Dorothy Garlock - [Annie Lash 03] (11 page)

“Come,
chérie,
” Light called. He had stepped up on the railing and pulled himself up onto the bank. He leaned down to take Maggie’s hand and lift her up. “Wait here,” he said when she was beside him. He jumped down onto the deck of the craft.

A few minutes later Light and Paul had managed to get Eli up on the rail and then boost him onto the bank. During this effort, Kruger made no attempt to help. Hopping on one foot, his arm across Paul’s shoulders, Eli managed to cover the short distance back from the river to a shelter under a thick stand of cedars.

Light’s knowing eyes searched the area. “This is a good place. I’ll build a fire after I get dry clothes for Maggie.”

While he was gone, Maggie scrounged for dry wood and found some dead cedar branches. When Paul and Light returned, they were staggering under the weight of supplies they would need to set up camp. Light dropped the load and picked up his pack. He took Maggie by the hand and led her away from the others and into the woods.

The wet doeskin britches clung to Maggie’s skin. Light had to help her get them off. He rubbed her wet body with a dry cloth shirt, and while she hurriedly dressed, he removed his own wet britches, dried his body, then put the shirt in Maggie’s hands.

“Dry your hair,
chérie.
You will be sick.”

“I’m never sick,” Maggie said confidently.

She squeezed the water out of her braid and rubbed her head with the cloth until tight curls framed her face. She wore a heavy shirt and a linsey-woolsey skirt that came to her ankles. Shod in their extra pairs of moccasins and carrying their wet clothes, they returned to where Eli sat on a dead log feeding a small fire with dry sticks. His feet were bare, but he was wearing dry britches.

“Paul’s bringing up a keg of whiskey.” Eli’s throat was so raw he could scarcely talk.

“The German is trouble,” Light said.

Eli didn’t deny it. “He’s turned sour of late.”

Maggie knelt down to look at Eli’s injured ankle. It was swollen to half again its normal size.

“Does it hurt much?” Her voice was rich with sympathy.

Staring into the clear green eyes so close to his, Eli almost forgot to answer.

“Some,” he finally said.

“Tomorrow I’ll find the
gonoshay
herb and make a poultice. It’ll feel better,” Maggie said as if she were speaking to a small child.

Eli glanced up at the man who had saved his life and saw a face devoid of expression and still as a stone except for the eyes. They were narrowed to slits and moved from his wife’s face to Eli’s. Eli’s gaze traveled to Light’s hands. The fingers were tense and curled into cups, although his arms and his stance were relaxed and loose.

The thought crossed Eli’s mind that Lightbody was not so civilized as he had first believed him to be. He had the territorial instincts of an animal who would not allow any encroachment into his space, and he would do whatever he had to do to keep his woman.

Paul, followed by Kruger, came toward the fire. Paul carried an iron pot, and each man bore a keg of whiskey on his shoulder. As they eased them to the ground, Kruger glanced briefly at Light, then went back down the trail toward where they had piled the cargo.

Paul shrugged. “I told him we’d bring up the rest of the cargo in the morning.”

After heating water in the iron pot, Paul made a whiskey toddy for Eli. He offered one to Light, but the scout shook his head. Kruger returned with another keg on his shoulders, accepted a mug from Paul and moved back from the fire to squat down on his haunches.

They were all weary and hungry. They ate cold fish left over from breakfast and hot mush laced with melted meat drippings. Maggie and Light drank tea while the others drank switchel, a beverage made with hot water and molasses. Afterward Kruger picked up his blanket and disappeared in the direction of the boat.

Paul bathed Eli’s injured foot with warm water, then splashed it with whiskey before they bedded down beside the dying campfire.

Light led Maggie deep into the stand of cedars and threw their blankets down on a thick bed of pine needles. She snuggled close to him, her head on his shoulder, warm and secure in the home he had made for the night.

“I’ll hunt
gonoshay
tomorrow for Eli’s foot. I think Kruger hoped he’d drown. He don’t like him none a’tall. He’ll run off an’ do mean thin’s.”

Light had ceased to ask her how she knew that things would happen. His Maggie had mystical knowledge of people and animals, time and places. She was truly the child of mother earth.

“But ya like Eli, don’t ya?” She leaned over Light, her nose touching his, her breath mingling with his. “I want you to like him.”

Light was still a moment longer, then said, “Nielson? It makes no difference if I like him or not.”

“It’d be nice if ya did.” She settled her face once again in the curve of his neck.

Never before had Light experienced jealousy. A physical pain gnawed at his chest and questions flooded his mind. Was Maggie attracted to the man because he was wholly white? In years to come, would she regret having taken a half-breed for her husband?

“Go to sleep,
chérie.
” There was just a hint of impatience in Light’s voice.

Maggie yawned against the skin of his neck. “Don’t you want to love me in our special way? Hmmm?” Her hand found the bottom of his shirt and slid beneath to stroke the flat plane of his belly.

“I always want . . . that, pet. But not when you’re so tired you can’t keep your eyes open.”

“I’m not tired,” she murmured and yawned.

He chuckled and placed his fingers under her chin to lift her face. He kissed her soft mouth, forcing down the desire to share with her the sweet pleasure.

“This has been a hard day for both of us. Let’s get some rest.”

Almost before he had finished speaking, Maggie was asleep. Slumber did not come so quickly to Light. He held his wife in his arms, this precious being who had given herself to him so completely, and wondered at her sudden liking and concern for Eli Nielson.

The day broke bright and clear as it so often does following a storm. Eli awakened at dawn with a throbbing foot and a slight fever. His foot was swollen and black with bruising, but it was not broken. His throat was raspy, his stomach queasy, and he was in a sullen mood.

Maggie and Light searched for and found the
gonoshay.
They made a toddy out of whiskey and molasses and Maggie coaxed Eli to drink it.

“It’ll help yore throat, Eli.”

He sipped at the hot drink while she pounded the
gonoshay
into powder. Mixed with a little water it became a thick paste, which she made into a poultice and placed on the open flesh around Eli’s ankle. He could immediately feel the soothing effect of the mashed herb.

Eli was able to examine Maggie closely as she worked over his ankle. Her skin was light cream and smooth as silk, her lips and cheeks naturally red. Even white teeth gleamed when she spoke, and when she looked up, her lashes reached almost to her brows. But it was her magnificent emerald eyes that fascinated him. They were a mirror of all that she was.

He took a deep shuddering breath.

“Oh . . . did I hurt ya, Eli?”

“No, ma’am,” he mumbled numbly and looked away.

*  *  *

Light had the eerie feeling of being watched as he sat on a stump and peeled bark from a slender hickory sapling he intended to use to pole the craft. Several times he stopped his work to look and listen.

Now, while eating the noon meal, he set his tin plate on the ground beside him and picked up his weapon. He stood and scanned the edge of the woods on the north side of the clearing. Maggie, alert, as always, to every change in Light’s mood, was instantly ready for action. She reached for her bow and the quiver of arrows and moved back beside him.

“What is it?” Paul got to his feet and picked up his rifle.

“Someone’s coming.”

“Indians?” Eli asked.

“No.”

Light moved and Maggie followed. They stood apart from where Eli sat, his back against a stump, his leg stretched out in front of him. Paul was beside Eli, his flintlock in his hand. As they waited, the sound of a male voice became louder. And then out from behind a deep thicket of thornrose a big man and two boys appeared. After showing themselves, they stopped. The man lifted his hand in greeting.

“How do?”

“Howdy,” Paul replied.

“Made sure ya heard us a-comin’. Didn’t want to come onto ya sudden-like.”

“Come on in.”

The man had a broad, bearded face and a thatch of gray-streaked curly hair that was pulled back and clubbed in a careless fashion. He was dressed in baggy duck britches and a cloth shirt. A pistol was tucked in his belt. The hand holding the flintlock looked thick enough to stun an ox with one blow. He stepped forward ahead of his two young companions. The man’s sharp blue eyes, beneath heavy shaggy eyebrows, surveyed the campsite.

“Name’s James MacMillan.”

“Paul Deschanel.” Paul extended his hand. “Eli Nielson,” he said, gesturing to Eli, then to Light and Maggie—“Mr. Lightbody and his wife.”

MacMillan bowed toward Maggie. Barrel-chested, with long arms, he had short legs for a big man so most of his height was from the waist up. His head was bare, but the two lads with him wore brimmed hats pulled down to their ears. Their duck pants were much too large for bodies slim as reeds. Each carried a firearm. Powder horns hung from their shoulders and shot bags from the belts around their waists.

“My younguns, Aee and Bee. Got three more: Cee, Dee and Eee. Eff’s in his ma’s belly, but I’m figurin’ to call him Frank when he gets here.” He announced all this without the slightest hint of a smile.

Maggie moved close to Light and wriggled her hand into his to get his attention. She stood on her toes so she could reach his ear.

“They ain’t boys,” she whispered.

Light had already noticed the narrow shoulders, the long slim fingers holding the barrels of the Kentucky rifles, the butts of which rested on the ground. The ends of the barrels were almost even with the tops of the youngsters’ heads. The dark straight brows and high cheekbones were an indication of Indian blood, perhaps not half, but certainly a quarter.

While Light was thinking this, Maggie let go of his hand and walked toward the two girls. She carried her coiled whip on one shoulder, the bow on the other. The doeskin belt wrapped tightly about her waist to keep her shirt in place emphasized her soft breasts. Even armed with weapons she looked soft and feminine. Her skirt swirled around the ankles of her knee-high moccasins as she approached.

“I’m Maggie.” She stopped within a couple of yards and looked the two over. One of the girls looked directly at her, the other girl’s head was bowed so low that all Maggie could see was the top of her hat.

“I’m Aee.”

“That’s a funny name.” Maggie walked behind the girls, looking at them curiously.

Aee turned, keeping her eyes on Maggie.

“Why ain’t ya wantin’ me t’ see yore backside?” Maggie asked.

“Why’er ya wantin’ to?”

Maggie shrugged. She completed the circle and bent down to peer into the other girl’s face.

“Is she older’n you?”

“No.”

“Don’t she talk?”

“Some.”

“Them’s ugly hats yo’re wearin’.”

A bit of temper showed in the other girl’s face, but she didn’t reply.

“Yo’re Indian,” Maggie said.

“I ain’t ’shamed of it,” Aee blurted angrily.

A smile lit Maggie’s face.

“My man’s Indian.” She turned and gazed lovingly at the slim scout who was giving his entire attention to Mr. MacMillan. “His ma was Osage. His pa was French. Light and I married each other on a cliff down by St. Charles.”

Aee’s eyes went past her to the sharp-featured, buckskin-clad man who stood apart from her pa and the others. She had known he was a breed the second she saw him; but now that she knew what tribe he was from, she looked at him with greater interest.

Maggie saw the interest and stared at the girl, suspicious of the way her eyes dwelt on Light.

“He’s
my
man,” she said sharply.

Aee brought her eyes back to Maggie’s frowning face and nodded.

“I ain’t wantin’ him,” Aee retorted, her voice equally sharp.

“Even if ya did, ya couldn’t have him.”

She’d not have a chance anyway, Aee thought, with this woman around. She had strange ways, but she was so pretty it almost hurt the eyes to look at her. Was this the way women acted when they lived near other folk? Aee hadn’t seen more than a couple of dozen other white women in all her seventeen years. All she knew about the outside world was what her ma or pa had told her.

“Want to see me use my whip? I can pluck a twig off that stump over there.” Maggie gestured at a stump about a dozen feet away.

“If ya want to.” Aee lifted her shoulders in a noncommittal shrug.

“I’ll do it if ya take off that ugly hat and let me see yore hair.”

Again anger showed in the soft brown eyes and tightened the girl’s lips. She jerked the hat off her head and flung it to the ground. Two thick dark-brown braids tumbled down over her shoulders and a fringe of hair covered her forehead.