:"
She expelled a tense breath. "The other night, when he left to hunt, he spoke the same words Jess spoke when I last saw him:"
He hesitated. "Why don't you ask him?"
"Ask if he's Jess? I don't know if I could'
"It's a simple matter," he said quietly. "He will say either yes or no."
"If he is Jess, I think he might not want to be found:'
"Why? Because he told you his name is Louis?"
Louis. What was Jessamyn's full name? Pa had scrawled it in their family Bible, but it had been destroyed when the ShawneeSurrounded-came. Though she'd tried to dredge it up over the years, the memory was denied her.
She peered into the darkness as if it held the answers she sought. "So much time has passed. If Louis is Jess, perhaps he's content to see me, know that I'm all right, and then go about his business:"
"And you? Are you content with that?"
"No:" The word was emphatic though softly spoken. She'd not been content for fifteen years, ever since he'd turned away from her on the riverbank. But if Jess was out there, smoking about the fire, he was hardly the boy she remembered.
Red Shirt reached for her hand. "Perhaps it's not as simple as it sounds:'
She said nothing more, just lay back and listened to his deep, even breathing once he was asleep. 'Twas simple, truly. But she simply lacked the courage to ask.
Red Shirt led Morrow's mare to the front of the procession so she could be the first to see the camp scattered along the icy expanse of the Mississippi. It was twilight, and a gauzy haze hung about the shelters from the many fires, the snowy mountains in the distance a deep, ice blue. As they drew nearer, dogs began barking and people started leaving the warmth of their shelters to welcome them, Loramie leading. At his warm greeting, Morrow could hardly keep herself in check. There were many familiar faces here, most of them from Loramie's Station, and all seemed well and safe. Anxiously she looked around for sight of her little son.