Wilderness Courtship (13 page)

He wasn’t. The breath whooshed out of him in disgust. The riders Charity had spotted were still on the hillside but they were already too far away to be seen clearly, let alone identified.

Racking his brain, it suddenly occurred to Thorne to duck into the pilothouse and see if the captain had a spyglass handy.

He knocked but didn’t pause before opening the door. “Excuse me,” he said, quickly scanning the small room. “I was wondering if…”

The copper, cylindrical device Thorne sought hung in its leather case, just to the right of the doorway. He snatched it and was already back at the railing by the time shouts followed him.

Someone grabbed his shoulder, tried to wrest the spyglass from his grasp. He twisted away with a strong, “Wait! Just one more second.”

“You can’t go takin’ the cap’n’s property,” the crew member said.

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to ask his permission. I needed to use it right away.”

“Well, you’ve used it,” the man countered. “Now, give it back or I’ll have to place you in irons for the rest of the trip.”

Thorne knew there was no use arguing further. He’d seen enough through the telescopic device to know that the riders were too far away for anyone to discern their features, even magnified.

He handed over the instrument and walked away without any comment other than a murmured, “Sorry.” And sorry he was. If Charity had been right in her assumption that Cyrus Satterfield or others of his ilk were headed in the same direction as his party, they’d better be more vigilant than ever.

And if he wasn’t? If Charity had been mistaken? That didn’t change anything. As he had already told her, there could still be new dangers around every bend of the river and lurking behind every tree. Whether or not they were in real peril didn’t matter. Thorne intended to proceed as if they were still centered in the sights of an invisible rifle and Louis Ashton’s finger was poised on the trigger.

Chapter Thirteen

T
he steamer
Multnomah
put ashore near Rainier, a meager assemblage of rough-hewn buildings at the confluence of the Columbia and the Cowlitz. From there, Charity had been told, they would go as far as possible on the smaller river before undertaking a short, overland trek, passing through Olympia and proceeding to the American Fort Steilacoom.

It sounded too easy, which was partly why she was worried. The trip across the great plains by wagon had been described as simple, too, and it had cost many thousands of pioneers their lives. If accident or Indian attack didn’t kill you, cholera or smallpox might, providing you didn’t get run over by a wagon or a buffalo stampede or die of starvation and thirst, first.

And speaking of Indians. Charity shivered. Thorne had been talking with four long-haired, buckskin-clad natives while she and Naomi stood aside with Jacob. From the satisfied look on Thorne’s face as he returned to them, she feared he had struck a bargain for their transport upriver.

“All’s well,” Thorne said. “One of their party is an important leader of the peaceful Nisquallies, so we’re in good company. He tells me there are halfway houses all the way to Cowlitz landing where we’ll be able to buy horses and supplies for the last leg of our journey.”

Grinning, he gestured toward the waiting Indians. “Smile, ladies. We don’t want Leschi and his friends to think you’re unhappy. They’ve kindly offered to let us ride along on their trip home. We’ll be departing as soon as they’re through trading at the mercantile.”

Naomi pressed a lace-edged handkerchief to her face below her nose, peered at the canoes and grimaced. “Those boats smell.”

“That, they do,” Thorne said. “And so do our friends if you judge them by our standards. I’m sure we smell very strange to them, too, and probably just as distasteful.”

Charity nodded. “That’s what my sister said after she and her husband had spent some time with the Cheyenne and Arapaho. She got so used to the aromas in camp she missed them after she left.”

“I feel the same about the ocean,” Thorne said, looking a bit wistful. “There is something about breathing sea air that invigorates and blesses me.”

“Me, too,”
Jacob piped up, bringing chuckles from Charity and his uncle.

“Well, I guess we know where our little sailor’s loyalties lie,” Charity said. “I was pleasantly surprised by how well he handled the bad weather that put his mama to bed. Thankfully, he seems to take after your side of the family.”

Thorne’s response was perplexing. She had thought, since he seemed so taken with the little boy, he would be flattered by the comparison. Instead, he was acting as if that was the last thing he’d wanted to hear.

He was probably still grieving over the possible loss of his brother, she reasoned. That excused his rigid posture and closed expression. It had been insensitive of her to bring up the subject and although she was sorry to have done so, she felt it best to let the matter drop rather than apologize and draw more attention to her innocent faux pas.

“Will we all be able to fit into one canoe with our baggage?” she asked.

Thorne shook his head. “No. We’ll ride with Leschi and one of his companions. The others will transport our bags in the second canoe. The Nisquallies came downriver together and that’s the way they plan on going home.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Consider it your own private fleet.”

“I think I’d prefer something a bit larger for my armada,” Charity said, relieved to have distracted him so easily. “But I imagine it will be safer with more guides. I don’t suppose there’s any chance they might get lost, since they live here.”

“Not likely,” Thorne replied. “They don’t use compass and sextant like ships at sea but they always seem just as sure of directions as the finest trained navigator.”

“Undoubtedly a useful talent,” she said with a shy smile. “I, on the other hand, used to get lost as soon as I stepped off Montgomery Street near the hotel. Papa loved to tease me about it.”

“You will see him again,” Thorne said soberly. “I promise.”

She sighed. “They should be married by now.” Looking into the distant forest, she let her mind’s eye wander. “I know Annabelle wanted the wedding to be held at Mission Dolores because that’s where Lola Montez was married to Mr. Hull last year. Papa wanted to use Trinity Church, instead. It will be interesting to see who won out.”

“I doubt it matters in the eyes of God,” Thorne ventured.

“I hope you’re right. I haven’t been able to bring myself to attend worship services in a church since I left Ohio. I know I should have, especially when Papa asked me to go with him, but it just didn’t seem right without Mama.”

“What about your own wedding? Where did that take place?”

Charity shook her head slowly, sadly. “In the middle of a desolate prairie just west of Fort Laramie. It’s not a day I particularly take pleasure in remembering.”

“Then forgive me for bringing it up.”

She looked into his eyes and replied, “If you, too, will forgive me.”

“For what? You’ve done nothing needful of forgiveness.”

“Yes, I have. I reminded you of your brother when I mentioned Jacob’s sailing abilities a few moments ago. I should have been more sensitive. I’m truly sorry.”

“Ah, that,” Thorne said with an audible sigh. “You mustn’t blame yourself if I seemed out of sorts, Miss Beal. The error in judgment was not yours. It was mine.”

Thorne helped both women into the first canoe, then handed Jacob to Charity. With a buckskin-clad Nisqually at either end of the narrow craft and the center space taken up by the ladies and the boy, he could quickly see it would be best if he followed in the second boat instead of climbing in with them.

“I’ll ride with the luggage,” Thorne said. “It makes no sense for all of us to cram in together when it’s not necessary.”

“But…”

Although Charity didn’t finish her sentence, Thorne saw her eyeing the regal-looking Indian seated in the prow of the canoe. Leschi was taller than his companions and apparently spoke several languages, English among them, which was a definite plus. Yet Thorne could tell she didn’t relish being separated from him and his rifle.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he said to reassure her. “It will be much easier for me to watch out for you if we’re not so crowded.” He smiled wryly. “You said you’d trust me. Remember?”

She gave him a contrite look. “I did, didn’t I? My error.”

That made Thorne laugh. The Indians joined in, thereby lifting everyone’s spirits. They pushed off with Charity’s canoe in the lead and Thorne jumped into the second narrow boat.

He didn’t like sending the women on ahead and was adamant that his canoe keep pace with Leschi’s. It took an extra payment to the owner of the second canoe, after departure, to ensure that that occurred.

Smiling to himself, Thorne appreciated the crafty way his Indian guide had arranged to squeeze another coin out of him. These Oregon and Washington natives might be uneducated by city standards but they were clearly far from foolish. They had learned to trade from the British of the Hudson’s Bay Company and had quickly adapted to the advent of Americans, nicknaming them “Bostons,” apparently in the mistaken belief that all such settlers hailed from Massachusetts.

The Nisqually knowledge of world geography might be lacking but the Indians’ overall skill at plying the rivers and lakes was quite impressive, especially to a man like him who had made a good living from the sea. He was not only awed with the way each guide handled the small dugouts, he was amazed at how well the canoes balanced as they slid through the water with barely a ripple.

Concentrating mostly on the boat bearing the women and the child, Thorne nevertheless found time to ready a rifle he had purchased on the docks in Rainier. It was a muzzle-loader and had seen lots of hard action, judging by the looks of its scarred stock. It, and the derringer he had given Charity, would have to serve until he found something better and added to their armament.

His guides barely glanced at him as he poured a measure of powder down the barrel, added a wad and ball, and rammed it all home, waiting to place a cap below the hammer until he was ready to test fire it. Not wanting to discharge the rifle for nothing and perhaps startle the others, he laid it carefully aside.

Ahead, Charity had slipped off her bonnet and he could see sunlight glistening off her golden hair. Although she resembled Naomi in coloring and height, there was a warmth and vivacity to her personage that set her apart from the other woman the way a sunset highlighted an otherwise cloudy horizon. She was sunshine to Naomi’s shade; roses in full, glorious bloom to the other woman’s spent blossoms.

Thorne could tell by watching their Nisqually guides that the Indians were growing wary of something. They kept to the center of the Cowlitz and alternately scanned both banks. He knew they would spot any danger long before he did. What they would do to counter it, however, was another question.

Peering into the shadowy vegetation along the riverbanks, Thorne imagined a multitude of threats. Every crack of a twig, every splash of water, every cloud that passed across the sun and left dappled patterns on the ground, made him see adversaries where there were none.

Suddenly, a horse whinnied close by. Another answered. Thorne spun around just as a rifle fired from shore. The sharp sound echoed up the canyon on both sides of the river, masking its origin all too well.

A woman screamed.

To Thorne’s horror, he knew the shriek came from Charity.

The moment she had realized what was happening, Charity had thrown herself over the child to protect him.

The Indian called Leschi shouted something to her but he spoke so rapidly she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She did know, however, that he and his companion were paddling their canoe much faster and had veered sharply left.

She dared not raise her head for fear of another shot but did manage a quick peek over her shoulder. Naomi had apparently not been hit or even frightened because she was still sitting bolt upright.

Appalled, Charity commanded, “Get down!”

Naomi ignored her.

Charity reached for the other woman’s coat and yanked, toppling her over and pulling her down so they were all lying bunched up below the thick, wooden sides of the dugout.

There was no way to tell if that would be enough protection but Charity figured it was better than letting Naomi just sit there, frozen like a frightened deer waiting for slaughter.

Jacob began to whimper.

“It’s okay, honey. We’re okay,” she crooned. “I’m sure Uncle Thorne will shoot back as soon as he can.”

Whining, the little boy displayed his hand. There was blood on it!

Charity took one look, raised high enough to be sure their protector’s canoe was following closely, and yelled, “Help!”

She returned to her prone position and cradled the child in her arms to cushion him. “Where is it. Where do you hurt?” she asked.

He pointed. To her.

“You have a owie.”

“I do?” Charity touched her forehead and her fingertips came away smeared with crimson. She hadn’t felt a thing at first but now that Jacob had called her attention to it, her forehead did smart a little.

The sensation of being shot was nothing at all like she had imagined it would be. She had thought she had merely banged her head on the canoe when she’d ducked, never dreaming that her scalp had actually been grazed by a bullet!

Relieved that Jacob was not injured, she smiled at him. “It’s just a scratch. I’m sorry I got blood all over you, sweetheart.”

Naomi raised her own head enough to glance at the others, took one look at the gory mess and fainted.

Leschi had his canoe beached and had herded its occupants into the forest for cover by the time Thorne caught up to them.

He made straight for Charity, dropped to one knee and grasped her free hand while she used the other to press a scrap of cloth to her forehead just above the hairline.

He was beside himself, almost afraid to articulate his feelings for fear of revealing the pain he felt at seeing her thus. Finally, he asked, “Are you badly hurt?”

“No. I’m sure it’s just a scratch. I’m afraid I frightened Naomi and Jacob terribly, though.”

Blinking back tears of relief he heaved a sigh. “You scared me enough for both of them. Who shot at you?”

“I don’t know. I never saw a thing.”

Thorne didn’t want to leave her but there were details he had to know. He arose and turned to the Indians. “Did you see anything?”

“Boston men,” Leschi answered. “And Snoqualmies. Patkanim. He bad medicine. Want war.”

“Are you sure it was Bostons with him?”

The taciturn Indian nodded. “All King George men tillicums, like Dr. Tolmie. They not shoot at Leschi.”

“Friends?” Thorne guessed. “You say they’re your friends?”

“Yes. Friends. Boston men not tillicum.” He frowned. “Except Charlie Eaton. He marry my daughter, Kalakala.”

“Then surely they are your friends, too,” Thorne said, hoping to be considered among them.

Leschi snorted derisively and turned to point at Charity. “Why shoot klootchman?”

“What? Oh, the woman? I don’t know for sure but I have a good idea. I just don’t understand what the Snoqualmies would have to do with all this.”

Chuckling, Leschi looked at him as if he thought him daft. “Patkanim’s men no need reason. They love to fight. Any Boston man with gun is enemy.”

“Then why would they join forces with one?”

“For enough blankets or powder and ball, they will fight for any man. Even a Boston.”

Mulling over what the wise Indian had said, Thorne fetched his things from the second canoe and returned to care for Charity. Her beautiful hair was matted and her frock probably ruined but that was of little consequence as long as she recovered.

He again knelt at her feet as he poured water from a canteen onto one of his clean shirts.

She resisted his ministrations. “You are not going to use that lovely shirt to clean my wound. It’s a ridiculous waste. I won’t permit it.”