Rose's Pledge (10 page)

Nate shifted position on his sleeping mat to alleviate the annoyance of the sharp pebble poking into his hip. The rock wasn’t the only thing irritating him. He should be halfway to his mother’s by now, sleeping in a soft, warm bed and waking to the smell of bacon and biscuits at some friendly inn. But no. One brief encounter with a single female—an Englishwoman, at that—and here he was, sleeping out in the open on the rocky ground. He stifled a disgusted groan at his insanity.

Lifting his head slightly, he surveyed the camp and surrounding pasture in the faint daylight. Cows! Smith was bringing along cows to go with his new cook! There seemed no end to the man’s foolhardiness. At the other camp, he saw one of the trader’s hired Shawnee braves at work coaxing a new fire to life. Rumbling snores emitting from a nearby tarp announced Eustice Smith’s sleeping presence.

He could not see around Miss Harwood’s trunk at the other strung tarp. But maybe if he got up and gathered sticks for a fire he might “accidentally” catch a peek at the lady. He kicked aside his buffalo robe and rose with a stretch onto his moccasined feet. Then, realizing the possibility she might see him at the same time, he smoothed his rumpled buckskins and untied the thong holding his hair at the back of his neck. Using his fingers, he tamed the unruly mess as best he could and retied the leather strip around his queue again. After all, the fact that most women seemed to consider him handsome was not lost on him. No sense spoiling the image. He felt a smug grin tug at his lips.

As he began gathering wood from deadfall at the edge of the camp, he caught a flash of motion coming from the trees. He thought in reflex of his musket’s location then realized it was merely the woman returning from the direction of the mountain stream. The same dress she’d worn before still clung enticingly to her young, womanly curves, and he noticed that the brown shade was as soft as that of a fawn and matched her coiled hair. Her complexion, still pink from the cold water, made her gray-blue eyes appear large and luminous. He remembered then why he’d come back.

She walked—or limped, to be more precise—out of the forest and came to an abrupt stop when she saw him. Realizing he’d been gawking unabashedly, he stepped forward. “Excuse me, miss. I musta forgot my manners. I’ll get you a cook fire goin’ before I go wash up.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kinyon. That’s very kind of you,” she said softly. She turned and dropped her valise on the trunk.

Reveling in the sound of that lovely, refined voice of hers, Nate caught himself staring at her trim figure again. Any man worth his salt would be most fortunate to bask in her attributes. Not that he was of a mind to forfeit his adventurous life just to settle down, but he could understand why others might be so inclined. Giving himself a mental shake, he turned his attention to gathering enough kindling to start a fire.

Moments later, kneeling down to feed dry grass to some banked embers while he coaxed a spark to flame, he sensed rather than heard her light step behind him. He turned on his heel.

She gazed down at him. “No doubt you’ll think this sounds silly, but I’ve not the slightest idea what sort of meal is required of me or what is to be done.”

“Meal, miss? When we’re on the trail we usually just finish off the game we shot an’ roasted the night before. I notice you got a pot of somethin’ sittin’ on that firestone. What’s in there?”

She grimaced. “Some sort of a cornmeal mixture he called ‘mush.’ Disgusting concoction, I thought.”

Nate had to smile. He opened his mouth to reply, but movement on the far side of the campfire interrupted him.

Where he lay on a sleeping mat, Bob propped himself up on an elbow with a lazy grin and peered up at Miss Harwood. “Now I see what the big hurry was all about.”

Ignoring the barb he knew was directed at him, Nate gave his full attention to nursing the tiny flame again.

Miss Harwood moved to his side. “How do you do,” she whispered to the half-breed Indian. She put a finger to her lips then pointed to the tarp where Mr. Smith still sawed wood. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Rose Harwood.”

He sprang to his feet, an eager gleam in his dark eyes. “That’s a real purty name,” he said in a much quieter tone. “From now on, ever’ time I see a rose, it’ll put me in mind of you.” Taking a step closer, he bowed at the waist. “My name is Robert Bloom Jr., Miss Harwood. But if you prefer, my ma’s people call me Boy on a Black Horse.”

Tucking his chin at his partner’s overt display of interest, Nate let out a small huff. “An’ the rest of us call him Horse Bob or just Bob most of the time.” Glancing up at her, he remembered to smile.

She returned his smile then switched her attention to his partner. “I believe I shall call you Mr. Bloom. If you don’t mind, of course.”

“No, miss. I’d be pleased. It’s got a real respectful ring to it, don’t it?”

The guy was taking a real shine to the Englishwoman, Nate realized. Gritting his teeth, he tossed a few sticks on the growing fire then stood to his feet. “I’ll take the teakettle down to the stream an’ fill it whilst Bob an’ me wash up.” He nailed his partner with a glare.

Watching after the pair as they took their leave, Rose felt renewed hope blossoming in her chest. Perhaps she could glean some much-desired information from those two frontiersmen if she invited them to breakfast. She sensed that even the dusky-skinned man seemed intent on making a good impression on her. He might be another ally in her effort to return to civilization. With that thought in mind, she stirred some extra cornmeal and water into the pot. With any luck, there’d be sufficient milk left from last eve, and a touch of extra sugar should make it better than yesterday’s.

She worked quietly, hoping Mr. Smith would sleep longer. At the other camp, however, she noticed that more of the Indians were up and about. She wished they’d stop ogling her …but comforted herself with the assurance that they simply weren’t used to seeing many fair-skinned women.

Rose added more wood to the fire and positioned the pot of mush over the flames. As she stirred the mixture, she saw that her hands were now soiled with soot and dirt. Not only that, but a loose wisp of hair was flying about on the breeze. Noticing the two tall, leather-clad men striding out of the trees toward her, she wiped her hands on the smudged apron she’d worn last eve then tucked the strand of hair back into proper order. She focused on Mr. Kinyon, hoping her assessment did not appear anything beyond casual interest. To her own amazement, she decided buckskin suited the man far more than did proper English garb. In that comfortable clothing he appeared infinitely more capable of keeping her safe.

As the two passed her trunk, they each grabbed an end and brought it over near the fire. “For milady to sit on,” Kinyon announced quietly. He placed the teakettle among some outer embers.

From his quiet tone, Rose concluded she wasn’t the only one who wanted to delay the trader’s awakening. “Thank you again. The mush will be ready in a few minutes. I’d be most pleased if you both would join us for breakfast this morn.”

Mr. Bloom smiled, the whiteness of his teeth brilliant against his dark skin and much tidier braids. “We were hopin’ you’d give us an invite.”

“Then do have a seat, gentlemen.” Rose felt a rush of heat in her cheeks at the awareness that there were no chairs to be had.

The men didn’t seem to notice. They dropped down onto the ground and crossed their legs, while she perched on her trunk. “I have a question to ask of you …if you wouldn’t mind answering.”

“Anything,” they answered in unison, then swapped peculiar looks.

Rose did her best to squelch a smile. “Mr. Kinyon, I couldn’t help overhearing you speaking to Mr. Smith last eve. About the French and a tribe of Indians, I mean, attacking English trading posts. I—”

Kinyon raised a hand, stilling her. “You needn’t be worryin’ about that sort’a thing. Where you’re goin’ is way to the south of the area we were discussin’—unless I figger out a way to talk ol’ Eustice into sendin’ you back out with me first.”

“That’s just it, don’t you see?” She inclined her head. “I’ve asked the man at least a dozen times where it is he’s taking me. But he has yet to answer me.”

“No wonder.” Mr. Bloom chuckled.

Glaring at his partner, Mr. Kinyon picked up a small stick and smoothed out the dirt before him. He drew a large square then pointed the stick at the center. “Think of that space as bigger’n your whole England. To the west are these mountains we’re crossin’.” He sketched a rough map in the dirt. “At the north end are some huge inland seas of freshwater that are as far west as the Mississippi River an’ run into each other until they empty into the St. Lawrence River that dumps into the Atlantic. Along them lakes an’ both rivers is where the Frenchies have forts an’ fur tradin’ posts.”

“I’ve read about the Mississippi. Doesn’t it flow all the way down to New Orleans, the port on the southern coast?”

“Right.” He pointed to the far bottom corner of his dirt map. “An’ the French have decided they want everything in the center area that New York an’ Virginia have claimed. Them Frenchies are a greedy bunch, so they brought in some soldiers an’ established a store …about here.” He indicated a spot not far below the most eastern lake.

“And just where is Mr. Smith’s trading post located?”

He pointed farther south with the tip of the stick. “I’d put it here. On the Muskingum River just before it pours into the Ohio.”

“Well, that doesn’t look so very far to me,” Rose said, trying to sound hopeful despite the niggle of dread spreading through her.

“It might not
look
far on a map,” Mr. Bloom cut in. “But what with all the rivers an’ creeks we’ll be crossin’ to get there, it’ll take four, maybe five weeks through some not-so-friendly Indian country. ‘Specially with the horses an’ all Smith’s trade goods.”

“Not so friendly?” Purposely overlooking the proposition of spending four or five interminable weeks on the trail, Rose mouthed her main concern.

Mr. Kinyon quickly stepped in. “Bob means not so friendly to the French, lass. The English have made treaties with most of the tribes where Smith’s store is located. An’ the tribes want English goods as much as the English want the furs the Indians provide.”

Only slightly comforted by his elaboration, Rose had to be sure. “So then everything is fine at Mr. Smith’s trading post, just as if he were in a foreign country like Spain or Portugal.” It was more question than statement.

Kinyon cocked his head back and forth. “More or—”

Following his gaze, Rose saw that the trader had risen.

Smith peered at the two men then at her. “I see ya got breakfast goin’. Good. We’ll be hittin’ the trail soon as we’ve et.” He strode toward the Indian camp. “You boys start loadin’ the horses.”

“Reckon we better get to ours, too.” Kinyon stood to his feet. “No sense keepin’ Eustice waitin’.”

As far as Rose was concerned, the later they broke camp and left, the better, because nothing Mr. Kinyon or Mr. Bloom had said made her feel any more at ease about what lay in her future. She’d overheard the frontiersman tell the trader last eve that several hundred French soldiers were heading south …and they had Indian allies aiding them in their intentions.

Chapter 7

R
ummaging through the sacks by the campfire, Rose unearthed enough spoons, wooden bowls, and cups for herself and the three men to use for breakfast. Now she had to figure out where to set things. What she would give for a proper table covered with pristine linen and lovely china, a real home. She’d taken such niceties for granted back in England, where she had no difficulty acting the hostess and serving guests. But out here in the woods, nearby logs and stones would have to suffice.

The ever-present awareness that the men in both camps observed her slightest movement both perplexed her and filled her with a strange sense of worth. Back home in Bath, most locals had considered her only goldsmith Henry Harwood’s spinster daughter. Those who knew how she’d taken her mother’s place and cared for her family members looked on her with pity that she’d never experience the benefits bestowed by matrimony.