Crow Mountain (14 page)

I took my courage and walked down the meadow to you. You looked at the bow, not at me, fitting another arrow to it. ‘What do you want?'

I took a breath. ‘Why won't you talk to me, please?'

‘Tried to talk to you and it didn't go so well, did it? Thought I'd just see how it went if we don't.'

‘Is this . . . is it because you disapprove of my parents arranging my marriage?'

‘Nope.' You let the bow drop a little, then raised it to your eye and fired. It hit the bag with a dull thump. ‘But I don't approve of it, no. Since you ask.'

‘Well, I don't need your approval, thank you,' I said, chin in the air.

‘That you don't,' you agreed, pulling another arrow from the quiver at your bad hip and fitting it to the bow. ‘But you do need my help. And because I don't
approve
, I ain't minded to give it.'

‘But
please
.'

You shook your head. ‘But no.'

‘If you make me stay I will never forgive you,' I said, tears flooding my eyes. I turned on my heel and walked back to the cabin.

The arrow speared into the bag. It burst, spilling dirt on to the meadow.

‘Never is a long time!' you yelled after me.

I slept in the bed, rose when the cockerel began to crow, and swept every inch of the cabin. I realized that when you said you had inherited the cabin, you hadn't said from whom. The chest in the bedroom gave me some answers. Two blankets, a pretty linen nightgown wrapped in a lace bag. A peculiar little book, which appeared to be pieces of advice for a young woman embarking upon married life, with blank pages for personal observations. There were also a few gold coins stamped in a language I didn't understand, but akin to the German I did know. Bundles of lavender everywhere, falling out of every fold of cloth.

The chest spoke of newlyweds. Of preparation, and perhaps love. The things that I would never see in San Francisco, for I knew in my heart that even if I did manage to meet Mama and Papa and Mr Stanton in Portland, he would never marry me now. And why should he? There was no plausible story for my absence, and the truth – that I had been living alone with a horse trader – would render me worthless.

I explored the kitchen. On shelves were large crocks of
dried beans and peas, which I did not know to soak before cooking and so I boiled and boiled them but they were still inedible. There was also flour, sugar, cornmeal, oats and dried corn kernels. Crates of carefully packed dried herbs were stored under the rough wooden counter. I experimented with cooking and practised breadmaking, though I soon realized I was using stupidly grand quantities, ending up with dough balls like bricks, which was mainly how they turned out. As long as I didn't speak, you let me watch you cook in your simple, economical fashion.

It became apparent I was not much of a modern housewife, and far less of a pioneer. I cringed at the spiders in the outhouse and shrieked at the poor field mouse that reminded me of Miss Adams. Safe to say, I did not miss her at all, but I was very sorry for the death of Mr Goldsmith, who had been kind to me.

When you were around you said little. Sometimes you sat on the steps and shaved with a straight razor and no mirror, doing it by touch, rinsing the blade under the tap. Once you spent a day chopping wood, the axe a steady thump and crack, the side of the cabin thudding as you placed the logs beneath the shelter there. You did it shirtless and I watched from the shadows at the edge of the cabin window as the muscles of your chest and arms worked like the steel hawsers on the steamship. I had already realized how strong you were from the way you had lifted me with ease, but now I saw it was a strength forged from years of ceaseless labour; a hard life of constant motion had hewn you, rather than raised you.
My gentle life of lessons, reading and sedate walks meant I had less strength than a kitten.

If you'd wanted to hurt me, it would have been easy. Yet . . . wouldn't you have done so by now?

Time dragged. When I saw you in the meadow, so many times I almost went to you, but I was afraid you would dismiss me again. I was bored and lonely. And cold at night.

After that first night when you had slept in your own bed, on top of the covers, you slept in the kitchen in bad weather, and on the porch on fine nights; but in general, you did not sleep much at all and sometimes in the small hours you were troubled by dreams. One night I watched you wake, as usual pale and sweating, on the floor near the stove, blankets pushed aside. I had been listening to your breathing for some time, uneven and laboured, your face half-lit by the red light from the stove door. You hauled in a huge breath and sat up. After a moment you got to your feet, letting yourself out silently.

I hesitated, then got up and went on to the porch. Sitting on the boards, back against the cabin, you glanced up, pale in the moonlight. ‘Need something?' Your voice was strained.

‘You were dreaming, again.'

‘Happens.'

‘Mama says laudanum helps her sleep. Perhaps that powder you gave me would—'

‘No. Been far enough down that road to know not to walk it again.'

I sat a couple of feet from you, on the step, and looked at
the moon, hands beneath my arms to warm them. I had been using my underdress as a nightgown, but the night air was sharp. ‘Might I do anything to help?'

There was a silence. ‘What happened to never forgiving me?'

‘Never is longer than I thought.'

You huffed your soft laugh.

‘I could make tea?'

‘Take your rest, Emily. No purpose served by both of us sitting out here.'

I returned to bed and hugged myself as distant wolves began to howl. Dawn was an age in coming.

The following day you acted as if the night had never happened, acknowledging me with nothing more than a hum as you sifted through a bag of nails and stuck a hammer into your waistband before climbing on to the roof, banging a patch over the shingle I'd exploded, and which was now letting the rain inside. Later you made things you called ‘biscuits', which weren't like Cook's biscuits but more like soft little cakes, and we ate them with eggs at the kitchen table. The small, speckled eggs were clustered in a dish, still hot from the water.

When I just stared at them, bemused, you picked one up, peeling it deftly, then splitting it on to the biscuit on my plate, hot bright-yellow yolk spilling over the dough. I remembered the many times I sat with Mama, learning how to plan meals and even grand embassy banquets. And all of that time I had
been unable to boil an egg.

You folded your elbows on the table and watched me. ‘That looks like some deep thinking.'

I shrugged, shy. ‘Not much of a cook, am I?'

‘No,' you agreed. ‘And if you take the lid off my biscuit pan again, I'll make you wish you hadn't.'

Regarding my plate, I began to say, ‘I'm sor—'

You shot me a warning look.

I bit my lip, then picked up my knife and fork. ‘I was just curious,' I said firmly. ‘How was I to know they needed the lid on?'

Just for a second, the backs of your fingers touched mine, the smallest of smiles at the corner of your mouth.

After our meal, you disappeared and I washed some clothes and a sheet in the tub, banging the soap into them with a long-handled wooden contraption. I was becoming accustomed to the constant assault of nature on the mountain, and the work kept me warm. It was never silent, with the endless birdsong during the day, and the noises of the wild things at night.

My laundry skills were improving and I now had a workable system of clothing, which still consisted mainly of your shirts and trousers and a jumble of underclothes. I wondered what Mama would think of my laundressing, our shared things, and my hand-me-down linen. Imagining the look on her face made me smile. Far away, two foxes were playing in the meadow, tumbling over each other again and again as if inside a ball. There were clouds high in the sky and their
shadows moved over the blowing, silvery grass. The effect was so peaceful I became much involved in my tasks, and failed to see three men approaching from the forest.

They were all on horseback. The horses were large and dark, not like Tara. The men were large and dark as well, wearing dun- and brown-coloured clothing, the same colour as their tanned and unwashed skins, their duster coats stained and ragged. But they were white men. And I was alone. They took their time in approaching, and the leader, for the leader was obvious, did not speak until they were in front of the porch. I had straightened up to my full height immediately on seeing them, which would not have done anything to impress them, I was sure. Yet it made me feel marginally better.

They pulled their horses to a halt.

‘Well well, Nate done got himself a plaything.'

I said nothing to that, for there was no well-bred response.

The man, perhaps as old as Papa, but unshaven and most definitely unwashed, clicked his tongue. ‘What is a rose like you doing with a lame savage? You need to get yourself a real man.'

The men chuckled. One spat into the grass in a filthy brown stream. Chewing tobacco. An entirely nauseating habit.

‘Nate isn't here,' I said, trying to keep the tremble from my voice. Then I realized my terrible error as their expressions changed.

The leader got down from his horse. ‘Then where is he?' He swaggered towards me, big and hard-edged, spurs
clinking. He had large, strong features. Near his eye was a small scar and another larger one underneath his jaw which Papa had once told me was what happened when poor people suffered abscessed teeth. At his throat was a dirty kerchief. If he came any closer I was sure I would smell him.

I stood my ground. ‘Out. Hunting,' I lied uselessly, ‘but he'll be back any moment.'

‘You English, ain'tcha? Proper fine English lady.' His eyes narrowed. ‘Where'd he find you?'

‘None of your business,' I said, in the tone Mama had taught me.

The men all laughed. For a moment, the only movement in all four of us was from the man chewing the tobacco, jaw churning tirelessly.

‘What say we come on in?' the leader said.

I took a breath to speak.

‘Reckon not, Hart, seeing as it's already paining me hard enough you're breathing the same air.' You limped round the corner of the cabin, rifle over your arm, glaring at the leader. At your hip was a pistol I had never seen before, bullets belting your narrow waist.

My sigh of relief was obvious. Hart winked at me. ‘Just wanting to be friendly, Nate.'

You climbed the two porch steps and put yourself between me and Hart. ‘State your business.'

‘Now, what kind of a greeting is that after the best part of six months? See you ain't made it to the barber since then.'

Silence.

‘Got a job in.'

‘Ain't taking that kind of work no more.'

Hart shrugged. ‘Ain't
that
kind of work. You'll get to keep your hands clean, promise. It's a scout. From the railroad big bugs.'

My heart leapt. Railroad? I could feel the tension radiating from your back, even though your voice was relaxed. You were waiting to see what I did, as much as talking to them.

‘Up in savage country. Gotta be done now and we've got business up on the plain to take care of. I'll just take my usual share.'

‘Got another mouth to feed. Need more money.'

Hart snorted with laughter, then spat on the porch. ‘She don't look like she's eating you out of house nor home. And we can always look in on her while you're gone. Make sure she's taken care of.'

Your boots shifted on the planks.

Hart grinned, teeth yellow. ‘Fine, fine. I'll take less. Call it a gesture, for old time's sake. But it's taken the boys and me time to get out here and back, gotta get some compensation for that. Tracking you down ain't been easy. Thought you'd gone back native.' He looked around. ‘Heard of this place, hidden away up here. Thought it was a story. Though God alone knows why any sane person would want to live all the way out here.'

You said nothing.

‘Two fifty.' Opening his greasy coat, Hart reached into an
inside pocket and pulled out a large paper packet, throwing it on the boards at your feet.

‘How long do I have?'

‘A month, give or take. We'll be back.'

You ignored the packet. ‘I'll come into town.'

‘And leave this pretty thing here all alone? And where's that fine mare of yours? The one who looks at you with the cow eyes? Want to sell her now you've traded up to real women?'

‘If you don't shut your mouth you can shove your job and I will shoot you when you turn your back.'

‘Like the murdering deserter you are,' Hart said mildly.

You took the rifle in both hands.

He backed off the porch. ‘No need to be touchy, Nate. I wouldn't leave her alone neither.'

He got back on his horse. The man chewing tobacco spat again, soiling the wild flowers in front of the cabin. Then all three riders wheeled their horses and rode away.

We watched them go. You stood, motionless, for what seemed like an age, pale eyes narrow. When their figures had been eaten by the shadow of the forest, you finally stood down, went inside and hung up the rifle on one of the hooks. I followed.

‘Who were they?'

You were looking for something to eat, going through the usual places. ‘Trapper scum. Out of Fort Shaw. They take jobs from everyone. They just don't
do
any of them.' Going outside, you took the pail standing near the door and filled it
from the spigot. Shifting the packet out of the way with your boot, you swilled Hart's phlegm from the boards, and tipped the rest on to the brown stain on the grass. My mouth twisted with disgust.

You straightened up, collecting the packet on your way back. ‘He's a pig. Always has been.' Your voice was sharp. Inside, you pulled out the folded papers and spread them on the table. It was a series of maps. My heart leapt when I saw the largest set were marked with Stanton in the corner. You had both hands on the table, leaning over. ‘Is there any tea?'