Rose's Pledge (14 page)

But as he led her to the railing near where he’d assist the Indian in working the rope, he found it hard to release that delicate hand enclosed in his.

A glance past her shoulder revealed a knowing smirk on the brave’s sun-browned face. Nate offered him a weak grimace and reached for the rope, nodding for the two of them to pull in unison.

Rose stood wide eyed, watching the current with a modicum of acceptance, if not enjoyment. And Nate enjoyed watching her.

In midstream, she turned to him. “Cheat River. Are you acquainted with how it came to have such a curious name?”

“Aye.” He huffed with effort as he yanked on the rope. “But first, I’d like to hear how you got your name. It suits you fine.”

“My name?” She focused her gaze off into the distance, a tiny smile on her lips. “Actually, while my mother was awaiting my birth, she came across a term in her Bible: ‘Rose of Sharon.’ She thought it was the loveliest name ever, so that’s what she and my father decided to call me.”

“Rose of Sharon—”

“Kinyon!”

At the Indian’s sharp tone, Nate realized he’d stopped pulling. He immediately got back to work, but not before catching the grin Rose tried to contain as she turned her attention to the water. It didn’t bother him in the least. She needed to know he was truly interested. “Your parents must care a great deal for you an’ miss you sorely.”

She gave a sad shake of the head, the brim of her bonnet dipping on the breeze. “I’m afraid Mum went to be with the Lord when my youngest brother came into the world. I’ve no doubt that Papa misses my sisters and me a great deal, however. We were quite close.”

“I’m sure he does.” Nate gave the hemp two sharp yanks. “Especially you.”

“And my cooking. Let’s not forget about that.” The teasing lilt of her voice faded along with her smile, and she turned serious. “Ironic, is it not? ‘Tis that very skill that has thrust me upon this tiresome journey.” She filled her lungs and let the air out in a slow breath. “Speaking of journeys, this small part of it has almost come to an end. So do tell me from whence this river got its name.”

“Oh, that.” Nate checked ahead to the dock as the small conveyance neared the wooden structure then gave a hearty pull on the rope. “Hear tell this particular river got its name when some hunters left their gear along the bank while they were off yonder dressin’ out a buck. They weren’t gone too long. But when they came back, that cheatin’ river had made off with all their truck. Swept it away while they weren’t lookin’.”

“You can’t be serious.” Rose slanted him a look of disbelief.

“Sure as I’m standin’ here. This river’s known to be real tricky. It can wash right up onto its banks and steal a pretty little thing like you away before you know it. And that surely would be a cheat if ever there was one.”

Rose closed her eyes and shook her head. “Nate Kinyon. As they say in Ireland, I do believe you’ve kissed the Blarney Stone.”

He chuckled. “Mebbe a time or two.” And gazing at those tempting lips on his Rose of Sharon, he knew something else he’d like to kiss.

After making the successful river crossing, the party lined up again to travel onward, and Rose found herself in the middle of the pack train. She found the change unsettling, as the Indians’ relaxed behavior took on an ominous change. No longer did they chat back and forth in the low tones of their strange tongue. Instead they became silent and watchful, constantly looking about. Often their hands would come to rest on a rifle or sheathed knife—particularly when a birdcall or the screech of some wild animal echoed through the forest growth.

Added to that, Nate Kinyon, whom she looked upon as her protector, no longer rode directly behind her. He’d taken the lead position, ahead of Mr. Smith. At times he rode even farther beyond, out of sight, sometimes for half an hour or more.

Rose couldn’t help remembering the frontiersman’s explanation regarding the territory they were entering. No tribe had laid claim to it, he’d said. The land lacked a governing force of any sort, and here young boys could be captured and killed or carted off by roaming Indians and ransomed without fear of reprisal. She could tell from the tension in the backs of the men in the party that unspoken dangers of other kinds could be lying in wait anywhere, anytime in this vast, untamed place.

No one had to remind her that the pack train was a prime target. She was riding in the midst of twenty heavily laden horses weighted down with goods and treasures every Indian coveted—or Mr. Smith wouldn’t be hauling them these many, many miles. Remembering how readily he had plunked down fifty pounds for her alone, she surmised his store must be a profitable enterprise. She sent yet another silent prayer for safety aloft.

Late afternoon sunlight through the treetops speckled the rustic deer trail as the party lumbered on, single file. Humidity magnified the woodland scents as they passed rocky outcroppings covered with moss, and as always, Rose’s nostrils detected the smell of the horses as they plodded onward. Her thoughts drifted back in time to her English home, where she’d have had a perfumed handkerchief tucked in her sleeve for use at a moment’s notice to disguise unpleasant odors. How sweet was the scent of the summer roses that climbed the garden trellis in back of their home, the inviting aroma of fresh-baked bread and raisin scones that filled the house. And the lovely tea Lily would brew. What she’d give for a soothing cup right now on this seemingly endless day!

At the sound of approaching hoofbeats, Rose tensed, gradually relaxing as she spotted Nate returning.

Passing the front of the group, he came to join her, a weary smile intensifying tired lines around his eyes. “We’ll be stoppin’ for the night soon, but not lightin’ any fires, sorry to say.” His quiet tones set her on alert again. “We’ll just eat up some of those hard buns an’ jerked meat we brought with us. Mebbe some of that fresh cow’s milk would taste mighty good. Oh, an’ I happened across a few berries awhile back, so I picked some.”

“No fire, you say?” Wishing he’d elaborate further, Rose decided she’d really rather not know what put him on guard. She’d have to trust God to look after this vulnerable, mismatched group forging ever deeper into the unknown.

Nate untied a juice-stained sack from a saddle ring and handed it to her. “If it’s any comfort, you’ll be takin’ it kind of easy for a spell. There’ll be no cookin’ tonight or any other night for a couple days.” He tipped his head in Mr. Smith’s direction and chuckled.

Rose laughed with him. “Quite right. I fear poor Mr. Smith and his tender stomach are hardly getting his money’s worth out of me.”

A frown crinkled the frontiersman’s forehead, and he kneaded his chin. “That purely puzzles me. Ol’ Eustice has always been a shrewd dealer. I wonder if a sour stomach is his whole reason for wantin’ you so bad.”

With a glance at the trader, Rose shivered as a chill shot through her. Nate’s broad hand covered hers on the pommel. “Like I told you before, I’m here, and I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Gritting her teeth against the pain caused by riding hours on horseback, Rose hobbled back toward the camp, carrying milk from the cow that now grazed placidly on meadow grass. The hem of her fawn skirt swished with her movements, and she gazed down in despair at how dusty and dismal the daygown now looked after having been worn day after day. It had snagged countless times on protruding brambles. Inhaling the delicate scent of wildflowers dancing in the meadow, Rose wished she looked as fresh and smelled so sweet. She recalled with chagrin her uncivil thoughts regarding the odorous Mr. Smith and realized she could be close to such rankness herself now. But she would not sacrifice another daygown. How long had it been since she had sunk into a tub billowing steam and soaked until the water grew tepid? Or climbed between crisp bed linens of pristine white that still carried the fragrance of the summer wind? Would she know such luxuries again?

Reaching the clearing, where food sacks sat propped against a fallen log, she set down the bowl of milk and retrieved the items for the evening’s spartan meal. Not far away, the members of the party worked in harmony while she removed wooden trenchers and cups for her threesome. The men had to be as travel weary as she, yet no one complained as they freed horses of their burdens and hobbled them.

One of the Indians paused in his work and eyed the sky with concern. Rose glanced up and sighed at the sight of clouds rolling in. She’d already had to forfeit the promise of stimulating conversation regarding faith with ‘New Light’ Robert Bloom and would not be allowed the simple comfort of herbal tea this night. Now a storm loomed. The injustice of it all stung her. But rather than allow herself to sink into the mire of self-pity, she refused to give in to tears that would make her appear weak in the presence of all these men. Lifting her chin with renewed purpose, she resumed her chore, setting out the trenchers and cups and gathering the needed food items Nate had mentioned.

The sounds of repeated thwacking and chopping made her glance toward the thicket, where Indians were cutting branches from fir trees and tossing them into piles. There was to be no fire this eve. What purpose lay behind such a waste of energy? Other men were busy removing tarps from the packs and stringing them between trees. This time the worn canvases were more in number and strung at a slant, likely to provide runoff from the imminent rain. But what would keep water from blowing in from the sides?

The unusual pile of fir branches continued to grow. Then the men gathered them and spread them out, layering some beneath the tarps and leaning some upright against the sides, layer after layer. Primitive shelters took form before Rose’s eyes. The fir branches that seemed to have no purpose would surely keep their bedding off the damp ground, as well as keep out blowing rain.

When Nate Kinyon placed her trunk and valises inside one of the crude huts, Rose appreciated his constant concern for her personal welfare—despite her fear that she no longer smelled as sweet as her namesake flower.

From out of nowhere the story of the Nativity drifted into her mind, reminding her of the way the Lord had looked after Mary and her baby when a situation seemed impossible. God provided the unwed peasant girl a confidante in her relative Elizabeth, and a husband who, instead of giving her a certificate of divorce, married her and then lovingly cared for her and her unborn child. When King Herod sought to destroy her baby, the Lord compelled Joseph to take his family and flee to Egypt. Always there were angels to guide and protect them. God truly did care for His own.

Hearing footsteps, Rose glanced up to see Nate walking toward her with that endearing grin that warmed her heart. Was he her own personal angel sent by God when she needed help the most?
Don’t be such a goose!
Even after all these days, the man turned red as ever when he offered the prayer at breakfast.

But still, it was an interesting thought. She returned his smile.

Chapter 11

G
rateful for the chance to sit down at day’s end, Nate sank onto a fallen log at the campsite and stretched out his legs. Across from him Rose lowered herself with her usual grace onto a slumped flour sack and drew her ivory shawl about her shoulders. She always dispensed with her bonnet when preparing a meal, and wisps of honey-gold hair—though somewhat tangled from travel—formed little curls around her face, giving her an enchanting innocent charm as she looked up at him and Eustice. “Would either of you care for the honor of blessing our food—such as it is—this eve?”