Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (8 page)

She sat at the boat's center, a willow basket behind her. What,
she wondered, would Lizzy and Jemima think of this little excursion? She was hardly a fine Philadelphia lady today, tucked in an
Indian canoe, wearing simple, scratchy homespun. She imagined
their raised brows should they learn of her outing, especially in
light of the news from Fort Click. But lately there'd been a lull in
the trouble. Nary a horse had been stolen from the settlements
in the week since her birthday. Pa had deemed it safe to ride the
river, though he'd prayed for her as she got into the boat. She'd
been a bit reluctant to go alone, as he wasn't feeling well and
couldn't accompany her as usual.

Her eyes roamed the wooded ridgetops and ravines high
above, every craggy edge the color of dried blood. The river
was low now at summer's peak, the little idling pools along its
banks rimmed with red rock. Tilting her head back, she opened
her mouth in a sort of wonder. Sunlight and water spilled off
ledges smothered with ferns and meadow rue, drenching the river bottom in a rainbow of warm greens and golds. She'd nearly
forgotten the beauty-why they'd settled here in the first place.
Was it any wonder the Shawnee kept coming back?

Summoning her courage, she gripped the paddle harder, trying
to push aside any unsettling thoughts as easily as she parted the
water, eyes grazing the opposite shore. Despite the rich, ripe scent
of brush along the banks and the peculiar odor of river water, she
could smell the still-warm pie in the basket, wrapped in a clean
cloth alongside the undergarments she'd made for Little Eli.

A few more bends and twists of the watery road and she was
there, a sharp bark making her start. Trapper Joe's mongrel
waded into the water, wagging its mangy tail in welcome. She
smelled the smoke from their chimney before she saw the cabin's
rough rectangle situated in the small, stump-littered clearing.
To one side was a small garden but little else. Trapping and
hunting as he did from fall to spring, Joe hadn't had the time
or the inclination to put in a corn crop and prove up his own
four hundred acres, so Pa let him live on a corner of their land.
They'd been friends ever since coming into Kentucke together,
though a more unlikely pair couldn't be found.

"Howdy do!" Joe's voice boomed like a cannon, only to be
followed by Good Robe's echoing, "How do!"

Morrow smiled and waved, spying them in the shade of a giant
sycamore not far from shore. Careful not to stand too soon and
spill herself into the waiting water, she dug her paddle into the
shallows and got out. Surprised by the lightness of the canoe, she
pulled it partly up on the sand and collected her basket, making
a beeline for the tree. Little Eli's cradle board was propped up
against the trunk, and she longed to release him from his tight
lacing, anxious to see how much he'd grown. But his eyes were
shuttered in sleep, so she simply dropped down beside him in
the sun-scorched grass, passing the basket to Good Robe.

"I've brought you a pie, some things for the baby," she said.

Trapper Joe lifted the linen and peered inside before reaching
for his hunting knife. The steel blade dissected the flaky crust, and
he cradled a generous wedge in one callused hand. Taking the
knife, Good Robe cut her own slice, smiling at the first bite.

"Oui-sah;' she said.

"That's Shawnee for `good', Joe said, wiping the steel blade
clean in the grass and returning it to its worn sheath. He turned
to take her in. "Seen them two Shawanoe lately?"

She darted a look at him and almost sighed aloud. Not once
in Philadelphia had people talked of Indians. Now that she'd
returned home, it seemed they talked of nothing else. "No sign
of them since I've come back;' she murmured.

He grunted and finished his pie in three bites, wiping his
mouth with a loose linen sleeve. "You're liable to see them again
shortly, once huntin' and trappin' commence."

Tamping down her dismay, she removed her bonnet and
used the limp brim to fan herself. "I keep thinking they'll stop
coming"

"This is still their territory, remember," he said, gaze sharp.
"There's an abandoned Shawanoe village near here called Es-
kippakithiki" At this, Good Robe looked up, her eyes fixed on
his face. "Word is they have a silver mine where the Red River
empties into Kettle Creek." Morrow stopped her fanning and
he shrugged. "'Course, I ain't seen any evidence of such, just
hearsay, mostly what Good Robe told me. The big silver mines
are up north near the Indian towns."

Morrow shot an apologetic glance at the Indian girl, but she
seemed content to be left out of the conversation, examining the
tiny clothes Morrow had made and smiling her appreciation.

Joe was studying her again, his eyes needle sharp. "Somethin' the matter with your pa? He ain't one to let you out of his
sight'

"Pa's feeling poorly," she said, a bit embarrassed at the admis sion, accurate though it was. She was almost ashamed to say he'd
caught another cold, as if it was somehow her doing.

"He ain't been well since you left. I keep hopin, now that
you're back, he'll right himself."

"I'd best not stay overlong lest he come looking for me:" She
stood up, a bit light-headed from the heat. Sweat beaded her
brow and upper lip, and she pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her face. The subtle scent of
rose water clung to the sultry air and then vanished when she
tucked the handkerchief away.

"Don't be a stranger," she said with a smile, catching up her
empty basket. "Our door's always open"

"Much obliged for the pie;' Trapper Joe said. "Give my regards
to Elias"

Good Robe raised a hand. "Paselo."

"7hank you"? Morrow wondered. Or `farewell"?

As she pushed the canoe into the current, holding her shoes
and skirts above the cool water, she half expected to see Pa
waiting. He liked to ferry her about, admiring the fine lines and
buoyancy of the boat and the smooth curve of the oak paddle.
But he was resting as needs be, and she felt an inexplicable urge
to get back to him.

Joe's booming voice called after her. "Best fetch me next time
them Shawnee come callin' I've got a terrible hankerin' to meet
em.

She merely nodded, anxious to get away from his unwelcome
words, glad when the blue water separated them. As the wind
brushed her back and pushed her upriver, she shivered, her
thoughts on the Shawnee and Joe's prediction of their coming.
Each slap of the paddle on the still water seemed to stir her
emotions until they became a breathless, desperate prayer.

Please, Lord. No more visits. No more kinnikinnik or canoes
or horses. Let the Shawnee leave us alone.

As soon as she stepped through the open cabin door, Morrow
realized something was amiss. The air was thick with the scent
of Indian tobacco, its peculiar bluish white smoke stinging her
eyes. For a fleeting moment she felt she'd walked into a trap.
Pa and the Indian she remembered all too well stood near the
hearth, backs to her. She started to turn away, words of welcome
dying in her throat.

Pa swung round to face her, stopping her before she slipped
out the door. "Morrow, if you remember, this is Surrounded by
the Enemy, a principal chief of the Shawnee:"

Surrounded by the Enemy. Why, she supposed she was indeed. The irony of it stung her. Her timid gaze trailed from the
deeply lined face of the chief to the bear claws strung about his
tawny neck. She didn't know which was more intimidating, the
frightening jewelry or the man who wore it. Though she'd been
away for more than two years, time and distance had not dulled
his grandeur. Tall as a tree he was, and proud.

She marveled at Pa's composure-and the lack of her own.
Beneath her linsey dress, her body began to tremble, and she
could feel her face empty of all color. What had Pa told Trapper
Joe? I don't think they mean us any harm, but they rattle poor
Morrow considerably. Truly, considerably was kind. Hadn't she
just prayed the Lord would keep them away?

She cast a desperate glance about the cabin. Her prayer was
half answered, at least, for the chief had come without his son.
She began backing out the door, mumbling something about
milking, the striking of the mantel clock a blessed reminder it
was time for this chore. Once in the safe haven of the barn, she
breathed in the comforting scent of hay and horses, aging wood
and tobacco. The afternoon shadows were lengthening, and she
shut the heavy door, increasing the gloom. For a moment she
leaned against the crossbar till her shaking subsided, wondering how long the Indian would stay. She'd tarry here till he'd gone.
From her stall, Tansy bawled a protest, and Morrow reached
for the milk pail hanging from a nail.

She took but three steps toward the back of the barn when
she saw a shadow dance on the far wall. A trick of the light? She
shut her eyes briefly as if to clear them, rooted to the hay-strewn
floor, the milk bucket hanging heavy in her hands. Oh no ...
She wasn't alone-she could sense it now. Terror rose up and
snatched all good sense, and she gave a sharp cry, holding the
bucket in front of her like a piece of armor.

Not three feet away stood a man. He drew himself to his full
height, and their eyes locked in mutual surprise. Above his loincloth and leggings was a loose linen shirt that fell a little below
his hips. Even in the dim light she could tell it was some of the
finest fabric she'd ever seen. Her seamstress's eye discerned it
was English-made, without buttons at the neck or wrists, and
it seemed to stretch taut as it ran the width of his shoulders.
Every creamy fold was a striking contrast to his inky, shoulderlength hair. A trio of eagle feathers angled over one ear, affixed
by a small silver medallion.

She was nearly slack-jawed with shock. Was this the chief's
son? The boyishness that had once defined him was gone. He'd
grown even taller since she'd last seen him, and his lithe form
had fleshed out, filling his clothes with an understated elegance.
There was something remarkable about him-an aura of barely
restrained strength, like a panther about to pounce. She took a
small step backward, but his dark eyes seemed to prevent her
from taking a second.

In that instant she realized he was taking her measure as well,
from the loose curls pinned atop her head to the impractical
slippers showing beneath the hem of her petticoat. Heat fanned
across her face, staining her neck and the square of pale skin
above her snug bodice. The trembling that had begun to ebb started anew and her heart raced. Had she been penned up in the
barn with a wild animal, her fright could have been no greater.

"I'm not going to hurt you"

The quiet words, so well articulated, so very English, knocked
the wind out of her. She simply stared at him, unable to move. All
her wrong assumptions rose up and left her breathless. Shame
topped them all as she realized she'd thought an Indian incapable of speaking English. But this was quickly smothered by
anger that he'd let her think so-let her and Pa make fools of
themselves ...

Dropping the milk pail, she pushed at the barn door, and it
clamored shut as she fled. The pasture opened up before her,
drenched a deep gold in the setting sun. She didn't stop running till she was at the paling fence that hemmed in Ma's and
Euphemia's graves. Since coming back from Philadelphia, she'd
not been here once. She hadn't meant to come now. Chest heaving, she began to cry, feeling five again and not eighteen.

Whether minutes or hours passed, she didn't know. Pa found
her sitting there amidst a tangle of honeysuckle vine, head in
her hands.

"Morrow, you all right?" His voice reached out to her, solicitous as always.

But she couldn't answer. He sat down beside her, and she
looked up with a heavy heart, eyes awash. He seemed to be aging
overnight, his russet hair going not gray but white. Years of being
a widower and losing a beloved son and daughter continued to
take a toll on him, and nothing she did could erase it.

She knew better than to give way to her turmoil, but it bubbled
forth like a pent-up spring, every syllable soft but threaded with
heat. "I wish you'd told me the son was here-before I went out
to milk-"

"He means you no harm, Morrow."

She dashed a hand across her damp face, having lost her handkerchief in the field as she'd fled. "You might have warned
me he was in the barn"

"His father wanted to borrow a horse:"

"A horse? Why?"

I didn't ask-just gave him one'

"He's not who we think he is, Pa. He speaks English"

"What's that?"

"He said he wasn't going to hurt me. But I don't believe him.
Even if he's as well-spoken as a white man, he's still a savage"
She shook her head in dismay. "We've opened our door to them
and made fools of ourselves, believing he spoke only Shawnee.
All this time he's been misleading us-making us think-"