Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (36 page)

"Yes, I'm mourning, she said softly. "I believe I'm mourning
you.

A flicker of surprise played over his handsome face, but his
gaze remained steadfast. He stood stone still as if waiting for
her to settle matters between them. Several breathless moments
passed as she waged a startling battle, raw grief finally giving
way to a deluge of desire. Without wavering, she inched her
arms around his neck and threaded her fingers through his
blue black hair.

"Morrow ... are you sure?"

The tender question touched her. "Never surer," she answered.

Gently, like they were about to dance, he took her in his arms,
and she felt a wall within him give way. He held her hungrilyeven fiercely-his embrace erasing every fear she had as he
buried his face in her freshly washed hair and murmured endearments she'd never heard. The stars and the river faded away, as
did all her sorrow. She'd never forget the Falls of the Ohio on
the night she became his bride in more than name.

They made poor time on the trail after that. The weather
worked against them, snowing by day and turning their shelter to ice by night. Dense forest gave way to open prairie that she
was only too willing to embrace after the unrelieved gloom of
the woods. But it was so bitter she had trouble drawing an easy
breath. The air seemed to turn to ice in her lungs, and her eyelashes froze together in a mournful moment over Pa. Red Shirt
wrapped her in a blanket and his buffalo coat and helped her
back on the mare. He seemed almost immune to the cold.

They sought shelter long before dusk. Soon a fire struggled to
warm them, and she set about making supper from the provisions they had on hand. She was getting tired of jerked meat,
remembering the hams hanging in the smokehouse back home.
He left her alone in the shelter but quickly returned, carrying
a skinned rabbit.

Her eyes widened as she took the meat. "You weren't gone
long enough for me to put the kettle on"

"Hunting in the snow is for fools;' he said, cleaning his knife.
"There's no sport in it"

She began to make broth, then sat back and hugged the blanket closer. The wind was kicking up, almost animal-like, licking
and biting the shelter with a keening wail. "I'd fear being out
here with anyone but you"

"A new wife is supposed to say such things"

"I wish ..." Her voice was soft, her eyes flickering over the
snug bark and bough walls. "I wish we could be snowed in like
this forever."

"Forever is a long time. Soon we come to the camp"

She tried to hide her disquiet, but he missed little. His eyes
fastened on her face, warm from the fire, and he seemed almost
as rueful as she.

"Once we ride in, I won't leave your side. Everyone will be
curious about you. Many Shawnee have never seen a white
woman. Some have never seen a white man"

The strangeness of it settled over her like a heavy blanket. He was taking her far out of reach of anything she'd ever known, so
far she might be the first white woman to set foot in westernmost
Indian territory. She knew so little about his past, his life with
his father's people. Sometimes she nearly forgot his ties to the
Shawnee. Perhaps she'd best begin finding out.

Her eyes held his in question. "Remember when you came
across me picking berries in the woods?"

He studied her thoughtfully. "The day you asked about my
Indian name?"

The bittersweet memory almost made her smile. "Yes, but
you wouldn't tell me"

"I knew you wouldn't like it if I did. I'm not sure you will
now.

"Now that we're wed, it seems like I should know"

He added another stick of wood to the fire. "Wawilaway. It
means warrior.

She expelled a little breath. "I can see why you held your
tongue:"

"Does it frighten you?"

She hesitated, ashamed to admit his past frightened her beyond
all reason, and that was why she asked him so few questions.

His intensity turned to wry amusement. "How is it that a lady
like you married a man whose name you didn't know?"

She smiled. "I knew you as Red Shirt:"

"I like that name no better'

"What did your mother call you?"

He grew pensive and looked into the fire as if trying to grasp
a memory too long denied him. "I don't remember. But at Brafferton in Virginia, they called me Will:"

"Taken from your Shawnee name?" He nodded, and she went
on, undeniably curious. "How long were you in school there?"

"Long enough to know I couldn't be the gentleman they
wanted me to be. Four ... five winters"

Winters... years? The Shawnee phrasing inexplicably tugged
at her heart. "You had no happy memories, then?"

"My happiest memory was the day I left. It might have been
theirs too"

She smiled back at him, but there were tears in her eyes. "You
went all that way in the wilderness to return to your father?
Alone-just a boy?"

"I was used to being alone:" He stirred the fire with a stick
till it blazed a deep cherry red. "A half blood belongs to no one,
red or white, remember."

"You belong to me;' she said softly.

His eyes met hers, thankfulness in their depths. "You-and
Christ"

His heartfelt words made her ache with regret. He was hers,
yes, but she'd once been so blinded by unforgiveness she'd hardly
looked at him. How like Pa he was, she mused. Though he had
reasons aplenty to bear a grudge, he didn't do so.

He unrolled a blanket and lay on his back, eyes closed. Stirring
the broth, she was glad to see him at rest. He'd walked every footscalding mile today to ease his lame horse, while she'd ridden
the mare. Beneath his frocked shirt, his chest soon rose and fell
in the easy rhythm of sleep. Smothering a yawn, she fussed with
the fire, but he reached over and caught her hand. The firelight
flickered over them with beguiling light as they lay down, nose
to nose, clearly delighted with each other.

`Aren't you hungry?" she asked as he kissed the hollow of
her throat.

"Only for you;' he answered.

They were traveling west through river valleys so pristine it
seemed to Morrow that no one had ever passed this way before,
be it red man or white. The air was so sharp and scented with pine
she felt she could open her mouth and taste it. As the weather
cleared, the sun struck the ground with such brilliance that Red
Shirt painted black smudges beneath her eyes to counter snow
blindness. The charcoal and bear grease stung her wind-chapped
cheeks, but at last she could look around without wincing.

She noticed he seemed to be circling back now, leaving her
for short periods beneath a rock shelter or stand of trees while
he retraced their steps on his stallion. Ever watchful, he always seemed one step ahead of her, and at first she gave it little
thought. But now there seemed a new tension about him that
bespoke danger, and she felt it sharp as a knife's edge.

He returned from his backtracking to the camp theywere making and hobbled his horse before turning her way. "Neewa."

She looked up from the flint and tinder in her hands, warmed
by his calling her wife. But the intensity in his face swept all sweet
feelings aside as he took the fire starters from her and returned
them to their pouch, enfolding her cold fingers in his.

"We can't make camp here. We must go on.,,

She searched his eyes and saw a flicker of warning. "But it's
almost twilight .." And I'm so tired I can't go any further.

"I'll have to push you, he told her, his breath a crystal cloud.
"You're going to have to trust me"

"I do ... but-"

"We're being followed by Bluecoat soldiers:"

What? Her thoughts began a woozy whirl and she gripped
his hands. Men like McKie? Seeking to avenge McKie? Or bent
on returning her to the Red River?

"If we continue west, we'll lead them right into the heart of
my father's camp. Starting tonight we'll head northeast. The
moon is full for travel. I know this land like I know your form
and face, but they have no such advantage. By dawn we'll have
outdistanced them"

She looked toward her mare, hiding her dismay. The poor
animal seemed as tired as she. But they must go on. What choice
did they have? Unable to speak, she simply nodded, a prayer
for strength already dawning in her heart. Lord, protect us ...
shelter us.

On into the moonlit night they rode. Morrow's worry faded
to a sharp, cold wakefulness that pushed her beyond the edges
of endurance. Toward dawn they took shelter in a cave, a small
fire warming them and blackening the damp ceiling. She knew
that smoke from an open fire, like their tracks in the snow,
might lead the soldiers right to them. While he stood watch,
she slept rolled up in his buffalo coat till the sun rode higher in
the sky and shed fierce light on a forest that now seemed more
enemy than friend.

They'd not yet spoken of McKie. He seemed a part of the
past, shed like her velvet dress upon leaving the Red River. Yet
she couldn't quite clear her mind of the fact that murder was
wrong, no matter the motive. But what would she have done if
he hadn't been killed? His death seemed to have delivered herand Pa-from a net of trickery and treason, as well as avenging
the murders committed on the Kanawha against the Shawnee,
and even Robbie Clay.

Red Shirt rode close beside her now, no longer leading, his leg brushing her own. "You can rest. The Bluecoats have turned
back."

Strangely, the words brought small comfort. She was too worn
to even utter a simple "I'm glad, though she saw the satisfaction
in his eyes. Reaching out, he encircled her with one hard arm
and brought her off her own horse and onto his. Sideways in
the saddle, she lay limp as a rag doll against the bulwark of his
body, her head cradled against his shoulder.

His arms formed a hedge around her as he held the reins, his
voice already sounding queer and far-off. "Sleep, Morrow, and
forget about the trouble"

Morrow awoke to a little glen drifted deep in white mist,
the sulfurous odor reminding her of smelling salts. Was she
dreaming? Red Shirt helped her down, steadying her till she
got her bearings.