Rose's Pledge (24 page)

A wracking sob swelled within her breast, and Rose sat up to stifle the sound before she disturbed Jenny. She clamped her hand tightly over her mouth as her cheeks and hand were washed with her tears.

Completely unexpected, a soothing sense of peace spread through her, and she recalled plainly the words of comfort her father had given her when her beloved mother breathed her last.
“The Bible tells us that our days are numbered by the Lord before we are born, Rosie-mine. It says there’s a time to be born and a time to die. He alone knows when those times come to us. Even though there will always be suffering in this life, He knows all those who love and trust Him. He never leaves us or forsakes us. He stays by our side through all the hard times. And He will always see us safely through to the other side. God is waiting to welcome us home.”

The gnawing ache inside her lessened as her sorrow eased with hope. Hannah Wright’s last words played across her memory. She was looking forward to being reunited with her Adam …and the two were probably even now embracing in the presence of the Lord, happier than they had ever been. Despite the evil torture the poor woman had endured, her ultimate victory was her everlasting joy in a place where sorrow and pain and death would never again intrude.

The baby made a sighing sound.

Rose lay back down and drew little Jenny close. The tiny girl was her sole responsibility now. God had put the precious child into her care. From this moment on, she must remember that her coming here—despite the hardships and fears she’d endured along the way—was no accident. The Lord had placed her here in His time and for His purpose. Whatever she had to face, she would be strong in her faith, just as she had promised her mother so long ago. Strong for God and strong for Jenny.

Rose chose a small knoll just out of sight of the Shawnee village where she felt Hannah would finally rest in peace. Mr. Smith had Running Wolf and Spotted Elk dig the grave in a spot shaded by a towering maple tree, and the two lowered her body, wrapped in a clean blanket, into the ground. Rose held Jenny close as she and the trader watched the braves fill in the gaping hole. Then Rose placed the few late wildflowers she’d found nearby atop the mound of fresh earth.

After the two Indians walked away, Mr. Smith pulled a thin book from inside his belted shirt and exhaled as he opened the worn volume. His high-pitched voice broke the silence as he began reading. “‘Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’ “Rose recognized the familiar passage from the apostle John’s writings and looked up at the trader while he finished. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

Astonished that the man actually had a New Testament in his possession and made sure Jenny’s mother had a Christian burial, Rose tried not to let her surprise show.

Mr. Smith reached out with his gnarled hand and ruffled Jenny’s silky hair. “We should bow fer a word o’ prayer.” He cleared his throat. “Almighty God, Ya know what took place here that put this young gal in an early grave. Ya say in Yer Word that vengeance is Yourn, an’ I guess we have to leave it at that. I know Yer lookin’ after her, an’ we’ll do our best to look after the little one she left behind. Amen.”

Touched by the heartfelt prayer, Rose raised her head …only to be assaulted by laughter a short distance away. This unfortunate white woman died because no Indian deigned to tend her wounds, and these people found humor in something so despicable?

She swung toward the noise and saw three native girls about the same ages as her sisters playing some sort of game. Each had a short-handled paddle of sorts and repeatedly hit into the air what looked like a small ball with a tail of feathers.

Rose wiped perspiration from her brow and relaxed. At least the girls hadn’t been laughing at the death of Hannah Wright. Nevertheless, it irked her that life in the village went on as usual. As she and Mr. Smith returned to the trading post, she could see older women seated in front of their wigwams weaving reeds into baskets or stitching leather. Another kneaded a lump of clay. A few collected vegetables in their gardens, while some of the men stood in the river casting nets for fish. Not far from them, youngsters splashed about in the shallows near the bank. No one cared a whit about the fact they’d caused mortal injury to an unprotected woman—an innocent baby’s mother—and then allowed her to die an unspeakable death.

Still, Mr. Smith had cared. For all his gruff talk, the man truly cared. Rose’s respect for him went up a notch.

From the corner of her eye, she caught him rubbing his stomach as he so often did of late. As she turned to him, he stretched out his arms. “Let me have that sweet little gal fer a spell. I had me four sons b’fore my Ellie passed on. Never did have us no little gal.”

Rose smiled and handed the baby to him. “I didn’t know that. Where are they now?”

He tossed his head as if it was of no import, but Rose didn’t miss the spark of pride in his eyes. “Scattered about back in Virginny with fam’lies o’ their own now. I seen to it they was all set up in a prosperous trade. Good boys, one an’ all.”

Listening to him imparting personal information, Rose realized she wasn’t the only melancholy one today. Hannah’s funeral must have brought back memories of the first Mrs. Smith’s death. “Have you and your present wife been blessed with any children?”

He snorted. “No. An’ we ain’t likely to, neither.” His jaw tightened.

Rose had more questions, but from the derision in his voice, she thought it best to drop the matter. “If you’d be kind enough to entertain little Jenny for a while, I’ll go cook you both a nice rice pudding with raisins and cinnamon. How’s that?”

He laughed and lightly tweaked Jenny’s button nose, making the little one catch a breath and giggle. “We’d like that right ‘nough, wouldn’t we, sweet thing?”

Watching the two of them, Rose knew she had certainly misjudged Mr. Smith. He wasn’t nearly the heartless man he’d led her to believe. It was all a big act.

During the long weeks that followed, Rose kept a number of pressing questions to herself. Days were growing noticeably shorter. Many of the village crops had been harvested and dried or stored for the coming winter. As the weather began to cool, the leaves started turning the magnificent colors of autumn. Yet Nate and Robert Bloom had still not returned.

Mrs. Smith now paraded before the other squaws in another daygown Rose had made her, a blue checked one. But the trader’s wife couldn’t hold a candle to her two brothers, who strutted around in matching green-and-yellow-striped shirts Rose had sewn for them.

Now besides caring for the baby and doing the cooking, Rose was learning the fur business—which animal furs were the most valuable and the subtle differences within a species that determined the quality of each pelt. Mr. Smith was her teacher, and he also had her bargaining with the Indians whenever they came to the trading post with canoes loaded down with bundles of furs. She still hadn’t mastered any of the Shawnee language, much less the dialects of any of the other tribes, but she’d picked up on a primitive sort of sign language that was used in trade and got by fairly well with it.

Rose had never questioned the man regarding his reasons for these new duties, but she knew instinctively why he’d been so intent on having her learn his trade. He did not trust Fawn Woman, and no matter how mild and smooth the food was that Rose made for him, it was obvious he continued to suffer pain in his stomach. His straggly beard no longer hid the sunken cheeks bearing witness to a noticeable loss of weight. She suspected he was much worse off than he let on.

One day after an Indian who bore multiple scars and disfigurements left the trading post and headed back upstream with his goods, Rose could not contain her curiosity. She straightened some of the pelts the red man had left in trade and approached her owner as he jiggled the now healthy Jenny Ann on his knees. “Mr. Smith, how could one man be covered with so many scars, like that Indian was, unless—” She paused for breath. “When Jenny’s mother was dying, you said she’d had to run a …a …”

“Gauntlet,” he supplied. “An’ yes, that brave might’a had to run it, too. Likely he was stole from his people by some other tribe. An’ ya might say, runnin’ the gauntlet is like bein’ initiated. If ya make it through, yer good ‘nough to be adopted into the tribe.”

“What is a
gauntlet
, exactly? I’ve often heard that word.” She noticed the baby’s eyelids were growing heavy, and the trader did as well. He laid her gently down onto a plush pallet of furs they’d put between some crates and smiled as she put her thumb into her rosebud mouth and nodded off. Then he looked up at Rose.

He let out a slow breath. “It’s like this. The whole tribe lines up in two rows facin’ each other, an’ they all got sticks. The captive has to run betwixt ‘em whilst they’re swingin’ the sticks at ‘em. They get a real kick outta tryin’ to trip a poor fella up, ‘cause then he has to start over again. Afterward, though, if he was brave ‘nough to make it the whole way, they take him in and patch him up, an’ he’s part o’ the tribe. Might be he’s still a slave, though.”

“But they didn’t help Hannah Wright, even though Spotted Elk told me she actually did make it through.”

He nodded. “I heard that, too. ‘Fraid that little gal was unlucky enough to get herself caught in the middle of a family squabble.”

Rose mulled over his response. “Well, if Nate or Robert was set upon by some other tribe, would they have to run the gauntlet?”

He rubbed his bearded chin. “That there’s a different case. Them boys is down tradin’ in country them Frenchies is tryin’ to claim as their own. Those two would prob’ly get treated a mite rougher than Miz Wright.”

Sobered by that statement, Rose felt the blood drain from her face. “Surely you don’t mean….”

He didn’t answer right away. Then he shrugged a shoulder. “If them Frenchies get wind of ‘em, those two could be in fer some real trouble. But don’t start worryin’ overmuch. Them boys is real good at takin’ care o’ themselves. They don’t take no foolish chances, neither.” He grimaced and pressed a hand atop that spot on his belly that seemed to give him the most trouble. “Reckon them eggs I had this mornin’ didn’t set so well. Think I’ll go lay down fer a spell.” He glanced lovingly down at Jenny Ann, sleeping sweetly on her soft pallet, then met Rose’s gaze. “Keep an eye out fer customers.”

“I will.” Still awed by the tenderness he displayed around the baby, Rose sensed he was as attached to the child as she herself was. As she watched him head for his wigwam, she wished she’d managed to squeeze in a few more questions. Nate and Robert had been gone weeks now, much too long for them to dispose of one measly canoe load of goods—and they’d taken on that dangerous mission just for her.

To keep her mind off the plaguing thought, she began lining up knives and hatchets neatly on a crate top. Those items were some of their best sellers, and the stock was dwindling.

A voice from outside interrupted her chore. “Harwood.”

Rose pivoted and glanced out the store’s wide opening. Running Wolf, in his green-and-yellow shirt, pointed down toward the riverbank.

She followed the gesture with her gaze and saw two men beaching a canoe.

White men! Nate? Robert?

But as they looked up toward the store, her joy plummeted to her toes. Strangers. Merely strangers.

Chapter 21