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Michelle bolted awake and looked around. Fir trees swayed above her in the purple pre-dawn light, and an owl hooted off in the distance. After a second, she relaxed. There was nothing to fear. She was safe, traveling to the trading post with Luther and Redfeather.
She rubbed her eyes and tried to push the horrible dream from her mind. Why did she feel so afraid? She hadn’t had a nightmare about Roger since she’d made love to Luther.
Luther lay sleeping on his side, snuggled under the blankets. Good, she hadn’t woken him. He’d been apprehensive ever since the start of the trip, fussing over the pelts, clothes, and other goods he was hoping to sell.
Over the last three weeks he had taught her how to clean pelts, tan skins, and get everything ready for the rendezvous. At night, Luther took her to bed and taught her wicked secrets about lovemaking. By the time Redfeather had returned to the cabin, they were exhausted.
She spotted Redfeather sitting cross-legged on the ground several feet away. He faced east, and the early rays of sunlight beamed onto his brown skin. Despite the chilly weather, he only wore his breechcloth and a pair of moccasins. She watched his lips moving in prayer. Each morning he rose before dawn to pray and ask for guidance.
“Rest, Ayasha,” he whispered. “Not yet time to wake.”
She stood and wrapped herself in the black and red blanket Redfeather had given her for the trip. They were heading north, and the weather was colder than what she was used to for late summer. How would she survive the bitter winter that lay ahead? She knelt next to Redfeather. “I can’t sleep. I don’t want to wake Luther.”
“What is wrong?”
“I had a dream.” She gazed into the woods. Tall maples dotted the forest. Their leaves had already started to turn colors. “It was a bad dream.”
“Like before?”
“Yes. I don’t want to worry Luther with it.” She peeked over her shoulder to make sure Luther was still asleep.
“You have these visions often?”
“Sometimes. It’s the same feeling I had before Luther went to jail.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes.” Was Redfeather a shaman with magical powers? He understood things of a mystical nature. “Why do I have these horrible dreams?”
“I cannot say. People have visions for different reasons. Sometimes they warn. Because of the dream a person readies for the event. Or the vision is a warning to avoid danger.” He licked his lips. “Which do you think it was?”
“I don’t know, but I’m afraid it will come true. I want to go to the rendezvous and come home safe. I want Luther to sell his pelts and be happy. I don’t want to worry him when he has so much on his mind.”
Luther had fretted about having enough goods to sell at the rendezvous, and he was nervous about bringing her along. He’d been acting even more concerned, even more overprotective of her ever since the night he’d found out who she really was. She wondered if he had visions, too—visions he didn’t share with her.
“Was the dream about Luther?”
She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “No.” Thankfully, it didn’t involve him this time.
“Was it about me? An animal? My father?”
She scowled. “Your father? No. Why would I dream about him? Luther never mentions him. It was about me, my past. Something that makes me afraid.”
“The past is gone. Perhaps it was not a vision, but a memory,” he suggested.
She shook her head. As much as she would like to believe Redfeather’s explanation, he was wrong. “No. This dream was different. I don’t know how much Luther told you about my past, but... Promise me if anything happens, you’ll help me. I don’t want to be left alone when we get to the rendezvous this afternoon, and I don’t want to burden Luther. This dream could mean nothing.”
Redfeather nodded, and his braids bounced off his shoulders. The sun’s golden rays splayed over the horizon, bathing them in a warm light. “Ayasha, you are my brother’s wife. I will protect you. Now sit with me and clear your head.”
She turned toward the rising sun, afraid of what the coming day might bring.
* * *
IT WAS ALMOST NOON when they approached the trading post near Lake Superior. Redfeather rode a black stallion named Wildfire. He had taken his time getting dressed after his morning prayers. He was adorned in a regal fashion, covered with deerskins, feathers, and beads. Wildfire whinnied, and off in the distance, his cry was answered.
Clara pulled the overflowing cart behind them. Traveling through the woods on the nearly invisible trails had been slow and tiresome. Every few miles, they had to push the cart up a hill or move a fallen tree limb from their path. Somehow, they had managed to hike the narrow trails and cross two rushing creeks.
Michelle leaned against Luther’s back as they broke through the trees and entered a large clearing. Hundreds of men milled around the muddy field carrying skins, or stood around fires, talking. Makeshift lean-tos and tents were set up everywhere, some almost on top of each other. Men slept on the ground with hats covering their eyes. A few yards away, two men yelled and fought with each other while another group cheered them on.
The place looked awful and smelled even worse. Michelle wrinkled her nose and tried not to breathe. She hadn’t expected anything like this. She thought this would be like going to a large general store. Although she tried to think of it as an adventure, she found herself longing to be back in the safety of the cabin.
“Here we are. Watch ya don’t step in shit,” Luther cautioned as they dismounted.
“Not what the little one thought?” Redfeather asked with a grin. “It will be worse after dark, Ayasha. We must do important business soon.”
Luther led Clara to a sparse patch of grass under a tree. “We’ll camp here. It’s far enough from most of the others for now.” He unhitched the cart and let Clara graze.
Michelle gazed around the clearing. An enormous canvas tent stood three hundred yards away. Men were lined up outside, their arms loaded down with bundles of pelts and skins. She spotted the high walls of the fort off in the distance.
She tried not to stare at the men waiting to enter the tent. None of them looked like they had washed in years. Most were dressed in buckskin, flannel, and boots. Their long beards grew past their chins. Several of them eyed her up and down.
Now she knew why Luther had warned her about coming here. The place was disgusting and stank worse than an outhouse in July. Groups of men were huddled everywhere. Some urinated in the open, while others humped half-naked women on blankets. She tried not to look.
Across the clearing, rows of tables and blankets displayed an assortment of mirrors, tools, clothes, and other supplies for sale. It was overwhelming. Luther had told her there would be trinkets imported from all over the world. He had promised she could pick out a present.
“Do not stare,” Redfeather said, as he took a blanket off the wagon. “And close that tight.” He gestured at her vest.
Michelle stared down at her clothes. She wore a pair of buckskin breeches, a white sleeveless shirt, boots, and one of Luther’s doeskin vests. Luther wanted her to wear the vest to cover herself. She admired the intricate beadwork pattern and colored feathers as she fastened it closed over her bosom. “Better?”
Redfeather smirked. “It will have to do.”
Luther stood in front of her. “I don’t want you talking to anybody. This place ain’t meant for a civilized woman like you. Decent women don’t come here and even some men are afraid to trade in places like this.” He took a bundle of pelts from the cart and added them to the pile he had made on the ground. “Help Redfeather set up the tent while I’m gone, and don’t leave his sight for anything.”
“Yes, Luther.” Now that she had seen the rendezvous, she understood why Luther was worried about her. She stifled a yawn. Why would she wander off? A nap sounded more appealing, and it might settle her nerves. Last night’s dream still bothered her. She hadn’t dreamt about Roger finding her in over two months. Why did he haunt her dreams now? A gunshot rang out behind her, and she yelped.
Luther patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, darlin’. We won’t stay here any longer than we have to. Four days at most.”
A short, white-haired man approached them as she helped Luther unpack the cart. She tried to ignore him, but he strolled close to the edge of their space. His face was covered with dirt streaks and boils. His clothes were filthy, and his stale sweat odor made her eyes water. Three dead rabbits hung from his waist. Their sightless eyes looked like shiny black rocks.
“Ya got yoreself a gud’un,” he said, then winked at her.
Luther turned, then grinned as he spotted the man. “Charlie! How the hell are ya? When did you get here?”
Luther knew this man? She glanced at Redfeather to see his reaction. He was hitching Wildfire to the tree and ignoring them.
Charlie scratched himself behind one ear with his filthy fingers. “I rode in this mornin’. This ’un yours?”
Luther pulled her close. “Yep. Michelle’s my wife. Michelle, this here’s Charlie. He’s a trapper friend of mine.”
“Hello,” she muttered.
“How’s it been, Charlie?”
“’Member Mad Jim? He’s dead. After that frostbite, he had ta git his leg sawed off. That gang-a-reen crawled up in thar and kilt him.”
Charlie scratched his beard and tiny white bits fell out. Michelle shuddered and hoped it wasn’t lice. Neither Luther nor Redfeather had lice. They washed and took proper care of themselves. Ojibwa or not, they didn’t have diseases or bugs and were probably the cleanest men here.
“Big Bill moved on. He said the fur comp’ny was robbin’ us blind. He needed to git away afore he starv’d. Damn Easterners.” He scratched his stomach through his filthy flannel shirt.
“Where’d he go?”
“Plains, west. Don’t know. I’ll be movin’ soon. Dang fur comp’ny’s tryin’ to starve us out, take what little we got.”
Charlie snorted and spit a large glob of yellow mucous on the muddy ground inches from her boots. Despite her revulsion, her pulse quickened. The fur company! Maybe it meant nothing. After all, lots of people worked for fur companies...
“Yonder’s a new batch of wares from overseas.” Charlie gestured over his shoulder at a table. “’Spensive shit. And fancy New Yorkers are here messin’ ’round, tryin’ ta find new waysa robbin’ us.”
“Hudson’s?”
“I reckon. They’s from Kings somewhere.”
“You don’t mean Kingston?” she blurted out.
“Aya womin, that’s it.” Charlie nodded.
Michelle closed her eyes. Damn, damn, damn. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?
Men from the Hudson’s fur company were here from Kingston. Kingston meant home, Roger, and her father. She thought about the so-called “fineries” she’d left behind. Her wardrobes had been filled with fur-lined gloves, hats, and boots. All of it was under her nose every day, and all of it had been obtained for a bargain.
The fur company bought pelts cheap and resold them to England for five times what they paid. Beaver hats were all the rage these days. How many times had she heard her father and Roger laughing about how they were stealing from the savage redmen and ignorant fur trappers?
At home, she had ignored their stories and dismissed them as boring “man-talk” that didn’t concern her. Now she wished she had paid closer attention. But how could she have predicted she would ever be in this situation?
“Yatta feed ’er Luther, your wife looks sick.” Charlie scratched himself again. “Stop by when you’re ready to drink and lose at cards.” He laughed and wandered off.
Luther lifted the huge pile of pelts off the ground and headed toward the large tent. “You stay here and help Redfeather. I won’t be gone long. Remember what I said.”
“I will, don’t worry,” she replied.
Redfeather handed her a canteen of water. “Something troubling?”
She nodded. “I had hoped my dream was wrong, but I’m beginning to think it wasn’t.”
* * *
AFTER WAITING IN LINE for almost an hour, Luther was finally able to enter the canvas tent. Every available space was covered with pelts, strips of leather, and trinkets people were selling. The air stank like a thousand wet dogs mixed with horse manure, and something worse. He coughed and tried not to breathe deep. The smell of rotten flesh told him most of the hides the others had brought with them hadn’t been cleaned properly.
His thoughts drifted back to Michelle. He hoped she would be all right until he returned to camp. She had been acting odd this morning. Even Charlie said she looked sick. Maybe she was exhausted from the trip. It had been a long, hard week, but she was strong and had toughed it out.
But Michelle didn’t belong in a horrible place like this. Everything was covered with piss, filth, bugs, and diseases. Men got killed here every year. They were shot in their sleep, stabbed, beaten, and robbed at random. One year, a man brought his four children to sell. By the end of the first day he’d gotten a pretty price for all of them, especially the girls.
He hadn’t wanted to bring Michelle with him, but what choice did he have? The idea of leaving her alone at the cabin for three weeks was more troubling than having her see this. At least here he’d be able to keep an eye on her. He knew he was being overprotective, but his top priority was to keep Michelle safe.
He shifted the pelts in his arms. He despised coming here himself, but it was a necessity. This was the only way he could make money. Whatever he earned in these four days would have to last until the rendezvous next fall.
And money was another of his concerns. In the past, he’d only had to keep himself alive through the winter, but now he was responsible for Michelle. They would both need food and warm clothes. What if she took sick? He pursed his lips and tried not to think about the consequences.
He hated to admit it, but Charlie was right. Each year, the fur company was making it harder and harder for them to survive. Sometimes he thought about running a store and selling supplies from a respectable building instead of peddling pelts and trinkets from a blanket.
“Next,” a man shouted from behind a table. Luther recognized him. His name was Rick, and he was not above robbing first-timers blind.
Luther watched the short, sniffling man in front of him drop his paltry pile of skins on the table. Rick sorted through them quickly. “Twenty dollars.”
“But I—” The man started to protest.
“Take it or leave it.” Rick scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to the trapper. The man took it and sighed.
Luther noticed the weary expression on the older man’s face as he left. That would be all he’d have until next year. No wonder so many trappers gave up and headed west, turned to crime, or starved to death.
“Next!”
Luther caught a look of surprise on Rick’s face as he made his way up to the table. Rick would have to deal with him honestly, and it would cost.
“Well, Luther, what’ve ya brung me to make me rich?” Rick laughed and puffed his cigar. A cloud of cherry-scented smoke hovered in the air.
He laid his bundles on the table and untied the securing straps. The packs bulged and expanded to twice their size. Rick let out a low whistle as Luther separated the pelts. He had several dozen each of coyote, lynx, bobcat, beaver, fox, and rabbit. Michelle had spent hours brushing and cleaning the furs. He had taught her a few tricks he knew to make them sell for more.
“Nice, real nice,” Rick said as he stroked a fox fur. He sorted through the pile of pelts in shades of reds, browns, white, gray, and black, and called out numbers to a man seated behind him writing everything down. “You’ve been busy.”
“How about this?” He took a rolled pelt out from under his arm and unfastened the strap. The black bear skin unfurled seven feet across the table. Luther heard several men gasp and saw a few others crane their necks in his direction to get a good look. He had caught the bear two years ago and had saved the hide for when he desperately needed the money. It was probably the most valuable pelt in the tent.
Rick whistled. “Wow. That’ll fetch ya forty.”
“Or make a nice coat for my wife. Sixty.”
“Go kill another bear. Forty-five.”
He met Rick’s hard stare. “She looks good in black. Fifty-five.”
Rick smirked and blew a cloud of cigar smoke in Luther’s face. “Anyone who married you can’t be too particular. Fifty-two.”
He caught the hint. “Deal.”
Rick handed him a sheet of paper with numbers scrawled on it. “Take this to the fort for payment.” He puffed on his cigar again. “Watch your back if you know what’s good for you,” he muttered. “Next!”
* * *
MICHELLE LEANED AGAINST the cart, hoping to see Luther returning. She had spent the last hour helping Redfeather set up the tent and spread their blankets outside the entrance. She tried to calm her jangled nerves. It had to be a coincidence that people from Kingston were here. It couldn’t have anything to do with her nightmare about Roger finding her.
She glanced at Redfeather. He was watching a few Indians near the entrance to the woods. They stood next to horses decorated with beads and feathers like Wildfire. A second later, Redfeather tugged on her arm.
“Come with me.”
“Where are we going? Luther wants me—”
“Do as I say. We will return before Luther.”
She let Redfeather lead her away from the camp and into the forest. They passed through a small cluster of trees and headed deeper into the woods. What if Luther came back while they were gone? She didn’t want him to worry about her.
They walked to a pile of rocks where a tall, older Indian waited. Redfeather greeted him in their language and nudged her closer to the man.
Michelle studied him for a minute. He was the same height as Redfeather and his straight black hair was braided with leather and beads. The man wore a small leather pouch around his neck like Redfeather and Luther. A bow and quiver were strapped to his back, and he had a large knife secured at his waist.
“Who is he? What does he want?” Was he a friend of Redfeather’s? The man cupped her chin and stared into her eyes. She tried to pull away, but he held her still. He spoke to Redfeather.
“Tell him your Ojibwa name,” Redfeather said.
“Ayasha.”
The man talked with Redfeather for a few minutes. “He says you should be called Doe Eyes.” Redfeather said something to the man and they both laughed. “I said that will be your name when a doe grows claws.”
Michelle inched back and tried to distance herself from the older man. She didn’t like the way he kept eyeing her. Now more than ever, she wanted to go back to the tent and wait for Luther. The man ran a hand down the front of her vest. “Hey!” She shoved his hand away. “Keep your damn hands off me.”
The man cuffed her on the side of the head and touched the beadwork again. She slapped his hand. “Don’t touch me. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
His black eyes blazed. In a flash, he cuffed her again, grabbed the vest front, and yanked her forward.
“Redfeather,” she squeaked. “Make him leave me alone.”
The man barked harsh-sounding words at her.
“He says you do not know your place,” Redfeather said. “You should be silent until spoken to.”
“Spoken to?” She tried to escape the older man’s grip, but he clamped his hand down hard on her shoulder.
The older man ran his hands over the front of her vest. He took his time looking at the beads, the patterns, and the stitching. She held still. She was no longer afraid of him, now she was angry at being treated this way. When Luther heard about this, he’d be furious.
The man finished and let the vest drop. His gaze met hers for a moment, then he spoke to Redfeather.
“He wants to know if you beaded this vest yourself. Did your own hair.”
“No. Luther did.” When they had stopped to rest the horses this morning, Luther had braided and decorated her hair with colored beads and leather scraps.
The man spoke again. Redfeather translated. “He says beading is woman’s work. A man should not do such things for you.”
“Is he trying to buy me?” It seemed like an unusual thing to say, but what else could the stranger want with her? The man’s jaw clenched and his coal black eyes narrowed to slits.
“No. Do not talk foolish.” Redfeather and the man exchanged words again.
She frowned. Redfeather didn’t seem the least bit surprised by what was happening. All of a sudden, she realized that this meeting was prearranged. But why?
“He called you a fire-tongued woman.”
Michelle rested her hands on her hips. She wasn’t about to be insulted, poked, and prodded by a man old enough to be her father. “Any other endearing words for me? Who are you, anyway?”
The man knelt and picked up a handful of dirt. He smeared it on her cheeks and forehead, then spoke to Redfeather.
“He says you act like a man. You are too white, but he likes your hair. It is the color of the sun. He will call you Sunfire. Hair like the sun, temper like fire.”
The man nodded at Redfeather.
“Come.” Redfeather clasped her arm and they headed back to camp. “If you love Luther and do not wish to worry him, you will say nothing of this.”
Michelle glanced back at the man. He stood near the rocks, watching them. “Why not? Who is he? You knew he was here, didn’t you? You brought me to see him on purpose. Why don’t you—”
“Too many questions. Be quiet and do as I say.”
Michelle rolled her eyes and followed Redfeather back to camp. Stubbornness flowed like water in his family, and she knew there was no sense arguing.
* * *
LUTHER WATCHED THE sun set behind the trees. In the six hours since they had been at the rendezvous, the number of trappers and traders had doubled. It was a good thing he had sold his skins already. By tomorrow, the fur company would cut prices and become choosier in what they took.
Michelle lay on the green wool blanket next to him, reading a penny novel about pirates. He pulled a deck of cards and a bottle of whiskey out of a burlap sack. He wanted to play cards with Charlie and learn more about the crooks from the fur company, but he didn’t dare leave Michelle alone. Redfeather had wandered off somewhere an hour ago.
He took a sip of whiskey and glared at a man who walked by. He had caught several men staring at Michelle today. They didn’t quite know what to make of her. Except for her golden hair and pale skin, she could pass for an Indian woman.
“Things’ll get rowdy after sundown,” he said. “That’s when everyone gets drunk and starts going wild. How’s the book?”
“Pretty good.” She sat up. “Now that you’ve sold the pelts, what happens tomorrow?”
“I’ll sell what I have left here.” He had a small pile of clothes and carved furniture he hadn’t been able to sell at the fort.
“Here? Here where?”
“On the blanket,” he explained. “Like the people across the way.” He gestured with the bottle to three men sitting on a blanket covered with goods. “Folks will wander by, see if they’re interested in anything. I’ll sell the stuff, or trade, if they have something I want. The day after that, it’ll be the same thing, only I’ll have to take less money since folks will start headin’ out by then.”
“We’re going to be here for a while, aren’t we?”
There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. “I know it’s not what you expected, but we need to stay.” He took another sip of whiskey and kissed Michelle’s cheek. “I bought you a present.”
“You did?”
He took a rectangular package wrapped in white paper out of the burlap sack and handed it to her. “I saw it and thought of you.” He held his breath as she opened it, anxious to see if she liked it.
“You didn’t have to buy me anything.” Michelle removed the paper and held up a white metal box painted with purple violets and yellow butterflies. “Luther, it’s beautiful.”
“Open it.”
Michelle opened the hinged box and took out a pearl-handled brush and comb set, then unwrapped bars of lilac, lavender, and rose-scented soaps. “Oh, Luther, it’s wonderful.” She kissed him. “Thank you so much.”
“I hoped you’d like it. I wanted to give you something fancy. You deserve to have pretty things, niceties.”
She rewrapped the box. “I love it. I’ll—” Michelle froze and focused on something across the clearing.
“What’s wrong? What are you looking at?”
Luther turned, and his skin prickled as he spotted two Ojibwa men walking next to Redfeather. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Black Elk was heading toward him. Shit. It was no coincidence the old bastard was at the trading post today.
He flashed back to the last time he’d been in the Ojibwa village. The July day was hot and muggy. Everyone was short-tempered and miserable. They had buried his nine-year-old sister, Snow Fox, two days before. The entire band was on edge.
Everyone except Redfeather blamed him for what had happened to Snow Fox. Black Elk had stormed around the camp, snapping at everyone because his favorite daughter had been taken from him. Black Elk had shouted at him and called him a disappointment. The band watched in shock as father and son yelled at each other, hurling blame and accusations. Finally, in a fit of rage, Black Elk had slapped him across the face.
“You are no longer my son. You were nothing more than a disgraceful accident.”
Luther saw nothing but hatred in Black Elk’s eyes. That day he had gathered his few possessions into a sack and left. “You are dead to me, Black Elk,” he’d said. He had never returned to the village.
Michelle shook his shoulder, and he snapped back to the present. “Luther, who is that man?”
“My father, Black Elk.”
