Shawnee:"
Surrounded by the Enemy. Why, she supposed she was indeed. The irony of it stung her. Her timid gaze trailed from the
deeply lined face of the chief to the bear claws strung about his
tawny neck. She didn't know which was more intimidating, the
frightening jewelry or the man who wore it. Though she'd been
away for more than two years, time and distance had not dulled
his grandeur. Tall as a tree he was, and proud.
She marveled at Pa's composure-and the lack of her own.
Beneath her linsey dress, her body began to tremble, and she
could feel her face empty of all color. What had Pa told Trapper
Joe? I don't think they mean us any harm, but they rattle poor
Morrow considerably. Truly, considerably was kind. Hadn't she
just prayed the Lord would keep them away?
She cast a desperate glance about the cabin. Her prayer was
half answered, at least, for the chief had come without his son.
She began backing out the door, mumbling something about
milking, the striking of the mantel clock a blessed reminder it
was time for this chore. Once in the safe haven of the barn, she
breathed in the comforting scent of hay and horses, aging wood
and tobacco. The afternoon shadows were lengthening, and she
shut the heavy door, increasing the gloom. For a moment she
leaned against the crossbar till her shaking subsided, wondering how long the Indian would stay. She'd tarry here till he'd gone.
From her stall, Tansy bawled a protest, and Morrow reached
for the milk pail hanging from a nail.
She took but three steps toward the back of the barn when
she saw a shadow dance on the far wall. A trick of the light? She
shut her eyes briefly as if to clear them, rooted to the hay-strewn
floor, the milk bucket hanging heavy in her hands. Oh no ...
She wasn't alone-she could sense it now. Terror rose up and
snatched all good sense, and she gave a sharp cry, holding the
bucket in front of her like a piece of armor.
Not three feet away stood a man. He drew himself to his full
height, and their eyes locked in mutual surprise. Above his loincloth and leggings was a loose linen shirt that fell a little below
his hips. Even in the dim light she could tell it was some of the
finest fabric she'd ever seen. Her seamstress's eye discerned it
was English-made, without buttons at the neck or wrists, and
it seemed to stretch taut as it ran the width of his shoulders.
Every creamy fold was a striking contrast to his inky, shoulderlength hair. A trio of eagle feathers angled over one ear, affixed
by a small silver medallion.
She was nearly slack-jawed with shock. Was this the chief's
son? The boyishness that had once defined him was gone. He'd
grown even taller since she'd last seen him, and his lithe form
had fleshed out, filling his clothes with an understated elegance.
There was something remarkable about him-an aura of barely
restrained strength, like a panther about to pounce. She took a
small step backward, but his dark eyes seemed to prevent her
from taking a second.
In that instant she realized he was taking her measure as well,
from the loose curls pinned atop her head to the impractical
slippers showing beneath the hem of her petticoat. Heat fanned
across her face, staining her neck and the square of pale skin
above her snug bodice. The trembling that had begun to ebb started anew and her heart raced. Had she been penned up in the
barn with a wild animal, her fright could have been no greater.
"I'm not going to hurt you"
The quiet words, so well articulated, so very English, knocked
the wind out of her. She simply stared at him, unable to move. All
her wrong assumptions rose up and left her breathless. Shame
topped them all as she realized she'd thought an Indian incapable of speaking English. But this was quickly smothered by
anger that he'd let her think so-let her and Pa make fools of
themselves ...
Dropping the milk pail, she pushed at the barn door, and it
clamored shut as she fled. The
Surrounded by the Enemy. Why, she supposed she was indeed. The irony of it stung her. Her timid gaze trailed from the
deeply lined face of the chief to the bear claws strung about his
tawny neck. She didn't know which was more intimidating, the
frightening jewelry or the man who wore it. Though she'd been
away for more than two years, time and distance had not dulled
his grandeur. Tall as a tree he was, and proud.
She marveled at Pa's composure-and the lack of her own.
Beneath her linsey dress, her body began to tremble, and she
could feel her face empty of all color. What had Pa told Trapper
Joe? I don't think they mean us any harm, but they rattle poor
Morrow considerably. Truly, considerably was kind. Hadn't she
just prayed the Lord would keep them away?
She cast a desperate glance about the cabin. Her prayer was
half answered, at least, for the chief had come without his son.
She began backing out the door, mumbling something about
milking, the striking of the mantel clock a blessed reminder it
was time for this chore. Once in the safe haven of the barn, she
breathed in the comforting scent of hay and horses, aging wood
and tobacco. The afternoon shadows were lengthening, and she
shut the heavy door, increasing the gloom. For a moment she
leaned against the crossbar till her shaking subsided, wondering how long the Indian would stay. She'd tarry here till he'd gone.
From her stall, Tansy bawled a protest, and Morrow reached
for the milk pail hanging from a nail.
She took but three steps toward the back of the barn when
she saw a shadow dance on the far wall. A trick of the light? She
shut her eyes briefly as if to clear them, rooted to the hay-strewn
floor, the milk bucket hanging heavy in her hands. Oh no ...
She wasn't alone-she could sense it now. Terror rose up and
snatched all good sense, and she gave a sharp cry, holding the
bucket in front of her like a piece of armor.
Not three feet away stood a man. He drew himself to his full
height, and their eyes locked in mutual surprise. Above his loincloth and leggings was a loose linen shirt that fell a little below
his hips. Even in the dim light she could tell it was some of the
finest fabric she'd ever seen. Her seamstress's eye discerned it
was English-made, without buttons at the neck or wrists, and
it seemed to stretch taut as it ran the width of his shoulders.
Every creamy fold was a striking contrast to his inky, shoulderlength hair. A trio of eagle feathers angled over one ear, affixed
by a small silver medallion.
She was nearly slack-jawed with shock. Was this the chief's
son? The boyishness that had once defined him was gone. He'd
grown even taller since she'd last seen him, and his lithe form
had fleshed out, filling his clothes with an understated elegance.
There was something remarkable about him-an aura of barely
restrained strength, like a panther about to pounce. She took a
small step backward, but his dark eyes seemed to prevent her
from taking a second.
In that instant she realized he was taking her measure as well,
from the loose curls pinned atop her head to the impractical
slippers showing beneath the hem of her petticoat. Heat fanned
across her face, staining her neck and the square of pale skin
above her snug bodice. The trembling that had begun to ebb started anew and her heart raced. Had she been penned up in the
barn with a wild animal, her fright could have been no greater.
"I'm not going to hurt you"
The quiet words, so well articulated, so very English, knocked
the wind out of her. She simply stared at him, unable to move. All
her wrong assumptions rose up and left her breathless. Shame
topped them all as she realized she'd thought an Indian incapable of speaking English. But this was quickly smothered by
anger that he'd let her think so-let her and Pa make fools of
themselves ...
Dropping the milk pail, she pushed at the barn door, and it
clamored shut as she fled. The
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