Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (22 page)

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?

He was familiar enough with their cabin now that he knew
where to step on the stairs to avoid their creaking. Silent as a cat
he came down, his silhouette tall and dark in the firelight as he
stopped briefly at the hearth and moved soundlessly through the
cabin. A blast of icy air reached her in the few seconds it took for
him to open and shut the front door. Perhaps he'd simply gone
out to relieve himself. He had a natural sense of decorum that
made him shun the chamber pot beneath her bed. Sometimes
she sensed he felt her room was little more than a cage, that he
was as confined as a bear in a trap. Little wonder he spent more
and more time outside.

In seconds she was on her feet, her ruffled nightgown a tangle
of linen and lace, long forgotten by some fancy Philadelphia
lady. She nearly tripped over the hem but made it to the door,
snatching up her shawl and draping it around her before tugging at the handle.

The sound of Pa's snoring made her bolder still, and she hardly
minded the icy porch planks beneath her bare feet. Red Shirt
was just an arm's reach away, his back to her as he sat on the
edge of the porch. With his buffalo coat around him and his rifle
near, he looked poised to leave just as she suspected. He was
smoking the pipe Pa had made for him, and the aroma she was
coming to appreciate enveloped her in a small white cloud. She
sat down near him and watched as he inhaled and exhaled easily
on the pipe, his handsome face a study of satisfaction.

He smiled down at her in the darkness. "You watch me so
well I think you want to smoke"

"I've been wondering what it's like;' she admitted. Thinking of Aunt Sally, she added, "Some of the settlement women
smoke"

Still, she wrinkled her nose and drew back a bit as he reached
for her hand and placed the warm bowl of the pipe in her palm,
wrapping her fingers around it. Timidly she put the stem to her
mouth. The pungent smoke seemed to race down her windpipe,
creating a small storm. Gasping, she began to cough, sounding
so much like Pa she thought Red Shirt might laugh. He thumped
her on the back and gestured for her to be quiet at the same time,
stopping just shy of clamping a hand over her mouth.

"Leave the smoking to me;' he teased, taking the pipe back.

She tensed, wondering if Pa might appear. "I thought you
were leaving"

I had to see the sky. The stars'

She glanced up beyond the porch eave, awed. Tonight the
heavens seemed near enough to touch. The bright trail of stardust she knew to be the Milky Way had never been brighter.
No wonder he'd come downstairs. The view from her bedroom
window was stingy indeed, but here on the porch, profound.

His own voice was touched with wonder. "The Shawnee believe that is the path to the Otherside world"

"The Otherside world, she echoed, drawn to an explosion of
shooting stars to the south, like sparks from some heavenly fire.

"They say the stars are the souls of all the warriors from the
beginning of time"

All those souls... What of his soul? she wondered. She thought
of his Bible lying open upstairs. When he'd been in the barn
helping Pa with the horses, she'd picked it up, surprised that
it was so old and worn. The leather binding was fraying, a few
pages missing. She could make out a signature inside, the fine
writing so faded it was almost invisible. And she knew without
asking that it was very dear to him.

Wrapping her arms around her knees, she looked skyward
again. "When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers,
the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained. . "

"What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of
man, that thou visitest him?" he finished.

She turned to him, fresh wonder trickling through her.

"I spend a lot of time reading in your room, he said.

"I know. I saw your Bible."

"It was my mother's before me. That's all I have left of her"

"That's plenty," she said softly. "To know that she touched
those pages ... read those very words"

"I took it to Brafferton and asked them to teach me what it
said. But I nearly lost it when I left Virginia"

"What happened?"

"A party of trappers robbed me along the Clinch River. The
Bible fell into the water and I dove after it. I believe it saved
my life"

"'Tis meant to save lives;' she said with a little smile.

"You sound like your father"

"Do you mind?"

He took up his pipe again, face reflective. "He's different than
any man I've ever known. I'm glad you're like him"

"But I'm not;' she said, throat tight. "He's generous and kind
and good ... forgiving"

"You're different than you used to be. A few months ago you
wouldn't have followed me onto this porch:"

The compliment, if it was that, brought tears to her eyes.
"I-I'm sorry for treating you so badly. I'm ashamed now of how
I snubbed you-acted afraid of you-"

"It's common enough"

The admission startled her-made her feel grieved and defensive and tender toward him all at once. She longed to lay a
reassuring hand on his sleeve but checked herself. There was
no self-pity in his manner, only truth telling, and she sensed he
didn't want her sympathy, just her friendship. And her forgiveness.

"A half blood belongs to no one, red or white, he said.

"You belong to God, she said softly.

The ensuing silence lengthened and turned tense. She was
suddenly mindful of her cold feet and thin shawl and wondered
if she shouldn't go inside. As she moved to stand, a sudden cry
filled the clearing. A mockingbird?

He drew back as if bitten, moving between her and the sound
so suddenly she nearly toppled backward. With a fierce gesture,
he urged her into the cabin, his hands so fast upon his rifle that
she gasped at the flash of moonlight on metal.

She fled inside, keeping the door cracked, and watched as he
backed up, his rifle aimed at the clearing. The mockingbird failed
to call again. He slipped in after her, and she shut the door with
a thud, setting the crossbar in place. Across the room, Pa still
slept through the commotion, though his snoring had ceased.
Suddenly she realized they'd left Red Shirt's pipe and buffalo
coat on the porch, but his expression told her it didn't matter.
He'd stand watch and neither smoke nor sleep the remainder
of the night.

"Go, Morrow," he whispered, nodding toward the trundle
bed. "Sleep"

She shook her head. "What is happening out there?"

"Someone watches your cabin"

She felt a flicker of panic and glanced at the crossbar again
to make sure it was in place. McKie had spies everywhere ...
but so did the Shawnee. He knew this as well as she. But his
calm suggested such danger was a trifling thing hardly worth
mentioning.

"Go. Sleep," he said again.

But she couldn't, stirred up as she was by what waited outside.
Instead she took a candle and lit it at the low fire, shielding its
flame against the draft with one cupped hand as she climbed
the stairs to her room to better see the surrounding woods.
Setting the candle on her dresser, she crossed to the smallest
window and stood at its corner. Dawn was beginning to paint
the frozen forest with sepia light. The mockingbird they'd heard
moments before had sounded queer. She knew their call, and
this particular one had not rung true. And he, far more familiar
with these things than she, knew it too.

Morrow paced on the landing outside her room, hearing the
creak of wagons and horses. It was early afternoon, and members
of the singing school were already arriving in the winter gloom.
A light skiff of snow graced the frozen ground, and a bonfire
was already blazing down by the barn to warm the revelers.
She could hear Jemima's harsh laugh, and it rankled her nearfractured nerves.

If only they could just skip to tomorrow-Christmas Day. It
would be just she, Pa, and Red Shirt then. All week she'd been
anticipating Pa's reading of Christ's birth in the Gospels and
giving them the gifts she'd made. They'd share a special supper, and she'd wear the velvet dress. Red Shirt had not celebrated
Christmas, he'd said, not since leaving Brafferton.

Taking a steadying breath, Morrow slipped into her darkened
bedroom. He was standing by the window, arms crossed, looking
down upon the bonfire and gathering wagons. She wondered
how many frontier frolics he'd seen. The intensity of his expression told her he missed nothing, from the number of soldiers
present to the caliber of weapons they carried, the condition of
their mounts, and the uniforms they wore. Wary, she breathed
another silent prayer.

"I wanted to check on you one last time ... see if you needed
anything, she whispered, stopping in the center of the room.

"Have you come to give me my orders?" There was a hint of
a smile in his voice as he moved to stand before her, arms still
crossed.

"Orders?" she echoed.

"Don't look out the window. Don't climb onto the roof. Don't
go below:"

She tried to smile, surprised at his easy manner, but her sense
of impending disaster only deepened. "I have no heart for a frolic
tonight. The soldiers are simply too close:'

He looked down at her, studying her small form smothered
in moss green wool. She pulled her scarlet shawl closer around
her, chilled by the cold bedroom. She could hear Pa calling her
but made no move to go. Distracted, her eyes fell to his feet.
He wore the shoepacks he'd made as they'd sat together about
the fire these long winter nights, just the three of them in a
warm circle of firelight-she, he, and Pa. That was what she
craved-quiet companionship about the fire, not the forced
frivolity before her. She swallowed down a sigh, a bit startled
when he put his hands on her shoulders.

In the dimness, his face held a rare pensiveness. "Do you
forgive me, Morrow?"

The heartfelt words returned her to the autumn day he'd first
asked. "Forgive you?" she echoed.