burlap bag, and held it up. If she cut holes for her head and arms it would come
to her knees. Now all she needed was a knife. Good luck finding that. She
climbed into the wagon and began unloading, setting things that were to go into
the barn on one side and things to go in the cabin on the other. Finally she came
across the kitchen utensils.
She went inside, removed her apron and dress, and slipped the burlap bag
over her muslin chemise. Then she took the shovel down to the river, scooped up
a blade of the black clay, and carried it back to the hearth. Standing on a wooden
crate, she methodically spread clay over the inside of the chimney, making several trips back to the river for more of the black mud. When she was finished
she had to use some of the precious uphill water to get her hands clean enough to
touch anything. Then she found a clean chemise and towel and ran barefoot
through the weeds to the river. She could still hear the ring of Mourning’s axe and so dared to pull the burlap off and slip into the cold water in her flimsy undergarment. She lay back, willing the current to wash the grime from her hair.
After a few minutes she thought, if the boys can do it why can’t I, and pulled
the soiled chemise over her head, tossing it onto the bank. The water felt
wonderful on her naked body, but she found herself unable to relax and enjoy it.
What if Jeremy Kincaid came to call? When she realized that she no longer
heard Mourning’s axe, she scrambled out of the water and struggled into the
clean chemise. Holding the towel around her, she fled back to the cabin.
Dressed again, she swept out the hearth and cabin and went into the woods to
gather kindling. She laid and lit a fire, then went to the wagon for rice and beans.
Where on earth were the pots and sacks of food supplies? If she wanted to find
anything, she’d have to finish unloading the entire mess.
“One thing at a time,” she said with a sigh, “one thing at a time.” It was so
hot. How could the heat be this bad in the middle of May? She grabbed up a pot,
filled it with water, put it on the crane to heat, and returned to the wagon for the
sacks of food. Mourning was right, why had she bought so much stuff?
She found the rice and beans, but the sacks were too heavy for her to budge.
She held the corners of her apron in one hand and scooped rice into it with the
other. She managed to descend from the wagon without spilling, shook the rice
into the pot, and added more water to cover it. She grimaced at the paucity of the
meal. But there was no time to soak and cook beans. Anyway they still had
bread, cheese, and jam left from Detroit. At least the rice would be hot.
She had resumed unloading the wagon when Mourning appeared on the trail,
his long legs gliding through the weeds. He had tied the sleeves of his shirt around his waist and his bare chest glistened in the sunlight. She raised her hand
in greeting, but he paid her no mind, heading straight for the water barrel.
“There’s drinking water in the skins and in that bucket by the barrel,” she called out.
He removed the wooden stopper from one of the skins and held it up to let a
stream of water pour over his head. She had to bite back a desperate protest:
“There’s a whole river full of downhill water right there. Why are you pouring
out all my uphill water?” But she said nothing. When she approached him, he shook his head and grinned.
