Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (17 page)

"Do you forgive me, Morrow? For my father's people?"

Never before had he said her name. It seemed to shorten the
distance between them, bespeak some measure of peace. She
clutched the hankie in her hands, aware of the sigh of the wind
and her own thudding heart. Forgive him? Forgive them? For
taking away all she held dear? The startling question bewildered
her. Why would he ask? Or care about her answer?

When she opened her eyes, he was gone. All around her the
spent grass was sunlit and serene and empty. But his heartfelt
question seemed to linger.

She took her time returning to the cabin, pondering it all.
Both front and back doors were open wide, and the familiar
voices on the rear porch assured her they'd not left. She started
up the steps, pulled toward the privacy of her bedroom, then
backtracked to the washbasin. Her hair was as unkempt as her
feelings, and she wound the loose strands into a coil, pinning
them carefully at the nape of her neck. Next she splashed water
on her face, removing every trace of tears. She returned to the
hearth, but her movements seemed wooden as she began to
work.

"Morrow, you there?" Pa's slender frame filled the doorway.

"Right here, Pa"

"Surrounded and Red Shirt are staying for supper," he said.

She nodded and he disappeared onto the porch, seemingly
unaware of her struggle. She slowed down, took a deep breath,
stoked the fire. By five o'clock the venison roast and new potatoes
were fork-tender, and she'd even managed to make a pie with
the last of the apples she'd picked that morning. As she set the
table, she heard the growl of thunder in the distance and felt
the heaviness of coming rain. The commotion seemed to drive
the men indoors-she didn't even have to call them.

As they took their places, she sat down briefly while Pa prayed,
then got back up again to put the food on the table and fill their
cups. The silence was oddly comfortable, broken by the clink of
cutlery and passing of the dishes. She was torn between joining
them at the table or shunning them as she'd done in the past.
Finally she sat down, Red Shirt across from her. His plate was full,
but he made no move to eat. Instead his tan fingers toyed with
the knife and fork, turning them over as if contemplating what
to do next. He shot a glance at her, lingering on her hands as she draped a napkin across her lap and took up her own utensils.
Was he trying to copy her ... perhaps please her?

His hesitancy was so touching she swallowed down the ache
in her throat with a forkful of potato. He followed with a forkful
of his own and eyed her as she picked up her knife. He did the
same, but slowly, cutting his meat by pinning it properly with
his fork first. She could feel Pa's eyes on them both-no doubt
he was enjoying their peculiar interaction. At the end of the
table sat Surrounded, missing nothing, but shunning utensils
as was his custom.

"A fine meal, Morrow," Pa said with a wink.

She gave him a half smile, accepting Surrounded's and Red
Shirt's thanks with downcast eyes as they retired to the back
porch to smoke. Tossing the dishwater over the front porch rail,
she paused to study the sky. An angry black, its expanse was
threaded with thunderheads as the sun set before the coming
storm. Where, she wondered, were McKie's men on such a night?
Nowhere near the Red River, she hoped.

Restless, she removed her apron, hanging it from the peg
by the hearth. By the time she'd passed outside, the men were
nowhere to be seen. Had they already gone?

Across the clearing, the barn door was ajar. Inside, a lantern
hung from a beam, casting light on two beautiful horses-both
stallions, one gray, one white. Pa was fretting over the gray, examining its leg and feeding it an occasional sugar lump to keep it quiet.
Red Shirt stood to one side, back to her and arms folded, while
Surrounded spoke in low tones to Pa in a mixture of Shawnee and
broken English. Surprised, she turned away and took the river path,
unmindful of the heavy clouds that looked about to burst.

Tonight the water was gunmetal gray, reflecting the surly
sky. She stood on the bank she and Jess had played on years
before. The trail here was becoming trammeled now, though
the memory of that day was growing as cloudy as the sky. What she recalled most was the feeling-the fear and finality of it all.
But it no longer haunted. Somehow, sometime, that part of her
past had lost its power to wound her. Pondering it, she stood in
the solitude, watching the sky struggle to stay light before giving
way to the blackness of the stormy night.

"You shouldn't come here alone, nekanoh"

Startled, she turned. Red Shirt stood behind her, his hazel
eyes on her and everything else at once. Was he remembering
how she'd nearly drowned?

"Nekanoh?" She echoed the strange word back to him.

"It means `friend' in Shawnee'

Did he say that to soothe her, in case she felt frightened alone
with him? Standing on the bank beside him, she was struck by
how tall he was. Why, she didn't even reach his shoulder. Even
outdoors he was physically imposing, dominating the woods
as well as the cabin.

"I didn't hear you, she said, then flushed at her foolishness.
It was his habit not to be heard.

A flicker of amusement seemed to lighten his intensity. "I
know. I've followed you since you left the barn."

She sat down on the nearest rock as thunder boomed a final
warning. "I saw your horses-is one lame?"

"Snakebite"

She winced and turned her attention to the sky. The lack of
lightning made her less skittish, and she felt the spatter of rain
cool her flushed face. "I've rarely seen you here with horses.
You must be going far"

He moved to sit near her. "We're traveling south to Tennessee."

Her gaze followed his across the river to the foothills now
muted and misty with the coming rain, the mountains in back of
them rife with black shadows. She said wistfully, "I've not even
crossed this river, yet you're going beyond those mountains. I've
been wondering what's on the other side"

"More mountains. And rivers. Some so beautiful they take
your breath:"

Her lips parted in a sort of wonder. He was always roaming,
and she was always staying in one place. Did he ever want to
stay put, or was he content to always stray? "How long will you
be gone?"

"Three, four months:"

She kept her eyes on the restive water. "Don't you miss home
when you're away?"

He leaned down and picked up a stone, skimming it over the
river's surface. "My mother died when I was a boy. Since then
no particular place has seemed like home to me:"

"Pa told me she was a captive"

He nodded. "She was taken as a girl along the Clinch River
in Virginia:"

She hesitated, a hundred questions in her head and heart.
"What was she like?"

He grew thoughtful. "I remember her hair was yellow and
she had eyes like yours'

Yellow hair. Blue eyes. Precious little to hold on to, she
thought.

"She taught me the white words ... English"

"What else do you remember?"

"Very little. The Shawnee don't speak of the dead"

Nor does my father, she almost said. She studied the strong,
angular line of his jaw and the heavy fringe of his lashes as he
looked down at the water. Did he ache to know more about his
mother, just as she did, even though it was denied him? Did
he feel there was a part of his life yawning empty, needing to
be filled? She watched as he released another stone across the
river's surface, face pensive.

I remember she'd talk to God with her hands folded. Sometimes she'd take my hands in hers, and together we'd pray."

She took the words in, a bit disbelieving.

"She called God her Father, like your father does"

Her voice softened. "What happened to her?"

"She died of a fever when I was a boy"

The poignancy of his tone touched her. "You must miss
her"

He shrugged slightly. "I have my father ... others. It's enough
for now"

For now. When, she wondered, would it cease to be enough?
Would he ever want a wife, children? A home of his own? Being
a half blood, what would he choose? The white way or the Indian? She shut the thought away, a sudden frustration overlaying her sadness. Whoever he was, or chose to be, he came and
went as he pleased, revealing little, while their lives had been
laid bare to him from the very beginning in all their dullness
and simplicity.

I know so little about you, she said suddenly.

"What do you want to know?"

Her forehead furrowed. "I .." She swallowed and looked at
the ground. "Why do you keep coming back here?"

"Your father asks me to come. And your cabin sits near the
path I often travel:"

Though he hadn't said the name of it, she knew. The Warrior's Path. It cut through the heart of the Red River, across
their very land. Perhaps that's why the Shawnee had done what
they'd done that summer's day. Perhaps a settler's cabin was a
desecration to them ...

"I know you don't like my coming, he said, eyes on the river
again. "And I don't blame you"

She shifted uncomfortably on the rain-slicked rock, his heartfelt question at the gravesite returning to her in a poignant rush.
"I-I know you mean us no harm. But it seems dangerous for
you. Your father."

"It's no more dangerous here than anywhere else."

"Aren't you still a British scout?"

"Not any longer" He sat beside her again, the damp linen of
his shirt sagging against his broad shoulders, his buckskin leggings darkening to black. "I've begun to see that the Redcoats
are using the Shawnee as a weapon to fight the Americans. And
my father's people are suffering because of it. Their only hope is
to break from the British and make peace with the Americans.
Try to honor the treaty terms and hold on to their lands"

She thought of all she'd overheard Joe and Pa discuss of late,
of McKie and his men, and her forehead furrowed. "But there
are settlers-and soldiers-who violate the treaties being made
at Fort Pitt"

He nodded. `And there are Shawnee who do the same by
raiding the settlements."

"Is that why you're always on the move? Trying to keep the
peace?"

"I travel to various tribes and frontier forts, sometimes acting
as courier. Mostly I serve as interpreter and mediator for negotiations between the Shawnee and the British and Americans"

She shuddered, thinking he was in the very heart of the danger.
She'd not wanted to talk war, yet here she was, trying to make
sense of the turmoil swirling around them. Before she could
mind her tongue, she said in a little rush, "I hope you stay away
from Red River Station"

He turned thoughtful eyes on her, startling her with their
intensity. "I'm well aware of the commander there. And I give
that post wide berth"

She felt an inexplicable rush of relief at the words. 'Twas
just as Pa had told her. He was, for better or worse, far more
knowledgeable about McKie than they. "You're very brave to do
what you do;' she said quietly. "Or very foolish"

"Perhaps a bit of both." His eyes flickered over her through a haze of cold rain, his voice edged with concern. "You need to
go back to the cabin. You're shaking"

But her trembling had less to do with the chill than her tumult of emotions. She opened her mouth to inquire why he'd
asked for her forgiveness at the gravesites, but the words slipped
away. Breathless, she stood, wanting to return to the cabin and
the warmth of the hearth. She nearly fell on the slippery rocks
lining the river's edge, but he caught her, steadying her with a
hard hand all the way up the muddy trail and into the clearing.
Pa was waiting on the porch with Surrounded, and the horses
were now ready to go south. 'Twas a dismal night for travel, she
thought. Dismal and dangerous.

Turning to Red Shirt, she said suddenly, "God be with you"

He let go of her arm, a telling surprise in his eyes. But it
failed to match the astonishment she herself felt. For a fleeting
moment he'd seemed almost like a friend. She'd seen him in a
new light ... had looked past his Indianness and nearly forgotten who he was.

And that she must never do again.

"We need to pray, Morrow," Pa said, surprising her with his
abruptness.

Chilled, she stood by the hearth's fire as close as she dared
without singeing her wool skirts, while he lingered at the table.
"Pray for what, Pa?"

"While you were at the river, Surrounded told me the British
and Indians are readying to strike the settlements again if McKie
and his men cross the Ohio like they plan." His face assumed a
gravity she'd rarely seen. "He wants Red Shirt to resume working for the British. Apparently he's the Redcoats' pick as lead
scout and liaison. Even General Hamilton has asked for him
by name."

"General Hamilton?" She spoke the name with a sort of revulsion. Hair-buyer Hamilton? The British commander who was
goading the Shawnee into fighting their battles for them and
paying dearly for settlement scalps?