Winter Woman Read online

  What kind of game was this? She tells me not to touch her. Then she takes off her dress and calls me.

  But she looked so shocked by his appearance. Well? She had called him, hadn’t she?

  Nash exhaled deeply, driving down the desire, then he went back to scraping the deerskin. The sooner he had her in buckskin the better. That damn blue dress was driving him crazy.

  Last night, she had slept in her white cotton chemise. Her brown dress was bloody, and she didn’t want to sleep in the blue. The night was cold enough to ice the edge of the pond and her arms were bare. She had inched against him during the night. He hadn’t sent her away. Instead, he had waited until her soft breathing told him she slept and then he had stroked her hair. Now he felt like some kind of thief, sneaking around, trying to pet her secretly in the dark.

  He scraped clean the larger skin and threw the wet hide of the second deer over the log. The bristly hair felt nothing like hers.

  She was ruining his trapping. Now he thought about her pale shoulders instead of where to try for beaver. She was so skinny, he could see her collarbones sticking out. He’d dig some thistle root to go with dinner. She’d asked for vegetables. Maybe they’d help put some meat on her. Damn, but he hated digging in the dirt like a squaw. He’d put farming behind him when he’d lost Elizabeth. Never again, he vowed. Now he lived single and traveled light. At least he had.

  He couldn’t hold back the growl that broke from deep inside him. She was his responsibility now. Damn her husband for being too stupid to stay home. Damn him for putting her at risk.

  He scraped the last of the hair from the second hide and rolled it with the other. When he entered the camp she was scribbling in her journal again. She wore her drab brown dress. He sighed with relief.

  “Got to run my traps.”

  She stood and followed him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’d like to come along.”

  He closed his hands into fists in frustration.

  “I can’t take a piss without you tagging along.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop saying that! I already got a shadow. I don’t need another one.”

  She stood before him, her eyes huge and pleading. If he said stay, she’d just sneak after him again. He was sure of it.

  “Oh—all right. But keep quiet!”

  Her shoulders slumped with relief. She walked silently behind him. He heard the rustle of her skirt against the river grasses.

  He waded into the water to check his first trap. It was empty. He held his breath, opened the vial of beaver scent and used a stick to dab a bit onto the stake that held the trap. He replaced the wooden cork into the antler casing.

  Farther upstream, he recovered three beaver. He drove the stakes tightly into the riverbed with the back of his ax. Then he set the trap and dropped the ring over the stake, carefully settling the trap to the bottom.

  He glanced up at her. She smiled, causing his stomach to flutter. That made him scowl. He was sure that questions were burning a hole in her mouth, but she spoke not one word. Coming along was important to her, more important than answers. He wondered about that.

  She carried her ax as they walked along. She didn’t have a gun. What kind of a man leaves his woman alone with only an ax? He was glad her man was dead. It banished the possibility of having to kill him. Now he was stuck with her. Only until the fall, he thought. He’d teach her how to shoot his shotgun. You don’t need much aim. At close range, she’d hit whatever was in front of her.

  They must have crossed some invisible barrier, because as they approached the camp the questions began. Why this and how that. He’d never talked so much in his life. His head hurt from all the answers she wrung out of him. You’d swear she planned on going into business as a trapper.

  He started a fire as the sun disappeared behind the high peaks. They ate beaver tail and deer liver. He roasted the tubers in the coals. He had one and she ate three. He’d never seen a woman eat so much. Where did she put it all?

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Thank you for taking me along today. It was fascinating. What do you call that beaver scent again?”

  “My medicine,” he answered.

  “Yes, that’s right. Potent, is it not? And from the glands near the tail?”

  He nodded.

  “Why should that attract? I would think you would need a bit of meat to lure them.”

  “Beavers don’t eat meat!” He shook his head. She looked confused. “They think another beaver is invading their territory. You got to place the medicine a few inches above the waterline. When he steps on the bottom to reach the scent, his foot’s trapped.”

  “Why don’t you place the trap closer to shore? Then you wouldn’t have to wade into the stream and get your feet all wet?”

  He slapped his head in frustration.

  “Then the beaver would climb up on the bank, chew off his foot and get away.”

  She raised both hands to her mouth. “Oh, how awful.”

  “Damn right. I’ve lost one that way a time or two.”

  “I meant for the beaver. Poor little things.”

  “No worse than drowning, I ’spect.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible, too.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “I just don’t like to see them suffer.”

  “That’s why there’s no women trappers.” Ha! She had no answer for that!

  He raked the coals into two piles and set a green wood tripod above each.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Smoking the leather.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “You want your clothes to be weatherproof?”

  “The smoke will do that?”

  He nodded, then drove the wood into the ground. He drew the hides around the wood frames and staked them. Then, he tossed back the flap, where the pieces overlapped, and threw rotted dry wood over the coals. Smoke began billowing out of the opening at the top of the hides.

  The breeze took the smoke straight for her. She coughed and rubbed her eyes but remained sitting.

  “Move, you idiot!” Startled, she jumped to her feet and sat beside him. “Don’t you even know enough to come out of the rain?” he asked.

  “I won’t need to. I will be waterproof.”

  Chapter Four

  “I don’t think this will do,” Cordelia said, as he tried to drape the buckskin over her head.

  “Hold still.”

  The hole was too small and the opening was ringing her scalp. He sliced a three-inch slit and the large skin fell to her shoulders.

  The hide reached her knees front and back. He nodded in approval.

  “Hold out your arms.”

  She did as he asked and he marked the place where the skin must be tied and trimmed, then pulled it off her again. She watched him cut the leather and puncture holes half an inch apart down the sides of the dress. He skillfully fringed the sleeves and cut the excess buckskin into thin strips. These he drew through the holes along the length of each side of the dress and tied.

  “Try it on.”

  “Over my dress?”

  “No—as your dress.”

  “Turn around,” she said. He did and waited, listening to the rustle of fabric. “All right.”

  He admired his creation. It fit loosely from shoulder to knee. His eyes lingered on the slight swell of her bosom hidden beneath soft hide. His hand ached to touch her, so he checked the side seam for gaps.

  “Now, I’ll measure your legs.”

  She stepped back. “You will not!”

  “How am I going to make you leggings without knowing the length?”

  She thought for a moment. “Tell me what measurements you need and I shall take them.”

  He gave her a length of rawhide and instructions. She disappeared behind the wigwam. A few minutes later she returned with the knotted cord. “This one is my inseam.” She pointed t
o the first knot. “This one the length from hip to ankle.”

  “I made you a belt while I was waiting.” He handed her the band of leather. Each end had a hole bored through. A narrow bit of rawhide threaded between the holes. “I used your brown dress as a guide.”

  The belt fit perfectly about her tiny waist. He frowned considering the hollow beneath her ribs. A woman should be full and round in the hips. He gritted his teeth and vowed to see that she filled out.

  “Where did you learn all this?” she asked.

  “I spent my first winter with Flathead Indians.”

  “Did you learn a great deal?”

  “Enough to stay alive the second winter on my own.”

  Cordelia followed his instructions exactly. This could not possibly be right. She was certain that Flathead women did not tramp about the countryside wearing no undergarments.

  She tied the soft leather about her waist and slipped the loops that held the leggings at her hips onto the belt beneath her dress. The leggings fit from hip to ankle. But they did not cover her nether regions. If she wore her bloomers under the leggings she doubted she could get them off to relieve herself. She decided to pull her bloomers over the leggings instead. She glanced down. The bloomers showed beneath the fringe of her dress.

  The dress was too short. Nash said the Indians wore shorter garments, so they didn’t drag or catch. That did make sense. Still, her ankles were exposed, though sheathed in leather. She pulled her bloomers up above her knee. That would have to do.

  What would her Bible-study group think if they saw her now? They’d never recognize her. She must have lost forty pounds.

  She stepped back around the wigwam.

  “Ah, they fit?” asked Nash.

  “I believe so. They will take some getting use to, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, they are a damn sight more practical than your dress. More comfortable, too.” He was right. “Now the briars won’t prick and them trappings won’t tear, neither.”

  She didn’t like them, but he had spent a great deal of time making this ridiculous outfit, so she thanked him. He grinned. Her heart accelerated at the sight of his straight white teeth. She smiled in return.

  “Pack up.”

  “Are we hunting?”

  “No, we’re leaving. This area is trapped out. Time to go up the Musselshell into the Bitterroot.”

  “Musselshell?”

  “That’s the river we’ll follow. This here’s just a branch.”

  She watched him roll up the hides that covered their small dwelling and pack the skins with his furs, traps and other gear upon his horse.

  “What about the sticks?” she asked.

  “You don’t pack wood, you idiot—you can find that anywhere.”

  “Mr. Nash,” she said, not trying to disguise her irritation, “I would much appreciate it if you would cease calling me an idiot. I have a healthy mind. I am just unfamiliar with the nuances of trapping.”

  “Well, you talk smart, but you ask powerful dumb questions.”

  “I was once told there is no such thing as a dumb question.”

  “You was misinformed.” He mounted the black and held out his hand for hers.

  She had to hike up the skirt in order to straddle the horse.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  She hovered with her leg in the air. The lacy edge of her bloomers peeked from beneath the hide dress. She yanked down the buckskin.

  “Tarnation! Is that bloomers? I told you not to wear bloomers. You don’t need ’em.”

  She lifted her chin. “Well, Mr. Nash, I do need them.”

  He gave a suffering sigh but said nothing further. She waited. At last he offered his hand again.

  “We’re burning daylight.”

  By the afternoon they reached the Musselshell. She learned that this course eventually drained into the Missouri. The river was wide and fast with the runoff from the winter snowmelt. He kept the horses in the tree line rather than taking the easier game trail by the river.

  “Why don’t you—”

  “That’s it! I run out of patience. Get off the horse!”

  “What?”

  “Get off, I says.”

  He slid her to the ground. She clung to his leg. Panic, heavy and dark, swelled in her belly.

  “Don’t leave me!”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “I’m not leaving you. I’m just giving my ears a rest. Go walk behind the horses and keep quiet.”

  The buzzing in her ears affected her hearing.

  “You’re not leaving me?”

  “Delia, I stay with you until the Rendezvous, now scat!”

  She walked behind the horses. Her stomach growled at midday. She wondered when they’d stop, but couldn’t ask, of course. A gray fox appeared briefly in the forest then vanished. She saw several berry bushes, but the fruit was green and hard. How could she find out if they were edible without asking Nash?

  By afternoon, she had stopped wondering. All her energy focused on keeping up with the horses. Each mile she dropped farther behind. Her feet throbbed with each step. Finally he stopped.

  “You tuckered out?” he asked. She nodded. He reached down and tossed her up behind him again. He handed her some jerked meat and then kicked the horse. She gnawed at the thin strip of elk in silence.

  The horse plodded along. She yawned, then let her eyes close as she nestled against his broad shoulders to rest.

  She woke when he pulled her down from the horse. Her eyes opened to find he carried her.

  “Put me down. I’m not a child,” she said.

  He never slowed his steady pace.

  “Sometimes I wonder.” She didn’t struggle. There was something comforting about being held in the strong arms of a man. She relished his warmth and the comforting smell of his smoked buckskin. Beneath that was a now-familiar scent all his. She no longer felt comforted—his nearness did strange things to her heart rate. John’s touch had always been pleasant, but never had he caused this jangled confusion of her senses. He walked to a fallen log and set her upon it, then strode away. She watched him. The man was all brawn and sinew and his touch was like no other’s.

  Cordelia rubbed her eyes and yawned again as she watched in silence. The place he chose was up against a large boulder with two smaller ones on each side. The rocks broke the wind and she assumed they offered some shield from observation. Though she hadn’t seen any Indians, he told her they were about.

  Nash unpacked both horses and hobbled them before setting them loose to graze. Then he laid out a sleeping pallet of buffalo robes. He made no shelter. When he began to gather wood she joined him, carrying smaller twigs and branches and laying them beside the pile he made. Finally he sat on a rock by the river. Cordelia watched him bait a white bone hook with a fat earthworm and throw the line into the river. Before the sunset he had four fish.

  He made a small fire and gutted the fish. She silently retrieved her plate and flatware. When she returned, the fish hung by their gills above the coals. She watched the skin begin to sizzle. She loved trout.

  Nash’s voice broke the silence. “All right! Go on, talk. Damn it. Your quiet’s worse than your chatter.”

  “Thank you, but I have nothing to say.”

  “That’ll be the day!”

  “Just one question.”

  “I thought so.”

  “How do you expect me to learn without asking questions?”

  “I expect you to watch and listen and do. Them’s the best way I know to learn.” He poked angrily at the fish with his knife. A small white flake of meat fell into the fire. “They’re done.”

  He slid two fish onto her plate. When they had finished eating, he lit a candle and doused the fire. He placed his guns and knife beside him and took off his hat.

  “Come to bed,” he ordered. She sat beneath the furs and opened her journal. She stared at him and then began to write in angry little strokes. “Oh,” he growled, “you writing about me?�
� She nodded. “Well, don’t take too long, candles is dear.”

  She still wasn’t talking to him the next morning. Nash could get no more than a word from her. This was not the silence he craved and decided he preferred her idiot questions to her angry silence. He packed the horses while she wrote in that damn book. Finally he called to her.

  “Come on!” He extended his hand and pulled her up onto the horse behind him, taking her journal from her and adding it to his pack.

  The sky was changing fast. He began searching for cover. The best he could find was a large overhanging rock. He unpacked the robes and covered his gear with oilskins, then tied the horses to a nearby tree. He didn’t want the lightning to spook them.

  “Gonna be a real gully-washer,” he said at last.

  “What?” She sat beside him on a robe.

  “A gully-washer, the storm.”

  “You mean it will rain?”

  “Look at the sky and the wind picking up—it’s blowing cold as well. See them leaves flipping over. That’s all signs of rain coming.”

  “Is that why we stopped?”

  “Of course, what’d you think?”

  “I had no idea, thank you for clarifying.” She turned her back on him.

  He felt the urge to spin her about on her skinny bottom and shake her until her teeth rattled. Then he decided he didn’t care what she did, it was nothing to him.

  He chewed on some jerky and watched the storm roll in. The thunder followed the rain. She inched a bit closer.

  “Do you like storms, Delia?”

  “Like them? No, they terrify me, especially lightning.”

  As if summoned by her word a streak peeled to the ground. The valley flashed pink for an instant, and then came a mighty boom. Horses and the woman shrieked together. He was glad he had secured the mounts.

  Delia was now sitting on his thigh, her arms wrapped about his middle.

  “Easy, now. We’re safe under these here rocks.” He took the opportunity to stroke her hair. She didn’t pull away. “You call this a storm? Why, I’ve seen hail the size of turkey eggs rain from the sky. This here’s a bitsy storm, be gone in just a while.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Course I am. Hear that.” Thunder rolled from beyond the river. “It’s moving off already.”