Ice Princess Page 11

  She clung, feeling secure and protected.

  His voice dropped into a wordless murmur of assurance. His hand stroked down her back, and his arm circled her and held her fast against him. She breathed in his odor, buckskin steeped in wood smoke and sweat and the bitter tang of sagebrush, and underneath the distinctive scent of man, strong and virile.

  They crouched together in the lee of a sheltering cedar until Flower's feet went numb beneath her and William's voice had died away into an almost soundless hum. His hand still stroked her back, and she slowly grew aware that the strokes were more sensuous than reassuring.

  They were slowly drawing an equally sensual response from her that was frightening in its implications. She stiffened. "Let me go!"

  Immediately he released her. "You all right?"

  She scrambled back, until she was out of the reach of his long arms. "Yes. Yes, I am...fine."

  William watched her, as if she were an elusive prey that he was wary of startling into flight. "You can't go down there, can you?"

  "Of course I--" The lie caught on her tongue. "No," she admitted. "I cannot. My fear will not let me."

  What a weak and useless thing you are, Flower Jones. Your father would be ashamed of you. Your mother would be disappointed in you. And Hattie, brave and independent Hattie who has fought and bested adversity most of her life, Hattie would call you craven.

  "I sort of figured you'd find it more'n you wanted to tackle," William said. "I'll do it."

  "I beg your pardon? You will do what?"

  "Go buy your boat ride." He held out the pup's lead. "Here. You set up here with him and wait for me. Shouldn't take me more'n a little while to do it."

  "You cannot go down there, William."

  "Better me than you, 'specially seein' as how you can't."

  "What if someone tries to say you're an escaped slave?"

  "What if some man decides he wants you?" he countered. "You figure you could talk him out of it?"

  Biting her lip, she looked at him. He stared back, his expression intent. "You have changed, William," she said, sinking once more to her knees. She patted the ground beside her. "Sit," she told him. "We must talk about this."

  "Don't reckon there's anything much to talk about." But he sat, close enough to touch but far enough away that she did not feel at risk.

  She picked up a twig and scratched in the dirt beyond her knees.

  At last William said, "You gonna say anything woman? Time's a wastin'."

  "I have told you that I am frozen inside, that I cannot be your woman. Yet you still guard me, protect me. You comfort me. Why?"

  His dark eyes stared at her. Into her. As if he could see into her very soul.

  "I reckon I ain't got a choice, not since the first time I seen you. I knew right then that you'd be the only woman I'd ever want."

  "You are a man! You can want any woman!"

  "There's want, and there's want," he said, his head tilted to one side. "A man, if he sees a gal he hungers for, his body wants her, never mind how his head thinks. But most of us, we don't grab any gal makes us want her."

  "Too many of you do," she muttered.

  "Them renegades, they wasn't the first to treat you bad, was they?"

  Flower shivered, but did not answer.

  "You carryin' a powerful lot of fear around, woman. You put me in mind of a dog that's been beat regular, ever since he was a pup. He never amounts to much, 'cause he's always cringing back whenever a man raises a hand, even if it's only to scratch his ear."

  She remembered other times she'd felt men watching on her, like feeling the touch of ghostly hands on her body. Ever since she had grown breasts, she had been aware that some men had looked on her with desire.

  At first it had been thrilling. She was becoming a woman! She dreamed of the day when one man--one special man--would come to her with love in his heart. He would court her, as Everett had told her a woman was courted in England, with pretty words and flowers and small gifts. Perhaps even a verse praising her beauty.

  Such dreams she had had, when she was innocent!

  Then she realized that some men did not look on her simply as an attractive woman.

  Flower had quickly learned to avoid those who were new come to the western lands, for they had different ideas. Unlike the trappers who honored the Indian wives and the children of mixed blood, many newcomers respected no native.

  They saw her as prey. She heard the softly spoken suggestions, the innuendoes and the blatant invitations. She was half-breed, and thus a whore.

  Her father's reputation had saved her, more than once.

  Then the Americans had started coming, in their wagons and carts, seeking land and fortunes. Those who brought their families, or came ahead to prepare a place for wives and children, they had not frightened her. But others, who sought only an easier life, who cheated and stole and lied without remorse, those had looked at her, at all Indian women, with lust.

  One had said, in her hearing, "Them Injun squaws, they got no sense of sin. They'll lay with any man who gives 'em a pretty bead or a copper penny, and go right back to their men like it don't make any difference."

  His companions had laughed their agreement and recounted some of their conquests.

  Flower had been sickened, knowing that some of the women they boasted of having had been no more willing than she would have been. But she still dreamed. Until...

  "I was virgin when the renegades captured me," was all she said to William. "But they were not the first to look at me with desire."

  "Won't be the last, neither," he said. "Lawd, woman, I wants you. Any man gets a good look at you, he's gonna feel the same. That don't mean we're gonna..." His voice tapered off, and he looked away.

  "You will not rape me? Is that what you did not say, William?"

  He nodded, face still averted.

  "I believe you. But you are a good man, and I have come to the conclusion that there are few good men out here, so far from civilization. And that is why I must go to England. So many of those who are coming here are barbarians. They come because the strictures of civilization bind them too closely. They wish to be free to indulge their appetites for women and gold and violence." Her voice broke, as a sob swelled in her chest.

  "Can't you understand, William? I must go!"

  "That's why I say I'll go down there and buy your boat ride. I think you're wrong. There ain't no place in this whole wide world that's really safe. But I'll do whatever you want, if it makes you feel good." He stood, stretched.

  She saw how his buckskins clung like a second skin to his strong body. Although her father had worn these garments the last time she had seen him, on Buffalo they had hung loose, concealing the lines of his body. On William, they defined each muscle, each long tendon.

  She had never seen a man before whom she would call beautiful, but William was.

  If only she could be his woman. His wife.

  The mother of his children.

  Once more the wave of longing and sorrow swept through her. And once more she stifled it.

  I must learn to accept what I am--what they made me--and what I will never have.

  She became aware that William had said something to her. "I beg your pardon. I was not listening."

  "I just said you best keep the pup with you. He'll keep you company while I'm gone." He held out the dog's leash.

  Shaking her head, Flower said, "Take him? Why? I will wait here for you."

  "You'd be better off goin' back to camp. I could be a day or two."

  "A day or two? Just to find a boat to take me to Oregon City?" She had assumed she would be able to find her boatman within a short time. Jacques had said that there were many boatmen in The Dalles who made a good living transporting people and goods through the long, dangerous river passage through the mountains.

  "I can't just go down there and say I's lookin' for a boat ride. I got to take a look around first, see how the ground lays."

  "You can
see--Oh! You want to reconnoiter." Perhaps he was wise. Any Negro who walked into a settlement like The Dalles would be conspicuous. "You cannot do this, William. It is too dangerous. I will go with you."

  "No'm you won't. Just give me a day or two, and I'll have your boat ride all fixed. You go on back to camp and wait for me." He nodded, and she saw that his mouth was almost smiling. "I gots me a plan."

  She was tempted. Then she was shamed by how much she wanted him to do this for her. "No," she told him. "I cannot allow you to put yourself into such danger."

  "It ain't your choice." He laid his spear aside, pulled the knife from between his shoulder blades and handed it to her. "Take care of these for me. I'd hate to lose 'em."

  "No! there must be another way...." She clenched her fists behind her back, refusing to accept the weapons.

  Scratching his chin with the hilt of his knife, he was silent for a moment. How she wished she could see his thoughts.

  Finally, when she was about to demand to know what he was planning, he said, "There's usually more'n one way to skin a cat. Let's go see your friend."

  "My friend? I have no--"

  "Jacques' boy. Maybe the Injuns he took up with can help us."

  * * * *

  Only a few families remained in the Wasco village beside Chenoweth Creek. Two winters ago many had fallen victim to a white man's disease. Jacques had told her that most of the survivors had moved upstream to Celilo. Now those who remained were cautious, despite the reassurances of the missionaries in The Dalles. But Jacques had been certain that Hilaire was living with his aunt and uncle, who refused to move away.

  William would not enter the village with her. He halted just below the crest of the hill that overlooked the village, stepping back so that he was not silhouetted against the sky. "Me'n the pup'll go huntin'," he said. "I'll meet you here long about sundown."

  Flower started to argue, but he interrupted her.

  "You got friends down there. Talk to 'em, see what they knows that we don't. Maybe there's another way to get you to Oregon City."

  She had to agree that his scheme made sense. Now if she could only find Hilaire.

  Only women and small children were in the village that day. The men were all fishing. At the third cedar-bark-roofed lodge, she found Therese White Heron, aunt to Marie and Hilaire, and daughter of a Hudson's Bay trapper and his country wife. She was weaving a wide, almost flat basket from stringy cedar bark.

  Once invited inside, Flower knelt beside Therese and told her of Marie and her Auguste. Good manners required that she pass on what news she had, then wait for Therese to ask why she had come to Chenoweth. Blurting out her purpose immediately would be the height of insult, as if she had no respect for her elders.

  "They will live as the Americans do, Chitsh--grandmother--and hope that no one knows they are Wasco and Umatilla. But Marie says she will teach her children the old ways and to respect their elders."

  Never losing the rhythm of her weaving, the old woman nodded. "It is best. So many of us are gone now, and more will die as the Americans bring their sicknesses and their guns and their whiskey. And their hatred of anyone who looks and speaks and thinks differently."

  "They are not all like that," Flower protested, thinking of Emmet and Hattie, Craigie and McLoughlin. "Some respect the old ways."

  "Too few," Therese said, her voice breaking. "Too few." Her hands slowed, rested on the half-constructed basket. "You did not come just to visit, I think, daughter. Why are you here?"

  "I seek Hil--Skwiskwis. I need his help."

  "He fishes today with Tenas Eena and his father. They will return for the evening meal."

  "I will wait, then. May I help you?" She could not simply sit all afternoon. If her hands were busy, perhaps her mind would not spin with confusion and indecision.

  "You remember how?"

  "I have not woven a basket for many years, but perhaps you will tell me if I do it wrongly," Flower said, suddenly eager to see if she still had the skill this woman had taught her and Marie so long ago.

  By the time the men returned, bearing six great salmon for drying, she had half finished her basket. It was sturdy, though neither as round nor as smoothly woven as Therese's. But she felt no shame for it.

  Flower greeted all three men, and was caught in a bear hug by Hilaire--she could not think of him as Skwiskwis, no matter how much she tried. He was far too big to be a convincing squirrel.

  His cousin, Tenas Eena, was just as big, but not so wide-shouldered or deep-chested. Younger than Flower and Hilaire by several years, he still showed the slimness of rapid growth and recent maturation. He blushed when she smiled at him, and smiled back, showing the two prominent teeth that had led to his name, 'Small Beaver'.

  They ate together, salmon stew and steamed cat-tail root, followed by biscuits with honey. Therese cooked them in a Dutch oven she had traded a salmon for the previous fall. Flower admired it, and hid her amusement. So much for holding to the old ways.

  "Walk with me," she said to Hilaire when they had eaten. "I wish to speak with you."

  They strolled along the creek, upstream of the village. "I need your help," she told him, when they were far from possible listeners, "for a dangerous task."

  She saw his white teeth flash in the light of the setting sun. "You have it," he said. "Who do I kill?"

  "Be serious. You may have to."

  That sobered him. "Tell me, Fleur. I will do what I can."

  She looked up at him, this young man she had know since childhood. Once he had been her hero, and she had told him that when they were man and woman, she would marry him. She still loved him, but as a favorite brother only.

  Walking slowly beside him, she told him of William, how good he was, and how he insisted on traveling with her, despite the risk to himself. When Hilaire asked why she was going to England, she gave him an evasive answer and he did not press her. He seemed to understand that there were things she would not speak of.

  "This man, how could he be a slave? I thought Americans only enslaved the Niggers and the Indians."

  "Don't call him a Nigger!" She clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh, Hilaire, I should not have snapped at you. But Hattie told me once that it is a very bad word, used to denigrate the Negro race."

  "So he is Negro." Hilaire looked at her, his gaze searching. "And you love him."

  "I do not! I respect him and I owe him for what he has done for me." Looking down at her hands, she watched her fingers twist themselves together...apart...together again. "I love no man. I cannot."

  "Because he is Negro?"

  "Of course not! There are...reasons why I cannot...why I will never love a man."

  "As you say." Hilaire's tone was skeptical, but he said no more.

  They walked on in silence, turning back when the creek cut through a low ridge. As they approached the village, Hilaire said, "Fishing is a good way to live, but it lacks excitement. I will help you, and hope that whatever I do is not entirely unexciting."

  "It could be far more exciting than you wish," she warned.

  His shrug was eloquent. "So much the better. What is it you need?"

  "I am not sure. I have a bad feeling--" She touched her heart. "Here. It tells me that nothing is as easy as we wish it to be. Let me speak again with William, and in the morning we can plan."

  "Good. I will speak to Tenas Eena tonight. He has complained of boredom lately. And to my uncle. He is a wise man."

  "Oh, no--" She felt guilty enough asking for Hilaire's help. To ask his younger cousin...

  "Oh, yes, Fleur. If I had an adventure and he was left behind, he would drown me the next time we fished. I cannot risk that." His laughter rang out in the night. "A quiet life is a long life, my uncle says, but it seems even longer."

  * * * *

  The hair at the back of William's neck felt like it was standing straight out when he stepped onto the dusty track that served as the main street of The Dalles. He hadn't been this scared since he let lo
ose and gave himself up to the flood that had carried him away from slavery.

  "And look where you ended up that time," he told himself.

  It didn't make him feel a bit better. He was still scared.

  He felt naked too, barefoot and clad once more in the ragged pants he'd worn on his long trek West. The shirt, one Hattie had made him, was in better condition. It had pained him to rip open the sleeve, just so it wouldn't look too fancy. He sure hoped nobody would find his pack and the buckskins, where he'd hid them under a pile of rocks halfway up the hill. Pup was staked out alongside his gear, but he'd not stay there long. William had tied him with a worn leather thong, and he'd been gnawin' on it soon as he lay down.

  If there was trouble in town, the pup wouldn't starve. He might even have sense enough to go find Flower.

  He was glad she hadn't gave him trouble about going to the Injun village. She'd be safe there. They'd see her safe to Oregon City, if need be.

  With a feeling of pride, he read the signs that hung on the fronts of the stores along the street. About every other one said 'Saloon' or 'Liquor.' There was a bakery, a tent-roofed place that must have been for sleeping -- the signs said 'Bedz.' And down at the far end was a pole corral that held a couple of mules and a spavined horse.

  "Ain't much of a town," he muttered. But it was the only town for a long ways, and he reckoned folks hereabouts didn't see any need for fancyin' up. "Now where does I find somebody sellin' boat rides?"

  He walked the length of the street, stepping aside whenever he met a white man. Some of them looked at him with questions in their eyes, but nobody said anything to him. Knowing just what most of 'em was thinking, he kept his head down, didn't look nobody in the eye.

  After he'd walked free for so long, it galled him.

  The street ended at the water's edge, where two peculiar boats was pulled up on the bank. They were flat-bottomed, narrow contraptions, with logs laid along the edges. At either end was a pair of upright logs, set about two handspans apart. One pair held a long, skinny log which trailed in the water.

  "What you want, boy?"

  William turned around. A scrawny man, with pants too short for his long legs, was standing in the door of the last saloon, picking his teeth. Somebody bigger and wider, was looking out over his shoulder.