Through Rushing Water (4 page)

Will grunted as the wheel bumped through a hole. “She'll find one soon.”

“She likes you.”

“She can do better than me.”

Will knew it would never work between him and Brown Eagle's sister. The strongest joints came from similar timbers with matched cuts on each end. If he ever got married, that's the way he wanted it to be. Not the way it was in most marriages.

Will had seen how his brother carried the load in his marriage. Harrison bore most of the responsibility, while his wife, Tilly, entertained herself with shopping and fashion and teas. With the Indians it was just the opposite—the women seemed to do more than their share.

What Will wanted was a partnership. A joining of equals. Not much chance out here at the Ponca Agency of finding a woman who'd splice her life to Will's with any sort of balance.

“My brother says business is picking up in Omaha. I'll have to go back soon.”

Brown Eagle shook his head. “Omaha. The city took an Indian name, but won't take an Indian.”

Brown Eagle had the right of it. Back in Omaha his sister would be given the cold shoulder and her children shunned. Even if he were so inclined, courting now would lead to hurting later.

Fast Little Runner greeted them, then showed them a spot across the room. “The floor is soft.”

No surprise, given the poor shingles the government had sent. They ought to issue buckets with every hundred.

Will crossed the floor, each squeaking step reminding him the wood hadn't had time to season before it was put to use. He knelt and probed the floor with his awl. The plank gave easier than a rotten potato. It was a wonder no one had fallen through.

Will handed the tool to Brown Eagle to mark where the bad boards had to be cut out, then headed out to fix the roof. As he propped the ladder, a loud thump echoed from the house. Will hurried back in as Eloise, Fast Little Runner's wife, dashed out with her grandbaby.

The ax head was lodged in the wall where it had flown off. Brown Eagle studied the end of the handle. Thank the Lord no one got hurt.

“Lousy allotment junk,” Will said. “Throw it away.” He handed the toolbox to his friend. “Use a drill and a saw.”

“Boat!” Eloise called.

Will pulled the spyglass from his toolbox. A stern-wheeler. A new one from the looks of it, though with the wild Missouri, none of them lasted to old age. The letters on the side spelled out
Benton
.

And a female passenger. One foolish enough to come upriver. Too well dressed to be following a gold miner. Wife of one of the officers at Fort Randall maybe. The roustabout unloaded an assortment of trunks, barrels, and crates, staggering under the weight.

It couldn't be the allotment. Those boxes arrived empty.

Dear Lord Almighty, the lady got off the boat. She carried herself like the Queen, although weighing a few stones less. The boat pulled away, leaving Her Royal Highness standing, hands crossed as if waiting for communion. And the agent nowhere to be found.

Will would have to go try to make some sense of it. He left his tools with Fast Little Runner and loped to shore.

Sophia set her valise on a trunk out of the mud, then surveyed the village. The huts were reminiscent of the slums of the Lower East Side of New York City but lacked their stench. The air smelled of vegetation growing and decomposing, a whiff of woodsmoke, but no hint of bread baking or meat cooking. A shabby fence enclosed a stable and a pile of hay, but no animals.

She turned her head to listen. The low
cluck-cluck
of chickens punctuated the rustling of the wind across the prairie. No voices spoke, no one sang, no one called or cried. Villages destroyed during the Crimean War had more life than this.

What possible good could she do in the face of such grim poverty? Certainly God would not waste her talents by keeping her here, would He? She glanced back at the river, but no boat came to her rescue. She was stranded.

The sole two-story structure seemed to be in better repair than the others. It boasted a fence and the beginning of an orchard. Perhaps it was the agency house. Where were the agent and his staff? Had they been killed? Surely the steamboat captain would not have left her here if there was any danger.

A pair of children darted between houses. They peeked at her, then dashed closer, using other houses as cover. The black-haired one wore a tattered pair of pants. The one with a reddish tint to his hair had a cloth tied around his waist. What sort of game were they playing? And why, midafternoon on a weekday, were they not in school?

Oh yes. School. That was why she was here. Well, she would do her best to teach them until the Mission Board could send a suitable replacement.

An elderly man with a white tuft of a beard and a turban exited the nearest hut and shuffled toward her. A woman with an infant on her back emerged from the cottage behind the two-story house. More children joined the first two. A tall man with a long wave of dark hair ambled down from a large building.

Their round heads, broad faces, and dark coloring reminded her of the Mongol people. In contrast to the Santee tribe, the Poncas wore rags and scraps of blankets. The newspapers might call them “blood-thirsty savages,” but they looked more like starved Russian peasants during the Time of Troubles.

The Indians formed a circle around Sophia and her luggage. Was this how it felt to be outnumbered, a minority? Sophia glimpsed the inch of skin, white skin, between her glove and sleeve, and felt the weight of coins in the drawstring bag at her waist.

No. She could never fully understand.

She held out her hand to the oldest male, supposing he might be the chief. “Good afternoon. I am Sophia Makinoff. The new teacher. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The chief and his people shrank away, whispering. Sophia heard a few guttural sounds similar to German. Most of the vowels seemed to be “ah.”

“Does anyone speak English?”

No one answered.

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

No response.

She tried again.
“Parlez-vous français?”

Silence.

The Smolny Institute for Noble Maidens had trained her in appropriate forms of address for the myriad ranks of nobility. But nothing in her education had prepared her for this moment.

After three, almost four years with the Poncas, this white woman looked funny to Will. Pale as new-cut pine. Her cheeks were round, not all sunken in like people who'd been without food. And she wore a complete set of clothes, from shoes all the way up to a silly flower-covered hat too small to shade her face.

She conversed with old Lone Chief, who didn't know English, in . . . French?

Was she a Papist? The reverend would fly off the handle faster than that allotment ax head.

Her Highness stepped forward again, reaching out, trying to look them in the eye. The people drew back. Will looked over Little Chief's shoulder.

“Your gloves.”

The woman blinked up at him, looked directly into his face with eyes as blue as the sky. The force of her gaze hit him and he, too, stepped back.

She spoke, and after a long moment, Will's brain deciphered her words. She said, “Oh, you speak English.”

Yeah, he and half the people on this beach. But not with such a pretty accent. He cleared his throat and nodded at her gloves. “Yes'm. Uh, shiny blue hands don't look real to them.”

Instead of quoting some rule of etiquette, Her Highness pulled them off. “But of course. There now, I am honored to make your acquaintance.
Enchanté
.”

Lone Chief made a study of it, keeping his hands tucked into his blanket. They would wait, for hours if necessary. Will had never seen such patient people as the Poncas.

The woman stood with her arm in the air. From the corner of his eye, Will saw the reverend finally emerge from his house.

Scurvy dog. He'd have to end this standoff. Will reached between Little Chief and Lone Chief and took the woman's hand in his big mitt. Soft. Smooth. Cool.

After a moment his manners overcame the shock of her touch. “Good day, miss. I'm Willoughby Dunn, the Agency carpenter.”

“Pleased to meet you. I am Sophia Makinoff, the teacher.”

“Teacher?” The rev had sent off for a teacher three months ago, when the last one up and bolted. Will hadn't figured on a another coming so soon, especially a woman, what with the trouble and all.

“Perhaps you could assist me. I need to arrange transport for my baggage. Is there a wagon for hire?”

Will had stopped listening to her words, hearing only the music of her voice. Seeing only the flutter of her eyelashes and the way her lips shaped the words.

“Reverend Henry Granville.” The preacher, all fancied up, elbowed aside Standing Buffalo Bull. “My mother is at the house. Come, I'll introduce you.”

The teacher said her name again. Will listened this time. Sophia? He'd never met a Sophia before. Below her hat, a knot of hair shone the color of oiled maple.

“Let's get you settled in. You must be tired.” The rev tried to take her arm.

She stepped back. Her upturned wrist included the Poncas. “Perhaps I might meet the people I will be ministering to.”

“Uh, well, they're not all here, the children, your students.” All Poncas looked the same to Henry.

Will raised his hand. It's what you did around teachers. “I'd be glad to introduce you.” He started to his right. “You've met Lone Chief.”

Miss Makinoff slipped her hand into the old man's and dropped the first curtsy seen this far up the Missouri. They resumed their conversation in French.

Henry tugged on her sleeve. “Mother's putting supper on the table,” he said. Will had never known him to miss a meal. “You boys—” Granville pointed to Black Eagle, White Swan, Standing Buffalo Bull, and Black Crow, all older than he. “Bring the teacher's luggage up to the house.”

“Is there no wagon? The containers are heavy.”

Standing Bear directed the young men, assigning two to each trunk. Will grabbed a barrel.

“Don't want to be left out, my friend?” Yellow Horse asked with a sly grin. “Impress the teacher with your muscles.”

“What else do I have?” Will grinned back.

A tall man finally came out of the house, took off his hat, and bowed like a dandy. “Welcome. James Lawrence, the agent, at your service, ma'am.”

Will barely recognized his boss. He must have spent the last few minutes oiling his hair, donning his coat and vest, and knotting his bow tie.

James directed the stacking of the baggage on the porch. “No traveling light for you, eh?”

“These are my personal effects.” Miss Makinoff indicated the trunks. “The rest are school supplies.”

“The government finally decided to honor their own treaty?” Will asked, earning a scowl from the agent.

“They are not from the government. These are gifts from my former place of employment and the churches in New York.” The teacher shook Yellow Horse's hand. “Thank you ever so much. And you are?”