Wilderness Double Edition 13 Page 19

  Felicity pulled back to scan the forest. “Was it a trapper, do you think? Why didn’t he show himself? What was he afraid of?”

  Simon shrugged. “Who can say?” In order not to upset her, he did not let on how anxious he was for her safety. An ordinary trapper would not have done what the bearded man did. Taking her hand, he started homeward. “We’ll both stick close to the cabin today in case the stranger comes back.”

  His eyes gave him away. Felicity often joked that Simon wore his feelings on his sleeve, when in truth he wore them in his eyes. She saw he was worried, and she grew worried. The memory of her ordeal with the slavers was all too fresh. She suffered regular nightmares. Afterward, she would wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air, terrified she was back in their clutches. Her friend, Winona, said it took a long time to get over so horrible an experience. Felicity was beginning to wonder if she ever would.

  The cabin stood bathed in sunlight. Butterflies flitted above the flowers Felicity had planted. By the stream a doe drank. The sorrel and Sugar were nipping at grass.

  Simon was glad all was well. Maybe he was fretting for no reason. Maybe it had been a trapper, after all. One of those odd recluses who lived like hermits, hardly ever having contact with other people.

  “I’ll get supper started, darling.”

  Simon unsaddled the sorrel and put both horses in the corral. Sugar tried to take a bite out of his arm, so he swatted her on the nose none too gently. After surveying the valley, he shouldered the saddle and joined his wife.

  The rest of the day was uneventful. Simon cleaned his guns, then sorted through seeds he had special ordered from St. Louis. A trader had picked them up for him and brought them to the last rendezvous. Com, wheat, barley, tomatoes, potatoes, lettuce, and others. Enough to start his own farm.

  Some of the trappers had poked fun at him for going to all that trouble for a bunch of seeds. They had laughed at him for thinking he could grow crops in the mountains. No one had ever done it, they said. But that did not mean no one ever could.

  The seeds were the key to Simon’s future, to the family Felicity and he planned to raise. He believed crops would thrive in the fertile upland valleys, despite the shorter growing season. All it would take was the right seeds, the right plants. Then he could supply all the food his family would ever need, plus have extra to trade for the few essentials they could not provide on their own.

  Which was precious little. They had no rent to pay, no mortgage on their homestead. All the water they’d ever need was right outside their door. Between the abundant wildlife and the crops he’d raise, food would never be a problem. Their store-bought apparel would eventually wear out, but when it did, they would make new garments rather than buy more. His mentor had taught him how to cure buckskin so wonderfully soft, it rivaled the best tailor-made clothing.

  That left tools and the like. Most of the implements he needed he had already acquired, thanks to funds saved prior to the journey west. When new tools were needed, he would barter for them. The traders who plied their wares at the rendezvous brought in everything under the sun.

  Only thing was, rumor had it the days of the rendezvous would soon end. There were so few beaver, it was not worth the effort for merchants to make the long trek across the plains. But Simon wasn’t overly troubled by the reports. Mountain men were forever journeying to St. Louis on some pretext or another. He could always impose on them to obtain whatever he needed. Or he could trade with the pilgrims bound for the Oregon country.

  Simon liked being self-sufficient. In Boston he had been dependent on others for everything. For the money he earned, the food he ate, the clothes he wore. Even for the roof over his head. He had been a slave to society, weaned in a culture where everyone was so accustomed to having things done for them, no one knew how to do anything for themselves anymore.

  Here in Eden, Simon was his own man. Here, he and Felicity met their own needs by the sweat of their brow. In the wilderness a person had to learn to stand on his or her own feet or they were crushed under the grinding heel of their own incompetence. The threat of starvation was always only a few meals away. The elements lurked like medieval monsters, ready to freeze the unprepared with an icy blast of wintry breath or to fry the foolish in a scorching blaze of summer heat.

  A man had to be self-sufficient or he died. It was as simple as that.

  Felicity busied herself at the counter and stove. She’d made a fresh loaf of bread early that morning. For their meal, she would serve venison steak, squirrel soup, and boiled roots. Dessert was a pudding Winona had shown her how to prepare. Simon could wash everything down with plenty of rich black coffee. She’d savor some tea. It was, in short, a feast for royalty.

  Felicity thought of her cousin, Ethel, and wondered what Ethel was doing at that very moment. Shopping for the latest fashions? Dining at a fancy restaurant? Getting ready to go to a play or attend a concert?

  There were days when Felicity missed the frills civilization offered. She would love to be able to go to the theater now and then. To hear an orchestra. To listen to a poetry recital. To stroll along a downtown avenue admiring the dresses on display in the shops. Ah, those were the days!

  Catching herself, Felicity grinned. Old pleasures were as hard to give up as old habits. The simpler life she now led appealed to her just as much as life in Boston ever had. Certainly, she missed her relatives and friends, but not enough to persuade Simon to leave their haven.

  She could; if she wanted. He would do anything for her. A few tears rendered him clay in her hands, to be molded as she saw fit. But she would not do that to him. Eden was his dream. Their dream. She had gone into this with an open mind and open heart. It would not be proper for her to back out now, after they had gone through so much hardship.

  Still, Felicity could not help but think how much safer they would be back in Boston. No wild beasts to contend with, no bloodthirsty Blackfeet or bearded strangers to be on the lookout for.

  “I think I’ll write my cousin and ask her to come visit.”

  Simon looked up from the wooden box that held their future. “Ethel? She won’t step foot outside Boston. Her idea of roughing it is to go a full day without washing her hair.”

  “She’s prissy, I agree, but she’s not that bad. When we were little we camped outside a few times.”

  “In her backyard, as I recall. So she could run inside when she was hungry or thirsty or had to use a chamber pot. And squeal for her mommy if a mosquito buzzed by.”

  “Ethel can’t help being how she is. She was raised in the city.”

  “City life is slavery. We get so used to being waited on hand and foot that we don’t realize the price we’ve paid. The freedoms our forefathers fought for are being whittled away by our own laziness.”

  Felicity knew she should not have gotten him started. He could go on for hours about the seductive evils of society. “I still think Ethel might come. As a lark if for no other reason. So she can go back and tell everyone how simply primitive we’ve become.”

  “If that’s the case, we shouldn’t disappoint her. I’ll go around in a loincloth and you can make a buckskin dress and wear feathers in your hair. We’ll eat our meat raw and scratch at ourselves as if we have lice. And we won’t take baths for a month before she arrives.”

  “Simon Ward! We’ll do no such thing. That would be downright mean.”

  “And downright hilarious. I’d love to see how long she can hold her breath. Or maybe she’ll just pinch her nose shut the whole time she’s here.”

  Felicity could not contain her mirth. “You’re awful sometimes. You know that? Positively horrendous.”

  “I try, my dear. I try.”

  The next morning dawned crisp and clear. Felicity was up first, as usual. She nudged Simon, but he mumbled something about her wearing him out and rolled back over. Grinning, she slid into her robe, donned her slippers, and padded to the counter. It was part of their daily ritual for her to put on a pot of coffee and
fill the cabin with its fragrance before Simon would rouse himself.

  As Felicity poured water from the bucket into the pot she heard a series of low clomps outside, as if a horse were stamping its hoof. Then one nickered. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Sounds like the horses are acting up.”

  “It’s probably those stupid coyotes again. Ever since I cut up that buck and forgot to bury what was left, they keep coming around. If they don’t stop, you’ll have a coyote rug before long.”

  Again the horse nickered, louder than before. Simon sat up, blinking to clear his eyes and his head. “That’s my sorrel.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I just can.”

  Nate had instructed Simon to get to know each of their horses as well as he knew himself. To learn how they differed, to memorize their hoofprints so he could tell one from the other. To do the same with the sounds they made. For just as no two people sounded alike, no two horses whinnied the same. Simon had thought it silly to go to so much effort, but his mentor assured him one day the knowledge would come in handy.

  Throwing off the quilt, Simon rose and pulled on his pants and boots. Thinking he only had to shoo coyotes away, he left his shirt draped over the bedpost and walked to the door. His rifle and two spares were on a rack beside it. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  In the glorious rosy glow of a new day the Garden of Eden was spectacular. White fluffy clouds sailed on lofty currents. The stream was a turquoise blue, gurgling like a happy baby. To the south deer quenched their thirst, among them a fragile fawn. Dew glistened on the grass like shimmering diamonds.

  Goose bumps broke out on Simon as he headed around the cabin. He was not quite fully awake, and he was in an irritable frame of mind. Being lured outdoors before jolting his system with coffee was not to his liking. He went around the corner, declaring, “All right, you miserable coyotes. This is the last straw. Scamper elsewhere or suffer the consequences.”

  “Well, ain’t you-all the feisty one.”

  Simon nearly tripped over his own feet in consternation. Next to the corral was a young woman about his own age. She had long, greasy black hair. A plain homespun dress, frayed at the hem, clung loosely to her slender frame. Her cheeks, her arms, her lower legs were smudged with dirt, and incredibly, she was barefoot, her feet positively filthy. “What in the world?” he blurted.

  “And a fine howdy-do to you, too, mister,” said the apparition. She had a twang to her voice, a heavy southern accent.

  “Where did you come from, girl?’ ‘

  She grinned, revealing that one of her upper front teeth was missing. “I ain’t no girl, mister. I’m a full-growed woman. I’ve done my share of sparkin’, I’ll have you know.”

  “Sparkin’?” Simon was desperately trying to get his befuddled brain to work, but it refused.

  Her grin widened. “You know, courtin’ and such. Don’t tell me a handsome feller like you ain’t never sparked? That’s hardly likely, seein’ as how you’ve got a woman. She your wife, handsome?”

  Simon was too flabbergasted to answer. So someone else did.

  “That’s enough out of you, Cindy Lou. Watch that trollop tongue of yours or you’ll fetch a switchin’. Woman or no, you’re never too old for me to beat the livin’ tar out of you. Learn proper manners, hussy, or else.”

  Simon pivoted, his amazement growing. A heavyset man every bit as grungy as Cindy Lou sat astride a mule that appeared to be all bone and gristle. He wore ragtag clothes and a floppy brown hat. Cradled in his left elbow was a Kentucky rifle. Jutting from his belt was the longest knife Simon had ever set eyes on. “Who are you? What the devil are you doing here?”

  The man had small, dark eyes that glittered like embers. “Ol’ Satan got nothin’ to do with this, friend. I’m Jacob Coyfield. That there’s my daughter. We’d be obliged if we could light and set a spell, seein’ as how we’ve been on the go pretty near three months now.”

  “We’re from Arkansas,” Cindy Lou said.

  Jacob Coyfield’s flabby jowls pinched together. “When the man wants our life story, I’ll give it to him. Meanwhile, why don’t you learn when to speak and when to shush.” He sighed. “Ever notice, mister? You can pound sense into your brood until kingdom come and there ain’t no guarantee any of it will take root. Some young’uns have nothin’ but rocks betwixt their ears.” Coyfield rubbed the stubble on his oval chin. “So, what’ll it be, friend? You going to be neighborly or not? We welcome?”

  Simon had an urge to say no. Judging someone by first impressions was misleading, but .he did not much like this man. Yet how could he refuse? The Christian thing to do was invite them in. And Felicity would relish having another woman to talk to. “Of course you are. Climb on down.”

  Jacob Coyfield winked at his daughter. “See? Be friendly to folks and they’re always friendly back. Your ma and the rest will be tickled pink.”

  “The rest?” Simon said.

  Coyfield shifted in the saddle and pumped an arm. “It’s all right!” he hollered. “Bring them on in, Mabel!”

  Simon was stunned to see a knot of riders emerge from the trees to the east. Five, six, seven in all, four on horses, three on mules. In the lead rode a woman every bit as plump as Jacob. She dressed like him, too, in britches and a baggy man’s shirt and floppy black hat. “Who are they?”

  “Kin,” Coyfield said. “Our clan, or what’s left of ’em after the McEmys got through. Lost my own pa about a year ago to those murderin’ vermin. I’d’ve stayed until the last man was standin’, but I had my family to think of. The feud ain’t worth all their lives.”

  “Feud?”

  “Tell me, mister. Do you make a habit of repeating everything a body says? Yes, a feud. Us hill folk have what you might call a code we live by, a code we’ve been livin’ by since before your grandpappy was toddlin’ in diapers. A code we brought with us from the Old Country. It’s plain as the nose on your face that you’re a Yankee, so I ain’t surprised you don’t know much about our ways.”

  “He don’t know much about anything, Pa,” Cindy Lou commented.

  “Be civil, girl.”

  Simon was growing uneasy under Cindy Lou’s stare. She looked at him as if he were a slab of meat she was fixing to cut up and eat. “It’s true I’ve never been to Arkansas. The farthest south I’ve ever been is Maryland. Baltimore.”

  Jacob Coyfield had opened a pouch and inserted two pudgy fingers. “I been to New York once. Thought I’d died and gone to hell. All them people runnin’ around like chickens with their heads chopped off. All that noise and confusion. I don’t hardly see how anyone can abide it.”

  “City life always had the same effect on me.”

  “Do tell.” Coyfield withdrew a wad of tobacco and crammed it into his mouth. Chewing noisily, he remarked, “I’d’ve thought all Yankees were at home in the big city. But then, what do I know? Me being a simple country boy and all.”

  His sarcasm was thick enough to slice with a razor. Simon wondered if it had been directed at him personally. “Where are you headed, Jacob? If you don’t mind my asking?”

  Cindy Lou tittered, then blanched when her father gave her a withering glare. “We’re on our way to Oregon,” Coyfield said. “We hear tell there’s good land up there for the takin’. The climate is supposed to be nice, except for a few days of rain now and again. But shucks, rain won’t bother us none. Rain is the good Lord’s way of washin’ His creation.”

  Strange words coming from a man who looked as if he had not touched soap and water in ages. Simon merely smiled and nodded. “At one time I toyed with the idea of going there. Then I heard about the Rockies.”

  Jacob appraised the regal peaks ringing the valley. “It sure enough is Paradise here, ain’t it? More critters than I ever saw, and plenty of water. And all these mountains stretchin’ clear to heaven. Sort of puts the States to shame. I’m a mite surprised more folks haven’t staked claims here.”

&nbs
p; “They will. Give it a few years. Once word spreads, homesteads will spring up all over.”

  Coyfield’s relations arrived, and Jacob introduced them. In addition to his wife, Mabel, there was another woman a few years older than Cindy Lou. Her name was Mary Beth, and she was the daughter of Coyfield’s brother, Samuel. Samuel had two sons, Tinder and Bo. Jacob had two sons of his own, Jess and Cole. All four were strapping, grim men with bushy beards.

  Simon studied them closely, his unease growing. One might be the stalker from the previous day, but he could not say which because he had not had a good enough look at the man’s face. He was tempted to tell them he had changed his mind and they were not welcome, but that would be rude. “Why don’t all of you climb down and I’ll bring out the coffee.” He did not deem it wise to invite them in.

  “Any chance of gettin’ some vittles?” Jacob asked. “I’m plumb starved.”

  Plump Mabel Coyfield was a cheery soul, the kind who wore a smile like a second skin. “If’n it’s no bother, of course,” she said. “I’d be glad to help your missus out. Me and the girls are passable cooks, if’n I say so myself. Our possum stew was the talk of the hills. And our hominy would melt in your mouth.”

  “Wait here. Please.”

  Simon was in such haste to get inside, he came close to bumping heads with Felicity, who was on her way out.

  “I heard two voices and a shout. Are Nate and Winona here? I know they’re due soon.”

  “No, it’s not them.” Simon sorely wished it were. “We have other company. A clan, they call themselves. Six men and three women—” Simon got no further. He was going to warn her that one of the men might be the fellow who had been spying on her, but she didn’t let him finish. At the mention of women her features lit up like a lantern and she brushed past in a swirl of dress and apron. “Wait!”

  Felicity darted to the corner of the cabin, overjoyed to think she would have other ladies to talk to. Her elation evaporated when she saw the whole clan. As one, they focused on her, and the tallest of the bearded men gave a start, as if he had been pricked by a needle. Felicity reminded herself that a book should never be judged by its cover. Mustering a warm smile, she advanced, holding out her hand toward the oldest woman. “I’m Felicity Ward. I can’t tell you what a treat this is.”