Rose struggled to keep the slippery yellow material from snagging on the rough crate top she was using as a worktable to cut out Mrs. Smith’s gown. No matter what ill opinion Fawn Woman held of her, Rose determined to do her finest work on the garment. There had to be a way to encourage friendship with the squaw, since they’d be living near each other for the next four years.
From several yards away, children’s laughter drifted like music to her ear. Looking toward the youngsters at play, she spied three little Indian girls kneeling in the shade of an oak tree, putting together a miniature wigwam for dolls. Several naked boys with small bows and arrows shot at a thick tree trunk nearby. Rose smiled at the way girls always played house and boys always tried to outdo each other. They weren’t so very different from white children.
Suddenly one of the boys dropped his bow and pointed toward the river. He bolted for the bank, and the others scampered after him.
Rose turned to see what had drawn his attention and spotted a lone Indian in a canoe paddling toward shore. Laying aside the scissors, she stood for a better look. “Robert Bloom!” Relieved that Nate’s partner remained alive and well, she felt a twinge of sadness as well, since his coming would precipitate his and Nate’s departure. But at least it was comforting to know Robert was a practicing Christian, unlike his pal. The short, perfunctory prayers Nate offered at mealtimes did please her, but she sensed that pleasing her was his motivation. She would have preferred seeing evidence of some real faith.
Perhaps the frontiersmen would remain at the village for a while. Rose dreaded being left here with Mr. Smith as the only other white person in residence. She remembered Robert’s desire to have spirited conversations with her about the teachings of George Whitefield and other new Christian thinkers coming into prominence, like John and Charles Wesley. She hoped there’d be time for some good talks.
A deep sigh came from inside. If nothing else, Robert would have information about the lad taken hostage and how the Lord had answered their prayers. This eve she would make a delicious meal for the men. Out in the wilds they had to exist on whatever fish or game they found along the way—or worse, eat only cold jerky for days on end as the caravan had often been forced to do. Perhaps after some good English cooking, they wouldn’t be so eager to head for parts unknown.
Finishing up his improvements on Rose’s wigwam, Nate heard the commotion at the riverside and saw Bob paddling ashore. He dropped his tools and went to meet him. Half the village already swarmed the water’s edge, and the Shawnee braves he and Bob had traveled with threaded their way to the front of the crowd as Nate waded into the water to pull in the canoe. “Glad to see you still have your scalp, buddy. But what’d you do? Swap your horse for this thing?”
Bob grinned. “No, I came across it hidden in some reeds.” He hopped out and helped shove the bark-covered canoe onto the beach. “Knowin’ how you love raft buildin’, I thought mebbe you’d like to go back over with me to build one for my horse.”
Chuckling, they strode together up the shallow rise. They scarcely gained the top before Indians and hired braves from the village crowded around them and started jabbering to Bob in their language. Words flew back and forth so quickly Nate could only pick up one or two but suspected they were discussing the hostage situation. Bob wore a satisfied expression as he answered questions, but oddly, the Indians seemed far more pleased than he was. A couple of them snickered and swapped knowing glances.
Nate elbowed his pal in the ribs. “I take it you were able to rescue the lad in question.”
“Aye. But the Indians are happy about what all the Cherokees got in the trade.”
“Good trade.” One of the hired braves smirked.
Nate’s brow furrowed. “What’d those men have to give up to get the boy back, anyway?”
“All their trade goods an’ every cent they had with them, plus all the cash money I had on me.”
“All of it?” Nate saw his personal plans for Bob’s money evaporate like dew in the sunshine. “But you’re talkin’ only what was left after the funds you sent home for safekeepin’, right?”
He nodded. “Aye. But the kid was lookin’ real beat up. I had to help him. You’d’ve done the same.”
“You’re right.” Nate felt the chink in his plan grow wider, but nothing could be done about that. “Well, let’s get a couple of volunteers an’ retrieve your horse before some wildcat gets wind of him.”
“Good thinkin’.” Bob cleared his throat. “How’s Rose, by the way?”
Irritated by his partner’s interest in her, Nate gave a curt response. “She’s here an’ she’s fine. I’ll tell you all about her on our way across the river. Think I’ve come up with a plan to get her away from Smith.” One that’ll take a mite of adjusting, in the light of things.
Bob laughed. “You haven’t settled on killin’ the man, I hope.”
“Actually, the thought did cross my mind.” Nate flashed a sheepish grin. “But the way these Shawnees love that store of his, I figured they’d scalp me for sure.” On the other hand, Smith might not go for the new plan….
From her position near the store, Rose watched in disappointment as Nate and Robert shoved the canoe back into the water then hopped into it. Two Indians joined them, and the four men began paddling back across the river. Nate said he and his partner would leave as soon as Robert returned, but how could they go so suddenly without so much as a brief farewell? Her throat closed up, and her chest began to ache as hot tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back, determined not to cry. She needed to stay strong before these village people.
Mr. Smith came up behind her. “Those two’re prob’ly goin’ over to fetch Bob’s horse. The river’s too deep fer it to swim across. They’ll have to build a raft to get the mare to this side.”
A wave of relief swept over Rose, but she was still confused. “Why did they not take one that’s already beached here?”
He looked at her as if she were daft. “’Cause o’ the swift current. They’d have a time of it tryin’ to paddle one o’ them lumberin’ things upstream. It’s too deep fer polin’.”
Rose tamped down her embarrassment. She should have known that, remembering how swiftly the raft moved yesterday when she arrived. At least she had hope that the men would soon return.
“Another lazy hunter to feed.” The trader grimaced and started away then turned back. “Don’t be killin’ another chicken. I’ll get ya some venison to cook fer ’em. I’ll eat whatever’s left o’ last night’s chicken stew. But make plenty o’ puddin’.”
An hour later, Rose added a pinch more seasoning to the venison stewing in the kettle, hoping to make it smell and taste more like meat she preferred. To her nostrils it smelled worse than the bear grease the Indians lathered on themselves to fend off mosquitoes. She gazed out across the river yet another time, wondering how much longer it would be until the men returned. How she wished she could see past the bend where they’d paddled out of sight. Mr. Smith had never actually lied to her, but it would be nice to have proof he’d been right about their constructing a raft.
As if her thought had conjured the man up, the trader again strode up to her without her noticing, quiet as an Indian in the moccasins he now wore. “Don’t be wastin’ all my good flour on them upstarts. Make ’em some corn bread instead.”
“As you wish.” She slid a weary glance after him as he sauntered back to the store. Would he be that stingy with his food once the men had gone? Gone. Even the word was depressing. How she would miss the two once they left. She’d be entirely friendless then and would have God alone to turn to.