Wilderness Days (20 page)

“I beg you, please. Whatever wrong was committed to you was done by another man, a younger man, and he is not the same man. He has suffered and paid for his sins. You said I reminded you of another lady. Was it your wife? Was it Lucinda?”

Mr. Black nodded mutely. “She had hair the exact shade as yours,” he said, his voice thick with grief.

“Then please,” I begged, “in her memory, spare his life. She would not want his blood on your hands.”

The gun was shaking in his hand, his face working with unnamed emotions.

“She was my friend, too, Abe,” Mr. Russell said huskily, his eyes wet.

Mr. Russell and Mr. Black just stood there, staring across the clearing, seeing each other as they truly were: two old men whose lives had been twisted by sorrow and anger and regret.

A warm breeze filled the air, a breeze so sweet that it tasted like sunshine or laughter or maybe just hope. We lifted our faces to it, letting it brush across our skin and fill our senses, like the elusive perfume of a vibrant red-haired woman who has left the room.

And I thought that perhaps Mr. Black remembered. Remembered what it had been like when nothing had stood between him and Mr. Russell, when they had been each other’s best friend and truest companion. That, for a brief moment, the years fell away and all that was left were two brash young men—flush with excitement, bound by friendship—standing there
looking at each other as they had so many years ago, ready to embark on a grand adventure.

Mr. Black sighed heavily and lowered his gun, rubbing his forehead.

I breathed a great sigh of relief.

But then Mr. Black looked up, his eyes dark and full of terrible purpose. He raised his arm, aimed his gun straight at us, and cocked it.

I squeezed my eyes shut in horror.

And heard the cocking of what seemed a hundred guns.

I opened my eyes a squint.

Jehu was holding a rifle to Mr. Black’s head, his eyes fixed firmly on me.

All around the clearing, men stood with their rifles pointed at Mr. Black: Keer-ukso, Mr. Swan, Chief Toke, Indians from other tribes, even William Baldt. They held their rifles steadily, their meaning clear, but still Mr. Black pointed his gun at Mr. Russell for a long, heart-stopping moment.

“My good fellow, you’re a wanted man,” Mr. Swan declared loudly, his voice shaking. “You really ought to be moving along.”

Jehu nudged Mr. Black with the barrel of his rifle. “Leave your gun while you’re at it.”

Mr. Black lowered his arm and handed his gun to Jehu. He looked up into the sky, squinting. And then he said, “I best be going, Obediah.”

Mr. Russell nodded slightly. “Watch yer topknot,” he said.

“Watch yourn.” Mr. Black tipped his hat and walked away.

Keer-ukso’s new friend, Spaark
, let us travel in her family’s canoe, so the journey home was completed in two easy days.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Jane,” Jehu said in a low voice, as we paddled along. He was furious with me. “What if Black had shot you?”

“But he didn’t,” I said, and I was grateful.

Jehu and the other men had come looking for me when Mr. Russell and I had not turned up. And while I was thankful that they had saved Mr. Russell’s life, I was thankful for other things, too.

However, we had returned to the negotiations just in time to see them fall apart one final time.

The governor, who had clearly woken up irritable, immediately launched into Tleyuk, yelling at him quite forcefully and blaming him for starting all the fights the evening before. And
then before the startled Tleyuk could say anything in his own defense, the governor, in front of everybody, ripped up the piece of paper the government had given Tleyuk recognizing him as
tyee
.

The whole of the campground went silent in astonishment that the governor would insult a
tyee
in such a manner. I glanced over and saw that William had a most disconcertingly satisfied look on his face.

But Tleyuk was deadly calm. In a quiet voice, he told the governor that he still spoke for his people and that there would be no treaty. And before the governor could react, Indians from most of the assembled tribes were starting to leave: the meeting was over.

William’s stunned expression at this pronouncement was priceless. His machinations had come to naught. Now there would be no reservation for anyone in the near future.

So it was a very happy and boisterous party that left for our little settlement on Shoalwater Bay. Mr. Russell’s cabin seemed like a warm, glowing beacon in the middle of a storm. Father Joseph, M’Carty, and Cocumb were waiting for us when we returned—tired and cranky, and rather smelly, I confess.

“Jehu! Keer-ukso!” Cocumb said, relief clear on her face. “We were so worried.”

“She’s just buttering us up to finish that roof, eh?” Jehu teased, nudging Keer-ukso in the ribs.

I was enveloped in a hug of warm wool.

“Mademoiselle,” Father Joseph said, his voice catching.

I blinked in surprise at the emotion rushing through me at this show of affection.

“Good to have ya back, Russell!” M’Carty roared, clapping Mr. Russell on the back.

Mr. Russell grinned at him like a young boy. “Good to be back!”

Brandywine leaped up, licking me, and then little Sootie was gripping my leg. I just stood there and smiled into Jehu’s blue eyes.

That first night back is one I shall never forget.

“A party!” Mr. Swan proposed.

Mr. Russell’s cabin had never seemed as warm and welcoming in all the months I had been there, nor the company so perfect. I remember the sweet sound of laughter, and Brandywine’s happy barks, and how Mr. Swan pulled out a fiddle and struck up a tune and Jehu swung me around and around, and my heart filled to bursting with happiness. In that moment as I was being spun in the arms of the man who loved my ratty, tangled hair, I knew I had found a family as loving and warm and dear as Papa and Mrs. Parker. A rather eccentric family, I conceded, but still, I rather think Papa would have approved of such a group, outlaws every one.

And then Mr. Russell, to everyone’s surprise, pulled me out to dance, and swung me around skillfully. The glowing fire shined on his face, turning his gray beard red, and for a brief moment I saw what he must have looked like as a young man,
all earnest and eager to find his fortune in the mountains of the unknown frontier.

“You’re a fine dancer,” I complimented as he dipped and twirled and spun me until I was dizzy.

“And yar a fine gal,” he said softly, his eyes serious.

It was the closest to thanks I would ever get for saving his life, but those few words meant more to me than the sweetest flattery from the most accomplished gentleman’s lips.

And perhaps, I thought, that was what being a lady was all about—knowing the true value of a gift.

The next morning found me in the cabin sewing clothes for the rag doll I had never given to Sootie. If I gave it some proper clothes, it would look good enough to give to her, although it would never be as fine as the china doll from Mrs. Frink.

There was a soft knock on the cabin door.

“Come in,” I called, never looking up.

“Oh, Miss Peck, you’re back! We were all so concerned about you,” Mrs. Frink said. She stood hesitantly in the doorway, the light framing her petite figure.

I managed a small smile. “Please come in.”

“I milked Burton while you were away,” she said. “The poor dear was mooing so loudly that Mr. Frink and I could barely sleep.”

I winced.

She was smiling at me in her earnest way. “What is that you’re working on?”

“A doll,” I said reluctantly. “For Sootie.”

“How very clever of you!”

Mrs. Frink came over, studying my handiwork. She eyed the small wardrobe I had sewn thus far: a calico dress, an apron, a cloak, a nightdress. She clapped her hands together happily. “I know just the thing.” She disappeared from the cabin, returning a moment later with a small bundle in her hands.

“Here,” she said, thrusting it forward.

I took it reluctantly. I untied the bundle, and out spilled velvet and soft linen and smooth silks. There were ornate, tiny, beautifully embroidered dresses. There were perfect knitted caps. Socks and mittens and crisp nightdresses. Everything a fashionable, well-dressed doll could desire.

“I adore this one,” Mrs. Frink said, fingering a peach velvet smock with cross-stitch embroidery around the hem. “It took ages to sew the lace on just right.”

She must have labored for months and months to create these perfect little clothes. The calico dress I had sewn looked crude next to them. The cloak pathetic. The apron like the handkerchief it was. Had I truly expected to best Mrs. Frink? A sense of despair welled up in me as I looked from each perfect piece to the next.

Mrs. Frink had not stopped talking. “I dearly hope our furniture arrives soon,” she said.

“Furniture?”

“Why, yes. I had our furniture shipped around the cape. Mr. Frink was quite insistent that we travel overland to get here. He so wanted to see the country, but I tell you, I very much wish we
had gone by sea. I prefer a sea voyage any day. I’m a good sailor,” she finished firmly.

“I came on a ship,” I said, not wanting to add that I had spent most of the voyage puking into a bucket.

Mrs. Frink studied me, stroking a small pair of socks. “You’re from Philadelphia, aren’t you? I thought I recognized the accent. Do you have relations there still?”

My throat felt thick. “My papa’s dead. He was all I ever had.”

Mrs. Frink’s hand slowly put the socks back in the pile. “I am very sorry for your loss, Miss Peck.”

I couldn’t stop the bitter words that escaped my lips.

“I’m all alone,” I said.

A shadow passed over Mrs. Frink’s flushed face. “Oh, my dear, we are never alone. Even when we lose a loved one, we must remember that they are still there watching us. Why, I tell Mr. Frink that all the time. ‘Mr. Frink,’ I say, ‘I believe our little baby Lila is smiling down at us from heaven even though she is buried beneath that rock on the trail west of Fort Laramie. Yes, she is in heaven, and she is smiling down on us this very moment, so there is no reason to cry.’”

Her smile was strained, and it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh,” I said. I looked down at the tiny clothes in my hand. These weren’t doll clothes at all. They were baby clothes. For a baby who would never wear them.

I looked up at Mrs. Frink, a woman I had thought perfect, and something in me softened. I had been wrong about her, too.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Frink. Truly I am.” I wanted to say I was sorry for misjudging her, but I think she knew.

“So am I, Miss Peck,” she whispered, her lower lip trembling. “More than I can ever say.”

“I believe these shall make Sootie very happy,” I said, smoothing one of the tiny embroidered dresses.

“I’m so very glad,” she said, swallowing hard. “And you must please call me Matilda.”

“I shall, Matilda,” I said. “If you will call me Jane.”

Mrs. Frink nodded, marshaling her charm.

“Well then, Jane, I was wondering if you would be willing to help me with something.” She clasped her hands together and leaned forward confidingly. “I’m afraid that I’m quite desperate for the good opinion of another lady.”

Mrs. Frink hired me to help run the hotel.

I would be specifically in charge of designing the menu of the dining room, and acting as local liaison. The hotel’s initial clientele would be new settlers and gentlemen looking for opportunities in the territory, but the Frinks were quite optimistic that the hotel would attract tourists in time.

“After all,” Mrs. Frink declared, “who can resist the beautiful beach?”

The hotel was scheduled to open its doors to guests in the early spring. In the meantime, I would be kept busy assisting Mrs. Frink in outfitting the guest rooms with linen and wallpaper and all manner of things that we ordered from California.
She wanted my opinions on all these matters, and I found that my education at Miss Hepplewhite’s Young Ladies Academy, which had been generally of little use on the frontier, proved indispensable in this regard.

One afternoon as I started out for the hotel to look at a new set of fabric swatches that had arrived, Jehu grabbed my arm.

“You’re coming with me!” he announced.

“I have to go to see Mrs. Frink,” I protested.

“I informed her that you had a very important engagement,” he said mysteriously.

He dragged me out to his plot of land by the bay. It was a cool January day, and the wind was whipping us along.

“This is it,” Jehu said as we stood on the cliff he had brought me to mere months ago.

“Yes, I know. What did you bring me out here for?”

“I have my reasons,” he said, and slapped a folded piece of paper in my hand.

“What’s this?”

“Read it, Jane,” he urged, a note of excitement in his voice.

I carefully unfolded the paper.

  GRANT FOR ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY ACRES OF LAND TO J. PECK. DECEMBER 22, 1854.

  When I looked up, his eyes were dancing. “Well? How do you like your patch of land?”

“My land?”

“Yes, your land. That’s a land grant for you. Thought I’d build you a house of your own. Mine’ll be over here,” he said, pointing. “And then in time, maybe we could”—here he cleared his throat nervously—“well, you know.”

I looked at Jehu, astonished by the depth of the misunderstanding. That day when he had brought me up here, he had not been trying to marry me for land. He had been trying to help me claim a piece of land for my own—next to his claim, so I wouldn’t feel scared or nervous, but my land all the same.

I studied the document more closely. “J. Peck?”

“They’ll never know. You could be a Jonathan or a Jack or a Jebediah—”

“Or a Jane,” I finished dryly.

He leaned over and kissed me so softly that for a moment all I heard was the roaring of the waves … or was it my heart? “You’ll never be just a Jane to me.”

“I’ve never been a landowner before,” I said.