Rose's Pledge (26 page)

It was hard to believe how gruff the trader had been when she first joined him, how angry he’d been to learn she’d never milked a cow or killed a chicken. He’d mellowed so much, especially since Jenny Ann had come along. Now he relegated only the care of the store and the baby to Rose and assigned the outside chores to the brothers. The two hadn’t balked when ordered to take over those responsibilities, but Rose had noticed that the three siblings spent much of their time in covert conversation of late. As they happened to be doing now.

One of the braves saw her peering out at them and made a comment, and the talking stopped.

Rose wondered if Mr. Smith had been cognizant of their secrecy, or had he been so caught up with little Jenny and his bad digestion that the Indians’ conduct didn’t seem of import? Perhaps they’d always been that way. But how she wished she understood their language.

She looked over at the trader as he kissed Jenny’s short, blond curls. “Mr. Smith?”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious. ‘Tis one of my worst faults, I know.”

He smirked. “So what bee do ya have in yer bonnet this time?”

“Actually, ‘tis you and Fawn Woman. You don’t seem to show much affection for each other. How is it that you married her? If you don’t mind my asking.”

He tossed his head and patted the baby’s diapered bottom. “Ya might say it was mutual attraction.”

Rose frowned in confusion, and he chuckled.

“I thought she was purty to look at, an’ her pa was real partial to a new musket with fancy scrollwork I’d just brought into the store.”

“Surely you don’t mean you traded a musket for a wife!” The concept disgusted Rose. A woman was of far more value than that.

Adept at reading her expressions by now, Mr. Smith rolled his eyes. “That ain’t no different from them English aristocrats an’ all that business of swappin’ lands and dowries an’ such, is it?”

She mulled over his remark in her mind. “No, I suppose not. I just never thought of it that way.”

“Besides,” he went on, “Fawn Woman wasn’t no innocent victim. She made her own requests. She went through my store pointin’ to all manner of useless truck she just had to have.” Jenny tugged at a handful of his beard, and he chuckled and pried her little fingers away. “All them beads an’ shiny baubles she wanted is long since lost or traded off by now.” His grin widened. “But she’s still got this fine ol’ man o’ hers.”

His words rekindled thoughts of Mariah and her desire for the better things. Rose hoped and prayed her sister would not turn out to be as foolish as Mrs. Smith. She picked up her sewing and resumed working on another warm dress she’d started for Jenny out of a bit of woven fabric.

The trader continued his tale, his voice thoughtful. “When I seen how unhappy Fawn was, ‘specially since she never birthed a young’un, I was fixin’ to divorce her. But then me an’ my partner was ordered to leave her village an’ head overmountain to set up a store out here on the Ohio. We figgered if we took her along, those two brothers o’ hers could be persuaded to come along, too—fer a price, a’course. She’s still ever’ bit as greedy as she always was, an’ them boys did love the new rifles we give ‘em.”

Pausing in her work, Rose slid a glance their way. The two were never without their muskets—or the knives and hatchets tucked in their waistbands. They looked formidable enough and seemed proud of being the store’s guards. No doubt it gave them a sense of power. Rose was just glad they were there to protect this little encampment and not to attack it.

Nevertheless, something about their taciturn conversations and occasional sly looks made Rose feel apprehensive …particularly with Mr. Smith in his weakened condition.

Just how much did Fawn Woman hate Rose …and her own husband?

Chapter 22

H
arwood! Up!”

Someone was shaking her shoulder. Rose struggled to open her eyes. It was still dark. Still cold.

“Up.”

Recognizing Fawn Woman’s voice, Rose felt for the baby sleeping beside her then sat up. Something was amiss. “What is it?”

“Husband. Come.” The squaw’s shadowy figure hurried to the flap and pulled it back. “Come. Now.”

Shoving her feet into her shoes, Rose collected her cloak off her trunk and threw it about herself as she followed after the woman. Since no unusual sounds or activity drifted from the village, Rose’s worst fears filled her with dread. Only one thing would cause the trader’s wife to summon her in the dark of night. Mr. Smith must have taken a turn for the worse …or—

She couldn’t finish the thought.

Inside the larger wigwam, the fire pit blazed, providing welcome warmth that surrounded Rose. Fawn Woman stopped near the fire and stoked it with a stick.

“Rose?” Mr. Smith’s faint croak came from the far end of the dwelling.

The quaver in his voice made her heart lurch. She went immediately to where he lay among some furs and sank down to her knees beside his pallet. In the glow from the flames, she could see his face had lost all color. His eyes appeared sunken, and his breath came out in jerky rasps. Deep trepidation settled its weight on her heart.

“Rose?” he said again, even more weakly.

She leaned close. “I’m here. What can I do for you?”

“I need …my tin box. Get it.”

She glanced around. “Tin box?” It seemed every available spot around the wigwam was stacked high with goods of all kinds. Nothing resembled a tin box.

Fawn Woman, now sitting opposite the fire, pointed with her stick. “There.”

Rose crossed to it and picked it up then returned to him. Kneeling, she held it out to him.

He gave a slight shake of his head. “Open it.”

She did as bidden and found it was filled with legal documents and writing paper, a couple of plumed quills, and a considerable number of coins in various denominations. In the corner was a bottle of ink.

“Take out …your indenture papers,” came his halting whisper. “Dip a quill.” He paused and took a breath. “I need to sign ‘em off.”

He was releasing her? As she followed his instructions, the trader struggled to roll onto his side and raise his head. With a shaky hand, he used his dwindling reserve of strength to scratch his signature. His head fell back to his pillow.

Overwhelmed at her owner’s kind act, Rose tucked the papers inside an inner pocket of her cloak. Then, after returning the box to its proper place, she sank down at his side again. “Please, Mr. Smith, I want to help you. There must be something I can do.”

“Nothin’, child.” She detected sadness, finality in his voice. “My innards must’a …popped a hole.” Another pause. “I’m bleedin’ out.”

Rose’s heart plummeted to her toes. She shot a frantic look at his wife. As though detached from the situation, the squaw sat staring at the fire, idly toying at it with the stick she held. A wicked twitch of her lips looked a whole lot like a sickening smile.

The trader’s bony hand wrapped weakly around Rose’s, drawing her attention away from the insensitive woman. “Give her brothers …another musket each …so they’ll stay till …Nate comes to git ya outta here.” The pressure of his hand waned. “Take any money I have …to get started on.”

No. No
. Rose’s throat thickened with anguish. Panic raised gooseflesh on her arms. “Please don’t die. Don’t leave me.” She barely choked out the words.

“Can’t help it.” He drew another laboring breath. “Should’a had them governor’s men …take you an’ the babe with ‘em.” Nodding sadly, he gave a wry grimace. “Didn’t think I was this bad.”

She cupped his icy hand in both of hers and held it to the warmth of her cheek. “I wanted to stay. I did. You needed me here. I wouldn’t have left you.”

The trader attempted a smile. “Yer my brave gal.” With a groan, he blanched even whiter and let out a shuddering breath. “My boy Charlie …has a cooperage in Fredericksburg.” Another pause. “Git word to him. He’ll tell my other boys.” He gave her hand a slight squeeze with his colder, weaker one. “Yer the daughter I never had.” He peered up at her with a slight nod. “Good an’ kind, ya are…. Knowed it when I first seen ya…. May the good Lord bless an’ keep ya.”

“But—Mr. Smith—”

“Git little Jenny fer me…. I need one more look at my joy.”

When Rose brought the half-asleep little one to see Mr. Smith, she found with dismay that he’d stopped breathing. His passing left her completely bereft. That he had not lived long enough to set his eyes upon his sweet angel added sorrow beyond words. After Rose took the sleepy child back to their wigwam and settled her once again on her fur pallet, an emptiness beyond anything she’d yet experienced gnawed at her heart. She and Jenny were now the only white people left at the trading post on the edge of the Shawnee village and without the protection of Mr. Smith—a reality that brought deep unrest. But at least no one was around at the moment to see her cry. Rose no longer fought against the tears she’d been holding back. Sobbing quietly, she let them run unheeded down onto her pillow until she had no more left inside.

In the morning, the Susquehannock brothers took care of the burial. Speaking around the tightness in her chest, Rose read some scripture verses and said a prayer over the trader’s grave. It took all the strength she possessed to maintain her composure in the braves’ presence, when what she wanted more than anything was to give in to her grief and wail for all the world to hear, the way she’d heard an Indian woman grieve the loss of a family member last month. Heart aching, she placed a small bunch of lacy ferns atop the lonely mound near Hannah Wright’s resting place.

After she and the brothers returned to the store, she offered Running Wolf and Spotted Elk the new muskets Mr. Smith wanted them to have so they’d stay and continue guarding the place. Nodding and smiling, they took them with obvious gratitude. They had always been friendly to her, especially after she made them the matching shirts.

But their sister was another matter entirely. Rose had no idea what Fawn Woman was thinking.

When Rose had asked for Mr. Smith’s frayed New Testament to read at his grave, the woman had handed it over …but did not deign to come and see her husband’s body laid to rest. With a very determined look on her face, the young woman took all of the trader’s clothing and bedding and set them afire then swept out the wigwam with a vengeance. From a deerskin pouch she wore around her neck, she sprinkled some kind of powder across the floor.

For all that frenzy of work, Fawn Woman never demanded help from Rose, which made her even more leery. The squaw had always derived perverse satisfaction from ordering her around. She wondered if the woman was actually mourning her dead husband in her own way but knew that would be one huge stretch of the imagination. Fawn Woman had made no secret of the contempt she harbored for the trader. Or for Rose and Jenny.

Far more disturbing, all trading at the store ceased upon Mr. Smith’s death. Groups of Indians would talk among themselves and stare now and then toward the trading post, but not one ventured forth to trade or do business. The few canoes that did arrive from up or down the river were intercepted and the goods or furs were taken to one of the longhouses instead.

Nightfall arrived all too soon, closing in on Rose with its strange sounds and black coldness. She feared having to cross the short distance from the trading post to her wigwam, but the canvas covering the storefront did little to keep out the cold after sundown. It was too chilly for Jenny. There was no other choice. She’d already started a fire in her wigwam, so carrying the baby with her, Rose banked the hot coals in the hearth. Then after collecting a musket and the fixings, plus a hatchet and a sharp hunting knife, she went at last to her meager dwelling and prepared for bed.

Lying on her sleeping pallet, she couldn’t decide whether it was the occasional night sounds that kept her on edge …or the ominous silence. After lying awake for hours, she slept only fitfully, dozing then jerking awake at the slightest noise, real or imagined. She was now completely alone in this vast wilderness, and the stark realization made her shiver in the fearsome chill of night.

She had no one to turn to now.

No one but God.