A sharp whistle from across the river brought her head up. Hank, on his horse next to the shore, waved at her. Coming to attention, she raced to set the ferry in motion.
Drifting closer to the landing, she heard him holler, “Hey, thought you’d fallen asleep over there.”
Answering, she called back, “No, weak with hunger. We’ve been waiting for you.”
The ferry sidled into shore. Anora let down the tongue, and Hank led his mount onto the ferry deck. “Sorry I’m late. I got waylaid by Paxton and his bride. They insisted I join them for supper. I kept telling them I couldn’t tonight, but they refused to listen. Had to promise them Isabell and I would come to supper tomorrow night before they’d let me go.”
“Well, you’re here, and your timing is perfect. Isabell says the venison is done.”
Hank beat her to the crank and started to bring up the tongue. She rang the bell twice, and the ferry started on its course back across the river.
For a few moments, negotiating the current, Anora didn’t say anything, but as soon as they hit smoother water, she brought up the topic on both their minds. “Bet he couldn’t wait to give you a lecture on proper playmates for children. Indians being at the top of the list of companions to avoid.”
“Hmm, yep, that’s about it.”
“How could he do that? He didn’t even see the Indians, he just heard they were over here.”
Hank shrugged his shoulders. “What’s your impression of the new Mrs. Hayes?”
“I don’t think it proper I voice my opinion one way or the other.” She pressed her lips together and concentrated on the current. She shook her head. “All right, I have to state the obvious—she’s young, too young for Paxton. She’s attractive, pretty hair, wonderful blue eyes, lovely smile, when she isn’t being a Miss-Pissy-Pot. All in all, I’d say Paxton may have met his match.” She said directly to Hank, “Melinda Hayes knows exactly what she’s doing and saying at all times.”
Laughing at her, he crossed his heart. “I promise I won’t repeat your opinion to a soul. It closely matches my own.”
“Oh, fiddle, now I’ve started talking to you, I don’t know when to shut up.”
“I’m glad you’re talking to me again. You had me worried.”
She shrugged and righted the rudder.
Hank nodded, accepting her response. “Melinda lamented over and over the fact her father hadn’t journeyed with them. He’s on a crusade to bring the word of the Lord to all heathens. A benign band of Calapooya would be right up his starched collar.”
They were nearly across. Anora watched the last rays of sunshine flicker across the water. “It’s Isabell, isn’t it? That’s what’s really eating at you. You’re thinking Paxton might be right about her running wild, with no real structure.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m torn, Anora. I don’t know what to do. On the one hand I can’t allow her to grow up ignorant and wild, but on the other hand I don’t want her to grow up a straight-laced, tightly corseted, ‘pissy-pot.’”
Hearing her description thrown back in her face, she tried to be incensed, instead she giggled. “You promised not to repeat my words. But now I’ve opened my mouth and I’ve started giving out my opinions, I think what you need to find is a middle ground, Mr. Reason.”
“Yes, that would be wonderful, but where and how do I find it?”
“Isabell is only five. You have a little time.”
Isabell, jumping up and down, waving her arms, called to them from the shore, “Papa. Papa. We’ve been waiting for you. It smells ‘licious, Papa.” The ferry crunched into shore.
Hank lowered the tongue and then leaped into the water to tie off the rope to the pylon and, all the while, Isabell chattered. “I helped Mary Two Hats make sweet cakes from the roasted camas and nuts. My Indian name is Little Magpie. A magpie is a clever bird, Papa. Mary Two Hats said they talk a lot.” Barely taking time to breathe, she went on. “Anora had some new peas and little carrots and potatoes. And Grandpa Joe and me and Flashing Wing made a deep dish-apple pie. I’m so hungry, Papa, I could eat my foot.”
Holding out his hand to help Anora, Hank said, “We better get a move on. My girl is threatening to eat her own foot.”
Taking Isabell by the hand, he said, “Come on, Magpie, I’ll race you, last one there is a rotten potato.”
Isabell broke free of his grasp and took off like a shot. Meeting Hank’s challenging gaze, Anora hesitated, grinned at him and whipped her hat off and, clutching it in her hand, tore up the track after Isabell. In her dust, behind her, she heard Hank swear.
Her rain slicker, flapping between her legs, slowed her down. Hiking it up to her hips, she put some distance between her and the man behind her. Almost to the Indian camp, she felt a tug on the back of her coat and tripped over her own feet. Arms cartwheeling, she managed to stay upright.
“Run, Anora, Run. Papa, you cheated. You’re a rotten potato, Papa. Papa’s a rotten potato,” Isabell chanted.
Sprinting up to the fire pit, laughing, hopelessly winded, feeling marvelously light-hearted and silly, Anora folded over to catch her breath.
She felt Hank’s hand on her back and came upright. Taking a half-step to the side, hands going to her waist, she met the gleam in his eyes and knew it a mistake to allow him to touch her, even an innocent pat on the back. She had to deny the attraction—protect her heart. “I have to clean up. You two go ahead, eat, don’t wait for me.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she caught the hurt look on his face and rushed to the security of her cabin. Tears, hot and salty, trickled down her cheeks. Behind her, she heard Isabell’s childish voice, “Come on, Papa. Come on. Mary Two Hats has a bowl for each of us, see,” and knew he hadn’t moved or taken his eyes off her.
»»•««
What the hell, he hadn’t done anything. One minute playful as a kid, and the next minute, cold as ice. No, not cold, the look she’d given him; she looked fearful. She’d closed up right in front of him, and for what? Why?
Isabell dragged him away. Blinking, he looked around. Mary, along with four other women, standing over a make-shift table, portioned out the food to the children and men. All the women, from puberty on up, were busy stirring, bustling around, making themselves useful, getting the children settled.
The camp consisted of a cluster of crude hovels, domes put together with bark and sticks, covered with hides of elk and deer. Everyone had gathered in around one central fire pit. He heard no fussing or crying among any of the children, not even the babies. The women worked silently, murmuring low instructions only when needed. The men sat relaxed, some with children on their knees or cradled in their arms.
He smiled, recalling Paxton’s fears that Isabell, running wild among savages, would run the risk of becoming uncontrollable. In truth, she’d probably learned more today about responsibility, hard work, and patience, than she would learn in a month of Sundays. He decided she could spend her time with these people as long as they were camped there next to Anora. Then, well, he’d reserve judgment until after his dinner with the newlyweds.
He and Isabell were given a bowl of venison stew, the meat and vegetables swimming in a thick, savory, reddish-brown sauce and a flat round of bread and some greens. It smelled delicious. Isabell dove into it with gusto, using her fingers.
He knew the exact moment Anora returned. He watched her get her bowl. Prompting Isabell to wave to her, they both invited her to come sit with them on the blanket they’d been assigned.
A tinge of pink on her cheeks, she appeared self-conscious, looking everywhere but directly at him. She’d combed her hair and changed into her faded rose dress. Adjusting herself on the blanket, she sat for a few moments, observing those around her. He recognized the perplexed expression on her face, her lips drawn up into a bow, brows knit together. He felt the same—they had no tools with which to eat. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her daintily dip two fingers into her stew. Leaning over her bowel, she brought her fingers to her lips, sauce dribbling down her chin. When she started to giggle and lick the sauce from her fingers, he thought it a very good thing he was sitting down, no one would see his arousal.
Isabell had her bowl up close to her chin, scooping the contents of her bowl into her mouth, which proved very efficient. Hank and Anora observed for a few moments, giving each other the raised eyebrow, then followed suit, each finding this method more productive.
During the last course of the meal, the apple dish, Grandpa Joe brought out his fiddle and started tuning up. One of the men played on a long wooden flute. Joining in, a couple of the young women shook a leather thong strung with bells. The music that came out of that odd assortment had a particularly uplifting appeal. With the addition of the drums, the night took on a joyous heart and voice. All gathered were drawn into another time, another world—a world of mystical songs and haunting, healing rhythms.
»»•««
The following evening, Hank and Isabell broke bread with Paxton and his new bride. The tension at the dinner table made for an uneasy meal. Melinda had set the table in the dining room with Lydia’s fine blue willow china. Hank knew it belonged to Lydia’s mother, and by rights it should stay with Paxton, but the sight of it made Hank angry. The silver candle holders in the middle of table were Lydia’s too. They’d received them from an aunt as a wedding gift. Melinda couldn’t know that, of course. Hank could make allowances for her, but Paxton, he couldn’t forgive Paxton. Swallowing down his ire when Melinda apologized for the lack of proper crystal, “No finger bowls,” she said, and tsk, tsked. He gave himself indigestion.
Isabell, put out she had to attend this meal and miss out on a meal with her new friends, didn’t bother to hide her feelings, plunking herself down at the table, a mutinous set to her lips. She didn’t eat a morsel of the roast duck, new peas, potatoes and gravy; instead, she licked the butter off her bread with her fingers.
The bride lectured Hank on proper table manners, and the inadvisability of allowing children to waste food. Delicate in appearance, Melinda spoke with all the tact of a pile-driver. She had a heart and a bustle made of cast iron, cold and rigid, praising Isabell’s quiet reserve out of one side of her mouth and threatening her with no dessert for her rudeness out of the other side.
Hank took note Melinda did most of the talking at the table. Paxton sat unusually reserved and distracted, almost sulking, Hank thought. Which made him wonder if Paxton now suffered from regrets; if so, they’d come too late. Melinda had definitely staked her claim to Paxton’s kingdom.
When the subject came up of Isabell receiving instruction on deportment and other school studies, Hank stalled, asking Isabell what she wanted to do. Of course, at first, she refused to give more than an “I don’t care,” answer.
“I’d like to hear what you think, Isabell.”
She squirmed in her chair and sat up a little straighter. “I don’t know why you ask me what I want when you’ll decide and I’ll have to do what you say,” she said, pouting, her arms folded across her chest.
Pursing his lips together to keep from snickering and giving himself a second to remind himself his daughter was growing up, actually thinking and reasoning, he said, “Right, so you’re putting it back on me. I am the parent, after all. So, here’s the deal, you come here two days a week, take instruction from Aunt Melinda. The other three, four days of the week, you can stay with Anora if I have to go to work or you come with me if I’m in the orchard.”
The little girl came to the edge of her seat, folded her hands in her lap, looking him directly in the eye, ready to bargain. Hank leaned his elbows on the table and met her gaze without flinching, having become accustomed to his daughter’s method of reaching detente. “If I got to, I’ll come here two days…but I want Molly to come with me. I want Molly to come too. She needs to learn deportment too. I’d learn better deportment if she learned it too. And I’d learn better, faster, if I had a puppy. Grandpa Joe showed me a litter of puppies in camp. He’d let me keep one if it’s okay with you.”