“There are days when she doesn’t think so,” Zach said. “I tend to aggravate her now and then.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Being male.”
“How is that an aggravation?”
Zach looked at her. “According to her and my mother and Blue Water Woman and just about every married lady I’ve ever met, it comes naturally. Men can’t help but rub women wrong, as my ma likes to say.”
“My ma would likely say the same,” Randa said. “She’s always naggin’ my pa about one thing or another. Do this or don’t do that and land sakes why can’t he ever listen to her.”
“There you have it,” Zach said.
Randa enjoyed talking to him; he was easy to talk to. She gazed into his eyes and then glanced away. “I hope I meet a fella like you one day. I wouldn’t think he was any aggravation at all.”
“There’s only ever one of us. And you might want someone who doesn’t have my flaws.”
“What would they be?”
At that juncture Emala came around the cabin and jabbed a thick finger at Randa. “There you are. I’ve been lookin’ all over for you. Where did you get to, youngun?”
“I went for a walk.”
“Well, don’t go waltzin’ off without you lettin’ us know. We’re not on the plantation anymore. It ain’t safe. Am I right, Mr. King, or am I right?”
“It’s Zach, and you’re absolutely right.” Zach held out the dead rabbit. “Would you do me a favor and give this to my mother?”
Emala curled up her thick lips in distaste. “There’s blood all over it and half the head is gone.”
Zach wiggled the limp body. “Don’t tell me you’ve never handled game?”
“I have, many a time,” Emala said. “But I’ve never liked blood and the butcherin’ can be mighty messy.” She used her thumb and the first finger of her left hand to take the rabbit by the tail. “It doesn’t have lice, does it? Some dead critters crawl with lice.”
“No more than any other animal.”
Emala beckoned and Randa joined her as she made for a shady spot where the other women were resting. “What were you talkin’ to him about?”
“This and that,” Randa answered. “Why?”
“I saw how you were smilin’ at him. I’ve never seen you smile at any man that a way. It better not be why I think it is.”
“He’s nice, is all.”
“The Kings are decent folks. They’re doin’ more for us than anyone ever has and we should be grateful.”
“I am.”
“Then don’t be walkin’ alone with Zach King. He’s a married man. It’s not proper.”
“All we did was talk. Don’t make more out of it than there was.”
“You don’t tell me what to do. I tell you. And I’m tellin’ you that we must be as nice to the Kings as they’ve been to us.”
“Talkin’ ain’t nice?”
“Don’t sass me, child.” Emala scowled. “You’re startin’ to worry me. You truly are. Until we’re settled in and they’ve accepted us more, you’re not to traipse anywhere with Zachary King. You hear me?”
“Accept us more?” Randa repeated.
“We’ve been with them a good long while, what with crossin’ that prairie and comin’ up into these mountains. But that ain’t the same as bein’ neighbors. Neighbors can talk to neighbors anytime.”
“How will I know when I can talk to him?”
“I’ll tell you.” Emala waddled off. “Mind me, you hear?”
Randa frowned. Her mother was always bossing her around. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit. Then a thought hit her so hard she was jarred to her marrow; her folks intended to live there the rest of their lives. Which was fine and dandy, but as Zach King had pointed out, there were precious few people around. And all the men save her brother and Dega were spoken for. Though from the way Evelyn and Dega were carrying on, he was spoken for, too.
What was she to do for a man of her own?
Chapter Twelve
The fireplace took some doing.
They inserted the saw into the slits they had cut and sawed until they had the shape. Samuel did most of the sawing. He asked to. It was his cabin and he didn’t think it fair or right that Nate and Shakespeare and Zach were doing most of the work.
Nate smiled and handed him the saw.
While this was going on, the women and the Nansusequas and Chickory went off to gather stones to use in the construction. Evelyn and Dega went one way, Waku and his wife and daughters another, Winona and Blue Water Woman and Emala and Randa yet another.
That left Chickory. He didn’t want to go with the women. He especially didn’t want to go with his mother. He loved her dearly, but she was always telling him what to do and then complaining that he didn’t do it right. He didn’t know the Indians well enough to feel comfortable going with them, and he sensed that Evelyn and Dega wanted to be by themselves. That was fine with him. He went off alone, northwest past the gully and into the trees.
A few days ago he had done some exploring and came across a low hill covered with stones that might do.
Chickory hummed as he walked. He kept his hand on the hilt of the knife Shakespeare McNair had given him. Now there was a strange person, he reflected. Half the time, he had no idea whatsoever what that white man was talking about. It was all that Bard stuff. Chickory had never heard of the Bard of Avon; he didn’t even know what a Bard was. Or an Avon, for that matter.
It had surprised him, the old man giving him the knife. He’d never imagined white folks could be like Shakespeare and Nate King. The whites back at the plantation had either bossed him around or looked down their noses at him. It was…Chickory thought hard for the right word…it was refreshing to meet white people who treated him as if his skin color didn’t matter.
Chickory looked down at himself. His skin might not matter but his size sure did. He was too skinny. All lean muscle and bone. His pa said that he would fill out as he grew, but that could take a while. Chickory wished he would fill out now. He wanted to be big and strong, like his father.
It didn’t help that he had lost a lot of weight when he came down sick at Bent’s Fort. No one could figure out why. One of the men who ran the trading post, Ceran St. Vrain, had pestered him with questions. Had he drank any stagnant water? That was the word St. Vrain used: “stagnant.” Chickory had to ask what it meant and St. Vrain said it meant water that had been standing a long time and maybe smelled funny or was brown or some other unusual color. Had he been stung by mosquitoes? St. Vrain wanted to know. Land sakes, Chickory had been stung by an army of them. Had he been bit by any spiders? Chickory remembered one he found in his blankets when he woke up, but he didn’t recall it biting him unless the spider bit him in his sleep.
The crack of a twig brought Chickory out of himself. He stopped and tightened his hand on the knife. If there was one thing he’d learned about the wilds, it was to be cautious. There were bears and those big cats to watch out for, and Nate King had said there were buffalo in the mountains, too, although not nearly as many as down on the prairie.
The brush rustled and out stepped a doe. She was young and small and took short, timid steps, her ears pricked, her nostrils quivering. She had caught his scent but was unsure where he was.
Chickory grinned. He flapped his arms and said, “Boo!”
The doe’s tail shot up and she fled in great bounding leaps, her legs tucked together. Within moments the vegetation swallowed her.
Chuckling, Chickory walked on. He liked the woods, although they sure were spooky. He hadn’t said anything to anyone, but he was particularly scared of being eaten. He kept having dreams, or rather, nightmares, in which a bear or one of those cats or once a critter McNair had called a wolverine, caught him and ate him. In his nightmares he always screamed and tried to get away as their teeth and their claws bit into him. One night he woke up in a cold sweat, afraid he had cried out in his sleep, but the rest of his family slept blissfully on.