Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (53 page)

When she finally spied Angelique, her daughters in her wake,
she passed Rosebud to Louis. Morrow's heart swelled then tightened as Loramie's wife stopped an arm's length away. In her arms
was Jess. Stout and handsome, he regarded her with solemn eyes
that were the same unmistakable shade as his father's. His hair
was damp, and it curled and waved in bright abandon atop his
head. But his lower lip puckered slightly, and she thought he
might cry. Smiling through her tears, she simply held out her
arms to him, aware of Red Shirt and Louis looking on. But Jess
turned his little face away and buried his head in Angelique's
neck.

"Your mother has come back and wants to see you, Angelique
said to him gently. "And I must tend to my own children"

Morrow murmured her thanks and took him, grieved at the
taut resistance in his little body. She cradled him under her
chin, the soft weight of him like a healing salve. Still, he turned
away from her.

"He will not be so particular when he is hungry," Loramie
said wryly, and Angelique laughed.

Morrow bent her head and whispered into his ear. Would
he remember the old French lullaby? He raised his head and
looked at her, one plump hand resting on her cheek. At his touch she dissolved, turning away so the others couldn't see
her struggle.

"You've grown so big since I've been gone, she whispered,
kissing his head and cheek, his chin. He opened his mouth, and
she spied a single tooth, a tiny pearl on his lower gum. "I see
that Angelique and the girls took good care of you"

Her chatter seemed to settle him, and he grabbed at the soiled
kerchief of her dress. She glanced longingly at the shelters, wondering which was their own, wanting to be alone with him and
rest. As if sensing her disquiet, Red Shirt took her elbow and
guided her to the one that would house them till the river thawed
and they could cross into Missouri territory.

As she entered in, her eyes fastened on an upraised bed and
cooking vessels and sewing baskets scattered all around the shelter, with a welcoming fire at its heart. Someone-Angelique?had done an admirable job of trying to make the place comfortable. In the quiet Morrow and Red Shirt stood, their little son
looking from one to the other of them as if trying to determine
where they'd been for so long. Raising his arms, he reached for
his father, and Morrow released him reluctantly.

Sitting on the edge of the upraised bed, she watched Red Shirt
laugh and toss Jess into the air, toward the smoke spiraling out
the smoke hole. He shrieked with delight as his father continued their game. Red Shirt glanced at her, and she wondered if
she looked as bedraggled as she felt. His voice was edged with
concern. "You need to rest"

"But Loramie mentioned a feast .."

"The girls can take care of Rosebud while you stay here with
Jess"

"But Louis-"

"Louis isn't leaving yet;' he said. "Not till morning"

The news brought a queer hurt. She could hear the celebration
already starting outside their door and marveled that everyone else seemed in the mood to take part. Looking down at her
hands, she twisted the wedding ring around her finger absently.
She must talk to Louis tonight. There was no sense in putting
it off any longer. If she tarried, he might be gone. But even now
her lids felt leaden, and she was sliding toward sleep.

"Ma-ma."

She looked up to find her little son stretching out his plump
arms to her, finally saying the one word she'd longed to hear.
She took him, her heart stilling when he laid his head upon her
shoulder and began pulling at the lacing of her bodice. She felt
the warm release of milk even before she'd settled him on the
bed beside her. Her last thought as sleep descended was that
Louis would be leaving. But the warmth of her baby son-and
then, later, Rosebud and Red Shirt-hemming her in and making her feel safe and warm and tremendously content, pushed
all thoughts of goodbye aside.

Morrow came awake to find both babies sleeping soundly in
the valley of bedding between her and Red Shirt. Rosebud was
tucked against the hard expanse of her father's bare chest, just
as their little son nestled against her. Her eyes shifted from the
crackling fire to the smoke hole and then the blue sky. Almost
to Missouri, was her first relieved thought, and her second was
simply, Louis. Placing a hand over the baby tumbling inside her,
she sat up, wondering where he'd passed the night. The feasting
had gone on till the wee hours, though she'd been asleep through
most of it, rousing only to nurse the twins or watch Red Shirt
feed the fire. Louis was an early riser, she remembered. Might
he have already left?

The thought was so startling she pulled on the dirty linen
dress as fast as she could, spying her soiled shoes near the door.
With renewed vigor, she ducked past the door flap into the chill
morning. Though a scattering of shelters were in the way, she
could still discern a few winsome twists and turns of the river
called Mississippi and hear the musketlike crack of ice thawing
within its frozen banks.

Please, Lord, don't let him leave, not without saying goodbye.

It seemed no one else was up except the customary scouts,
so she simply stood, taking in every detail she'd missed in the
twilight when they'd ridden into this unfamiliar place. Twenty
or so temporary dwellings. A stomp ground and fire pit nearer the river. Spits and trellises for smoking meat. A work area for
canoe-making rife with wood shavings and sundry tools. A scattering of skeletal trees, mostly elm and oak and beech, frosted
white. And then the corrals where fifty or more horses were
milling ... and Louis leaning against the enclosure.

Her heart seemed to double its cadence. Was he looking for
his horse? Shrugging a blue trade blanket around her shoulders, she started in his direction, walking briskly at first and
then slowed by a tongue-tied shyness. The nearer she came, the
more upended she felt. The tilt of his hat-the decisive set of his
whiskery jaw-seemed to bring a hundred heartfelt things to
mind of her old life and the father she so fiercely missed. When
she was just a stone's throw away, he turned toward her but gave
no greeting, just fixed her with tired eyes that were red-rimmed
and steady and sorrowful all at once. He wore the same greasy,
begrimed hunting shirt he'd had on the day before and looked
sorely in need of sleep.

She said the first thing she thought. "Haven't you been to
bed?"

He rubbed his jaw. "No, Morrow. I've been up all night wondering what to say to you come morning. And now that it's
morning I still don't know what to say."

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. `Are you leaving?"

He took off his hat and gave it an agitated twirl. "You think I'd
go without saying goodbye? I did that once before, remember, a
long time ago. And I've hated leave-takings ever since"

Jess.

Their eyes locked and held, warm as an embrace yet disbelieving. She watched as he removed something from the small
buckskin pouch at his waist. When he placed Pa's wedding ring
in the palm of her hand and wrapped her fingers tight around
it, she began to cry.

He put his arm around her, face pensive. "I don't remember
everything about our home on the Red River, but I do recall that
Celtic cross. And you're the picture of our ma:"

She studied him through her tears. "You look like Pa"

"I'm glad of that. I remember him being a fine man-a fine
father. But I bet he never reckoned his wedding ring would lead
me to you"

She swiped at her damp face with the edge of the trade blanket. "Only the Almighty could have arranged that"

He nodded. "The soldiers took that ring and meant it for evil,
but like Scripture says, God meant it for good"

"You were there when it happened?"

"Right there at the treaty table, translating alongside Red Shirt.
I took the officer in charge aside and told him it belonged to my
kin, and he gave it over straightaway. And then when you came
to Clark's fort, I saw you wearing Ma's ring. There's no mistaking
the design. I've never seen a set of rings like it."

"You call yourself Louis, but I knew you as Jess."

He smiled. "Jessamyn Louis Little"

She looked down at her own band, the little cross glinting in
the dawn, and a bittersweet sadness swept through her. "I wish
Pa could be here. He never stopped looking for you-wanting
you home"

"I never forgot him-or you:" He looked away from her and
squinted into the sunrise. "I was there when the Shawnee killed
Ma and Euphemia. I don't know why they let me live or took me
north to the Indian towns. An old Shawnee couple whose son
had died adopted me. After a while they became my family."

Family. She felt no hurt at his confession. His ties to the
Shawnee were every bit as unusual as her own, and she simply
nodded in understanding. "I guess you'll be leaving now:" As
hard as she tried to stop it, her voice gave way, and his arms
encircled her again.

"No, Morrow. I've been roaming a long time and want to settle
down. Finding you is like coming home to me. Lord willing, I'll
cross into Missouri and live near you in a cabin of my own."

At his words, it seemed a small sunrise was dawning in her
breast and all her weariness was washed away. She became aware
of a tall shadow behind them and turned. Red Shirt stood looking at them, the twins in his arms. They were almost home.
Almost to Missouri.

But home wasn't a place, she was coming to realize. Home
was family. Home was right here, right now. With these Godgiven people.

Laura Frantz credits her grandmother as being the catalyst
for her fascination with Kentucky history. Frantz's ancestors
followed Daniel Boone into Kentucky in the late eighteenth
century and settled in Madison County, where her family still
resides. Frantz is a member of the Kentucky Historical Society,
American Christian Fiction Writers, and Romance Writers of
America, and is the author of The Frontiersman's Daughter. She
currently lives in the misty woods of Port Angeles, Washington,
with her husband and two sons. Contact her at www.laurafrantz.
blogspot.com or LauraFrantz.net.