“We are back to that again.”
“To what?”
“Never mind.” Blue Water Woman tapped the saucer. “I put toza in the tea.”
Shakespeare did not need to ask why. He was familiar with dozens of Indian remedies, everything from bitterroot for sore throats to juniper berries for bladder problems to the root of the horse-tail plant for sores. Toza was a tonic for those who were run down.
“Drink it.”
“Well moused, lion,” Shakespeare quoted. But he obliged her and took several sips. Setting the cup down, he picked up the spoon and was about to dip it into the soup when the aroma tingled his nose. “Unless my nostrils are mistaken, this is chicken soup.”
“We were out of badger meat,” Blue Water Woman bantered. They hardly ever ate badger.
“A fowl by any other feather,” Shakespeare said, and cackled. He eagerly spooned some of the broth into his mouth and delightedly smacked his lips. “Yes, indeed. It will do, and do nicely.”
“I am glad you like my soup.”
“I like your feathers more, madam,” Shakespeare said. “How many would you say we have, give or take an egg?”
Blue Water Woman could not hide her puzzlement. “What are you on about? I do not have feathers. As for eggs, I collected eleven from the coop this morning.”
“Eleven eggs but no feathers.”
“Will you stop with the feathers? You are making less sense than usual, which I did not think was possible.”
“On the contrary, my dear,” Shakespeare gloated. “You have given me a most wonderful inspiration.”
“In regards to what?”
Shakespeare spooned more soup into his mouth. “Between the feathers and the tea, my vigor and vim have been restored. I am ready to slay that finny dragon.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I talked it over with Winona on our way to shore, and she agrees it is entirely too dangerous. We should let the water devil or fish or whatever it is be. Let it get on with its life and we will get on with ours.”
“You would give up just like that?” Shakespeare said, and snapped his fingers.
“You could have been killed. Lou nearly died. What more will it take to convince you to leave well enough alone?”
“Have I mentioned lately how wonderful your English is? If you were behind a screen, and I did not know you were a Flathead, I would swear you were white.”
“Are you trying to change the subject?”
“Me?” Shakespeare touched his chest in mock amazement. “Do you honestly think I would stoop so low?”
“Lower, if you thought you could get away with it.”
“Is’t come to this? In faith, hath the world not one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion?”
“I know how your mind works,” Blue Water Woman said. “You are as devious a man as any who ever lived, red or white.”
“I thank you.”
“It was not a compliment, husband. You are up to something. Confess what it is and I will not be nearly as mad as when I find out on my own.”
Shakespeare covered her hand with his and gazed up into her eyes. “Since brevity is the soul of wit, and tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief,” he quoted. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Don’t you?” Blue Water Woman said. “Whatever you are plotting, do not do it. I ask you this as your wife of many winters.”
“I live to please you,” Shakespeare said.
“Good.”
“But I am also a man.”
“Not so good.” Blue Water Woman placed her other hand on his shoulder and leaned down. “Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.”
“You are a most marvelous parrot.”
“I mean it.”
“I am yours to command.”
“You mean that?”
“I am a living fount of truth,” Shakespeare said. “You can trust me to do what I have to.”
“Very well.” Blue Water Woman smiled and straightened. “I have chores to do. Eat, then rest. By tomorrow you should be back to your old self.”
“Assuredly,” Shakespeare said. He waited until she had left the bedroom, then snickered and said to himself, “A fox has nothing on me.” He ate heartily, plotting as he chewed and swallowed, and washed the chicken soup down with the tea.
Content with the food and his plot, and feeling as warmly snug as a bear in its den, Shakespeare pulled the blankets up. He needed to get as much rest as he could. He let himself drift off, and to his surprise, he slept so long that when he woke up the bedroom was dark and the front room was lit by the glow of their lamp. Yawning and stretching, he sat up. He was about to slide out of bed when he remembered his brainstorm. Grinning slyly, he called out to his wife and erased the grin before she appeared.
“You are finally up.”
“Don’t blame me. It was your idea,” Shakespeare said grumpily.
“I am glad you slept so long. You needed the rest.” Blue Water Woman came over and pressed a palm to his forehead. “You do not have a fever. How do you feel?”
“Still a little tired,” Shakespeare fibbed. “But hungry enough to eat an entire buffalo, hooves and horns included.”
“You stay right there. I will bring your supper to you.” Blue Water Woman kissed him on the cheek. “I am happy you have decided to listen to reason.”
Shakespeare watched her go out, marveling at how little she truly knew him after all their years together. Never in his entire life had he ever given up on anything. He was not about to give up on this.
The tantalizing aroma of cooking food filled the cabin. Shakespeare’s stomach rumbled. He was famished. When she brought in a tray with a sizzling slab of venison, hot potatoes smothered in gravy, and green beans, he ate with relish, savoring every bite. The deer meat, in particular, was delicious. It had been a staple of his diet for so long, he preferred it over beef. Three cups of piping hot coffee helped fill his belly. As he was pouring his last cup, Blue Water Woman came in and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I have something to ask you.”
“Ask away,” Shakespeare warily said, afraid she had guessed what he intended to do and would insist he not do it.
“That talk we had a while back about each of our families getting a cow,” Blue Water Woman said. “Do you still want one?”
Shakespeare smiled in relief. “I do if you do.”
“I talked about it out on the lake with Winona. It was Nate’s idea, and it is a good one. We will have milk every day, and I can churn butter. I have never done that, but if white women can do it, I can, too.”
“A cow it is,” Shakespeare said. “Nate and I aim to ride to Bent’s Fort in a couple of weeks to see about buying some from any pilgrims who might be bound for Oregon Country.” Invariably, in every wagon train, more than a few emigrants had cows tied to the back of their wagons, or else the cows were bunched in a common herd.
Blue Water Woman caressed his cheek. “You are a good husband. Have I told you that of late?”
“Not often enough.” Shakespeare hid his shame by swallowing more coffee.
“You can get out of bed if you want and come out to your rocking chair and read the Bard.”
“I think I will sleep a bit more,” Shakespeare said. “I am still a mite drowsy. Must be that tasty feed of yours.” He did not mention that he needed to rest now so he could be up later.
“As you wish.” Blue Water Woman kissed him, took the tray, and padded from the bedroom.
Shakespeare felt bad about deceiving her. He was not one of those men who played false with their women just to get their way. “But I have it to do,” he said out loud.
As if anticipating the trial he intended to put it to, his body did not object when he tried to go back to sleep. He did not fidget and toss and turn, as he was sometimes wont to do, but succumbed to slumber within a few minutes and slept the sleep of the innocent, although he was anything but. When next he awoke, Blue Water Woman informed him it was almost nine o’clock.