Wilderness Courtship (14 page)

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Yes. I can take care of myself.” Starting to rise she swayed slightly.

Thorne was immediately at her elbow to steady her. “So, you say. It looks otherwise to me, Miss Beal.”

Still, she objected to his efforts. “I can dip water from the river and use this scrap of my petticoat to stem the bleeding just as I have been.”

“And be shot again for your trouble?” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

“I’m smart enough to know that whoever took a potshot at us is probably long gone by now.”

“I have to agree with that. However, I’d prefer to remain in hiding until our guides have checked to make sure.”

“I couldn’t help overhearing you talking to them. Is it true that it may have been hostile Indians who shot me?”

“Unfortunately. According to Leschi, they were in the company of Americans. They could have been after anything, including our supplies.”

Or you women,
he added to himself. There was plenty of intermarriage between the settlers of the Pacific Northwest and local women, such as Leschi’s daughter. It was the pale, European-featured women that the country lacked and Thorne imagined that they’d be very valuable trade items if they were captured.

The concept gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had brought innocents to this wild territory and it was his sole responsibility to see to their welfare. No one was going to get past him to harm those women and that child as long as he had breath in his body.

And what if something happened to him?

Thunderstruck at the realization of his party’s vulnerability, he left the canteen with Charity so she could finish washing up, then took the Nisqually leader aside to speak privately to him.

“I know I only paid you to take us as far as Olympia but I can see I should have asked for more. If something was to happen to me, how much more money would it take for you to promise to care for the women and get them as far as Puget Sound?”

“Hudson’s Bay Company or Fort Steilacoom?”

“Preferably Steilacoom but either is fine as long as they’re safe there.”

“They be safe. I do.”

Thorne started to reach into his pocket but Leschi stayed his hand. “No. You tell Bostons at fort that Leschi help you. Give big talk. Make them listen.”

“All right.” Thorne offered his hand and the two men shook on the bargain. “Why do you want to make such an impression on them? Surely, they know you’re a leader of your tribe.”

“They know. They make me swear in court against three of Patkanim’s braves. Boston’s hang them. Say murder.”

“And you want me to assure them that you’re a good friend to all sides. I see. You have my word.”

In his sea travels Thorne had often noted the rivalry between the two factions of settlers in the Northwest. Those British who had founded the colonies for the fur trade were understandably upset about the change of legal boundaries and the necessity to vacate properties they had once laid claim to. But they had no choice. Their government had made a binding agreement. Oregon had been split off from Washington and was now a separate territory to the south, while part of the northern edge of Washington that encompassed the sound also fell within the aegis of the United States.

And, apparently, the local tribes had chosen up sides just as they had during the Revolutionary War seventy-five years before. While the British King George men and the Americans called Bostons quarreled about who owned what, the natives were the real losers. They had probably already ceded too much power to the interlopers and judging by past history they were going to someday find themselves treated as strangers, unwelcome in their own country, the land of their ancestors.

Thorne watched as Leschi spoke to his men, gesturing as he gave them orders. Two of them left immediately and faded into the forest as silently and easily if they were no more than puffs of smoke from a dying campfire.

Those Indians were a part of this wild land just as he was a part of the sea, Thorne reasoned. They belonged here. The territory was their mother and father, their home and their partner in life, providing all they needed for health and happiness. It was little wonder that they resisted the intruders, who were not only plundering their natural treasures but also destroying the good quality of life they had once enjoyed.

The Whitman massacre after the measles epidemic, which Aaron had cited, was but the tip of the iceberg. Disease, against which the Indians had no defenses, had already decimated many tribes and would do so over and over again until they either attained immunity or were wiped off the face of the earth.

Thorne feared it would be the latter. Watching Leschi dispatching his men, he wondered if his new ally had any idea of the long-term danger his whole tribe faced. He strongly doubted it.

And speaking of danger…He set his jaw as he looked over at Charity. She was taking her injury well but that didn’t negate its possible seriousness. He’d have to watch her closely for fever or other signs of related illness as a result of the cut, yet he had to thank God that she had not been hit squarely. An inch or two, either way, and the bullet would have entered her brain. Then, instead of arguing over the misuse of his shirt they’d be digging her grave alongside the river.

Nearly overcome at the thought of losing her, Thorne had to fight the burgeoning desire to take Charity in his arms and assure her that he would always care for her. Always love and cherish her.

Although he knew that doing so would be foolish and unseemly, he was right on the verge of acting on the impulse. Then the fat would be in the fire for sure, wouldn’t it?

He sighed deeply, thoughtfully, and mustered his self-control. Was it fair for him to ask to court her? Was there a chance she might allow such a thing? Or was she still determined to remain single, as she had stated so forcefully in the past?

He didn’t know. Nor was the question relevant at present. They had miles yet to travel and no one but God could guarantee that any of them would survive the trek.

Thorne briefly closed his eyes and prayed that his Heavenly Father would watch out for all his loved ones. Especially Charity Beal.

Chapter Fourteen

B
y day’s end, Charity had developed a throbbing headache. Although she was resistant to doing so, she finally resorted to taking a few drops of the laudanum they had brought along to quiet Naomi.

When they put ashore at a landing where a halfway house awaited with meals and lodging, she was feeling a tad better but was nevertheless glad to leave the confining canoe and stretch her legs.

Thorne was already ashore and offered his hand as she prepared to step across. “Careful. The bank is slippery,” he cautioned as she passed Jacob to him first.

“I shall have to remember to wear my heavy boots tomorrow,” she said. She took his free hand and allowed him to assist her while he held the child in his other arm.

“How is your head?”

“Larger than it was this morning, I fear, but it will do. Leschi tells me his men found fresh prints of unshod horses but no sign of whoever shot at me.”

Thorne scowled. “I cannot imagine who would do such a thing to you. Naomi, yes, if the scoundrel was one of Louis’s hired killers, but not to you.”

“I’ve been giving that some thought,” Charity told him as the friendly Indians assisted Naomi ashore. “I had removed my bonnet but your sister-in-law had not. Perhaps the shooter mistook me for her. We are somewhat alike, same hair color, same size, and I was caring for Jacob. From a distance it would be a natural mistake.”

Judging by the look of consternation on Thorne’s face she was convinced he had not considered the similarity before now. Truthfully, if she had not had so much time to sit quietly and ponder during the trip upriver she might not have drawn that conclusion, either.

She saw him glancing around at the forest, the river and the lodge built of logs they were about to enter. It was as if he were seeing danger lurking behind every rock and tree and she felt sorry for him. It wasn’t Thorne’s fault that his brother had disappeared or that his stepfather was deranged, any more than it was his fault that Naomi had become mentally unbalanced recently.

Thorne was clearly assuming responsibility for all the tragedy that had befallen his family. It seemed so unjust. Necessary, under the circumstances, but nevertheless an unfair burden.

She took Jacob from him as he herded everyone toward the place the Indians had called, “Hard-bread’s”, presumably because their meals were rumored to consist of mostly boiled salmon and hardtack. The medicinal, dulling effects of the laudanum were beginning to wear off and she was starting to realize how hungry she was.

Welcoming aromas of cooked food greeted her, wafting on the air from the open doors and windows of the cabin. If it hadn’t been for the clouds of mosquitoes and biting gnats that also heralded their arrival she would have felt as comfortable there as in the dining room back at the Montgomery House Hotel.

Off to one side, Leschi and his men were pulling leaves from a fringe-leafed bush, crushing the foliage in their hands and rubbing it over their faces and exposed arms.

Charity smiled at the Nisqually leader and gestured with an unspoken query. To her delight he brought her a handful of the bruised leaves, which reminded her of tansy, and she was able to cover Jacob’s face and hands with the juice before also using it on herself. The effect was marvelous. Not a single insect crossed the fragrant, spicy-smelling barrier.

“Thank you,” Charity said, smiling.

The Indian bowed slightly, smiled, also, and backed away.

“Aren’t they coming in to eat?” she asked Thorne.

“I don’t imagine they’re welcome,” he said.

“Well, I never.”

She passed the child back to Thorne and preceded him into the lodge. There were large bowls of steamed, pinkish fish and boiled potatoes on the plank tables. At the end of each stood an open wooden barrel filled with hardtack from which the travelers could apparently help themselves at will.

Without so much as a “by your leave,” Charity hefted one of the bowls of cooked salmon, added a handful of hardtack and marched out the door with it.

She didn’t look back, nor would she have stopped if anyone had commanded her to do so. Instead, she went straight to the Indians and presented the bowl to Leschi.

He tried to refuse but she persisted. “Are you hungry?”

He nodded.

“Is this food you like?”

Again, a nod.

“Then please take it, with our compliments,” Charity said. “Mr. Blackwell will pay the innkeeper for it and you won’t get in trouble. I promise.”

“You are tillicum klootchman,” Leschi said, formally accepting the bowl and holding it as if it were a precious gift. “When we reach Nisqually, I will give you a horse. You choose.”

“No, no,” she said, “I don’t want to trade. This is no more than I would do if you were a guest in my home.”

“And I would give you a horse or some other gift,” he explained. “It is our way.”

Astonished, Charity thanked him and rejoined her party. Thorne had obviously been hovering in the lodge doorway and had already made peace with their landlord over the purloined bowl of fish because no one looked askance at her as she reentered.

Just the same, she felt the need to explain. “I was simply trying to do the Christian thing and feed everyone fairly. However, it seems that is not the way things are done in this part of the country and I am now to become the proud owner of one of Leschi’s horses when we reach his home. I sincerely hope we’ll need one because I’m afraid it would be an insult to him if we turned it down.”

The surprised expression on Thorne’s face made her giggle. “I know what you’re thinking. I was flabbergasted when he told me, too. But since he had already accepted the food, I didn’t know what else to say.”

The landlord, a squarish man with enough hair on his exposed forearms to make up for what his head lacked, spoke up. “You did good, lady. Real good. These here Indians don’t take kindly to some of our ways and it would of been downright dangerous to refuse that there horse.” He guffawed. “Wanna go take him some taters and see if you can git another one from him?”

“I did not feed those poor men for personal gain,” Charity insisted. “I did it because it was right.”

“Well, right or wrong,” the landlord said, “Your instincts pro’bly saved your neck. If you’re smart, you’ll pick a nice horse when you get the chance, too. It’d be rude to choose an old, weak or lame one. Leschi and his tribe take special pride in their livestock. He’d be shamed in front of his people if you took a poor gift.”

It struck Charity that the man was putting other words to the old saying,
Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
She said as much, bringing more laughter.

“That’s right smart, ma’am. Besides, you don’t need to check his teeth if’n you know horseflesh. Those Indian ponies can be tricky, though. Some old ones look about as good and strong as the younger ones do.” He laughed again. “Kinda like them Indians out there.”

“They’re hardly animals,” Charity said, taking no pains to hide her disgust at the man’s inferences.

“Wait till you’ve lived around ’em some longer,” he said. “They’ll surprise you.”

“The thing that surprises me,” she began, before catching the look of warning in Thorne’s eyes. There was no mistaking his admonition to quell her righteous temper.

She did the best she could to smooth over the situation by adding, “Forgive me for bothering you with my personal problems, sir. I’m weary and hungry and my head is throbbing.” Giving the landlord a demure smile she asked, “May we sit down and eat?”

“Be my guest.”

As they took their places on the narrow benches that bordered the longest sides of each table, Thorne leaned closer to whisper in her ear, “Thank you. I know that took considerable constraint.”

“About all I could muster,” she told him aside. “I fear I may have lived amongst city dwellers for too long.”

Thorne shook his head. “Things are no different back in San Francisco.”

“Of course they are.”

“Oh, really?” He held the bowl of potatoes and helped her dish some out for herself and Jacob before he asked, “Then tell me. How many Chinese were lodged at the Montgomery House Hotel?”

Sleeping on the hard, wooden floor of the halfway house would not have been Charity’s first choice of accommodations but under the circumstances she wasn’t going to quibble.

The night had grown chilly as soon as the sun had sunk behind the surrounding hills and her place next to the hearth not only warmed her achy bones, it also helped keep more bugs away. Outside, the sounds of a forest twilight kept a steady cadence of chirping insects and frogs and the occasional hoot of an owl.

She curled her body around Jacob and cuddled him close so she could cover him with her heavy coat while he used her arm for a pillow.

It was easy to relax because she knew Thorne was sitting up, watching over them all. His presence was more than a comfort. It was a true blessing.

She wanted to thank him, to let him know how much she appreciated his evident concern over her injury and his efforts to care for her, but she didn’t know how to do so without making her praise sound too intimate. If she were to reveal her feelings for him, she was certain he would be either astounded, offended or amused. Perhaps all of those.

In retrospect, she wondered if her initial decision to make this trip had been made for the wrong reasons. She had held Thorne Blackwell in high regard long before they had left San Francisco. And now? Now, her attachment to him was far stronger than simple friendship or admiration.

She lay quietly and listened to some of the men talking softly in the background. It was easy to pick out the familiar rumble of Thorne’s voice, to know without peeking that he was vigilantly looking out for her. His concern was beyond any she had ever experienced and she wondered if he was that diligent and devoted to everyone.

Beginning to drift off to sleep, Charity smiled. It was pleasant to think that Thorne’s allegiance was aimed toward her, as a person, rather than at the family as a whole.

Family? Yes,
she answered, sensing a newfound inner peace. Somehow, she had begun to see herself as a real member of Thorne’s immediate family and that view gave her great contentment.

She heard the muted clomp of boots approaching and opened her eyes. Thorne towered above her.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” he said quietly.

“I wasn’t asleep yet,” she answered, drinking in the sight of his dear face. “Is anything wrong?”

“No. I just wanted to make sure you were feeling all right. No fever?”

“I don’t think so.” Charity yearned for him to bend down and touch her forehead. Before she could reason away her inappropriate desires she blurted, “Maybe you’d better see for yourself.”

Thorne hesitated only seconds, then crouched and laid his hand on her brow. She closed her eyes, relishing the caress of his callused hand. All too soon he withdrew and stood.

“I think you’re cool enough.”

No thanks to your lovely, warm hand,
she thought, blushing. What was wrong with her? She had never, as long as she could remember, felt anything like the longing she felt for this man. Had she drifted so far away from church that she’d become immoral?

No,
Charity answered without hesitation. It wasn’t wrong to dream of the kind of marital bliss her sister had found, nor was it a sin to fall in love.

That thought was enough to make her catch her breath. Was this what love felt like? Could she have been wrong to plan to lead a celibate life after she was widowed? Such a decision had seemed perfectly sensible at the time. Only now was it coming into question.

Her eyes searched the depths of Thorne’s dark gaze. Was she imagining it simply because she wanted it to be so, or was there a new tenderness, a growing affinity in the way he was looking at her?

She was afraid to ask, afraid he would deny such emotions. Instead, she smiled and said, “Thank you for looking after me.”

“I—I would like to…”

“Yes?” Her eyes widened. For the first time since she had known him, the commanding Mr. Blackwell seemed to be struggling to express himself.

“Nothing,” he said flatly. “Go to sleep. We’ll be rising early tomorrow so we can reach Cowlitz landing in one more day.”

“Sleep well,” she said tenderly, sweetly, willing him to know her innermost thoughts and sense her growing fondness for him.

Although he merely nodded, then turned away, Charity was positive she saw telltale moisture glistening in his eyes. In her heart of hearts she took that as an indication that he was becoming aware of her affection. That was a good sign. A very good sign.

She snaked her fingers out from under the heavy coat and gingerly touched her temple in secret as soon as Thorne had walked away. It smarted. A lot. And the skin beyond her hairline felt unusually warm. Speaking of signs, that one was
not
good.

Tomorrow, she would privately ask Leschi to recommend other medicinal plants to help her heal. She was not going to succumb to this wound—or to any other. Not when she was beginning to suspect she had so much to live for.

Their arrival the following evening at Cowlitz landing created quite a stir. It was only after the canoes had docked that Charity realized the furor was not because of her party, it was due to the presence of Leschi. Clearly, he was not only an important person among his people, he was revered.

She watched myriad blanket-wrapped Nisqually men and women gather around him as he made his way to a clearing located amidst a collection of square log houses which stood apart from the rest of the town’s buildings. Every cabin in the group where Leschi had gone was exactly the same size and shape, leading her to conclude that this was the way the local Indians constructed their homes.

That was a surprise. She had listened raptly to Faith’s vivid descriptions of the Arapaho and Cheyenne villages and their buffalo-hide-covered teepees so she had expected to see the same here. Obviously, the Nisqually stayed in one place long enough to build log houses.

As soon as Thorne had helped her and the others disembark, Charity asked, “Is this Leschi’s home village?”