Where the Trail Ends: American Tapestries (20 page)

Alex crept forward cautiously along the rocks, scanning the south shore of the river to see who had shot a gun. The company men used traps to catch animals. They would only shoot if there was danger.

A dark cloud settled over the river valley, the sprinkles of rain a precursor to a storm. He couldn’t see far, but ten yards ahead of him, some sort of animal paddled in the river.

Alex stopped at the shoreline, his skin crawling.

The animal was a wolverine.

He swung his pistol in front of him, preparing to shoot. A wolverine was a reasonably small animal, but it could be unpredictable and dangerous. A wounded wolverine could easily kill a grown man.

When the animal saw Alex, it turned quickly and swam back to shore. It stumbled erratically toward Alex, blood dripping down its side, and then it lunged, snapping at him.

Alex pulled the trigger of his gun and shot the animal through the head.

After it dropped to the ground, Alex slid his pistol back into the holster and walked carefully toward it. He expected to see another
bullet wound in its fur, but instead there was an arrow in the animal’s side.

Strange.

Who had fired the first gunshot, and who had shot an arrow?

Storms didn’t last long in the Columbia District. He’d wait for it to pass before he took his canoe across the river. The bigger bateau he’d leave at the river’s edge, waiting to bring back Jack Doyle and the people he’d set out this morning to find.

Rain fell harder now, drenching his overcoat as he pushed back the grass along the shore. He expected to see both boats where they had left them last night. Instead only the bateau remained.

He stared at it for a moment. Had someone stolen his canoe?

His gaze wandered across the wide river. Apparently someone had taken it and now was out on the river, trying to paddle his canoe to the other side.

He groaned. Didn’t they know they couldn’t canoe in a downpour? The canoe would fill up and—

Something rustled in the trees behind him, and he removed his pistol again. Turning, he aimed his gun, but it wasn’t an animal emerging from the trees. It was a young woman, part native and part European, hurrying toward him. Her light brown hair was braided, and she wore a fringed dress of white buckskin and a long necklace of blue beads.

She pointed at the river. “A woman and child are on that boat.”

He groaned, looking out across the water and then back at her. “What are they doing?”

“They need your help.”

He kicked a pile of stones, and they scattered toward the water. “Of course they do.”

The Americans always needed help.

She pushed him forward. “Quickly.”

He left the wolverine on the bank and began to row the bateau through the rain. Experienced officers and trappers alike had died on the mighty Columbia, people who knew what they were doing. The Columbia was fifty-five miles of peril as it descended to the Pacific Ocean through narrow channels and raging cataracts. Going out on it in a downpour like this was akin to suicide.

He dragged his paddle through water that battered the sides of his boat. Wind pressed against his body, trying to push him back. The rain fell so hard now that it almost blinded him, but he kept rowing in the direction where he’d seen the canoe last.

Water splashed over the sides of the bateau, and he stopped to quickly bail it out. Then he pushed forward again.

The problem with stupid decisions, like crossing the Columbia in a rainstorm, was that not only did people risk their own lives, they risked the lives of all those around them.

He saw them again to his left—a white woman, a child, and a dog.

He never would have rowed out in the Columbia in a storm, but he couldn’t leave a woman and child on the river alone.

Chapter Seventeen

It felt as though she were trying to stir tar—thick, heavy, and black as night.

No matter how hard Samantha tried to paddle the canoe forward, toward the fort, the current dragged them farther west. They’d floated past the island in the river’s center now, the far shore evading them. And the sky had filled their boat in its fury.

She couldn’t see the shoreline in the rain, but it couldn’t be far. She wouldn’t stop paddling, no matter how much it hurt. If nothing else, she could get close enough that Micah and Boaz could swim to the shore. If it was shallow enough, she could wade.

Her soaked hair clung to her face, and her dress felt as heavy as the canoe. They’d come so far. They couldn’t drown now.

The boat began to list.

God, help us.

Only He could send help for them one more time.

“If we tip, I want you to hold on to the canoe,” she called out.

Micah nodded his head.

“We’re going to be all right,” she said, desperately wanting it to be true.

She dug the paddle back into the river, trying to get them to the shore. The canoe rolled slowly to the right, and her stomach rolled with it.

“Take off your pack,” she yelled at Micah, but it was too late.

Boaz jumped into the river and Micah tumbled over. She screamed when Micah’s head went under.

Then the canoe dumped her and her pack into the frigid water.

Clutching the wooden side of the canoe, she inched down the side, trying to get to Micah. Her pack began to sink, and she reached for it. If she could hold it with one hand, she could get Micah with the other.

Her brother splashed in the water, his hands flailing as he gasped for breath. Samantha grabbed her pack, holding it with the same hand that held the canoe, and she grasped for Micah but couldn’t reach him.

If she let go of the canoe, they would both drown.

Boaz swam to his side, and Micah clung to his fur. But their tired dog was struggling too. His head dipped under the water and then popped out again, Micah clutching his neck. She grabbed for him again, but he and Boaz were floating away, far from her grasp.

She eyed the pack in her hand. It contained Papa’s bag of gold. Everything they had to start over.

But it wouldn’t be worth having one piece of gold if Micah drowned in the river.

She let go of her pack, let go of the canoe, and dove toward her brother. But before she reached him, a hand appeared suddenly out of the haze, and she gasped.

The hand dipped into the water, and she watched in fascination and horror as it plucked up Micah’s knapsack and Micah along with it.

There was a boat. And a man. She couldn’t see the man’s face, but Micah was in the boat with him. Her brother was safe.

A wave washed over her, and she reached back for the tip of the canoe. She looked around her for her pack, for Papa’s gold, but it was gone.

Her hands started slipping.

“Do not let go,” the man commanded her.

Her fingernails clung to the bark.

“I cannot lift you out of the water,” the man said with an accent, his voice calm. “We will capsize.”

Her hands slipped again. She was so tired, she didn’t know how much longer she could hang on. “I can’t swim.”

He rowed closer to her, just out of her reach. “Do not pull us over.”

Her teeth chattered. “What—what do I do?”

“Hold on to the side of my boat. I will row us all to shore.”

She held out one of her hands, reaching for the boat. It leaned toward her, a little too far.

“Steady,” the man commanded.

She clutched the back of the boat. Her entire body was shaking, and she kicked her bare feet under the water, trying to stay warm. Her moccasins were gone, and her dress was so heavy.

Peace flooded over her in the midst of her panic. If she didn’t make it to the other side, it would be all right. Perhaps Jesus would meet her on the other side of this river, like He had Christian in Mama’s book. Papa would be there too, and Mama and Grandfather. And maybe their guardian angel would meet her at the pearled gates.

Perhaps she should let go.

“You must kick,” the man said.

“I am kicking.”

“Kick harder,” he growled.

She drew every bit of strength she had left in her, pushing her legs like she never had, to get them to the other side. “I am kicking harder.”

He dumped some of the water in his boat back into the river. “We must cross here,” he said, as if she were a child.

Her teeth kept chattering. “I’m trying.”

She could let go and save Micah’s life, but if she died, Micah would be alone out here in the wilderness. She wasn’t ready to die, not
yet, nor did she want Micah to die, but her heavy skirt weighed them all down, threatening to sink their boat or pull her to the bottom.

With one hand, she reached down to her frayed dress and began to tug. She’d spent much of her journey trying to keep her dress stitched together. Now she hoped it would come apart. She yanked at what she hoped was a seam, and the dress tore. Then she tugged again until another piece came off.

She could move now, without the material strangling her legs. She kicked on the right side of the boat as the man paddled on the left. She could no longer feel the coldness in her body, but she wouldn’t stop. Not until Micah was safe on the other side.

The current pushed hard against them, but she kicked until her feet hit the muddy bottom of the river. Then she let go.

The man banked the boat on the shore while she crawled up onto the grass, collapsing on the soggy land. The rain was gone—she hadn’t even noticed when it went away—but the sky was still dark. It would pour on them again soon.

Micah hopped out of the boat and rushed to her, wrapping his arms around her neck. She hugged him and then looked at the man pulling the boat farther up onto the shore. She couldn’t see his face under his soaked hat. He was tall and wore a long black overcoat that seemed to keep out the rain.

The man walked toward her, carrying his hat in his hands. His brown hair was neatly trimmed, his face smooth. It had been months since she’d seen a clean-shaven man.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

His green eyes sparked with anger, his British accent strong. “I have seen a lot during my years along the Columbia, miss, but I have never seen anything so stupid—”

“Stupid?”

“Do you know what might have happened?”

Her voice quivered. “I think I have an idea.”

“You could have been killed. Both of you. This is not Boston.”

She stiffened. “I’ve never been to Boston.”

“You are no longer in the safety of the United States.”

It took every ounce of strength she had, but she sat up straight. “Nor are you in England.”

He tossed Micah the knapsack and cocked his head at it. “I hope you have a little money in there.”

Their money.
Her heart sank within her as she scanned the foggy expanse of the river. The gold. Her clothes. Grandma Emma’s quilt. It was all gone.

“Are you the woman Jack Doyle went back for?”

Her head tilted toward him. “When did he go?”

“He started walking early this morning.”

She wiped the water off her face. “I didn’t see him.”

Alex sighed. “Let’s get you and your son to the fort.”

“He’s not—”

Micah stopped her. “Let me help.”

She glanced at Micah beside her and then up at the man. If he thought Micah was her son, so be it. She was practically his mother.

Her arms behind her, she pushed up on the ground. Micah reached for her hand as she tried to stand, but her legs wobbled and she felt back on the sand. Her gaze fell to her shredded skirt, her muddy skin exposed under the pieces that remained. She tried to cover her legs, but there wasn’t quite enough material.

The man didn’t seem to notice her bare legs. He offered her his hand, and she eyed it for a moment, not wanting to accept any more help from a man who obviously despised her. But she had no choice, not if she wanted to stand. Reluctantly she took it.

He helped her to her feet, and the mud oozed through her toes as she scanned the shore for Boaz. He couldn’t be far away.

The man pointed up a small hill. “We have a long walk to the fort.”

She didn’t move. “I can’t go yet.”

“Why in heaven not?”

It hurt to talk, but she pushed the words out. “Our dog was in the boat.”

The man turned, scanning the water with her. “He can swim, can’t he?”

“Of course,” she whispered.

“What is his name?”

This time Micah spoke. “Boaz.”

The man returned to the water and began calling Boaz’s name. Micah joined him, and they moved down the shore together, calling out.

She collapsed back on the wet grass. If only she could shout with them, search the shoreline, but the cold water seemed to have stolen her voice along with her ability to stand. Boaz had to be nearby. He may have been tired, but he would have made it to shore. She didn’t think she could bear to lose him as well.

Then she heard a bark and Boaz was there in front of her, licking her hand. She rocked toward him, shivering again as she hugged his neck.

The man was in front of her now, but she could barely see him. A curtain seemed to be slipping over her eyes. He took off his black frock coat. “Wear this.”

She shook her head. “I can’t—”

He didn’t listen to her, dropping it over her shoulders instead. “You must stay warm.”

She didn’t know if she would ever be warm again, but the heavy coat stopped her shivering.

“Do you think you can walk?” she heard him ask. She started to nod when she realized he was talking to Micah. Then, without another word, he lifted her off her feet.

She sank into this man’s chest as if he were an anchor, holding her steady in this strange new land.