Wilderness Courtship Page 16

  “Naomi! Jump down. Now,” she commanded. “Do as I say.”

  To her relief, that authoritative tone did the trick. Naomi alit with surprising grace and speed but to Charity’s chagrin, that action spooked the horses even more.

  Naomi’s black-and-white mount pulled free first, wheeled, and headed for the wilds with its ears back and its tail held high. Both packhorses immediately jerked their lead ropes loose from the sapling they’d been tied to and gave chase amid more lightning and crashes of thunder.

  Charity hung on to her little mare in spite of its determination to follow the others. Where was Thorne? Hadn’t he heard the furor? She supposed not or he would have come running by now.

  She was continuing to try to calm her mare when a war whoop echoed across the glade and made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.

  Another more distant whoop answered from the opposite direction. She thought she glimpsed slight movement through the trees and brambles. Here and there she could catch glimpses of brown color similar to that of the Indian clothing she’d noted in Cowlitz and beyond.

  No matter which tribe members had made that chilling noise, Charity knew that she and the others were going to be afoot if she didn’t retain at least one horse. She was also convinced that standing out in the open was the worst place to be, especially because any friendly natives would surely have shown themselves by now.

  “Naomi! Come on. Never mind the other horses. Help me get this one inside.”

  Tugging, cajoling and backing away, Charity managed to urge the mare all the way to the cabin door. What she wasn’t able to do was convince the horse to step foot into the darker interior.

  “Thorne,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Help us!”

  He wheeled in response to Charity’s cry and saw her trying to coax one of the fractious, half-wild Indian ponies through the doorway.

  It would have been laughable if she had not had such a distressed look on her face. “What in the world are you doing?”

  “Indians,” she blurted. “Outside. I’m sure I saw them sneaking through the woods and I was afraid they’d steal my horse.”

  “Where’s Naomi?”

  “Right behind me.”

  The mare had its head lowered, its ears laid back, its neck bowed and its feet set, giving Thorne plenty of room to peer over its back. He caught his breath. “Where?”

  “Right out there. The other horses ran off but she’s helping me get this one through the door.”

  Thorne was already shoving the balky animal out of the way, much to Charity’s obvious consternation. He didn’t care if he made her angry. He had more pressing concerns. He could see most of the clearing and there was not even a hint of his sister-in-law.

  About to grab the lone remaining mount and race to Naomi’s defense, he heard a musket boom. The ball hissed by, barely missing his head, and thudded into the log wall behind him.

  Charity gasped, then dived for cover.

  Thorne darted aside to grab his ammunition bag and his rifle from the ground where he had laid them.

  Charity’s frightened pony nearly ran him down as it reared, wheeled and fled.

  There was nothing he could do but follow Charity back inside and slam the cabin door.

  “I’m sorry,” Charity said, fighting to appear calm and failing miserably. “Naomi was coming with me. I know she was.”

  When Thorne made no comment, she assumed he was angry. Well, he had no right to be. She had done all she could. It wasn’t her fault that she had failed. She was only one woman with two hands. She couldn’t possibly have held on to the horse and Naomi at the same time.

  Disgusted with herself, she sighed. No, she couldn’t have. And in that case she should have chosen to drag Naomi into the cabin and let the horse be stolen. She realized all that now, when it was too late to do things differently.

  “What now?” she asked.

  He pointed. “Grab that old long gun standing in the corner and check that there’s nothing blocking the barrel. I’ll show you how to load it. The powder and ball are over here by me. The caliber should be close enough. You can add extra wadding if the ball seems too loose.”

  “Papa taught me how to load a gun,” she said. “But how do you know this one is safe? It might blow up when you fire it if it’s been sitting here rusting for very long.”

  “We’ll have to take that chance.” Thorne poked the barrel of his muzzle-loader out through a chink in the logs and sighted along it, waiting for a target.

  “Maybe they were just after the horses,” she ventured.

  “Well, they have them now. And all our supplies.”

  Although he hadn’t added, “How could you let them get away?” it was implied.

  “I did the best I could,” Charity insisted. “I know I should have let the mare go and held on to Naomi. She was right there, supposedly helping me. I never dreamed she’d run off like the Indian ponies.”

  “Did you see any special markings or clothing on the men? Anything that would help identify them?”

  “No. Nothing. The horses got all het up and the next thing I knew, they were heading for the hills. Literally.”

  As she spoke she was checking the abandoned long gun by measuring the barrel with the ramrod to make sure there was no powder or ball already taking up space in it.

  “This one isn’t loaded,” she said. “The rod goes in all the way to the percussion hole. Do you want me to load it for you?”

  Thorne nodded. “Yes. Keep the first measure of powder on the light side till we see how it shoots.”

  She watched him sight his own rifle, hold his breath, then squeeze the trigger.

  The gun went off with a boom that rattled the rafters and brought a shower of dust down on them to mingle with the cloud of pungent smoke from the burned gunpowder.

  Jacob began to wail.

  Charity was too busy to tend to him but she did call, “It’s all right, sweetheart. Stay where you are. Uncle Thorne is taking care of us.”

  He passed her the first rifle to reload and took up the second one. “Wish me luck,” he said, raising the stock to his shoulder and preparing to shoot again.

  Charity chose to pray instead. Father, help him. Help us. And please keep Naomi safe, wherever she’s gone.

  There were more unspoken words, more silent pleas, and she didn’t stop praying hard until Thorne had pulled the trigger of the second gun and its breech had held.

  If it hadn’t, she knew all too well that he could have had the whole side of his head blown off. That kind of accident had happened to careless men more often than she liked to recall, whether the metal was faulty to start with or they had thoughtlessly filled the breech with too much black powder.

  Thorne fired, again and again, and Charity kept him supplied with loaded weapons. As she tore more pieces of fabric from her petticoat to make patches for the musket balls, she wondered what they’d run out of first. It didn’t really matter. Once any of the other components, powder, ball or primers were gone, they would be defenseless.

  The firing ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Charity froze, staring at Thorne and trying to read his unspoken assessment of their situation. He looked a lot less worried now than he had before. That was definitely a good sign.

  “Are they gone?” she asked, reeling from fatigue and the effects of the fever she continued to deny.

  “It looks like it.” He straightened and propped the guns against the wall. “Keep everything loaded. I’ll go have a quick look around.”

  “Take a rifle. You have to have something for protection.”

  “You keep them,” he said, his gaze locking with hers as if he might never see her again. “If any Indians come through this door, don’t let them take you alive.”

  “Whoa,” she blurted, stunned. “I’d rather be a live hostage than a dead memory. Besides, I know you’d rescue me, no matter how long it took.”

  “I would, you know.”

  Her voice gentled as
she reached up to cup his cheek with her palm and said, “Yes, Thorne. I know you would.”

  Though he didn’t reply with words, the look in his eyes spoke volumes.

  It wasn’t until Charity was alone that she allowed herself to plop onto a rickety chair. Every bone in her body ached and she feared she was becoming very ill. That wouldn’t do. Not at all. She must hold herself together and feign good health, at least until they reached Naomi’s parents. After that she could let down her guard and allow her weakness to show.

  Timidly, his cheeks streaked with tears, Jacob approached her. His voice was barely audible as he said, “Mama?”

  Charity opened her arms and lifted him onto her lap. What could she say? How could she explain to the child that his mother was gone again and that it was her fault?

  As her own tears began to fall, Charity held him close and laid her cheek on the top of his head. She was so weary, so spent she could barely think, let alone speak coherently.

  Finally, she managed to say, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

  The little boy’s response was both touching and heartbreaking. He wiggled and twisted till he could wrap his arms around her neck, kissed her damp cheek and said, “It’s okay, Mama. Please don’t cry.”

  Thorne returned after spending only a few minutes outside. “It’s me. Don’t shoot,” he called before easing open the door.

  Charity didn’t rise to welcome him back. She wanted to run straight into his arms, regardless of the impropriety of such an action, but she simply lacked the strength to do so.

  Jacob, however, had plenty of energy to spare. He shouted, “Uncle Thorne!” and raced toward him.

  Catching the child in midstride, Thorne lifted him and swung him in an arc, sharing his joy as he glanced over at Charity. “I’m glad one of you is happy to see me.”

  “I’m happy, too,” she said. “Honest I am.” Getting to her feet, she swayed as a wave of dizziness and nausea washed over her.

  Thorne hurried to her side and took her arm to steady her while he lowered Jacob to the floor. He peered at her. “You’ve been crying.”

  “I guess I’m not as strong as I thought I was.”

  “You’re amazing. Most women I know would have fainted dead away at the first sign of Indian attack.”

  She blinked, trying to clear her head, and failed. The room was spinning. Colored lights like the bits of sparkling glass in a kaleidoscope danced at the periphery of her vision. Blackness encroached.

  She heard the rumble of Thorne’s voice. It sounded so dim and far away she couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  One moment of peace. That was all she needed. She’d just close her eyes for a second and she’d be fine. She had to be. Failing to hold up her end of the bargain she’d made to care for the dear little boy and his mother was totally unacceptable.

  Moisture flooded her already misty vision and tears once again slid down her cheeks as she recalled Jacob’s words. He had called her Mama.

  The importance of that choice was not lost on her heart or mind and that was all she could think of as she slipped further and further into the darkness that was waiting to give her rest.

  Thorne caught her as she swooned and carried her to where he had placed his coat for the boy. Laying her gently atop the garment, he knelt at her side and began to pat her hands and rub her wrists.

  At his side, Jacob was sniffling. “Is she sick?”

  Thorne was about to assure him that Charity was merely overtired when it occurred to him that the boy might be right. He hadn’t felt her forehead since the night before and it was possible she might have chosen to hide her infirmity rather than cause more worry.

  His hand was shaking as he gently laid it on her forehead. She was burning up! His anger flared. The little fool hadn’t given any indication that she was ailing or he would never have asked so much of her. Did she expect him to notice her feverishness on his own? Or was she purposely hiding those telltale symptoms to keep from causing a delay in their journey?

  Any and all of those possibilities fit Charity’s stubborn personality, he concluded. The question now was what should he do? If he tried to carry her the rest of the way to Olympia, or at least as far as the next farmstead, they would most likely be attacked en route. If that happened while they were out in the open, there was no way he could adequately defend both her and the boy, let alone get her to a place where she could be nursed back to health.

  He looked around the cabin, assessing his options. They were meager to say the least. If they stayed there, he would have to find fresh water and food, which meant leaving Jacob and Charity unguarded for however long that quest took.

  If he chose to stay inside and continue to protect them, they might all fail to survive without adequate provisions, especially water. It was a terrible choice to have to make.

  Finally, in desperation, he took his questions to God. As he knelt beside the unconscious woman and bereft little boy, he closed his eyes and began to mutter a prayer. His plea was mostly centered on Charity, on the fact that he truly cared for her, although he did include the rest of his close family, including Naomi and Aaron.

  Unashamed, he released the strong self-control on which he prided himself and bared his soul to his Heavenly Father.

  As a man, he knew was out of options and saw no way to save his beloved.

  As a Christian, he knew upon Whom he must rely if any of them were to survive.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The storm that had been heralded by the thunder began in earnest before another hour had passed. Heavy rain pounded against the roof of the cabin and trickled in through a myriad of chinks between the logs.

  Desperate for water of any kind, Thorne placed the empty cooking pots where they would collect rain while he tried to keep their guns and clothing dry.

  He’d built a fire in the stove using some of the furniture for fuel and was applying damp compresses to Charity’s fevered brow. She lay wrapped in his overcoat, as well as her own, while he tried to sweat the fever out of her. So far, his method seemed to be working because she had passed through a slight delirium and was beginning to rest easier.

  Thorne knew he should stop worrying but he could barely manage to breathe, let alone relax. The only time he had left her side was to stoke the fire or collect more cool rainwater with which to bathe her face and hands.

  Jacob, bless his heart, had tried to help by moving some of the smaller pans beneath newly discovered leaks and Thorne had encouraged his efforts. As long as the boy was kept busy he was less likely to notice undue hunger or thirst.

  It wasn’t until Thorne noticed him taking secretive sips of the collected water that he realized he’d had an ulterior motive. That made him smile in spite of everything. Jacob was a chip off the old block, all right, a conniver with a penchant for doing as he pleased, even at such a young age.

  Thorne no longer doubted that he was the child’s true father. There were simply too many indications of it. Not only did Jacob look enough like him at that age to have been his twin, he was displaying many of the same mannerisms and attitudes. Even his lopsided smile was pure Blackwell, leaving Thorne torn between pride and a sense of wretched culpability.

  “If only Aaron were here,” he said softly. “I have so much debt to repay.”

  He glanced at the leaky roof and thought of other debts, mainly the thanks he owed to God for providing needed water. It sounded as if the rain was slacking off, but they had plenty saved to get them through the night and hopefully bring Charity’s fever down. Beyond that, he dared not plan. Without horses and the guarantee of a safe passage, he’d be a fool to try to complete their journey, no matter how close they were to Olympia or Nisqually Flats.

  There was also the matter of what may have happened to Naomi. If the Indians had stolen her, he had to attempt a rescue or at least try to buy her back from them before she was bartered to some other tribe. The Indians’ practice of slavery among their brethren had surpri
sed him the first time he’d heard about it but it was such a big part of their warrior culture he knew he’d have to play by their rules. Assuming they did have Naomi, that is. If she had simply wandered off and had had to weather the storm alone and lost, that might be even worse.

  Jacob had laid himself down beside Charity when he tired and had quickly dropped off to sleep. Thorne had kept the fire going as he stood watch. Hour by hour, his fatigue grew. His eyelids felt leaden, his alertness nearly nil. He fought sleep rather then allow himself much-needed rest. He must not doze, he insisted. If he wasn’t vigilant, anyone could sneak up on them.

  Finally, he decided to hang some small tin cups above the closed door so they would clatter and rouse him if it was opened. Then he sat down on the dirt floor with his back to the wall and the rifles at hand.

  In minutes after he’d rigged the alarm and settled his weary body comfortably, he nodded off.

  Charity awoke to sunlight streaming through the cracks in the walls and ceiling. She was still a bit achy but her headache was gone and she could tell the fever had also passed.

  “Praise God,” she whispered as she left the still-sleeping child and got slowly, tenuously to her feet to check her balance. Thankfully, she seemed to be a bit weak but otherwise as well as could be expected. She didn’t remember everything that had occurred the previous day but she did recall enough bits and pieces of it to realize that Thorne had nursed her through the crisis.

  And sweet little Jacob had helped, she added. How hard and how sad it was going to be to bid that child farewell.

  Looking around the room she saw Thorne dozing in a seated position on the hard-packed floor. His coat was still on the ground where he had laid it for her and the boy and she knew he must be chilly, yet he was obviously sound asleep in spite of any discomfort.

  Her mouth was dry, her throat parched. She found a pail of clean water with a dipper near the stove and slaked her thirst. Never had tepid water tasted so wonderful. The only thing better would be a bath. That was out of the question under these circumstances, of course, but she could clearly imagine its refreshing qualities.