Rose's Pledge (6 page)

And nothing could be done about that for four interminable years.

Seized by a sense of desperation, she searched ahead along both banks. If only Mr. Smith’s store would soon come into sight, she might be positioned within a day of her baby sister—indeed even less if heading downstream in one of those narrow native boats the men called canoes. They seemed to glide by faster than a man could run.

It was high time she received a straight answer from the storekeeper. Rose hoisted herself off the sacks and, careful not to trip over her bothersome skirts, gingerly navigated toward the front of the keelboat, where the man sat. He could be found easily enough at any time of the day or night merely by following her nose, she conceded wryly. Surely when he reached their destination his wife would make certain he had a good soak in a bathtub. Rose yearned for that luxury herself …along with the safety of female company.

Her owner slouched on a crate, his hands clasped between his knees. With his floppy hat shading most of his face, he seemed to be searching ahead with intense interest.

She stopped and placed her feet apart to balance herself on the moving craft. “Mr. Smith, I should like a word with you, if I might.”

He looked up and blinked. “Oh, good. Yer here.” His high, thin voice rose in stark contrast to his coarse features. “We’ll be dockin’ ‘round the next bend. It’ll be the end of our ride on this here river, and I’ll expect ya to haul off all that truck ya insisted on cartin’ along with ya. I’ll not be payin’ the men extra fer that.”

She bristled. “I’ve done so at every portage, sir, have I not?”

He grunted like a mean-tempered pig. For a man who had paid such a goodly sum for her person, he seemed unaccountably stingy in the matter of her belongings—one trunk and two valises, leaving her to lug and drag them along herself whenever necessary. But they were all she had left in this world, and she was not about to leave a single piece behind.

Suddenly the import of his last words struck her. “You say we’re about to dock? Oh, splendid! Splendid!” Turning away, she could not suppress a huge grin, and she did not care if the other men misread it. They had arrived at last—mayhap she would be within a few days’ journey of where at least one of her dear sisters would be located.

Even as Rose cautiously made her way to where her large black chest sat with the valises strapped on top, a horseshoe curve came into view. She could see a wide sandy strand stretching across its inward side, and fingering out from that, a sturdy deck. Two overturned canoes rested in the sand, a pleasing sight.

As the craft moved closer, Rose noticed that inland of the short pier lay a clearing dotted with log buildings, corrals, pens, and fenced pastures housing a number of horses and other animals. The tiny settlement appeared similar to the last place they’d stopped to unload and portage around a small waterfall, but here the current ran smoothly as far as the eye could see.

Beyond the clearing, an endless stand of thick forest closed off further view of the region. Could this isolated outpost be the location of Mr. Smith’s store?

On land, an individual charged out on the dock, waving and yelling words that became somewhat jumbled as they echoed off the layered rock walls on the other side of the river.

The men pushing the poles hollered back, “Halloo the landing!” Laughing, they walked their poles toward the rear.

Rose saw people streaming out of the closest cabin and running to the dock. They wore dreary, coarse-spun shirts, and their sagging knee-high breeches met none-too-clean stockings.

With one exception. Tall, stalwart, and ruggedly built, a fine figure of a man strode forth. Appearing quite prosperous in a white ruffled shirt and brocade vest, which he wore with indifferent grace, he had a midnight blue frock coat draped over one arm.

Rose’s spirits lifted. Perhaps there was a village of substance nearby after all. She glanced down at her simple linsey-woolsey spotted with pine pitch. She’d worn it for the past week to prevent spoiling any of her better gowns. Even the shawl collar she’d placed atop her bodice was her oldest. But perhaps the straw bonnet with its wide black ties was none the worse for wear and would add a bit of style. She sincerely hoped to make a good impression on Mr. Smith’s good wife.

Nearing the dock, one of the crewmen tossed a rope to a waiting fellow who quickly looped it around a thick post and drew the craft alongside. The lumbering conveyance thudded against the pilings and shuddered heavily before another worker caught and fastened a second rope, snugging the rear of the vessel. The other keelboat was tied in similar fashion.

Mr. Smith and the crew hopped ashore and exchanged boisterous greetings with those on the landing.

To Rose’s dismay, she saw a brown jug making swift rounds. She could only pray it contained cider. But spirited contents or no, the matter was out of her hands. With the men no longer underfoot, she took advantage of the moment and grabbed the handle of her trunk, dragging it toward the side.

Before she’d gotten halfway there, she felt the boat dip as someone came aboard. She looked up at the man attired in finer clothing who strode steadily toward her in his neat buckle shoes.

“If you please, miss.” He kept his voice pleasingly low in timbre as he removed his three-cornered hat and placed it on a crate. “Let me be of assistance.” A broad smile revealed straight, healthy teeth, and dark, softly curled hair framed sincere hazel eyes. A jovial crinkling of his brow further disarmed her. Rose found something quite stirring about his appearance. Even though his long face was far too rugged for genteel handsomeness, its hollows and angles had a compelling quality one could not easily dismiss. There was no way to guess his age. Not with skin bronzed by constant exposure to wind and weather. But despite his elegant attire, he carried a sense of recklessness about him, of adventure. And for some reason, the warm friendliness in his eyes made her sense instinctively that she could trust him.

She felt fleeting regret for having lacked foresight enough to begin the day in a more presentable fashion. For the first time since selling herself into bondage, she truly felt the part of the dowdy servant. She managed only a weak smile as the man continued to hold her in his gaze.

The breeze caught a tendril of her hair and whipped it across her cheek. With him staring so intently, should she brush the strand free of her lashes or pretend it didn’t exist? Unaccountably light-headed under his scrutiny, she felt her heart quicken beneath her laced bodice.

He bent down and caught hold of the trunk handle with hands as hard and brown as those of any riverman she’d yet encountered. He seemed to Rose a man of substance, yet one unafraid of honest labor, and his assistance was more than appreciated. She preceded him off the boat.

With solid ground beneath her feet at last, Rose assessed the settlement more closely, noting the weathered but sturdy cabins speckled here and there within the wide clearing. Large corrals teemed with horses, while additional pens housed several cows. A few rumpled men and a ruddier individual who she assumed could easily pass for an Indian lurked about, watching the keelboats being unloaded. Aware of the more-than-interested attention her arrival caused the residents, she ignored their grins and suggestive stares and hiked her chin.

“You sir!” Mr. Smith hollered. “Stop!” Despite the straggly beard shrouding most of his face, the trader’s displeasure was unmistakable, even from a distance.

Her chivalrous helper glanced over his shoulder. “You yammerin’ at me, Eustice, you ol’ river rat?” A lazy sort of American accent softened his rumbly voice.

Mr. Smith cocked his head, squinting in the glare of the sunshine. Then he let out a hoot. “Nate Kinyon? That you?”

“Aye. Headin’ down to Conococheague to see if Ma’s still holdin’ up. It’s been nigh two years or so since I was back that way.”

“Well, you look purty enough t’ be a reg’lar party cake.”

Mr. Kinyon turned a shade redder above the ruffles at his throat, and a corner of his mouth quirked as he eyed the storekeeper. But he made no response. He hoisted the hefty trunk and the two valises onto his shoulder as if they weighed next to nothing and strode toward the front of the boat.

Trader Smith jabbed a stubby finger at him. “That’s jes’ what I meant. I want the girl to haul that truck off on her own.”

Rose blanched as the onlookers ceased talking among themselves and centered their attention on her, each curious ear perked.

Either her rescuer didn’t notice or he didn’t care. Without hesitation he leaped onto the dock with her belongings.

Rose shriveled inwardly in discreet silence, knowing—hating—the next words sure to come out of Eustice Smith’s mouth.

Her unaware hero, heavily muscled shoulders straining the brocade fabric of his vest, marched right up to the storekeeper and dropped the burden mere inches from his feet. “And why shouldn’t I help the lass?”

Rose’s throat began to close.

“‘Cause she’s a stiff-necked female, that’s why. Needs to be taught a thing or two.”

Knowing Mr. Smith wouldn’t leave the matter half told, Rose wished she could crawl inside her trunk and close the lid. In truth, there was no shame in insisting on what few rights she had, or even in being a bondservant. The difficulty lay in making herself believe that.

One of the raftsmen butted in. “She belongs to Smith, Nate. He bought the woman to cook fer him.”

Mr. Kinyon’s square jaw went slack, and he looked from the storekeeper to her.

Rose detected a subtle change in the way he now viewed her, and she abhorred it. But what could she say? Every word was true. She’d been purchased like any other sack of goods off the ship.

The man’s brows knitted over a sharp gaze that seemed to pierce right through her. Then he leveled a glare at Mr. Smith. “He’s jestin’, right?”

The storekeeper took a small step back. For the first time since she laid eyes on the little man, he seemed unsure of himself. Then he stiffened. “Paid good money for her, Nate. Hard cash. The contract says I’m to provide her with food, shelter, an’ two sets of clothes a year. And at the end of her four years, she gits sent on her merry way with a month’s supplies an’ four pounds sterling. The papers didn’t mention nothin’

about where that food and shelter was to be provided.”

What did he mean, where?
Rose trembled as a chill ran down her spine. Something was very wrong. She somehow found her voice. “Where exactly are you taking me, Mr. Smith?”

“Nowhere, that’s where.” Towering head and shoulders above Mr. Smith, Nate Kinyon widened his stance and challenged her sulky owner with a withering glower. “You ain’t takin’ this pretty little lass no three hundred miles into Indian country. An’ that’s that.”

Chapter 4

R
ose’s blood turned cold.
Indian country!
Her lips fell open, and her arms dropped like rocks to her sides. Her gaze darted from Trader Smith to Nate Kinyon and back again. “Surely you’re not considering taking me off to where wild Indians live. I cannot— You cannot—”

Smith’s slitted eyes hardened. “I can an’ I will. An’ you can an’ you will. You have no say in the matter, seein’ as how yer bought an’ paid for.” He turned to Nate. “My stomach’s gone right sour on me lately. I’m in sore need of some good English puddin’s an’ such to sweeten it up. You can understand that. Hear tell she’s a real good cook.”

Astonishment clouded Mr. Kinyon’s expression, and his jaw went slack. “You mean to say you’re draggin’ this gentle lass all the way out to that tradin’ post of yours just so she can make you up some puddin’? That’s plumb crazy, Eustice. Plumb crazy.”

“It ain’t neither.” He bristled, a sneer twisting his grizzled face. “You must not a’heard, but me and my partner, we ain’t been hittin’ it off these days like we used to. So Branson’s fixin’ to set up his own post down on the Little Kanawha.”

Nate frowned and tucked his chin in disbelief. “How can he do that? I happen to know the fur company requires two men to be posted at each store. Besides, what’s that got to do with puddin’?”

The trader sniffed in disdain, as if Nate possessed the thickest skull since the dawn of time. “He’s the only one what could make it right—when we was able to get ahold of some milk. But I seen to that.” He gestured toward the penned cows.

Nate glanced in the direction indicated. “I did hear you was takin’ them beasts overmountain with you. Ought’a be a challenge, I’d say.” He smirked.

Her irritation mounting as she stood by listening to the bizarre turn of the conversation, Rose planted her fists on her hips. “Pudding! Cows! I cannot believe any of this. It’s simply not to be endured.”

“Quiet, woman!” The trader returned his attention to Kinyon. “Me an’ Branson figgered we wouldn’t say nothin’ to the comp’ny. More profit for us both that way. ‘Sides, I got my wife’s brothers to help me keep an eye on the place.”

Kinyon kneaded his chin. “Looks like you two have things all worked out between you, then.” He shook his head, appearing to mull something over in his mind. “Well, think on this. What say I get you a couple puddin’ recipes an’ trade ‘em an’ whatever you paid for the woman—plus a little profit, a’course—an’ that’ll make us all happy. How much
did
you lay out for her, anyway?”