Courting Morrow Little: A Novel Read Free Page A

the future,
not the past:"
    "Yes;' she said, looking to the book in her lap. But how was
she to do that when the past cast such a shadow?
    Last night she'd dreamed about Ma and Euphemia and Jess.
The closer they drew to the Kentucke settlements, the more
vivid were her memories, as wide and deep and dark as the
river they now ventured down. They seemed to take her by the
shoulders and shake her, making her recall every single detail
she tried so hard to forget.
    It seemed her life had just begun when the warring Shawnee
had come on their killing and kidnapping spree. She'd been but
five then; now she was nearly eighteen. During those barren
years, something else had occurred that continued to upend
her. Something so frightening and memorable it had marked
her like ink upon paper. She had been ten, and it was just her
and Pa then, and Jess's shadow. A blizzard had been busy burying the cabin, and every so often she'd peer past the shutter and
wish it would stop. It reminded her of the day her family died,
when the fluffy tick had been torn open and feathers whirled
like snow in the ransacked cabin.
    This night Pa was hunched over his Bible at the trestle table
near the fire, preparing the Sabbath sermon. With Ma's apron wrapped twice around her, she worked near him, humming a
little tune, setting out some salt and three pewter spoons badly
in need of recasting. Venison stew bubbled over the fire, and
she stirred it with a careful eye, thinking she'd made too much
yet knowing why. For Jess, in case he came. Surely after just
a few years he would not have forgotten the way home. Each
night, she set a third place at the table, and when supper was
done, she put his unused cup and plate away. If her brother did
come home, she wanted him to feel welcome and see his place
waiting, reassuring him they'd not forgotten.

    "Heavenly Father, we beseech Thee to forgive our sins as we
forgive those who have sinned against us. Bless this food to our
bodies. And please bring our boy home. Amen:" Pa finished with
a shine in his eyes, and she was glad he didn't look at her lest
she bubble over herself.
    They ate in silence as the snow and wind worked to bury them.
At least, Morrow thought, there'd be no Indians about on such
a night, and she could rest easy for once. She was glad to see Pa
eating heartily, helping his thin frame flesh out a bit.
    "You're getting to be a fine cook, Morrow," he said, taking
more bread.
    Smiling, she refilled his bowl, but before she sat down, something thudded on the porch. Had the wind toppled the churn?
She lit another taper, surprised to find her hands shaking. A
second thud caused Pa to pause, his spoon suspended in midair. Their eyes locked as they weighed what to do. A third thud
sounded, and they both stood.
    She scooted into the shadow of the corner hutch as he cracked
open the cabin door. There, as if frozen to the porch, was a tall
figure in a buffalo robe, the thick fur edged with ice. A trapper caught in the storm? A lost settler just shy of the fort? Not
Jess. Disappointment covered her like a cloud. Pa welcomed
the stranger in, then wrestled with the wind to shut the door. Through the stingy light of three candles, she stared as the man
shed his wrap and let it drop, the heavy hide looking like a bison
just felled in a hunt.

    Her lips parted, but she couldn't make a sound. A blur of beads
and buckskin assaulted her, and she backed up further. In the
tall Indian's arms was a smaller Indian. She watched as Pa took
the boy and laid him across the clean feather tick of his own
bed in a cabin corner. Dismay trickled through her dread. She'd
just opened that tick and cleaned every feather before sewing it
shut again. And now this dark and dirty boy ...
    "Morrow, get this man some stew and cider and I'll see to
his son;' he called to her.
    His son? How did he know? Not a word had been exchanged.
But the boy on the bed did look like the man who came to sit