When she finally spied Angelique, her daughters in her wake, she passed Rosebud to Louis. Morrow's heart swelled then tightened as Loramie's wife stopped an arm's length away. In her arms was Jess. Stout and handsome, he regarded her with solemn eyes that were the same unmistakable shade as his father's. His hair was damp, and it curled and waved in bright abandon atop his head. But his lower lip puckered slightly, and she thought he might cry. Smiling through her tears, she simply held out her arms to him, aware of Red Shirt and Louis looking on. But Jess turned his little face away and buried his head in Angelique's neck.
"Your mother has come back and wants to see you, Angelique said to him gently. "And I must tend to my own children"
Morrow murmured her thanks and took him, grieved at the taut resistance in his little body. She cradled him under her chin, the soft weight of him like a healing salve. Still, he turned away from her.
"He will not be so particular when he is hungry," Loramie said wryly, and Angelique laughed.
Morrow bent her head and whispered into his ear. Would he remember the old French lullaby? He raised his head and looked at her, one plump hand resting on her cheek. At his touch she dissolved, turning away so the others couldn't see her struggle.
"You've grown so big since I've been gone, she whispered, kissing his head and cheek, his chin. He opened his mouth, and she spied a single tooth, a tiny pearl on his lower gum. "I see that Angelique and the girls took good care of you"
Her chatter seemed to settle him, and he grabbed at the soiled kerchief of her dress. She glanced longingly at the shelters, wondering which was their own, wanting to be alone with him and rest. As if sensing her disquiet, Red Shirt took her elbow and guided her to the one that would house them till the river thawed and they could cross into Missouri territory.
As she entered in, her eyes fastened on an upraised bed and cooking vessels and sewing baskets scattered all around the shelter, with a welcoming fire at its heart. Someone-Angelique?had done an admirable job of trying to make the place comfortable. In the quiet Morrow and Red Shirt stood, their little son looking from one to the other of them as if trying to determine where they'd been for so long. Raising his arms, he reached for his father, and Morrow released him reluctantly.
Sitting on the edge of the upraised bed, she watched Red Shirt laugh and toss Jess into the air, toward the smoke spiraling out the smoke hole. He shrieked with delight as his father continued their game. Red Shirt glanced at her, and she wondered if she looked as bedraggled as she felt. His voice was edged with concern. "You need to rest"
"But Loramie mentioned a feast .."
"The girls can take care of Rosebud while you stay here with Jess"
"But Louis-"
"Louis isn't leaving yet;' he said. "Not till morning"
The news brought a queer hurt. She could hear the celebration already starting outside their door and marveled that everyone else seemed in the mood to take part. Looking down at her hands, she twisted the wedding ring around her finger absently. She must talk to Louis tonight. There was no sense in putting it off any longer. If she tarried, he might be gone. But even now her lids felt leaden, and she was sliding toward sleep.
"Ma-ma."
She looked up to find her little son stretching out his plump arms to her, finally saying the one word she'd longed to hear. She took him, her heart stilling when he laid his head upon her shoulder and began pulling at the lacing of her bodice. She felt the warm release of milk even before she'd settled him on the bed beside her. Her last thought as sleep descended was that Louis would be leaving. But the warmth of her baby son-and then, later, Rosebud and Red Shirt-hemming her in and making her feel safe and warm and tremendously content, pushed all thoughts of goodbye aside.
Morrow came awake to find both babies sleeping soundly in the valley of bedding between her and Red Shirt. Rosebud was tucked against the hard expanse of her father's bare chest, just as their little son nestled against her. Her eyes shifted from the crackling fire to the smoke hole and then the blue sky. Almost to Missouri, was her first relieved thought, and her second was simply, Louis. Placing a hand over the baby tumbling inside her, she sat up, wondering where he'd passed the night. The feasting had gone on till the wee hours, though she'd been asleep through most of it, rousing only to nurse the twins or watch Red Shirt feed the fire. Louis was an early riser, she remembered. Might he have already left?
The thought was so startling she pulled on the dirty linen dress as fast as she could, spying her soiled shoes near the door. With renewed vigor, she ducked past the door flap into the chill morning. Though a scattering of shelters were in the way, she could still discern a few winsome twists and turns of the river called Mississippi and hear the musketlike crack of ice thawing within its frozen banks.
Please, Lord, don't let him leave, not without saying goodbye.
It seemed no one else was up except the customary scouts, so she simply stood, taking in every detail she'd missed in the twilight when they'd ridden into this unfamiliar place. Twenty or so temporary dwellings. A stomp ground and fire pit nearer the river. Spits and trellises for smoking meat. A work area for canoe-making rife with wood shavings and sundry tools. A scattering of skeletal trees, mostly elm and oak and beech, frosted white. And then the corrals where fifty or more horses were milling ... and Louis leaning against the enclosure.
Her heart seemed to double its cadence. Was he looking for his horse? Shrugging a blue trade blanket around her shoulders, she started in his direction, walking briskly at first and then slowed by a tongue-tied shyness. The nearer she came, the more upended she felt. The tilt of his hat-the decisive set of his whiskery jaw-seemed to bring a hundred heartfelt things to mind of her old life and the father she so fiercely missed. When she was just a stone's throw away, he turned toward her but gave no greeting, just fixed her with tired eyes that were red-rimmed and steady and sorrowful all at once. He wore the same greasy, begrimed hunting shirt he'd had on the day before and looked sorely in need of sleep.
She said the first thing she thought. "Haven't you been to bed?"
He rubbed his jaw. "No, Morrow. I've been up all night wondering what to say to you come morning. And now that it's morning I still don't know what to say."
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. `Are you leaving?"
He took off his hat and gave it an agitated twirl. "You think I'd go without saying goodbye? I did that once before, remember, a long time ago. And I've hated leave-takings ever since"
Jess.
Their eyes locked and held, warm as an embrace yet disbelieving. She watched as he removed something from the small buckskin pouch at his waist. When he placed Pa's wedding ring in the palm of her hand and wrapped her fingers tight around it, she began to cry.
He put his arm around her, face pensive. "I don't remember everything about our home on the Red River, but I do recall that Celtic cross. And you're the picture of our ma:"
She studied him through her tears. "You look like Pa"
"I'm glad of that. I remember him being a fine man-a fine father. But I bet he never reckoned his wedding ring would lead me to you"
She swiped at her damp face with the edge of the trade blanket. "Only the Almighty could have arranged that"
He nodded. "The soldiers took that ring and meant it for evil, but like Scripture says, God meant it for good"
"You were there when it happened?"
"Right there at the treaty table, translating alongside Red Shirt. I took the officer in charge aside and told him it belonged to my kin, and he gave it over straightaway. And then when you came to Clark's fort, I saw you wearing Ma's ring. There's no mistaking the design. I've never seen a set of rings like it."
"You call yourself Louis, but I knew you as Jess."
He smiled. "Jessamyn Louis Little"
She looked down at her own band, the little cross glinting in the dawn, and a bittersweet sadness swept through her. "I wish Pa could be here. He never stopped looking for you-wa
nting you home"
"I never forgot him-or you:" He looked away from her and squinted into the sunrise. "I was there when the Shawnee killed Ma and Euphemia. I don't know why they let me live or took me north to the Indian towns. An old Shawnee couple whose son had died adopted me. After a while they became my family."
Family. She felt no hurt at his confession. His ties to the Shawnee were every bit as unusual as her own, and she simply nodded in understanding. "I guess you'll be leaving now:" As hard as she tried to stop it, her voice gave way, and his arms encircled her again.
"No, Morrow. I've been roaming a long time and want to settle down. Finding you is like coming home to me. Lord willing, I'll cross into Missouri and live near you in a cabin of my own."
At his words, it seemed a small sunrise was dawning in her breast and all her weariness was washed away. She became aware of a tall shadow behind them and turned. Red Shirt stood looking at them, the twins in his arms. They were almost home. Almost to Missouri.
But home wasn't a place, she was coming to realize. Home was family. Home was right here, right now. With these Godgiven people.
Laura Frantz credits her grandmother as being the catalyst for her fascination with Kentucky history. Frantz's ancestors followed Daniel Boone into Kentucky in the late eighteenth century and settled in Madison County, where her family still resides. Frantz is a member of the Kentucky Historical Society, American Christian Fiction Writers, and Romance Writers of America, and is the author of The Frontiersman's Daughter. She currently lives in the misty woods of Port Angeles, Washington, with her husband and two sons. Contact her at www.laurafrantz. blogspot.com or LauraFrantz.net.
Laura Frantz, Courting Morrow Little: A Novel
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